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Title: Great Expectations

Author: Charles Dickens

Release date: July 1, 1998 [eBook #1400]
Most recently updated: December 17, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1400

Credits: An Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GREAT
EXPECTATIONS ***

Great Expectations

[1867 Edition]

by Charles Dickens

Contents

Chapter I.
Chapter II.
Chapter III.
Chapter IV.
Chapter V.
Chapter VI.
Chapter VII.
Chapter VIII.
Chapter IX.
Chapter X.
Chapter XI.
Chapter XII.
Chapter XIII.
Chapter XIV.
Chapter XV.
Chapter XVI.
Chapter XVII.
Chapter XVIII.
Chapter XIX.
Chapter XX.
Chapter XXI.
Chapter XXII.
Chapter XXIII.
Chapter XXIV.
Chapter XXV.
Chapter XXVI.

Chapter XXVII.
Chapter XXVIII.
Chapter XXIX.
Chapter XXX.
Chapter XXXI.
Chapter XXXII.
Chapter XXXIII.
Chapter XXXIV.
Chapter XXXV.
Chapter XXXVI.
Chapter XXXVII.
Chapter XXXVIII.
Chapter XXXIX.
Chapter XL.
Chapter XLI.
Chapter XLII.
Chapter XLIII.
Chapter XLIV.
Chapter XLV.
Chapter XLVI.
Chapter XLVII.
Chapter XLVIII.
Chapter XLIX.
Chapter L.
Chapter LI.
Chapter LII.
Chapter LIII.
Chapter LIV.
Chapter LV.
Chapter LVI.
Chapter LVII.
Chapter LVIII.

Chapter LIX.

Chapter I.

M
y father’s family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name
Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing
longer or more explicit than Pip. So, I called myself Pip, and
came to be called Pip.
I give Pirrip as my father’s family name, on the authority of his
tombstone and my sister,—Mrs. Joe Gargery, who married the blacksmith.
As I never saw my father or my mother, and never saw any likeness of
either of them (for their days were long before the days of photographs), my
first fancies regarding what they were like were unreasonably derived from
their tombstones. The shape of the letters on my father’s, gave me an odd
idea that he was a square, stout, dark man, with curly black hair. From the
character and turn of the inscription, “Also Georgiana Wife of the Above,” I
drew a childish conclusion that my mother was freckled and sickly. To five
little stone lozenges, each about a foot and a half long, which were arranged
in a neat row beside their grave, and were sacred to the memory of five
little brothers of mine,—who gave up trying to get a living, exceedingly
early in that universal struggle,—I am indebted for a belief I religiously
entertained that they had all been born on their backs with their hands in
their trousers-pockets, and had never taken them out in this state of
existence.
Ours was the marsh country, down by the river, within, as the river
wound, twenty miles of the sea. My first most vivid and broad impression
of the identity of things seems to me to have been gained on a memorable
raw afternoon towards evening. At such a time I found out for certain that
this bleak place overgrown with nettles was the churchyard; and that Philip
Pirrip, late of this parish, and also Georgiana wife of the above, were dead
and buried; and that Alexander, Bartholomew, Abraham, Tobias, and Roger,
infant children of the aforesaid, were also dead and buried; and that the dark
flat wilderness beyond the churchyard, intersected with dikes and mounds

and gates, with scattered cattle feeding on it, was the marshes; and that the
low leaden line beyond was the river; and that the distant savage lair from
which the wind was rushing was the sea; and that the small bundle of
shivers growing afraid of it all and beginning to cry, was Pip.
“Hold your noise!” cried a terrible voice, as a man started up from among
the graves at the side of the church porch. “Keep still, you little devil, or I’ll
cut your throat!”
A fearful man, all in coarse grey, with a great iron on his leg. A man with
no hat, and with broken shoes, and with an old rag tied round his head. A
man who had been soaked in water, and smothered in mud, and lamed by
stones, and cut by flints, and stung by nettles, and torn by briars; who
limped, and shivered, and glared, and growled; and whose teeth chattered in
his head as he seized me by the chin.
“Oh! Don’t cut my throat, sir,” I pleaded in terror. “Pray don’t do it, sir.”
“Tell us your name!” said the man. “Quick!”
“Pip, sir.”
“Once more,” said the man, staring at me. “Give it mouth!”
“Pip. Pip, sir.”
“Show us where you live,” said the man. “Pint out the place!”
I pointed to where our village lay, on the flat in-shore among the alder-
trees and pollards, a mile or more from the church.
The man, after looking at me for a moment, turned me upside down, and
emptied my pockets. There was nothing in them but a piece of bread. When
the church came to itself,—for he was so sudden and strong that he made it
go head over heels before me, and I saw the steeple under my feet,—when
the church came to itself, I say, I was seated on a high tombstone, trembling
while he ate the bread ravenously.

“You young dog,” said the man, licking his lips, “what fat cheeks you ha’
got.”
I believe they were fat, though I was at that time undersized for my years,
and not strong.
“Darn me if I couldn’t eat ’em,” said the man, with a threatening shake of
his head, “and if I han’t half a mind to’t!”
I earnestly expressed my hope that he wouldn’t, and held tighter to the
tombstone on which he had put me; partly, to keep myself upon it; partly, to
keep myself from crying.
“Now lookee here!” said the man. “Where’s your mother?”
“There, sir!” said I.
He started, made a short run, and stopped and looked over his shoulder.
“There, sir!” I timidly explained. “Also Georgiana. That’s my mother.”
“Oh!” said he, coming back. “And is that your father alonger your
mother?”
“Yes, sir,” said I; “him too; late of this parish.”
“Ha!” he muttered then, considering. “Who d’ye live with,—supposin’
you’re kindly let to live, which I han’t made up my mind about?”

“My sister, sir,—Mrs. Joe Gargery,—wife of Joe Gargery, the blacksmith,
sir.”
“Blacksmith, eh?” said he. And looked down at his leg.
After darkly looking at his leg and me several times, he came closer to
my tombstone, took me by both arms, and tilted me back as far as he could
hold me; so that his eyes looked most powerfully down into mine, and mine
looked most helplessly up into his.
“Now lookee here,” he said, “the question being whether you’re to be let
to live. You know what a file is?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you know what wittles is?”
“Yes, sir.”
After each question he tilted me over a little more, so as to give me a
greater sense of helplessness and danger.
“You get me a file.” He tilted me again. “And you get me wittles.” He
tilted me again. “You bring ’em both to me.” He tilted me again. “Or I’ll
have your heart and liver out.” He tilted me again.
I was dreadfully frightened, and so giddy that I clung to him with both
hands, and said, “If you would kindly please to let me keep upright, sir,
perhaps I shouldn’t be sick, and perhaps I could attend more.”
He gave me a most tremendous dip and roll, so that the church jumped
over its own weathercock. Then, he held me by the arms, in an upright
position on the top of the stone, and went on in these fearful terms:—
“You bring me, to-morrow morning early, that file and them wittles. You
bring the lot to me, at that old Battery over yonder. You do it, and you never
dare to say a word or dare to make a sign concerning your having seen such
a person as me, or any person sumever, and you shall be let to live. You fail,
or you go from my words in any partickler, no matter how small it is, and
your heart and your liver shall be tore out, roasted, and ate. Now, I ain’t
alone, as you may think I am. There’s a young man hid with me, in
comparison with which young man I am a Angel. That young man hears the
words I speak. That young man has a secret way pecooliar to himself, of
getting at a boy, and at his heart, and at his liver. It is in wain for a boy to
attempt to hide himself from that young man. A boy may lock his door, may
be warm in bed, may tuck himself up, may draw the clothes over his head,

may think himself comfortable and safe, but that young man will softly
creep and creep his way to him and tear him open. I am a keeping that
young man from harming of you at the present moment, with great
difficulty. I find it wery hard to hold that young man off of your inside.
Now, what do you say?”
I said that I would get him the file, and I would get him what broken bits
of food I could, and I would come to him at the Battery, early in the
morning.
“Say Lord strike you dead if you don’t!” said the man.
I said so, and he took me down.
“Now,” he pursued, “you remember what you’ve undertook, and you
remember that young man, and you get home!”
“Goo-good night, sir,” I faltered.
“Much of that!” said he, glancing about him over the cold wet flat. “I
wish I was a frog. Or a eel!”
At the same time, he hugged his shuddering body in both his arms,—
clasping himself, as if to hold himself together,—and limped towards the
low church wall. As I saw him go, picking his way among the nettles, and
among the brambles that bound the green mounds, he looked in my young
eyes as if he were eluding the hands of the dead people, stretching up
cautiously out of their graves, to get a twist upon his ankle and pull him in.
When he came to the low church wall, he got over it, like a man whose
legs were numbed and stiff, and then turned round to look for me. When I
saw him turning, I set my face towards home, and made the best use of my
legs. But presently I looked over my shoulder, and saw him going on again
towards the river, still hugging himself in both arms, and picking his way
with his sore feet among the great stones dropped into the marshes here and
there, for stepping-places when the rains were heavy or the tide was in.
The marshes were just a long black horizontal line then, as I stopped to
look after him; and the river was just another horizontal line, not nearly so
broad nor yet so black; and the sky was just a row of long angry red lines
and dense black lines intermixed. On the edge of the river I could faintly
make out the only two black things in all the prospect that seemed to be
standing upright; one of these was the beacon by which the sailors steered,
—like an unhooped cask upon a pole,—an ugly thing when you were near

it; the other, a gibbet, with some chains hanging to it which had once held a
pirate. The man was limping on towards this latter, as if he were the pirate
come to life, and come down, and going back to hook himself up again. It
gave me a terrible turn when I thought so; and as I saw the cattle lifting
their heads to gaze after him, I wondered whether they thought so too. I
looked all round for the horrible young man, and could see no signs of him.
But now I was frightened again, and ran home without stopping.

Chapter II.

M
y sister, Mrs. Joe Gargery, was more than twenty years older than
I, and had established a great reputation with herself and the
neighbours because she had brought me up “by hand.” Having at
that time to find out for myself what the expression meant, and knowing her
to have a hard and heavy hand, and to be much in the habit of laying it upon
her husband as well as upon me, I supposed that Joe Gargery and I were
both brought up by hand.
She was not a good-looking woman, my sister; and I had a general
impression that she must have made Joe Gargery marry her by hand. Joe
was a fair man, with curls of flaxen hair on each side of his smooth face,
and with eyes of such a very undecided blue that they seemed to have
somehow got mixed with their own whites. He was a mild, good-natured,
sweet-tempered, easy-going, foolish, dear fellow,—a sort of Hercules in
strength, and also in weakness.
My sister, Mrs. Joe, with black hair and eyes, had such a prevailing
redness of skin that I sometimes used to wonder whether it was possible she
washed herself with a nutmeg-grater instead of soap. She was tall and bony,
and almost always wore a coarse apron, fastened over her figure behind
with two loops, and having a square impregnable bib in front, that was
stuck full of pins and needles. She made it a powerful merit in herself, and a
strong reproach against Joe, that she wore this apron so much. Though I
really see no reason why she should have worn it at all; or why, if she did
wear it at all, she should not have taken it off, every day of her life.
Joe’s forge adjoined our house, which was a wooden house, as many of
the dwellings in our country were,—most of them, at that time. When I ran
home from the churchyard, the forge was shut up, and Joe was sitting alone
in the kitchen. Joe and I being fellow-sufferers, and having confidences as
such, Joe imparted a confidence to me, the moment I raised the latch of the
door and peeped in at him opposite to it, sitting in the chimney corner.

“Mrs. Joe has been out a dozen times, looking for you, Pip. And she’s out
now, making it a baker’s dozen.”
“Is she?”
“Yes, Pip,” said Joe; “and what’s worse, she’s got Tickler with her.”
At this dismal intelligence, I twisted the only button on my waistcoat
round and round, and looked in great depression at the fire. Tickler was a
wax-ended piece of cane, worn smooth by collision with my tickled frame.
“She sot down,” said Joe, “and she got up, and she made a grab at
Tickler, and she Ram-paged out. That’s what she did,” said Joe, slowly
clearing the fire between the lower bars with the poker, and looking at it;
“she Ram-paged out, Pip.”
“Has she been gone long, Joe?” I always treated him as a larger species
of child, and as no more than my equal.
“Well,” said Joe, glancing up at the Dutch clock, “she’s been on the Ram-
page, this last spell, about five minutes, Pip. She’s a-coming! Get behind
the door, old chap, and have the jack-towel betwixt you.”
I took the advice. My sister, Mrs. Joe, throwing the door wide open, and
finding an obstruction behind it, immediately divined the cause, and applied
Tickler to its further investigation. She concluded by throwing me—I often
served as a connubial missile—at Joe, who, glad to get hold of me on any
terms, passed me on into the chimney and quietly fenced me up there with
his great leg.
“Where have you been, you young monkey?” said Mrs. Joe, stamping her
foot. “Tell me directly what you’ve been doing to wear me away with fret
and fright and worrit, or I’d have you out of that corner if you was fifty
Pips, and he was five hundred Gargerys.”
“I have only been to the churchyard,” said I, from my stool, crying and
rubbing myself.
“Churchyard!” repeated my sister. “If it warn’t for me you’d have been to
the churchyard long ago, and stayed there. Who brought you up by hand?”
“You did,” said I.
“And why did I do it, I should like to know?” exclaimed my sister.
I whimpered, “I don’t know.”

“I don’t!” said my sister. “I’d never do it again! I know that. I may truly
say I’ve never had this apron of mine off since born you were. It’s bad
enough to be a blacksmith’s wife (and him a Gargery) without being your
mother.”
My thoughts strayed from that question as I looked disconsolately at the
fire. For the fugitive out on the marshes with the ironed leg, the mysterious
young man, the file, the food, and the dreadful pledge I was under to
commit a larceny on those sheltering premises, rose before me in the
avenging coals.
“Hah!” said Mrs. Joe, restoring Tickler to his station. “Churchyard,
indeed! You may well say churchyard, you two.” One of us, by the by, had
not said it at all. “You’ll drive me to the churchyard betwixt you, one of
these days, and O, a pr-r-recious pair you’d be without me!”
As she applied herself to set the tea-things, Joe peeped down at me over
his leg, as if he were mentally casting me and himself up, and calculating
what kind of pair we practically should make, under the grievous
circumstances foreshadowed. After that, he sat feeling his right-side flaxen
curls and whisker, and following Mrs. Joe about with his blue eyes, as his
manner always was at squally times.
My sister had a trenchant way of cutting our bread and butter for us, that
never varied. First, with her left hand she jammed the loaf hard and fast
against her bib,—where it sometimes got a pin into it, and sometimes a
needle, which we afterwards got into our mouths. Then she took some
butter (not too much) on a knife and spread it on the loaf, in an apothecary
kind of way, as if she were making a plaster,—using both sides of the knife
with a slapping dexterity, and trimming and moulding the butter off round
the crust. Then, she gave the knife a final smart wipe on the edge of the
plaster, and then sawed a very thick round off the loaf: which she finally,
before separating from the loaf, hewed into two halves, of which Joe got
one, and I the other.
On the present occasion, though I was hungry, I dared not eat my slice. I
felt that I must have something in reserve for my dreadful acquaintance, and
his ally the still more dreadful young man. I knew Mrs. Joe’s housekeeping
to be of the strictest kind, and that my larcenous researches might find
nothing available in the safe. Therefore I resolved to put my hunk of bread
and butter down the leg of my trousers.

The effort of resolution necessary to the achievement of this purpose I
found to be quite awful. It was as if I had to make up my mind to leap from
the top of a high house, or plunge into a great depth of water. And it was
made the more difficult by the unconscious Joe. In our already-mentioned
freemasonry as fellow-sufferers, and in his good-natured companionship
with me, it was our evening habit to compare the way we bit through our
slices, by silently holding them up to each other’s admiration now and then,
—which stimulated us to new exertions. To-night, Joe several times invited
me, by the display of his fast diminishing slice, to enter upon our usual
friendly competition; but he found me, each time, with my yellow mug of
tea on one knee, and my untouched bread and butter on the other. At last, I
desperately considered that the thing I contemplated must be done, and that
it had best be done in the least improbable manner consistent with the
circumstances. I took advantage of a moment when Joe had just looked at
me, and got my bread and butter down my leg.
Joe was evidently made uncomfortable by what he supposed to be my
loss of appetite, and took a thoughtful bite out of his slice, which he didn’t
seem to enjoy. He turned it about in his mouth much longer than usual,
pondering over it a good deal, and after all gulped it down like a pill. He
was about to take another bite, and had just got his head on one side for a
good purchase on it, when his eye fell on me, and he saw that my bread and
butter was gone.
The wonder and consternation with which Joe stopped on the threshold
of his bite and stared at me, were too evident to escape my sister’s
observation.
“What’s the matter now?” said she, smartly, as she put down her cup.
“I say, you know!” muttered Joe, shaking his head at me in very serious
remonstrance. “Pip, old chap! You’ll do yourself a mischief. It’ll stick
somewhere. You can’t have chawed it, Pip.”
“What’s the matter now?” repeated my sister, more sharply than before.
“If you can cough any trifle on it up, Pip, I’d recommend you to do it,”
said Joe, all aghast. “Manners is manners, but still your elth’s your elth.”
By this time, my sister was quite desperate, so she pounced on Joe, and,
taking him by the two whiskers, knocked his head for a little while against
the wall behind him, while I sat in the corner, looking guiltily on.

“Now, perhaps you’ll mention what’s the matter,” said my sister, out of
breath, “you staring great stuck pig.”
Joe looked at her in a helpless way, then took a helpless bite, and looked
at me again.
“You know, Pip,” said Joe, solemnly, with his last bite in his cheek, and
speaking in a confidential voice, as if we two were quite alone, “you and
me is always friends, and I’d be the last to tell upon you, any time. But such
a—” he moved his chair and looked about the floor between us, and then
again at me—“such a most oncommon Bolt as that!”
“Been bolting his food, has he?” cried my sister.
“You know, old chap,” said Joe, looking at me, and not at Mrs. Joe, with
his bite still in his cheek, “I Bolted, myself, when I was your age—frequent
—and as a boy I’ve been among a many Bolters; but I never see your
Bolting equal yet, Pip, and it’s a mercy you ain’t Bolted dead.”
My sister made a dive at me, and fished me up by the hair, saying
nothing more than the awful words, “You come along and be dosed.”
Some medical beast had revived Tar-water in those days as a fine
medicine, and Mrs. Joe always kept a supply of it in the cupboard; having a
belief in its virtues correspondent to its nastiness. At the best of times, so
much of this elixir was administered to me as a choice restorative, that I
was conscious of going about, smelling like a new fence. On this particular
evening the urgency of my case demanded a pint of this mixture, which was
poured down my throat, for my greater comfort, while Mrs. Joe held my
head under her arm, as a boot would be held in a bootjack. Joe got off with
half a pint; but was made to swallow that (much to his disturbance, as he sat
slowly munching and meditating before the fire), “because he had had a
turn.” Judging from myself, I should say he certainly had a turn afterwards,
if he had had none before.
Conscience is a dreadful thing when it accuses man or boy; but when, in
the case of a boy, that secret burden co-operates with another secret burden
down the leg of his trousers, it is (as I can testify) a great punishment. The
guilty knowledge that I was going to rob Mrs. Joe—I never thought I was
going to rob Joe, for I never thought of any of the housekeeping property as
his—united to the necessity of always keeping one hand on my bread and
butter as I sat, or when I was ordered about the kitchen on any small errand,
almost drove me out of my mind. Then, as the marsh winds made the fire

glow and flare, I thought I heard the voice outside, of the man with the iron
on his leg who had sworn me to secrecy, declaring that he couldn’t and
wouldn’t starve until to-morrow, but must be fed now. At other times, I
thought, What if the young man who was with so much difficulty restrained
from imbruing his hands in me should yield to a constitutional impatience,
or should mistake the time, and should think himself accredited to my heart
and liver to-night, instead of to-morrow! If ever anybody’s hair stood on
end with terror, mine must have done so then. But, perhaps, nobody’s ever
did?
It was Christmas Eve, and I had to stir the pudding for next day, with a
copper-stick, from seven to eight by the Dutch clock. I tried it with the load
upon my leg (and that made me think afresh of the man with the load on his
leg), and found the tendency of exercise to bring the bread and butter out at
my ankle, quite unmanageable. Happily I slipped away, and deposited that
part of my conscience in my garret bedroom.
“Hark!” said I, when I had done my stirring, and was taking a final warm
in the chimney corner before being sent up to bed; “was that great guns,
Joe?”
“Ah!” said Joe. “There’s another conwict off.”
“What does that mean, Joe?” said I.
Mrs. Joe, who always took explanations upon herself, said, snappishly,
“Escaped. Escaped.” Administering the definition like Tar-water.
While Mrs. Joe sat with her head bending over her needlework, I put my
mouth into the forms of saying to Joe, “What’s a convict?” Joe put his
mouth into the forms of returning such a highly elaborate answer, that I
could make out nothing of it but the single word “Pip.”
“There was a conwict off last night,” said Joe, aloud, “after sunset-gun.
And they fired warning of him. And now it appears they’re firing warning
of another.”
“Who’s firing?” said I.
“Drat that boy,” interposed my sister, frowning at me over her work,
“what a questioner he is. Ask no questions, and you’ll be told no lies.”
It was not very polite to herself, I thought, to imply that I should be told
lies by her even if I did ask questions. But she never was polite unless there
was company.

At this point Joe greatly augmented my curiosity by taking the utmost
pains to open his mouth very wide, and to put it into the form of a word that
looked to me like “sulks.” Therefore, I naturally pointed to Mrs. Joe, and
put my mouth into the form of saying, “her?” But Joe wouldn’t hear of that,
at all, and again opened his mouth very wide, and shook the form of a most
emphatic word out of it. But I could make nothing of the word.
“Mrs. Joe,” said I, as a last resort, “I should like to know—if you
wouldn’t much mind—where the firing comes from?”
“Lord bless the boy!” exclaimed my sister, as if she didn’t quite mean
that but rather the contrary. “From the Hulks!”
“Oh-h!” said I, looking at Joe. “Hulks!”
Joe gave a reproachful cough, as much as to say, “Well, I told you so.”
“And please, what’s Hulks?” said I.
“That’s the way with this boy!” exclaimed my sister, pointing me out
with her needle and thread, and shaking her head at me. “Answer him one
question, and he’ll ask you a dozen directly. Hulks are prison-ships, right
’cross th’ meshes.” We always used that name for marshes, in our country.
“I wonder who’s put into prison-ships, and why they’re put there?” said I,
in a general way, and with quiet desperation.
It was too much for Mrs. Joe, who immediately rose. “I tell you what,
young fellow,” said she, “I didn’t bring you up by hand to badger people’s
lives out. It would be blame to me and not praise, if I had. People are put in
the Hulks because they murder, and because they rob, and forge, and do all
sorts of bad; and they always begin by asking questions. Now, you get
along to bed!”
I was never allowed a candle to light me to bed, and, as I went upstairs in
the dark, with my head tingling,—from Mrs. Joe’s thimble having played
the tambourine upon it, to accompany her last words,—I felt fearfully
sensible of the great convenience that the hulks were handy for me. I was
clearly on my way there. I had begun by asking questions, and I was going
to rob Mrs. Joe.
Since that time, which is far enough away now, I have often thought that
few people know what secrecy there is in the young under terror. No matter
how unreasonable the terror, so that it be terror. I was in mortal terror of the
young man who wanted my heart and liver; I was in mortal terror of my

interlocutor with the iron leg; I was in mortal terror of myself, from whom
an awful promise had been extracted; I had no hope of deliverance through
my all-powerful sister, who repulsed me at every turn; I am afraid to think
of what I might have done on requirement, in the secrecy of my terror.
If I slept at all that night, it was only to imagine myself drifting down the
river on a strong spring-tide, to the Hulks; a ghostly pirate calling out to me
through a speaking-trumpet, as I passed the gibbet-station, that I had better
come ashore and be hanged there at once, and not put it off. I was afraid to
sleep, even if I had been inclined, for I knew that at the first faint dawn of
morning I must rob the pantry. There was no doing it in the night, for there
was no getting a light by easy friction then; to have got one I must have
struck it out of flint and steel, and have made a noise like the very pirate
himself rattling his chains.
As soon as the great black velvet pall outside my little window was shot
with grey, I got up and went downstairs; every board upon the way, and
every crack in every board calling after me, “Stop thief!” and “Get up, Mrs.
Joe!” In the pantry, which was far more abundantly supplied than usual,
owing to the season, I was very much alarmed by a hare hanging up by the
heels, whom I rather thought I caught, when my back was half turned,
winking. I had no time for verification, no time for selection, no time for
anything, for I had no time to spare. I stole some bread, some rind of
cheese, about half a jar of mincemeat (which I tied up in my pocket-
handkerchief with my last night’s slice), some brandy from a stone bottle
(which I decanted into a glass bottle I had secretly used for making that
intoxicating fluid, Spanish-liquorice-water, up in my room: diluting the
stone bottle from a jug in the kitchen cupboard), a meat bone with very little
on it, and a beautiful round compact pork pie. I was nearly going away
without the pie, but I was tempted to mount upon a shelf, to look what it
was that was put away so carefully in a covered earthenware dish in a
corner, and I found it was the pie, and I took it in the hope that it was not
intended for early use, and would not be missed for some time.
There was a door in the kitchen, communicating with the forge; I
unlocked and unbolted that door, and got a file from among Joe’s tools.
Then I put the fastenings as I had found them, opened the door at which I
had entered when I ran home last night, shut it, and ran for the misty
marshes.

Chapter III.

I
t was a rimy morning, and very damp. I had seen the damp lying on the
outside of my little window, as if some goblin had been crying there all
night, and using the window for a pocket-handkerchief. Now, I saw the
damp lying on the bare hedges and spare grass, like a coarser sort of
spiders’ webs; hanging itself from twig to twig and blade to blade. On every
rail and gate, wet lay clammy, and the marsh mist was so thick, that the
wooden finger on the post directing people to our village—a direction
which they never accepted, for they never came there—was invisible to me
until I was quite close under it. Then, as I looked up at it, while it dripped, it
seemed to my oppressed conscience like a phantom devoting me to the
Hulks.
The mist was heavier yet when I got out upon the marshes, so that instead
of my running at everything, everything seemed to run at me. This was very
disagreeable to a guilty mind. The gates and dikes and banks came bursting
at me through the mist, as if they cried as plainly as could be, “A boy with
somebody else’s pork pie! Stop him!” The cattle came upon me with like
suddenness, staring out of their eyes, and steaming out of their nostrils,
“Halloa, young thief!” One black ox, with a white cravat on,—who even
had to my awakened conscience something of a clerical air,—fixed me so
obstinately with his eyes, and moved his blunt head round in such an
accusatory manner as I moved round, that I blubbered out to him, “I
couldn’t help it, sir! It wasn’t for myself I took it!” Upon which he put
down his head, blew a cloud of smoke out of his nose, and vanished with a
kick-up of his hind-legs and a flourish of his tail.
All this time, I was getting on towards the river; but however fast I went,
I couldn’t warm my feet, to which the damp cold seemed riveted, as the iron
was riveted to the leg of the man I was running to meet. I knew my way to
the Battery, pretty straight, for I had been down there on a Sunday with Joe,
and Joe, sitting on an old gun, had told me that when I was ’prentice to him,

regularly bound, we would have such Larks there! However, in the
confusion of the mist, I found myself at last too far to the right, and
consequently had to try back along the river-side, on the bank of loose
stones above the mud and the stakes that staked the tide out. Making my
way along here with all despatch, I had just crossed a ditch which I knew to
be very near the Battery, and had just scrambled up the mound beyond the
ditch, when I saw the man sitting before me. His back was towards me, and
he had his arms folded, and was nodding forward, heavy with sleep.
I thought he would be more glad if I came upon him with his breakfast,
in that unexpected manner, so I went forward softly and touched him on the
shoulder. He instantly jumped up, and it was not the same man, but another
man!
And yet this man was dressed in coarse grey, too, and had a great iron on
his leg, and was lame, and hoarse, and cold, and was everything that the
other man was; except that he had not the same face, and had a flat broad-
brimmed low-crowned felt hat on. All this I saw in a moment, for I had only
a moment to see it in: he swore an oath at me, made a hit at me,—it was a
round weak blow that missed me and almost knocked himself down, for it
made him stumble,—and then he ran into the mist, stumbling twice as he
went, and I lost him.
“It’s the young man!” I thought, feeling my heart shoot as I identified
him. I dare say I should have felt a pain in my liver, too, if I had known
where it was.
I was soon at the Battery after that, and there was the right man,—
hugging himself and limping to and fro, as if he had never all night left off
hugging and limping,—waiting for me. He was awfully cold, to be sure. I
half expected to see him drop down before my face and die of deadly cold.
His eyes looked so awfully hungry too, that when I handed him the file and
he laid it down on the grass, it occurred to me he would have tried to eat it,
if he had not seen my bundle. He did not turn me upside down this time to
get at what I had, but left me right side upwards while I opened the bundle
and emptied my pockets.
“What’s in the bottle, boy?” said he.
“Brandy,” said I.
He was already handing mincemeat down his throat in the most curious
manner,—more like a man who was putting it away somewhere in a violent

hurry, than a man who was eating it,—but he left off to take some of the
liquor. He shivered all the while so violently, that it was quite as much as he
could do to keep the neck of the bottle between his teeth, without biting it
off.
“I think you have got the ague,” said I.
“I’m much of your opinion, boy,” said he.
“It’s bad about here,” I told him. “You’ve been lying out on the meshes,
and they’re dreadful aguish. Rheumatic too.”
“I’ll eat my breakfast afore they’re the death of me,” said he. “I’d do that,
if I was going to be strung up to that there gallows as there is over there,
directly afterwards. I’ll beat the shivers so far, I’ll bet you.”
He was gobbling mincemeat, meatbone, bread, cheese, and pork pie, all
at once: staring distrustfully while he did so at the mist all round us, and
often stopping—even stopping his jaws—to listen. Some real or fancied
sound, some clink upon the river or breathing of beast upon the marsh, now
gave him a start, and he said, suddenly,—
“You’re not a deceiving imp? You brought no one with you?”
“No, sir! No!”
“Nor giv’ no one the office to follow you?”
“No!”
“Well,” said he, “I believe you. You’d be but a fierce young hound
indeed, if at your time of life you could help to hunt a wretched warmint
hunted as near death and dunghill as this poor wretched warmint is!”
Something clicked in his throat as if he had works in him like a clock,
and was going to strike. And he smeared his ragged rough sleeve over his
eyes.
Pitying his desolation, and watching him as he gradually settled down
upon the pie, I made bold to say, “I am glad you enjoy it.”
“Did you speak?”
“I said I was glad you enjoyed it.”
“Thankee, my boy. I do.”
I had often watched a large dog of ours eating his food; and I now
noticed a decided similarity between the dog’s way of eating, and the
man’s. The man took strong sharp sudden bites, just like the dog. He

swallowed, or rather snapped up, every mouthful, too soon and too fast; and
he looked sideways here and there while he ate, as if he thought there was
danger in every direction of somebody’s coming to take the pie away. He
was altogether too unsettled in his mind over it, to appreciate it comfortably
I thought, or to have anybody to dine with him, without making a chop with
his jaws at the visitor. In all of which particulars he was very like the dog.
“I am afraid you won’t leave any of it for him,” said I, timidly; after a
silence during which I had hesitated as to the politeness of making the
remark. “There’s no more to be got where that came from.” It was the
certainty of this fact that impelled me to offer the hint.
“Leave any for him? Who’s him?” said my friend, stopping in his
crunching of pie-crust.
“The young man. That you spoke of. That was hid with you.”
“Oh ah!” he returned, with something like a gruff laugh. “Him? Yes, yes!
He don’t want no wittles.”
“I thought he looked as if he did,” said I.
The man stopped eating, and regarded me with the keenest scrutiny and
the greatest surprise.
“Looked? When?”
“Just now.”
“Where?”
“Yonder,” said I, pointing; “over there, where I found him nodding
asleep, and thought it was you.”
He held me by the collar and stared at me so, that I began to think his
first idea about cutting my throat had revived.
“Dressed like you, you know, only with a hat,” I explained, trembling;
“and—and”—I was very anxious to put this delicately—“and with—the
same reason for wanting to borrow a file. Didn’t you hear the cannon last
night?”
“Then there was firing!” he said to himself.
“I wonder you shouldn’t have been sure of that,” I returned, “for we
heard it up at home, and that’s farther away, and we were shut in besides.”
“Why, see now!” said he. “When a man’s alone on these flats, with a
light head and a light stomach, perishing of cold and want, he hears nothin’

all night, but guns firing, and voices calling. Hears? He sees the soldiers,
with their red coats lighted up by the torches carried afore, closing in round
him. Hears his number called, hears himself challenged, hears the rattle of
the muskets, hears the orders ‘Make ready! Present! Cover him steady,
men!’ and is laid hands on—and there’s nothin’! Why, if I see one pursuing
party last night—coming up in order, Damn ’em, with their tramp, tramp—I
see a hundred. And as to firing! Why, I see the mist shake with the cannon,
arter it was broad day,—But this man”; he had said all the rest, as if he had
forgotten my being there; “did you notice anything in him?”
“He had a badly bruised face,” said I, recalling what I hardly knew I
knew.
“Not here?” exclaimed the man, striking his left cheek mercilessly, with
the flat of his hand.
“Yes, there!”
“Where is he?” He crammed what little food was left, into the breast of
his grey jacket. “Show me the way he went. I’ll pull him down, like a
bloodhound. Curse this iron on my sore leg! Give us hold of the file, boy.”
I indicated in what direction the mist had shrouded the other man, and he
looked up at it for an instant. But he was down on the rank wet grass, filing
at his iron like a madman, and not minding me or minding his own leg,
which had an old chafe upon it and was bloody, but which he handled as
roughly as if it had no more feeling in it than the file. I was very much
afraid of him again, now that he had worked himself into this fierce hurry,
and I was likewise very much afraid of keeping away from home any
longer. I told him I must go, but he took no notice, so I thought the best
thing I could do was to slip off. The last I saw of him, his head was bent
over his knee and he was working hard at his fetter, muttering impatient
imprecations at it and at his leg. The last I heard of him, I stopped in the
mist to listen, and the file was still going.

Chapter IV.

I
fully expected to find a Constable in the kitchen, waiting to take me up.
But not only was there no Constable there, but no discovery had yet
been made of the robbery. Mrs. Joe was prodigiously busy in getting
the house ready for the festivities of the day, and Joe had been put upon the
kitchen doorstep to keep him out of the dust-pan,—an article into which his
destiny always led him, sooner or later, when my sister was vigorously
reaping the floors of her establishment.
“And where the deuce ha’ you been?” was Mrs. Joe’s Christmas
salutation, when I and my conscience showed ourselves.
I said I had been down to hear the Carols. “Ah! well!” observed Mrs. Joe.
“You might ha’ done worse.” Not a doubt of that I thought.
“Perhaps if I warn’t a blacksmith’s wife, and (what’s the same thing) a
slave with her apron never off, I should have been to hear the Carols,” said
Mrs. Joe. “I’m rather partial to Carols, myself, and that’s the best of reasons
for my never hearing any.”
Joe, who had ventured into the kitchen after me as the dustpan had retired
before us, drew the back of his hand across his nose with a conciliatory air,
when Mrs. Joe darted a look at him, and, when her eyes were withdrawn,
secretly crossed his two forefingers, and exhibited them to me, as our token
that Mrs. Joe was in a cross temper. This was so much her normal state, that
Joe and I would often, for weeks together, be, as to our fingers, like
monumental Crusaders as to their legs.
We were to have a superb dinner, consisting of a leg of pickled pork and
greens, and a pair of roast stuffed fowls. A handsome mince-pie had been
made yesterday morning (which accounted for the mincemeat not being
missed), and the pudding was already on the boil. These extensive
arrangements occasioned us to be cut off unceremoniously in respect of
breakfast; “for I ain’t,” said Mrs. Joe,—“I ain’t a-going to have no formal

cramming and busting and washing up now, with what I’ve got before me, I
promise you!”
So, we had our slices served out, as if we were two thousand troops on a
forced march instead of a man and boy at home; and we took gulps of milk
and water, with apologetic countenances, from a jug on the dresser. In the
meantime, Mrs. Joe put clean white curtains up, and tacked a new flowered
flounce across the wide chimney to replace the old one, and uncovered the
little state parlour across the passage, which was never uncovered at any
other time, but passed the rest of the year in a cool haze of silver paper,
which even extended to the four little white crockery poodles on the
mantel-shelf, each with a black nose and a basket of flowers in his mouth,
and each the counterpart of the other. Mrs. Joe was a very clean
housekeeper, but had an exquisite art of making her cleanliness more
uncomfortable and unacceptable than dirt itself. Cleanliness is next to
Godliness, and some people do the same by their religion.
My sister, having so much to do, was going to church vicariously, that is
to say, Joe and I were going. In his working-clothes, Joe was a well-knit
characteristic-looking blacksmith; in his holiday clothes, he was more like a
scarecrow in good circumstances, than anything else. Nothing that he wore
then fitted him or seemed to belong to him; and everything that he wore
then grazed him. On the present festive occasion he emerged from his room,
when the blithe bells were going, the picture of misery, in a full suit of
Sunday penitentials. As to me, I think my sister must have had some general
idea that I was a young offender whom an Accoucheur Policeman had taken
up (on my birthday) and delivered over to her, to be dealt with according to
the outraged majesty of the law. I was always treated as if I had insisted on
being born in opposition to the dictates of reason, religion, and morality,
and against the dissuading arguments of my best friends. Even when I was
taken to have a new suit of clothes, the tailor had orders to make them like a
kind of Reformatory, and on no account to let me have the free use of my
limbs.
Joe and I going to church, therefore, must have been a moving spectacle
for compassionate minds. Yet, what I suffered outside was nothing to what I
underwent within. The terrors that had assailed me whenever Mrs. Joe had
gone near the pantry, or out of the room, were only to be equalled by the
remorse with which my mind dwelt on what my hands had done. Under the

weight of my wicked secret, I pondered whether the Church would be
powerful enough to shield me from the vengeance of the terrible young
man, if I divulged to that establishment. I conceived the idea that the time
when the banns were read and when the clergyman said, “Ye are now to
declare it!” would be the time for me to rise and propose a private
conference in the vestry. I am far from being sure that I might not have
astonished our small congregation by resorting to this extreme measure, but
for its being Christmas Day and no Sunday.
Mr. Wopsle, the clerk at church, was to dine with us; and Mr. Hubble the
wheelwright and Mrs. Hubble; and Uncle Pumblechook (Joe’s uncle, but
Mrs. Joe appropriated him), who was a well-to-do cornchandler in the
nearest town, and drove his own chaise-cart. The dinner hour was half-past
one. When Joe and I got home, we found the table laid, and Mrs. Joe
dressed, and the dinner dressing, and the front door unlocked (it never was
at any other time) for the company to enter by, and everything most
splendid. And still, not a word of the robbery.
The time came, without bringing with it any relief to my feelings, and the
company came. Mr. Wopsle, united to a Roman nose and a large shining
bald forehead, had a deep voice which he was uncommonly proud of;
indeed it was understood among his acquaintance that if you could only
give him his head, he would read the clergyman into fits; he himself
confessed that if the Church was “thrown open,” meaning to competition,
he would not despair of making his mark in it. The Church not being
“thrown open,” he was, as I have said, our clerk. But he punished the
Amens tremendously; and when he gave out the psalm,—always giving the
whole verse,—he looked all round the congregation first, as much as to say,
“You have heard my friend overhead; oblige me with your opinion of this
style!”
I opened the door to the company,—making believe that it was a habit of
ours to open that door,—and I opened it first to Mr. Wopsle, next to Mr. and
Mrs. Hubble, and last of all to Uncle Pumblechook. N.B. I was not allowed
to call him uncle, under the severest penalties.
“Mrs. Joe,” said Uncle Pumblechook, a large hard-breathing middle-aged
slow man, with a mouth like a fish, dull staring eyes, and sandy hair
standing upright on his head, so that he looked as if he had just been all but
choked, and had that moment come to, “I have brought you as the

compliments of the season—I have brought you, Mum, a bottle of sherry
wine—and I have brought you, Mum, a bottle of port wine.”
Every Christmas Day he presented himself, as a profound novelty, with
exactly the same words, and carrying the two bottles like dumb-bells. Every
Christmas Day, Mrs. Joe replied, as she now replied, “O, Un—cle Pum-ble
—chook! This is kind!” Every Christmas Day, he retorted, as he now
retorted, “It’s no more than your merits. And now are you all bobbish, and
how’s Sixpennorth of halfpence?” meaning me.
We dined on these occasions in the kitchen, and adjourned, for the nuts
and oranges and apples to the parlour; which was a change very like Joe’s
change from his working-clothes to his Sunday dress. My sister was
uncommonly lively on the present occasion, and indeed was generally more
gracious in the society of Mrs. Hubble than in other company. I remember
Mrs. Hubble as a little curly sharp-edged person in sky-blue, who held a
conventionally juvenile position, because she had married Mr. Hubble,—I
don’t know at what remote period,—when she was much younger than he. I
remember Mr Hubble as a tough, high-shouldered, stooping old man, of a
sawdusty fragrance, with his legs extraordinarily wide apart: so that in my
short days I always saw some miles of open country between them when I
met him coming up the lane.
Among this good company I should have felt myself, even if I hadn’t
robbed the pantry, in a false position. Not because I was squeezed in at an
acute angle of the tablecloth, with the table in my chest, and the
Pumblechookian elbow in my eye, nor because I was not allowed to speak
(I didn’t want to speak), nor because I was regaled with the scaly tips of the
drumsticks of the fowls, and with those obscure corners of pork of which
the pig, when living, had had the least reason to be vain. No; I should not
have minded that, if they would only have left me alone. But they wouldn’t
leave me alone. They seemed to think the opportunity lost, if they failed to
point the conversation at me, every now and then, and stick the point into
me. I might have been an unfortunate little bull in a Spanish arena, I got so
smartingly touched up by these moral goads.
It began the moment we sat down to dinner. Mr. Wopsle said grace with
theatrical declamation,—as it now appears to me, something like a religious
cross of the Ghost in Hamlet with Richard the Third,—and ended with the
very proper aspiration that we might be truly grateful. Upon which my

sister fixed me with her eye, and said, in a low reproachful voice, “Do you
hear that? Be grateful.”
“Especially,” said Mr. Pumblechook, “be grateful, boy, to them which
brought you up by hand.”
Mrs. Hubble shook her head, and contemplating me with a mournful
presentiment that I should come to no good, asked, “Why is it that the
young are never grateful?” This moral mystery seemed too much for the
company until Mr. Hubble tersely solved it by saying, “Naterally wicious.”
Everybody then murmured “True!” and looked at me in a particularly
unpleasant and personal manner.
Joe’s station and influence were something feebler (if possible) when
there was company than when there was none. But he always aided and
comforted me when he could, in some way of his own, and he always did so
at dinner-time by giving me gravy, if there were any. There being plenty of
gravy to-day, Joe spooned into my plate, at this point, about half a pint.
A little later on in the dinner, Mr. Wopsle reviewed the sermon with some
severity, and intimated—in the usual hypothetical case of the Church being
“thrown open”—what kind of sermon he would have given them. After
favouring them with some heads of that discourse, he remarked that he
considered the subject of the day’s homily, ill chosen; which was the less
excusable, he added, when there were so many subjects “going about.”
“True again,” said Uncle Pumblechook. “You’ve hit it, sir! Plenty of
subjects going about, for them that know how to put salt upon their tails.
That’s what’s wanted. A man needn’t go far to find a subject, if he’s ready
with his salt-box.” Mr. Pumblechook added, after a short interval of
reflection, “Look at Pork alone. There’s a subject! If you want a subject,
look at Pork!”
“True, sir. Many a moral for the young,” returned Mr. Wopsle,—and I
knew he was going to lug me in, before he said it; “might be deduced from
that text.”
(“You listen to this,” said my sister to me, in a severe parenthesis.)
Joe gave me some more gravy.
“Swine,” pursued Mr. Wopsle, in his deepest voice, and pointing his fork
at my blushes, as if he were mentioning my Christian name,—“swine were
the companions of the prodigal. The gluttony of Swine is put before us, as

an example to the young.” (I thought this pretty well in him who had been
praising up the pork for being so plump and juicy.) “What is detestable in a
pig is more detestable in a boy.”
“Or girl,” suggested Mr. Hubble.
“Of course, or girl, Mr. Hubble,” assented Mr. Wopsle, rather irritably,
“but there is no girl present.”
“Besides,” said Mr. Pumblechook, turning sharp on me, “think what
you’ve got to be grateful for. If you’d been born a Squeaker—”
“He was, if ever a child was,” said my sister, most emphatically.
Joe gave me some more gravy.
“Well, but I mean a four-footed Squeaker,” said Mr. Pumblechook. “If
you had been born such, would you have been here now? Not you—”
“Unless in that form,” said Mr. Wopsle, nodding towards the dish.
“But I don’t mean in that form, sir,” returned Mr. Pumblechook, who had
an objection to being interrupted; “I mean, enjoying himself with his elders
and betters, and improving himself with their conversation, and rolling in
the lap of luxury. Would he have been doing that? No, he wouldn’t. And
what would have been your destination?” turning on me again. “You would
have been disposed of for so many shillings according to the market price
of the article, and Dunstable the butcher would have come up to you as you
lay in your straw, and he would have whipped you under his left arm, and
with his right he would have tucked up his frock to get a penknife from out
of his waistcoat-pocket, and he would have shed your blood and had your
life. No bringing up by hand then. Not a bit of it!”
Joe offered me more gravy, which I was afraid to take.
“He was a world of trouble to you, ma’am,” said Mrs. Hubble,
commiserating my sister.
“Trouble?” echoed my sister; “trouble?” and then entered on a fearful
catalogue of all the illnesses I had been guilty of, and all the acts of
sleeplessness I had committed, and all the high places I had tumbled from,
and all the low places I had tumbled into, and all the injuries I had done
myself, and all the times she had wished me in my grave, and I had
contumaciously refused to go there.

I think the Romans must have aggravated one another very much, with
their noses. Perhaps, they became the restless people they were, in
consequence. Anyhow, Mr. Wopsle’s Roman nose so aggravated me, during
the recital of my misdemeanours, that I should have liked to pull it until he
howled. But, all I had endured up to this time was nothing in comparison
with the awful feelings that took possession of me when the pause was
broken which ensued upon my sister’s recital, and in which pause
everybody had looked at me (as I felt painfully conscious) with indignation
and abhorrence.
“Yet,” said Mr. Pumblechook, leading the company gently back to the
theme from which they had strayed, “Pork—regarded as biled—is rich, too;
ain’t it?”
“Have a little brandy, uncle,” said my sister.
O Heavens, it had come at last! He would find it was weak, he would say
it was weak, and I was lost! I held tight to the leg of the table under the
cloth, with both hands, and awaited my fate.
My sister went for the stone bottle, came back with the stone bottle, and
poured his brandy out: no one else taking any. The wretched man trifled
with his glass,—took it up, looked at it through the light, put it down,—
prolonged my misery. All this time Mrs. Joe and Joe were briskly clearing
the table for the pie and pudding.
I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. Always holding tight by the leg of the
table with my hands and feet, I saw the miserable creature finger his glass
playfully, take it up, smile, throw his head back, and drink the brandy off.
Instantly afterwards, the company were seized with unspeakable
consternation, owing to his springing to his feet, turning round several times
in an appalling spasmodic whooping-cough dance, and rushing out at the
door; he then became visible through the window, violently plunging and
expectorating, making the most hideous faces, and apparently out of his
mind.
I held on tight, while Mrs. Joe and Joe ran to him. I didn’t know how I
had done it, but I had no doubt I had murdered him somehow. In my
dreadful situation, it was a relief when he was brought back, and surveying
the company all round as if they had disagreed with him, sank down into his
chair with the one significant gasp, “Tar!”

I had filled up the bottle from the tar-water jug. I knew he would be
worse by and by. I moved the table, like a Medium of the present day, by
the vigor of my unseen hold upon it.
“Tar!” cried my sister, in amazement. “Why, how ever could Tar come
there?”
But, Uncle Pumblechook, who was omnipotent in that kitchen, wouldn’t
hear the word, wouldn’t hear of the subject, imperiously waved it all away
with his hand, and asked for hot gin and water. My sister, who had begun to
be alarmingly meditative, had to employ herself actively in getting the gin,
the hot water, the sugar, and the lemon-peel, and mixing them. For the time
being at least, I was saved. I still held on to the leg of the table, but clutched
it now with the fervor of gratitude.
By degrees, I became calm enough to release my grasp and partake of
pudding. Mr. Pumblechook partook of pudding. All partook of pudding. The
course terminated, and Mr. Pumblechook had begun to beam under the
genial influence of gin and water. I began to think I should get over the day,
when my sister said to Joe, “Clean plates,—cold.”
I clutched the leg of the table again immediately, and pressed it to my
bosom as if it had been the companion of my youth and friend of my soul. I
foresaw what was coming, and I felt that this time I really was gone.
“You must taste,” said my sister, addressing the guests with her best
grace—“you must taste, to finish with, such a delightful and delicious
present of Uncle Pumblechook’s!”
Must they! Let them not hope to taste it!
“You must know,” said my sister, rising, “it’s a pie; a savory pork pie.”
The company murmured their compliments. Uncle Pumblechook,
sensible of having deserved well of his fellow-creatures, said,—quite
vivaciously, all things considered,—“Well, Mrs. Joe, we’ll do our best
endeavours; let us have a cut at this same pie.”
My sister went out to get it. I heard her steps proceed to the pantry. I saw
Mr. Pumblechook balance his knife. I saw reawakening appetite in the
Roman nostrils of Mr. Wopsle. I heard Mr. Hubble remark that “a bit of
savory pork pie would lay atop of anything you could mention, and do no
harm,” and I heard Joe say, “You shall have some, Pip.” I have never been
absolutely certain whether I uttered a shrill yell of terror, merely in spirit, or

in the bodily hearing of the company. I felt that I could bear no more, and
that I must run away. I released the leg of the table, and ran for my life.
But I ran no farther than the house door, for there I ran head-foremost
into a party of soldiers with their muskets, one of whom held out a pair of
handcuffs to me, saying, “Here you are, look sharp, come on!”

Chapter V.

