BOOK THE SECOND: RICHES - CHAPTER 3 On the Road

The bright morning sun dazzled the eyes, the snow had ceased, the

mists had vanished, the mountain air was so clear and light that

the new sensation of breathing it was like the having entered on a

new existence. To help the delusion, the solid ground itself

seemed gone, and the mountain, a shining waste of immense white

heaps and masses, to be a region of cloud floating between the blue

sky above and the earth far below.

Some dark specks in the snow, like knots upon a little thread,

beginning at the convent door and winding away down the descent in

broken lengths which were not yet pieced together, showed where the

Brethren were at work in several places clearing the track.

Already the snow had begun to be foot-thawed again about the door.

Mules were busily brought out, tied to the rings in the wall, and

laden; strings of bells were buckled on, burdens were adjusted, the

voices of drivers and riders sounded musically. Some of the

earliest had even already resumed their journey; and, both on the

level summit by the dark water near the convent, and on the

downward way of yesterday's ascent, little moving figures of men

and mules, reduced to miniatures by the immensity around, went with

a clear tinkling of bells and a pleasant harmony of tongues.

In the supper-room of last night, a new fire, piled upon the

feathery ashes of the old one, shone upon a homely breakfast of

loaves, butter, and milk. It also shone on the courier of the

Dorrit family, making tea for his party from a supply he had

brought up with him, together with several other small stores which

were chiefly laid in for the use of the strong body of

inconvenience. Mr Gowan and Blandois of Paris had already

breakfasted, and were walking up and down by the lake, smoking

their cigars.

'Gowan, eh?' muttered Tip, otherwise Edward Dorrit, Esquire,

turning over the leaves of the book, when the courier had left them

to breakfast. 'Then Gowan is the name of a puppy, that's all I

have got to say! If it was worth my while, I'd pull his nose. But

it isn't worth my while--fortunately for him. How's his wife, Amy?

I suppose you know. You generally know things of that sort.'

'She is better, Edward. But they are not going to-day.'

'Oh! They are not going to-day! Fortunately for that fellow too,'

said Tip, 'or he and I might have come into collision.'

'It is thought better here that she should lie quiet to-day, and

not be fatigued and shaken by the ride down until to-morrow.'

'With all my heart. But you talk as if you had been nursing her.

You haven't been relapsing into (Mrs General is not here) into old

habits, have you, Amy?'

He asked her the question with a sly glance of observation at Miss

Fanny, and at his father too.

'I have only been in to ask her if I could do anything for her,

Tip,' said Little Dorrit.

'You needn't call me Tip, Amy child,' returned that young gentleman

with a frown; 'because that's an old habit, and one you may as well

lay aside.'

'I didn't mean to say so, Edward dear. I forgot. It was so

natural once, that it seemed at the moment the right word.'

'Oh yes!' Miss Fanny struck in. 'Natural, and right word, and

once, and all the rest of it! Nonsense, you little thing! I know

perfectly well why you have been taking such an interest in this

Mrs Gowan. You can't blind me.'

'I will not try to, Fanny. Don't be angry.'

'Oh! angry!' returned that young lady with a flounce. 'I have no

patience' (which indeed was the truth).

'Pray, Fanny,' said Mr Dorrit, raising his eyebrows, 'what do you

mean? Explain yourself.'

'Oh! Never mind, Pa,' replied Miss Fanny, 'it's no great matter.

Amy will understand me. She knew, or knew of, this Mrs Gowan

before yesterday, and she may as well admit that she did.'

'My child,' said Mr Dorrit, turning to his younger daughter, 'has

your sister--any--ha--authority for this curious statement?'

'However meek we are,' Miss Fanny struck in before she could

answer, 'we don't go creeping into people's rooms on the tops of

cold mountains, and sitting perishing in the frost with people,

unless we know something about them beforehand. It's not very hard

to divine whose friend Mrs Gowan is.'

'Whose friend?' inquired her father.

