Hold your noise! Keep still, you little devil, or I’ll cut your throat!


Oh! Don’t cut my throat, sir. Pray don’t do it, sir.


Tell us your name! Quick!


Pip, sir.


Once more. Give it mouth!


Pip. Pip, sir.


Show us where you live. Pint out the place!


You young dog, what fat cheeks you ha’ got. Darn me if I couldn’t eat ’em, and if I han’t half a mind to’t! Now lookee here! Where’s your mother?


There, sir! There, sir! Also Georgiana. That’s my mother.


Oh! And is that your father alonger your mother?


Yes, sir, him too; late of this parish.


Ha! Who d’ye live with,—supposin’ you’re kindly let to live, which I han’t made up my mind about?


My sister, sir,—Mrs. Joe Gargery,—wife of Joe Gargery, the blacksmith, sir.


Blacksmith, eh? Now lookee here, the question being whether you’re to be let to live. You know what a file is?


Yes, sir.


And you know what wittles is?


You get me a file. And you get me wittles. You bring ’em both to me. Or I’ll have your heart and liver out.


If you would kindly please to let me keep upright, sir, perhaps I shouldn’t be sick, and perhaps I could attend more.


You bring me, to-morrow morning early, that file and them wittles. You bring the lot to me, at that old Battery over yonder. You do it, and you never dare to say a word or dare to make a sign concerning your having seen such a person as me, or any person sumever, and you shall be let to live. You fail, or you go from my words in any partickler, no matter how small it is, and your heart and your liver shall be tore out, roasted, and ate. Now, I ain’t alone, as you may think I am. There’s a young man hid with me, in comparison with which young man I am a Angel. That young man hears the words I speak. That young man has a secret way pecooliar to himself, of getting at a boy, and at his heart, and at his liver. It is in wain for a boy to attempt to hide himself from that young man. A boy may lock his door, may be warm in bed, may tuck himself up, may draw the clothes over his head, may think himself comfortable and safe, but that young man will softly creep and creep his way to him and tear him open. I am a keeping that young man from harming of you at the present moment, with great difficulty. I find it wery hard to hold that young man off of your inside. Now, what do you say?


I would get him the file, and I would get him what broken bits of food I could, and I would come to him at the Battery, early in the morning.


Say Lord strike you dead if you don’t! Now, you remember what you’ve undertook, and you remember that young man, and you get home!


Goo-good night, sir,


Much of that! I wish I was a frog. Or a eel!


Mrs. Joe has been out a dozen times, looking for you, Pip. And she’s out now, making it a baker’s dozen.


Is she?


Yes, Pip, and what’s worse, she’s got Tickler with her. She sot down, and she got up, and she made a grab at Tickler, and she Ram-paged out. That’s what she did, she Ram-paged out, Pip.


Has she been gone long, Joe?


Well, she’s been on the Ram-page, this last spell, about five minutes, Pip. She’s a-coming! Get behind the door, old chap, and have the jack-towel betwixt you.


Where have you been, you young monkey? Tell me directly what you’ve been doing to wear me away with fret and fright and worrit, or I’d have you out of that corner if you was fifty Pips, and he was five hundred Gargerys.


I have only been to the churchyard,


Churchyard! If it warn’t for me you’d have been to the churchyard long ago, and stayed there. Who brought you up by hand?


You did,


And why did I do it, I should like to know?


I don’t know.


I don’t! I’d never do it again! I know that. I may truly say I’ve never had this apron of mine off since born you were. It’s bad enough to be a blacksmith’s wife (and him a Gargery) without being your mother. Hah! Churchyard, indeed! You may well say churchyard, you two. You’ll drive me to the churchyard betwixt you, one of these days, and O, a pr-r-recious pair you’d be without me!


What’s the matter now?


I say, you know! Pip, old chap! You’ll do yourself a mischief. It’ll stick somewhere. You can’t have chawed it, Pip.


If you can cough any trifle on it up, Pip, I’d recommend you to do it. Manners is manners, but still your elth’s your elth.


Now, perhaps you’ll mention what’s the matter, you staring great stuck pig.


You know, Pip, you and me is always friends, and I’d be the last to tell upon you, any time. But such a— such a most oncommon Bolt as that!


Been bolting his food, has he?


You know, old chap. I Bolted, myself, when I was your age—frequent—and as a boy I’ve been among a many Bolters; but I never see your Bolting equal yet, Pip, and it’s a mercy you ain’t Bolted dead.


