BOOK THE FIRST: POVERTY - CHAPTER 18 Little Dorrit's Lover

Little Dorrit had not attained her twenty-second birthday without

finding a lover. Even in the shallow Marshalsea, the ever young

Archer shot off a few featherless arrows now and then from a mouldy

bow, and winged a Collegian or two.

Little Dorrit's lover, however, was not a Collegian. He was the

sentimental son of a turnkey. His father hoped, in the fulness of

time, to leave him the inheritance of an unstained key; and had

from his early youth familiarised him with the duties of his

office, and with an ambition to retain the prison-lock in the

family. While the succession was yet in abeyance, he assisted his

mother in the conduct of a snug tobacco business round the corner

of Horsemonger Lane (his father being a non-resident turnkey),

which could usually command a neat connection within the College

walls.

Years agone, when the object of his affections was wont to sit in

her little arm-chair by the high Lodge-fender, Young John (family

name, Chivery), a year older than herself, had eyed her with

admiring wonder. When he had played with her in the yard, his

favourite game had been to counterfeit locking her up in corners,

and to counterfeit letting her out for real kisses. When he grew

tall enough to peep through the keyhole of the great lock of the

main door, he had divers times set down his father's dinner, or

supper, to get on as it might on the outer side thereof, while he

stood taking cold in one eye by dint of peeping at her through that

airy perspective.

If Young John had ever slackened in his truth in the less

penetrable days of his boyhood, when youth is prone to wear its

boots unlaced and is happily unconscious of digestive organs, he

had soon strung it up again and screwed it tight. At nineteen, his

hand had inscribed in chalk on that part of the wall which fronted

her lodgings, on the occasion of her birthday, 'Welcome sweet

nursling of the Fairies!' At twenty-three, the same hand

falteringly presented cigars on Sundays to the Father of the

Marshalsea, and Father of the queen of his soul.

Young John was small of stature, with rather weak legs and very

weak light hair. One of his eyes (perhaps the eye that used to

peep through the keyhole) was also weak, and looked larger than the

other, as if it couldn't collect itself. Young John was gentle

likewise. But he was great of soul. Poetical, expansive,

faithful.

Though too humble before the ruler of his heart to be sanguine,

Young John had considered the object of his attachment in all its

lights and shades. Following it out to blissful results, he had

descried, without self-commendation, a fitness in it. Say things

prospered, and they were united. She, the child of the Marshalsea;

he, the lock-keeper. There was a fitness in that. Say he became

a resident turnkey. She would officially succeed to the chamber

she had rented so long. There was a beautiful propriety in that.

It looked over the wall, if you stood on tip-toe; and, with a

trellis-work of scarlet beans and a canary or so, would become a

very Arbour. There was a charming idea in that. Then, being all

in all to one another, there was even an appropriate grace in the

lock. With the world shut out (except that part of it which would

be shut in); with its troubles and disturbances only known to them

by hearsay, as they would be described by the pilgrims tarrying

with them on their way to the Insolvent Shrine; with the Arbour

above, and the Lodge below; they would glide down the stream of

time, in pastoral domestic happiness. Young John drew tears from

his eyes by finishing the picture with a tombstone in the adjoining

churchyard, close against the prison wall, bearing the following

touching inscription: 'Sacred to the Memory Of JOHN CHIVERY, Sixty

years Turnkey, and fifty years Head Turnkey, Of the neighbouring

Marshalsea, Who departed this life, universally respected, on the

thirty-first of December, One thousand eight hundred and eighty-

six, Aged eighty-three years. Also of his truly beloved and truly

loving wife, AMY, whose maiden name was DORRIT, Who survived his

loss not quite forty-eight hours, And who breathed her last in the

Marshalsea aforesaid. There she was born, There she lived, There

she died.'

The Chivery parents were not ignorant of their son's attachment --

indeed it had, on some exceptional occasions, thrown him into a

state of mind that had impelled him to conduct himself with

irascibility towards the customers, and damage the business--but

they, in their turns, had worked it out to desirable conclusions.