'Pa, I am sorry to say,' returned Miss Fanny, who had by this time

succeeded in goading herself into a state of much ill-usage and

grievance, which she was often at great pains to do: 'that I

believe her to be a friend of that very objectionable and

unpleasant person, who, with a total absence of all delicacy, which

our experience might have led us to expect from him, insulted us

and outraged our feelings in so public and wilful a manner on an

occasion to which it is understood among us that we will not more

pointedly allude.'

'Amy, my child,' said Mr Dorrit, tempering a bland severity with a

dignified affection, 'is this the case?'

Little Dorrit mildly answered, yes it was.

'Yes it is!' cried Miss Fanny. 'Of course! I said so! And now,

Pa, I do declare once for all'--this young lady was in the habit of

declaring the same thing once for all every day of her life, and

even several times in a day--'that this is shameful! I do declare

once for all that it ought to be put a stop to. Is it not enough

that we have gone through what is only known to ourselves, but are

we to have it thrown in our faces, perseveringly and

systematically, by the very person who should spare our feelings

most? Are we to be exposed to this unnatural conduct every moment

of our lives? Are we never to be permitted to forget? I say

again, it is absolutely infamous!'

'Well, Amy,' observed her brother, shaking his head, 'you know I

stand by you whenever I can, and on most occasions. But I must

say, that, upon my soul, I do consider it rather an unaccountable

mode of showing your sisterly affection, that you should back up a

man who treated me in the most ungentlemanly way in which one man

can treat another. And who,' he added convincingly, must be a low-

minded thief, you know, or he never could have conducted himself as

he did.'

'And see,' said Miss Fanny, 'see what is involved in this! Can we

ever hope to be respected by our servants? Never. Here are our

two women, and Pa's valet, and a footman, and a courier, and all

sorts of dependents, and yet in the midst of these, we are to have

one of ourselves rushing about with tumblers of cold water, like a

menial! Why, a policeman,' said Miss Fanny, 'if a beggar had a fit

in the street, could but go plunging about with tumblers, as this

very Amy did in this very room before our very eyes last night!'

'I don't so much mind that, once in a way,' remarked Mr Edward;

'but your Clennam, as he thinks proper to call himself, is another

thing.'

'He is part of the same thing,' returned Miss Fanny, 'and of a

piece with all the rest. He obtruded himself upon us in the first

instance. We never wanted him. I always showed him, for one, that

I could have dispensed with his company with the greatest pleasure.

He then commits that gross outrage upon our feelings, which he

never could or would have committed but for the delight he took in

exposing us; and then we are to be demeaned for the service of his

friends! Why, I don't wonder at this Mr Gowan's conduct towards

you. What else was to be expected when he was enjoying our past

misfortunes--gloating over them at the moment!'

'Father--Edward--no indeed!' pleaded Little Dorrit. 'Neither Mr

nor Mrs Gowan had ever heard our name. They were, and they are,

quite ignorant of our history.'

'So much the worse,' retorted Fanny, determined not to admit

anything in extenuation, 'for then you have no excuse. If they had

known about us, you might have felt yourself called upon to

conciliate them. That would have been a weak and ridiculous

mistake, but I can respect a mistake, whereas I can't respect a

wilful and deliberate abasing of those who should be nearest and

dearest to us. No. I can't respect that. I can do nothing but

denounce that.'

'I never offend you wilfully, Fanny,' said Little Dorrit, 'though

you are so hard with me.'

'Then you should be more careful, Amy,' returned her sister. 'If

you do such things by accident, you should be more careful. If I

happened to have been born in a peculiar place, and under peculiar

circumstances that blunted my knowledge of propriety, I fancy I

should think myself bound to consider at every step, "Am I going,

ignorantly, to compromise any near and dear relations?" That is

what I fancy I should do, if it was my case.'

Mr Dorrit now interposed, at once to stop these painful subjects by

his authority, and to point their moral by his wisdom.