You come along and be dosed.


because he had had a turn.


Hark! was that great guns, Joe?


Ah! There’s another conwict off.


What does that mean, Joe?


Escaped. Escaped.


What’s a convict?


Pip. There was a conwict off last night, after sunset-gun. And they fired warning of him. And now it appears they’re firing warning of another.


Who’s firing?


Drat that boy, what a questioner he is. Ask no questions, and you’ll be told no lies.


her? Mrs. Joe. I should like to know—if you wouldn’t much mind—where the firing comes from?


Lord bless the boy! From the Hulks!


Oh-h! Hulks!


Well, I told you so.


And please, what’s Hulks?


That’s the way with this boy! Answer him one question, and he’ll ask you a dozen directly. Hulks are prison-ships, right ’cross th’ meshes.


I wonder who’s put into prison-ships, and why they’re put there?


I tell you what, young fellow. I didn’t bring you up by hand to badger people’s lives out. It would be blame to me and not praise, if I had. People are put in the Hulks because they murder, and because they rob, and forge, and do all sorts of bad; and they always begin by asking questions. Now, you get along to bed!


Stop thief!


Get up, Mrs. Joe!


A boy with somebody else’s pork pie! Stop him!


Halloa, young thief!


I couldn’t help it, sir! It wasn’t for myself I took it!


It’s the young man!


What’s in the bottle, boy?


Brandy. I think you have got the ague,


I’m much of your opinion, boy,


It’s bad about here. You’ve been lying out on the meshes, and they’re dreadful aguish. Rheumatic too.


I’ll eat my breakfast afore they’re the death of me. I’d do that, if I was going to be strung up to that there gallows as there is over there, directly afterwards. I’ll beat the shivers so far, I’ll bet you.


You’re not a deceiving imp? You brought no one with you?


No, sir! No!


Nor giv’ no one the office to follow you?


No!


Well,


I believe you. You’d be but a fierce young hound indeed, if at your time of life you could help to hunt a wretched warmint hunted as near death and dunghill as this poor wretched warmint is!


I am glad you enjoy it.


Did you speak?


I said I was glad you enjoyed it.


Thankee, my boy. I do.


I am afraid you won’t leave any of it for him. There’s no more to be got where that came from.


Leave any for him? Who’s him?


The young man. That you spoke of. That was hid with you.


Oh ah!


Him? Yes, yes! He don’t want no wittles.


I thought he looked as if he did,


Looked? When?


Just now.


Where?


Yonder, over there, where I found him nodding asleep, and thought it was you. Dressed like you, you know, only with a hat, and—and and with—the same reason for wanting to borrow a file. Didn’t you hear the cannon last night?


Then there was firing!


I wonder you shouldn’t have been sure of that, for we heard it up at home, and that’s farther away, and we were shut in besides.


Why, see now!


When a man’s alone on these flats, with a light head and a light stomach, perishing of cold and want, he hears nothin’ all night, but guns firing, and voices calling. Hears? He sees the soldiers, with their red coats lighted up by the torches carried afore, closing in round him. Hears his number called, hears himself challenged, hears the rattle of the muskets, hears the orders ‘Make ready! Present! Cover him steady, men!’ and is laid hands on—and there’s nothin’! Why, if I see one pursuing party last night—coming up in order, Damn ’em, with their tramp, tramp—I see a hundred. And as to firing! Why, I see the mist shake with the cannon, arter it was broad day,—But this man


did you notice anything in him?


He had a badly bruised face,


Not here?


Yes, there!


Where is he?


Show me the way he went. I’ll pull him down, like a bloodhound. Curse this iron on my sore leg! Give us hold of the file, boy.


And where the deuce ha’ you been? Ah! well! You might ha’ done worse. Perhaps if I warn’t a blacksmith’s wife, and (what’s the same thing) a slave with her apron never off, I should have been to hear the Carols. I’m rather partial to Carols, myself, and that’s the best of reasons for my never hearing any.


for I ain’t. I ain’t a-going to have no formal cramming and busting and washing up now, with what I’ve got before me, I promise you!


Mrs. Joe was a very clean housekeeper, but had an exquisite art of making her cleanliness more uncomfortable and unacceptable than dirt itself. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, and some people do the same by their religion.


Ye are now to declare it!


You have heard my friend overhead; oblige me with your opinion of this style!


Mrs. Joe. I have brought you as the compliments of the season—I have brought you, Mum, a bottle of sherry wine—and I have brought you, Mum, a bottle of port wine.


