Article description: (description ) This attribute controls the content of the description and og:description elements. | DOMBEY AND SON
by Charles Dickens
CONTENTS
1. Dombey and Son
2. In which Timely Provision is made for an Emergency that
will sometimes arise in the best-regulated Families
3. In which Mr Dombey, as a Man and a Father, is seen at the
Head of the Home-Department
4. In which some more First Appearances are made on the
Stage of these Adventures
5. Paul's Progress and Christening
6. Paul's Second Deprivation
7. A Bird's-eye Glimpse of Miss Tox's Dwelling-place; also
of the State of Miss Tox's Affections
8. Paul's further Progress, Growth, and Character
9. In which the Wooden Midshipman gets into Trouble
10. Containing the Sequel of the Midshipman's Disaster
11. Paul's Introduction to a New Scene
12. Paul's Education
13. Shipping Intelligence and Office Business
14. Paul grows more and more Old-fashioned, and goes Home
for the holidays
15. Amazing Artfulness of Captain Cuttle, and a new Pursuit
for Walter Gay
16. What the Waves were always saying
17. Captain Cuttle does a little Business for the Young people
18. Father and Daughter
19. Walter goes away
20. Mr Dombey goes upon a journey
21. New Faces
22. A Trifle of Management by Mr Carker the Manager
23. Florence solitary, and the Midshipman mysterious
24. The Study of a Loving Heart
25. Strange News of Uncle Sol
26. Shadows of the Past and Future
27. Deeper shadows
28. Alterations
29. The Opening of the Eyes of Mrs Chick
30. The Interval before the Marriage
31. The Wedding
32. The Wooden Midshipman goes to Pieces
33. Contrasts
34. Another Mother and Daughter
35. The Happy Pair
36. Housewarming
37. More Warnings than One
38. Miss Tox improves an Old Acquaintance
39. Further Adventures of Captain Edward Cuttle, Mariner
40. Domestic Relations
41. New Voices in the Waves
42. Confidential and Accidental
43. The Watches of the Night
44. A Separation
45. The Trusty Agent
46. Recognizant and Reflective
47. The Thunderbolt
48. The Flight of Florence
49. The Midshipman makes a Discovery
50. Mr Toots's Complaint
51. Mr Dombey and the World
52. Secret Intelligence
53. More Intelligence
54. The Fugitives
55. Rob the Grinder loses his Place
56. Several People delighted, and the Game Chicken disgusted
57. Another Wedding
58. After a Lapse
59. Retribution
60. Chiefly Matrimonial
61. Relenting
62. Final
CHAPTER 1. Dombey and Son
Dombey sat in the corner of the darkened room in the great arm-chair
by the bedside, and Son lay tucked up warm in a little basket bedstead,
carefully disposed on a low settee immediately in front of the fire and
close to it, as if his constitution were analogous to that of a muffin,
and it was essential to toast him brown while he was very new.
Dombey was about eight-and-forty years of age. Son about eight-and-forty
minutes. Dombey was rather bald, rather red, and though a handsome
well-made man, too stern and pompous in appearance, to be prepossessing.
Son was very bald, and very red, and though (of course) an undeniably
fine infant, somewhat crushed and spotty in his general effect, as yet.
On the brow of Dombey, Time and his brother Care had set some marks, as
on a tree that was to come down in good time--remorseless twins they are
for striding through their human forests, notching as they go--while the
countenance of Son was crossed with a thousand little creases, which the
same deceitful Time would take delight in smoothing out and wearing away
with the flat part of his scythe, as a preparation of the surface for
his deeper operations.
Dombey, exulting in the long-looked-for event, jingled and jingled the
heavy gold watch-chain that depended from below his trim blue coat,
whereof the buttons sparkled phosphorescently in the feeble rays of the
distant fire. Son, with his little fists curled up and clenched, seemed,
in his feeble way, to be squaring at existence for having come upon him
so unexpectedly.
'The House will once again, Mrs Dombey,' said Mr Dombey, 'be not only in
name but in fact Dombey and Son;' and he added, in a tone of luxurious
satisfaction, with his eyes half-closed as if he were reading the name
in a device of flowers, and inhaling their fragrance at the same time;
'Dom-bey and Son!'
The words had such a softening influence, that he appended a term of
endearment to Mrs Dombey's name (though not without some hesitation,
as being a man but little used to that form of address): and said, 'Mrs
Dombey, my--my dear.'
A transient flush of faint surprise overspread the sick lady's face as
she raised her eyes towards him.
'He will be christened Paul, my--Mrs Dombey--of course.'
She feebly echoed, 'Of course,' or rather expressed it by the motion of
her lips, and closed her eyes again.
'His father's name, Mrs Dombey, and his grandfather's! I wish his
grandfather were alive this day! There is some inconvenience in the
necessity of writing Junior,' said Mr Dombey, making a fictitious
autograph on his knee; 'but it is merely of a private and personal
complexion. It doesn't enter into the correspondence of the House.
Its signature remains the same.' And again he said 'Dombey and Son, in
exactly the same tone as before.
Those three words conveyed the one idea of Mr Dombey's life. The earth
was made for Dombey and Son to trade in, and the sun and moon were made
to give them light. Rivers and seas were formed to float their ships;
rainbows gave them promise of fair weather; winds blew for or against
their enterprises; stars and planets circled in their orbits, to
preserve inviolate a system of which they were the centre. Common
abbreviations took new meanings in his eyes, and had sole reference
to them. A. D. had no concern with Anno Domini, but stood for anno
Dombei--and Son.
He had risen, as his father had before him, in the course of life and
death, from Son to Dombey, and for nearly twenty years had been the
sole representative of the Firm. Of those years he had been married,
ten--married, as some said, to a lady with no heart to give him; whose
happiness was in the past, and who was content to bind her broken spirit
to the dutiful and meek endurance of the present. Such idle talk was
little likely to reach the ears of Mr Dombey, whom it nearly concerned;
and probably no one in the world would have received it with such utter
incredulity as he, if it had reached him. Dombey and Son had often dealt
in hides, but never in hearts. They left that fancy ware to boys and
girls, and boarding-schools and books. Mr Dombey would have reasoned:
That a matrimonial alliance with himself must, in the nature of things,
be gratifying and honourable to any woman of common sense. That the
hope of giving birth to a new partner in such a House, could not fail
to awaken a glorious and stirring ambition in the breast of the least
ambitious of her sex. That Mrs Dombey had entered on that social
contract of matrimony: almost necessarily part of a genteel and wealthy
station, even without reference to the perpetuation of family Firms:
with her eyes fully open to these advantages. That Mrs Dombey had had
daily practical knowledge of his position in society. That Mrs Dombey
had always sat at the head of his table, and done the honours of his
house in a remarkably lady-like and becoming manner. That Mrs Dombey
must have been happy. That she couldn't help it.
Or, at all events, with one drawback. Yes. That he would have allowed.
