Dombey and Son
‘If you really think that sort of society is good for the child,’ he said sharply, as if there had been no interval since she proposed it, ‘where’s Miss Florence?’
‘Nothing could be better than Miss Florence, Sir,’ said Polly eagerly, ‘but I understood from her maid that they were not to – ’
Mr Dombey rang the bell, and walked till it was answered.
‘Tell them always to let Miss Florence be with Richards when she chooses, and go out with her, and so forth. Tell them to let the children be together, when Richards wishes it.’
The iron was now hot, and Richards striking on it boldly – it was a good cause and she bold in it, though instinctively afraid of Mr Dombey – requested that Miss Florence might be sent down then and there, to make friends with her little brother.
She feigned to be dandling the child as the servant retired on this errand, but she thought that she saw Mr Dombey’s colour changed; that the expression of his face quite altered; that he turned, hurriedly, as if to gainsay what he had said, or she had said, or both, and was only deterred by very shame.
And she was right. The last time he had seen his slighted child, there had been that in the sad embrace between her and her dying mother, which was at once a revelation and a reproach to him. Let him be absorbed as he would in the Son on whom he built such high hopes, he could not forget that closing scene. He could not forget that he had had no part in it. That, at the bottom of its clear depths of tenderness and truth lay those two figures clasped in each other’s arms, while he stood on the bank above them, looking down a mere spectator – not a sharer with them – quite shut out.
Unable to exclude these things from his remembrance, or to keep his mind free from such imperfect shapes of the meaning with which they were fraught, as were able to make themselves visible to him through the mist of his pride, his previous feeling of indifference towards little Florence changed into an uneasiness of an extraordinary kind. Young as she was, and possessing in any eyes but his (and perhaps in his too) even more than the usual amount of childish simplicity and confidence, he almost felt as if she watched and distrusted him. As if she held the clue to something secret in his breast, of the nature of which he was hardly informed himself. As if she had an innate knowledge of one jarring and discordant string within him, and her very breath could sound it.
His feeling about the child had been negative from her birth. He had never conceived an aversion to her: it had not been worth his while or in his humour. She had never been a positively disagreeable object to him. But now he was ill at ease about her. She troubled his peace. He would have preferred to put her idea aside altogether, if he had known how. Perhaps – who shall decide on such mysteries! – he was afraid that he might come to hate her.
When little Florence timidly presented herself, Mr Dombey stopped in his pacing up and down and looked towards her. Had he looked with greater interest and with a father’s eye, he might have read in her keen glance the impulses and fears that made her waver; the passionate desire to run clinging to him, crying, as she hid her face in his embrace, ‘Oh father, try to love me! there’s no one else!’ the dread of a repulse; the fear of being too bold, and of offending him; the pitiable need in which she stood of some assurance and encouragement; and how her overcharged young heart was wandering to find some natural resting-place, for its sorrow and affection.
But he saw nothing of this. He saw her pause irresolutely at the door and look towards him; and he saw no more.
‘Come in,’ he said, ‘come in: what is the child afraid of?’
She came in; and after glancing round her for a moment with an uncertain air, stood pressing her small hands hard together, close within the door.
‘Come here, Florence,’ said her father, coldly. ‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Yes, Papa.’
‘Have you nothing to say to me?’
The tears that stood in her eyes as she raised them quickly to his face, were frozen by the expression it wore. She looked down again, and put out her trembling hand.
Mr Dombey took it loosely in his own, and stood looking down upon her for a moment, as if he knew as little as the child, what to say or do.
‘There! Be a good girl,’ he said, patting her on the head, and regarding her as it were by stealth with a disturbed and doubtful look. ‘Go to Richards! Go!’
His little daughter hesitated for another instant as though she would have clung about him still, or had some lingering hope that he might raise her in his arms and kiss her. She looked up in his face once more. He thought how like her expression was then, to what it had been when she looked round at the Doctor – that night – and instinctively dropped her hand and turned away.
It was not difficult to perceive that Florence was at a great disadvantage in her father’s presence. It was not only a constraint upon the child’s mind, but even upon the natural grace and freedom of her actions. As she sported and played about her baby brother that night, her manner was seldom so winning and so pretty as it naturally was, and sometimes when in his pacing to and fro, he came near her (she had, perhaps, for the moment, forgotten him) it changed upon the instant and became forced and embarrassed.