Mrs Chivery, a prudent woman, had desired her husband to take

notice that their john's prospects of the Lock would certainly be

strengthened by an alliance with Miss Dorrit, who had herself a

kind of claim upon the College and was much respected there. Mrs

Chivery had desired her husband to take notice that if, on the one

hand, their John had means and a post of trust, on the other hand,

Miss Dorrit had family; and that her (Mrs Chivery's) sentiment was,

that two halves made a whole. Mrs Chivery, speaking as a mother

and not as a diplomatist, had then, from a different point of view,

desired her husband to recollect that their John had never been

strong, and that his love had fretted and worrited him enough as it

was, without his being driven to do himself a mischief, as nobody

couldn't say he wouldn't be if he was crossed. These arguments had

so powerfully influenced the mind of Mr Chivery, who was a man of

few words, that he had on sundry Sunday mornings, given his boy

what he termed 'a lucky touch,' signifying that he considered such

commendation of him to Good Fortune, preparatory to his that day

declaring his passion and becoming triumphant. But Young John had

never taken courage to make the declaration; and it was principally

on these occasions that he had returned excited to the tobacco

shop, and flown at the customers.

In this affair, as in every other, Little Dorrit herself was the

last person considered. Her brother and sister were aware of it,

and attained a sort of station by making a peg of it on which to

air the miserably ragged old fiction of the family gentility. Her

sister asserted the family gentility by flouting the poor swain as

he loitered about the prison for glimpses of his dear. Tip

asserted the family gentility, and his own, by coming out in the

character of the aristocratic brother, and loftily swaggering in

the little skittle ground respecting seizures by the scruff of the

neck, which there were looming probabilities of some gentleman

unknown executing on some little puppy not mentioned. These were

not the only members of the Dorrit family who turned it to account.

No, no. The Father of the Marshalsea was supposed to know nothing

about the matter, of course: his poor dignity could not see so low.

But he took the cigars, on Sundays, and was glad to get them; and

sometimes even condescended to walk up and down the yard with the

donor (who was proud and hopeful then), and benignantly to smoke

one in his society. With no less readiness and condescension did

he receive attentions from Chivery Senior, who always relinquished

his arm-chair and newspaper to him, when he came into the Lodge

during one of his spells of duty; and who had even mentioned to

him, that, if he would like at any time after dusk quietly to step

out into the fore-court and take a look at the street, there was

not much to prevent him. If he did not avail himself of this

latter civility, it was only because he had lost the relish for it;

inasmuch as he took everything else he could get, and would say at

times, 'Extremely civil person, Chivery; very attentive man and

very respectful. Young Chivery, too; really almost with a delicate

perception of one's position here. A very well conducted family

indeed, the Chiveries. Their behaviour gratifies me.'

The devoted Young John all this time regarded the family with

reverence. He never dreamed of disputing their pretensions, but

did homage to the miserable Mumbo jumbo they paraded. As to

resenting any affront from her brother, he would have felt, even if

he had not naturally been of a most pacific disposition, that to

wag his tongue or lift his hand against that sacred gentleman would

be an unhallowed act. He was sorry that his noble mind should take

offence; still, he felt the fact to be not incompatible with its

nobility, and sought to propitiate and conciliate that gallant

soul. Her father, a gentleman in misfortune--a gentleman of a fine

spirit and courtly manners, who always bore with him--he deeply

honoured. Her sister he considered somewhat vain and proud, but a

young lady of infinite accomplishments, who could not forget the

past. It was an instinctive testimony to Little Dorrit's worth and

difference from all the rest, that the poor young fellow honoured

and loved her for being simply what she was.

The tobacco business round the corner of Horsemonger Lane was

carried out in a rural establishment one story high, which had the

benefit of the air from the yards of Horsemonger Lane jail, and the

advantage of a retired walk under the wall of that pleasant

establishment. The business was of too modest a character to

support a life-size Highlander, but it maintained a little one on

a bracket on the door-post, who looked like a fallen Cherub that

had found it necessary to take to a kilt.