With only one; but that one certainly involving much. With the drawback
of hope deferred. That hope deferred, which, (as the Scripture very
correctly tells us, Mr Dombey would have added in a patronising way;
for his highest distinct idea even of Scripture, if examined, would
have been found to be; that as forming part of a general whole, of which
Dombey and Son formed another part, it was therefore to be commended
and upheld) maketh the heart sick. They had been married ten years, and
until this present day on which Mr Dombey sat jingling and jingling his
heavy gold watch-chain in the great arm-chair by the side of the bed,
had had no issue.--To speak of; none worth mentioning. There had been
a girl some six years before, and the child, who had stolen into the
chamber unobserved, was now crouching timidly, in a corner whence she
could see her mother's face. But what was a girl to Dombey and Son! In
the capital of the House's name and dignity, such a child was merely a
piece of base coin that couldn't be invested--a bad Boy--nothing more.
Mr Dombey's cup of satisfaction was so full at this moment, however,
that he felt he could afford a drop or two of its contents, even to
sprinkle on the dust in the by-path of his little daughter.
So he said, 'Florence, you may go and look at your pretty brother, if
you like, I daresay. Don't touch him!'
The child glanced keenly at the blue coat and stiff white cravat, which,
with a pair of creaking boots and a very loud ticking watch, embodied
her idea of a father; but her eyes returned to her mother's face
immediately, and she neither moved nor answered.
'Her insensibility is as proof against a brother as against every thing
else,' said Mr Dombey to himself He seemed so confirmed in a previous
opinion by the discovery, as to be quite glad of it.'
Next moment, the lady had opened her eyes and seen the child; and the
child had run towards her; and, standing on tiptoe, the better to hide
her face in her embrace, had clung about her with a desperate affection
very much at variance with her years.
'Oh Lord bless me!' said Mr Dombey, rising testily. 'A very illadvised
and feverish proceeding this, I am sure. Please to ring there for Miss
Florence's nurse. Really the person should be more care-'
'Wait! I--had better ask Doctor Peps if he'll have the goodness to step
upstairs again perhaps. I'll go down. I'll go down. I needn't beg you,'
he added, pausing for a moment at the settee before the fire, 'to take
particular care of this young gentleman, Mrs ----'
'Blockitt, Sir?' suggested the nurse, a simpering piece of faded
gentility, who did not presume to state her name as a fact, but merely
offered it as a mild suggestion.
'Of this young gentleman, Mrs Blockitt.'
'No, Sir, indeed. I remember when Miss Florence was born--'
'Ay, ay, ay,' said Mr Dombey, bending over the basket bedstead, and
slightly bending his brows at the same time. 'Miss Florence was all very
well, but this is another matter. This young gentleman has to accomplish
a destiny. A destiny, little fellow!' As he thus apostrophised the
infant he raised one of his hands to his lips, and kissed it; then,
seeming to fear that the action involved some compromise of his dignity,
went, awkwardly enough, away.
Doctor Parker Peps, one of the Court Physicians, and a man of immense
reputation for assisting at the increase of great families, was
walking up and down the drawing-room with his hands behind him, to the
unspeakable admiration of the family Surgeon, who had regularly puffed
the case for the last six weeks, among all his patients, friends, and
acquaintances, as one to which he was in hourly expectation day and
night of being summoned, in conjunction with Doctor Parker Pep.
'Well, Sir,' said Doctor Parker Peps in a round, deep, sonorous voice,
muffled for the occasion, like the knocker; 'do you find that your dear
lady is at all roused by your visit?'
'Stimulated as it were?' said the family practitioner faintly: bowing at
the same time to the Doctor, as much as to say, 'Excuse my putting in a
word, but this is a valuable connexion.'
Mr Dombey was quite discomfited by the question. He had thought so
little of the patient, that he was not in a condition to answer it. He
said that it would be a satisfaction to him, if Doctor Parker Peps would
walk upstairs again.
'Good! We must not disguise from you, Sir,' said Doctor Parker Peps,
'that there is a want of power in Her Grace the Duchess--I beg your
pardon; I confound names; I should say, in your amiable lady. That there
is a certain degree of languor, and a general absence of elasticity,
which we would rather--not--
'See,' interposed the family practitioner with another inclination of
the head.
'Quite so,' said Doctor Parker Peps,' which we would rather not see. It
would appear that the system of Lady Cankaby--excuse me: I should say of
Mrs Dombey: I confuse the names of cases--'
'So very numerous,' murmured the family practitioner--'can't be expected
I'm sure--quite wonderful if otherwise--Doctor Parker Peps's West-End
practice--'
'Thank you,' said the Doctor, 'quite so. It would appear, I was
observing, that the system of our patient has sustained a shock, from
which it can only hope to rally by a great and strong--'
'And vigorous,' murmured the family practitioner.
'Quite so,' assented the Doctor--'and vigorous effort. Mr Pilkins here,
who from his position of medical adviser in this family--no one better
qualified to fill that position, I am sure.'
'Oh!' murmured the family practitioner. '"Praise from Sir Hubert
Stanley!"'
'You are good enough,' returned Doctor Parker Peps, 'to say so. Mr
Pilkins who, from his position, is best acquainted with the patient's
constitution in its normal state (an acquaintance very valuable to us in
forming our opinions in these occasions), is of opinion, with me, that
Nature must be called upon to make a vigorous effort in this instance;
and that if our interesting friend the Countess of Dombey--I beg your
pardon; Mrs Dombey--should not be--'
'Able,' said the family practitioner.
'To make,' said Doctor Parker Peps.
'That effort,' said the family practitioner.
'Successfully,' said they both together.
'Then,' added Doctor Parker Peps, alone and very gravely, a crisis might
arise, which we should both sincerely deplore.'
With that, they stood for a few seconds looking at the ground. Then,
on the motion--made in dumb show--of Doctor Parker Peps, they went
upstairs; the family practitioner opening the room door for that
distinguished professional, and following him out, with most obsequious
politeness.
To record of Mr Dombey that he was not in his way affected by this
intelligence, would be to do him an injustice. He was not a man of whom
it could properly be said that he was ever startled, or shocked; but
he certainly had a sense within him, that if his wife should sicken and
decay, he would be very sorry, and that he would find a something gone
from among his plate and furniture, and other household possessions,
which was well worth the having, and could not be lost without sincere
regret. Though it would be a cool, business-like, gentlemanly,
self-possessed regret, no doubt.
His meditations on the subject were soon interrupted, first by the
rustling of garments on the staircase, and then by the sudden whisking
into the room of a lady rather past the middle age than otherwise but
dressed in a very juvenile manner, particularly as to the tightness of
her bodice, who, running up to him with a kind of screw in her face and
carriage, expressive of suppressed emotion, flung her arms around his
neck, and said, in a choking voice,
'My dear Paul! He's quite a Dombey!'
'Well, well!' returned her brother--for Mr Dombey was her brother--'I
think he is like the family. Don't agitate yourself, Louisa.'
'It's very foolish of me,' said Louisa, sitting down, and taking out her
pocket-handkerchief, 'but he's--he's such a perfect Dombey!'
Mr Dombey coughed.
'It's so extraordinary,' said Louisa; smiling through her tears,
which indeed were not overpowering, 'as to be perfectly ridiculous. So
completely our family. I never saw anything like it in my life!'
'But what is this about Fanny, herself?' said Mr Dombey. 'How is Fanny?'