Still, Polly persevered with all the better heart for seeing this; and, judging of Mr Dombey by herself, had great confidence in the mute appeal of poor little Florence’s mourning dress. ‘It’s hard indeed,’ thought Polly, ‘if he takes only to one little motherless child, when he has another, and that a girl, before his eyes.’
So, Polly kept her before his eyes, as long as she could, and managed so well with little Paul, as to make it very plain that he was all the livelier for his sister’s company. When it was time to withdraw upstairs again, she would have sent Florence into the inner room to say good-night to her father, but the child was timid and drew back; and when she urged her again, said, spreading her hands before her eyes, as if to shut out her own unworthiness, ‘Oh no, no! He don’t want me. He don’t want me!’
The little altercation between them had attracted the notice of Mr Dombey, who inquired from the table where he was sitting at his wine, what the matter was.
‘Miss Florence was afraid of interrupting, Sir, if she came in to say good-night,’ said Richards.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ returned Mr Dombey. ‘You can let her come and go without regarding me.’
The child shrunk as she listened – and was gone, before her humble friend looked round again.
However, Polly triumphed not a little in the success of her well-intentioned scheme, and in the address with which she had brought it to bear: whereof she made a full disclosure to Spitfire when she was once more safely entrenched upstairs. Miss Nipper received that proof of her confidence, as well as the prospect of their free association for the future, rather coldly, and was anything but enthusiastic in her demonstrations of joy.
‘I thought you would have been pleased,’ said Polly.
‘Oh yes, Mrs Richards, I’m very well pleased, thank you,’ returned Susan, who had suddenly become so very upright that she seemed to have put an additional bone in her stays.
‘You don’t show it,’ said Polly.
‘Oh! Being only a permanency I couldn’t be expected to show it like a temporary,’ said Susan Nipper. ‘Temporaries carries it all before ‘em here, I find, but though there’s a excellent party-wall between this house and the next, I mayn’t exactly like to go to it, Mrs Richards, notwithstanding!’
CHAPTER 4. In which some more First Appearances are made on the Stage of these Adventures
Though the offices of Dombey and Son were within the liberties of the City of London, and within hearing of Bow Bells, when their clashing voices were not drowned by the uproar in the streets, yet were there hints of adventurous and romantic story to be observed in some of the adjacent objects. Gog and Magog held their state within ten minutes’ walk; the Royal Exchange was close at hand; the Bank of England, with its vaults of gold and silver ‘down among the dead men’ underground, was their magnificent neighbour. Just round the corner stood the rich East India House, teeming with suggestions of precious stuffs and stones, tigers, elephants, howdahs, hookahs, umbrellas, palm trees, palanquins, and gorgeous princes of a brown complexion sitting on carpets, with their slippers very much turned up at the toes. Anywhere in the immediate vicinity there might be seen pictures of ships speeding away full sail to all parts of the world; outfitting warehouses ready to pack off anybody anywhere, fully equipped in half an hour; and little timber midshipmen in obsolete naval uniforms, eternally employed outside the shop doors of nautical Instrument-makers in taking observations of the hackney carriages.
Sole master and proprietor of one of these effigies – of that which might be called, familiarly, the woodenest – of that which thrust itself out above the pavement, right leg foremost, with a suavity the least endurable, and had the shoe buckles and flapped waistcoat the least reconcileable to human reason, and bore at its right eye the most offensively disproportionate piece of machinery – sole master and proprietor of that Midshipman, and proud of him too, an elderly gentleman in a Welsh wig had paid house-rent, taxes, rates, and dues, for more years than many a full-grown midshipman of flesh and blood has numbered in his life; and midshipmen who have attained a pretty green old age, have not been wanting in the English Navy.
The stock-in-trade of this old gentleman comprised chronometers, barometers, telescopes, compasses, charts, maps, sextants, quadrants, and specimens of every kind of instrument used in the working of a ship’s course, or the keeping of a ship’s reckoning, or the prosecuting of a ship’s discoveries. Objects in brass and glass were in his drawers and on his shelves, which none but the initiated could have found the top of, or guessed the use of, or having once examined, could have ever got back again into their mahogany nests without assistance. Everything was jammed into the tightest cases, fitted into the narrowest corners, fenced up behind the most impertinent cushions, and screwed into the acutest angles, to prevent its philosophical composure from being disturbed by the rolling of the sea. Such extraordinary precautions were taken in every instance to save room, and keep the thing compact; and so much practical navigation was fitted, and cushioned, and screwed into every box (whether the box was a mere slab, as some were, or something between a cocked hat and a star-fish, as others were, and those quite mild and modest boxes as compared with others); that the shop itself, partaking of the general infection, seemed almost to become a snug, sea-going, ship-shape concern, wanting only good sea-room, in the event of an unexpected launch, to work its way securely to any desert island in the world.