From the portal thus decorated, one Sunday after an early dinner of

baked viands, Young John issued forth on his usual Sunday errand;

not empty-handed, but with his offering of cigars. He was neatly

attired in a plum-coloured coat, with as large a collar of black

velvet as his figure could carry; a silken waistcoat, bedecked with

golden sprigs; a chaste neckerchief much in vogue at that day,

representing a preserve of lilac pheasants on a buff ground;

pantaloons so highly decorated with side-stripes that each leg was

a three-stringed lute; and a hat of state very high and hard. When

the prudent Mrs Chivery perceived that in addition to these

adornments her John carried a pair of white kid gloves, and a cane

like a little finger-post, surmounted by an ivory hand marshalling

him the way that he should go; and when she saw him, in this heavy

marching order, turn the corner to the right; she remarked to Mr

Chivery, who was at home at the time, that she thought she knew

which way the wind blew.

The Collegians were entertaining a considerable number of visitors

that Sunday afternoon, and their Father kept his room for the

purpose of receiving presentations. After making the tour of the

yard, Little Dorrit's lover with a hurried heart went up-stairs,

and knocked with his knuckles at the Father's door.

'Come in, come in!' said a gracious voice. The Father's voice, her

father's, the Marshalsea's father's. He was seated in his black

velvet cap, with his newspaper, three-and-sixpence accidentally

left on the table, and two chairs arranged. Everything prepared

for holding his Court.

'Ah, Young John! How do you do, how do you do!'

'Pretty well, I thank you, sir. I hope you are the same.'

'Yes, John Chivery; yes. Nothing to complain of.'

'I have taken the liberty, sir, of--'

'Eh?' The Father of the Marshalsea always lifted up his eyebrows

at this point, and became amiably distraught and smilingly absent

in mind.

'--A few cigars, sir.'

'Oh!' (For the moment, excessively surprised.) 'Thank you, Young

John, thank you. But really, I am afraid I am too-- No? Well

then, I will say no more about it. Put them on the mantelshelf, if

you please, Young John. And sit down, sit down. You are not a

stranger, John.'

'Thank you, sir, I am sure-- Miss;' here Young John turned the

great hat round and round upon his left-hand, like a slowly

twirling mouse-cage; 'Miss Amy quite well, sir?'

'Yes, John, yes; very well. She is out.'

'Indeed, sir?'

'Yes, John. Miss Amy is gone for an airing. My young people all

go out a good deal. But at their time of life, it's natural,

John.'

'Very much so, I am sure, sir.'

'An airing. An airing. Yes.' He was blandly tapping his fingers

on the table, and casting his eyes up at the window. 'Amy has gone

for an airing on the Iron Bridge. She has become quite partial to

the Iron Bridge of late, and seems to like to walk there better

than anywhere.' He returned to conversation. 'Your father is not

on duty at present, I think, John?'

'No, sir, he comes on later in the afternoon.' Another twirl of

the great hat, and then Young John said, rising, 'I am afraid I

must wish you good day, sir.'

'So soon? Good day, Young John. Nay, nay,' with the utmost

condescension, 'never mind your glove, John. Shake hands with it

on. You are no stranger here, you know.'

Highly gratified by the kindness of his reception, Young John

descended the staircase. On his way down he met some Collegians

bringing up visitors to be presented, and at that moment Mr Dorrit

happened to call over the banisters with particular distinctness,

'Much obliged to you for your little testimonial, John!'

Little Dorrit's lover very soon laid down his penny on the

tollplate of the Iron Bridge, and came upon it looking about him

for the well-known and well-beloved figure. At first he feared she

was not there; but as he walked on towards the Middlesex side, he

saw her standing still, looking at the water. She was absorbed in

thought, and he wondered what she might be thinking about. There

were the piles of city roofs and chimneys, more free from smoke

than on week-days; and there were the distant masts and steeples.

Perhaps she was thinking about them.