'My dear Paul,' returned Louisa, 'it's nothing whatever. Take my word,
it's nothing whatever. There is exhaustion, certainly, but nothing like
what I underwent myself, either with George or Frederick. An effort
is necessary. That's all. If dear Fanny were a Dombey!--But I daresay
she'll make it; I have no doubt she'll make it. Knowing it to be
required of her, as a duty, of course she'll make it. My dear Paul, it's
very weak and silly of me, I know, to be so trembly and shaky from head
to foot; but I am so very queer that I must ask you for a glass of wine
and a morsel of that cake.'
Mr Dombey promptly supplied her with these refreshments from a tray on
the table.
'I shall not drink my love to you, Paul,' said Louisa: 'I shall drink to
the little Dombey. Good gracious me!--it's the most astonishing thing I
ever knew in all my days, he's such a perfect Dombey.'
Quenching this expression of opinion in a short hysterical laugh which
terminated in tears, Louisa cast up her eyes, and emptied her glass.
'I know it's very weak and silly of me,' she repeated, 'to be so trembly
and shaky from head to foot, and to allow my feelings so completely
to get the better of me, but I cannot help it. I thought I should have
fallen out of the staircase window as I came down from seeing dear
Fanny, and that tiddy ickle sing.' These last words originated in a
sudden vivid reminiscence of the baby.
They were succeeded by a gentle tap at the door.
'Mrs Chick,' said a very bland female voice outside, 'how are you now,
my dear friend?'
'My dear Paul,' said Louisa in a low voice, as she rose from her seat,
'it's Miss Tox. The kindest creature! I never could have got here
without her! Miss Tox, my brother Mr Dombey. Paul, my dear, my very
particular friend Miss Tox.'
The lady thus specially presented, was a long lean figure, wearing such
a faded air that she seemed not to have been made in what linen-drapers
call 'fast colours' originally, and to have, by little and little,
washed out. But for this she might have been described as the very pink
of general propitiation and politeness. From a long habit of listening
admiringly to everything that was said in her presence, and looking at
the speakers as if she were mentally engaged in taking off impressions
of their images upon her soul, never to part with the same but with
life, her head had quite settled on one side. Her hands had contracted
a spasmodic habit of raising themselves of their own accord as in
involuntary admiration. Her eyes were liable to a similar affection. She
had the softest voice that ever was heard; and her nose, stupendously
aquiline, had a little knob in the very centre or key-stone of the
bridge, whence it tended downwards towards her face, as in an invincible
determination never to turn up at anything.
Miss Tox's dress, though perfectly genteel and good, had a certain
character of angularity and scantiness. She was accustomed to wear
odd weedy little flowers in her bonnets and caps. Strange grasses were
sometimes perceived in her hair; and it was observed by the curious,
of all her collars, frills, tuckers, wristbands, and other gossamer
articles--indeed of everything she wore which had two ends to it
intended to unite--that the two ends were never on good terms, and
wouldn't quite meet without a struggle. She had furry articles for
winter wear, as tippets, boas, and muffs, which stood up on end in
rampant manner, and were not at all sleek. She was much given to the
carrying about of small bags with snaps to them, that went off like
little pistols when they were shut up; and when full-dressed, she wore
round her neck the barrenest of lockets, representing a fishy old eye,
with no approach to speculation in it. These and other appearances of a
similar nature, had served to propagate the opinion, that Miss Tox was
a lady of what is called a limited independence, which she turned to
the best account. Possibly her mincing gait encouraged the belief,
and suggested that her clipping a step of ordinary compass into two or
three, originated in her habit of making the most of everything.
'I am sure,' said Miss Tox, with a prodigious curtsey, 'that to have
the honour of being presented to Mr Dombey is a distinction which I have
long sought, but very little expected at the present moment. My dear Mrs
Chick--may I say Louisa!'
Mrs Chick took Miss Tox's hand in hers, rested the foot of her
wine-glass upon it, repressed a tear, and said in a low voice, 'God
bless you!'
'My dear Louisa then,' said Miss Tox, 'my sweet friend, how are you
now?'
'Better,' Mrs Chick returned. 'Take some wine. You have been almost as
anxious as I have been, and must want it, I am sure.'
Mr Dombey of course officiated, and also refilled his sister's glass,
which she (looking another way, and unconscious of his intention)
held straight and steady the while, and then regarded with great
astonishment, saying, 'My dear Paul, what have you been doing!'
'Miss Tox, Paul,' pursued Mrs Chick, still retaining her hand, 'knowing
how much I have been interested in the anticipation of the event of
to-day, and how trembly and shaky I have been from head to foot in
expectation of it, has been working at a little gift for Fanny, which I
promised to present. Miss Tox is ingenuity itself.'
'My dear Louisa,' said Miss Tox. 'Don't say so.
'It is only a pincushion for the toilette table, Paul,' resumed his
sister; 'one of those trifles which are insignificant to your sex in
general, as it's very natural they should be--we have no business to
expect they should be otherwise--but to which we attach some interest.
'Miss Tox is very good,' said Mr Dombey.
'And I do say, and will say, and must say,' pursued his sister, pressing
the foot of the wine-glass on Miss Tox's hand, at each of the three
clauses, 'that Miss Tox has very prettily adapted the sentiment to the
occasion. I call "Welcome little Dombey" Poetry, myself!'
'Is that the device?' inquired her brother.
'That is the device,' returned Louisa.
'But do me the justice to remember, my dear Louisa,' said Miss Toxin
a tone of low and earnest entreaty, 'that nothing but the--I have some
difficulty in expressing myself--the dubiousness of the result would
have induced me to take so great a liberty: "Welcome, Master Dombey,"
would have been much more congenial to my feelings, as I am sure you
know. But the uncertainty attendant on angelic strangers, will, I hope,
excuse what must otherwise appear an unwarrantable familiarity.' Miss
Tox made a graceful bend as she spoke, in favour of Mr Dombey, which
that gentleman graciously acknowledged. Even the sort of recognition of
Dombey and Son, conveyed in the foregoing conversation, was so palatable
to him, that his sister, Mrs Chick--though he affected to consider her
a weak good-natured person--had perhaps more influence over him than
anybody else.
'My dear Paul,' that lady broke out afresh, after silently contemplating
his features for a few moments, 'I don't know whether to laugh or cry
when I look at you, I declare, you do so remind me of that dear baby
upstairs.'
'Well!' said Mrs Chick, with a sweet smile, 'after this, I forgive Fanny
everything!'
It was a declaration in a Christian spirit, and Mrs Chick felt that it
did her good. Not that she had anything particular to forgive in her
sister-in-law, nor indeed anything at all, except her having married her
brother--in itself a species of audacity--and her having, in the course
of events, given birth to a girl instead of a boy: which, as Mrs Chick
had frequently observed, was not quite what she had expected of her, and
was not a pleasant return for all the attention and distinction she had
met with.
Mr Dombey being hastily summoned out of the room at this moment, the two
ladies were left alone together. Miss Tox immediately became spasmodic.
'I knew you would admire my brother. I told you so beforehand, my dear,'
said Louisa. Miss Tox's hands and eyes expressed how much. 'And as to
his property, my dear!'
'Ah!' said Miss Tox, with deep feeling. 'Im-mense!'
'But his deportment, my dear Louisa!' said Miss Tox. 'His presence! His
dignity! No portrait that I have ever seen of anyone has been half
so replete with those qualities. Something so stately, you know: so
uncompromising: so very wide across the chest: so upright! A pecuniary
Duke of York, my love, and nothing short of it!' said Miss Tox. 'That's
what I should designate him.'