T
he apparition of a file of soldiers ringing down the but-ends of their
loaded muskets on our door-step, caused the dinner-party to rise
from table in confusion, and caused Mrs. Joe re-entering the kitchen
empty-handed, to stop short and stare, in her wondering lament of
“Gracious goodness gracious me, what’s gone—with the—pie!”
The sergeant and I were in the kitchen when Mrs. Joe stood staring; at
which crisis I partially recovered the use of my senses. It was the sergeant
who had spoken to me, and he was now looking round at the company, with
his handcuffs invitingly extended towards them in his right hand, and his
left on my shoulder.
“Excuse me, ladies and gentleman,” said the sergeant, “but as I have
mentioned at the door to this smart young shaver,” (which he hadn’t), “I am
on a chase in the name of the king, and I want the blacksmith.”
“And pray what might you want with him?” retorted my sister, quick to
resent his being wanted at all.
“Missis,” returned the gallant sergeant, “speaking for myself, I should
reply, the honour and pleasure of his fine wife’s acquaintance; speaking for
the king, I answer, a little job done.”
This was received as rather neat in the sergeant; insomuch that Mr.
Pumblechook cried audibly, “Good again!”
“You see, blacksmith,” said the sergeant, who had by this time picked out
Joe with his eye, “we have had an accident with these, and I find the lock of
one of ’em goes wrong, and the coupling don’t act pretty. As they are
wanted for immediate service, will you throw your eye over them?”
Joe threw his eye over them, and pronounced that the job would
necessitate the lighting of his forge fire, and would take nearer two hours
than one. “Will it? Then will you set about it at once, blacksmith?” said the
off-hand sergeant, “as it’s on his Majesty’s service. And if my men can bear

a hand anywhere, they’ll make themselves useful.” With that, he called to
his men, who came trooping into the kitchen one after another, and piled
their arms in a corner. And then they stood about, as soldiers do; now, with
their hands loosely clasped before them; now, resting a knee or a shoulder;
now, easing a belt or a pouch; now, opening the door to spit stiffly over
their high stocks, out into the yard.
All these things I saw without then knowing that I saw them, for I was in
an agony of apprehension. But beginning to perceive that the handcuffs
were not for me, and that the military had so far got the better of the pie as
to put it in the background, I collected a little more of my scattered wits.
“Would you give me the time?” said the sergeant, addressing himself to
Mr. Pumblechook, as to a man whose appreciative powers justified the
inference that he was equal to the time.
“It’s just gone half past two.”
“That’s not so bad,” said the sergeant, reflecting; “even if I was forced to
halt here nigh two hours, that’ll do. How far might you call yourselves from
the marshes, hereabouts? Not above a mile, I reckon?”
“Just a mile,” said Mrs. Joe.
“That’ll do. We begin to close in upon ’em about dusk. A little before
dusk, my orders are. That’ll do.”
“Convicts, sergeant?” asked Mr. Wopsle, in a matter-of-course way.
“Ay!” returned the sergeant, “two. They’re pretty well known to be out
on the marshes still, and they won’t try to get clear of ’em before dusk.
Anybody here seen anything of any such game?”
Everybody, myself excepted, said no, with confidence. Nobody thought
of me.
“Well!” said the sergeant, “they’ll find themselves trapped in a circle, I
expect, sooner than they count on. Now, blacksmith! If you’re ready, his
Majesty the King is.”
Joe had got his coat and waistcoat and cravat off, and his leather apron
on, and passed into the forge. One of the soldiers opened its wooden
windows, another lighted the fire, another turned to at the bellows, the rest
stood round the blaze, which was soon roaring. Then Joe began to hammer
and clink, hammer and clink, and we all looked on.

The interest of the impending pursuit not only absorbed the general
attention, but even made my sister liberal. She drew a pitcher of beer from
the cask for the soldiers, and invited the sergeant to take a glass of brandy.
But Mr. Pumblechook said, sharply, “Give him wine, Mum. I’ll engage
there’s no tar in that:” so, the sergeant thanked him and said that as he
preferred his drink without tar, he would take wine, if it was equally
convenient. When it was given him, he drank his Majesty’s health and
compliments of the season, and took it all at a mouthful and smacked his
lips.
“Good stuff, eh, sergeant?” said Mr. Pumblechook.
“I’ll tell you something,” returned the sergeant; “I suspect that stuff’s of
your providing.”
Mr. Pumblechook, with a fat sort of laugh, said, “Ay, ay? Why?”
“Because,” returned the sergeant, clapping him on the shoulder, “you’re a
man that knows what’s what.”
“D’ye think so?” said Mr. Pumblechook, with his former laugh. “Have
another glass!”
“With you. Hob and nob,” returned the sergeant. “The top of mine to the
foot of yours,—the foot of yours to the top of mine,—Ring once, ring twice,
—the best tune on the Musical Glasses! Your health. May you live a
thousand years, and never be a worse judge of the right sort than you are at
the present moment of your life!”
The sergeant tossed off his glass again and seemed quite ready for
another glass. I noticed that Mr. Pumblechook in his hospitality appeared to
forget that he had made a present of the wine, but took the bottle from Mrs.
Joe and had all the credit of handing it about in a gush of joviality. Even I
got some. And he was so very free of the wine that he even called for the
other bottle, and handed that about with the same liberality, when the first
was gone.
As I watched them while they all stood clustering about the forge,
enjoying themselves so much, I thought what terrible good sauce for a
dinner my fugitive friend on the marshes was. They had not enjoyed
themselves a quarter so much, before the entertainment was brightened with
the excitement he furnished. And now, when they were all in lively
anticipation of “the two villains” being taken, and when the bellows seemed

to roar for the fugitives, the fire to flare for them, the smoke to hurry away
in pursuit of them, Joe to hammer and clink for them, and all the murky
shadows on the wall to shake at them in menace as the blaze rose and sank,
and the red-hot sparks dropped and died, the pale afternoon outside almost
seemed in my pitying young fancy to have turned pale on their account,
poor wretches.
At last, Joe’s job was done, and the ringing and roaring stopped. As Joe
got on his coat, he mustered courage to propose that some of us should go
down with the soldiers and see what came of the hunt. Mr. Pumblechook
and Mr. Hubble declined, on the plea of a pipe and ladies’ society; but Mr.
Wopsle said he would go, if Joe would. Joe said he was agreeable, and
would take me, if Mrs. Joe approved. We never should have got leave to go,
I am sure, but for Mrs. Joe’s curiosity to know all about it and how it ended.
As it was, she merely stipulated, “If you bring the boy back with his head
blown to bits by a musket, don’t look to me to put it together again.”
The sergeant took a polite leave of the ladies, and parted from Mr.
Pumblechook as from a comrade; though I doubt if he were quite as fully
sensible of that gentleman’s merits under arid conditions, as when
something moist was going. His men resumed their muskets and fell in. Mr.
Wopsle, Joe, and I, received strict charge to keep in the rear, and to speak
no word after we reached the marshes. When we were all out in the raw air
and were steadily moving towards our business, I treasonably whispered to
Joe, “I hope, Joe, we shan’t find them.” and Joe whispered to me, “I’d give
a shilling if they had cut and run, Pip.”
We were joined by no stragglers from the village, for the weather was
cold and threatening, the way dreary, the footing bad, darkness coming on,
and the people had good fires in-doors and were keeping the day. A few
faces hurried to glowing windows and looked after us, but none came out.
We passed the finger-post, and held straight on to the churchyard. There we
were stopped a few minutes by a signal from the sergeant’s hand, while two
or three of his men dispersed themselves among the graves, and also
examined the porch. They came in again without finding anything, and then
we struck out on the open marshes, through the gate at the side of the
churchyard. A bitter sleet came rattling against us here on the east wind, and
Joe took me on his back.

Now that we were out upon the dismal wilderness where they little
thought I had been within eight or nine hours and had seen both men hiding,
I considered for the first time, with great dread, if we should come upon
them, would my particular convict suppose that it was I who had brought
the soldiers there? He had asked me if I was a deceiving imp, and he had
said I should be a fierce young hound if I joined the hunt against him.
Would he believe that I was both imp and hound in treacherous earnest, and
had betrayed him?
It was of no use asking myself this question now. There I was, on Joe’s
back, and there was Joe beneath me, charging at the ditches like a hunter,
and stimulating Mr. Wopsle not to tumble on his Roman nose, and to keep
up with us. The soldiers were in front of us, extending into a pretty wide
line with an interval between man and man. We were taking the course I
had begun with, and from which I had diverged in the mist. Either the mist
was not out again yet, or the wind had dispelled it. Under the low red glare
of sunset, the beacon, and the gibbet, and the mound of the Battery, and the
opposite shore of the river, were plain, though all of a watery lead colour.
With my heart thumping like a blacksmith at Joe’s broad shoulder, I
looked all about for any sign of the convicts. I could see none, I could hear
none. Mr. Wopsle had greatly alarmed me more than once, by his blowing
and hard breathing; but I knew the sounds by this time, and could dissociate
them from the object of pursuit. I got a dreadful start, when I thought I
heard the file still going; but it was only a sheep-bell. The sheep stopped in
their eating and looked timidly at us; and the cattle, their heads turned from
the wind and sleet, stared angrily as if they held us responsible for both
annoyances; but, except these things, and the shudder of the dying day in
every blade of grass, there was no break in the bleak stillness of the
marshes.
The soldiers were moving on in the direction of the old Battery, and we
were moving on a little way behind them, when, all of a sudden, we all
stopped. For there had reached us on the wings of the wind and rain, a long
shout. It was repeated. It was at a distance towards the east, but it was long
and loud. Nay, there seemed to be two or more shouts raised together,—if
one might judge from a confusion in the sound.
To this effect the sergeant and the nearest men were speaking under their
breath, when Joe and I came up. After another moment’s listening, Joe (who

was a good judge) agreed, and Mr. Wopsle (who was a bad judge) agreed.
The sergeant, a decisive man, ordered that the sound should not be
answered, but that the course should be changed, and that his men should
make towards it “at the double.” So we slanted to the right (where the East
was), and Joe pounded away so wonderfully, that I had to hold on tight to
keep my seat.
It was a run indeed now, and what Joe called, in the only two words he
spoke all the time, “a Winder.” Down banks and up banks, and over gates,
and splashing into dikes, and breaking among coarse rushes: no man cared
where he went. As we came nearer to the shouting, it became more and
more apparent that it was made by more than one voice. Sometimes, it
seemed to stop altogether, and then the soldiers stopped. When it broke out
again, the soldiers made for it at a greater rate than ever, and we after them.
After a while, we had so run it down, that we could hear one voice calling
“Murder!” and another voice, “Convicts! Runaways! Guard! This way for
the runaway convicts!” Then both voices would seem to be stifled in a
struggle, and then would break out again. And when it had come to this, the
soldiers ran like deer, and Joe too.
The sergeant ran in first, when we had run the noise quite down, and two
of his men ran in close upon him. Their pieces were cocked and levelled
when we all ran in.
“Here are both men!” panted the sergeant, struggling at the bottom of a
ditch. “Surrender, you two! and confound you for two wild beasts! Come
asunder!”
Water was splashing, and mud was flying, and oaths were being sworn,
and blows were being struck, when some more men went down into the
ditch to help the sergeant, and dragged out, separately, my convict and the
other one. Both were bleeding and panting and execrating and struggling;
but of course I knew them both directly.
“Mind!” said my convict, wiping blood from his face with his ragged
sleeves, and shaking torn hair from his fingers: “I took him! I give him up
to you! Mind that!”
“It’s not much to be particular about,” said the sergeant; “it’ll do you
small good, my man, being in the same plight yourself. Handcuffs there!”
“I don’t expect it to do me any good. I don’t want it to do me more good
than it does now,” said my convict, with a greedy laugh. “I took him. He

knows it. That’s enough for me.”
The other convict was livid to look at, and, in addition to the old bruised
left side of his face, seemed to be bruised and torn all over. He could not so
much as get his breath to speak, until they were both separately handcuffed,
but leaned upon a soldier to keep himself from falling.
“Take notice, guard,—he tried to murder me,” were his first words.
“Tried to murder him?” said my convict, disdainfully. “Try, and not do it?
I took him, and giv’ him up; that’s what I done. I not only prevented him
getting off the marshes, but I dragged him here,—dragged him this far on
his way back. He’s a gentleman, if you please, this villain. Now, the Hulks
has got its gentleman again, through me. Murder him? Worth my while, too,
to murder him, when I could do worse and drag him back!”
The other one still gasped, “He tried—he tried-to—murder me. Bear—
bear witness.”
“Lookee here!” said my convict to the sergeant. “Single-handed I got
clear of the prison-ship; I made a dash and I done it. I could ha’ got clear of
these death-cold flats likewise—look at my leg: you won’t find much iron
on it—if I hadn’t made the discovery that he was here. Let him go free? Let
him profit by the means as I found out? Let him make a tool of me afresh
and again? Once more? No, no, no. If I had died at the bottom there,” and
he made an emphatic swing at the ditch with his manacled hands, “I’d have
held to him with that grip, that you should have been safe to find him in my
hold.”
The other fugitive, who was evidently in extreme horror of his
companion, repeated, “He tried to murder me. I should have been a dead
man if you had not come up.”
“He lies!” said my convict, with fierce energy. “He’s a liar born, and he’ll
die a liar. Look at his face; ain’t it written there? Let him turn those eyes of
his on me. I defy him to do it.”
The other, with an effort at a scornful smile, which could not, however,
collect the nervous working of his mouth into any set expression, looked at
the soldiers, and looked about at the marshes and at the sky, but certainly
did not look at the speaker.
“Do you see him?” pursued my convict. “Do you see what a villain he is?
Do you see those grovelling and wandering eyes? That’s how he looked

when we were tried together. He never looked at me.”
The other, always working and working his dry lips and turning his eyes
restlessly about him far and near, did at last turn them for a moment on the
speaker, with the words, “You are not much to look at,” and with a half-
taunting glance at the bound hands. At that point, my convict became so
frantically exasperated, that he would have rushed upon him but for the
interposition of the soldiers. “Didn’t I tell you,” said the other convict then,
“that he would murder me, if he could?” And any one could see that he
shook with fear, and that there broke out upon his lips curious white flakes,
like thin snow.
“Enough of this parley,” said the sergeant. “Light those torches.”
As one of the soldiers, who carried a basket in lieu of a gun, went down
on his knee to open it, my convict looked round him for the first time, and
saw me. I had alighted from Joe’s back on the brink of the ditch when we
came up, and had not moved since. I looked at him eagerly when he looked
at me, and slightly moved my hands and shook my head. I had been waiting
for him to see me that I might try to assure him of my innocence. It was not
at all expressed to me that he even comprehended my intention, for he gave
me a look that I did not understand, and it all passed in a moment. But if he
had looked at me for an hour or for a day, I could not have remembered his
face ever afterwards, as having been more attentive.
The soldier with the basket soon got a light, and lighted three or four
torches, and took one himself and distributed the others. It had been almost
dark before, but now it seemed quite dark, and soon afterwards very dark.
Before we departed from that spot, four soldiers standing in a ring, fired
twice into the air. Presently we saw other torches kindled at some distance
behind us, and others on the marshes on the opposite bank of the river. “All
right,” said the sergeant. “March.”
We had not gone far when three cannon were fired ahead of us with a
sound that seemed to burst something inside my ear. “You are expected on
board,” said the sergeant to my convict; “they know you are coming. Don’t
straggle, my man. Close up here.”
The two were kept apart, and each walked surrounded by a separate
guard. I had hold of Joe’s hand now, and Joe carried one of the torches. Mr.
Wopsle had been for going back, but Joe was resolved to see it out, so we
went on with the party. There was a reasonably good path now, mostly on

the edge of the river, with a divergence here and there where a dike came,
with a miniature windmill on it and a muddy sluice-gate. When I looked
round, I could see the other lights coming in after us. The torches we carried
dropped great blotches of fire upon the track, and I could see those, too,
lying smoking and flaring. I could see nothing else but black darkness. Our
lights warmed the air about us with their pitchy blaze, and the two prisoners
seemed rather to like that, as they limped along in the midst of the muskets.
We could not go fast, because of their lameness; and they were so spent,
that two or three times we had to halt while they rested.
After an hour or so of this travelling, we came to a rough wooden hut and
a landing-place. There was a guard in the hut, and they challenged, and the
sergeant answered. Then, we went into the hut, where there was a smell of
tobacco and whitewash, and a bright fire, and a lamp, and a stand of
muskets, and a drum, and a low wooden bedstead, like an overgrown
mangle without the machinery, capable of holding about a dozen soldiers all
at once. Three or four soldiers who lay upon it in their great-coats were not
much interested in us, but just lifted their heads and took a sleepy stare, and
then lay down again. The sergeant made some kind of report, and some
entry in a book, and then the convict whom I call the other convict was
drafted off with his guard, to go on board first.
My convict never looked at me, except that once. While we stood in the
hut, he stood before the fire looking thoughtfully at it, or putting up his feet
by turns upon the hob, and looking thoughtfully at them as if he pitied them
for their recent adventures. Suddenly, he turned to the sergeant, and
remarked,—
“I wish to say something respecting this escape. It may prevent some
persons laying under suspicion alonger me.”
“You can say what you like,” returned the sergeant, standing coolly
looking at him with his arms folded, “but you have no call to say it here.
You’ll have opportunity enough to say about it, and hear about it, before it’s
done with, you know.”
“I know, but this is another pint, a separate matter. A man can’t starve; at
least I can’t. I took some wittles, up at the willage over yonder,—where the
church stands a’most out on the marshes.”
“You mean stole,” said the sergeant.
“And I’ll tell you where from. From the blacksmith’s.”

“Halloa!” said the sergeant, staring at Joe.
“Halloa, Pip!” said Joe, staring at me.
“It was some broken wittles—that’s what it was—and a dram of liquor,
and a pie.”
“Have you happened to miss such an article as a pie, blacksmith?” asked
the sergeant, confidentially.
“My wife did, at the very moment when you came in. Don’t you know,
Pip?”
“So,” said my convict, turning his eyes on Joe in a moody manner, and
without the least glance at me,—“so you’re the blacksmith, are you? Than
I’m sorry to say, I’ve eat your pie.”
“God knows you’re welcome to it,—so far as it was ever mine,” returned
Joe, with a saving remembrance of Mrs. Joe. “We don’t know what you
have done, but we wouldn’t have you starved to death for it, poor miserable
fellow-creatur.—Would us, Pip?”
The something that I had noticed before, clicked in the man’s throat
again, and he turned his back. The boat had returned, and his guard were
ready, so we followed him to the landing-place made of rough stakes and
stones, and saw him put into the boat, which was rowed by a crew of
convicts like himself. No one seemed surprised to see him, or interested in
seeing him, or glad to see him, or sorry to see him, or spoke a word, except
that somebody in the boat growled as if to dogs, “Give way, you!” which
was the signal for the dip of the oars. By the light of the torches, we saw the
black Hulk lying out a little way from the mud of the shore, like a wicked
Noah’s ark. Cribbed and barred and moored by massive rusty chains, the
prison-ship seemed in my young eyes to be ironed like the prisoners. We
saw the boat go alongside, and we saw him taken up the side and disappear.
Then, the ends of the torches were flung hissing into the water, and went
out, as if it were all over with him.

Chapter VI.

M
y state of mind regarding the pilfering from which I had been so
unexpectedly exonerated did not impel me to frank disclosure; but
I hope it had some dregs of good at the bottom of it.
I do not recall that I felt any tenderness of conscience in reference to Mrs.
Joe, when the fear of being found out was lifted off me. But I loved Joe,—
perhaps for no better reason in those early days than because the dear fellow
let me love him,—and, as to him, my inner self was not so easily composed.
It was much upon my mind (particularly when I first saw him looking about
for his file) that I ought to tell Joe the whole truth. Yet I did not, and for the
reason that I mistrusted that if I did, he would think me worse than I was.
The fear of losing Joe’s confidence, and of thenceforth sitting in the
chimney corner at night staring drearily at my forever lost companion and
friend, tied up my tongue. I morbidly represented to myself that if Joe knew
it, I never afterwards could see him at the fireside feeling his fair whisker,
without thinking that he was meditating on it. That, if Joe knew it, I never
afterwards could see him glance, however casually, at yesterday’s meat or
pudding when it came on to-day’s table, without thinking that he was
debating whether I had been in the pantry. That, if Joe knew it, and at any
subsequent period of our joint domestic life remarked that his beer was flat
or thick, the conviction that he suspected tar in it, would bring a rush of
blood to my face. In a word, I was too cowardly to do what I knew to be
right, as I had been too cowardly to avoid doing what I knew to be wrong. I
had had no intercourse with the world at that time, and I imitated none of its
many inhabitants who act in this manner. Quite an untaught genius, I made
the discovery of the line of action for myself.
As I was sleepy before we were far away from the prison-ship, Joe took
me on his back again and carried me home. He must have had a tiresome
journey of it, for Mr. Wopsle, being knocked up, was in such a very bad
temper that if the Church had been thrown open, he would probably have

excommunicated the whole expedition, beginning with Joe and myself. In
his lay capacity, he persisted in sitting down in the damp to such an insane
extent, that when his coat was taken off to be dried at the kitchen fire, the
circumstantial evidence on his trousers would have hanged him, if it had
been a capital offence.
By that time, I was staggering on the kitchen floor like a little drunkard,
through having been newly set upon my feet, and through having been fast
asleep, and through waking in the heat and lights and noise of tongues. As I
came to myself (with the aid of a heavy thump between the shoulders, and
the restorative exclamation “Yah! Was there ever such a boy as this!” from
my sister,) I found Joe telling them about the convict’s confession, and all
the visitors suggesting different ways by which he had got into the pantry.
Mr. Pumblechook made out, after carefully surveying the premises, that he
had first got upon the roof of the forge, and had then got upon the roof of
the house, and had then let himself down the kitchen chimney by a rope
made of his bedding cut into strips; and as Mr. Pumblechook was very
positive and drove his own chaise-cart—over everybody—it was agreed
that it must be so. Mr. Wopsle, indeed, wildly cried out, “No!” with the
feeble malice of a tired man; but, as he had no theory, and no coat on, he
was unanimously set at naught,—not to mention his smoking hard behind,
as he stood with his back to the kitchen fire to draw the damp out: which
was not calculated to inspire confidence.
This was all I heard that night before my sister clutched me, as a
slumberous offence to the company’s eyesight, and assisted me up to bed
with such a strong hand that I seemed to have fifty boots on, and to be
dangling them all against the edges of the stairs. My state of mind, as I have
described it, began before I was up in the morning, and lasted long after the
subject had died out, and had ceased to be mentioned saving on exceptional
occasions.

Chapter VII.

A
t the time when I stood in the churchyard reading the family
tombstones, I had just enough learning to be able to spell them out.
My construction even of their simple meaning was not very correct,
for I read “wife of the Above” as a complimentary reference to my father’s
exaltation to a better world; and if any one of my deceased relations had
been referred to as “Below,” I have no doubt I should have formed the
worst opinions of that member of the family. Neither were my notions of
the theological positions to which my Catechism bound me, at all accurate;
for, I have a lively remembrance that I supposed my declaration that I was
to “walk in the same all the days of my life,” laid me under an obligation
always to go through the village from our house in one particular direction,
and never to vary it by turning down by the wheelwright’s or up by the mill.
When I was old enough, I was to be apprenticed to Joe, and until I could
assume that dignity I was not to be what Mrs. Joe called “Pompeyed,” or
(as I render it) pampered. Therefore, I was not only odd-boy about the
forge, but if any neighbour happened to want an extra boy to frighten birds,
or pick up stones, or do any such job, I was favoured with the employment.
In order, however, that our superior position might not be compromised
thereby, a money-box was kept on the kitchen mantel-shelf, into which it
was publicly made known that all my earnings were dropped. I have an
impression that they were to be contributed eventually towards the
liquidation of the National Debt, but I know I had no hope of any personal
participation in the treasure.
Mr. Wopsle’s great-aunt kept an evening school in the village; that is to
say, she was a ridiculous old woman of limited means and unlimited
infirmity, who used to go to sleep from six to seven every evening, in the
society of youth who paid two pence per week each, for the improving
opportunity of seeing her do it. She rented a small cottage, and Mr. Wopsle
had the room upstairs, where we students used to overhear him reading

aloud in a most dignified and terrific manner, and occasionally bumping on
the ceiling. There was a fiction that Mr. Wopsle “examined” the scholars
once a quarter. What he did on those occasions was to turn up his cuffs,
stick up his hair, and give us Mark Antony’s oration over the body of
Caesar. This was always followed by Collins’s Ode on the Passions,
wherein I particularly venerated Mr. Wopsle as Revenge throwing his
blood-stained sword in thunder down, and taking the War-denouncing
trumpet with a withering look. It was not with me then, as it was in later
life, when I fell into the society of the Passions, and compared them with
Collins and Wopsle, rather to the disadvantage of both gentlemen.
Mr. Wopsle’s great-aunt, besides keeping this Educational Institution,
kept in the same room—a little general shop. She had no idea what stock
she had, or what the price of anything in it was; but there was a little greasy
memorandum-book kept in a drawer, which served as a Catalogue of Prices,
and by this oracle Biddy arranged all the shop transactions. Biddy was Mr.
Wopsle’s great-aunt’s granddaughter; I confess myself quite unequal to the
working out of the problem, what relation she was to Mr. Wopsle. She was
an orphan like myself; like me, too, had been brought up by hand. She was
most noticeable, I thought, in respect of her extremities; for, her hair always
wanted brushing, her hands always wanted washing, and her shoes always
wanted mending and pulling up at heel. This description must be received
with a week-day limitation. On Sundays, she went to church elaborated.
Much of my unassisted self, and more by the help of Biddy than of Mr.
Wopsle’s great-aunt, I struggled through the alphabet as if it had been a
bramble-bush; getting considerably worried and scratched by every letter.
After that I fell among those thieves, the nine figures, who seemed every
evening to do something new to disguise themselves and baffle recognition.
But, at last I began, in a purblind groping way, to read, write, and cipher, on
the very smallest scale.
One night I was sitting in the chimney corner with my slate, expending
great efforts on the production of a letter to Joe. I think it must have been a
full year after our hunt upon the marshes, for it was a long time after, and it
was winter and a hard frost. With an alphabet on the hearth at my feet for
reference, I contrived in an hour or two to print and smear this epistle:—

“MI DEER JO i OPE U R KRWITE WELL i OPE i SHAL
SON B HABELL 4 2 TEEDGE U JO AN THEN WE SHORL B

SO GLODD AN WEN i M PRENGTD 2 U JO WOT LARX AN
BLEVE ME INF XN PIP.”

There was no indispensable necessity for my communicating with Joe by
letter, inasmuch as he sat beside me and we were alone. But I delivered this
written communication (slate and all) with my own hand, and Joe received
it as a miracle of erudition.
“I say, Pip, old chap!” cried Joe, opening his blue eyes wide, “what a
scholar you are! An’t you?”
“I should like to be,” said I, glancing at the slate as he held it; with a
misgiving that the writing was rather hilly.
“Why, here’s a J,” said Joe, “and a O equal to anythink! Here’s a J and a
O, Pip, and a J-O, Joe.”

I had never heard Joe read aloud to any greater extent than this
monosyllable, and I had observed at church last Sunday, when I
accidentally held our Prayer-Book upside down, that it seemed to suit his
convenience quite as well as if it had been all right. Wishing to embrace the
present occasion of finding out whether in teaching Joe, I should have to
begin quite at the beginning, I said, “Ah! But read the rest, Jo.”

“The rest, eh, Pip?” said Joe, looking at it with a slow, searching eye,
“One, two, three. Why, here’s three Js, and three Os, and three J-O, Joes in
it, Pip!”
I leaned over Joe, and, with the aid of my forefinger read him the whole
letter.
“Astonishing!” said Joe, when I had finished. “You ARE a scholar.”
“How do you spell Gargery, Joe?” I asked him, with a modest patronage.
“I don’t spell it at all,” said Joe.
“But supposing you did?”
“It can’t be supposed,” said Joe. “Tho’ I’m uncommon fond of reading,
too.”
“Are you, Joe?”
“On-common. Give me,” said Joe, “a good book, or a good newspaper,
and sit me down afore a good fire, and I ask no better. Lord!” he continued,
after rubbing his knees a little, “when you do come to a J and a O, and says
you, ‘Here, at last, is a J-O, Joe,’ how interesting reading is!”
I derived from this, that Joe’s education, like Steam, was yet in its
infancy. Pursuing the subject, I inquired,—
“Didn’t you ever go to school, Joe, when you were as little as me?”
“No, Pip.”
“Why didn’t you ever go to school, Joe, when you were as little as me?”
“Well, Pip,” said Joe, taking up the poker, and settling himself to his
usual occupation when he was thoughtful, of slowly raking the fire between
the lower bars; “I’ll tell you. My father, Pip, he were given to drink, and
when he were overtook with drink, he hammered away at my mother, most
onmerciful. It were a’most the only hammering he did, indeed, ’xcepting at
myself. And he hammered at me with a wigor only to be equalled by the
wigor with which he didn’t hammer at his anwil.—You’re a listening and
understanding, Pip?”
“Yes, Joe.”
“Consequence, my mother and me we ran away from my father several
times; and then my mother she’d go out to work, and she’d say, “Joe,” she’d
say, “now, please God, you shall have some schooling, child,” and she’d put
me to school. But my father were that good in his hart that he couldn’t abear

to be without us. So, he’d come with a most tremenjous crowd and make
such a row at the doors of the houses where we was, that they used to be
obligated to have no more to do with us and to give us up to him. And then
he took us home and hammered us. Which, you see, Pip,” said Joe, pausing
in his meditative raking of the fire, and looking at me, “were a drawback on
my learning.”
“Certainly, poor Joe!”
“Though mind you, Pip,” said Joe, with a judicial touch or two of the
poker on the top bar, “rendering unto all their doo, and maintaining equal
justice betwixt man and man, my father were that good in his hart, don’t
you see?”
I didn’t see; but I didn’t say so.
“Well!” Joe pursued, “somebody must keep the pot a-biling, Pip, or the
pot won’t bile, don’t you know?”
I saw that, and said so.
“Consequence, my father didn’t make objections to my going to work; so
I went to work at my present calling, which were his too, if he would have
followed it, and I worked tolerable hard, I assure you, Pip. In time I were
able to keep him, and I kep him till he went off in a purple leptic fit. And it
were my intentions to have had put upon his tombstone that, Whatsume’er
the failings on his part, Remember reader he were that good in his heart.”
Joe recited this couplet with such manifest pride and careful perspicuity,
that I asked him if he had made it himself.
“I made it,” said Joe, “my own self. I made it in a moment. It was like
striking out a horseshoe complete, in a single blow. I never was so much
surprised in all my life,—couldn’t credit my own ed,—to tell you the truth,
hardly believed it were my own ed. As I was saying, Pip, it were my
intentions to have had it cut over him; but poetry costs money, cut it how
you will, small or large, and it were not done. Not to mention bearers, all
the money that could be spared were wanted for my mother. She were in
poor elth, and quite broke. She weren’t long of following, poor soul, and
her share of peace come round at last.”
Joe’s blue eyes turned a little watery; he rubbed first one of them, and
then the other, in a most uncongenial and uncomfortable manner, with the
round knob on the top of the poker.

“It were but lonesome then,” said Joe, “living here alone, and I got
acquainted with your sister. Now, Pip,”—Joe looked firmly at me as if he
knew I was not going to agree with him;—“your sister is a fine figure of a
woman.”
I could not help looking at the fire, in an obvious state of doubt.
“Whatever family opinions, or whatever the world’s opinions, on that
subject may be, Pip, your sister is,” Joe tapped the top bar with the poker
after every word following, “a-fine-figure—of—a—woman!”
I could think of nothing better to say than “I am glad you think so, Joe.”
“So am I,” returned Joe, catching me up. “I am glad I think so, Pip. A
little redness or a little matter of Bone, here or there, what does it signify to
Me?”
I sagaciously observed, if it didn’t signify to him, to whom did it signify?
“Certainly!” assented Joe. “That’s it. You’re right, old chap! When I got
acquainted with your sister, it were the talk how she was bringing you up by
hand. Very kind of her too, all the folks said, and I said, along with all the
folks. As to you,” Joe pursued with a countenance expressive of seeing
something very nasty indeed, “if you could have been aware how small and
flabby and mean you was, dear me, you’d have formed the most
contemptible opinion of yourself!”
Not exactly relishing this, I said, “Never mind me, Joe.”
“But I did mind you, Pip,” he returned with tender simplicity. “When I
offered to your sister to keep company, and to be asked in church at such
times as she was willing and ready to come to the forge, I said to her, ‘And
bring the poor little child. God bless the poor little child,’ I said to your
sister, ‘there’s room for him at the forge!’”
I broke out crying and begging pardon, and hugged Joe round the neck:
who dropped the poker to hug me, and to say, “Ever the best of friends; an’t
us, Pip? Don’t cry, old chap!”
When this little interruption was over, Joe resumed:—
“Well, you see, Pip, and here we are! That’s about where it lights; here
we are! Now, when you take me in hand in my learning, Pip (and I tell you
beforehand I am awful dull, most awful dull), Mrs. Joe mustn’t see too
much of what we’re up to. It must be done, as I may say, on the sly. And
why on the sly? I’ll tell you why, Pip.”

He had taken up the poker again; without which, I doubt if he could have
proceeded in his demonstration.
“Your sister is given to government.”
“Given to government, Joe?” I was startled, for I had some shadowy idea
(and I am afraid I must add, hope) that Joe had divorced her in a favour of
the Lords of the Admiralty, or Treasury.
“Given to government,” said Joe. “Which I meantersay the government
of you and myself.”
“Oh!”
“And she an’t over partial to having scholars on the premises,” Joe
continued, “and in partickler would not be over partial to my being a
scholar, for fear as I might rise. Like a sort of rebel, don’t you see?”
I was going to retort with an inquiry, and had got as far as “Why—”
when Joe stopped me.
“Stay a bit. I know what you’re a-going to say, Pip; stay a bit! I don’t
deny that your sister comes the Mo-gul over us, now and again. I don’t deny
that she do throw us back-falls, and that she do drop down upon us heavy.
At such times as when your sister is on the Ram-page, Pip,” Joe sank his
voice to a whisper and glanced at the door, “candour compels fur to admit
that she is a Buster.”
Joe pronounced this word, as if it began with at least twelve capital Bs.
“Why don’t I rise? That were your observation when I broke it off, Pip?”
“Yes, Joe.”
“Well,” said Joe, passing the poker into his left hand, that he might feel
his whisker; and I had no hope of him whenever he took to that placid
occupation; “your sister’s a master-mind. A master-mind.”
“What’s that?” I asked, in some hope of bringing him to a stand. But Joe
was readier with his definition than I had expected, and completely stopped
me by arguing circularly, and answering with a fixed look, “Her.”
“And I ain’t a master-mind,” Joe resumed, when he had unfixed his look,
and got back to his whisker. “And last of all, Pip,—and this I want to say
very serious to you, old chap,—I see so much in my poor mother, of a
woman drudging and slaving and breaking her honest hart and never getting
no peace in her mortal days, that I’m dead afeerd of going wrong in the way

of not doing what’s right by a woman, and I’d fur rather of the two go
wrong the t’other way, and be a little ill-conwenienced myself. I wish it was
only me that got put out, Pip; I wish there warn’t no Tickler for you, old
chap; I wish I could take it all on myself; but this is the up-and-down-and-
straight on it, Pip, and I hope you’ll overlook shortcomings.”
Young as I was, I believe that I dated a new admiration of Joe from that
night. We were equals afterwards, as we had been before; but, afterwards at
quiet times when I sat looking at Joe and thinking about him, I had a new
sensation of feeling conscious that I was looking up to Joe in my heart.
“However,” said Joe, rising to replenish the fire; “here’s the Dutch-clock
a-working himself up to being equal to strike Eight of ’em, and she’s not
come home yet! I hope Uncle Pumblechook’s mare mayn’t have set a
forefoot on a piece o’ ice, and gone down.”
Mrs. Joe made occasional trips with Uncle Pumblechook on market-days,
to assist him in buying such household stuffs and goods as required a
woman’s judgment; Uncle Pumblechook being a bachelor and reposing no
confidences in his domestic servant. This was market-day, and Mrs. Joe was
out on one of these expeditions.
Joe made the fire and swept the hearth, and then we went to the door to
listen for the chaise-cart. It was a dry cold night, and the wind blew keenly,
and the frost was white and hard. A man would die to-night of lying out on
the marshes, I thought. And then I looked at the stars, and considered how
awful it would be for a man to turn his face up to them as he froze to death,
and see no help or pity in all the glittering multitude.
“Here comes the mare,” said Joe, “ringing like a peal of bells!”
The sound of her iron shoes upon the hard road was quite musical, as she
came along at a much brisker trot than usual. We got a chair out, ready for
Mrs. Joe’s alighting, and stirred up the fire that they might see a bright
window, and took a final survey of the kitchen that nothing might be out of
its place. When we had completed these preparations, they drove up,
wrapped to the eyes. Mrs. Joe was soon landed, and Uncle Pumblechook
was soon down too, covering the mare with a cloth, and we were soon all in
the kitchen, carrying so much cold air in with us that it seemed to drive all
the heat out of the fire.
“Now,” said Mrs. Joe, unwrapping herself with haste and excitement, and
throwing her bonnet back on her shoulders where it hung by the strings, “if

this boy ain’t grateful this night, he never will be!”
I looked as grateful as any boy possibly could, who was wholly
uninformed why he ought to assume that expression.
“It’s only to be hoped,” said my sister, “that he won’t be Pompeyed. But I
have my fears.”
“She ain’t in that line, Mum,” said Mr. Pumblechook. “She knows
better.”
She? I looked at Joe, making the motion with my lips and eyebrows,
“She?” Joe looked at me, making the motion with his lips and eyebrows,
“She?” My sister catching him in the act, he drew the back of his hand
across his nose with his usual conciliatory air on such occasions, and looked
at her.
“Well?” said my sister, in her snappish way. “What are you staring at? Is
the house afire?”
“—Which some individual,” Joe politely hinted, “mentioned—she.”
“And she is a she, I suppose?” said my sister. “Unless you call Miss
Havisham a he. And I doubt if even you’ll go so far as that.”
“Miss Havisham, up town?” said Joe.
“Is there any Miss Havisham down town?” returned my sister.
“She wants this boy to go and play there. And of course he’s going. And
he had better play there,” said my sister, shaking her head at me as an
encouragement to be extremely light and sportive, “or I’ll work him.”
I had heard of Miss Havisham up town,—everybody for miles round had
heard of Miss Havisham up town,—as an immensely rich and grim lady
who lived in a large and dismal house barricaded against robbers, and who
led a life of seclusion.
“Well to be sure!” said Joe, astounded. “I wonder how she come to know
Pip!”
“Noodle!” cried my sister. “Who said she knew him?”
“—Which some individual,” Joe again politely hinted, “mentioned that
she wanted him to go and play there.”
“And couldn’t she ask Uncle Pumblechook if he knew of a boy to go and
play there? Isn’t it just barely possible that Uncle Pumblechook may be a
tenant of hers, and that he may sometimes—we won’t say quarterly or half-

yearly, for that would be requiring too much of you—but sometimes—go
there to pay his rent? And couldn’t she then ask Uncle Pumblechook if he
knew of a boy to go and play there? And couldn’t Uncle Pumblechook,
being always considerate and thoughtful for us—though you may not think
it, Joseph,” in a tone of the deepest reproach, as if he were the most callous
of nephews, “then mention this boy, standing Prancing here”—which I
solemnly declare I was not doing—“that I have for ever been a willing slave
to?”
“Good again!” cried Uncle Pumblechook. “Well put! Prettily pointed!
Good indeed! Now Joseph, you know the case.”
“No, Joseph,” said my sister, still in a reproachful manner, while Joe
apologetically drew the back of his hand across and across his nose, “you
do not yet—though you may not think it—know the case. You may consider
that you do, but you do not, Joseph. For you do not know that Uncle
Pumblechook, being sensible that for anything we can tell, this boy’s
fortune may be made by his going to Miss Havisham’s, has offered to take
him into town to-night in his own chaise-cart, and to keep him to-night, and
to take him with his own hands to Miss Havisham’s to-morrow morning.
And Lor-a-mussy me!” cried my sister, casting off her bonnet in sudden
desperation, “here I stand talking to mere Mooncalfs, with Uncle
Pumblechook waiting, and the mare catching cold at the door, and the boy
grimed with crock and dirt from the hair of his head to the sole of his foot!”
With that, she pounced upon me, like an eagle on a lamb, and my face
was squeezed into wooden bowls in sinks, and my head was put under taps
of water-butts, and I was soaped, and kneaded, and towelled, and thumped,
and harrowed, and rasped, until I really was quite beside myself. (I may
here remark that I suppose myself to be better acquainted than any living
authority, with the ridgy effect of a wedding-ring, passing
unsympathetically over the human countenance.)
When my ablutions were completed, I was put into clean linen of the
stiffest character, like a young penitent into sackcloth, and was trussed up in
my tightest and fearfullest suit. I was then delivered over to Mr.
Pumblechook, who formally received me as if he were the Sheriff, and who
let off upon me the speech that I knew he had been dying to make all along:
“Boy, be forever grateful to all friends, but especially unto them which
brought you up by hand!”

“Good-bye, Joe!”
“God bless you, Pip, old chap!”
I had never parted from him before, and what with my feelings and what
with soapsuds, I could at first see no stars from the chaise-cart. But they
twinkled out one by one, without throwing any light on the questions why
on earth I was going to play at Miss Havisham’s, and what on earth I was
expected to play at.

Chapter VIII.

M
r. Pumblechook’s premises in the High Street of the market town,
were of a peppercorny and farinaceous character, as the premises
of a cornchandler and seedsman should be. It appeared to me that
he must be a very happy man indeed, to have so many little drawers in his
shop; and I wondered when I peeped into one or two on the lower tiers, and
saw the tied-up brown paper packets inside, whether the flower-seeds and
bulbs ever wanted of a fine day to break out of those jails, and bloom.
It was in the early morning after my arrival that I entertained this
speculation. On the previous night, I had been sent straight to bed in an attic
with a sloping roof, which was so low in the corner where the bedstead was,
that I calculated the tiles as being within a foot of my eyebrows. In the same
early morning, I discovered a singular affinity between seeds and
corduroys. Mr. Pumblechook wore corduroys, and so did his shopman; and
somehow, there was a general air and flavour about the corduroys, so much
in the nature of seeds, and a general air and flavour about the seeds, so
much in the nature of corduroys, that I hardly knew which was which. The
same opportunity served me for noticing that Mr. Pumblechook appeared to
conduct his business by looking across the street at the saddler, who
appeared to transact his business by keeping his eye on the coachmaker,
who appeared to get on in life by putting his hands in his pockets and
contemplating the baker, who in his turn folded his arms and stared at the
grocer, who stood at his door and yawned at the chemist. The watchmaker,
always poring over a little desk with a magnifying-glass at his eye, and
always inspected by a group of smock-frocks poring over him through the
glass of his shop-window, seemed to be about the only person in the High
Street whose trade engaged his attention.
Mr. Pumblechook and I breakfasted at eight o’clock in the parlour behind
the shop, while the shopman took his mug of tea and hunch of bread and
butter on a sack of peas in the front premises. I considered Mr.

Pumblechook wretched company. Besides being possessed by my sister’s
idea that a mortifying and penitential character ought to be imparted to my
diet,—besides giving me as much crumb as possible in combination with as
little butter, and putting such a quantity of warm water into my milk that it
would have been more candid to have left the milk out altogether,—his
conversation consisted of nothing but arithmetic. On my politely bidding
him Good-morning, he said, pompously, “Seven times nine, boy?” And how
should I be able to answer, dodged in that way, in a strange place, on an
empty stomach! I was hungry, but before I had swallowed a morsel, he
began a running sum that lasted all through the breakfast. “Seven?” “And
four?” “And eight?” “And six?” “And two?” “And ten?” And so on. And
after each figure was disposed of, it was as much as I could do to get a bite
or a sup, before the next came; while he sat at his ease guessing nothing,
and eating bacon and hot roll, in (if I may be allowed the expression) a
gorging and gormandizing manner.
For such reasons, I was very glad when ten o’clock came and we started
for Miss Havisham’s; though I was not at all at my ease regarding the
manner in which I should acquit myself under that lady’s roof. Within a
quarter of an hour we came to Miss Havisham’s house, which was of old
brick, and dismal, and had a great many iron bars to it. Some of the
windows had been walled up; of those that remained, all the lower were
rustily barred. There was a courtyard in front, and that was barred; so we
had to wait, after ringing the bell, until some one should come to open it.
While we waited at the gate, I peeped in (even then Mr. Pumblechook said,
“And fourteen?” but I pretended not to hear him), and saw that at the side of
the house there was a large brewery. No brewing was going on in it, and
none seemed to have gone on for a long long time.
A window was raised, and a clear voice demanded “What name?” To
which my conductor replied, “Pumblechook.” The voice returned, “Quite
right,” and the window was shut again, and a young lady came across the
court-yard, with keys in her hand.
“This,” said Mr. Pumblechook, “is Pip.”
“This is Pip, is it?” returned the young lady, who was very pretty and
seemed very proud; “come in, Pip.”
Mr. Pumblechook was coming in also, when she stopped him with the
gate.

“Oh!” she said. “Did you wish to see Miss Havisham?”
“If Miss Havisham wished to see me,” returned Mr. Pumblechook,
discomfited.
“Ah!” said the girl; “but you see she don’t.”
She said it so finally, and in such an undiscussible way, that Mr.
Pumblechook, though in a condition of ruffled dignity, could not protest.
But he eyed me severely,—as if I had done anything to him!—and departed
with the words reproachfully delivered: “Boy! Let your behaviour here be a
credit unto them which brought you up by hand!” I was not free from
apprehension that he would come back to propound through the gate, “And
sixteen?” But he didn’t.
My young conductress locked the gate, and we went across the courtyard.
It was paved and clean, but grass was growing in every crevice. The
brewery buildings had a little lane of communication with it, and the
wooden gates of that lane stood open, and all the brewery beyond stood
open, away to the high enclosing wall; and all was empty and disused. The
cold wind seemed to blow colder there than outside the gate; and it made a
shrill noise in howling in and out at the open sides of the brewery, like the
noise of wind in the rigging of a ship at sea.
She saw me looking at it, and she said, “You could drink without hurt all
the strong beer that’s brewed there now, boy.”
“I should think I could, miss,” said I, in a shy way.
“Better not try to brew beer there now, or it would turn out sour, boy;
don’t you think so?”
“It looks like it, miss.”
“Not that anybody means to try,” she added, “for that’s all done with, and
the place will stand as idle as it is till it falls. As to strong beer, there’s
enough of it in the cellars already, to drown the Manor House.”

“Is that the name of this house, miss?”
“One of its names, boy.”
“It has more than one, then, miss?”
“One more. Its other name was Satis; which is Greek, or Latin, or
Hebrew, or all three—or all one to me—for enough.”
“Enough House,” said I; “that’s a curious name, miss.”

“Yes,” she replied; “but it meant more than it said. It meant, when it was
given, that whoever had this house could want nothing else. They must have
been easily satisfied in those days, I should think. But don’t loiter, boy.”
Though she called me “boy” so often, and with a carelessness that was
far from complimentary, she was of about my own age. She seemed much
older than I, of course, being a girl, and beautiful and self-possessed; and
she was as scornful of me as if she had been one-and-twenty, and a queen.
We went into the house by a side door, the great front entrance had two
chains across it outside,—and the first thing I noticed was, that the passages
were all dark, and that she had left a candle burning there. She took it up,
and we went through more passages and up a staircase, and still it was all
dark, and only the candle lighted us.
At last we came to the door of a room, and she said, “Go in.”
I answered, more in shyness than politeness, “After you, miss.”
To this she returned: “Don’t be ridiculous, boy; I am not going in.” And
scornfully walked away, and—what was worse—took the candle with her.
This was very uncomfortable, and I was half afraid. However, the only
thing to be done being to knock at the door, I knocked, and was told from
within to enter. I entered, therefore, and found myself in a pretty large
room, well lighted with wax candles. No glimpse of daylight was to be seen
in it. It was a dressing-room, as I supposed from the furniture, though much
of it was of forms and uses then quite unknown to me. But prominent in it
was a draped table with a gilded looking-glass, and that I made out at first
sight to be a fine lady’s dressing-table.
Whether I should have made out this object so soon if there had been no
fine lady sitting at it, I cannot say. In an arm-chair, with an elbow resting on
the table and her head leaning on that hand, sat the strangest lady I have
ever seen, or shall ever see.
She was dressed in rich materials,—satins, and lace, and silks,—all of
white. Her shoes were white. And she had a long white veil dependent from
her hair, and she had bridal flowers in her hair, but her hair was white.
Some bright jewels sparkled on her neck and on her hands, and some other
jewels lay sparkling on the table. Dresses, less splendid than the dress she
wore, and half-packed trunks, were scattered about. She had not quite
finished dressing, for she had but one shoe on,—the other was on the table

near her hand,—her veil was but half arranged, her watch and chain were
not put on, and some lace for her bosom lay with those trinkets, and with
her handkerchief, and gloves, and some flowers, and a Prayer-Book all
confusedly heaped about the looking-glass.
It was not in the first few moments that I saw all these things, though I
saw more of them in the first moments than might be supposed. But I saw
that everything within my view which ought to be white, had been white
long ago, and had lost its lustre and was faded and yellow. I saw that the
bride within the bridal dress had withered like the dress, and like the
flowers, and had no brightness left but the brightness of her sunken eyes. I
saw that the dress had been put upon the rounded figure of a young woman,
and that the figure upon which it now hung loose had shrunk to skin and
bone. Once, I had been taken to see some ghastly waxwork at the Fair,
representing I know not what impossible personage lying in state. Once, I
had been taken to one of our old marsh churches to see a skeleton in the
ashes of a rich dress that had been dug out of a vault under the church
pavement. Now, waxwork and skeleton seemed to have dark eyes that
moved and looked at me. I should have cried out, if I could.
“Who is it?” said the lady at the table.
“Pip, ma’am.”
“Pip?”
“Mr. Pumblechook’s boy, ma’am. Come—to play.”
“Come nearer; let me look at you. Come close.”
It was when I stood before her, avoiding her eyes, that I took note of the
surrounding objects in detail, and saw that her watch had stopped at twenty
minutes to nine, and that a clock in the room had stopped at twenty minutes
to nine.
“Look at me,” said Miss Havisham. “You are not afraid of a woman who
has never seen the sun since you were born?”
I regret to state that I was not afraid of telling the enormous lie
comprehended in the answer “No.”
“Do you know what I touch here?” she said, laying her hands, one upon
the other, on her left side.
“Yes, ma’am.” (It made me think of the young man.)