Little Dorrit mused so long, and was so entirely preoccupied, that

although her lover stood quiet for what he thought was a long time,

and twice or thrice retired and came back again to the former spot,

still she did not move. So, in the end, he made up his mind to go

on, and seem to come upon her casually in passing, and speak to

her. The place was quiet, and now or never was the time to speak

to her.

He walked on, and she did not appear to hear his steps until he was

close upon her. When he said 'Miss Dorrit!' she started and fell

back from him, with an expression in her face of fright and

something like dislike that caused him unutterable dismay. She had

often avoided him before--always, indeed, for a long, long while.

She had turned away and glided off so often when she had seen him

coming toward her, that the unfortunate Young John could not think

it accidental. But he had hoped that it might be shyness, her

retiring character, her foreknowledge of the state of his heart,

anything short of aversion. Now, that momentary look had said,

'You, of all people! I would rather have seen any one on earth

than you!'

It was but a momentary look, inasmuch as she checked it, and said

in her soft little voice, 'Oh, Mr John! Is it you?' But she felt

what it had been, as he felt what it had been; and they stood

looking at one another equally confused.

'Miss Amy, I am afraid I disturbed you by speaking to you.'

'Yes, rather. I--I came here to be alone, and I thought I was.'

'Miss Amy, I took the liberty of walking this way, because Mr

Dorrit chanced to mention, when I called upon him just now, that

you--'

She caused him more dismay than before by suddenly murmuring, 'O

father, father!' in a heartrending tone, and turning her face away.

'Miss Amy, I hope I don't give you any uneasiness by naming Mr

Dorrit. I assure you I found him very well and in the best of

Spirits, and he showed me even more than his usual kindness; being

so very kind as to say that I was not a stranger there, and in all

ways gratifying me very much.'

To the inexpressible consternation of her lover, Little Dorrit,

with her hands to her averted face, and rocking herself where she

stood as if she were in pain, murmured, 'O father, how can you! O

dear, dear father, how can you, can you, do it!'

The poor fellow stood gazing at her, overflowing with sympathy, but

not knowing what to make of this, until, having taken out her

handkerchief and put it to her still averted face, she hurried

away. At first he remained stock still; then hurried after her.

'Miss Amy, pray! Will you have the goodness to stop a moment?

Miss Amy, if it comes to that, let ME go. I shall go out of my

senses, if I have to think that I have driven you away like this.'

His trembling voice and unfeigned earnestness brought Little Dorrit

to a stop. 'Oh, I don't know what to do,' she cried, 'I don't know

what to do!'

To Young John, who had never seen her bereft of her quiet self-

command, who had seen her from her infancy ever so reliable and

self-suppressed, there was a shock in her distress, and in having

to associate himself with it as its cause, that shook him from his

great hat to the pavement. He felt it necessary to explain

himself. He might be misunderstood--supposed to mean something, or

to have done something, that had never entered into his

imagination. He begged her to hear him explain himself, as the

greatest favour she could show him.

'Miss Amy, I know very well that your family is far above mine. It

were vain to conceal it. There never was a Chivery a gentleman

that ever I heard of, and I will not commit the meanness of making

a false representation on a subject so momentous. Miss Amy, I know

very well that your high-souled brother, and likewise your spirited

sister, spurn me from a height. What I have to do is to respect

them, to wish to be admitted to their friendship, to look up at the

eminence on which they are placed from my lowlier station--for,

whether viewed as tobacco or viewed as the lock, I well know it is

lowly--and ever wish them well and happy.'

There really was a genuineness in the poor fellow, and a contrast

between the hardness of his hat and the softness of his heart

(albeit, perhaps, of his head, too), that was moving. Little

Dorrit entreated him to disparage neither himself nor his station,

and, above all things, to divest himself of any idea that she

supposed hers to be superior. This gave him a little comfort.

'Miss Amy,' he then stammered, 'I have had for a long time --ages

they seem to me--Revolving ages--a heart-cherished wish to say

something to you. May I say it?'

Little Dorrit involuntarily started from his side again, with the

faintest shadow of her former look; conquering that, she went on at

great speed half across the Bridge without replying!