'Why, my dear Paul!' exclaimed his sister, as he returned, 'you look
quite pale! There's nothing the matter?'
'I am sorry to say, Louisa, that they tell me that Fanny--'
'Now, my dear Paul,' returned his sister rising, 'don't believe it. Do
not allow yourself to receive a turn unnecessarily. Remember of what
importance you are to society, and do not allow yourself to be worried
by what is so very inconsiderately told you by people who ought to know
better. Really I'm surprised at them.'
'I hope I know, Louisa,' said Mr Dombey, stiffly, 'how to bear myself
before the world.'
'Nobody better, my dear Paul. Nobody half so well. They would be
ignorant and base indeed who doubted it.'
'Ignorant and base indeed!' echoed Miss Tox softly.
'But,' pursued Louisa, 'if you have any reliance on my experience, Paul,
you may rest assured that there is nothing wanting but an effort on
Fanny's part. And that effort,' she continued, taking off her bonnet,
and adjusting her cap and gloves, in a business-like manner, 'she must
be encouraged, and really, if necessary, urged to make. Now, my dear
Paul, come upstairs with me.'
Mr Dombey, who, besides being generally influenced by his sister for the
reason already mentioned, had really faith in her as an experienced
and bustling matron, acquiesced; and followed her, at once, to the sick
chamber.
The lady lay upon her bed as he had left her, clasping her little
daughter to her breast. The child clung close about her, with the same
intensity as before, and never raised her head, or moved her soft cheek
from her mother's face, or looked on those who stood around, or spoke,
or moved, or shed a tear.
'Restless without the little girl,' the Doctor whispered Mr Dombey. 'We
found it best to have her in again.'
'Can nothing be done?' asked Mr Dombey.
The Doctor shook his head. 'We can do no more.'
The windows stood open, and the twilight was gathering without.
The scent of the restoratives that had been tried was pungent in
the room, but had no fragrance in the dull and languid air the lady
breathed.
There was such a solemn stillness round the bed; and the two medical
attendants seemed to look on the impassive form with so much compassion
and so little hope, that Mrs Chick was for the moment diverted from her
purpose. But presently summoning courage, and what she called presence
of mind, she sat down by the bedside, and said in the low precise tone
of one who endeavours to awaken a sleeper:
'Fanny! Fanny!'
There was no sound in answer but the loud ticking of Mr Dombey's watch
and Doctor Parker Peps's watch, which seemed in the silence to be
running a race.
'Fanny, my dear,' said Mrs Chick, with assumed lightness, 'here's Mr
Dombey come to see you. Won't you speak to him? They want to lay your
little boy--the baby, Fanny, you know; you have hardly seen him yet, I
think--in bed; but they can't till you rouse yourself a little. Don't
you think it's time you roused yourself a little? Eh?'
She bent her ear to the bed, and listened: at the same time looking
round at the bystanders, and holding up her finger.
'Eh?' she repeated, 'what was it you said, Fanny? I didn't hear you.'
No word or sound in answer. Mr Dombey's watch and Dr Parker Peps's watch
seemed to be racing faster.
'Now, really, Fanny my dear,' said the sister-in-law, altering her
position, and speaking less confidently, and more earnestly, in spite
of herself, 'I shall have to be quite cross with you, if you don't rouse
yourself. It's necessary for you to make an effort, and perhaps a very
great and painful effort which you are not disposed to make; but this is
a world of effort you know, Fanny, and we must never yield, when so much
depends upon us. Come! Try! I must really scold you if you don't!'
The race in the ensuing pause was fierce and furious. The watches seemed
to jostle, and to trip each other up.
'Fanny!' said Louisa, glancing round, with a gathering alarm. 'Only look
at me. Only open your eyes to show me that you hear and understand me;
will you? Good Heaven, gentlemen, what is to be done!'
The two medical attendants exchanged a look across the bed; and the
Physician, stooping down, whispered in the child's ear. Not having
understood the purport of his whisper, the little creature turned her
perfectly colourless face and deep dark eyes towards him; but without
loosening her hold in the least.
The whisper was repeated.
'Mama!' said the child.
The little voice, familiar and dearly loved, awakened some show of
consciousness, even at that ebb. For a moment, the closed eye lids
trembled, and the nostril quivered, and the faintest shadow of a smile
was seen.
'Mama!' cried the child sobbing aloud. 'Oh dear Mama! oh dear Mama!'
The Doctor gently brushed the scattered ringlets of the child, aside
from the face and mouth of the mother. Alas how calm they lay there; how
little breath there was to stir them!
Thus, clinging fast to that slight spar within her arms, the mother
drifted out upon the dark and unknown sea that rolls round all the
world.
CHAPTER 2. In which Timely Provision is made for an Emergency that will
sometimes arise in the best-regulated Families
'I shall never cease to congratulate myself,' said Mrs Chick,' on having
said, when I little thought what was in store for us,--really as if I
was inspired by something,--that I forgave poor dear Fanny everything.
Whatever happens, that must always be a comfort to me!'
Mrs Chick made this impressive observation in the drawing-room, after
having descended thither from the inspection of the mantua-makers
upstairs, who were busy on the family mourning. She delivered it for the
behoof of Mr Chick, who was a stout bald gentleman, with a very large
face, and his hands continually in his pockets, and who had a tendency
in his nature to whistle and hum tunes, which, sensible of the indecorum
of such sounds in a house of grief, he was at some pains to repress at
present.
'Don't you over-exert yourself, Loo,' said Mr Chick, 'or you'll be laid
up with spasms, I see. Right tol loor rul! Bless my soul, I forgot!
We're here one day and gone the next!'
Mrs Chick contented herself with a glance of reproof, and then proceeded
with the thread of her discourse.
'I am sure,' she said, 'I hope this heart-rending occurrence will be a
warning to all of us, to accustom ourselves to rouse ourselves, and to
make efforts in time where they're required of us. There's a moral in
everything, if we would only avail ourselves of it. It will be our own
faults if we lose sight of this one.'
Mr Chick invaded the grave silence which ensued on this remark with
the singularly inappropriate air of 'A cobbler there was;' and checking
himself, in some confusion, observed, that it was undoubtedly our own
faults if we didn't improve such melancholy occasions as the present.
'Which might be better improved, I should think, Mr C.,' retorted his
helpmate, after a short pause, 'than by the introduction, either of
the college hornpipe, or the equally unmeaning and unfeeling remark of
rump-te-iddity, bow-wow-wow!'--which Mr Chick had indeed indulged in,
under his breath, and which Mrs Chick repeated in a tone of withering
scorn.
'Merely habit, my dear,' pleaded Mr Chick.
'Nonsense! Habit!' returned his wife. 'If you're a rational being, don't
make such ridiculous excuses. Habit! If I was to get a habit (as you
call it) of walking on the ceiling, like the flies, I should hear enough
of it, I daresay.
It appeared so probable that such a habit might be attended with
some degree of notoriety, that Mr Chick didn't venture to dispute the
position.
'Bow-wow-wow!' repeated Mrs Chick with an emphasis of blighting
contempt on the last syllable. 'More like a professional singer with the
hydrophobia, than a man in your station of life!'
