BOOK THE SECOND: RICHES - CHAPTER 14 Taking Advice

When it became known to the Britons on the shore of the yellow

Tiber that their intelligent compatriot, Mr Sparkler, was made one

of the Lords of their Circumlocution Office, they took it as a

piece of news with which they had no nearer concern than with any

other piece of news--any other Accident or Offence--in the English

papers. Some laughed; some said, by way of complete excuse, that

the post was virtually a sinecure, and any fool who could spell his

name was good enough for it; some, and these the more solemn

political oracles, said that Decimus did wisely to strengthen

himself, and that the sole constitutional purpose of all places

within the gift of Decimus, was, that Decimus should strengthen

himself. A few bilious Britons there were who would not subscribe

to this article of faith; but their objection was purely

theoretical. In a practical point of view, they listlessly

abandoned the matter, as being the business of some other Britons

unknown, somewhere, or nowhere. In like manner, at home, great

numbers of Britons maintained, for as long as four-and-twenty

consecutive hours, that those invisible and anonymous Britons

'ought to take it up;' and that if they quietly acquiesced in it,

they deserved it. But of what class the remiss Britons were

composed, and where the unlucky creatures hid themselves, and why

they hid themselves, and how it constantly happened that they

neglected their interests, when so many other Britons were quite at

a loss to account for their not looking after those interests, was

not, either upon the shore of the yellow Tiber or the shore of the

black Thames, made apparent to men.

Mrs Merdle circulated the news, as she received congratulations on

it, with a careless grace that displayed it to advantage, as the

setting displays the jewel. Yes, she said, Edmund had taken the

place. Mr Merdle wished him to take it, and he had taken it. She

hoped Edmund might like it, but really she didn't know. It would

keep him in town a good deal, and he preferred the country. Still,

it was not a disagreeable position--and it was a position. There

was no denying that the thing was a compliment to Mr Merdle, and

was not a bad thing for Edmund if he liked it. It was just as well

that he should have something to do, and it was just as well that

he should have something for doing it. Whether it would be more

agreeable to Edmund than the army, remained to be seen.

Thus the Bosom; accomplished in the art of seeming to make things

of small account, and really enhancing them in the process. While

Henry Gowan, whom Decimus had thrown away, went through the whole

round of his acquaintance between the Gate of the People and the

town of Albano, vowing, almost (but not quite) with tears in his

eyes, that Sparkler was the sweetest-tempered, simplest-hearted,

altogether most lovable jackass that ever grazed on the public

common; and that only one circumstance could have delighted him

(Gowan) more, than his (the beloved jackass's) getting this post,

and that would have been his (Gowan's) getting it himself. He said

it was the very thing for Sparkler. There was nothing to do, and

he would do it charmingly; there was a handsome salary to draw, and

he would draw it charmingly; it was a delightful, appropriate,

capital appointment; and he almost forgave the donor his slight of

himself, in his joy that the dear donkey for whom he had so great

an affection was so admirably stabled. Nor did his benevolence

stop here. He took pains, on all social occasions, to draw Mr

Sparkler out, and make him conspicuous before the company; and,

although the considerate action always resulted in that young

gentleman's making a dreary and forlorn mental spectacle of

himself, the friendly intention was not to be doubted.

Unless, indeed, it chanced to be doubted by the object of Mr

Sparkler's affections. Miss Fanny was now in the difficult

situation of being universally known in that light, and of not

having dismissed Mr Sparkler, however capriciously she used him.

Hence, she was sufficiently identified with the gentleman to feel

compromised by his being more than usually ridiculous; and hence,

being by no means deficient in quickness, she sometimes came to his

rescue against Gowan, and did him very good service. But, while

doing this, she was ashamed of him, undetermined whether to get rid

of him or more decidedly encourage him, distracted with

apprehensions that she was every day becoming more and more

immeshed in her uncertainties, and tortured by misgivings that Mrs

Merdle triumphed in her distress. With this tumult in her mind, it

is no subject for surprise that Miss Fanny came home one night in

a state of agitation from a concert and ball at Mrs Merdle's house,

and on her sister affectionately trying to soothe her, pushed that

sister away from the toilette-table at which she sat angrily trying

to cry, and declared with a heaving bosom that she detested

everybody, and she wished she was dead.

'Dear Fanny, what is the matter? Tell me.'

'Matter, you little Mole,' said Fanny. 'If you were not the

blindest of the blind, you would have no occasion to ask me. The

idea of daring to pretend to assert that you have eyes in your

head, and yet ask me what's the matter!'