Many minor incidents in the household life of the Ships’ Instrument-maker who was proud of his little Midshipman, assisted and bore out this fancy. His acquaintance lying chiefly among ship-chandlers and so forth, he had always plenty of the veritable ships’ biscuit on his table. It was familiar with dried meats and tongues, possessing an extraordinary flavour of rope yarn. Pickles were produced upon it, in great wholesale jars, with ‘dealer in all kinds of Ships’ Provisions’ on the label; spirits were set forth in case bottles with no throats. Old prints of ships with alphabetical references to their various mysteries, hung in frames upon the walls; the Tartar Frigate under weigh, was on the plates; outlandish shells, seaweeds, and mosses, decorated the chimney-piece; the little wainscotted back parlour was lighted by a sky-light, like a cabin.
Here he lived too, in skipper-like state, all alone with his nephew Walter: a boy of fourteen who looked quite enough like a midshipman, to carry out the prevailing idea. But there it ended, for Solomon Gills himself (more generally called old Sol) was far from having a maritime appearance. To say nothing of his Welsh wig, which was as plain and stubborn a Welsh wig as ever was worn, and in which he looked like anything but a Rover, he was a slow, quiet-spoken, thoughtful old fellow, with eyes as red as if they had been small suns looking at you through a fog; and a newly-awakened manner, such as he might have acquired by having stared for three or four days successively through every optical instrument in his shop, and suddenly came back to the world again, to find it green. The only change ever known in his outward man, was from a complete suit of coffee-colour cut very square, and ornamented with glaring buttons, to the same suit of coffee-colour minus the inexpressibles, which were then of a pale nankeen. He wore a very precise shirt-frill, and carried a pair of first-rate spectacles on his forehead, and a tremendous chronometer in his fob, rather than doubt which precious possession, he would have believed in a conspiracy against it on part of all the clocks and watches in the City, and even of the very Sun itself. Such as he was, such he had been in the shop and parlour behind the little Midshipman, for years upon years; going regularly aloft to bed every night in a howling garret remote from the lodgers, where, when gentlemen of England who lived below at ease had little or no idea of the state of the weather, it often blew great guns.
It is half-past five o’clock, and an autumn afternoon, when the reader and Solomon Gills become acquainted. Solomon Gills is in the act of seeing what time it is by the unimpeachable chronometer. The usual daily clearance has been making in the City for an hour or more; and the human tide is still rolling westward. ‘The streets have thinned,’ as Mr Gills says, ‘very much.’ It threatens to be wet to-night. All the weatherglasses in the shop are in low spirits, and the rain already shines upon the cocked hat of the wooden Midshipman.
‘Where’s Walter, I wonder!’ said Solomon Gills, after he had carefully put up the chronometer again. ‘Here’s dinner been ready, half an hour, and no Walter!’
Turning round upon his stool behind the counter, Mr Gills looked out among the instruments in the window, to see if his nephew might be crossing the road. No. He was not among the bobbing umbrellas, and he certainly was not the newspaper boy in the oilskin cap who was slowly working his way along the piece of brass outside, writing his name over Mr Gills’s name with his forefinger.
‘If I didn’t know he was too fond of me to make a run of it, and go and enter himself aboard ship against my wishes, I should begin to be fidgetty,’ said Mr Gills, tapping two or three weather-glasses with his knuckles. ‘I really should. All in the Downs, eh! Lots of moisture! Well! it’s wanted.’
‘I believe,’ said Mr Gills, blowing the dust off the glass top of a compass-case, ‘that you don’t point more direct and due to the back parlour than the boy’s inclination does after all. And the parlour couldn’t bear straighter either. Due north. Not the twentieth part of a point either way.’
‘Halloa, Uncle Sol!’
‘Halloa, my boy!’ cried the Instrument-maker, turning briskly round. ‘What! you are here, are you?’