'My dear,' said he to his younger daughter, 'I beg you to--ha--to

say no more. Your sister Fanny expresses herself strongly, but not

without considerable reason. You have now a--hum--a great position

to support. That great position is not occupied by yourself alone,

but by--ha--by me, and--ha hum--by us. Us. Now, it is incumbent

upon all people in an exalted position, but it is particularly so

on this family, for reasons which I--ha--will not dwell upon, to

make themselves respected. To be vigilant in making themselves

respected. Dependants, to respect us, must be--ha--kept at a

distance and--hum--kept down. Down. Therefore, your not exposing

yourself to the remarks of our attendants by appearing to have at

any time dispensed with their services and performed them for

yourself, is--ha--highly important.'

'Why, who can doubt it?' cried Miss Fanny. 'It's the essence of

everything.'

'Fanny,' returned her father, grandiloquently, 'give me leave, my

dear. We then come to--ha--to Mr Clennam. I am free to say that

I do not, Amy, share your sister's sentiments--that is to say

altogether--hum--altogether--in reference to Mr Clennam. I am

content to regard that individual in the light of--ha--generally--

a well-behaved person. Hum. A well-behaved person. Nor will I

inquire whether Mr Clennam did, at any time, obtrude himself on--

ha--my society. He knew my society to be--hum--sought, and his

plea might be that he regarded me in the light of a public

character. But there were circumstances attending my--ha--slight

knowledge of Mr Clennam (it was very slight), which,' here Mr

Dorrit became extremely grave and impressive, 'would render it

highly indelicate in Mr Clennam to--ha--to seek to renew

communication with me or with any member of my family under

existing circumstances. If Mr Clennam has sufficient delicacy to

perceive the impropriety of any such attempt, I am bound as a

responsible gentleman to--ha--defer to that delicacy on his part.

If, on the other hand, Mr Clennam has not that delicacy, I cannot

for a moment--ha--hold any correspondence with so--hum--coarse a

mind. In either case, it would appear that Mr Clennam is put

altogether out of the question, and that we have nothing to do with

him or he with us. Ha--Mrs General!'

The entrance of the lady whom he announced, to take her place at

the breakfast-table, terminated the discussion. Shortly

afterwards, the courier announced that the valet, and the footman,

and the two maids, and the four guides, and the fourteen mules,

were in readiness; so the breakfast party went out to the convent

door to join the cavalcade.

Mr Gowan stood aloof with his cigar and pencil, but Mr Blandois was

on the spot to pay his respects to the ladies. When he gallantly

pulled off his slouched hat to Little Dorrit, she thought he had

even a more sinister look, standing swart and cloaked in the snow,

than he had in the fire-light over-night. But, as both her father

and her sister received his homage with some favour, she refrained

from expressing any distrust of him, lest it should prove to be a

new blemish derived from her prison birth.

Nevertheless, as they wound down the rugged way while the convent

was yet in sight, she more than once looked round, and descried Mr

Blandois, backed by the convent smoke which rose straight and high

from the chimneys in a golden film, always standing on one jutting

point looking down after them. Long after he was a mere black

stick in the snow, she felt as though she could yet see that smile

of his, that high nose, and those eyes that were too near it. And

even after that, when the convent was gone and some light morning

clouds veiled the pass below it, the ghastly skeleton arms by the

wayside seemed to be all pointing up at him.

More treacherous than snow, perhaps, colder at heart, and harder to

melt, Blandois of Paris by degrees passed out of her mind, as they

came down into the softer regions. Again the sun was warm, again

the streams descending from glaciers and snowy caverns were

refreshing to drink at, again they came among the pine-trees, the

rocky rivulets, the verdant heights and dales, the wooden chalets

and rough zigzag fences of Swiss country. Sometimes the way so

widened that she and her father could ride abreast. And then to

look at him, handsomely clothed in his fur and broadcloths, rich,

free, numerously served and attended, his eyes roving far away

among the glories of the landscape, no miserable screen before them

to darken his sight and cast its shadow on him, was enough.

Her uncle was so far rescued from that shadow of old, that he wore

the clothes they gave him, and performed some ablutions as a

sacrifice to the family credit, and went where he was taken, with

a certain patient animal enjoyment, which seemed to express that

the air and change did him good. In all other respects, save one,

he shone with no light but such as was reflected from his brother.