“What do I touch?”
“Your heart.”
“Broken!”
She uttered the word with an eager look, and with strong emphasis, and
with a weird smile that had a kind of boast in it. Afterwards she kept her
hands there for a little while, and slowly took them away as if they were
heavy.
“I am tired,” said Miss Havisham. “I want diversion, and I have done
with men and women. Play.”
I think it will be conceded by my most disputatious reader, that she could
hardly have directed an unfortunate boy to do anything in the wide world
more difficult to be done under the circumstances.
“I sometimes have sick fancies,” she went on, “and I have a sick fancy
that I want to see some play. There, there!” with an impatient movement of
the fingers of her right hand; “play, play, play!”
For a moment, with the fear of my sister’s working me before my eyes, I
had a desperate idea of starting round the room in the assumed character of
Mr. Pumblechook’s chaise-cart. But I felt myself so unequal to the
performance that I gave it up, and stood looking at Miss Havisham in what I
suppose she took for a dogged manner, inasmuch as she said, when we had
taken a good look at each other,—
“Are you sullen and obstinate?”
“No, ma’am, I am very sorry for you, and very sorry I can’t play just
now. If you complain of me I shall get into trouble with my sister, so I
would do it if I could; but it’s so new here, and so strange, and so fine,—
and melancholy—.” I stopped, fearing I might say too much, or had already
said it, and we took another look at each other.
Before she spoke again, she turned her eyes from me, and looked at the
dress she wore, and at the dressing-table, and finally at herself in the
looking-glass.
“So new to him,” she muttered, “so old to me; so strange to him, so
familiar to me; so melancholy to both of us! Call Estella.”
As she was still looking at the reflection of herself, I thought she was still
talking to herself, and kept quiet.

“Call Estella,” she repeated, flashing a look at me. “You can do that. Call
Estella. At the door.”
To stand in the dark in a mysterious passage of an unknown house,
bawling Estella to a scornful young lady neither visible nor responsive, and
feeling it a dreadful liberty so to roar out her name, was almost as bad as
playing to order. But she answered at last, and her light came along the dark
passage like a star.
Miss Havisham beckoned her to come close, and took up a jewel from
the table, and tried its effect upon her fair young bosom and against her
pretty brown hair. “Your own, one day, my dear, and you will use it well.
Let me see you play cards with this boy.”
“With this boy? Why, he is a common labouring-boy!”
I thought I overheard Miss Havisham answer,—only it seemed so
unlikely,—“Well? You can break his heart.”
“What do you play, boy?” asked Estella of myself, with the greatest
disdain.
“Nothing but beggar my neighbour, miss.”
“Beggar him,” said Miss Havisham to Estella. So we sat down to cards.
It was then I began to understand that everything in the room had
stopped, like the watch and the clock, a long time ago. I noticed that Miss
Havisham put down the jewel exactly on the spot from which she had taken
it up. As Estella dealt the cards, I glanced at the dressing-table again, and
saw that the shoe upon it, once white, now yellow, had never been worn. I
glanced down at the foot from which the shoe was absent, and saw that the
silk stocking on it, once white, now yellow, had been trodden ragged.
Without this arrest of everything, this standing still of all the pale decayed
objects, not even the withered bridal dress on the collapsed form could have
looked so like grave-clothes, or the long veil so like a shroud.
So she sat, corpse-like, as we played at cards; the frillings and trimmings
on her bridal dress, looking like earthy paper. I knew nothing then of the
discoveries that are occasionally made of bodies buried in ancient times,
which fall to powder in the moment of being distinctly seen; but, I have
often thought since, that she must have looked as if the admission of the
natural light of day would have struck her to dust.

“He calls the knaves Jacks, this boy!” said Estella with disdain, before
our first game was out. “And what coarse hands he has! And what thick
boots!”
I had never thought of being ashamed of my hands before; but I began to
consider them a very indifferent pair. Her contempt for me was so strong,
that it became infectious, and I caught it.
She won the game, and I dealt. I misdealt, as was only natural, when I
knew she was lying in wait for me to do wrong; and she denounced me for
a stupid, clumsy labouring-boy.
“You say nothing of her,” remarked Miss Havisham to me, as she looked
on. “She says many hard things of you, but you say nothing of her. What do
you think of her?”
“I don’t like to say,” I stammered.
“Tell me in my ear,” said Miss Havisham, bending down.
“I think she is very proud,” I replied, in a whisper.
“Anything else?”
“I think she is very pretty.”
“Anything else?”
“I think she is very insulting.” (She was looking at me then with a look of
supreme aversion.)
“Anything else?”
“I think I should like to go home.”
“And never see her again, though she is so pretty?”
“I am not sure that I shouldn’t like to see her again, but I should like to
go home now.”
“You shall go soon,” said Miss Havisham, aloud. “Play the game out.”
Saving for the one weird smile at first, I should have felt almost sure that
Miss Havisham’s face could not smile. It had dropped into a watchful and
brooding expression,—most likely when all the things about her had
become transfixed,—and it looked as if nothing could ever lift it up again.
Her chest had dropped, so that she stooped; and her voice had dropped, so
that she spoke low, and with a dead lull upon her; altogether, she had the
appearance of having dropped body and soul, within and without, under the
weight of a crushing blow.

I played the game to an end with Estella, and she beggared me. She threw
the cards down on the table when she had won them all, as if she despised
them for having been won of me.
“When shall I have you here again?” said Miss Havisham. “Let me
think.”
I was beginning to remind her that to-day was Wednesday, when she
checked me with her former impatient movement of the fingers of her right
hand.
“There, there! I know nothing of days of the week; I know nothing of
weeks of the year. Come again after six days. You hear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Estella, take him down. Let him have something to eat, and let him
roam and look about him while he eats. Go, Pip.”
I followed the candle down, as I had followed the candle up, and she
stood it in the place where we had found it. Until she opened the side
entrance, I had fancied, without thinking about it, that it must necessarily be
night-time. The rush of the daylight quite confounded me, and made me feel
as if I had been in the candlelight of the strange room many hours.
“You are to wait here, you boy,” said Estella; and disappeared and closed
the door.
I took the opportunity of being alone in the courtyard to look at my
coarse hands and my common boots. My opinion of those accessories was
not favourable. They had never troubled me before, but they troubled me
now, as vulgar appendages. I determined to ask Joe why he had ever taught
me to call those picture-cards Jacks, which ought to be called knaves. I
wished Joe had been rather more genteelly brought up, and then I should
have been so too.
She came back, with some bread and meat and a little mug of beer. She
put the mug down on the stones of the yard, and gave me the bread and
meat without looking at me, as insolently as if I were a dog in disgrace. I
was so humiliated, hurt, spurned, offended, angry, sorry,—I cannot hit upon
the right name for the smart—God knows what its name was,—that tears
started to my eyes. The moment they sprang there, the girl looked at me
with a quick delight in having been the cause of them. This gave me power
to keep them back and to look at her: so, she gave a contemptuous toss—

but with a sense, I thought, of having made too sure that I was so wounded
—and left me.
But when she was gone, I looked about me for a place to hide my face in,
and got behind one of the gates in the brewery-lane, and leaned my sleeve
against the wall there, and leaned my forehead on it and cried. As I cried, I
kicked the wall, and took a hard twist at my hair; so bitter were my feelings,
and so sharp was the smart without a name, that needed counteraction.
My sister’s bringing up had made me sensitive. In the little world in
which children have their existence whosoever brings them up, there is
nothing so finely perceived and so finely felt as injustice. It may be only
small injustice that the child can be exposed to; but the child is small, and
its world is small, and its rocking-horse stands as many hands high,
according to scale, as a big-boned Irish hunter. Within myself, I had
sustained, from my babyhood, a perpetual conflict with injustice. I had
known, from the time when I could speak, that my sister, in her capricious
and violent coercion, was unjust to me. I had cherished a profound
conviction that her bringing me up by hand gave her no right to bring me up
by jerks. Through all my punishments, disgraces, fasts, and vigils, and other
penitential performances, I had nursed this assurance; and to my
communing so much with it, in a solitary and unprotected way, I in great
part refer the fact that I was morally timid and very sensitive.
I got rid of my injured feelings for the time by kicking them into the
brewery wall, and twisting them out of my hair, and then I smoothed my
face with my sleeve, and came from behind the gate. The bread and meat
were acceptable, and the beer was warming and tingling, and I was soon in
spirits to look about me.
To be sure, it was a deserted place, down to the pigeon-house in the
brewery-yard, which had been blown crooked on its pole by some high
wind, and would have made the pigeons think themselves at sea, if there
had been any pigeons there to be rocked by it. But there were no pigeons in
the dove-cot, no horses in the stable, no pigs in the sty, no malt in the
storehouse, no smells of grains and beer in the copper or the vat. All the
uses and scents of the brewery might have evaporated with its last reek of
smoke. In a by-yard, there was a wilderness of empty casks, which had a
certain sour remembrance of better days lingering about them; but it was

too sour to be accepted as a sample of the beer that was gone,—and in this
respect I remember those recluses as being like most others.
Behind the furthest end of the brewery, was a rank garden with an old
wall; not so high but that I could struggle up and hold on long enough to
look over it, and see that the rank garden was the garden of the house, and
that it was overgrown with tangled weeds, but that there was a track upon
the green and yellow paths, as if some one sometimes walked there, and
that Estella was walking away from me even then. But she seemed to be
everywhere. For when I yielded to the temptation presented by the casks,
and began to walk on them, I saw her walking on them at the end of the
yard of casks. She had her back towards me, and held her pretty brown hair
spread out in her two hands, and never looked round, and passed out of my
view directly. So, in the brewery itself,—by which I mean the large paved
lofty place in which they used to make the beer, and where the brewing
utensils still were. When I first went into it, and, rather oppressed by its
gloom, stood near the door looking about me, I saw her pass among the
extinguished fires, and ascend some light iron stairs, and go out by a gallery
high overhead, as if she were going out into the sky.
It was in this place, and at this moment, that a strange thing happened to
my fancy. I thought it a strange thing then, and I thought it a stranger thing
long afterwards. I turned my eyes—a little dimmed by looking up at the
frosty light—towards a great wooden beam in a low nook of the building
near me on my right hand, and I saw a figure hanging there by the neck. A
figure all in yellow white, with but one shoe to the feet; and it hung so, that
I could see that the faded trimmings of the dress were like earthy paper, and
that the face was Miss Havisham’s, with a movement going over the whole
countenance as if she were trying to call to me. In the terror of seeing the
figure, and in the terror of being certain that it had not been there a moment
before, I at first ran from it, and then ran towards it. And my terror was
greatest of all when I found no figure there.
Nothing less than the frosty light of the cheerful sky, the sight of people
passing beyond the bars of the court-yard gate, and the reviving influence of
the rest of the bread and meat and beer, would have brought me round.
Even with those aids, I might not have come to myself as soon as I did, but
that I saw Estella approaching with the keys, to let me out. She would have

some fair reason for looking down upon me, I thought, if she saw me
frightened; and she would have no fair reason.
She gave me a triumphant glance in passing me, as if she rejoiced that
my hands were so coarse and my boots were so thick, and she opened the
gate, and stood holding it. I was passing out without looking at her, when
she touched me with a taunting hand.
“Why don’t you cry?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
“You do,” said she. “You have been crying till you are half blind, and you
are near crying again now.”
She laughed contemptuously, pushed me out, and locked the gate upon
me. I went straight to Mr. Pumblechook’s, and was immensely relieved to
find him not at home. So, leaving word with the shopman on what day I
was wanted at Miss Havisham’s again, I set off on the four-mile walk to our
forge; pondering, as I went along, on all I had seen, and deeply revolving
that I was a common labouring-boy; that my hands were coarse; that my
boots were thick; that I had fallen into a despicable habit of calling knaves
Jacks; that I was much more ignorant than I had considered myself last
night, and generally that I was in a low-lived bad way.

Chapter IX.

W
hen I reached home, my sister was very curious to know all about
Miss Havisham’s, and asked a number of questions. And I soon
found myself getting heavily bumped from behind in the nape of
the neck and the small of the back, and having my face ignominiously
shoved against the kitchen wall, because I did not answer those questions at
sufficient length.
If a dread of not being understood be hidden in the breasts of other young
people to anything like the extent to which it used to be hidden in mine,—
which I consider probable, as I have no particular reason to suspect myself
of having been a monstrosity,—it is the key to many reservations. I felt
convinced that if I described Miss Havisham’s as my eyes had seen it, I
should not be understood. Not only that, but I felt convinced that Miss
Havisham too would not be understood; and although she was perfectly
incomprehensible to me, I entertained an impression that there would be
something coarse and treacherous in my dragging her as she really was (to
say nothing of Miss Estella) before the contemplation of Mrs. Joe.
Consequently, I said as little as I could, and had my face shoved against the
kitchen wall.
The worst of it was that that bullying old Pumblechook, preyed upon by a
devouring curiosity to be informed of all I had seen and heard, came gaping
over in his chaise-cart at tea-time, to have the details divulged to him. And
the mere sight of the torment, with his fishy eyes and mouth open, his sandy
hair inquisitively on end, and his waistcoat heaving with windy arithmetic,
made me vicious in my reticence.
“Well, boy,” Uncle Pumblechook began, as soon as he was seated in the
chair of honour by the fire. “How did you get on up town?”
I answered, “Pretty well, sir,” and my sister shook her fist at me.

“Pretty well?” Mr. Pumblechook repeated. “Pretty well is no answer. Tell
us what you mean by pretty well, boy?”
Whitewash on the forehead hardens the brain into a state of obstinacy
perhaps. Anyhow, with whitewash from the wall on my forehead, my
obstinacy was adamantine. I reflected for some time, and then answered as
if I had discovered a new idea, “I mean pretty well.”
My sister with an exclamation of impatience was going to fly at me,—I
had no shadow of defence, for Joe was busy in the forge,—when Mr.
Pumblechook interposed with “No! Don’t lose your temper. Leave this lad
to me, ma’am; leave this lad to me.” Mr. Pumblechook then turned me
towards him, as if he were going to cut my hair, and said,—
“First (to get our thoughts in order): Forty-three pence?”
I calculated the consequences of replying “Four Hundred Pound,” and
finding them against me, went as near the answer as I could—which was
somewhere about eightpence off. Mr. Pumblechook then put me through my
pence-table from “twelve pence make one shilling,” up to “forty pence
make three and fourpence,” and then triumphantly demanded, as if he had
done for me, “Now! How much is forty-three pence?” To which I replied,
after a long interval of reflection, “I don’t know.” And I was so aggravated
that I almost doubt if I did know.
Mr. Pumblechook worked his head like a screw to screw it out of me, and
said, “Is forty-three pence seven and sixpence three fardens, for instance?”
“Yes!” said I. And although my sister instantly boxed my ears, it was
highly gratifying to me to see that the answer spoilt his joke, and brought
him to a dead stop.
“Boy! What like is Miss Havisham?” Mr. Pumblechook began again
when he had recovered; folding his arms tight on his chest and applying the
screw.
“Very tall and dark,” I told him.
“Is she, uncle?” asked my sister.
Mr. Pumblechook winked assent; from which I at once inferred that he
had never seen Miss Havisham, for she was nothing of the kind.
“Good!” said Mr. Pumblechook conceitedly. (“This is the way to have
him! We are beginning to hold our own, I think, Mum?”)

“I am sure, uncle,” returned Mrs. Joe, “I wish you had him always; you
know so well how to deal with him.”
“Now, boy! What was she a-doing of, when you went in today?” asked
Mr. Pumblechook.
“She was sitting,” I answered, “in a black velvet coach.”
Mr. Pumblechook and Mrs. Joe stared at one another—as they well might
—and both repeated, “In a black velvet coach?”
“Yes,” said I. “And Miss Estella—that’s her niece, I think—handed her in
cake and wine at the coach-window, on a gold plate. And we all had cake
and wine on gold plates. And I got up behind the coach to eat mine, because
she told me to.”
“Was anybody else there?” asked Mr. Pumblechook.
“Four dogs,” said I.
“Large or small?”
“Immense,” said I. “And they fought for veal-cutlets out of a silver
basket.”
Mr. Pumblechook and Mrs. Joe stared at one another again, in utter
amazement. I was perfectly frantic,—a reckless witness under the torture,—
and would have told them anything.
“Where was this coach, in the name of gracious?” asked my sister.
“In Miss Havisham’s room.” They stared again. “But there weren’t any
horses to it.” I added this saving clause, in the moment of rejecting four
richly caparisoned coursers which I had had wild thoughts of harnessing.
“Can this be possible, uncle?” asked Mrs. Joe. “What can the boy mean?”
“I’ll tell you, Mum,” said Mr. Pumblechook. “My opinion is, it’s a sedan-
chair. She’s flighty, you know,—very flighty,—quite flighty enough to pass
her days in a sedan-chair.”
“Did you ever see her in it, uncle?” asked Mrs. Joe.
“How could I,” he returned, forced to the admission, “when I never see
her in my life? Never clapped eyes upon her!”
“Goodness, uncle! And yet you have spoken to her?”
“Why, don’t you know,” said Mr. Pumblechook, testily, “that when I have
been there, I have been took up to the outside of her door, and the door has

stood ajar, and she has spoke to me that way. Don’t say you don’t know
that, Mum. Howsever, the boy went there to play. What did you play at,
boy?”
“We played with flags,” I said. (I beg to observe that I think of myself
with amazement, when I recall the lies I told on this occasion.)
“Flags!” echoed my sister.
“Yes,” said I. “Estella waved a blue flag, and I waved a red one, and Miss
Havisham waved one sprinkled all over with little gold stars, out at the
coach-window. And then we all waved our swords and hurrahed.”
“Swords!” repeated my sister. “Where did you get swords from?”
“Out of a cupboard,” said I. “And I saw pistols in it,—and jam,—and
pills. And there was no daylight in the room, but it was all lighted up with
candles.”
“That’s true, Mum,” said Mr. Pumblechook, with a grave nod. “That’s the
state of the case, for that much I’ve seen myself.” And then they both stared
at me, and I, with an obtrusive show of artlessness on my countenance,
stared at them, and plaited the right leg of my trousers with my right hand.
If they had asked me any more questions, I should undoubtedly have
betrayed myself, for I was even then on the point of mentioning that there
was a balloon in the yard, and should have hazarded the statement but for
my invention being divided between that phenomenon and a bear in the
brewery. They were so much occupied, however, in discussing the marvels I
had already presented for their consideration, that I escaped. The subject
still held them when Joe came in from his work to have a cup of tea. To
whom my sister, more for the relief of her own mind than for the
gratification of his, related my pretended experiences.
Now, when I saw Joe open his blue eyes and roll them all round the
kitchen in helpless amazement, I was overtaken by penitence; but only as
regarded him,—not in the least as regarded the other two. Towards Joe, and
Joe only, I considered myself a young monster, while they sat debating what
results would come to me from Miss Havisham’s acquaintance and favour.
They had no doubt that Miss Havisham would “do something” for me; their
doubts related to the form that something would take. My sister stood out
for “property.” Mr. Pumblechook was in favour of a handsome premium for
binding me apprentice to some genteel trade,—say, the corn and seed trade,

for instance. Joe fell into the deepest disgrace with both, for offering the
bright suggestion that I might only be presented with one of the dogs who
had fought for the veal-cutlets. “If a fool’s head can’t express better
opinions than that,” said my sister, “and you have got any work to do, you
had better go and do it.” So he went.
After Mr. Pumblechook had driven off, and when my sister was washing
up, I stole into the forge to Joe, and remained by him until he had done for
the night. Then I said, “Before the fire goes out, Joe, I should like to tell you
something.”
“Should you, Pip?” said Joe, drawing his shoeing-stool near the forge.
“Then tell us. What is it, Pip?”
“Joe,” said I, taking hold of his rolled-up shirt sleeve, and twisting it
between my finger and thumb, “you remember all that about Miss
Havisham’s?”
“Remember?” said Joe. “I believe you! Wonderful!”
“It’s a terrible thing, Joe; it ain’t true.”
“What are you telling of, Pip?” cried Joe, falling back in the greatest
amazement. “You don’t mean to say it’s—”
“Yes I do; it’s lies, Joe.”
“But not all of it? Why sure you don’t mean to say, Pip, that there was no
black welwet co—eh?” For, I stood shaking my head. “But at least there
was dogs, Pip? Come, Pip,” said Joe, persuasively, “if there warn’t no weal-
cutlets, at least there was dogs?”
“No, Joe.”
“A dog?” said Joe. “A puppy? Come?”
“No, Joe, there was nothing at all of the kind.”
As I fixed my eyes hopelessly on Joe, Joe contemplated me in dismay.
“Pip, old chap! This won’t do, old fellow! I say! Where do you expect to go
to?”
“It’s terrible, Joe; ain’t it?”
“Terrible?” cried Joe. “Awful! What possessed you?”
“I don’t know what possessed me, Joe,” I replied, letting his shirt sleeve
go, and sitting down in the ashes at his feet, hanging my head; “but I wish

you hadn’t taught me to call Knaves at cards Jacks; and I wish my boots
weren’t so thick nor my hands so coarse.”
And then I told Joe that I felt very miserable, and that I hadn’t been able
to explain myself to Mrs. Joe and Pumblechook, who were so rude to me,
and that there had been a beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham’s who was
dreadfully proud, and that she had said I was common, and that I knew I
was common, and that I wished I was not common, and that the lies had
come of it somehow, though I didn’t know how.
This was a case of metaphysics, at least as difficult for Joe to deal with as
for me. But Joe took the case altogether out of the region of metaphysics,
and by that means vanquished it.
“There’s one thing you may be sure of, Pip,” said Joe, after some
rumination, “namely, that lies is lies. Howsever they come, they didn’t
ought to come, and they come from the father of lies, and work round to the
same. Don’t you tell no more of ’em, Pip. That ain’t the way to get out of
being common, old chap. And as to being common, I don’t make it out at all
clear. You are oncommon in some things. You’re oncommon small.
Likewise you’re a oncommon scholar.”
“No, I am ignorant and backward, Joe.”
“Why, see what a letter you wrote last night! Wrote in print even! I’ve
seen letters—Ah! and from gentlefolks!—that I’ll swear weren’t wrote in
print,” said Joe.
“I have learnt next to nothing, Joe. You think much of me. It’s only that.”
“Well, Pip,” said Joe, “be it so or be it son’t, you must be a common
scholar afore you can be a oncommon one, I should hope! The king upon
his throne, with his crown upon his ed, can’t sit and write his acts of
Parliament in print, without having begun, when he were a unpromoted
Prince, with the alphabet.—Ah!” added Joe, with a shake of the head that
was full of meaning, “and begun at A too, and worked his way to Z. And I
know what that is to do, though I can’t say I’ve exactly done it.”
There was some hope in this piece of wisdom, and it rather encouraged
me.
“Whether common ones as to callings and earnings,” pursued Joe,
reflectively, “mightn’t be the better of continuing for to keep company with

common ones, instead of going out to play with oncommon ones,—which
reminds me to hope that there were a flag, perhaps?”
“No, Joe.”
“(I’m sorry there weren’t a flag, Pip). Whether that might be or mightn’t
be, is a thing as can’t be looked into now, without putting your sister on the
Rampage; and that’s a thing not to be thought of as being done intentional.
Lookee here, Pip, at what is said to you by a true friend. Which this to you
the true friend say. If you can’t get to be oncommon through going straight,
you’ll never get to do it through going crooked. So don’t tell no more on
’em, Pip, and live well and die happy.”
“You are not angry with me, Joe?”
“No, old chap. But bearing in mind that them were which I meantersay of
a stunning and outdacious sort,—alluding to them which bordered on weal-
cutlets and dog-fighting,—a sincere well-wisher would adwise, Pip, their
being dropped into your meditations, when you go upstairs to bed. That’s
all, old chap, and don’t never do it no more.”
When I got up to my little room and said my prayers, I did not forget
Joe’s recommendation, and yet my young mind was in that disturbed and
unthankful state, that I thought long after I laid me down, how common
Estella would consider Joe, a mere blacksmith; how thick his boots, and
how coarse his hands. I thought how Joe and my sister were then sitting in
the kitchen, and how I had come up to bed from the kitchen, and how Miss
Havisham and Estella never sat in a kitchen, but were far above the level of
such common doings. I fell asleep recalling what I “used to do” when I was
at Miss Havisham’s; as though I had been there weeks or months, instead of
hours; and as though it were quite an old subject of remembrance, instead
of one that had arisen only that day.
That was a memorable day to me, for it made great changes in me. But it
is the same with any life. Imagine one selected day struck out of it, and
think how different its course would have been. Pause you who read this,
and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or
flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first
link on one memorable day.

Chapter X.

T
he felicitous idea occurred to me a morning or two later when I
woke, that the best step I could take towards making myself
uncommon was to get out of Biddy everything she knew. In
pursuance of this luminous conception I mentioned to Biddy when I went to
Mr. Wopsle’s great-aunt’s at night, that I had a particular reason for wishing
to get on in life, and that I should feel very much obliged to her if she
would impart all her learning to me. Biddy, who was the most obliging of
girls, immediately said she would, and indeed began to carry out her
promise within five minutes.
The Educational scheme or Course established by Mr. Wopsle’s great-
aunt may be resolved into the following synopsis. The pupils ate apples and
put straws down one another’s backs, until Mr. Wopsle’s great-aunt
collected her energies, and made an indiscriminate totter at them with a
birch-rod. After receiving the charge with every mark of derision, the pupils
formed in line and buzzingly passed a ragged book from hand to hand. The
book had an alphabet in it, some figures and tables, and a little spelling,—
that is to say, it had had once. As soon as this volume began to circulate,
Mr. Wopsle’s great-aunt fell into a state of coma, arising either from sleep
or a rheumatic paroxysm. The pupils then entered among themselves upon a
competitive examination on the subject of Boots, with the view of
ascertaining who could tread the hardest upon whose toes. This mental
exercise lasted until Biddy made a rush at them and distributed three
defaced Bibles (shaped as if they had been unskilfully cut off the chump
end of something), more illegibly printed at the best than any curiosities of
literature I have since met with, speckled all over with ironmould, and
having various specimens of the insect world smashed between their leaves.
This part of the Course was usually lightened by several single combats
between Biddy and refractory students. When the fights were over, Biddy
gave out the number of a page, and then we all read aloud what we could,—

or what we couldn’t—in a frightful chorus; Biddy leading with a high,
shrill, monotonous voice, and none of us having the least notion of, or
reverence for, what we were reading about. When this horrible din had
lasted a certain time, it mechanically awoke Mr. Wopsle’s great-aunt, who
staggered at a boy fortuitously, and pulled his ears. This was understood to
terminate the Course for the evening, and we emerged into the air with
shrieks of intellectual victory. It is fair to remark that there was no
prohibition against any pupil’s entertaining himself with a slate or even with
the ink (when there was any), but that it was not easy to pursue that branch
of study in the winter season, on account of the little general shop in which
the classes were holden—and which was also Mr. Wopsle’s great-aunt’s
sitting-room and bedchamber—being but faintly illuminated through the
agency of one low-spirited dip-candle and no snuffers.
It appeared to me that it would take time to become uncommon, under
these circumstances: nevertheless, I resolved to try it, and that very evening
Biddy entered on our special agreement, by imparting some information
from her little catalogue of Prices, under the head of moist sugar, and
lending me, to copy at home, a large old English D which she had imitated
from the heading of some newspaper, and which I supposed, until she told
me what it was, to be a design for a buckle.
Of course there was a public-house in the village, and of course Joe liked
sometimes to smoke his pipe there. I had received strict orders from my
sister to call for him at the Three Jolly Bargemen, that evening, on my way
from school, and bring him home at my peril. To the Three Jolly Bargemen,
therefore, I directed my steps.
There was a bar at the Jolly Bargemen, with some alarmingly long chalk
scores in it on the wall at the side of the door, which seemed to me to be
never paid off. They had been there ever since I could remember, and had
grown more than I had. But there was a quantity of chalk about our country,
and perhaps the people neglected no opportunity of turning it to account.
It being Saturday night, I found the landlord looking rather grimly at
these records; but as my business was with Joe and not with him, I merely
wished him good evening, and passed into the common room at the end of
the passage, where there was a bright large kitchen fire, and where Joe was
smoking his pipe in company with Mr. Wopsle and a stranger. Joe greeted

me as usual with “Halloa, Pip, old chap!” and the moment he said that, the
stranger turned his head and looked at me.
He was a secret-looking man whom I had never seen before. His head
was all on one side, and one of his eyes was half shut up, as if he were
taking aim at something with an invisible gun. He had a pipe in his mouth,
and he took it out, and, after slowly blowing all his smoke away and
looking hard at me all the time, nodded. So, I nodded, and then he nodded
again, and made room on the settle beside him that I might sit down there.
But as I was used to sit beside Joe whenever I entered that place of resort,
I said “No, thank you, sir,” and fell into the space Joe made for me on the
opposite settle. The strange man, after glancing at Joe, and seeing that his
attention was otherwise engaged, nodded to me again when I had taken my
seat, and then rubbed his leg—in a very odd way, as it struck me.
“You was saying,” said the strange man, turning to Joe, “that you was a
blacksmith.”
“Yes. I said it, you know,” said Joe.
“What’ll you drink, Mr.—? You didn’t mention your name, by the bye.”
Joe mentioned it now, and the strange man called him by it. “What’ll you
drink, Mr. Gargery? At my expense? To top up with?”
“Well,” said Joe, “to tell you the truth, I ain’t much in the habit of
drinking at anybody’s expense but my own.”
“Habit? No,” returned the stranger, “but once and away, and on a
Saturday night too. Come! Put a name to it, Mr. Gargery.”
“I wouldn’t wish to be stiff company,” said Joe. “Rum.”
“Rum,” repeated the stranger. “And will the other gentleman originate a
sentiment.”
“Rum,” said Mr. Wopsle.
“Three Rums!” cried the stranger, calling to the landlord. “Glasses
round!”
“This other gentleman,” observed Joe, by way of introducing Mr.
Wopsle, “is a gentleman that you would like to hear give it out. Our clerk at
church.”
“Aha!” said the stranger, quickly, and cocking his eye at me. “The lonely
church, right out on the marshes, with graves round it!”

“That’s it,” said Joe.
The stranger, with a comfortable kind of grunt over his pipe, put his legs
up on the settle that he had to himself. He wore a flapping broad-brimmed
traveller’s hat, and under it a handkerchief tied over his head in the manner
of a cap: so that he showed no hair. As he looked at the fire, I thought I saw
a cunning expression, followed by a half-laugh, come into his face.
“I am not acquainted with this country, gentlemen, but it seems a solitary
country towards the river.”
“Most marshes is solitary,” said Joe.
“No doubt, no doubt. Do you find any gypsies, now, or tramps, or
vagrants of any sort, out there?”
“No,” said Joe; “none but a runaway convict now and then. And we don’t
find them, easy. Eh, Mr. Wopsle?”
Mr. Wopsle, with a majestic remembrance of old discomfiture, assented;
but not warmly.
“Seems you have been out after such?” asked the stranger.
“Once,” returned Joe. “Not that we wanted to take them, you understand;
we went out as lookers on; me, and Mr. Wopsle, and Pip. Didn’t us, Pip?”
“Yes, Joe.”
The stranger looked at me again,—still cocking his eye, as if he were
expressly taking aim at me with his invisible gun,—and said, “He’s a likely
young parcel of bones that. What is it you call him?”
“Pip,” said Joe.
“Christened Pip?”
“No, not christened Pip.”
“Surname Pip?”
“No,” said Joe, “it’s a kind of family name what he gave himself when a
infant, and is called by.”
“Son of yours?”
“Well,” said Joe, meditatively, not, of course, that it could be in anywise
necessary to consider about it, but because it was the way at the Jolly
Bargemen to seem to consider deeply about everything that was discussed
over pipes,—“well—no. No, he ain’t.”

“Nevvy?” said the strange man.
“Well,” said Joe, with the same appearance of profound cogitation, “he is
not—no, not to deceive you, he is not—my nevvy.”
“What the Blue Blazes is he?” asked the stranger. Which appeared to me
to be an inquiry of unnecessary strength.
Mr. Wopsle struck in upon that; as one who knew all about relationships,
having professional occasion to bear in mind what female relations a man
might not marry; and expounded the ties between me and Joe. Having his
hand in, Mr. Wopsle finished off with a most terrifically snarling passage
from Richard the Third, and seemed to think he had done quite enough to
account for it when he added, “—as the poet says.”
And here I may remark that when Mr. Wopsle referred to me, he
considered it a necessary part of such reference to rumple my hair and poke
it into my eyes. I cannot conceive why everybody of his standing who
visited at our house should always have put me through the same
inflammatory process under similar circumstances. Yet I do not call to mind
that I was ever in my earlier youth the subject of remark in our social family
circle, but some large-handed person took some such ophthalmic steps to
patronise me.
All this while, the strange man looked at nobody but me, and looked at
me as if he were determined to have a shot at me at last, and bring me
down. But he said nothing after offering his Blue Blazes observation, until
the glasses of rum and water were brought; and then he made his shot, and a
most extraordinary shot it was.
It was not a verbal remark, but a proceeding in dumb-show, and was
pointedly addressed to me. He stirred his rum and water pointedly at me,
and he tasted his rum and water pointedly at me. And he stirred it and he
tasted it; not with a spoon that was brought to him, but with a file.
He did this so that nobody but I saw the file; and when he had done it he
wiped the file and put it in a breast-pocket. I knew it to be Joe’s file, and I
knew that he knew my convict, the moment I saw the instrument. I sat
gazing at him, spell-bound. But he now reclined on his settle, taking very
little notice of me, and talking principally about turnips.
There was a delicious sense of cleaning-up and making a quiet pause
before going on in life afresh, in our village on Saturday nights, which

stimulated Joe to dare to stay out half an hour longer on Saturdays than at
other times. The half-hour and the rum and water running out together, Joe
got up to go, and took me by the hand.
“Stop half a moment, Mr. Gargery,” said the strange man. “I think I’ve
got a bright new shilling somewhere in my pocket, and if I have, the boy
shall have it.”
He looked it out from a handful of small change, folded it in some
crumpled paper, and gave it to me. “Yours!” said he. “Mind! Your own.”
I thanked him, staring at him far beyond the bounds of good manners,
and holding tight to Joe. He gave Joe good-night, and he gave Mr. Wopsle
good-night (who went out with us), and he gave me only a look with his
aiming eye,—no, not a look, for he shut it up, but wonders may be done
with an eye by hiding it.
On the way home, if I had been in a humour for talking, the talk must
have been all on my side, for Mr. Wopsle parted from us at the door of the
Jolly Bargemen, and Joe went all the way home with his mouth wide open,
to rinse the rum out with as much air as possible. But I was in a manner
stupefied by this turning up of my old misdeed and old acquaintance, and
could think of nothing else.
My sister was not in a very bad temper when we presented ourselves in
the kitchen, and Joe was encouraged by that unusual circumstance to tell
her about the bright shilling. “A bad un, I’ll be bound,” said Mrs. Joe
triumphantly, “or he wouldn’t have given it to the boy! Let’s look at it.”
I took it out of the paper, and it proved to be a good one. “But what’s
this?” said Mrs. Joe, throwing down the shilling and catching up the paper.
“Two One-Pound notes?”
Nothing less than two fat sweltering one-pound notes that seemed to have
been on terms of the warmest intimacy with all the cattle-markets in the
county. Joe caught up his hat again, and ran with them to the Jolly
Bargemen to restore them to their owner. While he was gone, I sat down on
my usual stool and looked vacantly at my sister, feeling pretty sure that the
man would not be there.
Presently, Joe came back, saying that the man was gone, but that he, Joe,
had left word at the Three Jolly Bargemen concerning the notes. Then my
sister sealed them up in a piece of paper, and put them under some dried

rose-leaves in an ornamental teapot on the top of a press in the state parlour.
There they remained, a nightmare to me, many and many a night and day.
I had sadly broken sleep when I got to bed, through thinking of the
strange man taking aim at me with his invisible gun, and of the guiltily
coarse and common thing it was, to be on secret terms of conspiracy with
convicts,—a feature in my low career that I had previously forgotten. I was
haunted by the file too. A dread possessed me that when I least expected it,
the file would reappear. I coaxed myself to sleep by thinking of Miss
Havisham’s, next Wednesday; and in my sleep I saw the file coming at me
out of a door, without seeing who held it, and I screamed myself awake.

Chapter XI.

A
t the appointed time I returned to Miss Havisham’s, and my
hesitating ring at the gate brought out Estella. She locked it after
admitting me, as she had done before, and again preceded me into
the dark passage where her candle stood. She took no notice of me until she
had the candle in her hand, when she looked over her shoulder,
superciliously saying, “You are to come this way to-day,” and took me to
quite another part of the house.
The passage was a long one, and seemed to pervade the whole square
basement of the Manor House. We traversed but one side of the square,
however, and at the end of it she stopped, and put her candle down and
opened a door. Here, the daylight reappeared, and I found myself in a small
paved courtyard, the opposite side of which was formed by a detached
dwelling-house, that looked as if it had once belonged to the manager or
head clerk of the extinct brewery. There was a clock in the outer wall of this
house. Like the clock in Miss Havisham’s room, and like Miss Havisham’s
watch, it had stopped at twenty minutes to nine.
We went in at the door, which stood open, and into a gloomy room with a
low ceiling, on the ground-floor at the back. There was some company in
the room, and Estella said to me as she joined it, “You are to go and stand
there boy, till you are wanted.” “There”, being the window, I crossed to it,
and stood “there,” in a very uncomfortable state of mind, looking out.
It opened to the ground, and looked into a most miserable corner of the
neglected garden, upon a rank ruin of cabbage-stalks, and one box-tree that
had been clipped round long ago, like a pudding, and had a new growth at
the top of it, out of shape and of a different colour, as if that part of the
pudding had stuck to the saucepan and got burnt. This was my homely
thought, as I contemplated the box-tree. There had been some light snow,
overnight, and it lay nowhere else to my knowledge; but, it had not quite
melted from the cold shadow of this bit of garden, and the wind caught it up

in little eddies and threw it at the window, as if it pelted me for coming
there.
I divined that my coming had stopped conversation in the room, and that
its other occupants were looking at me. I could see nothing of the room
except the shining of the fire in the window-glass, but I stiffened in all my
joints with the consciousness that I was under close inspection.
There were three ladies in the room and one gentleman. Before I had
been standing at the window five minutes, they somehow conveyed to me
that they were all toadies and humbugs, but that each of them pretended not
to know that the others were toadies and humbugs: because the admission
that he or she did know it, would have made him or her out to be a toady
and humbug.
They all had a listless and dreary air of waiting somebody’s pleasure, and
the most talkative of the ladies had to speak quite rigidly to repress a yawn.
This lady, whose name was Camilla, very much reminded me of my sister,
with the difference that she was older, and (as I found when I caught sight
of her) of a blunter cast of features. Indeed, when I knew her better I began
to think it was a Mercy she had any features at all, so very blank and high
was the dead wall of her face.
“Poor dear soul!” said this lady, with an abruptness of manner quite my
sister’s. “Nobody’s enemy but his own!”
“It would be much more commendable to be somebody else’s enemy,”
said the gentleman; “far more natural.”
“Cousin Raymond,” observed another lady, “we are to love our
neighbour.”
“Sarah Pocket,” returned Cousin Raymond, “if a man is not his own
neighbour, who is?”
Miss Pocket laughed, and Camilla laughed and said (checking a yawn),
“The idea!” But I thought they seemed to think it rather a good idea too.
The other lady, who had not spoken yet, said gravely and emphatically,
“Very true!”
“Poor soul!” Camilla presently went on (I knew they had all been looking
at me in the mean time), “he is so very strange! Would anyone believe that
when Tom’s wife died, he actually could not be induced to see the
importance of the children’s having the deepest of trimmings to their

mourning? ‘Good Lord!’ says he, ‘Camilla, what can it signify so long as
the poor bereaved little things are in black?’ So like Matthew! The idea!”
“Good points in him, good points in him,” said Cousin Raymond;
“Heaven forbid I should deny good points in him; but he never had, and he
never will have, any sense of the proprieties.”
“You know I was obliged,” said Camilla,—“I was obliged to be firm. I
said, ‘It WILL NOT DO, for the credit of the family.’ I told him that, without
deep trimmings, the family was disgraced. I cried about it from breakfast
till dinner. I injured my digestion. And at last he flung out in his violent
way, and said, with a D, ‘Then do as you like.’ Thank Goodness it will
always be a consolation to me to know that I instantly went out in a pouring
rain and bought the things.”
“He paid for them, did he not?” asked Estella.
“It’s not the question, my dear child, who paid for them,” returned
Camilla. “I bought them. And I shall often think of that with peace, when I
wake up in the night.”
The ringing of a distant bell, combined with the echoing of some cry or
call along the passage by which I had come, interrupted the conversation
and caused Estella to say to me, “Now, boy!” On my turning round, they all
looked at me with the utmost contempt, and, as I went out, I heard Sarah
Pocket say, “Well I am sure! What next!” and Camilla add, with
indignation, “Was there ever such a fancy! The i-de-a!”
As we were going with our candle along the dark passage, Estella
stopped all of a sudden, and, facing round, said in her taunting manner, with
her face quite close to mine,—
“Well?”
“Well, miss?” I answered, almost falling over her and checking myself.
She stood looking at me, and, of course, I stood looking at her.
“Am I pretty?”
“Yes; I think you are very pretty.”
“Am I insulting?”
“Not so much so as you were last time,” said I.
“Not so much so?”
“No.”

She fired when she asked the last question, and she slapped my face with
such force as she had, when I answered it.
“Now?” said she. “You little coarse monster, what do you think of me
now?”
“I shall not tell you.”
“Because you are going to tell upstairs. Is that it?”
“No,” said I, “that’s not it.”
“Why don’t you cry again, you little wretch?”
“Because I’ll never cry for you again,” said I. Which was, I suppose, as
false a declaration as ever was made; for I was inwardly crying for her then,
and I know what I know of the pain she cost me afterwards.
We went on our way upstairs after this episode; and, as we were going
up, we met a gentleman groping his way down.
“Whom have we here?” asked the gentleman, stopping and looking at
me.
“A boy,” said Estella.
He was a burly man of an exceedingly dark complexion, with an
exceedingly large head, and a corresponding large hand. He took my chin in
his large hand and turned up my face to have a look at me by the light of the
candle. He was prematurely bald on the top of his head, and had bushy
black eyebrows that wouldn’t lie down but stood up bristling. His eyes were
set very deep in his head, and were disagreeably sharp and suspicious. He
had a large watch-chain, and strong black dots where his beard and
whiskers would have been if he had let them. He was nothing to me, and I
could have had no foresight then, that he ever would be anything to me, but
it happened that I had this opportunity of observing him well.
“Boy of the neighbourhood? Hey?” said he.
“Yes, sir,” said I.
“How do you come here?”
“Miss Havisham sent for me, sir,” I explained.
“Well! Behave yourself. I have a pretty large experience of boys, and
you’re a bad set of fellows. Now mind!” said he, biting the side of his great
forefinger as he frowned at me, “you behave yourself!”

With those words, he released me—which I was glad of, for his hand
smelt of scented soap—and went his way downstairs. I wondered whether
he could be a doctor; but no, I thought; he couldn’t be a doctor, or he would
have a quieter and more persuasive manner. There was not much time to
consider the subject, for we were soon in Miss Havisham’s room, where she
and everything else were just as I had left them. Estella left me standing
near the door, and I stood there until Miss Havisham cast her eyes upon me
from the dressing-table.
“So!” she said, without being startled or surprised: “the days have worn
away, have they?”
“Yes, ma’am. To-day is—”
“There, there, there!” with the impatient movement of her fingers. “I
don’t want to know. Are you ready to play?”
I was obliged to answer in some confusion, “I don’t think I am, ma’am.”
“Not at cards again?” she demanded, with a searching look.
“Yes, ma’am; I could do that, if I was wanted.”
“Since this house strikes you old and grave, boy,” said Miss Havisham,
impatiently, “and you are unwilling to play, are you willing to work?”
I could answer this inquiry with a better heart than I had been able to find
for the other question, and I said I was quite willing.
“Then go into that opposite room,” said she, pointing at the door behind
me with her withered hand, “and wait there till I come.”
I crossed the staircase landing, and entered the room she indicated. From
that room, too, the daylight was completely excluded, and it had an airless
smell that was oppressive. A fire had been lately kindled in the damp old-
fashioned grate, and it was more disposed to go out than to burn up, and the
reluctant smoke which hung in the room seemed colder than the clearer air,
—like our own marsh mist. Certain wintry branches of candles on the high
chimney-piece faintly lighted the chamber; or it would be more expressive
to say, faintly troubled its darkness. It was spacious, and I dare say had once
been handsome, but every discernible thing in it was covered with dust and
mould, and dropping to pieces. The most prominent object was a long table
with a tablecloth spread on it, as if a feast had been in preparation when the
house and the clocks all stopped together. An epergne or centre-piece of
some kind was in the middle of this cloth; it was so heavily overhung with

cobwebs that its form was quite undistinguishable; and, as I looked along
the yellow expanse out of which I remember its seeming to grow, like a
black fungus, I saw speckle-legged spiders with blotchy bodies running
home to it, and running out from it, as if some circumstances of the greatest
public importance had just transpired in the spider community.
I heard the mice too, rattling behind the panels, as if the same occurrence
were important to their interests. But the black beetles took no notice of the
agitation, and groped about the hearth in a ponderous elderly way, as if they
were short-sighted and hard of hearing, and not on terms with one another.
These crawling things had fascinated my attention, and I was watching
them from a distance, when Miss Havisham laid a hand upon my shoulder.
In her other hand she had a crutch-headed stick on which she leaned, and
she looked like the Witch of the place.
“This,” said she, pointing to the long table with her stick, “is where I will
be laid when I am dead. They shall come and look at me here.”
With some vague misgiving that she might get upon the table then and
there and die at once, the complete realisation of the ghastly waxwork at the
Fair, I shrank under her touch.
“What do you think that is?” she asked me, again pointing with her stick;
“that, where those cobwebs are?”
“I can’t guess what it is, ma’am.”
“It’s a great cake. A bride-cake. Mine!”
She looked all round the room in a glaring manner, and then said, leaning
on me while her hand twitched my shoulder, “Come, come, come! Walk
me, walk me!”
I made out from this, that the work I had to do, was to walk Miss
Havisham round and round the room. Accordingly, I started at once, and she
leaned upon my shoulder, and we went away at a pace that might have been
an imitation (founded on my first impulse under that roof) of Mr.
Pumblechook’s chaise-cart.
She was not physically strong, and after a little time said, “Slower!” Still,
we went at an impatient fitful speed, and as we went, she twitched the hand
upon my shoulder, and worked her mouth, and led me to believe that we
were going fast because her thoughts went fast. After a while she said, “Call
Estella!” so I went out on the landing and roared that name as I had done on

the previous occasion. When her light appeared, I returned to Miss
Havisham, and we started away again round and round the room.
If only Estella had come to be a spectator of our proceedings, I should
have felt sufficiently discontented; but as she brought with her the three
ladies and the gentleman whom I had seen below, I didn’t know what to do.
In my politeness, I would have stopped; but Miss Havisham twitched my
shoulder, and we posted on,—with a shame-faced consciousness on my part
that they would think it was all my doing.
“Dear Miss Havisham,” said Miss Sarah Pocket. “How well you look!”
“I do not,” returned Miss Havisham. “I am yellow skin and bone.”
Camilla brightened when Miss Pocket met with this rebuff; and she
murmured, as she plaintively contemplated Miss Havisham, “Poor dear
soul! Certainly not to be expected to look well, poor thing. The idea!”
“And how are you?” said Miss Havisham to Camilla. As we were close to
Camilla then, I would have stopped as a matter of course, only Miss
Havisham wouldn’t stop. We swept on, and I felt that I was highly
obnoxious to Camilla.
“Thank you, Miss Havisham,” she returned, “I am as well as can be
expected.”
“Why, what’s the matter with you?” asked Miss Havisham, with
exceeding sharpness.
“Nothing worth mentioning,” replied Camilla. “I don’t wish to make a
display of my feelings, but I have habitually thought of you more in the
night than I am quite equal to.”
“Then don’t think of me,” retorted Miss Havisham.
“Very easily said!” remarked Camilla, amiably repressing a sob, while a
hitch came into her upper lip, and her tears overflowed. “Raymond is a
witness what ginger and sal volatile I am obliged to take in the night.
Raymond is a witness what nervous jerkings I have in my legs. Chokings
and nervous jerkings, however, are nothing new to me when I think with
anxiety of those I love. If I could be less affectionate and sensitive, I should
have a better digestion and an iron set of nerves. I am sure I wish it could be
so. But as to not thinking of you in the night—The idea!” Here, a burst of
tears.

The Raymond referred to, I understood to be the gentleman present, and
him I understood to be Mr. Camilla. He came to the rescue at this point, and
said in a consolatory and complimentary voice, “Camilla, my dear, it is well
known that your family feelings are gradually undermining you to the
extent of making one of your legs shorter than the other.”
“I am not aware,” observed the grave lady whose voice I had heard but
once, “that to think of any person is to make a great claim upon that person,
my dear.”
Miss Sarah Pocket, whom I now saw to be a little dry, brown, corrugated
old woman, with a small face that might have been made of walnut-shells,
and a large mouth like a cat’s without the whiskers, supported this position
by saying, “No, indeed, my dear. Hem!”
“Thinking is easy enough,” said the grave lady.
“What is easier, you know?” assented Miss Sarah Pocket.
“Oh, yes, yes!” cried Camilla, whose fermenting feelings appeared to rise
from her legs to her bosom. “It’s all very true! It’s a weakness to be so
affectionate, but I can’t help it. No doubt my health would be much better if
it was otherwise, still I wouldn’t change my disposition if I could. It’s the
cause of much suffering, but it’s a consolation to know I possess it, when I
wake up in the night.” Here another burst of feeling.
Miss Havisham and I had never stopped all this time, but kept going
round and round the room; now brushing against the skirts of the visitors,
now giving them the whole length of the dismal chamber.
“There’s Matthew!” said Camilla. “Never mixing with any natural ties,
never coming here to see how Miss Havisham is! I have taken to the sofa
with my staylace cut, and have lain there hours insensible, with my head
over the side, and my hair all down, and my feet I don’t know where—”
(“Much higher than your head, my love,” said Mr. Camilla.)
“I have gone off into that state, hours and hours, on account of Matthew’s
strange and inexplicable conduct, and nobody has thanked me.”
“Really I must say I should think not!” interposed the grave lady.
“You see, my dear,” added Miss Sarah Pocket (a blandly vicious
personage), “the question to put to yourself is, who did you expect to thank
you, my love?”

“Without expecting any thanks, or anything of the sort,” resumed
Camilla, “I have remained in that state, hours and hours, and Raymond is a
witness of the extent to which I have choked, and what the total inefficacy
of ginger has been, and I have been heard at the piano-forte tuner’s across
the street, where the poor mistaken children have even supposed it to be
pigeons cooing at a distance,—and now to be told—” Here Camilla put her
hand to her throat, and began to be quite chemical as to the formation of
new combinations there.
When this same Matthew was mentioned, Miss Havisham stopped me
and herself, and stood looking at the speaker. This change had a great
influence in bringing Camilla’s chemistry to a sudden end.
“Matthew will come and see me at last,” said Miss Havisham, sternly,
“when I am laid on that table. That will be his place,—there,” striking the
table with her stick, “at my head! And yours will be there! And your
husband’s there! And Sarah Pocket’s there! And Georgiana’s there! Now
you all know where to take your stations when you come to feast upon me.
And now go!”
At the mention of each name, she had struck the table with her stick in a
new place. She now said, “Walk me, walk me!” and we went on again.
“I suppose there’s nothing to be done,” exclaimed Camilla, “but comply
and depart. It’s something to have seen the object of one’s love and duty for
even so short a time. I shall think of it with a melancholy satisfaction when
I wake up in the night. I wish Matthew could have that comfort, but he sets
it at defiance. I am determined not to make a display of my feelings, but it’s
very hard to be told one wants to feast on one’s relations,—as if one was a
Giant,—and to be told to go. The bare idea!”
Mr. Camilla interposing, as Mrs. Camilla laid her hand upon her heaving
bosom, that lady assumed an unnatural fortitude of manner which I
supposed to be expressive of an intention to drop and choke when out of
view, and kissing her hand to Miss Havisham, was escorted forth. Sarah
Pocket and Georgiana contended who should remain last; but Sarah was too
knowing to be outdone, and ambled round Georgiana with that artful
slipperiness that the latter was obliged to take precedence. Sarah Pocket
then made her separate effect of departing with, “Bless you, Miss Havisham
dear!” and with a smile of forgiving pity on her walnut-shell countenance
for the weaknesses of the rest.