A cheerful looking, merry boy, fresh with running home in the rain; fair-faced, bright-eyed, and curly-haired.
‘Well, Uncle, how have you got on without me all day? Is dinner ready? I’m so hungry.’
‘As to getting on,’ said Solomon good-naturedly, ‘it would be odd if I couldn’t get on without a young dog like you a great deal better than with you. As to dinner being ready, it’s been ready this half hour and waiting for you. As to being hungry, I am!’
‘Come along then, Uncle!’ cried the boy. ‘Hurrah for the admiral!’
‘Confound the admiral!’ returned Solomon Gills. ‘You mean the Lord Mayor.’
‘No I don’t!’ cried the boy. ‘Hurrah for the admiral! Hurrah for the admiral! For-ward!’
At this word of command, the Welsh wig and its wearer were borne without resistance into the back parlour, as at the head of a boarding party of five hundred men; and Uncle Sol and his nephew were speedily engaged on a fried sole with a prospect of steak to follow.
‘The Lord Mayor, Wally,’ said Solomon, ‘for ever! No more admirals. The Lord Mayor’s your admiral.’
‘Oh, is he though!’ said the boy, shaking his head. ‘Why, the Sword Bearer’s better than him. He draws his sword sometimes.’
‘And a pretty figure he cuts with it for his pains,’ returned the Uncle. ‘Listen to me, Wally, listen to me. Look on the mantelshelf.’
‘Why who has cocked my silver mug up there, on a nail?’ exclaimed the boy.
‘I have,’ said his Uncle. ‘No more mugs now. We must begin to drink out of glasses to-day, Walter. We are men of business. We belong to the City. We started in life this morning.’
‘Well, Uncle,’ said the boy, ‘I’ll drink out of anything you like, so long as I can drink to you. Here’s to you, Uncle Sol, and Hurrah for the – ’
‘Lord Mayor,’ interrupted the old man.
‘For the Lord Mayor, Sheriffs, Common Council, and Livery,’ said the boy. ‘Long life to ‘em!’
The uncle nodded his head with great satisfaction. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘let’s hear something about the Firm.’
‘Oh! there’s not much to be told about the Firm, Uncle,’ said the boy, plying his knife and fork. ‘It’s a precious dark set of offices, and in the room where I sit, there’s a high fender, and an iron safe, and some cards about ships that are going to sail, and an almanack, and some desks and stools, and an inkbottle, and some books, and some boxes, and a lot of cobwebs, and in one of ‘em, just over my head, a shrivelled-up blue-bottle that looks as if it had hung there ever so long.’
‘Nothing else?’ said the Uncle.
‘No, nothing else, except an old birdcage (I wonder how that ever came there!) and a coal-scuttle.’
‘No bankers’ books, or cheque books, or bills, or such tokens of wealth rolling in from day to day?’ said old Sol, looking wistfully at his nephew out of the fog that always seemed to hang about him, and laying an unctuous emphasis upon the words.
‘Oh yes, plenty of that I suppose,’ returned his nephew carelessly; ‘but all that sort of thing’s in Mr Carker’s room, or Mr Morfin’s, or Mr Dombey’s.’
‘Has Mr Dombey been there to-day?’ inquired the Uncle.
‘Oh yes! In and out all day.’
‘He didn’t take any notice of you, I suppose?’.
‘Yes he did. He walked up to my seat, – I wish he wasn’t so solemn and stiff, Uncle, – and said, “Oh! you are the son of Mr Gills the Ships’ Instrument-maker.” “Nephew, Sir,” I said. “I said nephew, boy,” said he. But I could take my oath he said son, Uncle.’
‘You’re mistaken I daresay. It’s no matter.’
‘No, it’s no matter, but he needn’t have been so sharp, I thought. There was no harm in it though he did say son. Then he told me that you had spoken to him about me, and that he had found me employment in the House accordingly, and that I was expected to be attentive and punctual, and then he went away. I thought he didn’t seem to like me much.’
‘You mean, I suppose,’ observed the Instrument-maker, ‘that you didn’t seem to like him much?’
‘Well, Uncle,’ returned the boy, laughing. ‘Perhaps so; I never thought of that.’
Solomon looked a little graver as he finished his dinner, and glanced from time to time at the boy’s bright face. When dinner was done, and the cloth was cleared away (the entertainment had been brought from a neighbouring eating-house), he lighted a candle, and went down below into a little cellar, while his nephew, standing on the mouldy staircase, dutifully held the light. After a moment’s groping here and there, he presently returned with a very ancient-looking bottle, covered with dust and dirt.