'How's the Baby, Loo?' asked Mr Chick: to change the subject.
'What Baby do you mean?' answered Mrs Chick.
'The poor bereaved little baby,' said Mr Chick. 'I don't know of any
other, my dear.'
'You don't know of any other,'retorted Mrs Chick. 'More shame for you, I
was going to say.
Mr Chick looked astonished.
'I am sure the morning I have had, with that dining-room downstairs, one
mass of babies, no one in their senses would believe.'
'One mass of babies!' repeated Mr Chick, staring with an alarmed
expression about him.
'It would have occurred to most men,' said Mrs Chick, 'that poor dear
Fanny being no more,--those words of mine will always be a balm and
comfort to me,' here she dried her eyes; 'it becomes necessary to
provide a Nurse.'
'Oh! Ah!' said Mr Chick. 'Toor-ru!--such is life, I mean. I hope you are
suited, my dear.'
'Indeed I am not,' said Mrs Chick; 'nor likely to be, so far as I can
see, and in the meantime the poor child seems likely to be starved to
death. Paul is so very particular--naturally so, of course, having set
his whole heart on this one boy--and there are so many objections to
everybody that offers, that I don't see, myself, the least chance of an
arrangement. Meanwhile, of course, the child is--'
'Going to the Devil,' said Mr Chick, thoughtfully, 'to be sure.'
Admonished, however, that he had committed himself, by the indignation
expressed in Mrs Chick's countenance at the idea of a Dombey going
there; and thinking to atone for his misconduct by a bright suggestion,
he added:
'Couldn't something temporary be done with a teapot?'
If he had meant to bring the subject prematurely to a close, he could
not have done it more effectually. After looking at him for some moments
in silent resignation, Mrs Chick said she trusted he hadn't said it in
aggravation, because that would do very little honour to his heart. She
trusted he hadn't said it seriously, because that would do very little
honour to his head. As in any case, he couldn't, however sanguine his
disposition, hope to offer a remark that would be a greater outrage on
human nature in general, we would beg to leave the discussion at that
point.
Mrs Chick then walked majestically to the window and peeped through
the blind, attracted by the sound of wheels. Mr Chick, finding that his
destiny was, for the time, against him, said no more, and walked off.
But it was not always thus with Mr Chick. He was often in the
ascendant himself, and at those times punished Louisa roundly. In
their matrimonial bickerings they were, upon the whole, a well-matched,
fairly-balanced, give-and-take couple. It would have been, generally
speaking, very difficult to have betted on the winner. Often when Mr
Chick seemed beaten, he would suddenly make a start, turn the tables,
clatter them about the ears of Mrs Chick, and carry all before him.
Being liable himself to similar unlooked for checks from Mrs Chick,
their little contests usually possessed a character of uncertainty that
was very animating.
Miss Tox had arrived on the wheels just now alluded to, and came running
into the room in a breathless condition. 'My dear Louisa,'said Miss Tox,
'is the vacancy still unsupplied?'
'You good soul, yes,' said Mrs Chick.
'Then, my dear Louisa,' returned Miss Tox, 'I hope and believe--but in
one moment, my dear, I'll introduce the party.'
Running downstairs again as fast as she had run up, Miss Tox got the
party out of the hackney-coach, and soon returned with it under convoy.
It then appeared that she had used the word, not in its legal or
business acceptation, when it merely expresses an individual, but as
a noun of multitude, or signifying many: for Miss Tox escorted a plump
rosy-cheeked wholesome apple-faced young woman, with an infant in her
arms; a younger woman not so plump, but apple-faced also, who led
a plump and apple-faced child in each hand; another plump and also
apple-faced boy who walked by himself; and finally, a plump and
apple-faced man, who carried in his arms another plump and apple-faced
boy, whom he stood down on the floor, and admonished, in a husky
whisper, to 'kitch hold of his brother Johnny.'
'My dear Louisa,' said Miss Tox, 'knowing your great anxiety, and
wishing to relieve it, I posted off myself to the Queen Charlotte's
Royal Married Females,' which you had forgot, and put the question, Was
there anybody there that they thought would suit? No, they said there
was not. When they gave me that answer, I do assure you, my dear, I was
almost driven to despair on your account. But it did so happen, that one
of the Royal Married Females, hearing the inquiry, reminded the matron
of another who had gone to her own home, and who, she said, would in
all likelihood be most satisfactory. The moment I heard this, and had
it corroborated by the matron--excellent references and unimpeachable
character--I got the address, my dear, and posted off again.'
'Like the dear good Tox, you are!' said Louisa.
'Not at all,' returned Miss Tox. 'Don't say so. Arriving at the house
(the cleanest place, my dear! You might eat your dinner off the floor),
I found the whole family sitting at table; and feeling that no account
of them could be half so comfortable to you and Mr Dombey as the sight
of them all together, I brought them all away. This gentleman,' said
Miss Tox, pointing out the apple-faced man, 'is the father. Will you
have the goodness to come a little forward, Sir?'
The apple-faced man having sheepishly complied with this request, stood
chuckling and grinning in a front row.
'This is his wife, of course,' said Miss Tox, singling out the young
woman with the baby. 'How do you do, Polly?'
'I'm pretty well, I thank you, Ma'am,' said Polly.
By way of bringing her out dexterously, Miss Tox had made the inquiry
as in condescension to an old acquaintance whom she hadn't seen for a
fortnight or so.
'I'm glad to hear it,' said Miss Tox. 'The other young woman is her
unmarried sister who lives with them, and would take care of her
children. Her name's Jemima. How do you do, Jemima?'
'I'm pretty well, I thank you, Ma'am,' returned Jemima.
'I'm very glad indeed to hear it,' said Miss Tox. 'I hope you'll keep
so. Five children. Youngest six weeks. The fine little boy with the
blister on his nose is the eldest The blister, I believe,' said
Miss Tox, looking round upon the family, 'is not constitutional, but
accidental?'
The apple-faced man was understood to growl, 'Flat iron.
'I beg your pardon, Sir,' said Miss Tox, 'did you?
'Flat iron,' he repeated.
'Oh yes,' said Miss Tox. 'Yes! quite true. I forgot. The little
creature, in his mother's absence, smelt a warm flat iron. You're quite
right, Sir. You were going to have the goodness to inform me, when we
arrived at the door that you were by trade a--'
'Stoker,' said the man.
'A choker!' said Miss Tox, quite aghast.
'Stoker,' said the man. 'Steam ingine.'
'Oh-h! Yes!' returned Miss Tox, looking thoughtfully at him, and seeming
still to have but a very imperfect understanding of his meaning.
'And how do you like it, Sir?'
'Which, Mum?' said the man.
'That,' replied Miss Tox. 'Your trade.'
'Oh! Pretty well, Mum. The ashes sometimes gets in here;' touching his
chest: 'and makes a man speak gruff, as at the present time. But it is
ashes, Mum, not crustiness.'
Miss Tox seemed to be so little enlightened by this reply, as to find
a difficulty in pursuing the subject. But Mrs Chick relieved her, by
entering into a close private examination of Polly, her children, her
marriage certificate, testimonials, and so forth. Polly coming out
unscathed from this ordeal, Mrs Chick withdrew with her report to her
brother's room, and as an emphatic comment on it, and corroboration of
it, carried the two rosiest little Toodles with her. Toodle being the
family name of the apple-faced family.