'Is it Mr Sparkler, dear?'

'Mis-ter Spark-ler!' repeated Fanny, with unbounded scorn, as if he

were the last subject in the Solar system that could possibly be

near her mind. 'No, Miss Bat, it is not.'

Immediately afterwards, she became remorseful for having called her

sister names; declaring with sobs that she knew she made herself

hateful, but that everybody drove her to it.

'I don't think you are well to-night, dear Fanny.'

'Stuff and nonsense!' replied the young lady, turning angry again;

'I am as well as you are. Perhaps I might say better, and yet make

no boast of it.'

Poor Little Dorrit, not seeing her way to the offering of any

soothing words that would escape repudiation, deemed it best to

remain quiet. At first, Fanny took this ill, too; protesting to

her looking-glass, that of all the trying sisters a girl could

have, she did think the most trying sister was a flat sister. That

she knew she was at times a wretched temper; that she knew she made

herself hateful; that when she made herself hateful, nothing would

do her half the good as being told so; but that, being afflicted

with a flat sister, she never WAS told so, and the consequence

resulted that she was absolutely tempted and goaded into making

herself disagreeable. Besides (she angrily told her looking-

glass), she didn't want to be forgiven. It was not a right

example, that she should be constantly stooping to be forgiven by

a younger sister. And this was the Art of it--that she was always

being placed in the position of being forgiven, whether she liked

it or not. Finally she burst into violent weeping, and, when her

sister came and sat close at her side to comfort her, said, 'Amy,

you're an Angel!'

'But, I tell you what, my Pet,' said Fanny, when her sister's

gentleness had calmed her, 'it now comes to this; that things

cannot and shall not go on as they are at present going on, and

that there must be an end of this, one way or another.'

As the announcement was vague, though very peremptory, Little

Dorrit returned, 'Let us talk about it.'

'Quite so, my dear,' assented Fanny, as she dried her eyes. 'Let

us talk about it. I am rational again now, and you shall advise

me. Will you advise me, my sweet child?'

Even Amy smiled at this notion, but she said, 'I will, Fanny, as

well as I can.'

'Thank you, dearest Amy,' returned Fanny, kissing her. 'You are my

anchor.'

Having embraced her Anchor with great affection, Fanny took a

bottle of sweet toilette water from the table, and called to her

maid for a fine handkerchief. She then dismissed that attendant

for the night, and went on to be advised; dabbing her eyes and

forehead from time to time to cool them.

'My love,' Fanny began, 'our characters and points of view are

sufficiently different (kiss me again, my darling), to make it very

probable that I shall surprise you by what I am going to say. What

I am going to say, my dear, is, that notwithstanding our property,

we labour, socially speaking, under disadvantages. You don't quite

understand what I mean, Amy?'

'I have no doubt I shall,' said Amy, mildly, 'after a few words

more.'

'Well, my dear, what I mean is, that we are, after all, newcomers

into fashionable life.'

'I am sure, Fanny,' Little Dorrit interposed in her zealous

admiration, 'no one need find that out in you.'

'Well, my dear child, perhaps not,' said Fanny, 'though it's most

kind and most affectionate in you, you precious girl, to say so.'

Here she dabbed her sister's forehead, and blew upon it a little.

'But you are,' resumed Fanny, 'as is well known, the dearest little

thing that ever was! To resume, my child. Pa is extremely

gentlemanly and extremely well informed, but he is, in some

trifling respects, a little different from other gentlemen of his

fortune: partly on account of what he has gone through, poor dear:

partly, I fancy, on account of its often running in his mind that

other people are thinking about that, while he is talking to them.

Uncle, my love, is altogether unpresentable. Though a dear

creature to whom I am tenderly attached, he is, socially speaking,

shocking. Edward is frightfully expensive and dissipated. I don't

mean that there is anything ungenteel in that itself--far from it--

but I do mean that he doesn't do it well, and that he doesn't, if

I may so express myself, get the money's-worth in the sort of

dissipated reputation that attaches to him.'

'Poor Edward!' sighed Little Dorrit, with the whole family history

in the sigh.

'Yes. And poor you and me, too,' returned Fanny, rather sharply.

'Very true! Then, my dear, we have no mother, and we have a Mrs

General. And I tell you again, darling, that Mrs General, if I may

reverse a common proverb and adapt it to her, is a cat in gloves

who WILL catch mice. That woman, I am quite sure and confident,

will be our mother-in-law.'

'I can hardly think, Fanny-' Fanny stopped her.