His brother's greatness, wealth, freedom, and grandeur, pleased him

without any reference to himself. Silent and retiring, he had no

use for speech when he could hear his brother speak; no desire to

be waited on, so that the servants devoted themselves to his

brother. The only noticeable change he originated in himself, was

an alteration in his manner to his younger niece. Every day it

refined more and more into a marked respect, very rarely shown by

age to youth, and still more rarely susceptible, one would have

said, of the fitness with which he invested it. On those occasions

when Miss Fanny did declare once for all, he would take the next

opportunity of baring his grey head before his younger niece, and

of helping her to alight, or handing her to the carriage, or

showing her any other attention, with the profoundest deference.

Yet it never appeared misplaced or forced, being always heartily

simple, spontaneous, and genuine. Neither would he ever consent,

even at his brother's request, to be helped to any place before

her, or to take precedence of her in anything. So jealous was he

of her being respected, that, on this very journey down from the

Great Saint Bernard, he took sudden and violent umbrage at the

footman's being remiss to hold her stirrup, though standing near

when she dismounted; and unspeakably astonished the whole retinue

by charging at him on a hard-headed mule, riding him into a corner,

and threatening to trample him to death.

They were a goodly company, and the Innkeepers all but worshipped

them. Wherever they went, their importance preceded them in the

person of the courier riding before, to see that the rooms of state

were ready. He was the herald of the family procession. The great

travelling-carriage came next: containing, inside, Mr Dorrit, Miss

Dorrit, Miss Amy Dorrit, and Mrs General; outside, some of the

retainers, and (in fine weather) Edward Dorrit, Esquire, for whom

the box was reserved. Then came the chariot containing Frederick

Dorrit, Esquire, and an empty place occupied by Edward Dorrit,

Esquire, in wet weather. Then came the fourgon with the rest of

the retainers, the heavy baggage, and as much as it could carry of

the mud and dust which the other vehicles left behind.

These equipages adorned the yard of the hotel at Martigny, on the

return of the family from their mountain excursion. Other vehicles

were there, much company being on the road, from the patched

Italian Vettura--like the body of a swing from an English fair put

upon a wooden tray on wheels, and having another wooden tray

without wheels put atop of it--to the trim English carriage. But

there was another adornment of the hotel which Mr Dorrit had not

bargained for. Two strange travellers embellished one of his

rooms.

The Innkeeper, hat in hand in the yard, swore to the courier that

he was blighted, that he was desolated, that he was profoundly

afflicted, that he was the most miserable and unfortunate of

beasts, that he had the head of a wooden pig. He ought never to

have made the concession, he said, but the very genteel lady had so

passionately prayed him for the accommodation of that room to dine

in, only for a little half-hour, that he had been vanquished. The

little half-hour was expired, the lady and gentleman were taking

their little dessert and half-cup of coffee, the note was paid, the

horses were ordered, they would depart immediately; but, owing to

an unhappy destiny and the curse of Heaven, they were not yet gone.

Nothing could exceed Mr Dorrit's indignation, as he turned at the

foot of the staircase on hearing these apologies. He felt that the

family dignity was struck at by an assassin's hand. He had a sense

of his dignity, which was of the most exquisite nature. He could

detect a design upon it when nobody else had any perception of the

fact. His life was made an agony by the number of fine scalpels

that he felt to be incessantly engaged in dissecting his dignity.

'Is it possible, sir,' said Mr Dorrit, reddening excessively, 'that

you have--ha--had the audacity to place one of my rooms at the

disposition of any other person?'

Thousands of pardons! It was the host's profound misfortune to

have been overcome by that too genteel lady. He besought

Monseigneur not to enrage himself. He threw himself on Monseigneur

for clemency. If Monseigneur would have the distinguished goodness

to occupy the other salon especially reserved for him, for but five

minutes, all would go well.

'No, sir,' said Mr Dorrit. 'I will not occupy any salon. I will

leave your house without eating or drinking, or setting foot in it.

How do you dare to act like this? Who am I that you--ha--separate

me from other gentlemen?'