While Estella was away lighting them down, Miss Havisham still walked
with her hand on my shoulder, but more and more slowly. At last she
stopped before the fire, and said, after muttering and looking at it some
seconds,—
“This is my birthday, Pip.”
I was going to wish her many happy returns, when she lifted her stick.
“I don’t suffer it to be spoken of. I don’t suffer those who were here just
now, or any one to speak of it. They come here on the day, but they dare not
refer to it.”
Of course I made no further effort to refer to it.
“On this day of the year, long before you were born, this heap of decay,”
stabbing with her crutched stick at the pile of cobwebs on the table, but not
touching it, “was brought here. It and I have worn away together. The mice
have gnawed at it, and sharper teeth than teeth of mice have gnawed at me.”
She held the head of her stick against her heart as she stood looking at the
table; she in her once white dress, all yellow and withered; the once white
cloth all yellow and withered; everything around in a state to crumble under
a touch.
“When the ruin is complete,” said she, with a ghastly look, “and when
they lay me dead, in my bride’s dress on the bride’s table,—which shall be
done, and which will be the finished curse upon him,—so much the better if
it is done on this day!”
She stood looking at the table as if she stood looking at her own figure
lying there. I remained quiet. Estella returned, and she too remained quiet.
It seemed to me that we continued thus for a long time. In the heavy air of
the room, and the heavy darkness that brooded in its remoter corners, I even
had an alarming fancy that Estella and I might presently begin to decay.
At length, not coming out of her distraught state by degrees, but in an
instant, Miss Havisham said, “Let me see you two play cards; why have you
not begun?” With that, we returned to her room, and sat down as before; I
was beggared, as before; and again, as before, Miss Havisham watched us
all the time, directed my attention to Estella’s beauty, and made me notice it
the more by trying her jewels on Estella’s breast and hair.
Estella, for her part, likewise treated me as before, except that she did not
condescend to speak. When we had played some half-dozen games, a day

was appointed for my return, and I was taken down into the yard to be fed
in the former dog-like manner. There, too, I was again left to wander about
as I liked.
It is not much to the purpose whether a gate in that garden wall which I
had scrambled up to peep over on the last occasion was, on that last
occasion, open or shut. Enough that I saw no gate then, and that I saw one
now. As it stood open, and as I knew that Estella had let the visitors out,—
for she had returned with the keys in her hand,—I strolled into the garden,
and strolled all over it. It was quite a wilderness, and there were old melon-
frames and cucumber-frames in it, which seemed in their decline to have
produced a spontaneous growth of weak attempts at pieces of old hats and
boots, with now and then a weedy offshoot into the likeness of a battered
saucepan.
When I had exhausted the garden and a greenhouse with nothing in it but
a fallen-down grape-vine and some bottles, I found myself in the dismal
corner upon which I had looked out of the window. Never questioning for a
moment that the house was now empty, I looked in at another window, and
found myself, to my great surprise, exchanging a broad stare with a pale
young gentleman with red eyelids and light hair.
This pale young gentleman quickly disappeared, and reappeared beside
me. He had been at his books when I had found myself staring at him, and I
now saw that he was inky.
“Halloa!” said he, “young fellow!”
Halloa being a general observation which I had usually observed to be
best answered by itself, I said, “Halloa!” politely omitting young fellow.
“Who let you in?” said he.
“Miss Estella.”
“Who gave you leave to prowl about?”
“Miss Estella.”
“Come and fight,” said the pale young gentleman.
What could I do but follow him? I have often asked myself the question
since; but what else could I do? His manner was so final, and I was so
astonished, that I followed where he led, as if I had been under a spell.

“Stop a minute, though,” he said, wheeling round before we had gone
many paces. “I ought to give you a reason for fighting, too. There it is!” In a
most irritating manner he instantly slapped his hands against one another,
daintily flung one of his legs up behind him, pulled my hair, slapped his
hands again, dipped his head, and butted it into my stomach.
The bull-like proceeding last mentioned, besides that it was
unquestionably to be regarded in the light of a liberty, was particularly
disagreeable just after bread and meat. I therefore hit out at him and was
going to hit out again, when he said, “Aha! Would you?” and began dancing
backwards and forwards in a manner quite unparalleled within my limited
experience.
“Laws of the game!” said he. Here, he skipped from his left leg on to his
right. “Regular rules!” Here, he skipped from his right leg on to his left.
“Come to the ground, and go through the preliminaries!” Here, he dodged
backwards and forwards, and did all sorts of things while I looked
helplessly at him.
I was secretly afraid of him when I saw him so dexterous; but I felt
morally and physically convinced that his light head of hair could have had
no business in the pit of my stomach, and that I had a right to consider it
irrelevant when so obtruded on my attention. Therefore, I followed him
without a word, to a retired nook of the garden, formed by the junction of
two walls and screened by some rubbish. On his asking me if I was satisfied
with the ground, and on my replying Yes, he begged my leave to absent
himself for a moment, and quickly returned with a bottle of water and a
sponge dipped in vinegar. “Available for both,” he said, placing these
against the wall. And then fell to pulling off, not only his jacket and
waistcoat, but his shirt too, in a manner at once light-hearted, business-like,
and bloodthirsty.
Although he did not look very healthy,—having pimples on his face, and
a breaking out at his mouth,—these dreadful preparations quite appalled
me. I judged him to be about my own age, but he was much taller, and he
had a way of spinning himself about that was full of appearance. For the
rest, he was a young gentleman in a grey suit (when not denuded for battle),
with his elbows, knees, wrists, and heels considerably in advance of the rest
of him as to development.

My heart failed me when I saw him squaring at me with every
demonstration of mechanical nicety, and eyeing my anatomy as if he were
minutely choosing his bone. I never have been so surprised in my life, as I
was when I let out the first blow, and saw him lying on his back, looking up
at me with a bloody nose and his face exceedingly fore-shortened.
But, he was on his feet directly, and after sponging himself with a great
show of dexterity began squaring again. The second greatest surprise I have
ever had in my life was seeing him on his back again, looking up at me out
of a black eye.
His spirit inspired me with great respect. He seemed to have no strength,
and he never once hit me hard, and he was always knocked down; but he
would be up again in a moment, sponging himself or drinking out of the
water-bottle, with the greatest satisfaction in seconding himself according to
form, and then came at me with an air and a show that made me believe he
really was going to do for me at last. He got heavily bruised, for I am sorry
to record that the more I hit him, the harder I hit him; but he came up again
and again and again, until at last he got a bad fall with the back of his head
against the wall. Even after that crisis in our affairs, he got up and turned
round and round confusedly a few times, not knowing where I was; but
finally went on his knees to his sponge and threw it up: at the same time
panting out, “That means you have won.”
He seemed so brave and innocent, that although I had not proposed the
contest, I felt but a gloomy satisfaction in my victory. Indeed, I go so far as
to hope that I regarded myself while dressing as a species of savage young
wolf or other wild beast. However, I got dressed, darkly wiping my
sanguinary face at intervals, and I said, “Can I help you?” and he said “No
thankee,” and I said “Good afternoon,” and he said “Same to you.”
When I got into the courtyard, I found Estella waiting with the keys. But
she neither asked me where I had been, nor why I had kept her waiting; and
there was a bright flush upon her face, as though something had happened
to delight her. Instead of going straight to the gate, too, she stepped back
into the passage, and beckoned me.
“Come here! You may kiss me, if you like.”
I kissed her cheek as she turned it to me. I think I would have gone
through a great deal to kiss her cheek. But I felt that the kiss was given to

the coarse common boy as a piece of money might have been, and that it
was worth nothing.
What with the birthday visitors, and what with the cards, and what with
the fight, my stay had lasted so long, that when I neared home the light on
the spit of sand off the point on the marshes was gleaming against a black
night-sky, and Joe’s furnace was flinging a path of fire across the road.

Chapter XII.

M
y mind grew very uneasy on the subject of the pale young
gentleman. The more I thought of the fight, and recalled the pale
young gentleman on his back in various stages of puffy and
incrimsoned countenance, the more certain it appeared that something
would be done to me. I felt that the pale young gentleman’s blood was on
my head, and that the Law would avenge it. Without having any definite
idea of the penalties I had incurred, it was clear to me that village boys
could not go stalking about the country, ravaging the houses of gentlefolks
and pitching into the studious youth of England, without laying themselves
open to severe punishment. For some days, I even kept close at home, and
looked out at the kitchen door with the greatest caution and trepidation
before going on an errand, lest the officers of the County Jail should pounce
upon me. The pale young gentleman’s nose had stained my trousers, and I
tried to wash out that evidence of my guilt in the dead of night. I had cut my
knuckles against the pale young gentleman’s teeth, and I twisted my
imagination into a thousand tangles, as I devised incredible ways of
accounting for that damnatory circumstance when I should be haled before
the Judges.
When the day came round for my return to the scene of the deed of
violence, my terrors reached their height. Whether myrmidons of Justice,
especially sent down from London, would be lying in ambush behind the
gate;—whether Miss Havisham, preferring to take personal vengeance for
an outrage done to her house, might rise in those grave-clothes of hers,
draw a pistol, and shoot me dead:—whether suborned boys—a numerous
band of mercenaries—might be engaged to fall upon me in the brewery, and
cuff me until I was no more;—it was high testimony to my confidence in
the spirit of the pale young gentleman, that I never imagined him accessory
to these retaliations; they always came into my mind as the acts of

injudicious relatives of his, goaded on by the state of his visage and an
indignant sympathy with the family features.
However, go to Miss Havisham’s I must, and go I did. And behold!
nothing came of the late struggle. It was not alluded to in any way, and no
pale young gentleman was to be discovered on the premises. I found the
same gate open, and I explored the garden, and even looked in at the
windows of the detached house; but my view was suddenly stopped by the
closed shutters within, and all was lifeless. Only in the corner where the
combat had taken place could I detect any evidence of the young
gentleman’s existence. There were traces of his gore in that spot, and I
covered them with garden-mould from the eye of man.
On the broad landing between Miss Havisham’s own room and that other
room in which the long table was laid out, I saw a garden-chair,—a light
chair on wheels, that you pushed from behind. It had been placed there
since my last visit, and I entered, that same day, on a regular occupation of
pushing Miss Havisham in this chair (when she was tired of walking with
her hand upon my shoulder) round her own room, and across the landing,
and round the other room. Over and over and over again, we would make
these journeys, and sometimes they would last as long as three hours at a
stretch. I insensibly fall into a general mention of these journeys as
numerous, because it was at once settled that I should return every alternate
day at noon for these purposes, and because I am now going to sum up a
period of at least eight or ten months.
As we began to be more used to one another, Miss Havisham talked more
to me, and asked me such questions as what had I learnt and what was I
going to be? I told her I was going to be apprenticed to Joe, I believed; and
I enlarged upon my knowing nothing and wanting to know everything, in
the hope that she might offer some help towards that desirable end. But she
did not; on the contrary, she seemed to prefer my being ignorant. Neither
did she ever give me any money,—or anything but my daily dinner,—nor
ever stipulate that I should be paid for my services.
Estella was always about, and always let me in and out, but never told me
I might kiss her again. Sometimes, she would coldly tolerate me;
sometimes, she would condescend to me; sometimes, she would be quite
familiar with me; sometimes, she would tell me energetically that she hated
me. Miss Havisham would often ask me in a whisper, or when we were

alone, “Does she grow prettier and prettier, Pip?” And when I said yes (for
indeed she did), would seem to enjoy it greedily. Also, when we played at
cards Miss Havisham would look on, with a miserly relish of Estella’s
moods, whatever they were. And sometimes, when her moods were so
many and so contradictory of one another that I was puzzled what to say or
do, Miss Havisham would embrace her with lavish fondness, murmuring
something in her ear that sounded like “Break their hearts my pride and
hope, break their hearts and have no mercy!”
There was a song Joe used to hum fragments of at the forge, of which the
burden was Old Clem. This was not a very ceremonious way of rendering
homage to a patron saint, but I believe Old Clem stood in that relation
towards smiths. It was a song that imitated the measure of beating upon
iron, and was a mere lyrical excuse for the introduction of Old Clem’s
respected name. Thus, you were to hammer boys round—Old Clem! With a
thump and a sound—Old Clem! Beat it out, beat it out—Old Clem! With a
clink for the stout—Old Clem! Blow the fire, blow the fire—Old Clem!
Roaring dryer, soaring higher—Old Clem! One day soon after the
appearance of the chair, Miss Havisham suddenly saying to me, with the
impatient movement of her fingers, “There, there, there! Sing!” I was
surprised into crooning this ditty as I pushed her over the floor. It happened
so to catch her fancy that she took it up in a low brooding voice as if she
were singing in her sleep. After that, it became customary with us to have it
as we moved about, and Estella would often join in; though the whole strain
was so subdued, even when there were three of us, that it made less noise in
the grim old house than the lightest breath of wind.
What could I become with these surroundings? How could my character
fail to be influenced by them? Is it to be wondered at if my thoughts were
dazed, as my eyes were, when I came out into the natural light from the
misty yellow rooms?
Perhaps I might have told Joe about the pale young gentleman, if I had
not previously been betrayed into those enormous inventions to which I had
confessed. Under the circumstances, I felt that Joe could hardly fail to
discern in the pale young gentleman, an appropriate passenger to be put into
the black velvet coach; therefore, I said nothing of him. Besides, that
shrinking from having Miss Havisham and Estella discussed, which had
come upon me in the beginning, grew much more potent as time went on. I

reposed complete confidence in no one but Biddy; but I told poor Biddy
everything. Why it came natural to me to do so, and why Biddy had a deep
concern in everything I told her, I did not know then, though I think I know
now.
Meanwhile, councils went on in the kitchen at home, fraught with almost
insupportable aggravation to my exasperated spirit. That ass, Pumblechook,
used often to come over of a night for the purpose of discussing my
prospects with my sister; and I really do believe (to this hour with less
penitence than I ought to feel), that if these hands could have taken a
linchpin out of his chaise-cart, they would have done it. The miserable man
was a man of that confined stolidity of mind, that he could not discuss my
prospects without having me before him,—as it were, to operate upon,—
and he would drag me up from my stool (usually by the collar) where I was
quiet in a corner, and, putting me before the fire as if I were going to be
cooked, would begin by saying, “Now, Mum, here is this boy! Here is this
boy which you brought up by hand. Hold up your head, boy, and be forever
grateful unto them which so did do. Now, Mum, with respections to this
boy!” And then he would rumple my hair the wrong way,—which from my
earliest remembrance, as already hinted, I have in my soul denied the right
of any fellow-creature to do,—and would hold me before him by the sleeve,
—a spectacle of imbecility only to be equalled by himself.
Then, he and my sister would pair off in such nonsensical speculations
about Miss Havisham, and about what she would do with me and for me,
that I used to want—quite painfully—to burst into spiteful tears, fly at
Pumblechook, and pummel him all over. In these dialogues, my sister spoke
to me as if she were morally wrenching one of my teeth out at every
reference; while Pumblechook himself, self-constituted my patron, would
sit supervising me with a depreciatory eye, like the architect of my fortunes
who thought himself engaged on a very unremunerative job.
In these discussions, Joe bore no part. But he was often talked at, while
they were in progress, by reason of Mrs. Joe’s perceiving that he was not
favourable to my being taken from the forge. I was fully old enough now to
be apprenticed to Joe; and when Joe sat with the poker on his knees
thoughtfully raking out the ashes between the lower bars, my sister would
so distinctly construe that innocent action into opposition on his part, that
she would dive at him, take the poker out of his hands, shake him, and put it

away. There was a most irritating end to every one of these debates. All in a
moment, with nothing to lead up to it, my sister would stop herself in a
yawn, and catching sight of me as it were incidentally, would swoop upon
me with, “Come! there’s enough of you! You get along to bed; you’ve given
trouble enough for one night, I hope!” As if I had besought them as a favour
to bother my life out.
We went on in this way for a long time, and it seemed likely that we
should continue to go on in this way for a long time, when one day Miss
Havisham stopped short as she and I were walking, she leaning on my
shoulder; and said with some displeasure,—
“You are growing tall, Pip!”
I thought it best to hint, through the medium of a meditative look, that
this might be occasioned by circumstances over which I had no control.
She said no more at the time; but she presently stopped and looked at me
again; and presently again; and after that, looked frowning and moody. On
the next day of my attendance, when our usual exercise was over, and I had
landed her at her dressing-table, she stayed me with a movement of her
impatient fingers:—
“Tell me the name again of that blacksmith of yours.”
“Joe Gargery, ma’am.”
“Meaning the master you were to be apprenticed to?”
“Yes, Miss Havisham.”
“You had better be apprenticed at once. Would Gargery come here with
you, and bring your indentures, do you think?”
I signified that I had no doubt he would take it as an honour to be asked.
“Then let him come.”
“At any particular time, Miss Havisham?”
“There, there! I know nothing about times. Let him come soon, and come
along with you.”
When I got home at night, and delivered this message for Joe, my sister
“went on the Rampage,” in a more alarming degree than at any previous
period. She asked me and Joe whether we supposed she was door-mats
under our feet, and how we dared to use her so, and what company we
graciously thought she was fit for? When she had exhausted a torrent of

such inquiries, she threw a candlestick at Joe, burst into a loud sobbing, got
out the dustpan,—which was always a very bad sign,—put on her coarse
apron, and began cleaning up to a terrible extent. Not satisfied with a dry
cleaning, she took to a pail and scrubbing-brush, and cleaned us out of
house and home, so that we stood shivering in the back-yard. It was ten
o’clock at night before we ventured to creep in again, and then she asked
Joe why he hadn’t married a Negress Slave at once? Joe offered no answer,
poor fellow, but stood feeling his whisker and looking dejectedly at me, as
if he thought it really might have been a better speculation.

Chapter XIII.

I
t was a trial to my feelings, on the next day but one, to see Joe arraying
himself in his Sunday clothes to accompany me to Miss Havisham’s.
However, as he thought his court-suit necessary to the occasion, it was
not for me to tell him that he looked far better in his working-dress; the
rather, because I knew he made himself so dreadfully uncomfortable,
entirely on my account, and that it was for me he pulled up his shirt-collar
so very high behind, that it made the hair on the crown of his head stand up
like a tuft of feathers.
At breakfast-time my sister declared her intention of going to town with
us, and being left at Uncle Pumblechook’s and called for “when we had
done with our fine ladies”—a way of putting the case, from which Joe
appeared inclined to augur the worst. The forge was shut up for the day, and
Joe inscribed in chalk upon the door (as it was his custom to do on the very
rare occasions when he was not at work) the monosyllable HOUT,
accompanied by a sketch of an arrow supposed to be flying in the direction
he had taken.
We walked to town, my sister leading the way in a very large beaver
bonnet, and carrying a basket like the Great Seal of England in plaited
Straw, a pair of pattens, a spare shawl, and an umbrella, though it was a fine
bright day. I am not quite clear whether these articles were carried
penitentially or ostentatiously; but I rather think they were displayed as
articles of property,—much as Cleopatra or any other sovereign lady on the
Rampage might exhibit her wealth in a pageant or procession.
When we came to Pumblechook’s, my sister bounced in and left us. As it
was almost noon, Joe and I held straight on to Miss Havisham’s house.
Estella opened the gate as usual, and, the moment she appeared, Joe took
his hat off and stood weighing it by the brim in both his hands; as if he had
some urgent reason in his mind for being particular to half a quarter of an
ounce.

Estella took no notice of either of us, but led us the way that I knew so
well. I followed next to her, and Joe came last. When I looked back at Joe in
the long passage, he was still weighing his hat with the greatest care, and
was coming after us in long strides on the tips of his toes.
Estella told me we were both to go in, so I took Joe by the coat-cuff and
conducted him into Miss Havisham’s presence. She was seated at her
dressing-table, and looked round at us immediately.
“Oh!” said she to Joe. “You are the husband of the sister of this boy?”
I could hardly have imagined dear old Joe looking so unlike himself or so
like some extraordinary bird; standing as he did speechless, with his tuft of
feathers ruffled, and his mouth open as if he wanted a worm.
“You are the husband,” repeated Miss Havisham, “of the sister of this
boy?”
It was very aggravating; but, throughout the interview, Joe persisted in
addressing Me instead of Miss Havisham.
“Which I meantersay, Pip,” Joe now observed in a manner that was at
once expressive of forcible argumentation, strict confidence, and great
politeness, “as I hup and married your sister, and I were at the time what
you might call (if you was anyways inclined) a single man.”
“Well!” said Miss Havisham. “And you have reared the boy, with the
intention of taking him for your apprentice; is that so, Mr. Gargery?”
“You know, Pip,” replied Joe, “as you and me were ever friends, and it
were looked for’ard to betwixt us, as being calc’lated to lead to larks. Not
but what, Pip, if you had ever made objections to the business,—such as its
being open to black and sut, or such-like,—not but what they would have
been attended to, don’t you see?”
“Has the boy,” said Miss Havisham, “ever made any objection? Does he
like the trade?”
“Which it is well beknown to yourself, Pip,” returned Joe, strengthening
his former mixture of argumentation, confidence, and politeness, “that it
were the wish of your own hart.” (I saw the idea suddenly break upon him
that he would adapt his epitaph to the occasion, before he went on to say)
“And there weren’t no objection on your part, and Pip it were the great wish
of your hart!”

It was quite in vain for me to endeavour to make him sensible that he
ought to speak to Miss Havisham. The more I made faces and gestures to
him to do it, the more confidential, argumentative, and polite, he persisted
in being to Me.
“Have you brought his indentures with you?” asked Miss Havisham.
“Well, Pip, you know,” replied Joe, as if that were a little unreasonable,
“you yourself see me put ’em in my ’at, and therefore you know as they are
here.” With which he took them out, and gave them, not to Miss Havisham,
but to me. I am afraid I was ashamed of the dear good fellow,—I know I
was ashamed of him,—when I saw that Estella stood at the back of Miss
Havisham’s chair, and that her eyes laughed mischievously. I took the
indentures out of his hand and gave them to Miss Havisham.
“You expected,” said Miss Havisham, as she looked them over, “no
premium with the boy?”
“Joe!” I remonstrated, for he made no reply at all. “Why don’t you
answer—”
“Pip,” returned Joe, cutting me short as if he were hurt, “which I
meantersay that were not a question requiring a answer betwixt yourself and
me, and which you know the answer to be full well No. You know it to be
No, Pip, and wherefore should I say it?”
Miss Havisham glanced at him as if she understood what he really was
better than I had thought possible, seeing what he was there; and took up a
little bag from the table beside her.
“Pip has earned a premium here,” she said, “and here it is. There are five-
and-twenty guineas in this bag. Give it to your master, Pip.”
As if he were absolutely out of his mind with the wonder awakened in
him by her strange figure and the strange room, Joe, even at this pass,
persisted in addressing me.
“This is wery liberal on your part, Pip,” said Joe, “and it is as such
received and grateful welcome, though never looked for, far nor near, nor
nowheres. And now, old chap,” said Joe, conveying to me a sensation, first
of burning and then of freezing, for I felt as if that familiar expression were
applied to Miss Havisham,—“and now, old chap, may we do our duty! May
you and me do our duty, both on us, by one and another, and by them which
your liberal present—have-conweyed—to be—for the satisfaction of mind-

of—them as never—” here Joe showed that he felt he had fallen into
frightful difficulties, until he triumphantly rescued himself with the words,
“and from myself far be it!” These words had such a round and convincing
sound for him that he said them twice.
“Good-bye, Pip!” said Miss Havisham. “Let them out, Estella.”
“Am I to come again, Miss Havisham?” I asked.
“No. Gargery is your master now. Gargery! One word!”
Thus calling him back as I went out of the door, I heard her say to Joe in
a distinct emphatic voice, “The boy has been a good boy here, and that is
his reward. Of course, as an honest man, you will expect no other and no
more.”
How Joe got out of the room, I have never been able to determine; but I
know that when he did get out he was steadily proceeding upstairs instead
of coming down, and was deaf to all remonstrances until I went after him
and laid hold of him. In another minute we were outside the gate, and it was
locked, and Estella was gone. When we stood in the daylight alone again,
Joe backed up against a wall, and said to me, “Astonishing!” And there he
remained so long saying, “Astonishing” at intervals, so often, that I began
to think his senses were never coming back. At length he prolonged his
remark into “Pip, I do assure you this is as-TON-ishing!” and so, by degrees,
became conversational and able to walk away.
I have reason to think that Joe’s intellects were brightened by the
encounter they had passed through, and that on our way to Pumblechook’s
he invented a subtle and deep design. My reason is to be found in what took
place in Mr. Pumblechook’s parlour: where, on our presenting ourselves,
my sister sat in conference with that detested seedsman.
“Well?” cried my sister, addressing us both at once. “And what’s
happened to you? I wonder you condescend to come back to such poor
society as this, I am sure I do!”
“Miss Havisham,” said Joe, with a fixed look at me, like an effort of
remembrance, “made it wery partick’ler that we should give her—were it
compliments or respects, Pip?”
“Compliments,” I said.
“Which that were my own belief,” answered Joe; “her compliments to
Mrs. J. Gargery—”

“Much good they’ll do me!” observed my sister; but rather gratified too.
“And wishing,” pursued Joe, with another fixed look at me, like another
effort of remembrance, “that the state of Miss Havisham’s elth were sitch as
would have—allowed, were it, Pip?”
“Of her having the pleasure,” I added.
“Of ladies’ company,” said Joe. And drew a long breath.
“Well!” cried my sister, with a mollified glance at Mr. Pumblechook.
“She might have had the politeness to send that message at first, but it’s
better late than never. And what did she give young Rantipole here?”
“She giv’ him,” said Joe, “nothing.”
Mrs. Joe was going to break out, but Joe went on.
“What she giv’,” said Joe, “she giv’ to his friends. ‘And by his friends,’
were her explanation, ‘I mean into the hands of his sister Mrs. J. Gargery.’
Them were her words; ‘Mrs. J. Gargery.’ She mayn’t have know’d,” added
Joe, with an appearance of reflection, “whether it were Joe, or Jorge.”
My sister looked at Pumblechook: who smoothed the elbows of his
wooden arm-chair, and nodded at her and at the fire, as if he had known all
about it beforehand.
“And how much have you got?” asked my sister, laughing. Positively
laughing!
“What would present company say to ten pound?” demanded Joe.
“They’d say,” returned my sister, curtly, “pretty well. Not too much, but
pretty well.”
“It’s more than that, then,” said Joe.
That fearful Impostor, Pumblechook, immediately nodded, and said, as
he rubbed the arms of his chair, “It’s more than that, Mum.”
“Why, you don’t mean to say—” began my sister.
“Yes I do, Mum,” said Pumblechook; “but wait a bit. Go on, Joseph.
Good in you! Go on!”
“What would present company say,” proceeded Joe, “to twenty pound?”
“Handsome would be the word,” returned my sister.
“Well, then,” said Joe, “It’s more than twenty pound.”

That abject hypocrite, Pumblechook, nodded again, and said, with a
patronizing laugh, “It’s more than that, Mum. Good again! Follow her up,
Joseph!”
“Then to make an end of it,” said Joe, delightedly handing the bag to my
sister; “it’s five-and-twenty pound.”
“It’s five-and-twenty pound, Mum,” echoed that basest of swindlers,
Pumblechook, rising to shake hands with her; “and it’s no more than your
merits (as I said when my opinion was asked), and I wish you joy of the
money!”
If the villain had stopped here, his case would have been sufficiently
awful, but he blackened his guilt by proceeding to take me into custody,
with a right of patronage that left all his former criminality far behind.
“Now you see, Joseph and wife,” said Pumblechook, as he took me by
the arm above the elbow, “I am one of them that always go right through
with what they’ve begun. This boy must be bound, out of hand. That’s my
way. Bound out of hand.”
“Goodness knows, Uncle Pumblechook,” said my sister (grasping the
money), “we’re deeply beholden to you.”
“Never mind me, Mum,” returned that diabolical cornchandler. “A
pleasure’s a pleasure all the world over. But this boy, you know; we must
have him bound. I said I’d see to it—to tell you the truth.”
The Justices were sitting in the Town Hall near at hand, and we at once
went over to have me bound apprentice to Joe in the Magisterial presence. I
say we went over, but I was pushed over by Pumblechook, exactly as if I
had that moment picked a pocket or fired a rick; indeed, it was the general
impression in Court that I had been taken red-handed; for, as Pumblechook
shoved me before him through the crowd, I heard some people say, “What’s
he done?” and others, “He’s a young ’un, too, but looks bad, don’t he?” One
person of mild and benevolent aspect even gave me a tract ornamented with
a woodcut of a malevolent young man fitted up with a perfect sausage-shop
of fetters, and entitled TO BE READ IN MY CELL.
The Hall was a queer place, I thought, with higher pews in it than a
church,—and with people hanging over the pews looking on,—and with
mighty Justices (one with a powdered head) leaning back in chairs, with
folded arms, or taking snuff, or going to sleep, or writing, or reading the

newspapers,—and with some shining black portraits on the walls, which my
unartistic eye regarded as a composition of hardbake and sticking-plaster.
Here, in a corner my indentures were duly signed and attested, and I was
“bound”; Mr. Pumblechook holding me all the while as if we had looked in
on our way to the scaffold, to have those little preliminaries disposed of.
When we had come out again, and had got rid of the boys who had been
put into great spirits by the expectation of seeing me publicly tortured, and
who were much disappointed to find that my friends were merely rallying
round me, we went back to Pumblechook’s. And there my sister became so
excited by the twenty-five guineas, that nothing would serve her but we
must have a dinner out of that windfall at the Blue Boar, and that
Pumblechook must go over in his chaise-cart, and bring the Hubbles and
Mr. Wopsle.
It was agreed to be done; and a most melancholy day I passed. For, it
inscrutably appeared to stand to reason, in the minds of the whole company,
that I was an excrescence on the entertainment. And to make it worse, they
all asked me from time to time,—in short, whenever they had nothing else
to do,—why I didn’t enjoy myself? And what could I possibly do then, but
say I was enjoying myself,—when I wasn’t!
However, they were grown up and had their own way, and they made the
most of it. That swindling Pumblechook, exalted into the beneficent
contriver of the whole occasion, actually took the top of the table; and,
when he addressed them on the subject of my being bound, and had
fiendishly congratulated them on my being liable to imprisonment if I
played at cards, drank strong liquors, kept late hours or bad company, or
indulged in other vagaries which the form of my indentures appeared to
contemplate as next to inevitable, he placed me standing on a chair beside
him to illustrate his remarks.
My only other remembrances of the great festival are, That they wouldn’t
let me go to sleep, but whenever they saw me dropping off, woke me up
and told me to enjoy myself. That, rather late in the evening Mr. Wopsle
gave us Collins’s ode, and threw his bloodstained sword in thunder down,
with such effect, that a waiter came in and said, “The Commercials
underneath sent up their compliments, and it wasn’t the Tumblers’ Arms.”
That, they were all in excellent spirits on the road home, and sang, O Lady
Fair! Mr. Wopsle taking the bass, and asserting with a tremendously strong

voice (in reply to the inquisitive bore who leads that piece of music in a
most impertinent manner, by wanting to know all about everybody’s private
affairs) that he was the man with his white locks flowing, and that he was
upon the whole the weakest pilgrim going.
Finally, I remember that when I got into my little bedroom, I was truly
wretched, and had a strong conviction on me that I should never like Joe’s
trade. I had liked it once, but once was not now.

Chapter XIV.

I
t is a most miserable thing to feel ashamed of home. There may be
black ingratitude in the thing, and the punishment may be retributive
and well deserved; but that it is a miserable thing, I can testify.
Home had never been a very pleasant place to me, because of my sister’s
temper. But, Joe had sanctified it, and I had believed in it. I had believed in
the best parlour as a most elegant saloon; I had believed in the front door, as
a mysterious portal of the Temple of State whose solemn opening was
attended with a sacrifice of roast fowls; I had believed in the kitchen as a
chaste though not magnificent apartment; I had believed in the forge as the
glowing road to manhood and independence. Within a single year all this
was changed. Now it was all coarse and common, and I would not have had
Miss Havisham and Estella see it on any account.
How much of my ungracious condition of mind may have been my own
fault, how much Miss Havisham’s, how much my sister’s, is now of no
moment to me or to any one. The change was made in me; the thing was
done. Well or ill done, excusably or inexcusably, it was done.
Once, it had seemed to me that when I should at last roll up my shirt-
sleeves and go into the forge, Joe’s ’prentice, I should be distinguished and
happy. Now the reality was in my hold, I only felt that I was dusty with the
dust of small-coal, and that I had a weight upon my daily remembrance to
which the anvil was a feather. There have been occasions in my later life (I
suppose as in most lives) when I have felt for a time as if a thick curtain had
fallen on all its interest and romance, to shut me out from anything save dull
endurance any more. Never has that curtain dropped so heavy and blank, as
when my way in life lay stretched out straight before me through the newly
entered road of apprenticeship to Joe.
I remember that at a later period of my “time,” I used to stand about the
churchyard on Sunday evenings when night was falling, comparing my own

perspective with the windy marsh view, and making out some likeness
between them by thinking how flat and low both were, and how on both
there came an unknown way and a dark mist and then the sea. I was quite as
dejected on the first working-day of my apprenticeship as in that after-time;
but I am glad to know that I never breathed a murmur to Joe while my
indentures lasted. It is about the only thing I am glad to know of myself in
that connection.
For, though it includes what I proceed to add, all the merit of what I
proceed to add was Joe’s. It was not because I was faithful, but because Joe
was faithful, that I never ran away and went for a soldier or a sailor. It was
not because I had a strong sense of the virtue of industry, but because Joe
had a strong sense of the virtue of industry, that I worked with tolerable zeal
against the grain. It is not possible to know how far the influence of any
amiable honest-hearted duty-doing man flies out into the world; but it is
very possible to know how it has touched one’s self in going by, and I know
right well that any good that intermixed itself with my apprenticeship came
of plain contented Joe, and not of restlessly aspiring discontented me.
What I wanted, who can say? How can I say, when I never knew? What I
dreaded was, that in some unlucky hour I, being at my grimiest and
commonest, should lift up my eyes and see Estella looking in at one of the
wooden windows of the forge. I was haunted by the fear that she would,
sooner or later, find me out, with a black face and hands, doing the coarsest
part of my work, and would exult over me and despise me. Often after dark,
when I was pulling the bellows for Joe, and we were singing Old Clem, and
when the thought how we used to sing it at Miss Havisham’s would seem to
show me Estella’s face in the fire, with her pretty hair fluttering in the wind
and her eyes scorning me,—often at such a time I would look towards those
panels of black night in the wall which the wooden windows then were, and
would fancy that I saw her just drawing her face away, and would believe
that she had come at last.
After that, when we went in to supper, the place and the meal would have
a more homely look than ever, and I would feel more ashamed of home than
ever, in my own ungracious breast.

Chapter XV.

A
s I was getting too big for Mr. Wopsle’s great-aunt’s room, my
education under that preposterous female terminated. Not, however,
until Biddy had imparted to me everything she knew, from the little
catalogue of prices, to a comic song she had once bought for a half-penny.
Although the only coherent part of the latter piece of literature were the
opening lines,
When I went to Lunnon town sirs,
Too rul loo rul
Too rul loo rul
Wasn’t I done very brown sirs?
Too rul loo rul
Too rul loo rul

—still, in my desire to be wiser, I got this composition by heart with the
utmost gravity; nor do I recollect that I questioned its merit, except that I
thought (as I still do) the amount of Too rul somewhat in excess of the
poetry. In my hunger for information, I made proposals to Mr. Wopsle to
bestow some intellectual crumbs upon me, with which he kindly complied.
As it turned out, however, that he only wanted me for a dramatic lay-figure,
to be contradicted and embraced and wept over and bullied and clutched
and stabbed and knocked about in a variety of ways, I soon declined that
course of instruction; though not until Mr. Wopsle in his poetic fury had
severely mauled me.
Whatever I acquired, I tried to impart to Joe. This statement sounds so
well, that I cannot in my conscience let it pass unexplained. I wanted to
make Joe less ignorant and common, that he might be worthier of my
society and less open to Estella’s reproach.
The old Battery out on the marshes was our place of study, and a broken
slate and a short piece of slate-pencil were our educational implements: to
which Joe always added a pipe of tobacco. I never knew Joe to remember

anything from one Sunday to another, or to acquire, under my tuition, any
piece of information whatever. Yet he would smoke his pipe at the Battery
with a far more sagacious air than anywhere else,—even with a learned air,
—as if he considered himself to be advancing immensely. Dear fellow, I
hope he did.
It was pleasant and quiet, out there with the sails on the river passing
beyond the earthwork, and sometimes, when the tide was low, looking as if
they belonged to sunken ships that were still sailing on at the bottom of the
water. Whenever I watched the vessels standing out to sea with their white
sails spread, I somehow thought of Miss Havisham and Estella; and
whenever the light struck aslant, afar off, upon a cloud or sail or green
hillside or water-line, it was just the same.—Miss Havisham and Estella and
the strange house and the strange life appeared to have something to do
with everything that was picturesque.
One Sunday when Joe, greatly enjoying his pipe, had so plumed himself
on being “most awful dull,” that I had given him up for the day, I lay on the
earthwork for some time with my chin on my hand, descrying traces of
Miss Havisham and Estella all over the prospect, in the sky and in the
water, until at last I resolved to mention a thought concerning them that had
been much in my head.
“Joe,” said I; “don’t you think I ought to make Miss Havisham a visit?”
“Well, Pip,” returned Joe, slowly considering. “What for?”
“What for, Joe? What is any visit made for?”
“There is some wisits p’r’aps,” said Joe, “as for ever remains open to the
question, Pip. But in regard to wisiting Miss Havisham. She might think
you wanted something,—expected something of her.”
“Don’t you think I might say that I did not, Joe?”
“You might, old chap,” said Joe. “And she might credit it. Similarly she
mightn’t.”
Joe felt, as I did, that he had made a point there, and he pulled hard at his
pipe to keep himself from weakening it by repetition.
“You see, Pip,” Joe pursued, as soon as he was past that danger, “Miss
Havisham done the handsome thing by you. When Miss Havisham done the
handsome thing by you, she called me back to say to me as that were all.”
“Yes, Joe. I heard her.”

“ALL,” Joe repeated, very emphatically.
“Yes, Joe. I tell you, I heard her.”
“Which I meantersay, Pip, it might be that her meaning were,—Make a
end on it!—As you was!—Me to the North, and you to the South!—Keep in
sunders!”
I had thought of that too, and it was very far from comforting to me to
find that he had thought of it; for it seemed to render it more probable.
“But, Joe.”
“Yes, old chap.”
“Here am I, getting on in the first year of my time, and, since the day of
my being bound, I have never thanked Miss Havisham, or asked after her,
or shown that I remember her.”
“That’s true, Pip; and unless you was to turn her out a set of shoes all
four round,—and which I meantersay as even a set of shoes all four round
might not be acceptable as a present, in a total wacancy of hoofs—”
“I don’t mean that sort of remembrance, Joe; I don’t mean a present.”
But Joe had got the idea of a present in his head and must harp upon it.
“Or even,” said he, “if you was helped to knocking her up a new chain for
the front door,—or say a gross or two of shark-headed screws for general
use,—or some light fancy article, such as a toasting-fork when she took her
muffins,—or a gridiron when she took a sprat or such like—”
“I don’t mean any present at all, Joe,” I interposed.
“Well,” said Joe, still harping on it as though I had particularly pressed it,
“if I was yourself, Pip, I wouldn’t. No, I would not. For what’s a door-chain
when she’s got one always up? And shark-headers is open to
misrepresentations. And if it was a toasting-fork, you’d go into brass and do
yourself no credit. And the oncommonest workman can’t show himself
oncommon in a gridiron,—for a gridiron IS a gridiron,” said Joe, steadfastly
impressing it upon me, as if he were endeavouring to rouse me from a fixed
delusion, “and you may haim at what you like, but a gridiron it will come
out, either by your leave or again your leave, and you can’t help yourself
—”
“My dear Joe,” I cried, in desperation, taking hold of his coat, “don’t go
on in that way. I never thought of making Miss Havisham any present.”

“No, Pip,” Joe assented, as if he had been contending for that, all along;
“and what I say to you is, you are right, Pip.”
“Yes, Joe; but what I wanted to say, was, that as we are rather slack just
now, if you would give me a half-holiday to-morrow, I think I would go
uptown and make a call on Miss Est—Havisham.”
“Which her name,” said Joe, gravely, “ain’t Estavisham, Pip, unless she
have been rechris’ened.”
“I know, Joe, I know. It was a slip of mine. What do you think of it, Joe?”
In brief, Joe thought that if I thought well of it, he thought well of it. But,
he was particular in stipulating that if I were not received with cordiality, or
if I were not encouraged to repeat my visit as a visit which had no ulterior
object but was simply one of gratitude for a favour received, then this
experimental trip should have no successor. By these conditions I promised
to abide.
Now, Joe kept a journeyman at weekly wages whose name was Orlick.
He pretended that his Christian name was Dolge,—a clear Impossibility,—
but he was a fellow of that obstinate disposition that I believe him to have
been the prey of no delusion in this particular, but wilfully to have imposed
that name upon the village as an affront to its understanding. He was a
broadshouldered loose-limbed swarthy fellow of great strength, never in a
hurry, and always slouching. He never even seemed to come to his work on
purpose, but would slouch in as if by mere accident; and when he went to
the Jolly Bargemen to eat his dinner, or went away at night, he would
slouch out, like Cain or the Wandering Jew, as if he had no idea where he
was going and no intention of ever coming back. He lodged at a sluice-
keeper’s out on the marshes, and on working-days would come slouching
from his hermitage, with his hands in his pockets and his dinner loosely tied
in a bundle round his neck and dangling on his back. On Sundays he mostly
lay all day on the sluice-gates, or stood against ricks and barns. He always
slouched, locomotively, with his eyes on the ground; and, when accosted or
otherwise required to raise them, he looked up in a half-resentful, half-
puzzled way, as though the only thought he ever had was, that it was rather
an odd and injurious fact that he should never be thinking.
This morose journeyman had no liking for me. When I was very small
and timid, he gave me to understand that the Devil lived in a black corner of
the forge, and that he knew the fiend very well: also that it was necessary to

make up the fire, once in seven years, with a live boy, and that I might
consider myself fuel. When I became Joe’s ’prentice, Orlick was perhaps
confirmed in some suspicion that I should displace him; howbeit, he liked
me still less. Not that he ever said anything, or did anything, openly
importing hostility; I only noticed that he always beat his sparks in my
direction, and that whenever I sang Old Clem, he came in out of time.
Dolge Orlick was at work and present, next day, when I reminded Joe of
my half-holiday. He said nothing at the moment, for he and Joe had just got
a piece of hot iron between them, and I was at the bellows; but by and by he
said, leaning on his hammer,—
“Now, master! Sure you’re not a-going to favour only one of us. If Young
Pip has a half-holiday, do as much for Old Orlick.” I suppose he was about
five-and-twenty, but he usually spoke of himself as an ancient person.
“Why, what’ll you do with a half-holiday, if you get it?” said Joe.
“What’ll I do with it! What’ll he do with it? I’ll do as much with it as
him,” said Orlick.
“As to Pip, he’s going up town,” said Joe.
“Well then, as to Old Orlick, he’s a-going up town,” retorted that worthy.
“Two can go up town. Tain’t only one wot can go up town.
“Don’t lose your temper,” said Joe.
“Shall if I like,” growled Orlick. “Some and their uptowning! Now,
master! Come. No favouring in this shop. Be a man!”
The master refusing to entertain the subject until the journeyman was in a
better temper, Orlick plunged at the furnace, drew out a red-hot bar, made at
me with it as if he were going to run it through my body, whisked it round
my head, laid it on the anvil, hammered it out,—as if it were I, I thought,
and the sparks were my spirting blood,—and finally said, when he had
hammered himself hot and the iron cold, and he again leaned on his
hammer,—
“Now, master!”
“Are you all right now?” demanded Joe.
“Ah! I am all right,” said gruff Old Orlick.
“Then, as in general you stick to your work as well as most men,” said
Joe, “let it be a half-holiday for all.”

My sister had been standing silent in the yard, within hearing,—she was
a most unscrupulous spy and listener,—and she instantly looked in at one of
the windows.
“Like you, you fool!” said she to Joe, “giving holidays to great idle
hulkers like that. You are a rich man, upon my life, to waste wages in that
way. I wish I was his master!”
“You’d be everybody’s master, if you durst,” retorted Orlick, with an ill-
favoured grin.
(“Let her alone,” said Joe.)
“I’d be a match for all noodles and all rogues,” returned my sister,
beginning to work herself into a mighty rage. “And I couldn’t be a match
for the noodles, without being a match for your master, who’s the dunder-
headed king of the noodles. And I couldn’t be a match for the rogues,
without being a match for you, who are the blackest-looking and the worst
rogue between this and France. Now!”
“You’re a foul shrew, Mother Gargery,” growled the journeyman. “If that
makes a judge of rogues, you ought to be a good’un.”
(“Let her alone, will you?” said Joe.)
“What did you say?” cried my sister, beginning to scream. “What did you
say? What did that fellow Orlick say to me, Pip? What did he call me, with
my husband standing by? Oh! oh! oh!” Each of these exclamations was a
shriek; and I must remark of my sister, what is equally true of all the violent
women I have ever seen, that passion was no excuse for her, because it is
undeniable that instead of lapsing into passion, she consciously and
deliberately took extraordinary pains to force herself into it, and became
blindly furious by regular stages; “what was the name he gave me before
the base man who swore to defend me? Oh! Hold me! Oh!”
“Ah-h-h!” growled the journeyman, between his teeth, “I’d hold you, if
you was my wife. I’d hold you under the pump, and choke it out of you.”
(“I tell you, let her alone,” said Joe.)
“Oh! To hear him!” cried my sister, with a clap of her hands and a scream
together,—which was her next stage. “To hear the names he’s giving me!
That Orlick! In my own house! Me, a married woman! With my husband
standing by! Oh! Oh!” Here my sister, after a fit of clappings and
screamings, beat her hands upon her bosom and upon her knees, and threw

her cap off, and pulled her hair down,—which were the last stages on her
road to frenzy. Being by this time a perfect Fury and a complete success,
she made a dash at the door which I had fortunately locked.
What could the wretched Joe do now, after his disregarded parenthetical
interruptions, but stand up to his journeyman, and ask him what he meant
by interfering betwixt himself and Mrs. Joe; and further whether he was
man enough to come on? Old Orlick felt that the situation admitted of
nothing less than coming on, and was on his defence straightway; so,
without so much as pulling off their singed and burnt aprons, they went at
one another, like two giants. But, if any man in that neighbourhood could
stand uplong against Joe, I never saw the man. Orlick, as if he had been of
no more account than the pale young gentleman, was very soon among the
coal-dust, and in no hurry to come out of it. Then Joe unlocked the door and
picked up my sister, who had dropped insensible at the window (but who
had seen the fight first, I think), and who was carried into the house and laid
down, and who was recommended to revive, and would do nothing but
struggle and clench her hands in Joe’s hair. Then came that singular calm
and silence which succeed all uproars; and then, with the vague sensation
which I have always connected with such a lull,—namely, that it was
Sunday, and somebody was dead,—I went upstairs to dress myself.

When I came down again, I found Joe and Orlick sweeping up, without
any other traces of discomposure than a slit in one of Orlick’s nostrils,
which was neither expressive nor ornamental. A pot of beer had appeared
from the Jolly Bargemen, and they were sharing it by turns in a peaceable
manner. The lull had a sedative and philosophical influence on Joe, who
followed me out into the road to say, as a parting observation that might do
me good, “On the Rampage, Pip, and off the Rampage, Pip:—such is Life!”