'Now, don't argue with me about it, Amy,' said she, 'because I know

better.' Feeling that she had been sharp again, she dabbed her

sister's forehead again, and blew upon it again. 'To resume once

more, my dear. It then becomes a question with me (I am proud and

spirited, Amy, as you very well know: too much so, I dare say)

whether I shall make up my mind to take it upon myself to carry the

family through.'

'How?' asked her sister, anxiously.

'I will not,' said Fanny, without answering the question, 'submit

to be mother-in-lawed by Mrs General; and I will not submit to be,

in any respect whatever, either patronised or tormented by Mrs

Merdle.'

Little Dorrit laid her hand upon the hand that held the bottle of

sweet water, with a still more anxious look. Fanny, quite

punishing her own forehead with the vehement dabs she now began to

give it, fitfully went on.

'That he has somehow or other, and how is of no consequence,

attained a very good position, no one can deny. That it is a very

good connection, no one can deny. And as to the question of clever

or not clever, I doubt very much whether a clever husband would be

suitable to me. I cannot submit. I should not be able to defer to

him enough.'

'O, my dear Fanny!' expostulated Little Dorrit, upon whom a kind of

terror had been stealing as she perceived what her sister meant.

'If you loved any one, all this feeling would change. If you loved

any one, you would no more be yourself, but you would quite lose

and forget yourself in your devotion to him. If you loved him,

Fanny--' Fanny had stopped the dabbing hand, and was looking at her

fixedly.

'O, indeed!' cried Fanny. 'Really? Bless me, how much some people

know of some subjects! They say every one has a subject, and I

certainly seem to have hit upon yours, Amy. There, you little

thing, I was only in fun,' dabbing her sister's forehead; 'but

don't you be a silly puss, and don't you think flightily and

eloquently about degenerate impossibilities. There! Now, I'll go

back to myself.'

'Dear Fanny, let me say first, that I would far rather we worked

for a scanty living again than I would see you rich and married to

Mr Sparkler.'

'Let you say, my dear?' retorted Fanny. 'Why, of course, I will

let you say anything. There is no constraint upon you, I hope. We

are together to talk it over. And as to marrying Mr Sparkler, I

have not the slightest intention of doing so to-night, my dear, or

to-morrow morning either.'

'But at some time?'

'At no time, for anything I know at present,' answered Fanny, with

indifference. Then, suddenly changing her indifference into a

burning restlessness, she added, 'You talk about the clever men,

you little thing! It's all very fine and easy to talk about the

clever men; but where are they? I don't see them anywhere near

me!'

'My dear Fanny, so short a time--'

'Short time or long time,' interrupted Fanny. 'I am impatient of

our situation. I don't like our situation, and very little would

induce me to change it. Other girls, differently reared and

differently circumstanced altogether, might wonder at what I say or

may do. Let them. They are driven by their lives and characters;

I am driven by mine.'

'Fanny, my dear Fanny, you know that you have qualities to make you

the wife of one very superior to Mr Sparkler.'

'Amy, my dear Amy,' retorted Fanny, parodying her words, 'I know

that I wish to have a more defined and distinct position, in which

I can assert myself with greater effect against that insolent

woman.'

'Would you therefore--forgive my asking, Fanny--therefore marry her

son?'

'Why, perhaps,' said Fanny, with a triumphant smile. 'There may be

many less promising ways of arriving at an end than that, MY dear.

That piece of insolence may think, now, that it would be a great

success to get her son off upon me, and shelve me. But, perhaps,

she little thinks how I would retort upon her if I married her son.

I would oppose her in everything, and compete with her. I would

make it the business of my life.'

Fanny set down the bottle when she came to this, and walked about

the room; always stopping and standing still while she spoke.

'One thing I could certainly do, my child: I could make her older.

And I would!'

This was followed by another walk.

'I would talk of her as an old woman. I would pretend to know --if

I didn't, but I should from her son--all about her age. And she

should hear me say, Amy: affectionately, quite dutifully and

affectionately: how well she looked, considering her time of life.

I could make her seem older at once, by being myself so much

younger. I may not be as handsome as she is; I am not a fair judge

of that question, I suppose; but I know I am handsome enough to be

a thorn in her side. And I would be!'

'My dear sister, would you condemn yourself to an unhappy life for

this?'

'It wouldn't be an unhappy life, Amy. It would be the life I am

fitted for. Whether by disposition, or whether by circumstances,

is no matter; I am better fitted for such a life than for almost

any other.'