Mr Dombey had remained in his own apartment since the death of his wife,
absorbed in visions of the youth, education, and destination of his baby
son. Something lay at the bottom of his cool heart, colder and heavier
than its ordinary load; but it was more a sense of the child's loss than
his own, awakening within him an almost angry sorrow. That the life
and progress on which he built such hopes, should be endangered in the
outset by so mean a want; that Dombey and Son should be tottering for
a nurse, was a sore humiliation. And yet in his pride and jealousy, he
viewed with so much bitterness the thought of being dependent for the
very first step towards the accomplishment of his soul's desire, on a
hired serving-woman who would be to the child, for the time, all that
even his alliance could have made his own wife, that in every new
rejection of a candidate he felt a secret pleasure. The time had now
come, however, when he could no longer be divided between these two sets
of feelings. The less so, as there seemed to be no flaw in the title of
Polly Toodle after his sister had set it forth, with many commendations
on the indefatigable friendship of Miss Tox.
'These children look healthy,' said Mr Dombey. 'But my God, to think of
their some day claiming a sort of relationship to Paul!'
'But what relationship is there!' Louisa began--
'Is there!' echoed Mr Dombey, who had not intended his sister to
participate in the thought he had unconsciously expressed. 'Is there,
did you say, Louisa!'
'Can there be, I mean--'
'Why none,' said Mr Dombey, sternly. 'The whole world knows that, I
presume. Grief has not made me idiotic, Louisa. Take them away, Louisa!
Let me see this woman and her husband.'
Mrs Chick bore off the tender pair of Toodles, and presently returned
with that tougher couple whose presence her brother had commanded.
'My good woman,' said Mr Dombey, turning round in his easy chair, as
one piece, and not as a man with limbs and joints, 'I understand you are
poor, and wish to earn money by nursing the little boy, my son, who has
been so prematurely deprived of what can never be replaced. I have no
objection to your adding to the comforts of your family by that means.
So far as I can tell, you seem to be a deserving object. But I must
impose one or two conditions on you, before you enter my house in that
capacity. While you are here, I must stipulate that you are always known
as--say as Richards--an ordinary name, and convenient. Have you any
objection to be known as Richards? You had better consult your husband.'
'Well?' said Mr Dombey, after a pretty long pause. 'What does your
husband say to your being called Richards?'
As the husband did nothing but chuckle and grin, and continually draw
his right hand across his mouth, moistening the palm, Mrs Toodle, after
nudging him twice or thrice in vain, dropped a curtsey and replied 'that
perhaps if she was to be called out of her name, it would be considered
in the wages.'
'Oh, of course,' said Mr Dombey. 'I desire to make it a question of
wages, altogether. Now, Richards, if you nurse my bereaved child, I
wish you to remember this always. You will receive a liberal stipend in
return for the discharge of certain duties, in the performance of which,
I wish you to see as little of your family as possible. When those
duties cease to be required and rendered, and the stipend ceases to be
paid, there is an end of all relations between us. Do you understand
me?'
Mrs Toodle seemed doubtful about it; and as to Toodle himself, he had
evidently no doubt whatever, that he was all abroad.
'You have children of your own,' said Mr Dombey. 'It is not at all in
this bargain that you need become attached to my child, or that my child
need become attached to you. I don't expect or desire anything of the
kind. Quite the reverse. When you go away from here, you will have
concluded what is a mere matter of bargain and sale, hiring and letting:
and will stay away. The child will cease to remember you; and you will
cease, if you please, to remember the child.'
Mrs Toodle, with a little more colour in her cheeks than she had had
before, said 'she hoped she knew her place.'
'I hope you do, Richards,' said Mr Dombey. 'I have no doubt you know
it very well. Indeed it is so plain and obvious that it could hardly be
otherwise. Louisa, my dear, arrange with Richards about money, and let
her have it when and how she pleases. Mr what's-your name, a word with
you, if you please!'
Thus arrested on the threshold as he was following his wife out of the
room, Toodle returned and confronted Mr Dombey alone. He was a strong,
loose, round-shouldered, shuffling, shaggy fellow, on whom his clothes
sat negligently: with a good deal of hair and whisker, deepened in its
natural tint, perhaps by smoke and coal-dust: hard knotty hands: and a
square forehead, as coarse in grain as the bark of an oak. A
thorough contrast in all respects, to Mr Dombey, who was one of those
close-shaved close-cut moneyed gentlemen who are glossy and crisp like
new bank-notes, and who seem to be artificially braced and tightened as
by the stimulating action of golden showerbaths.
'You have a son, I believe?' said Mr Dombey.
'Four on 'em, Sir. Four hims and a her. All alive!'
'Why, it's as much as you can afford to keep them!' said Mr Dombey.
'I couldn't hardly afford but one thing in the world less, Sir.'
'What is that?'
'To lose 'em, Sir.'
'Can you read?' asked Mr Dombey.
'Why, not partick'ler, Sir.'
'Write?'
'With chalk, Sir?'
'With anything?'
'I could make shift to chalk a little bit, I think, if I was put to it,'
said Toodle after some reflection.
'And yet,' said Mr Dombey, 'you are two or three and thirty, I suppose?'
'Thereabouts, I suppose, Sir,' answered Toodle, after more reflection
'Then why don't you learn?' asked Mr Dombey.
'So I'm a going to, Sir. One of my little boys is a going to learn me,
when he's old enough, and been to school himself.'
'Well,' said Mr Dombey, after looking at him attentively, and with no
great favour, as he stood gazing round the room (principally round the
ceiling) and still drawing his hand across and across his mouth. 'You
heard what I said to your wife just now?'
'Polly heerd it,' said Toodle, jerking his hat over his shoulder in the
direction of the door, with an air of perfect confidence in his better
half. 'It's all right.'
'But I ask you if you heard it. You did, I suppose, and understood it?'
pursued Mr Dombey.
'I heerd it,' said Toodle, 'but I don't know as I understood it rightly
Sir, 'account of being no scholar, and the words being--ask your
pardon--rayther high. But Polly heerd it. It's all right.'
'As you appear to leave everything to her,' said Mr Dombey, frustrated
in his intention of impressing his views still more distinctly on the
husband, as the stronger character, 'I suppose it is of no use my saying
anything to you.'
'Not a bit,' said Toodle. 'Polly heerd it. She's awake, Sir.'
'I won't detain you any longer then,' returned Mr Dombey, disappointed.
'Where have you worked all your life?'
'Mostly underground, Sir, 'till I got married. I come to the level then.
I'm a going on one of these here railroads when they comes into full
play.'
As he added in one of his hoarse whispers, 'We means to bring up little
Biler to that line,' Mr Dombey inquired haughtily who little Biler was.
'The eldest on 'em, Sir,' said Toodle, with a smile. 'It ain't a common
name. Sermuchser that when he was took to church the gen'lm'n said, it
wam't a chris'en one, and he couldn't give it. But we always calls him
Biler just the same. For we don't mean no harm. Not we.
'Do you mean to say, Man,' inquired Mr Dombey; looking at him with
marked displeasure, 'that you have called a child after a boiler?'