Alas! The host called all the universe to witness that Monseigneur

was the most amiable of the whole body of nobility, the most

important, the most estimable, the most honoured. If he separated

Monseigneur from others, it was only because he was more

distinguished, more cherished, more generous, more renowned.

'Don't tell me so, sir,' returned Mr Dorrit, in a mighty heat.

'You have affronted me. You have heaped insults upon me. How dare

you? Explain yourself.'

Ah, just Heaven, then, how could the host explain himself when he

had nothing more to explain; when he had only to apologise, and

confide himself to the so well-known magnanimity of Monseigneur!

'I tell you, sir,' said Mr Dorrit, panting with anger, 'that you

separate me--ha--from other gentlemen; that you make distinctions

between me and other gentlemen of fortune and station. I demand of

you, why? I wish to know on--ha--what authority, on whose

authority. Reply sir. Explain. Answer why.'

Permit the landlord humbly to submit to Monsieur the Courier then,

that Monseigneur, ordinarily so gracious, enraged himself without

cause. There was no why. Monsieur the Courier would represent to

Monseigneur, that he deceived himself in suspecting that there was

any why, but the why his devoted servant had already had the honour

to present to him. The very genteel lady--

'Silence!' cried Mr Dorrit. 'Hold your tongue! I will hear no

more of the very genteel lady; I will hear no more of you. Look at

this family--my family--a family more genteel than any lady. You

have treated this family with disrespect; you have been insolent to

this family. I'll ruin you. Ha--send for the horses, pack the

carriages, I'll not set foot in this man's house again!'

No one had interfered in the dispute, which was beyond the French

colloquial powers of Edward Dorrit, Esquire, and scarcely within

the province of the ladies. Miss Fanny, however, now supported her

father with great bitterness; declaring, in her native tongue, that

it was quite clear there was something special in this man's

impertinence; and that she considered it important that he should

be, by some means, forced to give up his authority for making

distinctions between that family and other wealthy families. What

the reasons of his presumption could be, she was at a loss to

imagine; but reasons he must have, and they ought to be torn from

him.

All the guides, mule-drivers, and idlers in the yard, had made

themselves parties to the angry conference, and were much impressed

by the courier's now bestirring himself to get the carriages out.

With the aid of some dozen people to each wheel, this was done at

a great cost of noise; and then the loading was proceeded with,

pending the arrival of the horses from the post-house.

But the very genteel lady's English chariot being already horsed

and at the inn-door, the landlord had slipped up-stairs to

represent his hard case. This was notified to the yard by his now

coming down the staircase in attendance on the gentleman and the

lady, and by his pointing out the offended majesty of Mr Dorrit to

them with a significant motion of his hand.

'Beg your pardon,' said the gentleman, detaching himself from the

lady, and coming forward. 'I am a man of few words and a bad hand

at an explanation--but lady here is extremely anxious that there

should be no Row. Lady--a mother of mine, in point of fact--wishes

me to say that she hopes no Row.'

Mr Dorrit, still panting under his injury, saluted the gentleman,

and saluted the lady, in a distant, final, and invincible manner.

'No, but really--here, old feller; you!' This was the gentleman's

way of appealing to Edward Dorrit, Esquire, on whom he pounced as

a great and providential relief. 'Let you and I try to make this

all right. Lady so very much wishes no Row.'

Edward Dorrit, Esquire, led a little apart by the button, assumed

a diplomatic expression of countenance in replying, 'Why you must

confess, that when you bespeak a lot of rooms beforehand, and they

belong to you, it's not pleasant to find other people in 'em.'

'No,' said the other, 'I know it isn't. I admit it. Still, let

you and I try to make it all right, and avoid Row. The fault is

not this chap's at all, but my mother's. Being a remarkably fine

woman with no bigodd nonsense about her--well educated, too--she

was too many for this chap. Regularly pocketed him.'

'If that's the case--' Edward Dorrit, Esquire, began.

'Assure you 'pon my soul 'tis the case. Consequently,' said the

other gentleman, retiring on his main position, 'why Row?'