O, Un—cle Pum-ble—chook! This is kind!


It’s no more than your merits. And now are you all bobbish, and how’s Sixpennorth of halfpence?


Do you hear that? Be grateful.


Especially, be grateful, boy, to them which brought you up by hand.


Why is it that the young are never grateful?


Naterally wicious.


True!


True again. You’ve hit it, sir! Plenty of subjects going about, for them that know how to put salt upon their tails. That’s what’s wanted. A man needn’t go far to find a subject, if he’s ready with his salt-box. Look at Pork alone. There’s a subject! If you want a subject, look at Pork!


True, sir. Many a moral for the young, might be deduced from that text.


You listen to this,


Swine, swine were the companions of the prodigal. The gluttony of Swine is put before us, as an example to the young. What is detestable in a pig is more detestable in a boy.


Or girl,


Of course, or girl, Mr. Hubble, but there is no girl present.


Besides, think what you’ve got to be grateful for. If you’d been born a Squeaker—


He was, if ever a child was,


Well, but I mean a four-footed Squeaker. If you had been born such, would you have been here now? Not you—


Unless in that form,


But I don’t mean in that form, sir. I mean, enjoying himself with his elders and betters, and improving himself with their conversation, and rolling in the lap of luxury. Would he have been doing that? No, he wouldn’t. And what would have been your destination? You would have been disposed of for so many shillings according to the market price of the article, and Dunstable the butcher would have come up to you as you lay in your straw, and he would have whipped you under his left arm, and with his right he would have tucked up his frock to get a penknife from out of his waistcoat-pocket, and he would have shed your blood and had your life. No bringing up by hand then. Not a bit of it!


He was a world of trouble to you, ma’am,


Trouble? trouble?


Yet. Pork—regarded as biled—is rich, too; ain’t it?


Have a little brandy, uncle,


Tar!


Tar! Why, how ever could Tar come there?


Clean plates,—cold. You must taste, you must taste, to finish with, such a delightful and delicious present of Uncle Pumblechook’s! You must know, it’s a pie; a savory pork pie.


Well, Mrs. Joe, we’ll do our best endeavours; let us have a cut at this same pie.


a bit of savory pork pie would lay atop of anything you could mention, and do no harm,


You shall have some, Pip.


Here you are, look sharp, come on!


Gracious goodness gracious me, what’s gone—with the—pie!


Excuse me, ladies and gentleman, but as I have mentioned at the door to this smart young shaver. I am on a chase in the name of the king, and I want the blacksmith.


And pray what might you want with him?


Missis, speaking for myself, I should reply, the honour and pleasure of his fine wife’s acquaintance; speaking for the king, I answer, a little job done.


Good again!


You see, blacksmith, we have had an accident with these, and I find the lock of one of ’em goes wrong, and the coupling don’t act pretty. As they are wanted for immediate service, will you throw your eye over them? Will it? Then will you set about it at once, blacksmith? as it’s on his Majesty’s service. And if my men can bear a hand anywhere, they’ll make themselves useful.


Would you give me the time?


It’s just gone half past two.


That’s not so bad, even if I was forced to halt here nigh two hours, that’ll do. How far might you call yourselves from the marshes, hereabouts? Not above a mile, I reckon?


Just a mile,


That’ll do. We begin to close in upon ’em about dusk. A little before dusk, my orders are. That’ll do.


Convicts, sergeant?


Ay! two. They’re pretty well known to be out on the marshes still, and they won’t try to get clear of ’em before dusk. Anybody here seen anything of any such game? Well! they’ll find themselves trapped in a circle, I expect, sooner than they count on. Now, blacksmith! If you’re ready, his Majesty the King is.


Give him wine, Mum. I’ll engage there’s no tar in that:


as he preferred his drink without tar, he would take wine, if it was equally convenient.


Good stuff, eh, sergeant?


I’ll tell you something. I suspect that stuff’s of your providing.


Ay, ay? Why?


Because, you’re a man that knows what’s what.


D’ye think so? Have another glass!


With you. Hob and nob. The top of mine to the foot of yours,—the foot of yours to the top of mine,—Ring once, ring twice,—the best tune on the Musical Glasses! Your health. May you live a thousand years, and never be a worse judge of the right sort than you are at the present moment of your life!


If you bring the boy back with his head blown to bits by a musket, don’t look to me to put it together again.


I hope, Joe, we shan’t find them.


I’d give a shilling if they had cut and run, Pip.


a Winder.