With what absurd emotions (for we think the feelings that are very
serious in a man quite comical in a boy) I found myself again going to Miss
Havisham’s, matters little here. Nor, how I passed and repassed the gate
many times before I could make up my mind to ring. Nor, how I debated
whether I should go away without ringing; nor, how I should undoubtedly
have gone, if my time had been my own, to come back.
Miss Sarah Pocket came to the gate. No Estella.
“How, then? You here again?” said Miss Pocket. “What do you want?”
When I said that I only came to see how Miss Havisham was, Sarah
evidently deliberated whether or no she should send me about my business.
But unwilling to hazard the responsibility, she let me in, and presently
brought the sharp message that I was to “come up.”
Everything was unchanged, and Miss Havisham was alone.
“Well?” said she, fixing her eyes upon me. “I hope you want nothing?
You’ll get nothing.”
“No indeed, Miss Havisham. I only wanted you to know that I am doing
very well in my apprenticeship, and am always much obliged to you.”
“There, there!” with the old restless fingers. “Come now and then; come
on your birthday.—Ay!” she cried suddenly, turning herself and her chair
towards me, “You are looking round for Estella? Hey?”
I had been looking round,—in fact, for Estella,—and I stammered that I
hoped she was well.
“Abroad,” said Miss Havisham; “educating for a lady; far out of reach;
prettier than ever; admired by all who see her. Do you feel that you have
lost her?”
There was such a malignant enjoyment in her utterance of the last words,
and she broke into such a disagreeable laugh, that I was at a loss what to
say. She spared me the trouble of considering, by dismissing me. When the
gate was closed upon me by Sarah of the walnut-shell countenance, I felt
more than ever dissatisfied with my home and with my trade and with
everything; and that was all I took by that motion.
As I was loitering along the High Street, looking in disconsolately at the
shop windows, and thinking what I would buy if I were a gentleman, who
should come out of the bookshop but Mr. Wopsle. Mr. Wopsle had in his
hand the affecting tragedy of George Barnwell, in which he had that

moment invested sixpence, with the view of heaping every word of it on the
head of Pumblechook, with whom he was going to drink tea. No sooner did
he see me, than he appeared to consider that a special Providence had put a
’prentice in his way to be read at; and he laid hold of me, and insisted on
my accompanying him to the Pumblechookian parlour. As I knew it would
be miserable at home, and as the nights were dark and the way was dreary,
and almost any companionship on the road was better than none, I made no
great resistance; consequently, we turned into Pumblechook’s just as the
street and the shops were lighting up.
As I never assisted at any other representation of George Barnwell, I
don’t know how long it may usually take; but I know very well that it took
until half-past nine o’ clock that night, and that when Mr. Wopsle got into
Newgate, I thought he never would go to the scaffold, he became so much
slower than at any former period of his disgraceful career. I thought it a
little too much that he should complain of being cut short in his flower after
all, as if he had not been running to seed, leaf after leaf, ever since his
course began. This, however, was a mere question of length and
wearisomeness. What stung me, was the identification of the whole affair
with my unoffending self. When Barnwell began to go wrong, I declare that
I felt positively apologetic, Pumblechook’s indignant stare so taxed me with
it. Wopsle, too, took pains to present me in the worst light. At once
ferocious and maudlin, I was made to murder my uncle with no extenuating
circumstances whatever; Millwood put me down in argument, on every
occasion; it became sheer monomania in my master’s daughter to care a
button for me; and all I can say for my gasping and procrastinating conduct
on the fatal morning, is, that it was worthy of the general feebleness of my
character. Even after I was happily hanged and Wopsle had closed the book,
Pumblechook sat staring at me, and shaking his head, and saying, “Take
warning, boy, take warning!” as if it were a well-known fact that I
contemplated murdering a near relation, provided I could only induce one
to have the weakness to become my benefactor.
It was a very dark night when it was all over, and when I set out with Mr.
Wopsle on the walk home. Beyond town, we found a heavy mist out, and it
fell wet and thick. The turnpike lamp was a blur, quite out of the lamp’s
usual place apparently, and its rays looked solid substance on the fog. We
were noticing this, and saying how that the mist rose with a change of wind

from a certain quarter of our marshes, when we came upon a man,
slouching under the lee of the turnpike house.
“Halloa!” we said, stopping. “Orlick there?”
“Ah!” he answered, slouching out. “I was standing by a minute, on the
chance of company.”
“You are late,” I remarked.
Orlick not unnaturally answered, “Well? And you’re late.”
“We have been,” said Mr. Wopsle, exalted with his late performance,
—“we have been indulging, Mr. Orlick, in an intellectual evening.”
Old Orlick growled, as if he had nothing to say about that, and we all
went on together. I asked him presently whether he had been spending his
half-holiday up and down town?
“Yes,” said he, “all of it. I come in behind yourself. I didn’t see you, but I
must have been pretty close behind you. By the by, the guns is going
again.”
“At the Hulks?” said I.
“Ay! There’s some of the birds flown from the cages. The guns have been
going since dark, about. You’ll hear one presently.”
In effect, we had not walked many yards further, when the well-
remembered boom came towards us, deadened by the mist, and heavily
rolled away along the low grounds by the river, as if it were pursuing and
threatening the fugitives.
“A good night for cutting off in,” said Orlick. “We’d be puzzled how to
bring down a jail-bird on the wing, to-night.”
The subject was a suggestive one to me, and I thought about it in silence.
Mr. Wopsle, as the ill-requited uncle of the evening’s tragedy, fell to
meditating aloud in his garden at Camberwell. Orlick, with his hands in his
pockets, slouched heavily at my side. It was very dark, very wet, very
muddy, and so we splashed along. Now and then, the sound of the signal
cannon broke upon us again, and again rolled sulkily along the course of the
river. I kept myself to myself and my thoughts. Mr. Wopsle died amiably at
Camberwell, and exceedingly game on Bosworth Field, and in the greatest
agonies at Glastonbury. Orlick sometimes growled, “Beat it out, beat it out,

—Old Clem! With a clink for the stout,—Old Clem!” I thought he had been
drinking, but he was not drunk.
Thus, we came to the village. The way by which we approached it took
us past the Three Jolly Bargemen, which we were surprised to find—it
being eleven o’clock—in a state of commotion, with the door wide open,
and unwonted lights that had been hastily caught up and put down scattered
about. Mr. Wopsle dropped in to ask what was the matter (surmising that a
convict had been taken), but came running out in a great hurry.
“There’s something wrong,” said he, without stopping, “up at your place,
Pip. Run all!”
“What is it?” I asked, keeping up with him. So did Orlick, at my side.
“I can’t quite understand. The house seems to have been violently entered
when Joe Gargery was out. Supposed by convicts. Somebody has been
attacked and hurt.”
We were running too fast to admit of more being said, and we made no
stop until we got into our kitchen. It was full of people; the whole village
was there, or in the yard; and there was a surgeon, and there was Joe, and
there were a group of women, all on the floor in the midst of the kitchen.
The unemployed bystanders drew back when they saw me, and so I became
aware of my sister,—lying without sense or movement on the bare boards
where she had been knocked down by a tremendous blow on the back of the
head, dealt by some unknown hand when her face was turned towards the
fire,—destined never to be on the Rampage again, while she was the wife of
Joe.

Chapter XVI.

W
ith my head full of George Barnwell, I was at first disposed to
believe that I must have had some hand in the attack upon my
sister, or at all events that as her near relation, popularly known
to be under obligations to her, I was a more legitimate object of suspicion
than any one else. But when, in the clearer light of next morning, I began to
reconsider the matter and to hear it discussed around me on all sides, I took
another view of the case, which was more reasonable.
Joe had been at the Three Jolly Bargemen, smoking his pipe, from a
quarter after eight o’clock to a quarter before ten. While he was there, my
sister had been seen standing at the kitchen door, and had exchanged Good
Night with a farm-labourer going home. The man could not be more
particular as to the time at which he saw her (he got into dense confusion
when he tried to be), than that it must have been before nine. When Joe
went home at five minutes before ten, he found her struck down on the
floor, and promptly called in assistance. The fire had not then burnt
unusually low, nor was the snuff of the candle very long; the candle,
however, had been blown out.
Nothing had been taken away from any part of the house. Neither,
beyond the blowing out of the candle,—which stood on a table between the
door and my sister, and was behind her when she stood facing the fire and
was struck,—was there any disarrangement of the kitchen, excepting such
as she herself had made, in falling and bleeding. But, there was one
remarkable piece of evidence on the spot. She had been struck with
something blunt and heavy, on the head and spine; after the blows were
dealt, something heavy had been thrown down at her with considerable
violence, as she lay on her face. And on the ground beside her, when Joe
picked her up, was a convict’s leg-iron which had been filed asunder.
Now, Joe, examining this iron with a smith’s eye, declared it to have been
filed asunder some time ago. The hue and cry going off to the Hulks, and

people coming thence to examine the iron, Joe’s opinion was corroborated.
They did not undertake to say when it had left the prison-ships to which it
undoubtedly had once belonged; but they claimed to know for certain that
that particular manacle had not been worn by either of the two convicts who
had escaped last night. Further, one of those two was already retaken, and
had not freed himself of his iron.
Knowing what I knew, I set up an inference of my own here. I believed
the iron to be my convict’s iron,—the iron I had seen and heard him filing
at, on the marshes,—but my mind did not accuse him of having put it to its
latest use. For I believed one of two other persons to have become
possessed of it, and to have turned it to this cruel account. Either Orlick, or
the strange man who had shown me the file.
Now, as to Orlick; he had gone to town exactly as he told us when we
picked him up at the turnpike, he had been seen about town all the evening,
he had been in divers companies in several public-houses, and he had come
back with myself and Mr. Wopsle. There was nothing against him, save the
quarrel; and my sister had quarrelled with him, and with everybody else
about her, ten thousand times. As to the strange man; if he had come back
for his two bank-notes there could have been no dispute about them,
because my sister was fully prepared to restore them. Besides, there had
been no altercation; the assailant had come in so silently and suddenly, that
she had been felled before she could look round.
It was horrible to think that I had provided the weapon, however
undesignedly, but I could hardly think otherwise. I suffered unspeakable
trouble while I considered and reconsidered whether I should at last
dissolve that spell of my childhood and tell Joe all the story. For months
afterwards, I every day settled the question finally in the negative, and
reopened and reargued it next morning. The contention came, after all, to
this;—the secret was such an old one now, had so grown into me and
become a part of myself, that I could not tear it away. In addition to the
dread that, having led up to so much mischief, it would be now more likely
than ever to alienate Joe from me if he believed it, I had a further
restraining dread that he would not believe it, but would assort it with the
fabulous dogs and veal-cutlets as a monstrous invention. However, I
temporized with myself, of course—for, was I not wavering between right
and wrong, when the thing is always done?—and resolved to make a full

disclosure if I should see any such new occasion as a new chance of helping
in the discovery of the assailant.
The Constables and the Bow Street men from London—for, this
happened in the days of the extinct red-waistcoated police—were about the
house for a week or two, and did pretty much what I have heard and read of
like authorities doing in other such cases. They took up several obviously
wrong people, and they ran their heads very hard against wrong ideas, and
persisted in trying to fit the circumstances to the ideas, instead of trying to
extract ideas from the circumstances. Also, they stood about the door of the
Jolly Bargemen, with knowing and reserved looks that filled the whole
neighbourhood with admiration; and they had a mysterious manner of
taking their drink, that was almost as good as taking the culprit. But not
quite, for they never did it.
Long after these constitutional powers had dispersed, my sister lay very
ill in bed. Her sight was disturbed, so that she saw objects multiplied, and
grasped at visionary teacups and wineglasses instead of the realities; her
hearing was greatly impaired; her memory also; and her speech was
unintelligible. When, at last, she came round so far as to be helped
downstairs, it was still necessary to keep my slate always by her, that she
might indicate in writing what she could not indicate in speech. As she was
(very bad handwriting apart) a more than indifferent speller, and as Joe was
a more than indifferent reader, extraordinary complications arose between
them which I was always called in to solve. The administration of mutton
instead of medicine, the substitution of Tea for Joe, and the baker for bacon,
were among the mildest of my own mistakes.
However, her temper was greatly improved, and she was patient. A
tremulous uncertainty of the action of all her limbs soon became a part of
her regular state, and afterwards, at intervals of two or three months, she
would often put her hands to her head, and would then remain for about a
week at a time in some gloomy aberration of mind. We were at a loss to find
a suitable attendant for her, until a circumstance happened conveniently to
relieve us. Mr. Wopsle’s great-aunt conquered a confirmed habit of living
into which she had fallen, and Biddy became a part of our establishment.
It may have been about a month after my sister’s reappearance in the
kitchen, when Biddy came to us with a small speckled box containing the
whole of her worldly effects, and became a blessing to the household.

Above all, she was a blessing to Joe, for the dear old fellow was sadly cut
up by the constant contemplation of the wreck of his wife, and had been
accustomed, while attending on her of an evening, to turn to me every now
and then and say, with his blue eyes moistened, “Such a fine figure of a
woman as she once were, Pip!” Biddy instantly taking the cleverest charge
of her as though she had studied her from infancy; Joe became able in some
sort to appreciate the greater quiet of his life, and to get down to the Jolly
Bargemen now and then for a change that did him good. It was
characteristic of the police people that they had all more or less suspected
poor Joe (though he never knew it), and that they had to a man concurred in
regarding him as one of the deepest spirits they had ever encountered.
Biddy’s first triumph in her new office, was to solve a difficulty that had
completely vanquished me. I had tried hard at it, but had made nothing of it.
Thus it was:—
Again and again and again, my sister had traced upon the slate, a
character that looked like a curious T, and then with the utmost eagerness
had called our attention to it as something she particularly wanted. I had in
vain tried everything producible that began with a T, from tar to toast and
tub. At length it had come into my head that the sign looked like a hammer,
and on my lustily calling that word in my sister’s ear, she had begun to
hammer on the table and had expressed a qualified assent. Thereupon, I had
brought in all our hammers, one after another, but without avail. Then I
bethought me of a crutch, the shape being much the same, and I borrowed
one in the village, and displayed it to my sister with considerable
confidence. But she shook her head to that extent when she was shown it,
that we were terrified lest in her weak and shattered state she should
dislocate her neck.
When my sister found that Biddy was very quick to understand her, this
mysterious sign reappeared on the slate. Biddy looked thoughtfully at it,
heard my explanation, looked thoughtfully at my sister, looked thoughtfully
at Joe (who was always represented on the slate by his initial letter), and ran
into the forge, followed by Joe and me.
“Why, of course!” cried Biddy, with an exultant face. “Don’t you see?
It’s him!”
Orlick, without a doubt! She had lost his name, and could only signify
him by his hammer. We told him why we wanted him to come into the

kitchen, and he slowly laid down his hammer, wiped his brow with his arm,
took another wipe at it with his apron, and came slouching out, with a
curious loose vagabond bend in the knees that strongly distinguished him.
I confess that I expected to see my sister denounce him, and that I was
disappointed by the different result. She manifested the greatest anxiety to
be on good terms with him, was evidently much pleased by his being at
length produced, and motioned that she would have him given something to
drink. She watched his countenance as if she were particularly wishful to be
assured that he took kindly to his reception, she showed every possible
desire to conciliate him, and there was an air of humble propitiation in all
she did, such as I have seen pervade the bearing of a child towards a hard
master. After that day, a day rarely passed without her drawing the hammer
on her slate, and without Orlick’s slouching in and standing doggedly
before her, as if he knew no more than I did what to make of it.

Chapter XVII.

I
now fell into a regular routine of apprenticeship life, which was varied
beyond the limits of the village and the marshes, by no more
remarkable circumstance than the arrival of my birthday and my paying
another visit to Miss Havisham. I found Miss Sarah Pocket still on duty at
the gate; I found Miss Havisham just as I had left her, and she spoke of
Estella in the very same way, if not in the very same words. The interview
lasted but a few minutes, and she gave me a guinea when I was going, and
told me to come again on my next birthday. I may mention at once that this
became an annual custom. I tried to decline taking the guinea on the first
occasion, but with no better effect than causing her to ask me very angrily,
if I expected more? Then, and after that, I took it.
So unchanging was the dull old house, the yellow light in the darkened
room, the faded spectre in the chair by the dressing-table glass, that I felt as
if the stopping of the clocks had stopped Time in that mysterious place, and,
while I and everything else outside it grew older, it stood still. Daylight
never entered the house as to my thoughts and remembrances of it, any
more than as to the actual fact. It bewildered me, and under its influence I
continued at heart to hate my trade and to be ashamed of home.
Imperceptibly I became conscious of a change in Biddy, however. Her
shoes came up at the heel, her hair grew bright and neat, her hands were
always clean. She was not beautiful,—she was common, and could not be
like Estella,—but she was pleasant and wholesome and sweet-tempered.
She had not been with us more than a year (I remember her being newly out
of mourning at the time it struck me), when I observed to myself one
evening that she had curiously thoughtful and attentive eyes; eyes that were
very pretty and very good.
It came of my lifting up my own eyes from a task I was poring at—
writing some passages from a book, to improve myself in two ways at once
by a sort of stratagem—and seeing Biddy observant of what I was about. I

laid down my pen, and Biddy stopped in her needlework without laying it
down.
“Biddy,” said I, “how do you manage it? Either I am very stupid, or you
are very clever.”
“What is it that I manage? I don’t know,” returned Biddy, smiling.
She managed our whole domestic life, and wonderfully too; but I did not
mean that, though that made what I did mean more surprising.
“How do you manage, Biddy,” said I, “to learn everything that I learn,
and always to keep up with me?” I was beginning to be rather vain of my
knowledge, for I spent my birthday guineas on it, and set aside the greater
part of my pocket-money for similar investment; though I have no doubt,
now, that the little I knew was extremely dear at the price.
“I might as well ask you,” said Biddy, “how you manage?”
“No; because when I come in from the forge of a night, any one can see
me turning to at it. But you never turn to at it, Biddy.”
“I suppose I must catch it like a cough,” said Biddy, quietly; and went on
with her sewing.
Pursuing my idea as I leaned back in my wooden chair, and looked at
Biddy sewing away with her head on one side, I began to think her rather an
extraordinary girl. For I called to mind now, that she was equally
accomplished in the terms of our trade, and the names of our different sorts
of work, and our various tools. In short, whatever I knew, Biddy knew.
Theoretically, she was already as good a blacksmith as I, or better.
“You are one of those, Biddy,” said I, “who make the most of every
chance. You never had a chance before you came here, and see how
improved you are!”
Biddy looked at me for an instant, and went on with her sewing. “I was
your first teacher though; wasn’t I?” said she, as she sewed.
“Biddy!” I exclaimed, in amazement. “Why, you are crying!”
“No I am not,” said Biddy, looking up and laughing. “What put that in
your head?”
What could have put it in my head but the glistening of a tear as it
dropped on her work? I sat silent, recalling what a drudge she had been
until Mr. Wopsle’s great-aunt successfully overcame that bad habit of

living, so highly desirable to be got rid of by some people. I recalled the
hopeless circumstances by which she had been surrounded in the miserable
little shop and the miserable little noisy evening school, with that miserable
old bundle of incompetence always to be dragged and shouldered. I
reflected that even in those untoward times there must have been latent in
Biddy what was now developing, for, in my first uneasiness and discontent
I had turned to her for help, as a matter of course. Biddy sat quietly sewing,
shedding no more tears, and while I looked at her and thought about it all, it
occurred to me that perhaps I had not been sufficiently grateful to Biddy. I
might have been too reserved, and should have patronised her more (though
I did not use that precise word in my meditations) with my confidence.
“Yes, Biddy,” I observed, when I had done turning it over, “you were my
first teacher, and that at a time when we little thought of ever being together
like this, in this kitchen.”
“Ah, poor thing!” replied Biddy. It was like her self-forgetfulness to
transfer the remark to my sister, and to get up and be busy about her,
making her more comfortable; “that’s sadly true!”
“Well!” said I, “we must talk together a little more, as we used to do. And
I must consult you a little more, as I used to do. Let us have a quiet walk on
the marshes next Sunday, Biddy, and a long chat.”
My sister was never left alone now; but Joe more than readily undertook
the care of her on that Sunday afternoon, and Biddy and I went out together.
It was summer-time, and lovely weather. When we had passed the village
and the church and the churchyard, and were out on the marshes and began
to see the sails of the ships as they sailed on, I began to combine Miss
Havisham and Estella with the prospect, in my usual way. When we came
to the river-side and sat down on the bank, with the water rippling at our
feet, making it all more quiet than it would have been without that sound, I
resolved that it was a good time and place for the admission of Biddy into
my inner confidence.
“Biddy,” said I, after binding her to secrecy, “I want to be a gentleman.”
“O, I wouldn’t, if I was you!” she returned. “I don’t think it would
answer.”
“Biddy,” said I, with some severity, “I have particular reasons for
wanting to be a gentleman.”

“You know best, Pip; but don’t you think you are happier as you are?”
“Biddy,” I exclaimed, impatiently, “I am not at all happy as I am. I am
disgusted with my calling and with my life. I have never taken to either,
since I was bound. Don’t be absurd.”
“Was I absurd?” said Biddy, quietly raising her eyebrows; “I am sorry for
that; I didn’t mean to be. I only want you to do well, and to be
comfortable.”
“Well, then, understand once for all that I never shall or can be
comfortable—or anything but miserable—there, Biddy!—unless I can lead
a very different sort of life from the life I lead now.”
“That’s a pity!” said Biddy, shaking her head with a sorrowful air.
Now, I too had so often thought it a pity, that, in the singular kind of
quarrel with myself which I was always carrying on, I was half inclined to
shed tears of vexation and distress when Biddy gave utterance to her
sentiment and my own. I told her she was right, and I knew it was much to
be regretted, but still it was not to be helped.
“If I could have settled down,” I said to Biddy, plucking up the short
grass within reach, much as I had once upon a time pulled my feelings out
of my hair and kicked them into the brewery wall,—“if I could have settled
down and been but half as fond of the forge as I was when I was little, I
know it would have been much better for me. You and I and Joe would have
wanted nothing then, and Joe and I would perhaps have gone partners when
I was out of my time, and I might even have grown up to keep company
with you, and we might have sat on this very bank on a fine Sunday, quite
different people. I should have been good enough for you; shouldn’t I,
Biddy?”
Biddy sighed as she looked at the ships sailing on, and returned for
answer, “Yes; I am not over-particular.” It scarcely sounded flattering, but I
knew she meant well.
“Instead of that,” said I, plucking up more grass and chewing a blade or
two, “see how I am going on. Dissatisfied, and uncomfortable, and—what
would it signify to me, being coarse and common, if nobody had told me
so!”
Biddy turned her face suddenly towards mine, and looked far more
attentively at me than she had looked at the sailing ships.

“It was neither a very true nor a very polite thing to say,” she remarked,
directing her eyes to the ships again. “Who said it?”
I was disconcerted, for I had broken away without quite seeing where I
was going to. It was not to be shuffled off now, however, and I answered,
“The beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham’s, and she’s more beautiful
than anybody ever was, and I admire her dreadfully, and I want to be a
gentleman on her account.” Having made this lunatic confession, I began to
throw my torn-up grass into the river, as if I had some thoughts of following
it.
“Do you want to be a gentleman, to spite her or to gain her over?” Biddy
quietly asked me, after a pause.
“I don’t know,” I moodily answered.
“Because, if it is to spite her,” Biddy pursued, “I should think—but you
know best—that might be better and more independently done by caring
nothing for her words. And if it is to gain her over, I should think—but you
know best—she was not worth gaining over.”
Exactly what I myself had thought, many times. Exactly what was
perfectly manifest to me at the moment. But how could I, a poor dazed
village lad, avoid that wonderful inconsistency into which the best and
wisest of men fall every day?
“It may be all quite true,” said I to Biddy, “but I admire her dreadfully.”
In short, I turned over on my face when I came to that, and got a good
grasp on the hair on each side of my head, and wrenched it well. All the
while knowing the madness of my heart to be so very mad and misplaced,
that I was quite conscious it would have served my face right, if I had lifted
it up by my hair, and knocked it against the pebbles as a punishment for
belonging to such an idiot.
Biddy was the wisest of girls, and she tried to reason no more with me.
She put her hand, which was a comfortable hand though roughened by
work, upon my hands, one after another, and gently took them out of my
hair. Then she softly patted my shoulder in a soothing way, while with my
face upon my sleeve I cried a little,—exactly as I had done in the brewery
yard,—and felt vaguely convinced that I was very much ill-used by
somebody, or by everybody; I can’t say which.

“I am glad of one thing,” said Biddy, “and that is, that you have felt you
could give me your confidence, Pip. And I am glad of another thing, and
that is, that of course you know you may depend upon my keeping it and
always so far deserving it. If your first teacher (dear! such a poor one, and
so much in need of being taught herself!) had been your teacher at the
present time, she thinks she knows what lesson she would set. But it would
be a hard one to learn, and you have got beyond her, and it’s of no use
now.” So, with a quiet sigh for me, Biddy rose from the bank, and said, with
a fresh and pleasant change of voice, “Shall we walk a little farther, or go
home?”
“Biddy,” I cried, getting up, putting my arm round her neck, and giving
her a kiss, “I shall always tell you everything.”
“Till you’re a gentleman,” said Biddy.
“You know I never shall be, so that’s always. Not that I have any
occasion to tell you anything, for you know everything I know,—as I told
you at home the other night.”
“Ah!” said Biddy, quite in a whisper, as she looked away at the ships.
And then repeated, with her former pleasant change, “shall we walk a little
farther, or go home?”
I said to Biddy we would walk a little farther, and we did so, and the
summer afternoon toned down into the summer evening, and it was very
beautiful. I began to consider whether I was not more naturally and
wholesomely situated, after all, in these circumstances, than playing beggar
my neighbour by candle-light in the room with the stopped clocks, and
being despised by Estella. I thought it would be very good for me if I could
get her out of my head, with all the rest of those remembrances and fancies,
and could go to work determined to relish what I had to do, and stick to it,
and make the best of it. I asked myself the question whether I did not surely
know that if Estella were beside me at that moment instead of Biddy, she
would make me miserable? I was obliged to admit that I did know it for a
certainty, and I said to myself, “Pip, what a fool you are!”
We talked a good deal as we walked, and all that Biddy said seemed
right. Biddy was never insulting, or capricious, or Biddy to-day and
somebody else to-morrow; she would have derived only pain, and no
pleasure, from giving me pain; she would far rather have wounded her own

breast than mine. How could it be, then, that I did not like her much the
better of the two?
“Biddy,” said I, when we were walking homeward, “I wish you could put
me right.”
“I wish I could!” said Biddy.
“If I could only get myself to fall in love with you,—you don’t mind my
speaking so openly to such an old acquaintance?”
“Oh dear, not at all!” said Biddy. “Don’t mind me.”
“If I could only get myself to do it, that would be the thing for me.”
“But you never will, you see,” said Biddy.
It did not appear quite so unlikely to me that evening, as it would have
done if we had discussed it a few hours before. I therefore observed I was
not quite sure of that. But Biddy said she was, and she said it decisively. In
my heart I believed her to be right; and yet I took it rather ill, too, that she
should be so positive on the point.
When we came near the churchyard, we had to cross an embankment,
and get over a stile near a sluice-gate. There started up, from the gate, or
from the rushes, or from the ooze (which was quite in his stagnant way),
Old Orlick.
“Halloa!” he growled, “where are you two going?”
“Where should we be going, but home?”
“Well, then,” said he, “I’m jiggered if I don’t see you home!”
This penalty of being jiggered was a favourite supposititious case of his.
He attached no definite meaning to the word that I am aware of, but used it,
like his own pretended Christian name, to affront mankind, and convey an
idea of something savagely damaging. When I was younger, I had had a
general belief that if he had jiggered me personally, he would have done it
with a sharp and twisted hook.
Biddy was much against his going with us, and said to me in a whisper,
“Don’t let him come; I don’t like him.” As I did not like him either, I took
the liberty of saying that we thanked him, but we didn’t want seeing home.
He received that piece of information with a yell of laughter, and dropped
back, but came slouching after us at a little distance.

Curious to know whether Biddy suspected him of having had a hand in
that murderous attack of which my sister had never been able to give any
account, I asked her why she did not like him.
“Oh!” she replied, glancing over her shoulder as he slouched after us,
“because I—I am afraid he likes me.”
“Did he ever tell you he liked you?” I asked indignantly.
“No,” said Biddy, glancing over her shoulder again, “he never told me so;
but he dances at me, whenever he can catch my eye.”
However novel and peculiar this testimony of attachment, I did not doubt
the accuracy of the interpretation. I was very hot indeed upon Old Orlick’s
daring to admire her; as hot as if it were an outrage on myself.
“But it makes no difference to you, you know,” said Biddy, calmly.
“No, Biddy, it makes no difference to me; only I don’t like it; I don’t
approve of it.”
“Nor I neither,” said Biddy. “Though that makes no difference to you.”
“Exactly,” said I; “but I must tell you I should have no opinion of you,
Biddy, if he danced at you with your own consent.”
I kept an eye on Orlick after that night, and, whenever circumstances
were favourable to his dancing at Biddy, got before him to obscure that
demonstration. He had struck root in Joe’s establishment, by reason of my
sister’s sudden fancy for him, or I should have tried to get him dismissed.
He quite understood and reciprocated my good intentions, as I had reason to
know thereafter.
And now, because my mind was not confused enough before, I
complicated its confusion fifty thousand-fold, by having states and seasons
when I was clear that Biddy was immeasurably better than Estella, and that
the plain honest working life to which I was born had nothing in it to be
ashamed of, but offered me sufficient means of self-respect and happiness.
At those times, I would decide conclusively that my disaffection to dear old
Joe and the forge was gone, and that I was growing up in a fair way to be
partners with Joe and to keep company with Biddy,—when all in a moment
some confounding remembrance of the Havisham days would fall upon me
like a destructive missile, and scatter my wits again. Scattered wits take a
long time picking up; and often before I had got them well together, they

would be dispersed in all directions by one stray thought, that perhaps after
all Miss Havisham was going to make my fortune when my time was out.
If my time had run out, it would have left me still at the height of my
perplexities, I dare say. It never did run out, however, but was brought to a
premature end, as I proceed to relate.

Chapter XVIII.

I
t was in the fourth year of my apprenticeship to Joe, and it was a
Saturday night. There was a group assembled round the fire at the
Three Jolly Bargemen, attentive to Mr. Wopsle as he read the
newspaper aloud. Of that group I was one.
A highly popular murder had been committed, and Mr. Wopsle was
imbrued in blood to the eyebrows. He gloated over every abhorrent
adjective in the description, and identified himself with every witness at the
Inquest. He faintly moaned, “I am done for,” as the victim, and he
barbarously bellowed, “I’ll serve you out,” as the murderer. He gave the
medical testimony, in pointed imitation of our local practitioner; and he
piped and shook, as the aged turnpike-keeper who had heard blows, to an
extent so very paralytic as to suggest a doubt regarding the mental
competency of that witness. The coroner, in Mr. Wopsle’s hands, became
Timon of Athens; the beadle, Coriolanus. He enjoyed himself thoroughly,
and we all enjoyed ourselves, and were delightfully comfortable. In this
cosey state of mind we came to the verdict Wilful Murder.
Then, and not sooner, I became aware of a strange gentleman leaning
over the back of the settle opposite me, looking on. There was an
expression of contempt on his face, and he bit the side of a great forefinger
as he watched the group of faces.
“Well!” said the stranger to Mr. Wopsle, when the reading was done,
“you have settled it all to your own satisfaction, I have no doubt?”
Everybody started and looked up, as if it were the murderer. He looked at
everybody coldly and sarcastically.
“Guilty, of course?” said he. “Out with it. Come!”
“Sir,” returned Mr. Wopsle, “without having the honour of your
acquaintance, I do say Guilty.” Upon this we all took courage to unite in a
confirmatory murmur.

“I know you do,” said the stranger; “I knew you would. I told you so. But
now I’ll ask you a question. Do you know, or do you not know, that the law
of England supposes every man to be innocent, until he is proved—proved
—to be guilty?”
“Sir,” Mr. Wopsle began to reply, “as an Englishman myself, I—”
“Come!” said the stranger, biting his forefinger at him. “Don’t evade the
question. Either you know it, or you don’t know it. Which is it to be?”
He stood with his head on one side and himself on one side, in a bullying,
interrogative manner, and he threw his forefinger at Mr. Wopsle,—as it
were to mark him out—before biting it again.
“Now!” said he. “Do you know it, or don’t you know it?”
“Certainly I know it,” replied Mr. Wopsle.
“Certainly you know it. Then why didn’t you say so at first? Now, I’ll ask
you another question,”—taking possession of Mr. Wopsle, as if he had a
right to him,—“do you know that none of these witnesses have yet been
cross-examined?”
Mr. Wopsle was beginning, “I can only say—” when the stranger stopped
him.
“What? You won’t answer the question, yes or no? Now, I’ll try you
again.” Throwing his finger at him again. “Attend to me. Are you aware, or
are you not aware, that none of these witnesses have yet been cross-
examined? Come, I only want one word from you. Yes, or no?”
Mr. Wopsle hesitated, and we all began to conceive rather a poor opinion
of him.
“Come!” said the stranger, “I’ll help you. You don’t deserve help, but I’ll
help you. Look at that paper you hold in your hand. What is it?”
“What is it?” repeated Mr. Wopsle, eyeing it, much at a loss.
“Is it,” pursued the stranger in his most sarcastic and suspicious manner,
“the printed paper you have just been reading from?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Undoubtedly. Now, turn to that paper, and tell me whether it distinctly
states that the prisoner expressly said that his legal advisers instructed him
altogether to reserve his defence?”
“I read that just now,” Mr. Wopsle pleaded.

“Never mind what you read just now, sir; I don’t ask you what you read
just now. You may read the Lord’s Prayer backwards, if you like,—and,
perhaps, have done it before to-day. Turn to the paper. No, no, no my friend;
not to the top of the column; you know better than that; to the bottom, to the
bottom.” (We all began to think Mr. Wopsle full of subterfuge.) “Well?
Have you found it?”
“Here it is,” said Mr. Wopsle.
“Now, follow that passage with your eye, and tell me whether it distinctly
states that the prisoner expressly said that he was instructed by his legal
advisers wholly to reserve his defence? Come! Do you make that of it?”
Mr. Wopsle answered, “Those are not the exact words.”
“Not the exact words!” repeated the gentleman bitterly. “Is that the exact
substance?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Wopsle.
“Yes,” repeated the stranger, looking round at the rest of the company
with his right hand extended towards the witness, Wopsle. “And now I ask
you what you say to the conscience of that man who, with that passage
before his eyes, can lay his head upon his pillow after having pronounced a
fellow-creature guilty, unheard?”
We all began to suspect that Mr. Wopsle was not the man we had thought
him, and that he was beginning to be found out.
“And that same man, remember,” pursued the gentleman, throwing his
finger at Mr. Wopsle heavily,—“that same man might be summoned as a
juryman upon this very trial, and, having thus deeply committed himself,
might return to the bosom of his family and lay his head upon his pillow,
after deliberately swearing that he would well and truly try the issue joined
between Our Sovereign Lord the King and the prisoner at the bar, and
would a true verdict give according to the evidence, so help him God!”
We were all deeply persuaded that the unfortunate Wopsle had gone too
far, and had better stop in his reckless career while there was yet time.
The strange gentleman, with an air of authority not to be disputed, and
with a manner expressive of knowing something secret about every one of
us that would effectually do for each individual if he chose to disclose it,
left the back of the settle, and came into the space between the two settles,

in front of the fire, where he remained standing, his left hand in his pocket,
and he biting the forefinger of his right.
“From information I have received,” said he, looking round at us as we
all quailed before him, “I have reason to believe there is a blacksmith
among you, by name Joseph—or Joe—Gargery. Which is the man?”
“Here is the man,” said Joe.
The strange gentleman beckoned him out of his place, and Joe went.
“You have an apprentice,” pursued the stranger, “commonly known as
Pip? Is he here?”
“I am here!” I cried.
The stranger did not recognise me, but I recognised him as the gentleman
I had met on the stairs, on the occasion of my second visit to Miss
Havisham. I had known him the moment I saw him looking over the settle,
and now that I stood confronting him with his hand upon my shoulder, I
checked off again in detail his large head, his dark complexion, his deep-set
eyes, his bushy black eyebrows, his large watch-chain, his strong black dots
of beard and whisker, and even the smell of scented soap on his great hand.
“I wish to have a private conference with you two,” said he, when he had
surveyed me at his leisure. “It will take a little time. Perhaps we had better
go to your place of residence. I prefer not to anticipate my communication
here; you will impart as much or as little of it as you please to your friends
afterwards; I have nothing to do with that.”
Amidst a wondering silence, we three walked out of the Jolly Bargemen,
and in a wondering silence walked home. While going along, the strange
gentleman occasionally looked at me, and occasionally bit the side of his
finger. As we neared home, Joe vaguely acknowledging the occasion as an
impressive and ceremonious one, went on ahead to open the front door. Our
conference was held in the state parlour, which was feebly lighted by one
candle.
It began with the strange gentleman’s sitting down at the table, drawing
the candle to him, and looking over some entries in his pocket-book. He
then put up the pocket-book and set the candle a little aside, after peering
round it into the darkness at Joe and me, to ascertain which was which.
“My name,” he said, “is Jaggers, and I am a lawyer in London. I am
pretty well known. I have unusual business to transact with you, and I

commence by explaining that it is not of my originating. If my advice had
been asked, I should not have been here. It was not asked, and you see me
here. What I have to do as the confidential agent of another, I do. No less,
no more.”
Finding that he could not see us very well from where he sat, he got up,
and threw one leg over the back of a chair and leaned upon it; thus having
one foot on the seat of the chair, and one foot on the ground.
“Now, Joseph Gargery, I am the bearer of an offer to relieve you of this
young fellow your apprentice. You would not object to cancel his indentures
at his request and for his good? You would want nothing for so doing?”
“Lord forbid that I should want anything for not standing in Pip’s way,”
said Joe, staring.
“Lord forbidding is pious, but not to the purpose,” returned Mr. Jaggers.
“The question is, Would you want anything? Do you want anything?”
“The answer is,” returned Joe, sternly, “No.”
I thought Mr. Jaggers glanced at Joe, as if he considered him a fool for
his disinterestedness. But I was too much bewildered between breathless
curiosity and surprise, to be sure of it.
“Very well,” said Mr. Jaggers. “Recollect the admission you have made,
and don’t try to go from it presently.”
“Who’s a-going to try?” retorted Joe.
“I don’t say anybody is. Do you keep a dog?”
“Yes, I do keep a dog.”
“Bear in mind then, that Brag is a good dog, but Holdfast is a better. Bear
that in mind, will you?” repeated Mr. Jaggers, shutting his eyes and nodding
his head at Joe, as if he were forgiving him something. “Now, I return to
this young fellow. And the communication I have got to make is, that he has
great expectations.”
Joe and I gasped, and looked at one another.
“I am instructed to communicate to him,” said Mr. Jaggers, throwing his
finger at me sideways, “that he will come into a handsome property.
Further, that it is the desire of the present possessor of that property, that he
be immediately removed from his present sphere of life and from this place,

and be brought up as a gentleman,—in a word, as a young fellow of great
expectations.”
My dream was out; my wild fancy was surpassed by sober reality; Miss
Havisham was going to make my fortune on a grand scale.
“Now, Mr. Pip,” pursued the lawyer, “I address the rest of what I have to
say, to you. You are to understand, first, that it is the request of the person
from whom I take my instructions that you always bear the name of Pip.
You will have no objection, I dare say, to your great expectations being
encumbered with that easy condition. But if you have any objection, this is
the time to mention it.”
My heart was beating so fast, and there was such a singing in my ears,
that I could scarcely stammer I had no objection.
“I should think not! Now you are to understand, secondly, Mr. Pip, that
the name of the person who is your liberal benefactor remains a profound
secret, until the person chooses to reveal it. I am empowered to mention that
it is the intention of the person to reveal it at first hand by word of mouth to
yourself. When or where that intention may be carried out, I cannot say; no
one can say. It may be years hence. Now, you are distinctly to understand
that you are most positively prohibited from making any inquiry on this
head, or any allusion or reference, however distant, to any individual
whomsoever as the individual, in all the communications you may have
with me. If you have a suspicion in your own breast, keep that suspicion in
your own breast. It is not the least to the purpose what the reasons of this
prohibition are; they may be the strongest and gravest reasons, or they may
be mere whim. This is not for you to inquire into. The condition is laid
down. Your acceptance of it, and your observance of it as binding, is the
only remaining condition that I am charged with, by the person from whom
I take my instructions, and for whom I am not otherwise responsible. That
person is the person from whom you derive your expectations, and the
secret is solely held by that person and by me. Again, not a very difficult
condition with which to encumber such a rise in fortune; but if you have
any objection to it, this is the time to mention it. Speak out.”
Once more, I stammered with difficulty that I had no objection.
“I should think not! Now, Mr. Pip, I have done with stipulations.”
Though he called me Mr. Pip, and began rather to make up to me, he still
could not get rid of a certain air of bullying suspicion; and even now he

occasionally shut his eyes and threw his finger at me while he spoke, as
much as to express that he knew all kinds of things to my disparagement, if
he only chose to mention them. “We come next, to mere details of
arrangement. You must know that, although I have used the term
‘expectations’ more than once, you are not endowed with expectations only.
There is already lodged in my hands a sum of money amply sufficient for
your suitable education and maintenance. You will please consider me your
guardian. Oh!” for I was going to thank him, “I tell you at once, I am paid
for my services, or I shouldn’t render them. It is considered that you must
be better educated, in accordance with your altered position, and that you
will be alive to the importance and necessity of at once entering on that
advantage.”
I said I had always longed for it.
“Never mind what you have always longed for, Mr. Pip,” he retorted;
“keep to the record. If you long for it now, that’s enough. Am I answered
that you are ready to be placed at once under some proper tutor? Is that it?”
I stammered yes, that was it.
“Good. Now, your inclinations are to be consulted. I don’t think that
wise, mind, but it’s my trust. Have you ever heard of any tutor whom you
would prefer to another?”
I had never heard of any tutor but Biddy and Mr. Wopsle’s great-aunt; so,
I replied in the negative.
“There is a certain tutor, of whom I have some knowledge, who I think
might suit the purpose,” said Mr. Jaggers. “I don’t recommend him,
observe; because I never recommend anybody. The gentleman I speak of is
one Mr. Matthew Pocket.”
Ah! I caught at the name directly. Miss Havisham’s relation. The
Matthew whom Mr. and Mrs. Camilla had spoken of. The Matthew whose
place was to be at Miss Havisham’s head, when she lay dead, in her bride’s
dress on the bride’s table.
“You know the name?” said Mr. Jaggers, looking shrewdly at me, and
then shutting up his eyes while he waited for my answer.
My answer was, that I had heard of the name.
“Oh!” said he. “You have heard of the name. But the question is, what do
you say of it?”

I said, or tried to say, that I was much obliged to him for his
recommendation—
“No, my young friend!” he interrupted, shaking his great head very
slowly. “Recollect yourself!”
Not recollecting myself, I began again that I was much obliged to him for
his recommendation—
“No, my young friend,” he interrupted, shaking his head and frowning
and smiling both at once,—“no, no, no; it’s very well done, but it won’t do;
you are too young to fix me with it. Recommendation is not the word, Mr.
Pip. Try another.”
Correcting myself, I said that I was much obliged to him for his mention
of Mr. Matthew Pocket—
“That’s more like it!” cried Mr. Jaggers.—And (I added), I would gladly
try that gentleman.
“Good. You had better try him in his own house. The way shall be
prepared for you, and you can see his son first, who is in London. When
will you come to London?”
I said (glancing at Joe, who stood looking on, motionless), that I
supposed I could come directly.
“First,” said Mr. Jaggers, “you should have some new clothes to come in,
and they should not be working-clothes. Say this day week. You’ll want
some money. Shall I leave you twenty guineas?”
He produced a long purse, with the greatest coolness, and counted them
out on the table and pushed them over to me. This was the first time he had
taken his leg from the chair. He sat astride of the chair when he had pushed
the money over, and sat swinging his purse and eyeing Joe.
“Well, Joseph Gargery? You look dumbfoundered?”
“I am!” said Joe, in a very decided manner.
“It was understood that you wanted nothing for yourself, remember?”
“It were understood,” said Joe. “And it are understood. And it ever will
be similar according.”
“But what,” said Mr. Jaggers, swinging his purse,—“what if it was in my
instructions to make you a present, as compensation?”
“As compensation what for?” Joe demanded.

“For the loss of his services.”
Joe laid his hand upon my shoulder with the touch of a woman. I have
often thought him since, like the steam-hammer that can crush a man or pat
an egg-shell, in his combination of strength with gentleness. “Pip is that
hearty welcome,” said Joe, “to go free with his services, to honour and
fortun’, as no words can tell him. But if you think as Money can make
compensation to me for the loss of the little child—what come to the forge
—and ever the best of friends!—”
O dear good Joe, whom I was so ready to leave and so unthankful to, I
see you again, with your muscular blacksmith’s arm before your eyes, and
your broad chest heaving, and your voice dying away. O dear good faithful
tender Joe, I feel the loving tremble of your hand upon my arm, as solemnly
this day as if it had been the rustle of an angel’s wing!
But I encouraged Joe at the time. I was lost in the mazes of my future
fortunes, and could not retrace the by-paths we had trodden together. I
begged Joe to be comforted, for (as he said) we had ever been the best of
friends, and (as I said) we ever would be so. Joe scooped his eyes with his
disengaged wrist, as if he were bent on gouging himself, but said not
another word.
Mr. Jaggers had looked on at this, as one who recognised in Joe the
village idiot, and in me his keeper. When it was over, he said, weighing in
his hand the purse he had ceased to swing:—
“Now, Joseph Gargery, I warn you this is your last chance. No half
measures with me. If you mean to take a present that I have it in charge to
make you, speak out, and you shall have it. If on the contrary you mean to
say—” Here, to his great amazement, he was stopped by Joe’s suddenly
working round him with every demonstration of a fell pugilistic purpose.
“Which I meantersay,” cried Joe, “that if you come into my place bull-
baiting and badgering me, come out! Which I meantersay as sech if you’re a
man, come on! Which I meantersay that what I say, I meantersay and stand
or fall by!”
I drew Joe away, and he immediately became placable; merely stating to
me, in an obliging manner and as a polite expostulatory notice to any one
whom it might happen to concern, that he were not a-going to be bull-baited
and badgered in his own place. Mr. Jaggers had risen when Joe
demonstrated, and had backed near the door. Without evincing any

inclination to come in again, he there delivered his valedictory remarks.
They were these.
“Well, Mr. Pip, I think the sooner you leave here—as you are to be a
gentleman—the better. Let it stand for this day week, and you shall receive
my printed address in the meantime. You can take a hackney-coach at the
stage-coach office in London, and come straight to me. Understand, that I
express no opinion, one way or other, on the trust I undertake. I am paid for
undertaking it, and I do so. Now, understand that, finally. Understand that!”
He was throwing his finger at both of us, and I think would have gone on,
but for his seeming to think Joe dangerous, and going off.
Something came into my head which induced me to run after him, as he
was going down to the Jolly Bargemen, where he had left a hired carriage.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Jaggers.”
“Halloa!” said he, facing round, “what’s the matter?”
“I wish to be quite right, Mr. Jaggers, and to keep to your directions; so I
thought I had better ask. Would there be any objection to my taking leave of
any one I know, about here, before I go away?”
“No,” said he, looking as if he hardly understood me.
“I don’t mean in the village only, but up town?”
“No,” said he. “No objection.”
I thanked him and ran home again, and there I found that Joe had already
locked the front door and vacated the state parlour, and was seated by the
kitchen fire with a hand on each knee, gazing intently at the burning coals. I
too sat down before the fire and gazed at the coals, and nothing was said for
a long time.
My sister was in her cushioned chair in her corner, and Biddy sat at her
needle-work before the fire, and Joe sat next Biddy, and I sat next Joe in the
corner opposite my sister. The more I looked into the glowing coals, the
more incapable I became of looking at Joe; the longer the silence lasted, the
more unable I felt to speak.
At length I got out, “Joe, have you told Biddy?”
“No, Pip,” returned Joe, still looking at the fire, and holding his knees
tight, as if he had private information that they intended to make off
somewhere, “which I left it to yourself, Pip.”

“I would rather you told, Joe.”
“Pip’s a gentleman of fortun’ then,” said Joe, “and God bless him in it!”
Biddy dropped her work, and looked at me. Joe held his knees and
looked at me. I looked at both of them. After a pause, they both heartily
congratulated me; but there was a certain touch of sadness in their
congratulations that I rather resented.
I took it upon myself to impress Biddy (and through Biddy, Joe) with the
grave obligation I considered my friends under, to know nothing and say
nothing about the maker of my fortune. It would all come out in good time,
I observed, and in the meanwhile nothing was to be said, save that I had
come into great expectations from a mysterious patron. Biddy nodded her
head thoughtfully at the fire as she took up her work again, and said she
would be very particular; and Joe, still detaining his knees, said, “Ay, ay, I’ll
be ekervally partickler, Pip;” and then they congratulated me again, and
went on to express so much wonder at the notion of my being a gentleman
that I didn’t half like it.
Infinite pains were then taken by Biddy to convey to my sister some idea
of what had happened. To the best of my belief, those efforts entirely failed.
She laughed and nodded her head a great many times, and even repeated
after Biddy, the words “Pip” and “Property.” But I doubt if they had more
meaning in them than an election cry, and I cannot suggest a darker picture
of her state of mind.
I never could have believed it without experience, but as Joe and Biddy
became more at their cheerful ease again, I became quite gloomy.
Dissatisfied with my fortune, of course I could not be; but it is possible that
I may have been, without quite knowing it, dissatisfied with myself.
Anyhow, I sat with my elbow on my knee and my face upon my hand,
looking into the fire, as those two talked about my going away, and about
what they should do without me, and all that. And whenever I caught one of
them looking at me, though never so pleasantly (and they often looked at
me,—particularly Biddy), I felt offended: as if they were expressing some
mistrust of me. Though Heaven knows they never did by word or sign.
At those times I would get up and look out at the door; for our kitchen
door opened at once upon the night, and stood open on summer evenings to
air the room. The very stars to which I then raised my eyes, I am afraid I

took to be but poor and humble stars for glittering on the rustic objects
among which I had passed my life.
“Saturday night,” said I, when we sat at our supper of bread and cheese
and beer. “Five more days, and then the day before the day! They’ll soon
go.”
“Yes, Pip,” observed Joe, whose voice sounded hollow in his beer-mug.
“They’ll soon go.”
“Soon, soon go,” said Biddy.
“I have been thinking, Joe, that when I go down town on Monday, and
order my new clothes, I shall tell the tailor that I’ll come and put them on
there, or that I’ll have them sent to Mr. Pumblechook’s. It would be very
disagreeable to be stared at by all the people here.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Hubble might like to see you in your new gen-teel figure
too, Pip,” said Joe, industriously cutting his bread, with his cheese on it, in
the palm of his left hand, and glancing at my untasted supper as if he
thought of the time when we used to compare slices. “So might Wopsle.
And the Jolly Bargemen might take it as a compliment.”
“That’s just what I don’t want, Joe. They would make such a business of
it,—such a coarse and common business,—that I couldn’t bear myself.”
“Ah, that indeed, Pip!” said Joe. “If you couldn’t abear yourself—”
Biddy asked me here, as she sat holding my sister’s plate, “Have you
thought about when you’ll show yourself to Mr. Gargery, and your sister
and me? You will show yourself to us; won’t you?”
“Biddy,” I returned with some resentment, “you are so exceedingly quick
that it’s difficult to keep up with you.”
(“She always were quick,” observed Joe.)
“If you had waited another moment, Biddy, you would have heard me
say that I shall bring my clothes here in a bundle one evening,—most likely
on the evening before I go away.”
Biddy said no more. Handsomely forgiving her, I soon exchanged an
affectionate good night with her and Joe, and went up to bed. When I got
into my little room, I sat down and took a long look at it, as a mean little
room that I should soon be parted from and raised above, for ever. It was
furnished with fresh young remembrances too, and even at the same

moment I fell into much the same confused division of mind between it and
the better rooms to which I was going, as I had been in so often between the
forge and Miss Havisham’s, and Biddy and Estella.
The sun had been shining brightly all day on the roof of my attic, and the
room was warm. As I put the window open and stood looking out, I saw Joe
come slowly forth at the dark door, below, and take a turn or two in the air;
and then I saw Biddy come, and bring him a pipe and light it for him. He
never smoked so late, and it seemed to hint to me that he wanted
comforting, for some reason or other.
He presently stood at the door immediately beneath me, smoking his
pipe, and Biddy stood there too, quietly talking to him, and I knew that they
talked of me, for I heard my name mentioned in an endearing tone by both
of them more than once. I would not have listened for more, if I could have
heard more; so I drew away from the window, and sat down in my one chair
by the bedside, feeling it very sorrowful and strange that this first night of
my bright fortunes should be the loneliest I had ever known.
Looking towards the open window, I saw light wreaths from Joe’s pipe
floating there, and I fancied it was like a blessing from Joe,—not obtruded
on me or paraded before me, but pervading the air we shared together. I put
my light out, and crept into bed; and it was an uneasy bed now, and I never
slept the old sound sleep in it any more.