‘Why, Uncle Sol!’ said the boy, ‘what are you about? that’s the wonderful Madeira! – there’s only one more bottle!’
Uncle Sol nodded his head, implying that he knew very well what he was about; and having drawn the cork in solemn silence, filled two glasses and set the bottle and a third clean glass on the table.
‘You shall drink the other bottle, Wally,’ he said, ‘when you come to good fortune; when you are a thriving, respected, happy man; when the start in life you have made to-day shall have brought you, as I pray Heaven it may! – to a smooth part of the course you have to run, my child. My love to you!’
Some of the fog that hung about old Sol seemed to have got into his throat; for he spoke huskily. His hand shook too, as he clinked his glass against his nephew’s. But having once got the wine to his lips, he tossed it off like a man, and smacked them afterwards.
‘Dear Uncle,’ said the boy, affecting to make light of it, while the tears stood in his eyes, ‘for the honour you have done me, et cetera, et cetera. I shall now beg to propose Mr Solomon Gills with three times three and one cheer more. Hurrah! and you’ll return thanks, Uncle, when we drink the last bottle together; won’t you?’
They clinked their glasses again; and Walter, who was hoarding his wine, took a sip of it, and held the glass up to his eye with as critical an air as he could possibly assume.
His Uncle sat looking at him for some time in silence. When their eyes at last met, he began at once to pursue the theme that had occupied his thoughts, aloud, as if he had been speaking all the time.
‘You see, Walter,’ he said, ‘in truth this business is merely a habit with me. I am so accustomed to the habit that I could hardly live if I relinquished it: but there’s nothing doing, nothing doing. When that uniform was worn,’ pointing out towards the little Midshipman, ‘then indeed, fortunes were to be made, and were made. But competition, competition – new invention, new invention – alteration, alteration – the world’s gone past me. I hardly know where I am myself, much less where my customers are.’
‘Never mind ‘em, Uncle!’
‘Since you came home from weekly boarding-school at Peckham, for instance – and that’s ten days,’ said Solomon, ‘I don’t remember more than one person that has come into the shop.’
‘Two, Uncle, don’t you recollect? There was the man who came to ask for change for a sovereign – ’
‘That’s the one,’ said Solomon.
‘Why Uncle! don’t you call the woman anybody, who came to ask the way to Mile-End Turnpike?’
‘Oh! it’s true,’ said Solomon, ‘I forgot her. Two persons.’
‘To be sure, they didn’t buy anything,’ cried the boy.
‘No. They didn’t buy anything,’ said Solomon, quietly.
‘Nor want anything,’ cried the boy.
‘No. If they had, they’d gone to another shop,’ said Solomon, in the same tone.
‘But there were two of ‘em, Uncle,’ cried the boy, as if that were a great triumph. ‘You said only one.’
‘Well, Wally,’ resumed the old man, after a short pause: ‘not being like the Savages who came on Robinson Crusoe’s Island, we can’t live on a man who asks for change for a sovereign, and a woman who inquires the way to Mile-End Turnpike. As I said just now, the world has gone past me. I don’t blame it; but I no longer understand it. Tradesmen are not the same as they used to be, apprentices are not the same, business is not the same, business commodities are not the same. Seven-eighths of my stock is old-fashioned. I am an old-fashioned man in an old-fashioned shop, in a street that is not the same as I remember it. I have fallen behind the time, and am too old to catch it again. Even the noise it makes a long way ahead, confuses me.’
Walter was going to speak, but his Uncle held up his hand.
‘Therefore, Wally – therefore it is that I am anxious you should be early in the busy world, and on the world’s track. I am only the ghost of this business – its substance vanished long ago; and when I die, its ghost will be laid. As it is clearly no inheritance for you then, I have thought it best to use for your advantage, almost the only fragment of the old connexion that stands by me, through long habit. Some people suppose me to be wealthy. I wish for your sake they were right. But whatever I leave behind me, or whatever I can give you, you in such a House as Dombey’s are in the road to use well and make the most of. Be diligent, try to like it, my dear boy, work for a steady independence, and be happy!’
‘I’ll do everything I can, Uncle, to deserve your affection. Indeed I will,’ said the boy, earnestly.