There was something of a desolate tone in those words; but, with a

short proud laugh she took another walk, and after passing a great

looking-glass came to another stop.

'Figure! Figure, Amy! Well. The woman has a good figure. I will

give her her due, and not deny it. But is it so far beyond all

others that it is altogether unapproachable? Upon my word, I am

not so sure of it. Give some much younger woman the latitude as to

dress that she has, being married; and we would see about that, my

dear!'

Something in the thought that was agreeable and flattering, brought

her back to her seat in a gayer temper. She took her sister's

hands in hers, and clapped all four hands above her head as she

looked in her sister's face laughing:

'And the dancer, Amy, that she has quite forgotten--the dancer who

bore no sort of resemblance to me, and of whom I never remind her,

oh dear no!--should dance through her life, and dance in her way,

to such a tune as would disturb her insolent placidity a little.

just a little, my dear Amy, just a little!'

Meeting an earnest and imploring look in Amy's face, she brought

the four hands down, and laid only one on Amy's lips.

'Now, don't argue with me, child,' she said in a sterner way,

'because it is of no use. I understand these subjects much better

than you do. I have not nearly made up my mind, but it may be.

Now we have talked this over comfortably, and may go to bed. You

best and dearest little mouse, Good night!' With those words Fanny

weighed her Anchor, and--having taken so much advice--left off

being advised for that occasion.

Thenceforward, Amy observed Mr Sparkler's treatment by his

enslaver, with new reasons for attaching importance to all that

passed between them. There were times when Fanny appeared quite

unable to endure his mental feebleness, and when she became so

sharply impatient of it that she would all but dismiss him for

good. There were other times when she got on much better with him;

when he amused her, and when her sense of superiority seemed to

counterbalance that opposite side of the scale. If Mr Sparkler had

been other than the faithfullest and most submissive of swains, he

was sufficiently hard pressed to have fled from the scene of his

trials, and have set at least the whole distance from Rome to

London between himself and his enchantress. But he had no greater

will of his own than a boat has when it is towed by a steam-ship;

and he followed his cruel mistress through rough and smooth, on

equally strong compulsion.

Mrs Merdle, during these passages, said little to Fanny, but said

more about her. She was, as it were, forced to look at her through

her eye-glass, and in general conversation to allow commendations

of her beauty to be wrung from her by its irresistible demands.

The defiant character it assumed when Fanny heard these extollings

(as it generally happened that she did), was not expressive of

concessions to the impartial bosom; but the utmost revenge the

bosom took was, to say audibly, 'A spoilt beauty--but with that

face and shape, who could wonder?'

It might have been about a month or six weeks after the night of

the new advice, when Little Dorrit began to think she detected some

new understanding between Mr Sparkler and Fanny. Mr Sparkler, as

if in attendance to some compact, scarcely ever spoke without first

looking towards Fanny for leave. That young lady was too discreet

ever to look back again; but, if Mr Sparkler had permission to

speak, she remained silent; if he had not, she herself spoke.

Moreover, it became plain whenever Henry Gowan attempted to perform

the friendly office of drawing him out, that he was not to be

drawn. And not only that, but Fanny would presently, without any

pointed application in the world, chance to say something with such

a sting in it that Gowan would draw back as if he had put his hand

into a bee-hive.

There was yet another circumstance which went a long way to confirm

Little Dorrit in her fears, though it was not a great circumstance

in itself. Mr Sparkler's demeanour towards herself changed. It

became fraternal. Sometimes, when she was in the outer circle of

assemblies--at their own residence, at Mrs Merdle's, or elsewhere--

she would find herself stealthily supported round the waist by Mr

Sparkler's arm. Mr Sparkler never offered the slightest

explanation of this attention; but merely smiled with an air of

blundering, contented, good-natured proprietorship, which, in so

heavy a gentleman, was ominously expressive.

Little Dorrit was at home one day, thinking about Fanny with a

heavy heart. They had a room at one end of their drawing-room

suite, nearly all irregular bay-window, projecting over the street,

and commanding all the picturesque life and variety of the Corso,

both up and down. At three or four o'clock in the afternoon,

English time, the view from this window was very bright and

peculiar; and Little Dorrit used to sit and muse here, much as she

had been used to while away the time in her balcony at Venice.

Seated thus one day, she was softly touched on the shoulder, and

Fanny said, 'Well, Amy dear,' and took her seat at her side. Their

seat was a part of the window; when there was anything in the way

of a procession going on, they used to have bright draperies hung

out of the window, and used to kneel or sit on this seat, and look

out at it, leaning on the brilliant colour. But there was no

procession that day, and Little Dorrit was rather surprised by

Fanny's being at home at that hour, as she was generally out on

horseback then.