'No, no, Sir,' returned Toodle, with a tender consideration for his
mistake. 'I should hope not! No, Sir. Arter a BILER Sir. The Steamingine
was a'most as good as a godfather to him, and so we called him Biler,
don't you see!'
As the last straw breaks the laden camel's back, this piece of
information crushed the sinking spirits of Mr Dombey. He motioned his
child's foster-father to the door, who departed by no means unwillingly:
and then turning the key, paced up and down the room in solitary
wretchedness.
It would be harsh, and perhaps not altogether true, to say of him that
he felt these rubs and gratings against his pride more keenly than he
had felt his wife's death: but certainly they impressed that event upon
him with new force, and communicated to it added weight and bitterness.
It was a rude shock to his sense of property in his child, that these
people--the mere dust of the earth, as he thought them--should be
necessary to him; and it was natural that in proportion as he felt
disturbed by it, he should deplore the occurrence which had made them
so. For all his starched, impenetrable dignity and composure, he wiped
blinding tears from his eyes as he paced up and down his room; and often
said, with an emotion of which he would not, for the world, have had a
witness, 'Poor little fellow!'
It may have been characteristic of Mr Dombey's pride, that he pitied
himself through the child. Not poor me. Not poor widower, confiding by
constraint in the wife of an ignorant Hind who has been working 'mostly
underground' all his life, and yet at whose door Death had never
knocked, and at whose poor table four sons daily sit--but poor little
fellow!
Those words being on his lips, it occurred to him--and it is an instance
of the strong attraction with which his hopes and fears and all his
thoughts were tending to one centre--that a great temptation was being
placed in this woman's way. Her infant was a boy too. Now, would it be
possible for her to change them?
Though he was soon satisfied that he had dismissed the idea as romantic
and unlikely--though possible, there was no denying--he could not help
pursuing it so far as to entertain within himself a picture of what his
condition would be, if he should discover such an imposture when he was
grown old. Whether a man so situated would be able to pluck away the
result of so many years of usage, confidence, and belief, from the
impostor, and endow a stranger with it?
But it was idle speculating thus. It couldn't happen. In a moment
afterwards he determined that it could, but that such women were
constantly observed, and had no opportunity given them for the
accomplishment of such a design, even when they were so wicked as to
entertain it. In another moment, he was remembering how few such cases
seemed to have ever happened. In another moment he was wondering whether
they ever happened and were not found out.
As his unusual emotion subsided, these misgivings gradually melted away,
though so much of their shadow remained behind, that he was constant in
his resolution to look closely after Richards himself, without appearing
to do so. Being now in an easier frame of mind, he regarded the woman's
station as rather an advantageous circumstance than otherwise, by
placing, in itself, a broad distance between her and the child, and
rendering their separation easy and natural. Thence he passed to the
contemplation of the future glories of Dombey and Son, and dismissed the
memory of his wife, for the time being, with a tributary sigh or two.
Meanwhile terms were ratified and agreed upon between Mrs Chick and
Richards, with the assistance of Miss Tox; and Richards being with much
ceremony invested with the Dombey baby, as if it were an Order, resigned
her own, with many tears and kisses, to Jemima. Glasses of wine were
then produced, to sustain the drooping spirits of the family; and Miss
Tox, busying herself in dispensing 'tastes' to the younger branches,
bred them up to their father's business with such surprising expedition,
that she made chokers of four of them in a quarter of a minute.
'You'll take a glass yourself, Sir, won't you?' said Miss Tox, as Toodle
appeared.
'Thankee, Mum,' said Toodle, 'since you are suppressing.'
'And you're very glad to leave your dear good wife in such a comfortable
home, ain't you, Sir?'said Miss Tox, nodding and winking at him
stealthily.
'No, Mum,' said Toodle. 'Here's wishing of her back agin.'
Polly cried more than ever at this. So Mrs Chick, who had her matronly
apprehensions that this indulgence in grief might be prejudicial to the
little Dombey ('acid, indeed,' she whispered Miss Tox), hastened to the
rescue.
'Your little child will thrive charmingly with your sister Jemima,
Richards,' said Mrs Chick; 'and you have only to make an effort--this is
a world of effort, you know, Richards--to be very happy indeed. You have
been already measured for your mourning, haven't you, Richards?'
'Ye--es, Ma'am,' sobbed Polly.
'And it'll fit beautifully. I know,' said Mrs Chick, 'for the same young
person has made me many dresses. The very best materials, too!'
'Lor, you'll be so smart,' said Miss Tox, 'that your husband won't know
you; will you, Sir?'
'I should know her,' said Toodle, gruffly, 'anyhows and anywheres.'
Toodle was evidently not to be bought over.
'As to living, Richards, you know,' pursued Mrs Chick, 'why, the very
best of everything will be at your disposal. You will order your little
dinner every day; and anything you take a fancy to, I'm sure will be as
readily provided as if you were a Lady.'
'Yes to be sure!' said Miss Tox, keeping up the ball with great
sympathy. 'And as to porter!--quite unlimited, will it not, Louisa?'
'Oh, certainly!' returned Mrs Chick in the same tone. 'With a little
abstinence, you know, my dear, in point of vegetables.'
'And pickles, perhaps,' suggested Miss Tox.
'With such exceptions,' said Louisa, 'she'll consult her choice
entirely, and be under no restraint at all, my love.'
'And then, of course, you know,' said Miss Tox, 'however fond she is of
her own dear little child--and I'm sure, Louisa, you don't blame her for
being fond of it?'
'Oh no!' cried Mrs Chick, benignantly.
'Still,' resumed Miss Tox, 'she naturally must be interested in her
young charge, and must consider it a privilege to see a little cherub
connected with the superior classes, gradually unfolding itself from day
to day at one common fountain--is it not so, Louisa?'
'Most undoubtedly!' said Mrs Chick. 'You see, my love, she's already
quite contented and comfortable, and means to say goodbye to her sister
Jemima and her little pets, and her good honest husband, with a light
heart and a smile; don't she, my dear?'
'Oh yes!' cried Miss Tox. 'To be sure she does!'
Notwithstanding which, however, poor Polly embraced them all round in
great distress, and coming to her spouse at last, could not make up her
mind to part from him, until he gently disengaged himself, at the close
of the following allegorical piece of consolation:
'Polly, old 'ooman, whatever you do, my darling, hold up your head
and fight low. That's the only rule as I know on, that'll carry anyone
through life. You always have held up your head and fought low, Polly.
Do it now, or Bricks is no longer so. God bless you, Polly! Me and
J'mima will do your duty by you; and with relating to your'n, hold up
your head and fight low, Polly, and you can't go wrong!'
Fortified by this golden secret, Folly finally ran away to avoid any
more particular leave-taking between herself and the children. But the
stratagem hardly succeeded as well as it deserved; for the smallest boy
but one divining her intent, immediately began swarming upstairs after
her--if that word of doubtful etymology be admissible--on his arms and
legs; while the eldest (known in the family by the name of Biler, in
remembrance of the steam engine) beat a demoniacal tattoo with his
boots, expressive of grief; in which he was joined by the rest of the
family.