'May I--Miss Amy, I but ask the question humbly--may I say it? I

have been so unlucky already in giving you pain without having any

such intentions, before the holy Heavens! that there is no fear of

my saying it unless I have your leave. I can be miserable alone,

I can be cut up by myself, why should I also make miserable and cut

up one that I would fling myself off that parapet to give half a

moment's joy to! Not that that's much to do, for I'd do it for

twopence.'

The mournfulness of his spirits, and the gorgeousness of his

appearance, might have made him ridiculous, but that his delicacy

made him respectable. Little Dorrit learnt from it what to do.

'If you please, John Chivery,' she returned, trembling, but in a

quiet way, 'since you are so considerate as to ask me whether you

shall say any more--if you please, no.'

'Never, Miss Amy?'

'No, if you please. Never.'

'O Lord!' gasped Young John.

'But perhaps you will let me, instead, say something to you. I

want to say it earnestly, and with as plain a meaning as it is

possible to express. When you think of us, John--I mean my

brother, and sister, and me--don't think of us as being any

different from the rest; for, whatever we once were (which I hardly

know) we ceased to be long ago, and never can be any more. It will

be much better for you, and much better for others, if you will do

that instead of what you are doing now.'

Young John dolefully protested that he would try to bear it in

mind, and would be heartily glad to do anything she wished.

'As to me,' said Little Dorrit, 'think as little of me as you can;

the less, the better. When you think of me at all, John, let it

only be as the child you have seen grow up in the prison with one

set of duties always occupying her; as a weak, retired, contented,

unprotected girl. I particularly want you to remember, that when

I come outside the gate, I am unprotected and solitary.'

He would try to do anything she wished. But why did Miss Amy so

much want him to remember that?

'Because,' returned Little Dorrit, 'I know I can then quite trust

you not to forget to-day, and not to say any more to me. You are

so generous that I know I can trust to you for that; and I do and

I always will. I am going to show you, at once, that I fully trust

you. I like this place where we are speaking better than any place

I know;' her slight colour had faded, but her lover thought he saw

it coming back just then; 'and I may be often here. I know it is

only necessary for me to tell you so, to be quite sure that you

will never come here again in search of me. And I am--quite sure!'

She might rely upon it, said Young John. He was a miserable

wretch, but her word was more than a law for him.

'And good-bye, John,' said Little Dorrit. 'And I hope you will

have a good wife one day, and be a happy man. I am sure you will

deserve to be happy, and you will be, John.'

As she held out her hand to him with these words, the heart that

was under the waistcoat of sprigs--mere slop-work, if the truth

must be known--swelled to the size of the heart of a gentleman; and

the poor common little fellow, having no room to hold it, burst

into tears.

'Oh, don't cry,' said Little Dorrit piteously. 'Don't, don't!

Good-bye, John. God bless you!'

'Good-bye, Miss Amy. Good-bye!'

And so he left her: first observing that she sat down on the corner

of a seat, and not only rested her little hand upon the rough wall,

but laid her face against it too, as if her head were heavy, and

her mind were sad.

It was an affecting illustration of the fallacy of human projects,

to behold her lover, with the great hat pulled over his eyes, the

velvet collar turned up as if it rained, the plum-coloured coat

buttoned to conceal the silken waistcoat of golden sprigs, and the

little direction-post pointing inexorably home, creeping along by

the worst back-streets, and composing, as he went, the following

new inscription for a tombstone in St George's Churchyard:

'Here lie the mortal remains Of JOHN CHIVERY, Never anything worth

mentioning, Who died about the end of the year one thousand eight

hundred and twenty-six, Of a broken heart, Requesting with his last

breath that the word AMY might be inscribed over his ashes, which

was accordingly directed to be done, By his afflicted Parents.'

Read next: BOOK THE FIRST: POVERTY#CHAPTER 19 The Father of the Marshalsea in two or three Relations

Read previous: BOOK THE FIRST: POVERTY#CHAPTER 17 Nobody's Rival

Table of content of Little Dorrit



GO TO TOP OF SCREEN

Post your review
Your review will be placed after the table of content of this book