Chapter XIX.

M
orning made a considerable difference in my general prospect of
Life, and brightened it so much that it scarcely seemed the same.
What lay heaviest on my mind was, the consideration that six
days intervened between me and the day of departure; for I could not divest
myself of a misgiving that something might happen to London in the
meanwhile, and that, when I got there, it would be either greatly
deteriorated or clean gone.
Joe and Biddy were very sympathetic and pleasant when I spoke of our
approaching separation; but they only referred to it when I did. After
breakfast, Joe brought out my indentures from the press in the best parlour,
and we put them in the fire, and I felt that I was free. With all the novelty of
my emancipation on me, I went to church with Joe, and thought perhaps the
clergyman wouldn’t have read that about the rich man and the kingdom of
Heaven, if he had known all.
After our early dinner, I strolled out alone, purposing to finish off the
marshes at once, and get them done with. As I passed the church, I felt (as I
had felt during service in the morning) a sublime compassion for the poor
creatures who were destined to go there, Sunday after Sunday, all their lives
through, and to lie obscurely at last among the low green mounds. I
promised myself that I would do something for them one of these days, and
formed a plan in outline for bestowing a dinner of roast-beef and plum-
pudding, a pint of ale, and a gallon of condescension, upon everybody in
the village.
If I had often thought before, with something allied to shame, of my
companionship with the fugitive whom I had once seen limping among
those graves, what were my thoughts on this Sunday, when the place
recalled the wretch, ragged and shivering, with his felon iron and badge!
My comfort was, that it happened a long time ago, and that he had

doubtless been transported a long way off, and that he was dead to me, and
might be veritably dead into the bargain.
No more low, wet grounds, no more dikes and sluices, no more of these
grazing cattle,—though they seemed, in their dull manner, to wear a more
respectful air now, and to face round, in order that they might stare as long
as possible at the possessor of such great expectations,—farewell,
monotonous acquaintances of my childhood, henceforth I was for London
and greatness; not for smith’s work in general, and for you! I made my
exultant way to the old Battery, and, lying down there to consider the
question whether Miss Havisham intended me for Estella, fell asleep.
When I awoke, I was much surprised to find Joe sitting beside me,
smoking his pipe. He greeted me with a cheerful smile on my opening my
eyes, and said,—
“As being the last time, Pip, I thought I’d foller.”
“And Joe, I am very glad you did so.”
“Thankee, Pip.”
“You may be sure, dear Joe,” I went on, after we had shaken hands, “that
I shall never forget you.”
“No, no, Pip!” said Joe, in a comfortable tone, “I’m sure of that. Ay, ay,
old chap! Bless you, it were only necessary to get it well round in a man’s
mind, to be certain on it. But it took a bit of time to get it well round, the
change come so oncommon plump; didn’t it?”
Somehow, I was not best pleased with Joe’s being so mightily secure of
me. I should have liked him to have betrayed emotion, or to have said, “It
does you credit, Pip,” or something of that sort. Therefore, I made no
remark on Joe’s first head; merely saying as to his second, that the tidings
had indeed come suddenly, but that I had always wanted to be a gentleman,
and had often and often speculated on what I would do, if I were one.
“Have you though?” said Joe. “Astonishing!”
“It’s a pity now, Joe,” said I, “that you did not get on a little more, when
we had our lessons here; isn’t it?”
“Well, I don’t know,” returned Joe. “I’m so awful dull. I’m only master
of my own trade. It were always a pity as I was so awful dull; but it’s no
more of a pity now, than it was—this day twelvemonth—don’t you see?”

What I had meant was, that when I came into my property and was able
to do something for Joe, it would have been much more agreeable if he had
been better qualified for a rise in station. He was so perfectly innocent of
my meaning, however, that I thought I would mention it to Biddy in
preference.
So, when we had walked home and had had tea, I took Biddy into our
little garden by the side of the lane, and, after throwing out in a general way
for the elevation of her spirits, that I should never forget her, said I had a
favour to ask of her.
“And it is, Biddy,” said I, “that you will not omit any opportunity of
helping Joe on, a little.”
“How helping him on?” asked Biddy, with a steady sort of glance.
“Well! Joe is a dear good fellow,—in fact, I think he is the dearest fellow
that ever lived,—but he is rather backward in some things. For instance,
Biddy, in his learning and his manners.”
Although I was looking at Biddy as I spoke, and although she opened her
eyes very wide when I had spoken, she did not look at me.
“O, his manners! won’t his manners do then?” asked Biddy, plucking a
black-currant leaf.
“My dear Biddy, they do very well here—”
“O! they do very well here?” interrupted Biddy, looking closely at the
leaf in her hand.
“Hear me out,—but if I were to remove Joe into a higher sphere, as I
shall hope to remove him when I fully come into my property, they would
hardly do him justice.”
“And don’t you think he knows that?” asked Biddy.
It was such a very provoking question (for it had never in the most
distant manner occurred to me), that I said, snappishly,—
“Biddy, what do you mean?”
Biddy, having rubbed the leaf to pieces between her hands,—and the
smell of a black-currant bush has ever since recalled to me that evening in
the little garden by the side of the lane,—said, “Have you never considered
that he may be proud?”
“Proud?” I repeated, with disdainful emphasis.

“O! there are many kinds of pride,” said Biddy, looking full at me and
shaking her head; “pride is not all of one kind—”
“Well? What are you stopping for?” said I.
“Not all of one kind,” resumed Biddy. “He may be too proud to let any
one take him out of a place that he is competent to fill, and fills well and
with respect. To tell you the truth, I think he is; though it sounds bold in me
to say so, for you must know him far better than I do.”
“Now, Biddy,” said I, “I am very sorry to see this in you. I did not expect
to see this in you. You are envious, Biddy, and grudging. You are
dissatisfied on account of my rise in fortune, and you can’t help showing
it.”
“If you have the heart to think so,” returned Biddy, “say so. Say so over
and over again, if you have the heart to think so.”
“If you have the heart to be so, you mean, Biddy,” said I, in a virtuous
and superior tone; “don’t put it off upon me. I am very sorry to see it, and
it’s a—it’s a bad side of human nature. I did intend to ask you to use any
little opportunities you might have after I was gone, of improving dear Joe.
But after this I ask you nothing. I am extremely sorry to see this in you,
Biddy,” I repeated. “It’s a—it’s a bad side of human nature.”
“Whether you scold me or approve of me,” returned poor Biddy, “you
may equally depend upon my trying to do all that lies in my power, here, at
all times. And whatever opinion you take away of me, shall make no
difference in my remembrance of you. Yet a gentleman should not be unjust
neither,” said Biddy, turning away her head.
I again warmly repeated that it was a bad side of human nature (in which
sentiment, waiving its application, I have since seen reason to think I was
right), and I walked down the little path away from Biddy, and Biddy went
into the house, and I went out at the garden gate and took a dejected stroll
until supper-time; again feeling it very sorrowful and strange that this, the
second night of my bright fortunes, should be as lonely and unsatisfactory
as the first.
But, morning once more brightened my view, and I extended my
clemency to Biddy, and we dropped the subject. Putting on the best clothes
I had, I went into town as early as I could hope to find the shops open, and
presented myself before Mr. Trabb, the tailor, who was having his breakfast

in the parlour behind his shop, and who did not think it worth his while to
come out to me, but called me in to him.
“Well!” said Mr. Trabb, in a hail-fellow-well-met kind of way. “How are
you, and what can I do for you?”
Mr. Trabb had sliced his hot roll into three feather-beds, and was slipping
butter in between the blankets, and covering it up. He was a prosperous old
bachelor, and his open window looked into a prosperous little garden and
orchard, and there was a prosperous iron safe let into the wall at the side of
his fireplace, and I did not doubt that heaps of his prosperity were put away
in it in bags.
“Mr. Trabb,” said I, “it’s an unpleasant thing to have to mention, because
it looks like boasting; but I have come into a handsome property.”
A change passed over Mr. Trabb. He forgot the butter in bed, got up from
the bedside, and wiped his fingers on the tablecloth, exclaiming, “Lord
bless my soul!”
“I am going up to my guardian in London,” said I, casually drawing some
guineas out of my pocket and looking at them; “and I want a fashionable
suit of clothes to go in. I wish to pay for them,” I added—otherwise I
thought he might only pretend to make them, “with ready money.”
“My dear sir,” said Mr. Trabb, as he respectfully bent his body, opened
his arms, and took the liberty of touching me on the outside of each elbow,
“don’t hurt me by mentioning that. May I venture to congratulate you?
Would you do me the favour of stepping into the shop?”
Mr. Trabb’s boy was the most audacious boy in all that country-side.
When I had entered he was sweeping the shop, and he had sweetened his
labours by sweeping over me. He was still sweeping when I came out into
the shop with Mr. Trabb, and he knocked the broom against all possible
corners and obstacles, to express (as I understood it) equality with any
blacksmith, alive or dead.
“Hold that noise,” said Mr. Trabb, with the greatest sternness, “or I’ll
knock your head off!—Do me the favour to be seated, sir. Now, this,” said
Mr. Trabb, taking down a roll of cloth, and tiding it out in a flowing manner
over the counter, preparatory to getting his hand under it to show the gloss,
“is a very sweet article. I can recommend it for your purpose, sir, because it
really is extra super. But you shall see some others. Give me Number Four,

you!” (To the boy, and with a dreadfully severe stare; foreseeing the danger
of that miscreant’s brushing me with it, or making some other sign of
familiarity.)
Mr. Trabb never removed his stern eye from the boy until he had
deposited number four on the counter and was at a safe distance again. Then
he commanded him to bring number five, and number eight. “And let me
have none of your tricks here,” said Mr. Trabb, “or you shall repent it, you
young scoundrel, the longest day you have to live.”
Mr. Trabb then bent over number four, and in a sort of deferential
confidence recommended it to me as a light article for summer wear, an
article much in vogue among the nobility and gentry, an article that it would
ever be an honour to him to reflect upon a distinguished fellow-townsman’s
(if he might claim me for a fellow-townsman) having worn. “Are you
bringing numbers five and eight, you vagabond,” said Mr. Trabb to the boy
after that, “or shall I kick you out of the shop and bring them myself?”
I selected the materials for a suit, with the assistance of Mr. Trabb’s
judgment, and re-entered the parlour to be measured. For although Mr.
Trabb had my measure already, and had previously been quite contented
with it, he said apologetically that it “wouldn’t do under existing
circumstances, sir,—wouldn’t do at all.” So, Mr. Trabb measured and
calculated me in the parlour, as if I were an estate and he the finest species
of surveyor, and gave himself such a world of trouble that I felt that no suit
of clothes could possibly remunerate him for his pains. When he had at last
done and had appointed to send the articles to Mr. Pumblechook’s on the
Thursday evening, he said, with his hand upon the parlour lock, “I know,
sir, that London gentlemen cannot be expected to patronise local work, as a
rule; but if you would give me a turn now and then in the quality of a
townsman, I should greatly esteem it. Good-morning, sir, much obliged.—
Door!”
The last word was flung at the boy, who had not the least notion what it
meant. But I saw him collapse as his master rubbed me out with his hands,
and my first decided experience of the stupendous power of money was,
that it had morally laid upon his back Trabb’s boy.
After this memorable event, I went to the hatter’s, and the bootmaker’s,
and the hosier’s, and felt rather like Mother Hubbard’s dog whose outfit
required the services of so many trades. I also went to the coach-office and

took my place for seven o’clock on Saturday morning. It was not necessary
to explain everywhere that I had come into a handsome property; but
whenever I said anything to that effect, it followed that the officiating
tradesman ceased to have his attention diverted through the window by the
High Street, and concentrated his mind upon me. When I had ordered
everything I wanted, I directed my steps towards Pumblechook’s, and, as I
approached that gentleman’s place of business, I saw him standing at his
door.
He was waiting for me with great impatience. He had been out early with
the chaise-cart, and had called at the forge and heard the news. He had
prepared a collation for me in the Barnwell parlour, and he too ordered his
shopman to “come out of the gangway” as my sacred person passed.
“My dear friend,” said Mr. Pumblechook, taking me by both hands, when
he and I and the collation were alone, “I give you joy of your good fortune.
Well deserved, well deserved!”
This was coming to the point, and I thought it a sensible way of
expressing himself.
“To think,” said Mr. Pumblechook, after snorting admiration at me for
some moments, “that I should have been the humble instrument of leading
up to this, is a proud reward.”
I begged Mr. Pumblechook to remember that nothing was to be ever said
or hinted, on that point.
“My dear young friend,” said Mr. Pumblechook; “if you will allow me to
call you so—”
I murmured “Certainly,” and Mr. Pumblechook took me by both hands
again, and communicated a movement to his waistcoat, which had an
emotional appearance, though it was rather low down, “My dear young
friend, rely upon my doing my little all in your absence, by keeping the fact
before the mind of Joseph.—Joseph!” said Mr. Pumblechook, in the way of
a compassionate adjuration. “Joseph!! Joseph!!!” Thereupon he shook his
head and tapped it, expressing his sense of deficiency in Joseph.
“But my dear young friend,” said Mr. Pumblechook, “you must be
hungry, you must be exhausted. Be seated. Here is a chicken had round
from the Boar, here is a tongue had round from the Boar, here’s one or two
little things had round from the Boar, that I hope you may not despise. But

do I,” said Mr. Pumblechook, getting up again the moment after he had sat
down, “see afore me, him as I ever sported with in his times of happy
infancy? And may I—may I—?”
This May I, meant might he shake hands? I consented, and he was
fervent, and then sat down again.
“Here is wine,” said Mr. Pumblechook. “Let us drink, Thanks to Fortune,
and may she ever pick out her favourites with equal judgment! And yet I
cannot,” said Mr. Pumblechook, getting up again, “see afore me One—and
likewise drink to One—without again expressing—May I—may I—?”
I said he might, and he shook hands with me again, and emptied his glass
and turned it upside down. I did the same; and if I had turned myself upside
down before drinking, the wine could not have gone more direct to my
head.
Mr. Pumblechook helped me to the liver wing, and to the best slice of
tongue (none of those out-of-the-way No Thoroughfares of Pork now), and
took, comparatively speaking, no care of himself at all. “Ah! poultry,
poultry! You little thought,” said Mr. Pumblechook, apostrophising the fowl
in the dish, “when you was a young fledgling, what was in store for you.
You little thought you was to be refreshment beneath this humble roof for
one as—Call it a weakness, if you will,” said Mr. Pumblechook, getting up
again, “but may I? may I—?”
It began to be unnecessary to repeat the form of saying he might, so he
did it at once. How he ever did it so often without wounding himself with
my knife, I don’t know.
“And your sister,” he resumed, after a little steady eating, “which had the
honour of bringing you up by hand! It’s a sad picter, to reflect that she’s no
longer equal to fully understanding the honour. May—”
I saw he was about to come at me again, and I stopped him.
“We’ll drink her health,” said I.
“Ah!” cried Mr. Pumblechook, leaning back in his chair, quite flaccid
with admiration, “that’s the way you know ’em, sir!” (I don’t know who Sir
was, but he certainly was not I, and there was no third person present);
“that’s the way you know the noble-minded, sir! Ever forgiving and ever
affable. It might,” said the servile Pumblechook, putting down his untasted

glass in a hurry and getting up again, “to a common person, have the
appearance of repeating—but may I—?”
When he had done it, he resumed his seat and drank to my sister. “Let us
never be blind,” said Mr. Pumblechook, “to her faults of temper, but it is to
be hoped she meant well.”
At about this time, I began to observe that he was getting flushed in the
face; as to myself, I felt all face, steeped in wine and smarting.
I mentioned to Mr. Pumblechook that I wished to have my new clothes
sent to his house, and he was ecstatic on my so distinguishing him. I
mentioned my reason for desiring to avoid observation in the village, and he
lauded it to the skies. There was nobody but himself, he intimated, worthy
of my confidence, and—in short, might he? Then he asked me tenderly if I
remembered our boyish games at sums, and how we had gone together to
have me bound apprentice, and, in effect, how he had ever been my
favourite fancy and my chosen friend? If I had taken ten times as many
glasses of wine as I had, I should have known that he never had stood in
that relation towards me, and should in my heart of hearts have repudiated
the idea. Yet for all that, I remember feeling convinced that I had been much
mistaken in him, and that he was a sensible, practical, good-hearted prime
fellow.
By degrees he fell to reposing such great confidence in me, as to ask my
advice in reference to his own affairs. He mentioned that there was an
opportunity for a great amalgamation and monopoly of the corn and seed
trade on those premises, if enlarged, such as had never occurred before in
that or any other neighbourhood. What alone was wanting to the realisation
of a vast fortune, he considered to be More Capital. Those were the two
little words, more capital. Now it appeared to him (Pumblechook) that if
that capital were got into the business, through a sleeping partner, sir,—
which sleeping partner would have nothing to do but walk in, by self or
deputy, whenever he pleased, and examine the books,—and walk in twice a
year and take his profits away in his pocket, to the tune of fifty per cent,—it
appeared to him that that might be an opening for a young gentleman of
spirit combined with property, which would be worthy of his attention. But
what did I think? He had great confidence in my opinion, and what did I
think? I gave it as my opinion. “Wait a bit!” The united vastness and

distinctness of this view so struck him, that he no longer asked if he might
shake hands with me, but said he really must,—and did.
We drank all the wine, and Mr. Pumblechook pledged himself over and
over again to keep Joseph up to the mark (I don’t know what mark), and to
render me efficient and constant service (I don’t know what service). He
also made known to me for the first time in my life, and certainly after
having kept his secret wonderfully well, that he had always said of me,
“That boy is no common boy, and mark me, his fortun’ will be no common
fortun’.” He said with a tearful smile that it was a singular thing to think of
now, and I said so too. Finally, I went out into the air, with a dim perception
that there was something unwonted in the conduct of the sunshine, and
found that I had slumberously got to the turnpike without having taken any
account of the road.
There, I was roused by Mr. Pumblechook’s hailing me. He was a long
way down the sunny street, and was making expressive gestures for me to
stop. I stopped, and he came up breathless.
“No, my dear friend,” said he, when he had recovered wind for speech.
“Not if I can help it. This occasion shall not entirely pass without that
affability on your part.—May I, as an old friend and well-wisher? May I?”
We shook hands for the hundredth time at least, and he ordered a young
carter out of my way with the greatest indignation. Then, he blessed me and
stood waving his hand to me until I had passed the crook in the road; and
then I turned into a field and had a long nap under a hedge before I pursued
my way home.
I had scant luggage to take with me to London, for little of the little I
possessed was adapted to my new station. But I began packing that same
afternoon, and wildly packed up things that I knew I should want next
morning, in a fiction that there was not a moment to be lost.
So, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, passed; and on Friday morning I
went to Mr. Pumblechook’s, to put on my new clothes and pay my visit to
Miss Havisham. Mr. Pumblechook’s own room was given up to me to dress
in, and was decorated with clean towels expressly for the event. My clothes
were rather a disappointment, of course. Probably every new and eagerly
expected garment ever put on since clothes came in, fell a trifle short of the
wearer’s expectation. But after I had had my new suit on some half an hour,
and had gone through an immensity of posturing with Mr. Pumblechook’s

very limited dressing-glass, in the futile endeavour to see my legs, it
seemed to fit me better. It being market morning at a neighbouring town
some ten miles off, Mr. Pumblechook was not at home. I had not told him
exactly when I meant to leave, and was not likely to shake hands with him
again before departing. This was all as it should be, and I went out in my
new array, fearfully ashamed of having to pass the shopman, and suspicious
after all that I was at a personal disadvantage, something like Joe’s in his
Sunday suit.
I went circuitously to Miss Havisham’s by all the back ways, and rang at
the bell constrainedly, on account of the stiff long fingers of my gloves.
Sarah Pocket came to the gate, and positively reeled back when she saw me
so changed; her walnut-shell countenance likewise turned from brown to
green and yellow.
“You?” said she. “You? Good gracious! What do you want?”
“I am going to London, Miss Pocket,” said I, “and want to say good-bye
to Miss Havisham.”
I was not expected, for she left me locked in the yard, while she went to
ask if I were to be admitted. After a very short delay, she returned and took
me up, staring at me all the way.
Miss Havisham was taking exercise in the room with the long spread
table, leaning on her crutch stick. The room was lighted as of yore, and at
the sound of our entrance, she stopped and turned. She was then just abreast
of the rotted bride-cake.
“Don’t go, Sarah,” she said. “Well, Pip?”
“I start for London, Miss Havisham, to-morrow,” I was exceedingly
careful what I said, “and I thought you would kindly not mind my taking
leave of you.”
“This is a gay figure, Pip,” said she, making her crutch stick play round
me, as if she, the fairy godmother who had changed me, were bestowing the
finishing gift.
“I have come into such good fortune since I saw you last, Miss
Havisham,” I murmured. “And I am so grateful for it, Miss Havisham!”
“Ay, ay!” said she, looking at the discomfited and envious Sarah, with
delight. “I have seen Mr. Jaggers. I have heard about it, Pip. So you go to-
morrow?”

“Yes, Miss Havisham.”
“And you are adopted by a rich person?”
“Yes, Miss Havisham.”
“Not named?”
“No, Miss Havisham.”
“And Mr. Jaggers is made your guardian?”
“Yes, Miss Havisham.”
She quite gloated on these questions and answers, so keen was her
enjoyment of Sarah Pocket’s jealous dismay. “Well!” she went on; “you
have a promising career before you. Be good—deserve it—and abide by
Mr. Jaggers’s instructions.” She looked at me, and looked at Sarah, and
Sarah’s countenance wrung out of her watchful face a cruel smile. “Good-
bye, Pip!—you will always keep the name of Pip, you know.”
“Yes, Miss Havisham.”
“Good-bye, Pip!”
She stretched out her hand, and I went down on my knee and put it to my
lips. I had not considered how I should take leave of her; it came naturally
to me at the moment to do this. She looked at Sarah Pocket with triumph in
her weird eyes, and so I left my fairy godmother, with both her hands on her
crutch stick, standing in the midst of the dimly lighted room beside the
rotten bride-cake that was hidden in cobwebs.
Sarah Pocket conducted me down, as if I were a ghost who must be seen
out. She could not get over my appearance, and was in the last degree
confounded. I said “Good-bye, Miss Pocket;” but she merely stared, and did
not seem collected enough to know that I had spoken. Clear of the house, I
made the best of my way back to Pumblechook’s, took off my new clothes,
made them into a bundle, and went back home in my older dress, carrying it
—to speak the truth—much more at my ease too, though I had the bundle to
carry.
And now, those six days which were to have run out so slowly, had run
out fast and were gone, and to-morrow looked me in the face more steadily
than I could look at it. As the six evenings had dwindled away, to five, to
four, to three, to two, I had become more and more appreciative of the
society of Joe and Biddy. On this last evening, I dressed myself out in my

new clothes for their delight, and sat in my splendour until bedtime. We had
a hot supper on the occasion, graced by the inevitable roast fowl, and we
had some flip to finish with. We were all very low, and none the higher for
pretending to be in spirits.
I was to leave our village at five in the morning, carrying my little hand-
portmanteau, and I had told Joe that I wished to walk away all alone. I am
afraid—sore afraid—that this purpose originated in my sense of the contrast
there would be between me and Joe, if we went to the coach together. I had
pretended with myself that there was nothing of this taint in the
arrangement; but when I went up to my little room on this last night, I felt
compelled to admit that it might be so, and had an impulse upon me to go
down again and entreat Joe to walk with me in the morning. I did not.
All night there were coaches in my broken sleep, going to wrong places
instead of to London, and having in the traces, now dogs, now cats, now
pigs, now men,—never horses. Fantastic failures of journeys occupied me
until the day dawned and the birds were singing. Then, I got up and partly
dressed, and sat at the window to take a last look out, and in taking it fell
asleep.
Biddy was astir so early to get my breakfast, that, although I did not sleep
at the window an hour, I smelt the smoke of the kitchen fire when I started
up with a terrible idea that it must be late in the afternoon. But long after
that, and long after I had heard the clinking of the teacups and was quite
ready, I wanted the resolution to go downstairs. After all, I remained up
there, repeatedly unlocking and unstrapping my small portmanteau and
locking and strapping it up again, until Biddy called to me that I was late.
It was a hurried breakfast with no taste in it. I got up from the meal,
saying with a sort of briskness, as if it had only just occurred to me, “Well! I
suppose I must be off!” and then I kissed my sister who was laughing and
nodding and shaking in her usual chair, and kissed Biddy, and threw my
arms around Joe’s neck. Then I took up my little portmanteau and walked
out. The last I saw of them was, when I presently heard a scuffle behind me,
and looking back, saw Joe throwing an old shoe after me and Biddy
throwing another old shoe. I stopped then, to wave my hat, and dear old Joe
waved his strong right arm above his head, crying huskily “Hooroar!” and
Biddy put her apron to her face.

I walked away at a good pace, thinking it was easier to go than I had
supposed it would be, and reflecting that it would never have done to have
had an old shoe thrown after the coach, in sight of all the High Street. I
whistled and made nothing of going. But the village was very peaceful and
quiet, and the light mists were solemnly rising, as if to show me the world,
and I had been so innocent and little there, and all beyond was so unknown
and great, that in a moment with a strong heave and sob I broke into tears. It
was by the finger-post at the end of the village, and I laid my hand upon it,
and said, “Good-bye, O my dear, dear friend!”
Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain
upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts. I was better after
I had cried than before,—more sorry, more aware of my own ingratitude,
more gentle. If I had cried before, I should have had Joe with me then.
So subdued I was by those tears, and by their breaking out again in the
course of the quiet walk, that when I was on the coach, and it was clear of
the town, I deliberated with an aching heart whether I would not get down
when we changed horses and walk back, and have another evening at home,
and a better parting. We changed, and I had not made up my mind, and still
reflected for my comfort that it would be quite practicable to get down and
walk back, when we changed again. And while I was occupied with these
deliberations, I would fancy an exact resemblance to Joe in some man
coming along the road towards us, and my heart would beat high.—As if he
could possibly be there!
We changed again, and yet again, and it was now too late and too far to
go back, and I went on. And the mists had all solemnly risen now, and the
world lay spread before me.
THIS IS THE END OF THE FIRST STAGE OF PIP’S
EXPECTATIONS.

Chapter XX.

T
he journey from our town to the metropolis was a journey of about
five hours. It was a little past midday when the four-horse stage-
coach by which I was a passenger, got into the ravel of traffic frayed
out about the Cross Keys, Wood Street, Cheapside, London.
We Britons had at that time particularly settled that it was treasonable to
doubt our having and our being the best of everything: otherwise, while I
was scared by the immensity of London, I think I might have had some
faint doubts whether it was not rather ugly, crooked, narrow, and dirty.
Mr. Jaggers had duly sent me his address; it was, Little Britain, and he
had written after it on his card, “just out of Smithfield, and close by the
coach-office.” Nevertheless, a hackney-coachman, who seemed to have as
many capes to his greasy great-coat as he was years old, packed me up in
his coach and hemmed me in with a folding and jingling barrier of steps, as
if he were going to take me fifty miles. His getting on his box, which I
remember to have been decorated with an old weather-stained pea-green
hammercloth moth-eaten into rags, was quite a work of time. It was a
wonderful equipage, with six great coronets outside, and ragged things
behind for I don’t know how many footmen to hold on by, and a harrow
below them, to prevent amateur footmen from yielding to the temptation.
I had scarcely had time to enjoy the coach and to think how like a straw-
yard it was, and yet how like a rag-shop, and to wonder why the horses’
nose-bags were kept inside, when I observed the coachman beginning to get
down, as if we were going to stop presently. And stop we presently did, in a
gloomy street, at certain offices with an open door, whereon was painted
MR. JAGGERS.
“How much?” I asked the coachman.
The coachman answered, “A shilling—unless you wish to make it more.”
I naturally said I had no wish to make it more.

“Then it must be a shilling,” observed the coachman. “I don’t want to get
into trouble. I know him!” He darkly closed an eye at Mr. Jaggers’s name,
and shook his head.
When he had got his shilling, and had in course of time completed the
ascent to his box, and had got away (which appeared to relieve his mind), I
went into the front office with my little portmanteau in my hand and asked,
Was Mr. Jaggers at home?
“He is not,” returned the clerk. “He is in Court at present. Am I
addressing Mr. Pip?”
I signified that he was addressing Mr. Pip.
“Mr. Jaggers left word, would you wait in his room. He couldn’t say how
long he might be, having a case on. But it stands to reason, his time being
valuable, that he won’t be longer than he can help.”
With those words, the clerk opened a door, and ushered me into an inner
chamber at the back. Here, we found a gentleman with one eye, in a
velveteen suit and knee-breeches, who wiped his nose with his sleeve on
being interrupted in the perusal of the newspaper.
“Go and wait outside, Mike,” said the clerk.
I began to say that I hoped I was not interrupting, when the clerk shoved
this gentleman out with as little ceremony as I ever saw used, and tossing
his fur cap out after him, left me alone.
Mr. Jaggers’s room was lighted by a skylight only, and was a most dismal
place; the skylight, eccentrically pitched like a broken head, and the
distorted adjoining houses looking as if they had twisted themselves to peep
down at me through it. There were not so many papers about, as I should
have expected to see; and there were some odd objects about, that I should
not have expected to see,—such as an old rusty pistol, a sword in a
scabbard, several strange-looking boxes and packages, and two dreadful
casts on a shelf, of faces peculiarly swollen, and twitchy about the nose. Mr.
Jaggers’s own high-backed chair was of deadly black horsehair, with rows
of brass nails round it, like a coffin; and I fancied I could see how he leaned
back in it, and bit his forefinger at the clients. The room was but small, and
the clients seemed to have had a habit of backing up against the wall; the
wall, especially opposite to Mr. Jaggers’s chair, being greasy with

shoulders. I recalled, too, that the one-eyed gentleman had shuffled forth
against the wall when I was the innocent cause of his being turned out.
I sat down in the cliental chair placed over against Mr. Jaggers’s chair,
and became fascinated by the dismal atmosphere of the place. I called to
mind that the clerk had the same air of knowing something to everybody
else’s disadvantage, as his master had. I wondered how many other clerks
there were upstairs, and whether they all claimed to have the same
detrimental mastery of their fellow-creatures. I wondered what was the
history of all the odd litter about the room, and how it came there. I
wondered whether the two swollen faces were of Mr. Jaggers’s family, and,
if he were so unfortunate as to have had a pair of such ill-looking relations,
why he stuck them on that dusty perch for the blacks and flies to settle on,
instead of giving them a place at home. Of course I had no experience of a
London summer day, and my spirits may have been oppressed by the hot
exhausted air, and by the dust and grit that lay thick on everything. But I sat
wondering and waiting in Mr. Jaggers’s close room, until I really could not
bear the two casts on the shelf above Mr. Jaggers’s chair, and got up and
went out.
When I told the clerk that I would take a turn in the air while I waited, he
advised me to go round the corner and I should come into Smithfield. So I
came into Smithfield; and the shameful place, being all asmear with filth
and fat and blood and foam, seemed to stick to me. So, I rubbed it off with
all possible speed by turning into a street where I saw the great black dome
of Saint Paul’s bulging at me from behind a grim stone building which a
bystander said was Newgate Prison. Following the wall of the jail, I found
the roadway covered with straw to deaden the noise of passing vehicles;
and from this, and from the quantity of people standing about smelling
strongly of spirits and beer, I inferred that the trials were on.
While I looked about me here, an exceedingly dirty and partially drunk
minister of justice asked me if I would like to step in and hear a trial or so:
informing me that he could give me a front place for half a crown, whence I
should command a full view of the Lord Chief Justice in his wig and robes,
—mentioning that awful personage like waxwork, and presently offering
him at the reduced price of eighteen-pence. As I declined the proposal on
the plea of an appointment, he was so good as to take me into a yard and
show me where the gallows was kept, and also where people were publicly

whipped, and then he showed me the Debtors’ Door, out of which culprits
came to be hanged; heightening the interest of that dreadful portal by giving
me to understand that “four on ’em” would come out at that door the day
after to-morrow at eight in the morning, to be killed in a row. This was
horrible, and gave me a sickening idea of London; the more so as the Lord
Chief Justice’s proprietor wore (from his hat down to his boots and up again
to his pocket-handkerchief inclusive) mildewed clothes which had evidently
not belonged to him originally, and which I took it into my head he had
bought cheap of the executioner. Under these circumstances I thought
myself well rid of him for a shilling.
I dropped into the office to ask if Mr. Jaggers had come in yet, and I
found he had not, and I strolled out again. This time, I made the tour of
Little Britain, and turned into Bartholomew Close; and now I became aware
that other people were waiting about for Mr. Jaggers, as well as I. There
were two men of secret appearance lounging in Bartholomew Close, and
thoughtfully fitting their feet into the cracks of the pavement as they talked
together, one of whom said to the other when they first passed me, that
“Jaggers would do it if it was to be done.” There was a knot of three men
and two women standing at a corner, and one of the women was crying on
her dirty shawl, and the other comforted her by saying, as she pulled her
own shawl over her shoulders, “Jaggers is for him, ’Melia, and what more
could you have?” There was a red-eyed little Jew who came into the Close
while I was loitering there, in company with a second little Jew whom he
sent upon an errand; and while the messenger was gone, I remarked this
Jew, who was of a highly excitable temperament, performing a jig of
anxiety under a lamp-post and accompanying himself, in a kind of frenzy,
with the words, “O Jaggerth, Jaggerth, Jaggerth! all otherth ith Cag-
Maggerth, give me Jaggerth!” These testimonies to the popularity of my
guardian made a deep impression on me, and I admired and wondered more
than ever.
At length, as I was looking out at the iron gate of Bartholomew Close
into Little Britain, I saw Mr. Jaggers coming across the road towards me.
All the others who were waiting saw him at the same time, and there was
quite a rush at him. Mr. Jaggers, putting a hand on my shoulder and walking
me on at his side without saying anything to me, addressed himself to his
followers.

First, he took the two secret men.
“Now, I have nothing to say to you,” said Mr. Jaggers, throwing his
finger at them. “I want to know no more than I know. As to the result, it’s a
toss-up. I told you from the first it was a toss-up. Have you paid
Wemmick?”
“We made the money up this morning, sir,” said one of the men,
submissively, while the other perused Mr. Jaggers’s face.
“I don’t ask you when you made it up, or where, or whether you made it
up at all. Has Wemmick got it?”
“Yes, sir,” said both the men together.
“Very well; then you may go. Now, I won’t have it!” said Mr Jaggers,
waving his hand at them to put them behind him. “If you say a word to me,
I’ll throw up the case.”
“We thought, Mr. Jaggers—” one of the men began, pulling off his hat.
“That’s what I told you not to do,” said Mr. Jaggers. “You thought! I think
for you; that’s enough for you. If I want you, I know where to find you; I
don’t want you to find me. Now I won’t have it. I won’t hear a word.”
The two men looked at one another as Mr. Jaggers waved them behind
again, and humbly fell back and were heard no more.
“And now you!” said Mr. Jaggers, suddenly stopping, and turning on the
two women with the shawls, from whom the three men had meekly
separated,—“Oh! Amelia, is it?”
“Yes, Mr. Jaggers.”
“And do you remember,” retorted Mr. Jaggers, “that but for me you
wouldn’t be here and couldn’t be here?”
“O yes, sir!” exclaimed both women together. “Lord bless you, sir, well
we knows that!”
“Then why,” said Mr. Jaggers, “do you come here?”
“My Bill, sir!” the crying woman pleaded.
“Now, I tell you what!” said Mr. Jaggers. “Once for all. If you don’t
know that your Bill’s in good hands, I know it. And if you come here
bothering about your Bill, I’ll make an example of both your Bill and you,
and let him slip through my fingers. Have you paid Wemmick?”
“O yes, sir! Every farden.”

“Very well. Then you have done all you have got to do. Say another word
—one single word—and Wemmick shall give you your money back.”
This terrible threat caused the two women to fall off immediately. No one
remained now but the excitable Jew, who had already raised the skirts of
Mr. Jaggers’s coat to his lips several times.
“I don’t know this man!” said Mr. Jaggers, in the same devastating strain:
“What does this fellow want?”
“Ma thear Mithter Jaggerth. Hown brother to Habraham Latharuth?”
“Who’s he?” said Mr. Jaggers. “Let go of my coat.”
The suitor, kissing the hem of the garment again before relinquishing it,
replied, “Habraham Latharuth, on thuthpithion of plate.”
“You’re too late,” said Mr. Jaggers. “I am over the way.”
“Holy father, Mithter Jaggerth!” cried my excitable acquaintance, turning
white, “don’t thay you’re again Habraham Latharuth!”
“I am,” said Mr. Jaggers, “and there’s an end of it. Get out of the way.”
“Mithter Jaggerth! Half a moment! My hown cuthen’th gone to Mithter
Wemmick at thith prethent minute, to hoffer him hany termth. Mithter
Jaggerth! Half a quarter of a moment! If you’d have the condethenthun to
be bought off from the t’other thide—at hany thuperior prithe!—money no
object!—Mithter Jaggerth—Mithter—!”
My guardian threw his supplicant off with supreme indifference, and left
him dancing on the pavement as if it were red hot. Without further
interruption, we reached the front office, where we found the clerk and the
man in velveteen with the fur cap.
“Here’s Mike,” said the clerk, getting down from his stool, and
approaching Mr. Jaggers confidentially.
“Oh!” said Mr. Jaggers, turning to the man, who was pulling a lock of
hair in the middle of his forehead, like the Bull in Cock Robin pulling at the
bell-rope; “your man comes on this afternoon. Well?”
“Well, Mas’r Jaggers,” returned Mike, in the voice of a sufferer from a
constitutional cold; “arter a deal o’ trouble, I’ve found one, sir, as might
do.”
“What is he prepared to swear?”

“Well, Mas’r Jaggers,” said Mike, wiping his nose on his fur cap this
time; “in a general way, anythink.”
Mr. Jaggers suddenly became most irate. “Now, I warned you before,”
said he, throwing his forefinger at the terrified client, “that if you ever
presumed to talk in that way here, I’d make an example of you. You infernal
scoundrel, how dare you tell ME that?”
The client looked scared, but bewildered too, as if he were unconscious
what he had done.
“Spooney!” said the clerk, in a low voice, giving him a stir with his
elbow. “Soft Head! Need you say it face to face?”
“Now, I ask you, you blundering booby,” said my guardian, very sternly,
“once more and for the last time, what the man you have brought here is
prepared to swear?”
Mike looked hard at my guardian, as if he were trying to learn a lesson
from his face, and slowly replied, “Ayther to character, or to having been in
his company and never left him all the night in question.”
“Now, be careful. In what station of life is this man?”
Mike looked at his cap, and looked at the floor, and looked at the ceiling,
and looked at the clerk, and even looked at me, before beginning to reply in
a nervous manner, “We’ve dressed him up like—” when my guardian
blustered out,—
“What? You WILL, will you?”
(“Spooney!” added the clerk again, with another stir.)
After some helpless casting about, Mike brightened and began again:—
“He is dressed like a ’spectable pieman. A sort of a pastry-cook.”
“Is he here?” asked my guardian.
“I left him,” said Mike, “a setting on some doorsteps round the corner.”
“Take him past that window, and let me see him.”
The window indicated was the office window. We all three went to it,
behind the wire blind, and presently saw the client go by in an accidental
manner, with a murderous-looking tall individual, in a short suit of white
linen and a paper cap. This guileless confectioner was not by any means
sober, and had a black eye in the green stage of recovery, which was painted
over.

“Tell him to take his witness away directly,” said my guardian to the
clerk, in extreme disgust, “and ask him what he means by bringing such a
fellow as that.”
My guardian then took me into his own room, and while he lunched,
standing, from a sandwich-box and a pocket-flask of sherry (he seemed to
bully his very sandwich as he ate it), informed me what arrangements he
had made for me. I was to go to “Barnard’s Inn,” to young Mr. Pocket’s
rooms, where a bed had been sent in for my accommodation; I was to
remain with young Mr. Pocket until Monday; on Monday I was to go with
him to his father’s house on a visit, that I might try how I liked it. Also, I
was told what my allowance was to be,—it was a very liberal one,—and
had handed to me from one of my guardian’s drawers, the cards of certain
tradesmen with whom I was to deal for all kinds of clothes, and such other
things as I could in reason want. “You will find your credit good, Mr. Pip,”
said my guardian, whose flask of sherry smelt like a whole caskful, as he
hastily refreshed himself, “but I shall by this means be able to check your
bills, and to pull you up if I find you outrunning the constable. Of course
you’ll go wrong somehow, but that’s no fault of mine.”
After I had pondered a little over this encouraging sentiment, I asked Mr.
Jaggers if I could send for a coach? He said it was not worth while, I was so
near my destination; Wemmick should walk round with me, if I pleased.
I then found that Wemmick was the clerk in the next room. Another clerk
was rung down from upstairs to take his place while he was out, and I
accompanied him into the street, after shaking hands with my guardian. We
found a new set of people lingering outside, but Wemmick made a way
among them by saying coolly yet decisively, “I tell you it’s no use; he won’t
have a word to say to one of you;” and we soon got clear of them, and went
on side by side.

Chapter XXI.

C
asting my eyes on Mr. Wemmick as we went along, to see what he
was like in the light of day, I found him to be a dry man, rather short
in stature, with a square wooden face, whose expression seemed to
have been imperfectly chipped out with a dull-edged chisel. There were
some marks in it that might have been dimples, if the material had been
softer and the instrument finer, but which, as it was, were only dints. The
chisel had made three or four of these attempts at embellishment over his
nose, but had given them up without an effort to smooth them off. I judged
him to be a bachelor from the frayed condition of his linen, and he appeared
to have sustained a good many bereavements; for he wore at least four
mourning rings, besides a brooch representing a lady and a weeping willow
at a tomb with an urn on it. I noticed, too, that several rings and seals hung
at his watch-chain, as if he were quite laden with remembrances of departed
friends. He had glittering eyes,—small, keen, and black,—and thin wide
mottled lips. He had had them, to the best of my belief, from forty to fifty
years.
“So you were never in London before?” said Mr. Wemmick to me.
“No,” said I.
“I was new here once,” said Mr. Wemmick. “Rum to think of now!”
“You are well acquainted with it now?”
“Why, yes,” said Mr. Wemmick. “I know the moves of it.”
“Is it a very wicked place?” I asked, more for the sake of saying
something than for information.
“You may get cheated, robbed, and murdered in London. But there are
plenty of people anywhere, who’ll do that for you.”
“If there is bad blood between you and them,” said I, to soften it off a
little.

“O! I don’t know about bad blood,” returned Mr. Wemmick; “there’s not
much bad blood about. They’ll do it, if there’s anything to be got by it.”
“That makes it worse.”
“You think so?” returned Mr. Wemmick. “Much about the same, I should
say.”
He wore his hat on the back of his head, and looked straight before him:
walking in a self-contained way as if there were nothing in the streets to
claim his attention. His mouth was such a post-office of a mouth that he had
a mechanical appearance of smiling. We had got to the top of Holborn Hill
before I knew that it was merely a mechanical appearance, and that he was
not smiling at all.
“Do you know where Mr. Matthew Pocket lives?” I asked Mr. Wemmick.
“Yes,” said he, nodding in the direction. “At Hammersmith, west of
London.”
“Is that far?”
“Well! Say five miles.”
“Do you know him?”
“Why, you’re a regular cross-examiner!” said Mr. Wemmick, looking at
me with an approving air. “Yes, I know him. I know him!”
There was an air of toleration or depreciation about his utterance of these
words that rather depressed me; and I was still looking sideways at his
block of a face in search of any encouraging note to the text, when he said
here we were at Barnard’s Inn. My depression was not alleviated by the
announcement, for, I had supposed that establishment to be an hotel kept by
Mr. Barnard, to which the Blue Boar in our town was a mere public-house.
Whereas I now found Barnard to be a disembodied spirit, or a fiction, and
his inn the dingiest collection of shabby buildings ever squeezed together in
a rank corner as a club for Tom-cats.
We entered this haven through a wicket-gate, and were disgorged by an
introductory passage into a melancholy little square that looked to me like a
flat burying-ground. I thought it had the most dismal trees in it, and the
most dismal sparrows, and the most dismal cats, and the most dismal
houses (in number half a dozen or so), that I had ever seen. I thought the
windows of the sets of chambers into which those houses were divided
were in every stage of dilapidated blind and curtain, crippled flower-pot,

cracked glass, dusty decay, and miserable makeshift; while To Let, To Let,
To Let, glared at me from empty rooms, as if no new wretches ever came
there, and the vengeance of the soul of Barnard were being slowly appeased
by the gradual suicide of the present occupants and their unholy interment
under the gravel. A frowzy mourning of soot and smoke attired this forlorn
creation of Barnard, and it had strewn ashes on its head, and was
undergoing penance and humiliation as a mere dust-hole. Thus far my sense
of sight; while dry rot and wet rot and all the silent rots that rot in neglected
roof and cellar,—rot of rat and mouse and bug and coaching-stables near at
hand besides—addressed themselves faintly to my sense of smell, and
moaned, “Try Barnard’s Mixture.”
So imperfect was this realisation of the first of my great expectations,
that I looked in dismay at Mr. Wemmick. “Ah!” said he, mistaking me; “the
retirement reminds you of the country. So it does me.”
He led me into a corner and conducted me up a flight of stairs,—which
appeared to me to be slowly collapsing into sawdust, so that one of those
days the upper lodgers would look out at their doors and find themselves
without the means of coming down,—to a set of chambers on the top floor.
MR. POCKET, JUN., was painted on the door, and there was a label on the
letter-box, “Return shortly.”
“He hardly thought you’d come so soon,” Mr. Wemmick explained. “You
don’t want me any more?”
“No, thank you,” said I.
“As I keep the cash,” Mr. Wemmick observed, “we shall most likely meet
pretty often. Good day.”
“Good day.”
I put out my hand, and Mr. Wemmick at first looked at it as if he thought
I wanted something. Then he looked at me, and said, correcting himself,—
“To be sure! Yes. You’re in the habit of shaking hands?”
I was rather confused, thinking it must be out of the London fashion, but
said yes.
“I have got so out of it!” said Mr. Wemmick,—“except at last. Very glad,
I’m sure, to make your acquaintance. Good day!”
When we had shaken hands and he was gone, I opened the staircase
window and had nearly beheaded myself, for, the lines had rotted away, and

it came down like the guillotine. Happily it was so quick that I had not put
my head out. After this escape, I was content to take a foggy view of the Inn
through the window’s encrusting dirt, and to stand dolefully looking out,
saying to myself that London was decidedly overrated.
Mr. Pocket, Junior’s, idea of Shortly was not mine, for I had nearly
maddened myself with looking out for half an hour, and had written my
name with my finger several times in the dirt of every pane in the window,
before I heard footsteps on the stairs. Gradually there arose before me the
hat, head, neckcloth, waistcoat, trousers, boots, of a member of society of
about my own standing. He had a paper-bag under each arm and a pottle of
strawberries in one hand, and was out of breath.
“Mr. Pip?” said he.
“Mr. Pocket?” said I.
“Dear me!” he exclaimed. “I am extremely sorry; but I knew there was a
coach from your part of the country at midday, and I thought you would
come by that one. The fact is, I have been out on your account,—not that
that is any excuse,—for I thought, coming from the country, you might like
a little fruit after dinner, and I went to Covent Garden Market to get it
good.”
For a reason that I had, I felt as if my eyes would start out of my head. I
acknowledged his attention incoherently, and began to think this was a
dream.
“Dear me!” said Mr. Pocket, Junior. “This door sticks so!”
As he was fast making jam of his fruit by wrestling with the door while
the paper-bags were under his arms, I begged him to allow me to hold them.
He relinquished them with an agreeable smile, and combated with the door
as if it were a wild beast. It yielded so suddenly at last, that he staggered
back upon me, and I staggered back upon the opposite door, and we both
laughed. But still I felt as if my eyes must start out of my head, and as if
this must be a dream.
“Pray come in,” said Mr. Pocket, Junior. “Allow me to lead the way. I am
rather bare here, but I hope you’ll be able to make out tolerably well till
Monday. My father thought you would get on more agreeably through to-
morrow with me than with him, and might like to take a walk about
London. I am sure I shall be very happy to show London to you. As to our

table, you won’t find that bad, I hope, for it will be supplied from our
coffee-house here, and (it is only right I should add) at your expense, such
being Mr. Jaggers’s directions. As to our lodging, it’s not by any means
splendid, because I have my own bread to earn, and my father hasn’t
anything to give me, and I shouldn’t be willing to take it, if he had. This is
our sitting-room,—just such chairs and tables and carpet and so forth, you
see, as they could spare from home. You mustn’t give me credit for the
tablecloth and spoons and castors, because they come for you from the
coffee-house. This is my little bedroom; rather musty, but Barnard’s is
musty. This is your bedroom; the furniture’s hired for the occasion, but I
trust it will answer the purpose; if you should want anything, I’ll go and
fetch it. The chambers are retired, and we shall be alone together, but we
shan’t fight, I dare say. But dear me, I beg your pardon, you’re holding the
fruit all this time. Pray let me take these bags from you. I am quite
ashamed.”
As I stood opposite to Mr. Pocket, Junior, delivering him the bags, One,
Two, I saw the starting appearance come into his own eyes that I knew to be
in mine, and he said, falling back,—
“Lord bless me, you’re the prowling boy!”
“And you,” said I, “are the pale young gentleman!”

Chapter XXII.

T
he pale young gentleman and I stood contemplating one another in
Barnard’s Inn, until we both burst out laughing. “The idea of its
being you!” said he. “The idea of its being you!” said I. And then we
contemplated one another afresh, and laughed again. “Well!” said the pale
young gentleman, reaching out his hand good-humouredly, “it’s all over
now, I hope, and it will be magnanimous in you if you’ll forgive me for
having knocked you about so.”
I derived from this speech that Mr. Herbert Pocket (for Herbert was the
pale young gentleman’s name) still rather confounded his intention with his
execution. But I made a modest reply, and we shook hands warmly.
“You hadn’t come into your good fortune at that time?” said Herbert
Pocket.
“No,” said I.
“No,” he acquiesced: “I heard it had happened very lately. I was rather on
the lookout for good fortune then.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes. Miss Havisham had sent for me, to see if she could take a fancy to
me. But she couldn’t,—at all events, she didn’t.”
I thought it polite to remark that I was surprised to hear that.
“Bad taste,” said Herbert, laughing, “but a fact. Yes, she had sent for me
on a trial visit, and if I had come out of it successfully, I suppose I should
have been provided for; perhaps I should have been what-you-may-called it
to Estella.”
“What’s that?” I asked, with sudden gravity.
He was arranging his fruit in plates while we talked, which divided his
attention, and was the cause of his having made this lapse of a word.