'Well, Amy,' said Fanny, 'what are you thinking of, little one?'

'I was thinking of you, Fanny.'

'No? What a coincidence! I declare here's some one else. You

were not thinking of this some one else too; were you, Amy?'

Amy HAD been thinking of this some one else too; for it was Mr

Sparkler. She did not say so, however, as she gave him her hand.

Mr Sparkler came and sat down on the other side of her, and she

felt the fraternal railing come behind her, and apparently stretch

on to include Fanny.

'Well, my little sister,' said Fanny with a sigh, 'I suppose you

know what this means?'

'She's as beautiful as she's doated on,' stammered Mr Sparkler--

'and there's no nonsense about her--it's arranged--'

'You needn't explain, Edmund,' said Fanny.

'No, my love,' said Mr Sparkler.

'In short, pet,' proceeded Fanny, 'on the whole, we are engaged.

We must tell papa about it either to-night or to-morrow, according

to the opportunities. Then it's done, and very little more need be

said.'

'My dear Fanny,' said Mr Sparkler, with deference, 'I should like

to say a word to Amy.'

'Well, well! Say it for goodness' sake,' returned the young lady.

'I am convinced, my dear Amy,' said Mr Sparkler, 'that if ever

there was a girl, next to your highly endowed and beautiful sister,

who had no nonsense about her--'

'We know all about that, Edmund,' interposed Miss Fanny. 'Never

mind that. Pray go on to something else besides our having no

nonsense about us.'

'Yes, my love,' said Mr Sparkler. 'And I assure you, Amy, that

nothing can be a greater happiness to myself, myself--next to the

happiness of being so highly honoured with the choice of a glorious

girl who hasn't an atom of--'

'Pray, Edmund, pray!' interrupted Fanny, with a slight pat of her

pretty foot upon the floor.

'My love, you're quite right,' said Mr Sparkler, 'and I know I have

a habit of it. What I wished to declare was, that nothing can be

a greater happiness to myself, myself-next to the happiness of

being united to pre-eminently the most glorious of girls--than to

have the happiness of cultivating the affectionate acquaintance of

Amy. I may not myself,' said Mr Sparkler manfully, 'be up to the

mark on some other subjects at a short notice, and I am aware that

if you were to poll Society the general opinion would be that I am

not; but on the subject of Amy I am up to the mark!'

Mr Sparkler kissed her, in witness thereof.

'A knife and fork and an apartment,' proceeded Mr Sparkler,

growing, in comparison with his oratorical antecedents, quite

diffuse, 'will ever be at Amy's disposal. My Governor, I am sure,

will always be proud to entertain one whom I so much esteem. And

regarding my mother,' said Mr Sparkler, 'who is a remarkably fine

woman, with--'

'Edmund, Edmund!' cried Miss Fanny, as before.

'With submission, my soul,' pleaded Mr Sparkler. 'I know I have a

habit of it, and I thank you very much, my adorable girl, for

taking the trouble to correct it; but my mother is admitted on all

sides to be a remarkably fine woman, and she really hasn't any.'

'That may be, or may not be,' returned Fanny, 'but pray don't

mention it any more.'

'I will not, my love,' said Mr Sparkler.

'Then, in fact, you have nothing more to say, Edmund; have you?'

inquired Fanny.

'So far from it, my adorable girl,' answered Mr Sparkler, 'I

apologise for having said so much.'

Mr Sparkler perceived, by a kind of inspiration, that the question

implied had he not better go? He therefore withdrew the fraternal

railing, and neatly said that he thought he would, with submission,

take his leave. He did not go without being congratulated by Amy,

as well as she could discharge that office in the flutter and

distress of her spirits.

When he was gone, she said, 'O Fanny, Fanny!' and turned to her

sister in the bright window, and fell upon her bosom and cried

there. Fanny laughed at first; but soon laid her face against her

sister's and cried too--a little. It was the last time Fanny ever

showed that there was any hidden, suppressed, or conquered feeling

in her on the matter. From that hour the way she had chosen lay

before her, and she trod it with her own imperious self-willed

step.

Read next: BOOK THE SECOND: RICHES#CHAPTER 15 why these Two Persons should not be joined together

Read previous: BOOK THE SECOND: RICHES#CHAPTER 13 The Progress of an Epidemic

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