'Edmund,' said the lady from the doorway, 'I hope you have

explained, or are explaining, to the satisfaction of this gentleman

and his family that the civil landlord is not to blame?'

'Assure you, ma'am,' returned Edmund, 'perfectly paralysing myself

with trying it on.' He then looked steadfastly at Edward Dorrit,

Esquire, for some seconds, and suddenly added, in a burst of

confidence, 'Old feller! Is it all right?'

'I don't know, after all,' said the lady, gracefully advancing a

step or two towards Mr Dorrit, 'but that I had better say myself,

at once, that I assured this good man I took all the consequences

on myself of occupying one of a stranger's suite of rooms during

his absence, for just as much (or as little) time as I could dine

in. I had no idea the rightful owner would come back so soon, nor

had I any idea that he had come back, or I should have hastened to

make restoration of my ill-gotten chamber, and to have offered my

explanation and apology. I trust in saying this--'

For a moment the lady, with a glass at her eye, stood transfixed

and speechless before the two Miss Dorrits. At the same moment,

Miss Fanny, in the foreground of a grand pictorial composition,

formed by the family, the family equipages, and the family

servants, held her sister tight under one arm to detain her on the

spot, and with the other arm fanned herself with a distinguished

air, and negligently surveyed the lady from head to foot.

The lady, recovering herself quickly--for it was Mrs Merdle and she

was not easily dashed--went on to add that she trusted in saying

this, she apologised for her boldness, and restored this well-

behaved landlord to the favour that was so very valuable to him.

Mr Dorrit, on the altar of whose dignity all this was incense, made

a gracious reply; and said that his people should--ha--countermand

his horses, and he would--hum--overlook what he had at first

supposed to be an affront, but now regarded as an honour. Upon

this the bosom bent to him; and its owner, with a wonderful command

of feature, addressed a winning smile of adieu to the two sisters,

as young ladies of fortune in whose favour she was much

prepossessed, and whom she had never had the gratification of

seeing before.

Not so, however, Mr Sparkler. This gentleman, becoming transfixed

at the same moment as his lady-mother, could not by any means unfix

himself again, but stood stiffly staring at the whole composition

with Miss Fanny in the Foreground. On his mother saying, 'Edmund,

we are quite ready; will you give me your arm?' he seemed, by the

motion of his lips, to reply with some remark comprehending the

form of words in which his shining talents found the most frequent

utterance, but he relaxed no muscle. So fixed was his figure, that

it would have been matter of some difficulty to bend him

sufficiently to get him in the carriage-door, if he had not

received the timely assistance of a maternal pull from within. He

was no sooner within than the pad of the little window in the back

of the chariot disappeared, and his eye usurped its place. There

it remained as long as so small an object was discernible, and

probably much longer, staring (as though something inexpressibly

surprising should happen to a codfish) like an ill-executed eye in

a large locket.

This encounter was so highly agreeable to Miss Fanny, and gave her

so much to think of with triumph afterwards, that it softened her

asperities exceedingly. When the procession was again in motion

next day, she occupied her place in it with a new gaiety; and

showed such a flow of spirits indeed, that Mrs General looked

rather surprised.

Little Dorrit was glad to be found no fault with, and to see that

Fanny was pleased; but her part in the procession was a musing

part, and a quiet one. Sitting opposite her father in the

travelling-carriage, and recalling the old Marshalsea room, her

present existence was a dream. All that she saw was new and

wonderful, but it was not real; it seemed to her as if those

visions of mountains and picturesque countries might melt away at

any moment, and the carriage, turning some abrupt corner, bring up

with a jolt at the old Marshalsea gate.

To have no work to do was strange, but not half so strange as

having glided into a corner where she had no one to think for,

nothing to plan and contrive, no cares of others to load herself

with. Strange as that was, it was far stranger yet to find a space

between herself and her father, where others occupied themselves in

taking care of him, and where she was never expected to be. At

first, this was so much more unlike her old experience than even

the mountains themselves, that she had been unable to resign

herself to it, and had tried to retain her old place about him.