“Affianced,” he explained, still busy with the fruit. “Betrothed. Engaged.
What’s-his-named. Any word of that sort.”
“How did you bear your disappointment?” I asked.
“Pooh!” said he, “I didn’t care much for it. She’s a Tartar.”
“Miss Havisham?”
“I don’t say no to that, but I meant Estella. That girl’s hard and haughty
and capricious to the last degree, and has been brought up by Miss
Havisham to wreak revenge on all the male sex.”
“What relation is she to Miss Havisham?”
“None,” said he. “Only adopted.”
“Why should she wreak revenge on all the male sex? What revenge?”
“Lord, Mr. Pip!” said he. “Don’t you know?”
“No,” said I.
“Dear me! It’s quite a story, and shall be saved till dinner-time. And now
let me take the liberty of asking you a question. How did you come there,
that day?”
I told him, and he was attentive until I had finished, and then burst out
laughing again, and asked me if I was sore afterwards? I didn’t ask him if
he was, for my conviction on that point was perfectly established.
“Mr. Jaggers is your guardian, I understand?” he went on.
“Yes.”
“You know he is Miss Havisham’s man of business and solicitor, and has
her confidence when nobody else has?”
This was bringing me (I felt) towards dangerous ground. I answered with
a constraint I made no attempt to disguise, that I had seen Mr. Jaggers in
Miss Havisham’s house on the very day of our combat, but never at any
other time, and that I believed he had no recollection of having ever seen
me there.
“He was so obliging as to suggest my father for your tutor, and he called
on my father to propose it. Of course he knew about my father from his
connection with Miss Havisham. My father is Miss Havisham’s cousin; not
that that implies familiar intercourse between them, for he is a bad courtier
and will not propitiate her.”

Herbert Pocket had a frank and easy way with him that was very taking. I
had never seen any one then, and I have never seen any one since, who
more strongly expressed to me, in every look and tone, a natural incapacity
to do anything secret and mean. There was something wonderfully hopeful
about his general air, and something that at the same time whispered to me
he would never be very successful or rich. I don’t know how this was. I
became imbued with the notion on that first occasion before we sat down to
dinner, but I cannot define by what means.
He was still a pale young gentleman, and had a certain conquered languor
about him in the midst of his spirits and briskness, that did not seem
indicative of natural strength. He had not a handsome face, but it was better
than handsome: being extremely amiable and cheerful. His figure was a
little ungainly, as in the days when my knuckles had taken such liberties
with it, but it looked as if it would always be light and young. Whether Mr.
Trabb’s local work would have sat more gracefully on him than on me, may
be a question; but I am conscious that he carried off his rather old clothes
much better than I carried off my new suit.
As he was so communicative, I felt that reserve on my part would be a
bad return unsuited to our years. I therefore told him my small story, and
laid stress on my being forbidden to inquire who my benefactor was. I
further mentioned that as I had been brought up a blacksmith in a country
place, and knew very little of the ways of politeness, I would take it as a
great kindness in him if he would give me a hint whenever he saw me at a
loss or going wrong.
“With pleasure,” said he, “though I venture to prophesy that you’ll want
very few hints. I dare say we shall be often together, and I should like to
banish any needless restraint between us. Will you do me the favour to
begin at once to call me by my Christian name, Herbert?”
I thanked him and said I would. I informed him in exchange that my
Christian name was Philip.
“I don’t take to Philip,” said he, smiling, “for it sounds like a moral boy
out of the spelling-book, who was so lazy that he fell into a pond, or so fat
that he couldn’t see out of his eyes, or so avaricious that he locked up his
cake till the mice ate it, or so determined to go a bird’s-nesting that he got
himself eaten by bears who lived handy in the neighbourhood. I tell you

what I should like. We are so harmonious, and you have been a blacksmith,
—would you mind it?”
“I shouldn’t mind anything that you propose,” I answered, “but I don’t
understand you.”
“Would you mind Handel for a familiar name? There’s a charming piece
of music by Handel, called the Harmonious Blacksmith.”
“I should like it very much.”
“Then, my dear Handel,” said he, turning round as the door opened,
“here is the dinner, and I must beg of you to take the top of the table,
because the dinner is of your providing.”
This I would not hear of, so he took the top, and I faced him. It was a
nice little dinner,—seemed to me then a very Lord Mayor’s Feast,—and it
acquired additional relish from being eaten under those independent
circumstances, with no old people by, and with London all around us. This
again was heightened by a certain gypsy character that set the banquet off;
for while the table was, as Mr. Pumblechook might have said, the lap of
luxury,—being entirely furnished forth from the coffee-house,—the
circumjacent region of sitting-room was of a comparatively pastureless and
shifty character; imposing on the waiter the wandering habits of putting the
covers on the floor (where he fell over them), the melted butter in the arm-
chair, the bread on the bookshelves, the cheese in the coal-scuttle, and the
boiled fowl into my bed in the next room,—where I found much of its
parsley and butter in a state of congelation when I retired for the night. All
this made the feast delightful, and when the waiter was not there to watch
me, my pleasure was without alloy.
We had made some progress in the dinner, when I reminded Herbert of
his promise to tell me about Miss Havisham.
“True,” he replied. “I’ll redeem it at once. Let me introduce the topic,
Handel, by mentioning that in London it is not the custom to put the knife
in the mouth,—for fear of accidents,—and that while the fork is reserved
for that use, it is not put further in than necessary. It is scarcely worth
mentioning, only it’s as well to do as other people do. Also, the spoon is not
generally used over-hand, but under. This has two advantages. You get at
your mouth better (which after all is the object), and you save a good deal
of the attitude of opening oysters, on the part of the right elbow.”

He offered these friendly suggestions in such a lively way, that we both
laughed and I scarcely blushed.
“Now,” he pursued, “concerning Miss Havisham. Miss Havisham, you
must know, was a spoilt child. Her mother died when she was a baby, and
her father denied her nothing. Her father was a country gentleman down in
your part of the world, and was a brewer. I don’t know why it should be a
crack thing to be a brewer; but it is indisputable that while you cannot
possibly be genteel and bake, you may be as genteel as never was and brew.
You see it every day.”
“Yet a gentleman may not keep a public-house; may he?” said I.
“Not on any account,” returned Herbert; “but a public-house may keep a
gentleman. Well! Mr. Havisham was very rich and very proud. So was his
daughter.”
“Miss Havisham was an only child?” I hazarded.
“Stop a moment, I am coming to that. No, she was not an only child; she
had a half-brother. Her father privately married again—his cook, I rather
think.”
“I thought he was proud,” said I.
“My good Handel, so he was. He married his second wife privately,
because he was proud, and in course of time she died. When she was dead, I
apprehend he first told his daughter what he had done, and then the son
became a part of the family, residing in the house you are acquainted with.
As the son grew a young man, he turned out riotous, extravagant, undutiful,
—altogether bad. At last his father disinherited him; but he softened when
he was dying, and left him well off, though not nearly so well off as Miss
Havisham.—Take another glass of wine, and excuse my mentioning that
society as a body does not expect one to be so strictly conscientious in
emptying one’s glass, as to turn it bottom upwards with the rim on one’s
nose.”
I had been doing this, in an excess of attention to his recital. I thanked
him, and apologised. He said, “Not at all,” and resumed.
“Miss Havisham was now an heiress, and you may suppose was looked
after as a great match. Her half-brother had now ample means again, but
what with debts and what with new madness wasted them most fearfully
again. There were stronger differences between him and her than there had

been between him and his father, and it is suspected that he cherished a
deep and mortal grudge against her as having influenced the father’s anger.
Now, I come to the cruel part of the story,—merely breaking off, my dear
Handel, to remark that a dinner-napkin will not go into a tumbler.”
Why I was trying to pack mine into my tumbler, I am wholly unable to
say. I only know that I found myself, with a perseverance worthy of a much
better cause, making the most strenuous exertions to compress it within
those limits. Again I thanked him and apologised, and again he said in the
cheerfullest manner, “Not at all, I am sure!” and resumed.
“There appeared upon the scene—say at the races, or the public balls, or
anywhere else you like—a certain man, who made love to Miss Havisham.
I never saw him (for this happened five-and-twenty years ago, before you
and I were, Handel), but I have heard my father mention that he was a
showy man, and the kind of man for the purpose. But that he was not to be,
without ignorance or prejudice, mistaken for a gentleman, my father most
strongly asseverates; because it is a principle of his that no man who was
not a true gentleman at heart ever was, since the world began, a true
gentleman in manner. He says, no varnish can hide the grain of the wood;
and that the more varnish you put on, the more the grain will express itself.
Well! This man pursued Miss Havisham closely, and professed to be
devoted to her. I believe she had not shown much susceptibility up to that
time; but all the susceptibility she possessed certainly came out then, and
she passionately loved him. There is no doubt that she perfectly idolized
him. He practised on her affection in that systematic way, that he got great
sums of money from her, and he induced her to buy her brother out of a
share in the brewery (which had been weakly left him by his father) at an
immense price, on the plea that when he was her husband he must hold and
manage it all. Your guardian was not at that time in Miss Havisham’s
counsels, and she was too haughty and too much in love to be advised by
any one. Her relations were poor and scheming, with the exception of my
father; he was poor enough, but not time-serving or jealous. The only
independent one among them, he warned her that she was doing too much
for this man, and was placing herself too unreservedly in his power. She
took the first opportunity of angrily ordering my father out of the house, in
his presence, and my father has never seen her since.”

I thought of her having said, “Matthew will come and see me at last when
I am laid dead upon that table;” and I asked Herbert whether his father was
so inveterate against her?
“It’s not that,” said he, “but she charged him, in the presence of her
intended husband, with being disappointed in the hope of fawning upon her
for his own advancement, and, if he were to go to her now, it would look
true—even to him—and even to her. To return to the man and make an end
of him. The marriage day was fixed, the wedding dresses were bought, the
wedding tour was planned out, the wedding guests were invited. The day
came, but not the bridegroom. He wrote her a letter—”
“Which she received,” I struck in, “when she was dressing for her
marriage? At twenty minutes to nine?”
“At the hour and minute,” said Herbert, nodding, “at which she
afterwards stopped all the clocks. What was in it, further than that it most
heartlessly broke the marriage off, I can’t tell you, because I don’t know.
When she recovered from a bad illness that she had, she laid the whole
place waste, as you have seen it, and she has never since looked upon the
light of day.”
“Is that all the story?” I asked, after considering it.
“All I know of it; and indeed I only know so much, through piecing it out
for myself; for my father always avoids it, and, even when Miss Havisham
invited me to go there, told me no more of it than it was absolutely requisite
I should understand. But I have forgotten one thing. It has been supposed
that the man to whom she gave her misplaced confidence acted throughout
in concert with her half-brother; that it was a conspiracy between them; and
that they shared the profits.”
“I wonder he didn’t marry her and get all the property,” said I.
“He may have been married already, and her cruel mortification may
have been a part of her half-brother’s scheme,” said Herbert. “Mind! I don’t
know that.”
“What became of the two men?” I asked, after again considering the
subject.
“They fell into deeper shame and degradation—if there can be deeper—
and ruin.”
“Are they alive now?”

“I don’t know.”
“You said just now that Estella was not related to Miss Havisham, but
adopted. When adopted?”
Herbert shrugged his shoulders. “There has always been an Estella, since
I have heard of a Miss Havisham. I know no more. And now, Handel,” said
he, finally throwing off the story as it were, “there is a perfectly open
understanding between us. All that I know about Miss Havisham, you
know.”
“And all that I know,” I retorted, “you know.”
“I fully believe it. So there can be no competition or perplexity between
you and me. And as to the condition on which you hold your advancement
in life,—namely, that you are not to inquire or discuss to whom you owe it,
—you may be very sure that it will never be encroached upon, or even
approached, by me, or by any one belonging to me.”
In truth, he said this with so much delicacy, that I felt the subject done
with, even though I should be under his father’s roof for years and years to
come. Yet he said it with so much meaning, too, that I felt he as perfectly
understood Miss Havisham to be my benefactress, as I understood the fact
myself.
It had not occurred to me before, that he had led up to the theme for the
purpose of clearing it out of our way; but we were so much the lighter and
easier for having broached it, that I now perceived this to be the case. We
were very gay and sociable, and I asked him, in the course of conversation,
what he was? He replied, “A capitalist,—an Insurer of Ships.” I suppose he
saw me glancing about the room in search of some tokens of Shipping, or
capital, for he added, “In the City.”
I had grand ideas of the wealth and importance of Insurers of Ships in the
City, and I began to think with awe of having laid a young Insurer on his
back, blackened his enterprising eye, and cut his responsible head open. But
again there came upon me, for my relief, that odd impression that Herbert
Pocket would never be very successful or rich.
“I shall not rest satisfied with merely employing my capital in insuring
ships. I shall buy up some good Life Assurance shares, and cut into the
Direction. I shall also do a little in the mining way. None of these things
will interfere with my chartering a few thousand tons on my own account. I

think I shall trade,” said he, leaning back in his chair, “to the East Indies, for
silks, shawls, spices, dyes, drugs, and precious woods. It’s an interesting
trade.”
“And the profits are large?” said I.
“Tremendous!” said he.
I wavered again, and began to think here were greater expectations than
my own.

“I think I shall trade, also,” said he, putting his thumbs in his waist-coat
pockets, “to the West Indies, for sugar, tobacco, and rum. Also to Ceylon,
especially for elephants’ tusks.”
“You will want a good many ships,” said I.
“A perfect fleet,” said he.
Quite overpowered by the magnificence of these transactions, I asked
him where the ships he insured mostly traded to at present?
“I haven’t begun insuring yet,” he replied. “I am looking about me.”
Somehow, that pursuit seemed more in keeping with Barnard’s Inn. I said
(in a tone of conviction), “Ah-h!”
“Yes. I am in a counting-house, and looking about me.”
“Is a counting-house profitable?” I asked.
“To—do you mean to the young fellow who’s in it?” he asked, in reply.
“Yes; to you.”
“Why, n-no; not to me.” He said this with the air of one carefully
reckoning up and striking a balance. “Not directly profitable. That is, it
doesn’t pay me anything, and I have to—keep myself.”
This certainly had not a profitable appearance, and I shook my head as if
I would imply that it would be difficult to lay by much accumulative capital
from such a source of income.
“But the thing is,” said Herbert Pocket, “that you look about you. That’s
the grand thing. You are in a counting-house, you know, and you look about
you.”
It struck me as a singular implication that you couldn’t be out of a
counting-house, you know, and look about you; but I silently deferred to his
experience.
“Then the time comes,” said Herbert, “when you see your opening. And
you go in, and you swoop upon it and you make your capital, and then there
you are! When you have once made your capital, you have nothing to do
but employ it.”
This was very like his way of conducting that encounter in the garden;
very like. His manner of bearing his poverty, too, exactly corresponded to
his manner of bearing that defeat. It seemed to me that he took all blows

and buffets now with just the same air as he had taken mine then. It was
evident that he had nothing around him but the simplest necessaries, for
everything that I remarked upon turned out to have been sent in on my
account from the coffee-house or somewhere else.
Yet, having already made his fortune in his own mind, he was so
unassuming with it that I felt quite grateful to him for not being puffed up.
It was a pleasant addition to his naturally pleasant ways, and we got on
famously. In the evening we went out for a walk in the streets, and went
half-price to the Theatre; and next day we went to church at Westminster
Abbey, and in the afternoon we walked in the Parks; and I wondered who
shod all the horses there, and wished Joe did.
On a moderate computation, it was many months, that Sunday, since I
had left Joe and Biddy. The space interposed between myself and them
partook of that expansion, and our marshes were any distance off. That I
could have been at our old church in my old church-going clothes, on the
very last Sunday that ever was, seemed a combination of impossibilities,
geographical and social, solar and lunar. Yet in the London streets so
crowded with people and so brilliantly lighted in the dusk of evening, there
were depressing hints of reproaches for that I had put the poor old kitchen
at home so far away; and in the dead of night, the footsteps of some
incapable impostor of a porter mooning about Barnard’s Inn, under pretence
of watching it, fell hollow on my heart.
On the Monday morning at a quarter before nine, Herbert went to the
counting-house to report himself,—to look about him, too, I suppose,—and
I bore him company. He was to come away in an hour or two to attend me
to Hammersmith, and I was to wait about for him. It appeared to me that the
eggs from which young Insurers were hatched were incubated in dust and
heat, like the eggs of ostriches, judging from the places to which those
incipient giants repaired on a Monday morning. Nor did the counting-house
where Herbert assisted, show in my eyes as at all a good Observatory; being
a back second floor up a yard, of a grimy presence in all particulars, and
with a look into another back second floor, rather than a look out.
I waited about until it was noon, and I went upon ’Change, and I saw
fluey men sitting there under the bills about shipping, whom I took to be
great merchants, though I couldn’t understand why they should all be out of
spirits. When Herbert came, we went and had lunch at a celebrated house

which I then quite venerated, but now believe to have been the most abject
superstition in Europe, and where I could not help noticing, even then, that
there was much more gravy on the tablecloths and knives and waiters’
clothes, than in the steaks. This collation disposed of at a moderate price
(considering the grease, which was not charged for), we went back to
Barnard’s Inn and got my little portmanteau, and then took coach for
Hammersmith. We arrived there at two or three o’clock in the afternoon,
and had very little way to walk to Mr. Pocket’s house. Lifting the latch of a
gate, we passed direct into a little garden overlooking the river, where Mr.
Pocket’s children were playing about. And unless I deceive myself on a
point where my interests or prepossessions are certainly not concerned, I
saw that Mr. and Mrs. Pocket’s children were not growing up or being
brought up, but were tumbling up.
Mrs. Pocket was sitting on a garden chair under a tree, reading, with her
legs upon another garden chair; and Mrs. Pocket’s two nurse-maids were
looking about them while the children played. “Mamma,” said Herbert,
“this is young Mr. Pip.” Upon which Mrs. Pocket received me with an
appearance of amiable dignity.
“Master Alick and Miss Jane,” cried one of the nurses to two of the
children, “if you go a bouncing up against them bushes you’ll fall over into
the river and be drownded, and what’ll your pa say then?”
At the same time this nurse picked up Mrs. Pocket’s handkerchief, and
said, “If that don’t make six times you’ve dropped it, Mum!” Upon which
Mrs. Pocket laughed and said, “Thank you, Flopson,” and settling herself in
one chair only, resumed her book. Her countenance immediately assumed a
knitted and intent expression as if she had been reading for a week, but
before she could have read half a dozen lines, she fixed her eyes upon me,
and said, “I hope your mamma is quite well?” This unexpected inquiry put
me into such a difficulty that I began saying in the absurdest way that if
there had been any such person I had no doubt she would have been quite
well and would have been very much obliged and would have sent her
compliments, when the nurse came to my rescue.
“Well!” she cried, picking up the pocket-handkerchief, “if that don’t
make seven times! What ARE you a-doing of this afternoon, Mum!” Mrs.
Pocket received her property, at first with a look of unutterable surprise as if

she had never seen it before, and then with a laugh of recognition, and said,
“Thank you, Flopson,” and forgot me, and went on reading.
I found, now I had leisure to count them, that there were no fewer than
six little Pockets present, in various stages of tumbling up. I had scarcely
arrived at the total when a seventh was heard, as in the region of air, wailing
dolefully.
“If there ain’t Baby!” said Flopson, appearing to think it most surprising.
“Make haste up, Millers.”
Millers, who was the other nurse, retired into the house, and by degrees
the child’s wailing was hushed and stopped, as if it were a young
ventriloquist with something in its mouth. Mrs. Pocket read all the time, and
I was curious to know what the book could be.
We were waiting, I supposed, for Mr. Pocket to come out to us; at any
rate we waited there, and so I had an opportunity of observing the
remarkable family phenomenon that whenever any of the children strayed
near Mrs. Pocket in their play, they always tripped themselves up and
tumbled over her,—always very much to her momentary astonishment, and
their own more enduring lamentation. I was at a loss to account for this
surprising circumstance, and could not help giving my mind to speculations
about it, until by and by Millers came down with the baby, which baby was
handed to Flopson, which Flopson was handing it to Mrs. Pocket, when she
too went fairly head foremost over Mrs. Pocket, baby and all, and was
caught by Herbert and myself.
“Gracious me, Flopson!” said Mrs. Pocket, looking off her book for a
moment, “everybody’s tumbling!”
“Gracious you, indeed, Mum!” returned Flopson, very red in the face;
“what have you got there?”
“I got here, Flopson?” asked Mrs. Pocket.
“Why, if it ain’t your footstool!” cried Flopson. “And if you keep it under
your skirts like that, who’s to help tumbling? Here! Take the baby, Mum,
and give me your book.”
Mrs. Pocket acted on the advice, and inexpertly danced the infant a little
in her lap, while the other children played about it. This had lasted but a
very short time, when Mrs. Pocket issued summary orders that they were all
to be taken into the house for a nap. Thus I made the second discovery on

that first occasion, that the nurture of the little Pockets consisted of
alternately tumbling up and lying down.
Under these circumstances, when Flopson and Millers had got the
children into the house, like a little flock of sheep, and Mr. Pocket came out
of it to make my acquaintance, I was not much surprised to find that Mr.
Pocket was a gentleman with a rather perplexed expression of face, and
with his very grey hair disordered on his head, as if he didn’t quite see his
way to putting anything straight.

Chapter XXIII.

M
r. Pocket said he was glad to see me, and he hoped I was not sorry
to see him. “For, I really am not,” he added, with his son’s smile,
“an alarming personage.” He was a young-looking man, in spite
of his perplexities and his very grey hair, and his manner seemed quite
natural. I use the word natural, in the sense of its being unaffected; there
was something comic in his distraught way, as though it would have been
downright ludicrous but for his own perception that it was very near being
so. When he had talked with me a little, he said to Mrs. Pocket, with a
rather anxious contraction of his eyebrows, which were black and
handsome, “Belinda, I hope you have welcomed Mr. Pip?” And she looked
up from her book, and said, “Yes.” She then smiled upon me in an absent
state of mind, and asked me if I liked the taste of orange-flower water? As
the question had no bearing, near or remote, on any foregone or subsequent
transaction, I consider it to have been thrown out, like her previous
approaches, in general conversational condescension.
I found out within a few hours, and may mention at once, that Mrs.
Pocket was the only daughter of a certain quite accidental deceased Knight,
who had invented for himself a conviction that his deceased father would
have been made a Baronet but for somebody’s determined opposition
arising out of entirely personal motives,—I forget whose, if I ever knew,—
the Sovereign’s, the Prime Minister’s, the Lord Chancellor’s, the
Archbishop of Canterbury’s, anybody’s,—and had tacked himself on to the
nobles of the earth in right of this quite supposititious fact. I believe he had
been knighted himself for storming the English grammar at the point of the
pen, in a desperate address engrossed on vellum, on the occasion of the
laying of the first stone of some building or other, and for handing some
Royal Personage either the trowel or the mortar. Be that as it may, he had
directed Mrs. Pocket to be brought up from her cradle as one who in the

nature of things must marry a title, and who was to be guarded from the
acquisition of plebeian domestic knowledge.
So successful a watch and ward had been established over the young lady
by this judicious parent, that she had grown up highly ornamental, but
perfectly helpless and useless. With her character thus happily formed, in
the first bloom of her youth she had encountered Mr. Pocket: who was also
in the first bloom of youth, and not quite decided whether to mount to the
Woolsack, or to roof himself in with a mitre. As his doing the one or the
other was a mere question of time, he and Mrs. Pocket had taken Time by
the forelock (when, to judge from its length, it would seem to have wanted
cutting), and had married without the knowledge of the judicious parent.
The judicious parent, having nothing to bestow or withhold but his blessing,
had handsomely settled that dower upon them after a short struggle, and had
informed Mr. Pocket that his wife was “a treasure for a Prince.” Mr. Pocket
had invested the Prince’s treasure in the ways of the world ever since, and it
was supposed to have brought him in but indifferent interest. Still, Mrs.
Pocket was in general the object of a queer sort of respectful pity, because
she had not married a title; while Mr. Pocket was the object of a queer sort
of forgiving reproach, because he had never got one.
Mr. Pocket took me into the house and showed me my room: which was
a pleasant one, and so furnished as that I could use it with comfort for my
own private sitting-room. He then knocked at the doors of two other similar
rooms, and introduced me to their occupants, by name Drummle and
Startop. Drummle, an old-looking young man of a heavy order of
architecture, was whistling. Startop, younger in years and appearance, was
reading and holding his head, as if he thought himself in danger of
exploding it with too strong a charge of knowledge.
Both Mr. and Mrs. Pocket had such a noticeable air of being in somebody
else’s hands, that I wondered who really was in possession of the house and
let them live there, until I found this unknown power to be the servants. It
was a smooth way of going on, perhaps, in respect of saving trouble; but it
had the appearance of being expensive, for the servants felt it a duty they
owed to themselves to be nice in their eating and drinking, and to keep a
deal of company downstairs. They allowed a very liberal table to Mr. and
Mrs. Pocket, yet it always appeared to me that by far the best part of the
house to have boarded in would have been the kitchen,—always supposing

the boarder capable of self-defence, for, before I had been there a week, a
neighbouring lady with whom the family were personally unacquainted,
wrote in to say that she had seen Millers slapping the baby. This greatly
distressed Mrs. Pocket, who burst into tears on receiving the note, and said
that it was an extraordinary thing that the neighbours couldn’t mind their
own business.
By degrees I learnt, and chiefly from Herbert, that Mr. Pocket had been
educated at Harrow and at Cambridge, where he had distinguished himself;
but that when he had had the happiness of marrying Mrs. Pocket very early
in life, he had impaired his prospects and taken up the calling of a Grinder.
After grinding a number of dull blades,—of whom it was remarkable that
their fathers, when influential, were always going to help him to
preferment, but always forgot to do it when the blades had left the
Grindstone,—he had wearied of that poor work and had come to London.
Here, after gradually failing in loftier hopes, he had “read” with divers who
had lacked opportunities or neglected them, and had refurbished divers
others for special occasions, and had turned his acquirements to the account
of literary compilation and correction, and on such means, added to some
very moderate private resources, still maintained the house I saw.
Mr. and Mrs. Pocket had a toady neighbour; a widow lady of that highly
sympathetic nature that she agreed with everybody, blessed everybody, and
shed smiles and tears on everybody, according to circumstances. This lady’s
name was Mrs. Coiler, and I had the honour of taking her down to dinner on
the day of my installation. She gave me to understand on the stairs, that it
was a blow to dear Mrs. Pocket that dear Mr. Pocket should be under the
necessity of receiving gentlemen to read with him. That did not extend to
me, she told me in a gush of love and confidence (at that time, I had known
her something less than five minutes); if they were all like Me, it would be
quite another thing.
“But dear Mrs. Pocket,” said Mrs. Coiler, “after her early disappointment
(not that dear Mr. Pocket was to blame in that), requires so much luxury and
elegance—”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, to stop her, for I was afraid she was going to cry.
“And she is of so aristocratic a disposition—”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said again, with the same object as before.

“—That it is hard,” said Mrs. Coiler, “to have dear Mr. Pocket’s time and
attention diverted from dear Mrs. Pocket.”
I could not help thinking that it might be harder if the butcher’s time and
attention were diverted from dear Mrs. Pocket; but I said nothing, and
indeed had enough to do in keeping a bashful watch upon my company
manners.
It came to my knowledge, through what passed between Mrs. Pocket and
Drummle while I was attentive to my knife and fork, spoon, glasses, and
other instruments of self-destruction, that Drummle, whose Christian name
was Bentley, was actually the next heir but one to a baronetcy. It further
appeared that the book I had seen Mrs. Pocket reading in the garden was all
about titles, and that she knew the exact date at which her grandpapa would
have come into the book, if he ever had come at all. Drummle didn’t say
much, but in his limited way (he struck me as a sulky kind of fellow) he
spoke as one of the elect, and recognised Mrs. Pocket as a woman and a
sister. No one but themselves and Mrs. Coiler the toady neighbour showed
any interest in this part of the conversation, and it appeared to me that it
was painful to Herbert; but it promised to last a long time, when the page
came in with the announcement of a domestic affliction. It was, in effect,
that the cook had mislaid the beef. To my unutterable amazement, I now, for
the first time, saw Mr. Pocket relieve his mind by going through a
performance that struck me as very extraordinary, but which made no
impression on anybody else, and with which I soon became as familiar as
the rest. He laid down the carving-knife and fork,—being engaged in
carving, at the moment,—put his two hands into his disturbed hair, and
appeared to make an extraordinary effort to lift himself up by it. When he
had done this, and had not lifted himself up at all, he quietly went on with
what he was about.
Mrs. Coiler then changed the subject and began to flatter me. I liked it for
a few moments, but she flattered me so very grossly that the pleasure was
soon over. She had a serpentine way of coming close at me when she
pretended to be vitally interested in the friends and localities I had left,
which was altogether snaky and fork-tongued; and when she made an
occasional bounce upon Startop (who said very little to her), or upon
Drummle (who said less), I rather envied them for being on the opposite
side of the table.

After dinner the children were introduced, and Mrs. Coiler made
admiring comments on their eyes, noses, and legs,—a sagacious way of
improving their minds. There were four little girls, and two little boys,
besides the baby who might have been either, and the baby’s next successor
who was as yet neither. They were brought in by Flopson and Millers, much
as though those two non-commissioned officers had been recruiting
somewhere for children and had enlisted these, while Mrs. Pocket looked at
the young Nobles that ought to have been as if she rather thought she had
had the pleasure of inspecting them before, but didn’t quite know what to
make of them.
“Here! Give me your fork, Mum, and take the baby,” said Flopson.
“Don’t take it that way, or you’ll get its head under the table.”
Thus advised, Mrs. Pocket took it the other way, and got its head upon
the table; which was announced to all present by a prodigious concussion.
“Dear, dear! Give it me back, Mum,” said Flopson; “and Miss Jane, come
and dance to baby, do!”
One of the little girls, a mere mite who seemed to have prematurely taken
upon herself some charge of the others, stepped out of her place by me, and
danced to and from the baby until it left off crying, and laughed. Then, all
the children laughed, and Mr. Pocket (who in the meantime had twice
endeavoured to lift himself up by the hair) laughed, and we all laughed and
were glad.
Flopson, by dint of doubling the baby at the joints like a Dutch doll, then
got it safely into Mrs. Pocket’s lap, and gave it the nut-crackers to play
with; at the same time recommending Mrs. Pocket to take notice that the
handles of that instrument were not likely to agree with its eyes, and sharply
charging Miss Jane to look after the same. Then, the two nurses left the
room, and had a lively scuffle on the staircase with a dissipated page who
had waited at dinner, and who had clearly lost half his buttons at the
gaming-table.
I was made very uneasy in my mind by Mrs. Pocket’s falling into a
discussion with Drummle respecting two baronetcies, while she ate a sliced
orange steeped in sugar and wine, and, forgetting all about the baby on her
lap, who did most appalling things with the nut-crackers. At length little
Jane, perceiving its young brains to be imperilled, softly left her place, and
with many small artifices coaxed the dangerous weapon away. Mrs. Pocket

finishing her orange at about the same time, and not approving of this, said
to Jane,—
“You naughty child, how dare you? Go and sit down this instant!”
“Mamma dear,” lisped the little girl, “baby ood have put hith eyeth out.”
“How dare you tell me so?” retorted Mrs. Pocket. “Go and sit down in
your chair this moment!”
Mrs. Pocket’s dignity was so crushing, that I felt quite abashed, as if I
myself had done something to rouse it.
“Belinda,” remonstrated Mr. Pocket, from the other end of the table,
“how can you be so unreasonable? Jane only interfered for the protection of
baby.”
“I will not allow anybody to interfere,” said Mrs. Pocket. “I am surprised,
Matthew, that you should expose me to the affront of interference.”
“Good God!” cried Mr. Pocket, in an outbreak of desolate desperation.
“Are infants to be nut-crackered into their tombs, and is nobody to save
them?”
“I will not be interfered with by Jane,” said Mrs. Pocket, with a majestic
glance at that innocent little offender. “I hope I know my poor grandpapa’s
position. Jane, indeed!”
Mr. Pocket got his hands in his hair again, and this time really did lift
himself some inches out of his chair. “Hear this!” he helplessly exclaimed
to the elements. “Babies are to be nut-crackered dead, for people’s poor
grandpapa’s positions!” Then he let himself down again, and became silent.
We all looked awkwardly at the tablecloth while this was going on. A
pause succeeded, during which the honest and irrepressible baby made a
series of leaps and crows at little Jane, who appeared to me to be the only
member of the family (irrespective of servants) with whom it had any
decided acquaintance.
“Mr. Drummle,” said Mrs. Pocket, “will you ring for Flopson? Jane, you
undutiful little thing, go and lie down. Now, baby darling, come with ma!”
The baby was the soul of honour, and protested with all its might. It
doubled itself up the wrong way over Mrs. Pocket’s arm, exhibited a pair of
knitted shoes and dimpled ankles to the company in lieu of its soft face, and
was carried out in the highest state of mutiny. And it gained its point after

all, for I saw it through the window within a few minutes, being nursed by
little Jane.
It happened that the other five children were left behind at the dinner-
table, through Flopson’s having some private engagement, and their not
being anybody else’s business. I thus became aware of the mutual relations
between them and Mr. Pocket, which were exemplified in the following
manner. Mr. Pocket, with the normal perplexity of his face heightened and
his hair rumpled, looked at them for some minutes, as if he couldn’t make
out how they came to be boarding and lodging in that establishment, and
why they hadn’t been billeted by Nature on somebody else. Then, in a
distant Missionary way he asked them certain questions,—as why little Joe
had that hole in his frill, who said, Pa, Flopson was going to mend it when
she had time,—and how little Fanny came by that whitlow, who said, Pa,
Millers was going to poultice it when she didn’t forget. Then, he melted into
parental tenderness, and gave them a shilling apiece and told them to go and
play; and then as they went out, with one very strong effort to lift himself
up by the hair he dismissed the hopeless subject.
In the evening there was rowing on the river. As Drummle and Startop
had each a boat, I resolved to set up mine, and to cut them both out. I was
pretty good at most exercises in which country boys are adepts, but as I was
conscious of wanting elegance of style for the Thames,—not to say for
other waters,—I at once engaged to place myself under the tuition of the
winner of a prize-wherry who plied at our stairs, and to whom I was
introduced by my new allies. This practical authority confused me very
much by saying I had the arm of a blacksmith. If he could have known how
nearly the compliment lost him his pupil, I doubt if he would have paid it.
There was a supper-tray after we got home at night, and I think we
should all have enjoyed ourselves, but for a rather disagreeable domestic
occurrence. Mr. Pocket was in good spirits, when a housemaid came in, and
said, “If you please, sir, I should wish to speak to you.”
“Speak to your master?” said Mrs. Pocket, whose dignity was roused
again. “How can you think of such a thing? Go and speak to Flopson. Or
speak to me—at some other time.”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” returned the housemaid, “I should wish
to speak at once, and to speak to master.”

Hereupon, Mr. Pocket went out of the room, and we made the best of
ourselves until he came back.
“This is a pretty thing, Belinda!” said Mr. Pocket, returning with a
countenance expressive of grief and despair. “Here’s the cook lying
insensibly drunk on the kitchen floor, with a large bundle of fresh butter
made up in the cupboard ready to sell for grease!”
Mrs. Pocket instantly showed much amiable emotion, and said, “This is
that odious Sophia’s doing!”
“What do you mean, Belinda?” demanded Mr. Pocket.
“Sophia has told you,” said Mrs. Pocket. “Did I not see her with my own
eyes and hear her with my own ears, come into the room just now and ask
to speak to you?”
“But has she not taken me downstairs, Belinda,” returned Mr. Pocket,
“and shown me the woman, and the bundle too?”
“And do you defend her, Matthew,” said Mrs. Pocket, “for making
mischief?”
Mr. Pocket uttered a dismal groan.
“Am I, grandpapa’s granddaughter, to be nothing in the house?” said
Mrs. Pocket. “Besides, the cook has always been a very nice respectful
woman, and said in the most natural manner when she came to look after
the situation, that she felt I was born to be a Duchess.”
There was a sofa where Mr. Pocket stood, and he dropped upon it in the
attitude of the Dying Gladiator. Still in that attitude he said, with a hollow
voice, “Good night, Mr. Pip,” when I deemed it advisable to go to bed and
leave him.

Chapter XXIV.

A
fter two or three days, when I had established myself in my room
and had gone backwards and forwards to London several times, and
had ordered all I wanted of my tradesmen, Mr. Pocket and I had a
long talk together. He knew more of my intended career than I knew
myself, for he referred to his having been told by Mr. Jaggers that I was not
designed for any profession, and that I should be well enough educated for
my destiny if I could “hold my own” with the average of young men in
prosperous circumstances. I acquiesced, of course, knowing nothing to the
contrary.
He advised my attending certain places in London, for the acquisition of
such mere rudiments as I wanted, and my investing him with the functions
of explainer and director of all my studies. He hoped that with intelligent
assistance I should meet with little to discourage me, and should soon be
able to dispense with any aid but his. Through his way of saying this, and
much more to similar purpose, he placed himself on confidential terms with
me in an admirable manner; and I may state at once that he was always so
zealous and honourable in fulfilling his compact with me, that he made me
zealous and honourable in fulfilling mine with him. If he had shown
indifference as a master, I have no doubt I should have returned the
compliment as a pupil; he gave me no such excuse, and each of us did the
other justice. Nor did I ever regard him as having anything ludicrous about
him—or anything but what was serious, honest, and good—in his tutor
communication with me.
When these points were settled, and so far carried out as that I had begun
to work in earnest, it occurred to me that if I could retain my bedroom in
Barnard’s Inn, my life would be agreeably varied, while my manners would
be none the worse for Herbert’s society. Mr. Pocket did not object to this
arrangement, but urged that before any step could possibly be taken in it, it
must be submitted to my guardian. I felt that this delicacy arose out of the

consideration that the plan would save Herbert some expense, so I went off
to Little Britain and imparted my wish to Mr. Jaggers.
“If I could buy the furniture now hired for me,” said I, “and one or two
other little things, I should be quite at home there.”
“Go it!” said Mr. Jaggers, with a short laugh. “I told you you’d get on.
Well! How much do you want?”
I said I didn’t know how much.
“Come!” retorted Mr. Jaggers. “How much? Fifty pounds?”
“O, not nearly so much.”
“Five pounds?” said Mr. Jaggers.
This was such a great fall, that I said in discomfiture, “O, more than
that.”
“More than that, eh!” retorted Mr. Jaggers, lying in wait for me, with his
hands in his pockets, his head on one side, and his eyes on the wall behind
me; “how much more?”
“It is so difficult to fix a sum,” said I, hesitating.
“Come!” said Mr. Jaggers. “Let’s get at it. Twice five; will that do? Three
times five; will that do? Four times five; will that do?”
I said I thought that would do handsomely.
“Four times five will do handsomely, will it?” said Mr. Jaggers, knitting
his brows. “Now, what do you make of four times five?”
“What do I make of it?”
“Ah!” said Mr. Jaggers; “how much?”
“I suppose you make it twenty pounds,” said I, smiling.
“Never mind what I make it, my friend,” observed Mr. Jaggers, with a
knowing and contradictory toss of his head. “I want to know what you make
it.”
“Twenty pounds, of course.”
“Wemmick!” said Mr. Jaggers, opening his office door. “Take Mr. Pip’s
written order, and pay him twenty pounds.”
This strongly marked way of doing business made a strongly marked
impression on me, and that not of an agreeable kind. Mr. Jaggers never
laughed; but he wore great bright creaking boots, and, in poising himself on

these boots, with his large head bent down and his eyebrows joined
together, awaiting an answer, he sometimes caused the boots to creak, as if
they laughed in a dry and suspicious way. As he happened to go out now,
and as Wemmick was brisk and talkative, I said to Wemmick that I hardly
knew what to make of Mr. Jaggers’s manner.
“Tell him that, and he’ll take it as a compliment,” answered Wemmick;
“he don’t mean that you should know what to make of it.—Oh!” for I
looked surprised, “it’s not personal; it’s professional: only professional.”
Wemmick was at his desk, lunching—and crunching—on a dry hard
biscuit; pieces of which he threw from time to time into his slit of a mouth,
as if he were posting them.
“Always seems to me,” said Wemmick, “as if he had set a man-trap and
was watching it. Suddenly—click—you’re caught!”
Without remarking that man-traps were not among the amenities of life, I
said I supposed he was very skilful?
“Deep,” said Wemmick, “as Australia.” Pointing with his pen at the
office floor, to express that Australia was understood, for the purposes of
the figure, to be symmetrically on the opposite spot of the globe. “If there
was anything deeper,” added Wemmick, bringing his pen to paper, “he’d be
it.”
Then, I said I supposed he had a fine business, and Wemmick said, “Ca-
pi-tal!” Then I asked if there were many clerks? to which he replied,—
“We don’t run much into clerks, because there’s only one Jaggers, and
people won’t have him at second hand. There are only four of us. Would
you like to see ’em? You are one of us, as I may say.”
I accepted the offer. When Mr. Wemmick had put all the biscuit into the
post, and had paid me my money from a cash-box in a safe, the key of
which safe he kept somewhere down his back and produced from his coat-
collar like an iron-pigtail, we went upstairs. The house was dark and
shabby, and the greasy shoulders that had left their mark in Mr. Jaggers’s
room seemed to have been shuffling up and down the staircase for years. In
the front first floor, a clerk who looked something between a publican and a
rat-catcher—a large pale, puffed, swollen man—was attentively engaged
with three or four people of shabby appearance, whom he treated as
unceremoniously as everybody seemed to be treated who contributed to Mr.

Jaggers’s coffers. “Getting evidence together,” said Mr. Wemmick, as we
came out, “for the Bailey.” In the room over that, a little flabby terrier of a
clerk with dangling hair (his cropping seemed to have been forgotten when
he was a puppy) was similarly engaged with a man with weak eyes, whom
Mr. Wemmick presented to me as a smelter who kept his pot always boiling,
and who would melt me anything I pleased,—and who was in an excessive
white-perspiration, as if he had been trying his art on himself. In a back
room, a high-shouldered man with a face-ache tied up in dirty flannel, who
was dressed in old black clothes that bore the appearance of having been
waxed, was stooping over his work of making fair copies of the notes of the
other two gentlemen, for Mr. Jaggers’s own use.
This was all the establishment. When we went downstairs again,
Wemmick led me into my guardian’s room, and said, “This you’ve seen
already.”
“Pray,” said I, as the two odious casts with the twitchy leer upon them
caught my sight again, “whose likenesses are those?”
“These?” said Wemmick, getting upon a chair, and blowing the dust off
the horrible heads before bringing them down. “These are two celebrated
ones. Famous clients of ours that got us a world of credit. This chap (why
you must have come down in the night and been peeping into the inkstand,
to get this blot upon your eyebrow, you old rascal!) murdered his master,
and, considering that he wasn’t brought up to evidence, didn’t plan it
badly.”
“Is it like him?” I asked, recoiling from the brute, as Wemmick spat upon
his eyebrow and gave it a rub with his sleeve.
“Like him? It’s himself, you know. The cast was made in Newgate,
directly after he was taken down. You had a particular fancy for me, hadn’t
you, Old Artful?” said Wemmick. He then explained this affectionate
apostrophe, by touching his brooch representing the lady and the weeping
willow at the tomb with the urn upon it, and saying, “Had it made for me,
express!”
“Is the lady anybody?” said I.
“No,” returned Wemmick. “Only his game. (You liked your bit of game,
didn’t you?) No; deuce a bit of a lady in the case, Mr. Pip, except one,—and
she wasn’t of this slender lady-like sort, and you wouldn’t have caught her
looking after this urn, unless there was something to drink in it.”

Wemmick’s attention being thus directed to his brooch, he put down the
cast, and polished the brooch with his pocket-handkerchief.
“Did that other creature come to the same end?” I asked. “He has the
same look.”
“You’re right,” said Wemmick; “it’s the genuine look. Much as if one
nostril was caught up with a horse-hair and a little fish-hook. Yes, he came
to the same end; quite the natural end here, I assure you. He forged wills,
this blade did, if he didn’t also put the supposed testators to sleep too. You
were a gentlemanly Cove, though” (Mr. Wemmick was again
apostrophising), “and you said you could write Greek. Yah, Bounceable!
What a liar you were! I never met such a liar as you!” Before putting his
late friend on his shelf again, Wemmick touched the largest of his mourning
rings and said, “Sent out to buy it for me, only the day before.”
While he was putting up the other cast and coming down from the chair,
the thought crossed my mind that all his personal jewelry was derived from
like sources. As he had shown no diffidence on the subject, I ventured on
the liberty of asking him the question, when he stood before me, dusting his
hands.
“O yes,” he returned, “these are all gifts of that kind. One brings another,
you see; that’s the way of it. I always take ’em. They’re curiosities. And
they’re property. They may not be worth much, but, after all, they’re
property and portable. It don’t signify to you with your brilliant lookout, but
as to myself, my guiding-star always is, ‘Get hold of portable property’.”
When I had rendered homage to this light, he went on to say, in a friendly
manner:—
“If at any odd time when you have nothing better to do, you wouldn’t
mind coming over to see me at Walworth, I could offer you a bed, and I
should consider it an honour. I have not much to show you; but such two or
three curiosities as I have got you might like to look over; and I am fond of
a bit of garden and a summer-house.”
I said I should be delighted to accept his hospitality.
“Thankee,” said he; “then we’ll consider that it’s to come off, when
convenient to you. Have you dined with Mr. Jaggers yet?”
“Not yet.”

“Well,” said Wemmick, “he’ll give you wine, and good wine. I’ll give
you punch, and not bad punch. And now I’ll tell you something. When you
go to dine with Mr. Jaggers, look at his housekeeper.”
“Shall I see something very uncommon?”
“Well,” said Wemmick, “you’ll see a wild beast tamed. Not so very
uncommon, you’ll tell me. I reply, that depends on the original wildness of
the beast, and the amount of taming. It won’t lower your opinion of Mr.
Jaggers’s powers. Keep your eye on it.”
I told him I would do so, with all the interest and curiosity that his
preparation awakened. As I was taking my departure, he asked me if I
would like to devote five minutes to seeing Mr. Jaggers “at it?”
For several reasons, and not least because I didn’t clearly know what Mr.
Jaggers would be found to be “at,” I replied in the affirmative. We dived
into the City, and came up in a crowded police-court, where a blood-
relation (in the murderous sense) of the deceased, with the fanciful taste in
brooches, was standing at the bar, uncomfortably chewing something; while
my guardian had a woman under examination or cross-examination,—I
don’t know which,—and was striking her, and the bench, and everybody
present, with awe. If anybody, of whatsoever degree, said a word that he
didn’t approve of, he instantly required to have it “taken down.” If anybody
wouldn’t make an admission, he said, “I’ll have it out of you!” and if
anybody made an admission, he said, “Now I have got you!” The
magistrates shivered under a single bite of his finger. Thieves and thief-
takers hung in dread rapture on his words, and shrank when a hair of his
eyebrows turned in their direction. Which side he was on I couldn’t make
out, for he seemed to me to be grinding the whole place in a mill; I only
know that when I stole out on tiptoe, he was not on the side of the bench;
for, he was making the legs of the old gentleman who presided, quite
convulsive under the table, by his denunciations of his conduct as the
representative of British law and justice in that chair that day.

Chapter XXV.

B
entley Drummle, who was so sulky a fellow that he even took up a
book as if its writer had done him an injury, did not take up an
acquaintance in a more agreeable spirit. Heavy in figure, movement,
and comprehension,—in the sluggish complexion of his face, and in the
large, awkward tongue that seemed to loll about in his mouth as he himself
lolled about in a room,—he was idle, proud, niggardly, reserved, and
suspicious. He came of rich people down in Somersetshire, who had nursed
this combination of qualities until they made the discovery that it was just
of age and a blockhead. Thus, Bentley Drummle had come to Mr. Pocket
when he was a head taller than that gentleman, and half a dozen heads
thicker than most gentlemen.
Startop had been spoilt by a weak mother and kept at home when he
ought to have been at school, but he was devotedly attached to her, and
admired her beyond measure. He had a woman’s delicacy of feature, and
was—“as you may see, though you never saw her,” said Herbert to me
—“exactly like his mother.” It was but natural that I should take to him
much more kindly than to Drummle, and that, even in the earliest evenings
of our boating, he and I should pull homeward abreast of one another,
conversing from boat to boat, while Bentley Drummle came up in our wake
alone, under the overhanging banks and among the rushes. He would
always creep in-shore like some uncomfortable amphibious creature, even
when the tide would have sent him fast upon his way; and I always think of
him as coming after us in the dark or by the back-water, when our own two
boats were breaking the sunset or the moonlight in mid-stream.
Herbert was my intimate companion and friend. I presented him with a
half-share in my boat, which was the occasion of his often coming down to
Hammersmith; and my possession of a half-share in his chambers often
took me up to London. We used to walk between the two places at all hours.