A quantity of oranges and halfpence thrust indiscriminately on each
young Toodle, checked the first violence of their regret, and the
family were speedily transported to their own home, by means of the
hackney-coach kept in waiting for that purpose. The children, under the
guardianship of Jemima, blocked up the window, and dropped out oranges
and halfpence all the way along. Mr Toodle himself preferred to ride
behind among the spikes, as being the mode of conveyance to which he was
best accustomed.
CHAPTER 3. In which Mr Dombey, as a Man and a Father, is seen at the
Head of the Home-Department
The funeral of the deceased lady having been 'performed to the entire
satisfaction of the undertaker, as well as of the neighbourhood at
large, which is generally disposed to be captious on such a point,
and is prone to take offence at any omissions or short-comings in the
ceremonies, the various members of Mr Dombey's household subsided into
their several places in the domestic system. That small world, like the
great one out of doors, had the capacity of easily forgetting its
dead; and when the cook had said she was a quiet-tempered lady, and the
house-keeper had said it was the common lot, and the butler had said
who'd have thought it, and the housemaid had said she couldn't hardly
believe it, and the footman had said it seemed exactly like a dream,
they had quite worn the subject out, and began to think their mourning
was wearing rusty too.
On Richards, who was established upstairs in a state of honourable
captivity, the dawn of her new life seemed to break cold and grey.
Mr Dombey's house was a large one, on the shady side of a tall, dark,
dreadfully genteel street in the region between Portland Place and
Bryanstone Square.' It was a corner house, with great wide areas
containing cellars frowned upon by barred windows, and leered at by
crooked-eyed doors leading to dustbins. It was a house of dismal state,
with a circular back to it, containing a whole suite of drawing-rooms
looking upon a gravelled yard, where two gaunt trees, with blackened
trunks and branches, rattled rather than rustled, their leaves were so
smoked-dried. The summer sun was never on the street, but in the morning
about breakfast-time, when it came with the water-carts and the old
clothes men, and the people with geraniums, and the umbrella-mender, and
the man who trilled the little bell of the Dutch clock as he went along.
It was soon gone again to return no more that day; and the bands of
music and the straggling Punch's shows going after it, left it a prey
to the most dismal of organs, and white mice; with now and then a
porcupine, to vary the entertainments; until the butlers whose families
were dining out, began to stand at the house-doors in the twilight, and
the lamp-lighter made his nightly failure in attempting to brighten up
the street with gas.
It was as blank a house inside as outside. When the funeral was over,
Mr Dombey ordered the furniture to be covered up--perhaps to preserve it
for the son with whom his plans were all associated--and the rooms to be
ungarnished, saving such as he retained for himself on the ground floor.
Accordingly, mysterious shapes were made of tables and chairs,
heaped together in the middle of rooms, and covered over with great
winding-sheets. Bell-handles, window-blinds, and looking-glasses, being
papered up in journals, daily and weekly, obtruded fragmentary accounts
of deaths and dreadful murders. Every chandelier or lustre, muffled in
holland, looked like a monstrous tear depending from the ceiling's eye.
Odours, as from vaults and damp places, came out of the chimneys. The
dead and buried lady was awful in a picture-frame of ghastly bandages.
Every gust of wind that rose, brought eddying round the corner from
the neighbouring mews, some fragments of the straw that had been strewn
before the house when she was ill, mildewed remains of which were still
cleaving to the neighbourhood: and these, being always drawn by
some invisible attraction to the threshold of the dirty house to let
immediately opposite, addressed a dismal eloquence to Mr Dombey's
windows.
The apartments which Mr Dombey reserved for his own inhabiting, were
attainable from the hall, and consisted of a sitting-room; a library,
which was in fact a dressing-room, so that the smell of hot-pressed
paper, vellum, morocco, and Russia leather, contended in it with the
smell of divers pairs of boots; and a kind of conservatory or little
glass breakfast-room beyond, commanding a prospect of the trees before
mentioned, and, generally speaking, of a few prowling cats. These three
rooms opened upon one another. In the morning, when Mr Dombey was at his
breakfast in one or other of the two first-mentioned of them, as well
as in the afternoon when he came home to dinner, a bell was rung for
Richards to repair to this glass chamber, and there walk to and fro with
her young charge. From the glimpses she caught of Mr Dombey at these
times, sitting in the dark distance, looking out towards the infant from
among the dark heavy furniture--the house had been inhabited for years
by his father, and in many of its appointments was old-fashioned and
grim--she began to entertain ideas of him in his solitary state, as if
he were a lone prisoner in a cell, or a strange apparition that was not
to be accosted or understood. Mr Dombey came to be, in the course of a
few days, invested in his own person, to her simple thinking, with all
the mystery and gloom of his house. As she walked up and down the glass
room, or sat hushing the baby there--which she very often did for hours
together, when the dusk was closing in, too--she would sometimes try to
pierce the gloom beyond, and make out how he was looking and what he
was doing. Sensible that she was plainly to be seen by him' however, she
never dared to pry in that direction but very furtively and for a moment
at a time. Consequently she made out nothing, and Mr Dombey in his den
remained a very shade.
Little Paul Dombey's foster-mother had led this life herself, and had
carried little Paul through it for some weeks; and had returned upstairs
one day from a melancholy saunter through the dreary rooms of state (she
never went out without Mrs Chick, who called on fine mornings, usually
accompanied by Miss Tox, to take her and Baby for an airing--or in other
words, to march them gravely up and down the pavement, like a walking
funeral); when, as she was sitting in her own room, the door was slowly
and quietly opened, and a dark-eyed little girl looked in.
'It's Miss Florence come home from her aunt's, no doubt,' thought
Richards, who had never seen the child before. 'Hope I see you well,
Miss.'
'Is that my brother?' asked the child, pointing to the Baby.
'Yes, my pretty,' answered Richards. 'Come and kiss him.'
But the child, instead of advancing, looked her earnestly in the face,
and said:
'What have you done with my Mama?'
'Lord bless the little creeter!' cried Richards, 'what a sad question! I
done? Nothing, Miss.'
'What have they done with my Mama?' inquired the child, with exactly the
same look and manner.
'I never saw such a melting thing in all my life!' said Richards, who
naturally substituted 'for this child one of her own, inquiring for
herself in like circumstances. 'Come nearer here, my dear Miss! Don't be
afraid of me.'
'I am not afraid of you,' said the child, drawing nearer. 'But I want to
know what they have done with my Mama.'
Her heart swelled so as she stood before the woman, looking into her
eyes, that she was fain to press her little hand upon her breast and
hold it there. Yet there was a purpose in the child that prevented both
her slender figure and her searching gaze from faltering.
'My darling,' said Richards, 'you wear that pretty black frock in
remembrance of your Mama.'
'I can remember my Mama,' returned the child, with tears springing to
her eyes, 'in any frock.'
'But people put on black, to remember people when they're gone.'
'Where gone?' asked the child.
'Come and sit down by me,' said Richards, 'and I'll tell you a story.'
With a quick perception that it was intended to relate to what she had
asked, little Florence laid aside the bonnet she had held in her hand
until now, and sat down on a stool at the Nurse's feet, looking up into
her face.
'Once upon a time,' said Richards, 'there was a lady--a very good lady,
and her little daughter dearly loved her.'
'A very good lady and her little daughter dearly loved her,' repeated
the child.
'Who, when God thought it right that it s |