But he had spoken to her alone, and had said that people--ha--

people in an exalted position, my dear, must scrupulously exact

respect from their dependents; and that for her, his daughter, Miss

Amy Dorrit, of the sole remaining branch of the Dorrits of

Dorsetshire, to be known to--hum--to occupy herself in fulfilling

the functions of--ha hum--a valet, would be incompatible with that

respect. Therefore, my dear, he--ha--he laid his parental

injunctions upon her, to remember that she was a lady, who had now

to conduct herself with--hum--a proper pride, and to preserve the

rank of a lady; and consequently he requested her to abstain from

doing what would occasion--ha--unpleasant and derogatory remarks.

She had obeyed without a murmur. Thus it had been brought about

that she now sat in her corner of the luxurious carriage with her

little patient hands folded before her, quite displaced even from

the last point of the old standing ground in life on which her feet

had lingered.

It was from this position that all she saw appeared unreal; the

more surprising the scenes, the more they resembled the unreality

of her own inner life as she went through its vacant places all day

long. The gorges of the Simplon, its enormous depths and

thundering waterfalls, the wonderful road, the points of danger

where a loose wheel or a faltering horse would have been

destruction, the descent into Italy, the opening of that beautiful

land as the rugged mountain-chasm widened and let them out from a

gloomy and dark imprisonment--all a dream--only the old mean

Marshalsea a reality. Nay, even the old mean Marshalsea was shaken

to its foundations when she pictured it without her father. She

could scarcely believe that the prisoners were still lingering in

the close yard, that the mean rooms were still every one tenanted,

and that the turnkey still stood in the Lodge letting people in and

out, all just as she well knew it to be.

With a remembrance of her father's old life in prison hanging about

her like the burden of a sorrowful tune, Little Dorrit would wake

from a dream of her birth-place into a whole day's dream. The

painted room in which she awoke, often a humbled state-chamber in

a dilapidated palace, would begin it; with its wild red autumnal

vine-leaves overhanging the glass, its orange-trees on the cracked

white terrace outside the window, a group of monks and peasants in

the little street below, misery and magnificence wrestling with

each other upon every rood of ground in the prospect, no matter how

widely diversified, and misery throwing magnificence with the

strength of fate. To this would succeed a labyrinth of bare

passages and pillared galleries, with the family procession already

preparing in the quadrangle below, through the carriages and

luggage being brought together by the servants for the day's

journey. Then breakfast in another painted chamber, damp-stained

and of desolate proportions; and then the departure, which, to her

timidity and sense of not being grand enough for her place in the

ceremonies, was always an uneasy thing. For then the courier (who

himself would have been a foreign gentleman of high mark in the

Marshalsea) would present himself to report that all was ready; and

then her father's valet would pompously induct him into his

travelling-cloak; and then Fanny's maid, and her own maid (who was

a weight on Little Dorrit's mind--absolutely made her cry at first,

she knew so little what to do with her), would be in attendance;

and then her brother's man would complete his master's equipment;

and then her father would give his arm to Mrs General, and her

uncle would give his to her, and, escorted by the landlord and Inn

servants, they would swoop down-stairs. There, a crowd would be

collected to see them enter their carriages, which, amidst much

bowing, and begging, and prancing, and lashing, and clattering,

they would do; and so they would be driven madly through narrow

unsavoury streets, and jerked out at the town gate.

Among the day's unrealities would be roads where the bright red

vines were looped and garlanded together on trees for many miles;

woods of olives; white villages and towns on hill-sides, lovely

without, but frightful in their dirt and poverty within; crosses by

the way; deep blue lakes with fairy islands, and clustering boats

with awnings of bright colours and sails of beautiful forms; vast

piles of building mouldering to dust; hanging-gardens where the

weeds had grown so strong that their stems, like wedges driven

home, had split the arch and rent the wall; stone-terraced lanes,

with the lizards running into and out of every chink; beggars of

all sorts everywhere: pitiful, picturesque, hungry, merry; children

beggars and aged beggars. Often at posting-houses and other

halting places, these miserable creatures would appear to her the

only realities of the day; and many a time, when the money she had

brought to give them was all given away, she would sit with her

folded hands, thoughtfully looking after some diminutive girl

leading her grey father, as if the sight reminded her of something

in the days that were gone.