I have an affection for the road yet (though it is not so pleasant a road as it
was then), formed in the impressibility of untried youth and hope.
When I had been in Mr. Pocket’s family a month or two, Mr. and Mrs.
Camilla turned up. Camilla was Mr. Pocket’s sister. Georgiana, whom I had
seen at Miss Havisham’s on the same occasion, also turned up. She was a
cousin,—an indigestive single woman, who called her rigidity religion, and
her liver love. These people hated me with the hatred of cupidity and
disappointment. As a matter of course, they fawned upon me in my
prosperity with the basest meanness. Towards Mr. Pocket, as a grown-up
infant with no notion of his own interests, they showed the complacent
forbearance I had heard them express. Mrs. Pocket they held in contempt;
but they allowed the poor soul to have been heavily disappointed in life,
because that shed a feeble reflected light upon themselves.
These were the surroundings among which I settled down, and applied
myself to my education. I soon contracted expensive habits, and began to
spend an amount of money that within a few short months I should have
thought almost fabulous; but through good and evil I stuck to my books.
There was no other merit in this, than my having sense enough to feel my
deficiencies. Between Mr. Pocket and Herbert I got on fast; and, with one or
the other always at my elbow to give me the start I wanted, and clear
obstructions out of my road, I must have been as great a dolt as Drummle if
I had done less.
I had not seen Mr. Wemmick for some weeks, when I thought I would
write him a note and propose to go home with him on a certain evening. He
replied that it would give him much pleasure, and that he would expect me
at the office at six o’clock. Thither I went, and there I found him, putting
the key of his safe down his back as the clock struck.
“Did you think of walking down to Walworth?” said he.
“Certainly,” said I, “if you approve.”
“Very much,” was Wemmick’s reply, “for I have had my legs under the
desk all day, and shall be glad to stretch them. Now, I’ll tell you what I have
got for supper, Mr. Pip. I have got a stewed steak,—which is of home
preparation,—and a cold roast fowl,—which is from the cook’s-shop. I
think it’s tender, because the master of the shop was a Juryman in some
cases of ours the other day, and we let him down easy. I reminded him of it
when I bought the fowl, and I said, “Pick us out a good one, old Briton,

because if we had chosen to keep you in the box another day or two, we
could easily have done it.” He said to that, “Let me make you a present of
the best fowl in the shop.” I let him, of course. As far as it goes, it’s
property and portable. You don’t object to an aged parent, I hope?”
I really thought he was still speaking of the fowl, until he added,
“Because I have got an aged parent at my place.” I then said what politeness
required.
“So, you haven’t dined with Mr. Jaggers yet?” he pursued, as we walked
along.
“Not yet.”
“He told me so this afternoon when he heard you were coming. I expect
you’ll have an invitation to-morrow. He’s going to ask your pals, too. Three
of ’em; ain’t there?”
Although I was not in the habit of counting Drummle as one of my
intimate associates, I answered, “Yes.”
“Well, he’s going to ask the whole gang,”—I hardly felt complimented
by the word,—“and whatever he gives you, he’ll give you good. Don’t look
forward to variety, but you’ll have excellence. And there’s another rum
thing in his house,” proceeded Wemmick, after a moment’s pause, as if the
remark followed on the housekeeper understood; “he never lets a door or
window be fastened at night.”
“Is he never robbed?”
“That’s it!” returned Wemmick. “He says, and gives it out publicly, “I
want to see the man who’ll rob me.” Lord bless you, I have heard him, a
hundred times, if I have heard him once, say to regular cracksmen in our
front office, “You know where I live; now, no bolt is ever drawn there; why
don’t you do a stroke of business with me? Come; can’t I tempt you?” Not a
man of them, sir, would be bold enough to try it on, for love or money.”
“They dread him so much?” said I.
“Dread him,” said Wemmick. “I believe you they dread him. Not but
what he’s artful, even in his defiance of them. No silver, sir. Britannia
metal, every spoon.”
“So they wouldn’t have much,” I observed, “even if they—”

“Ah! But he would have much,” said Wemmick, cutting me short, “and
they know it. He’d have their lives, and the lives of scores of ’em. He’d
have all he could get. And it’s impossible to say what he couldn’t get, if he
gave his mind to it.”
I was falling into meditation on my guardian’s greatness, when Wemmick
remarked:—
“As to the absence of plate, that’s only his natural depth, you know. A
river’s its natural depth, and he’s his natural depth. Look at his watch-chain.
That’s real enough.”
“It’s very massive,” said I.
“Massive?” repeated Wemmick. “I think so. And his watch is a gold
repeater, and worth a hundred pound if it’s worth a penny. Mr. Pip, there are
about seven hundred thieves in this town who know all about that watch;
there’s not a man, a woman, or a child, among them, who wouldn’t identify
the smallest link in that chain, and drop it as if it was red hot, if inveigled
into touching it.”
At first with such discourse, and afterwards with conversation of a more
general nature, did Mr. Wemmick and I beguile the time and the road, until
he gave me to understand that we had arrived in the district of Walworth.
It appeared to be a collection of back lanes, ditches, and little gardens,
and to present the aspect of a rather dull retirement. Wemmick’s house was
a little wooden cottage in the midst of plots of garden, and the top of it was
cut out and painted like a battery mounted with guns.
“My own doing,” said Wemmick. “Looks pretty; don’t it?”
I highly commended it, I think it was the smallest house I ever saw; with
the queerest gothic windows (by far the greater part of them sham), and a
gothic door almost too small to get in at.
“That’s a real flagstaff, you see,” said Wemmick, “and on Sundays I run
up a real flag. Then look here. After I have crossed this bridge, I hoist it up
—so—and cut off the communication.”
The bridge was a plank, and it crossed a chasm about four feet wide and
two deep. But it was very pleasant to see the pride with which he hoisted it
up and made it fast; smiling as he did so, with a relish and not merely
mechanically.

“At nine o’clock every night, Greenwich time,” said Wemmick, “the gun
fires. There he is, you see! And when you hear him go, I think you’ll say
he’s a Stinger.”
The piece of ordnance referred to, was mounted in a separate fortress,
constructed of lattice-work. It was protected from the weather by an
ingenious little tarpaulin contrivance in the nature of an umbrella.
“Then, at the back,” said Wemmick, “out of sight, so as not to impede the
idea of fortifications,—for it’s a principle with me, if you have an idea,
carry it out and keep it up,—I don’t know whether that’s your opinion—”
I said, decidedly.
“—At the back, there’s a pig, and there are fowls and rabbits; then, I
knock together my own little frame, you see, and grow cucumbers; and
you’ll judge at supper what sort of a salad I can raise. So, sir,” said
Wemmick, smiling again, but seriously too, as he shook his head, “if you
can suppose the little place besieged, it would hold out a devil of a time in
point of provisions.”
Then, he conducted me to a bower about a dozen yards off, but which
was approached by such ingenious twists of path that it took quite a long
time to get at; and in this retreat our glasses were already set forth. Our
punch was cooling in an ornamental lake, on whose margin the bower was
raised. This piece of water (with an island in the middle which might have
been the salad for supper) was of a circular form, and he had constructed a
fountain in it, which, when you set a little mill going and took a cork out of
a pipe, played to that powerful extent that it made the back of your hand
quite wet.
“I am my own engineer, and my own carpenter, and my own plumber,
and my own gardener, and my own Jack of all Trades,” said Wemmick, in
acknowledging my compliments. “Well; it’s a good thing, you know. It
brushes the Newgate cobwebs away, and pleases the Aged. You wouldn’t
mind being at once introduced to the Aged, would you? It wouldn’t put you
out?”
I expressed the readiness I felt, and we went into the castle. There we
found, sitting by a fire, a very old man in a flannel coat: clean, cheerful,
comfortable, and well cared for, but intensely deaf.

“Well aged parent,” said Wemmick, shaking hands with him in a cordial
and jocose way, “how am you?”
“All right, John; all right!” replied the old man.
“Here’s Mr. Pip, aged parent,” said Wemmick, “and I wish you could
hear his name. Nod away at him, Mr. Pip; that’s what he likes. Nod away at
him, if you please, like winking!”
“This is a fine place of my son’s, sir,” cried the old man, while I nodded
as hard as I possibly could. “This is a pretty pleasure-ground, sir. This spot
and these beautiful works upon it ought to be kept together by the Nation,
after my son’s time, for the people’s enjoyment.”
“You’re as proud of it as Punch; ain’t you, Aged?” said Wemmick,
contemplating the old man, with his hard face really softened; “there’s a nod
for you;” giving him a tremendous one; “there’s another for you;” giving
him a still more tremendous one; “you like that, don’t you? If you’re not
tired, Mr. Pip—though I know it’s tiring to strangers—will you tip him one
more? You can’t think how it pleases him.”
I tipped him several more, and he was in great spirits. We left him
bestirring himself to feed the fowls, and we sat down to our punch in the
arbour; where Wemmick told me, as he smoked a pipe, that it had taken him
a good many years to bring the property up to its present pitch of perfection.
“Is it your own, Mr. Wemmick?”
“O yes,” said Wemmick, “I have got hold of it, a bit at a time. It’s a
freehold, by George!”
“Is it indeed? I hope Mr. Jaggers admires it?”
“Never seen it,” said Wemmick. “Never heard of it. Never seen the Aged.
Never heard of him. No; the office is one thing, and private life is another.
When I go into the office, I leave the Castle behind me, and when I come
into the Castle, I leave the office behind me. If it’s not in any way
disagreeable to you, you’ll oblige me by doing the same. I don’t wish it
professionally spoken about.”
Of course I felt my good faith involved in the observance of his request.
The punch being very nice, we sat there drinking it and talking, until it was
almost nine o’clock. “Getting near gun-fire,” said Wemmick then, as he laid
down his pipe; “it’s the Aged’s treat.”

Proceeding into the Castle again, we found the Aged heating the poker,
with expectant eyes, as a preliminary to the performance of this great
nightly ceremony. Wemmick stood with his watch in his hand until the
moment was come for him to take the red-hot poker from the Aged, and
repair to the battery. He took it, and went out, and presently the Stinger
went off with a Bang that shook the crazy little box of a cottage as if it must
fall to pieces, and made every glass and teacup in it ring. Upon this, the
Aged—who I believe would have been blown out of his arm-chair but for
holding on by the elbows—cried out exultingly, “He’s fired! I heerd him!”
and I nodded at the old gentleman until it is no figure of speech to declare
that I absolutely could not see him.
The interval between that time and supper Wemmick devoted to showing
me his collection of curiosities. They were mostly of a felonious character;
comprising the pen with which a celebrated forgery had been committed, a
distinguished razor or two, some locks of hair, and several manuscript
confessions written under condemnation,—upon which Mr. Wemmick set
particular value as being, to use his own words, “every one of ’em Lies,
sir.” These were agreeably dispersed among small specimens of china and
glass, various neat trifles made by the proprietor of the museum, and some
tobacco-stoppers carved by the Aged. They were all displayed in that
chamber of the Castle into which I had been first inducted, and which
served, not only as the general sitting-room but as the kitchen too, if I might
judge from a saucepan on the hob, and a brazen bijou over the fireplace
designed for the suspension of a roasting-jack.
There was a neat little girl in attendance, who looked after the Aged in
the day. When she had laid the supper-cloth, the bridge was lowered to give
her means of egress, and she withdrew for the night. The supper was
excellent; and though the Castle was rather subject to dry-rot insomuch that
it tasted like a bad nut, and though the pig might have been farther off, I
was heartily pleased with my whole entertainment. Nor was there any
drawback on my little turret bedroom, beyond there being such a very thin
ceiling between me and the flagstaff, that when I lay down on my back in
bed, it seemed as if I had to balance that pole on my forehead all night.
Wemmick was up early in the morning, and I am afraid I heard him
cleaning my boots. After that, he fell to gardening, and I saw him from my
gothic window pretending to employ the Aged, and nodding at him in a

most devoted manner. Our breakfast was as good as the supper, and at half-
past eight precisely we started for Little Britain. By degrees, Wemmick got
dryer and harder as we went along, and his mouth tightened into a post-
office again. At last, when we got to his place of business and he pulled out
his key from his coat-collar, he looked as unconscious of his Walworth
property as if the Castle and the drawbridge and the arbour and the lake and
the fountain and the Aged, had all been blown into space together by the
last discharge of the Stinger.

Chapter XXVI.

I
t fell out as Wemmick had told me it would, that I had an early
opportunity of comparing my guardian’s establishment with that of his
cashier and clerk. My guardian was in his room, washing his hands
with his scented soap, when I went into the office from Walworth; and he
called me to him, and gave me the invitation for myself and friends which
Wemmick had prepared me to receive. “No ceremony,” he stipulated, “and
no dinner dress, and say to-morrow.” I asked him where we should come to
(for I had no idea where he lived), and I believe it was in his general
objection to make anything like an admission, that he replied, “Come here,
and I’ll take you home with me.” I embrace this opportunity of remarking
that he washed his clients off, as if he were a surgeon or a dentist. He had a
closet in his room, fitted up for the purpose, which smelt of the scented
soap like a perfumer’s shop. It had an unusually large jack-towel on a roller
inside the door, and he would wash his hands, and wipe them and dry them
all over this towel, whenever he came in from a police court or dismissed a
client from his room. When I and my friends repaired to him at six o’clock
next day, he seemed to have been engaged on a case of a darker complexion
than usual, for we found him with his head butted into this closet, not only
washing his hands, but laving his face and gargling his throat. And even
when he had done all that, and had gone all round the jack-towel, he took
out his penknife and scraped the case out of his nails before he put his coat
on.
There were some people slinking about as usual when we passed out into
the street, who were evidently anxious to speak with him; but there was
something so conclusive in the halo of scented soap which encircled his
presence, that they gave it up for that day. As we walked along westward,
he was recognised ever and again by some face in the crowd of the streets,
and whenever that happened he talked louder to me; but he never otherwise
recognised anybody, or took notice that anybody recognised him.

He conducted us to Gerrard Street, Soho, to a house on the south side of
that street. Rather a stately house of its kind, but dolefully in want of
painting, and with dirty windows. He took out his key and opened the door,
and we all went into a stone hall, bare, gloomy, and little used. So, up a dark
brown staircase into a series of three dark brown rooms on the first floor.
There were carved garlands on the panelled walls, and as he stood among
them giving us welcome, I know what kind of loops I thought they looked
like.
Dinner was laid in the best of these rooms; the second was his dressing-
room; the third, his bedroom. He told us that he held the whole house, but
rarely used more of it than we saw. The table was comfortably laid—no
silver in the service, of course—and at the side of his chair was a capacious
dumb-waiter, with a variety of bottles and decanters on it, and four dishes of
fruit for dessert. I noticed throughout, that he kept everything under his own
hand, and distributed everything himself.
There was a bookcase in the room; I saw from the backs of the books,
that they were about evidence, criminal law, criminal biography, trials, acts
of Parliament, and such things. The furniture was all very solid and good,
like his watch-chain. It had an official look, however, and there was nothing
merely ornamental to be seen. In a corner was a little table of papers with a
shaded lamp: so that he seemed to bring the office home with him in that
respect too, and to wheel it out of an evening and fall to work.
As he had scarcely seen my three companions until now,—for he and I
had walked together,—he stood on the hearth-rug, after ringing the bell, and
took a searching look at them. To my surprise, he seemed at once to be
principally if not solely interested in Drummle.
“Pip,” said he, putting his large hand on my shoulder and moving me to
the window, “I don’t know one from the other. Who’s the Spider?”
“The spider?” said I.
“The blotchy, sprawly, sulky fellow.”
“That’s Bentley Drummle,” I replied; “the one with the delicate face is
Startop.”
Not making the least account of “the one with the delicate face,” he
returned, “Bentley Drummle is his name, is it? I like the look of that
fellow.”

He immediately began to talk to Drummle: not at all deterred by his
replying in his heavy reticent way, but apparently led on by it to screw
discourse out of him. I was looking at the two, when there came between
me and them the housekeeper, with the first dish for the table.
She was a woman of about forty, I supposed,—but I may have thought
her younger than she was. Rather tall, of a lithe nimble figure, extremely
pale, with large faded eyes, and a quantity of streaming hair. I cannot say
whether any diseased affection of the heart caused her lips to be parted as if
she were panting, and her face to bear a curious expression of suddenness
and flutter; but I know that I had been to see Macbeth at the theatre, a night
or two before, and that her face looked to me as if it were all disturbed by
fiery air, like the faces I had seen rise out of the Witches’ caldron.
She set the dish on, touched my guardian quietly on the arm with a finger
to notify that dinner was ready, and vanished. We took our seats at the
round table, and my guardian kept Drummle on one side of him, while
Startop sat on the other. It was a noble dish of fish that the housekeeper had
put on table, and we had a joint of equally choice mutton afterwards, and
then an equally choice bird. Sauces, wines, all the accessories we wanted,
and all of the best, were given out by our host from his dumb-waiter; and
when they had made the circuit of the table, he always put them back again.
Similarly, he dealt us clean plates and knives and forks, for each course, and
dropped those just disused into two baskets on the ground by his chair. No
other attendant than the housekeeper appeared. She set on every dish; and I
always saw in her face, a face rising out of the caldron. Years afterwards, I
made a dreadful likeness of that woman, by causing a face that had no other
natural resemblance to it than it derived from flowing hair to pass behind a
bowl of flaming spirits in a dark room.
Induced to take particular notice of the housekeeper, both by her own
striking appearance and by Wemmick’s preparation, I observed that
whenever she was in the room she kept her eyes attentively on my guardian,
and that she would remove her hands from any dish she put before him,
hesitatingly, as if she dreaded his calling her back, and wanted him to speak
when she was nigh, if he had anything to say. I fancied that I could detect in
his manner a consciousness of this, and a purpose of always holding her in
suspense.

Dinner went off gayly, and although my guardian seemed to follow rather
than originate subjects, I knew that he wrenched the weakest part of our
dispositions out of us. For myself, I found that I was expressing my
tendency to lavish expenditure, and to patronise Herbert, and to boast of my
great prospects, before I quite knew that I had opened my lips. It was so
with all of us, but with no one more than Drummle: the development of
whose inclination to gird in a grudging and suspicious way at the rest, was
screwed out of him before the fish was taken off.
It was not then, but when we had got to the cheese, that our conversation
turned upon our rowing feats, and that Drummle was rallied for coming up
behind of a night in that slow amphibious way of his. Drummle upon this,
informed our host that he much preferred our room to our company, and
that as to skill he was more than our master, and that as to strength he could
scatter us like chaff. By some invisible agency, my guardian wound him up
to a pitch little short of ferocity about this trifle; and he fell to baring and
spanning his arm to show how muscular it was, and we all fell to baring and
spanning our arms in a ridiculous manner.
Now the housekeeper was at that time clearing the table; my guardian,
taking no heed of her, but with the side of his face turned from her, was
leaning back in his chair biting the side of his forefinger and showing an
interest in Drummle, that, to me, was quite inexplicable. Suddenly, he
clapped his large hand on the housekeeper’s, like a trap, as she stretched it
across the table. So suddenly and smartly did he do this, that we all stopped
in our foolish contention.
“If you talk of strength,” said Mr. Jaggers, “I’ll show you a wrist. Molly,
let them see your wrist.”
Her entrapped hand was on the table, but she had already put her other
hand behind her waist. “Master,” she said, in a low voice, with her eyes
attentively and entreatingly fixed upon him. “Don’t.”
“I’ll show you a wrist,” repeated Mr. Jaggers, with an immovable
determination to show it. “Molly, let them see your wrist.”
“Master,” she again murmured. “Please!”
“Molly,” said Mr. Jaggers, not looking at her, but obstinately looking at
the opposite side of the room, “let them see both your wrists. Show them.
Come!”

He took his hand from hers, and turned that wrist up on the table. She
brought her other hand from behind her, and held the two out side by side.
The last wrist was much disfigured,—deeply scarred and scarred across and
across. When she held her hands out she took her eyes from Mr. Jaggers,
and turned them watchfully on every one of the rest of us in succession.
“There’s power here,” said Mr. Jaggers, coolly tracing out the sinews
with his forefinger. “Very few men have the power of wrist that this woman
has. It’s remarkable what mere force of grip there is in these hands. I have
had occasion to notice many hands; but I never saw stronger in that respect,
man’s or woman’s, than these.”
While he said these words in a leisurely, critical style, she continued to
look at every one of us in regular succession as we sat. The moment he
ceased, she looked at him again. “That’ll do, Molly,” said Mr. Jaggers,
giving her a slight nod; “you have been admired, and can go.” She
withdrew her hands and went out of the room, and Mr. Jaggers, putting the
decanters on from his dumb-waiter, filled his glass and passed round the
wine.
“At half-past nine, gentlemen,” said he, “we must break up. Pray make
the best use of your time. I am glad to see you all. Mr. Drummle, I drink to
you.”
If his object in singling out Drummle were to bring him out still more, it
perfectly succeeded. In a sulky triumph, Drummle showed his morose
depreciation of the rest of us, in a more and more offensive degree, until he
became downright intolerable. Through all his stages, Mr. Jaggers followed
him with the same strange interest. He actually seemed to serve as a zest to
Mr. Jaggers’s wine.
In our boyish want of discretion I dare say we took too much to drink,
and I know we talked too much. We became particularly hot upon some
boorish sneer of Drummle’s, to the effect that we were too free with our
money. It led to my remarking, with more zeal than discretion, that it came
with a bad grace from him, to whom Startop had lent money in my presence
but a week or so before.
“Well,” retorted Drummle; “he’ll be paid.”
“I don’t mean to imply that he won’t,” said I, “but it might make you
hold your tongue about us and our money, I should think.”

“You should think!” retorted Drummle. “Oh Lord!”
“I dare say,” I went on, meaning to be very severe, “that you wouldn’t
lend money to any of us if we wanted it.”
“You are right,” said Drummle. “I wouldn’t lend one of you a sixpence. I
wouldn’t lend anybody a sixpence.”
“Rather mean to borrow under those circumstances, I should say.”
“You should say,” repeated Drummle. “Oh Lord!”
This was so very aggravating—the more especially as I found myself
making no way against his surly obtuseness—that I said, disregarding
Herbert’s efforts to check me,—
“Come, Mr. Drummle, since we are on the subject, I’ll tell you what
passed between Herbert here and me, when you borrowed that money.”
“I don’t want to know what passed between Herbert there and you,”
growled Drummle. And I think he added in a lower growl, that we might
both go to the devil and shake ourselves.
“I’ll tell you, however,” said I, “whether you want to know or not. We
said that as you put it in your pocket very glad to get it, you seemed to be
immensely amused at his being so weak as to lend it.”
Drummle laughed outright, and sat laughing in our faces, with his hands
in his pockets and his round shoulders raised; plainly signifying that it was
quite true, and that he despised us as asses all.
Hereupon Startop took him in hand, though with a much better grace than
I had shown, and exhorted him to be a little more agreeable. Startop, being
a lively, bright young fellow, and Drummle being the exact opposite, the
latter was always disposed to resent him as a direct personal affront. He
now retorted in a coarse, lumpish way, and Startop tried to turn the
discussion aside with some small pleasantry that made us all laugh.
Resenting this little success more than anything, Drummle, without any
threat or warning, pulled his hands out of his pockets, dropped his round
shoulders, swore, took up a large glass, and would have flung it at his
adversary’s head, but for our entertainer’s dexterously seizing it at the
instant when it was raised for that purpose.
“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Jaggers, deliberately putting down the glass, and
hauling out his gold repeater by its massive chain, “I am exceedingly sorry
to announce that it’s half past nine.”

On this hint we all rose to depart. Before we got to the street door,
Startop was cheerily calling Drummle “old boy,” as if nothing had
happened. But the old boy was so far from responding, that he would not
even walk to Hammersmith on the same side of the way; so Herbert and I,
who remained in town, saw them going down the street on opposite sides;
Startop leading, and Drummle lagging behind in the shadow of the houses,
much as he was wont to follow in his boat.
As the door was not yet shut, I thought I would leave Herbert there for a
moment, and run upstairs again to say a word to my guardian. I found him
in his dressing-room surrounded by his stock of boots, already hard at it,
washing his hands of us.
I told him I had come up again to say how sorry I was that anything
disagreeable should have occurred, and that I hoped he would not blame me
much.
“Pooh!” said he, sluicing his face, and speaking through the water-drops;
“it’s nothing, Pip. I like that Spider though.”
He had turned towards me now, and was shaking his head, and blowing,
and towelling himself.
“I am glad you like him, sir,” said I—“but I don’t.”
“No, no,” my guardian assented; “don’t have too much to do with him.
Keep as clear of him as you can. But I like the fellow, Pip; he is one of the
true sort. Why, if I was a fortune-teller—”
Looking out of the towel, he caught my eye.
“But I am not a fortune-teller,” he said, letting his head drop into a
festoon of towel, and towelling away at his two ears. “You know what I am,
don’t you? Good night, Pip.”
“Good night, sir.”
In about a month after that, the Spider’s time with Mr. Pocket was up for
good, and, to the great relief of all the house but Mrs. Pocket, he went home
to the family hole.

Chapter XXVII.

“MY DEAR MR PIP:—
“I write this by request of Mr. Gargery, for to let you know that he is
going to London in company with Mr. Wopsle and would be glad if
agreeable to be allowed to see you. He would call at Barnard’s Hotel
Tuesday morning at nine o’clock, when if not agreeable please leave word.
Your poor sister is much the same as when you left. We talk of you in the
kitchen every night, and wonder what you are saying and doing. If now
considered in the light of a liberty, excuse it for the love of poor old days.
No more, dear Mr. Pip, from

“Your ever obliged, and affectionate servant,
“BIDDY.”

“P.S. He wishes me most particular to write what larks. He says you will
understand. I hope and do not doubt it will be agreeable to see him, even
though a gentleman, for you had ever a good heart, and he is a worthy,
worthy man. I have read him all, excepting only the last little sentence, and
he wishes me most particular to write again what larks.”

I received this letter by the post on Monday morning, and therefore its
appointment was for next day. Let me confess exactly with what feelings I
looked forward to Joe’s coming.
Not with pleasure, though I was bound to him by so many ties; no; with
considerable disturbance, some mortification, and a keen sense of
incongruity. If I could have kept him away by paying money, I certainly
would have paid money. My greatest reassurance was that he was coming to
Barnard’s Inn, not to Hammersmith, and consequently would not fall in
Bentley Drummle’s way. I had little objection to his being seen by Herbert

or his father, for both of whom I had a respect; but I had the sharpest
sensitiveness as to his being seen by Drummle, whom I held in contempt.
So, throughout life, our worst weaknesses and meannesses are usually
committed for the sake of the people whom we most despise.
I had begun to be always decorating the chambers in some quite
unnecessary and inappropriate way or other, and very expensive those
wrestles with Barnard proved to be. By this time, the rooms were vastly
different from what I had found them, and I enjoyed the honour of
occupying a few prominent pages in the books of a neighbouring
upholsterer. I had got on so fast of late, that I had even started a boy in
boots,—top boots,—in bondage and slavery to whom I might have been
said to pass my days. For, after I had made the monster (out of the refuse of
my washerwoman’s family), and had clothed him with a blue coat, canary
waistcoat, white cravat, creamy breeches, and the boots already mentioned,
I had to find him a little to do and a great deal to eat; and with both of those
horrible requirements he haunted my existence.
This avenging phantom was ordered to be on duty at eight on Tuesday
morning in the hall, (it was two feet square, as charged for floorcloth,) and
Herbert suggested certain things for breakfast that he thought Joe would
like. While I felt sincerely obliged to him for being so interested and
considerate, I had an odd half-provoked sense of suspicion upon me, that if
Joe had been coming to see him, he wouldn’t have been quite so brisk about
it.
However, I came into town on the Monday night to be ready for Joe, and
I got up early in the morning, and caused the sitting-room and breakfast-
table to assume their most splendid appearance. Unfortunately the morning
was drizzly, and an angel could not have concealed the fact that Barnard
was shedding sooty tears outside the window, like some weak giant of a
Sweep.
As the time approached I should have liked to run away, but the Avenger
pursuant to orders was in the hall, and presently I heard Joe on the staircase.
I knew it was Joe, by his clumsy manner of coming upstairs,—his state
boots being always too big for him,—and by the time it took him to read the
names on the other floors in the course of his ascent. When at last he
stopped outside our door, I could hear his finger tracing over the painted
letters of my name, and I afterwards distinctly heard him breathing in at the

keyhole. Finally he gave a faint single rap, and Pepper—such was the
compromising name of the avenging boy—announced “Mr. Gargery!” I
thought he never would have done wiping his feet, and that I must have
gone out to lift him off the mat, but at last he came in.
“Joe, how are you, Joe?”
“Pip, how AIR you, Pip?”
With his good honest face all glowing and shining, and his hat put down
on the floor between us, he caught both my hands and worked them straight
up and down, as if I had been the last-patented Pump.
“I am glad to see you, Joe. Give me your hat.”
But Joe, taking it up carefully with both hands, like a bird’s-nest with
eggs in it, wouldn’t hear of parting with that piece of property, and persisted
in standing talking over it in a most uncomfortable way.
“Which you have that growed,” said Joe, “and that swelled, and that
gentle-folked;” Joe considered a little before he discovered this word; “as to
be sure you are a honour to your king and country.”
“And you, Joe, look wonderfully well.”
“Thank God,” said Joe, “I’m ekerval to most. And your sister, she’s no
worse than she were. And Biddy, she’s ever right and ready. And all friends
is no backerder, if not no forarder. ’Ceptin Wopsle; he’s had a drop.”
All this time (still with both hands taking great care of the bird’s-nest),
Joe was rolling his eyes round and round the room, and round and round the
flowered pattern of my dressing-gown.
“Had a drop, Joe?”
“Why yes,” said Joe, lowering his voice, “he’s left the Church and went
into the playacting. Which the playacting have likeways brought him to
London along with me. And his wish were,” said Joe, getting the bird’s-nest
under his left arm for the moment, and groping in it for an egg with his
right; “if no offence, as I would ’and you that.”
I took what Joe gave me, and found it to be the crumpled play-bill of a
small metropolitan theatre, announcing the first appearance, in that very
week, of “the celebrated Provincial Amateur of Roscian renown, whose
unique performance in the highest tragic walk of our National Bard has
lately occasioned so great a sensation in local dramatic circles.”

“Were you at his performance, Joe?” I inquired.
“I were,” said Joe, with emphasis and solemnity.
“Was there a great sensation?”
“Why,” said Joe, “yes, there certainly were a peck of orange-peel.
Partickler when he see the ghost. Though I put it to yourself, sir, whether it
were calc’lated to keep a man up to his work with a good hart, to be
continiwally cutting in betwixt him and the Ghost with “Amen!” A man
may have had a misfortun’ and been in the Church,” said Joe, lowering his
voice to an argumentative and feeling tone, “but that is no reason why you
should put him out at such a time. Which I meantersay, if the ghost of a
man’s own father cannot be allowed to claim his attention, what can, Sir?
Still more, when his mourning ’at is unfortunately made so small as that the
weight of the black feathers brings it off, try to keep it on how you may.”
A ghost-seeing effect in Joe’s own countenance informed me that Herbert
had entered the room. So, I presented Joe to Herbert, who held out his hand;
but Joe backed from it, and held on by the bird’s-nest.
“Your servant, Sir,” said Joe, “which I hope as you and Pip”—here his
eye fell on the Avenger, who was putting some toast on table, and so plainly
denoted an intention to make that young gentleman one of the family, that I
frowned it down and confused him more—“I meantersay, you two
gentlemen,—which I hope as you get your elths in this close spot? For the
present may be a werry good inn, according to London opinions,” said Joe,
confidentially, “and I believe its character do stand it; but I wouldn’t keep a
pig in it myself,—not in the case that I wished him to fatten wholesome and
to eat with a meller flavour on him.”
Having borne this flattering testimony to the merits of our dwelling-
place, and having incidentally shown this tendency to call me “sir,” Joe,
being invited to sit down to table, looked all round the room for a suitable
spot on which to deposit his hat,—as if it were only on some very few rare
substances in nature that it could find a resting place,—and ultimately stood
it on an extreme corner of the chimney-piece, from which it ever afterwards
fell off at intervals.
“Do you take tea, or coffee, Mr. Gargery?” asked Herbert, who always
presided of a morning.

“Thankee, Sir,” said Joe, stiff from head to foot, “I’ll take whichever is
most agreeable to yourself.”
“What do you say to coffee?”
“Thankee, Sir,” returned Joe, evidently dispirited by the proposal, “since
you are so kind as make chice of coffee, I will not run contrairy to your
own opinions. But don’t you never find it a little ’eating?”
“Say tea then,” said Herbert, pouring it out.
Here Joe’s hat tumbled off the mantel-piece, and he started out of his
chair and picked it up, and fitted it to the same exact spot. As if it were an
absolute point of good breeding that it should tumble off again soon.
“When did you come to town, Mr. Gargery?”
“Were it yesterday afternoon?” said Joe, after coughing behind his hand,
as if he had had time to catch the whooping-cough since he came. “No it
were not. Yes it were. Yes. It were yesterday afternoon” (with an appearance
of mingled wisdom, relief, and strict impartiality).
“Have you seen anything of London yet?”
“Why, yes, Sir,” said Joe, “me and Wopsle went off straight to look at the
Blacking Ware’us. But we didn’t find that it come up to its likeness in the
red bills at the shop doors; which I meantersay,” added Joe, in an
explanatory manner, “as it is there drawd too architectooralooral.”
I really believe Joe would have prolonged this word (mightily expressive
to my mind of some architecture that I know) into a perfect Chorus, but for
his attention being providentially attracted by his hat, which was toppling.
Indeed, it demanded from him a constant attention, and a quickness of eye
and hand, very like that exacted by wicket-keeping. He made extraordinary
play with it, and showed the greatest skill; now, rushing at it and catching it
neatly as it dropped; now, merely stopping it midway, beating it up, and
humouring it in various parts of the room and against a good deal of the
pattern of the paper on the wall, before he felt it safe to close with it; finally
splashing it into the slop-basin, where I took the liberty of laying hands
upon it.

As to his shirt-collar, and his coat-collar, they were perplexing to reflect
upon,—insoluble mysteries both. Why should a man scrape himself to that
extent, before he could consider himself full dressed? Why should he
suppose it necessary to be purified by suffering for his holiday clothes?
Then he fell into such unaccountable fits of meditation, with his fork
midway between his plate and his mouth; had his eyes attracted in such
strange directions; was afflicted with such remarkable coughs; sat so far
from the table, and dropped so much more than he ate, and pretended that
he hadn’t dropped it; that I was heartily glad when Herbert left us for the
City.
I had neither the good sense nor the good feeling to know that this was all
my fault, and that if I had been easier with Joe, Joe would have been easier
with me. I felt impatient of him and out of temper with him; in which
condition he heaped coals of fire on my head.
“Us two being now alone, sir,”—began Joe.
“Joe,” I interrupted, pettishly, “how can you call me, sir?”
Joe looked at me for a single instant with something faintly like reproach.
Utterly preposterous as his cravat was, and as his collars were, I was
conscious of a sort of dignity in the look.
“Us two being now alone,” resumed Joe, “and me having the intentions
and abilities to stay not many minutes more, I will now conclude—

leastways begin—to mention what have led to my having had the present
honour. For was it not,” said Joe, with his old air of lucid exposition, “that
my only wish were to be useful to you, I should not have had the honour of
breaking wittles in the company and abode of gentlemen.”
I was so unwilling to see the look again, that I made no remonstrance
against this tone.
“Well, sir,” pursued Joe, “this is how it were. I were at the Bargemen
t’other night, Pip;”—whenever he subsided into affection, he called me Pip,
and whenever he relapsed into politeness he called me sir; “when there
come up in his shay-cart, Pumblechook. Which that same identical,” said
Joe, going down a new track, “do comb my ’air the wrong way sometimes,
awful, by giving out up and down town as it were him which ever had your
infant companionation and were looked upon as a playfellow by yourself.”
“Nonsense. It was you, Joe.”
“Which I fully believed it were, Pip,” said Joe, slightly tossing his head,
“though it signify little now, sir. Well, Pip; this same identical, which his
manners is given to blusterous, come to me at the Bargemen (wot a pipe
and a pint of beer do give refreshment to the workingman, sir, and do not
over stimilate), and his word were, ‘Joseph, Miss Havisham she wish to
speak to you.’”
“Miss Havisham, Joe?”
“‘She wish,’ were Pumblechook’s word, ‘to speak to you.’” Joe sat and
rolled his eyes at the ceiling.
“Yes, Joe? Go on, please.”
“Next day, sir,” said Joe, looking at me as if I were a long way off,
“having cleaned myself, I go and I see Miss A.”
“Miss A., Joe? Miss Havisham?”
“Which I say, sir,” replied Joe, with an air of legal formality, as if he were
making his will, “Miss A., or otherways Havisham. Her expression air then
as follering: ‘Mr. Gargery. You air in correspondence with Mr. Pip?’ Having
had a letter from you, I were able to say ‘I am.’ (When I married your sister,
sir, I said ‘I will;’ and when I answered your friend, Pip, I said ‘I am.’)
‘Would you tell him, then,’ said she, ‘that which Estella has come home and
would be glad to see him.’”

I felt my face fire up as I looked at Joe. I hope one remote cause of its
firing may have been my consciousness that if I had known his errand, I
should have given him more encouragement.
“Biddy,” pursued Joe, “when I got home and asked her fur to write the
message to you, a little hung back. Biddy says, ‘I know he will be very glad
to have it by word of mouth, it is holiday time, you want to see him, go!’ I
have now concluded, sir,” said Joe, rising from his chair, “and, Pip, I wish
you ever well and ever prospering to a greater and a greater height.”
“But you are not going now, Joe?”
“Yes I am,” said Joe.
“But you are coming back to dinner, Joe?”
“No I am not,” said Joe.
Our eyes met, and all the “Sir” melted out of that manly heart as he gave
me his hand.
“Pip, dear old chap, life is made of ever so many partings welded
together, as I may say, and one man’s a blacksmith, and one’s a whitesmith,
and one’s a goldsmith, and one’s a coppersmith. Diwisions among such
must come, and must be met as they come. If there’s been any fault at all to-
day, it’s mine. You and me is not two figures to be together in London; nor
yet anywheres else but what is private, and beknown, and understood
among friends. It ain’t that I am proud, but that I want to be right, as you
shall never see me no more in these clothes. I’m wrong in these clothes. I’m
wrong out of the forge, the kitchen, or off th’ meshes. You won’t find half
so much fault in me if you think of me in my forge dress, with my hammer
in my hand, or even my pipe. You won’t find half so much fault in me if,
supposing as you should ever wish to see me, you come and put your head
in at the forge window and see Joe the blacksmith, there, at the old anvil, in
the old burnt apron, sticking to the old work. I’m awful dull, but I hope I’ve
beat out something nigh the rights of this at last. And so GOD bless you,
dear old Pip, old chap, GOD bless you!”
I had not been mistaken in my fancy that there was a simple dignity in
him. The fashion of his dress could no more come in its way when he spoke
these words than it could come in its way in Heaven. He touched me gently
on the forehead, and went out. As soon as I could recover myself

sufficiently, I hurried out after him and looked for him in the neighbouring
streets; but he was gone.

Chapter XXVIII.

I
t was clear that I must repair to our town next day, and in the first flow
of my repentance, it was equally clear that I must stay at Joe’s. But,
when I had secured my box-place by to-morrow’s coach, and had been
down to Mr. Pocket’s and back, I was not by any means convinced on the
last point, and began to invent reasons and make excuses for putting up at
the Blue Boar. I should be an inconvenience at Joe’s; I was not expected,
and my bed would not be ready; I should be too far from Miss Havisham’s,
and she was exacting and mightn’t like it. All other swindlers upon earth are
nothing to the self-swindlers, and with such pretences did I cheat myself.
Surely a curious thing. That I should innocently take a bad half-crown of
somebody else’s manufacture is reasonable enough; but that I should
knowingly reckon the spurious coin of my own make as good money! An
obliging stranger, under pretence of compactly folding up my bank-notes
for security’s sake, abstracts the notes and gives me nutshells; but what is
his sleight of hand to mine, when I fold up my own nutshells and pass them
on myself as notes!
Having settled that I must go to the Blue Boar, my mind was much
disturbed by indecision whether or not to take the Avenger. It was tempting
to think of that expensive Mercenary publicly airing his boots in the
archway of the Blue Boar’s posting-yard; it was almost solemn to imagine
him casually produced in the tailor’s shop, and confounding the
disrespectful senses of Trabb’s boy. On the other hand, Trabb’s boy might
worm himself into his intimacy and tell him things; or, reckless and
desperate wretch as I knew he could be, might hoot him in the High Street.
My patroness, too, might hear of him, and not approve. On the whole, I
resolved to leave the Avenger behind.
It was the afternoon coach by which I had taken my place, and, as winter
had now come round, I should not arrive at my destination until two or
three hours after dark. Our time of starting from the Cross Keys was two

o’clock. I arrived on the ground with a quarter of an hour to spare, attended
by the Avenger,—if I may connect that expression with one who never
attended on me if he could possibly help it.
At that time it was customary to carry Convicts down to the dock-yards
by stage-coach. As I had often heard of them in the capacity of outside
passengers, and had more than once seen them on the high road dangling
their ironed legs over the coach roof, I had no cause to be surprised when
Herbert, meeting me in the yard, came up and told me there were two
convicts going down with me. But I had a reason that was an old reason
now for constitutionally faltering whenever I heard the word “convict.”
“You don’t mind them, Handel?” said Herbert.
“O no!”
“I thought you seemed as if you didn’t like them?”
“I can’t pretend that I do like them, and I suppose you don’t particularly.
But I don’t mind them.”
“See! There they are,” said Herbert, “coming out of the Tap. What a
degraded and vile sight it is!”
They had been treating their guard, I suppose, for they had a gaoler with
them, and all three came out wiping their mouths on their hands. The two
convicts were handcuffed together, and had irons on their legs,—irons of a
pattern that I knew well. They wore the dress that I likewise knew well.
Their keeper had a brace of pistols, and carried a thick-knobbed bludgeon
under his arm; but he was on terms of good understanding with them, and
stood with them beside him, looking on at the putting-to of the horses,
rather with an air as if the convicts were an interesting Exhibition not
formally open at the moment, and he the Curator. One was a taller and
stouter man than the other, and appeared as a matter of course, according to
the mysterious ways of the world, both convict and free, to have had
allotted to him the smaller suit of clothes. His arms and legs were like great
pincushions of those shapes, and his attire disguised him absurdly; but I
knew his half-closed eye at one glance. There stood the man whom I had
seen on the settle at the Three Jolly Bargemen on a Saturday night, and who
had brought me down with his invisible gun!
It was easy to make sure that as yet he knew me no more than if he had
never seen me in his life. He looked across at me, and his eye appraised my

watch-chain, and then he incidentally spat and said something to the other
convict, and they laughed and slued themselves round with a clink of their
coupling manacle, and looked at something else. The great numbers on their
backs, as if they were street doors; their coarse mangy ungainly outer
surface, as if they were lower animals; their ironed legs, apologetically
garlanded with pocket-handkerchiefs; and the way in which all present
looked at them and kept from them; made them (as Herbert had said) a most
disagreeable and degraded spectacle.
But this was not the worst of it. It came out that the whole of the back of
the coach had been taken by a family removing from London, and that there
were no places for the two prisoners but on the seat in front behind the
coachman. Hereupon, a choleric gentleman, who had taken the fourth place
on that seat, flew into a most violent passion, and said that it was a breach
of contract to mix him up with such villainous company, and that it was
poisonous, and pernicious, and infamous, and shameful, and I don’t know
what else. At this time the coach was ready and the coachman impatient,
and we were all preparing to get up, and the prisoners had come over with
their keeper,—bringing with them that curious flavour of bread-poultice,
baize, rope-yarn, and hearthstone, which attends the convict presence.
“Don’t take it so much amiss, sir,” pleaded the keeper to the angry
passenger; “I’ll sit next you myself. I’ll put ’em on the outside of the row.
They won’t interfere with you, sir. You needn’t know they’re there.”
“And don’t blame me,” growled the convict I had recognised. “I don’t
want to go. I am quite ready to stay behind. As fur as I am concerned any
one’s welcome to my place.”
“Or mine,” said the other, gruffly. “I wouldn’t have incommoded none of
you, if I’d had my way.” Then they both laughed, and began cracking nuts,
and spitting the shells about.—As I really think I should have liked to do
myself, if I had been in their place and so despised.
At length, it was voted that there was no help for the angry gentleman,
and that he must either go in his chance company or remain behind. So he
got into his place, still making complaints, and the keeper got into the place
next him, and the convicts hauled themselves up as well as they could, and
the convict I had recognised sat behind me with his breath on the hair of my
head.

“Good-bye, Handel!” Herbert called out as we started. I thought what a
blessed fortune it was, that he had found another name for me than Pip.
It is impossible to express with what acuteness I felt the convict’s
breathing, not only on the back of my head, but all along my spine. The
sensation was like being touched in the marrow with some pungent and
searching acid, it set my very teeth on edge. He seemed to have more
breathing business to do than another man, and to make more noise in doing
it; and I was conscious of growing high-shouldered on one side, in my
shrinking endeavours to fend him off.
The weather was miserably raw, and the two cursed the cold. It made us
all lethargic before we had gone far, and when we had left the Half-way
House behind, we habitually dozed and shivered and were silent. I dozed
off, myself, in considering the question whether I ought to restore a couple
of pounds sterling to this creature before losing sight of him, and how it
could best be done. In the act of dipping forward as if I were going to bathe
among the horses, I woke in a fright and took the question up again.
But I must have lost it longer than I had thought, since, although I could
recognise nothing in the darkness and the fitful lights and shadows of our
lamps, I traced marsh country in the cold damp wind that blew at us.
Cowering forward for warmth and to make me a screen against the wind,
the convicts were closer to me than before. The very first words I heard
them interchange as I became conscious, were the words of my own
thought, “Two One Pound notes.”
“How did he get ’em?” said the convict I had never seen.
“How should I know?” returned the other. “He had ’em stowed away
somehows. Giv him by friends, I expect.”
“I wish,” said the other, with a bitter curse upon the cold, “that I had ’em
here.”
“Two one pound notes, or friends?”
“Two one pound notes. I’d sell all the friends I ever had for one, and
think it a blessed good bargain. Well? So he says—?”
“So he says,” resumed the convict I had recognised,—“it was all said and
done in half a minute, behind a pile of timber in the Dock-yard,—‘You’re a-
going to be discharged?’ Yes, I was. Would I find out that boy that had fed

him and kep his secret, and give him them two one pound notes? Yes, I
would. And I did.”
“More fool you,” growled the other. “I’d have spent ’em on a Man, in
wittles and drink. He must have been a green one. Mean to say he knowed
nothing of you?”
“Not a ha’porth. Different gangs and different ships. He was tried again
for prison breaking, and got made a Lifer.”
“And was that—Honour!—the only time you worked out, in this part of
the country?”
“The only time.”
“What might have been your opinion of the place?”
“A most beastly place. Mudbank, mist, swamp, and work; work, swamp,
mist, and mudbank.”
They both execrated the place in very strong language, and gradually
growled themselves out, and had nothing left to say.
After overhearing this dialogue, I should assuredly have got down and
been left in the solitude and darkness of the highway, but for feeling certain
that the man had no suspicion of my identity. Indeed, I was not only so
changed in the course of nature, but so differently dressed and so differently
circumstanced, that it was not at all likely he could have known me without
accidental help. Still, the coincidence of our being together on the coach,
was sufficiently strange to fill me with a dread that some other coincidence
might at any moment connect me, in his hearing, with my name. For this
reason, I resolved to alight as soon as we touched the town, and put myself
out of his hearing. This device I executed successfully. My little
portmanteau was in the boot under my feet; I had but to turn a hinge to get
it out; I threw it down before me, got down after it, and was left at the first
lamp on the first stones of the town pavement. As to the convicts, they went
their way with the coach, and I knew at what point they would be spirited
off to the river. In my fancy, I saw the boat with its convict crew waiting for
them at the slime-washed stairs,—again heard the gruff “Give way, you!”
like an order to dogs,—again saw the wicked Noah’s Ark lying out on the
black water.
I could not have said what I was afraid of, for my fear was altogether
undefined and vague, but there was great fear upon me. As I walked on to

the hotel, I felt that a dread, much exceeding the mere apprehension of a
painful or disagreeable recognition, made me tremble. I am confident that it
took no distinctness of shape, and that it was the revival for a few minutes
of the terror of childhood.
The coffee-room at the Blue Boar was empty, and I had not only ordered
my dinner there, but had sat down to it, before the waiter knew me. As soon
as he had apologised for the remissness of his memory, he asked me if he
should send Boots for Mr. Pumblechook?
“No,” said I, “certainly not.”
The waiter (it was he who had brought up the Great Remonstrance from
the Commercials, on the day when I was bound) appeared surprised, and
took the earliest opportunity of putting a dirty old copy of a local newspaper
so directly in my way, that I took it up and read this paragraph:—

Our readers will learn, not altogether without interest, in reference to the
recent romantic rise in fortune of a young artificer in iron of this
neighbourhood (what a theme, by the way, for the magic pen of our as yet
not universally acknowledged townsman TOOBY, the poet of our columns!)
that the youth’s earliest patron, companion, and friend, was a highly
respected individual not entirely unconnected with the corn and seed trade,
and whose eminently convenient and commodious business premises are
situate within a hundred miles of the High Street. It is not wholly
irrespective of our personal feelings that we record HIM as the Mentor of
our young Telemachus, for it is good to know that our town produced the
founder of the latter’s fortunes. Does the thought-contracted brow of the
local Sage or the lustrous eye of local Beauty inquire whose fortunes? We
believe that Quintin Matsys was the BLACKSMITH of Antwerp. VERB. SAP.

I entertain a conviction, based upon large experience, that if in the days
of my prosperity I had gone to the North Pole, I should have met somebody
there, wandering Esquimaux or civilized man, who would have told me that
Pumblechook was my earliest patron and the founder of my fortunes.

Chapter XXIX.

B
etimes in the morning I was up and out. It was too early yet to go to
Miss Havisham’s, so I loitered into the country on Miss Havisham’s
side of town,—which was not Joe’s side; I could go there to-
morrow,—thinking about my patroness, and painting brilliant pictures of
her plans for me.
She had adopted Estella, she had as good as adopted me, and it could not
fail to be her intention to bring us together. She reserved it for me to restore
the desolate house, admit the sunshine into the dark rooms, set the clocks a-
going and the cold hearths a-blazing, tear down the cobwebs, destroy the
vermin,—in short, do all the shining deeds of the young Knight of romance,
and marry the Princess. I had stopped to look at the house as I passed; and
its seared red brick walls, blocked windows, and strong green ivy clasping
even the stacks of chimneys with its twigs and tendons, as if with sinewy
old arms, had made up a rich attractive mystery, of which I was the hero.
Estella was the inspiration of it, and the heart of it, of course. But, though
she had taken such strong possession of me, though my fancy and my hope
were so set upon her, though her influence on my boyish life and character
had been all-powerful, I did not, even that romantic morning, invest her
with any attributes save those she possessed. I mention this in this place, of
a fixed purpose, because it is the clue by which I am to be followed into my
poor labyrinth. According to my experience, the conventional notion of a
lover cannot be always true. The unqualified truth is, that when I loved
Estella with the love of a man, I loved her simply because I found her
irresistible. Once for all; I knew to my sorrow, often and often, if not
always, that I loved her against reason, against promise, against peace,
against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be.
Once for all; I loved her none the less because I knew it, and it had no more
influence in restraining me than if I had devoutly believed her to be human
perfection.

I so shaped out my walk as to arrive at the gate at my old time. When I
had rung at the bell with an unsteady hand, I turned my back upon the gate,
while I tried to get my breath and keep the beating of my heart moderately
quiet. I heard the side-door open, and steps come across the courtyard; but I
pretended not to hear, even when the gate swung on its rusty hinges.
Being at last touched on the shoulder, I started and turned. I started much
more naturally then, to find myself confronted by a man in a sober grey
dress. The last man I should have expected to see in that place of porter at
Miss Havisham’s door.
“Orlick!”
“Ah, young master, there’s more changes than yours. But come in, come
in. It’s opposed to my orders to hold the gate open.”
I entered and he swung it, and locked it, and took the key out. “Yes!” said
he, facing round, after doggedly preceding me a few steps towards the
house. “Here I am!”
“How did you come here?”
“I come here,” he retorted, “on my legs. I had my box brought alongside
me in a barrow.”
“Are you here for good?”
“I ain’t here for harm, young master, I suppose?”
I was not so sure of that. I had leisure to entertain the retort in my mind,
while he slowly lifted his heavy glance from the pavement, up my legs and
arms, to my face.
“Then you have left the forge?” I said.
“Do this look like a forge?” replied Orlick, sending his glance all round
him with an air of injury. “Now, do it look like it?”
I asked him how long he had left Gargery’s forge?
“One day is so like another here,” he replied, “that I don’t know without
casting it up. However, I come here some time since you left.”
“I could have told you that, Orlick.”
“Ah!” said he, dryly. “But then you’ve got to be a scholar.”
By this time we had come to the house, where I found his room to be one
just within the side-door, with a little window in it looking on the courtyard.
In its small proportions, it was not unlike the kind of place usually assigned