Again, there would be places where they stayed the week together in

splendid rooms, had banquets every day, rode out among heaps of

wonders, walked through miles of palaces, and rested in dark

corners of great churches; where there were winking lamps of gold

and silver among pillars and arches, kneeling figures dotted about

at confessionals and on the pavements; where there was the mist and

scent of incense; where there were pictures, fantastic images,

gaudy altars, great heights and distances, all softly lighted

through stained glass, and the massive curtains that hung in the

doorways. From these cities they would go on again, by the roads

of vines and olives, through squalid villages, where there was not

a hovel without a gap in its filthy walls, not a window with a

whole inch of glass or paper; where there seemed to be nothing to

support life, nothing to eat, nothing to make, nothing to grow,

nothing to hope, nothing to do but die.

Again they would come to whole towns of palaces, whose proper

inmates were all banished, and which were all changed into

barracks: troops of idle soldiers leaning out of the state windows,

where their accoutrements hung drying on the marble architecture,

and showing to the mind like hosts of rats who were (happily)

eating away the props of the edifices that supported them, and must

soon, with them, be smashed on the heads of the other swarms of

soldiers and the swarms of priests, and the swarms of spies, who

were all the ill-looking population left to be ruined, in the

streets below.

Through such scenes, the family procession moved on to Venice. And

here it dispersed for a time, as they were to live in Venice some

few months in a palace (itself six times as big as the whole

Marshalsea) on the Grand Canal.

In this crowning unreality, where all the streets were paved with

water, and where the deathlike stillness of the days and nights was

broken by no sound but the softened ringing of church-bells, the

rippling of the current, and the cry of the gondoliers turning the

corners of the flowing streets, Little Dorrit, quite lost by her

task being done, sat down to muse. The family began a gay life,

went here and there, and turned night into day; but she was timid

of joining in their gaieties, and only asked leave to be left

alone.

Sometimes she would step into one of the gondolas that were always

kept in waiting, moored to painted posts at the door--when she

could escape from the attendance of that oppressive maid, who was

her mistress, and a very hard one--and would be taken all over the

strange city. Social people in other gondolas began to ask each

other who the little solitary girl was whom they passed, sitting in

her boat with folded hands, looking so pensively and wonderingly

about her. Never thinking that it would be worth anybody's while

to notice her or her doings, Little Dorrit, in her quiet, scared,

lost manner, went about the city none the less.

But her favourite station was the balcony of her own room,

overhanging the canal, with other balconies below, and none above.

It was of massive stone darkened by ages, built in a wild fancy

which came from the East to that collection of wild fancies; and

Little Dorrit was little indeed, leaning on the broad-cushioned

ledge, and looking over. As she liked no place of an evening half

so well, she soon began to be watched for, and many eyes in passing

gondolas were raised, and many people said, There was the little

figure of the English girl who was always alone.

Such people were not realities to the little figure of the English

girl; such people were all unknown to her. She would watch the

sunset, in its long low lines of purple and red, and its burning

flush high up into the sky: so glowing on the buildings, and so

lightening their structure, that it made them look as if their

strong walls were transparent, and they shone from within. She

would watch those glories expire; and then, after looking at the

black gondolas underneath, taking guests to music and dancing,

would raise her eyes to the shining stars. Was there no party of

her own, in other times, on which the stars had shone? To think of

that old gate now! She would think of that old gate, and of

herself sitting at it in the dead of the night, pillowing Maggy's

head; and of other places and of other scenes associated with those

different times. And then she would lean upon her balcony, and

look over at the water, as though they all lay underneath it. When

she got to that, she would musingly watch its running, as if, in

the general vision, it might run dry, and show her the prison

again, and herself, and the old room , and the old inmates, and the

old visitors: all lasting realities that had never changed.

Read next: BOOK THE SECOND: RICHES#CHAPTER 4 A Letter from Little Dorrit

Read previous: BOOK THE SECOND: RICHES#CHAPTER 2 Mrs General

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