Murder!


Convicts! Runaways! Guard! This way for the runaway convicts!


Here are both men! Surrender, you two! and confound you for two wild beasts! Come asunder!


Mind! I took him! I give him up to you! Mind that!


It’s not much to be particular about, it’ll do you small good, my man, being in the same plight yourself. Handcuffs there!


I don’t expect it to do me any good. I don’t want it to do me more good than it does now. I took him. He knows it. That’s enough for me.


Take notice, guard,—he tried to murder me,


Tried to murder him? Try, and not do it? I took him, and giv’ him up; that’s what I done. I not only prevented him getting off the marshes, but I dragged him here,—dragged him this far on his way back. He’s a gentleman, if you please, this villain. Now, the Hulks has got its gentleman again, through me. Murder him? Worth my while, too, to murder him, when I could do worse and drag him back!


He tried—he tried-to—murder me. Bear—bear witness.


Lookee here! Single-handed I got clear of the prison-ship; I made a dash and I done it. I could ha’ got clear of these death-cold flats likewise—look at my leg: you won’t find much iron on it—if I hadn’t made the discovery that he was here. Let him go free? Let him profit by the means as I found out? Let him make a tool of me afresh and again? Once more? No, no, no. If I had died at the bottom there. I’d have held to him with that grip, that you should have been safe to find him in my hold.


He tried to murder me. I should have been a dead man if you had not come up.


He lies! He’s a liar born, and he’ll die a liar. Look at his face; ain’t it written there? Let him turn those eyes of his on me. I defy him to do it. Do you see him? Do you see what a villain he is? Do you see those grovelling and wandering eyes? That’s how he looked when we were tried together. He never looked at me.


You are not much to look at. Didn’t I tell you, that he would murder me, if he could?


Enough of this parley. Light those torches.


All right. March. You are expected on board, they know you are coming. Don’t straggle, my man. Close up here.


I wish to say something respecting this escape. It may prevent some persons laying under suspicion alonger me.


You can say what you like, but you have no call to say it here. You’ll have opportunity enough to say about it, and hear about it, before it’s done with, you know.


I know, but this is another pint, a separate matter. A man can’t starve; at least I can’t. I took some wittles, up at the willage over yonder,—where the church stands a’most out on the marshes.


You mean stole,


And I’ll tell you where from. From the blacksmith’s.


Halloa!


Halloa, Pip!


It was some broken wittles—that’s what it was—and a dram of liquor, and a pie.


Have you happened to miss such an article as a pie, blacksmith?


My wife did, at the very moment when you came in. Don’t you know, Pip?


so you’re the blacksmith, are you? Than I’m sorry to say, I’ve eat your pie.


God knows you’re welcome to it,—so far as it was ever mine. We don’t know what you have done, but we wouldn’t have you starved to death for it, poor miserable fellow-creatur.—Would us, Pip?


Give way, you!


Yah! Was there ever such a boy as this!


No!


Pompeyed,


MI DEER JO i OPE U R KRWITE WELL i OPE i SHAL SON B HABELL 4 2 TEEDGE U JO AN THEN WE SHORL B SO GLODD AN WEN i M PRENGTD 2 U JO WOT LARX AN BLEVE ME INF XN PIP.


I say, Pip, old chap! what a scholar you are! An’t you?


I should like to be,


Why, here’s a J, and a O equal to anythink! Here’s a J and a O, Pip, and a J-O, Joe.


Ah! But read the rest, Jo.


The rest, eh, Pip? One, two, three. Why, here’s three Js, and three Os, and three J-O, Joes in it, Pip! Astonishing! You ARE a scholar.


No, Pip.


Why didn’t you ever go to school, Joe, when you were as little as me?


Well, Pip. I’ll tell you. My father, Pip, he were given to drink, and when he were overtook with drink, he hammered away at my mother, most onmerciful. It were a’most the only hammering he did, indeed, ’xcepting at myself. And he hammered at me with a wigor only to be equalled by the wigor with which he didn’t hammer at his anwil.—You’re a listening and understanding, Pip?


Yes, Joe.


Consequence, my mother and me we ran away from my father several times; and then my mother she’d go out to work, and she’d say, “Joe,” she’d say, “now, please God, you shall have some schooling, child,” and she’d put me to school. But my father were that good in his hart that he couldn’t abear to be without us. So, he’d come with a most tremenjous crowd and make such a row at the doors of the houses where we was, that they used to be obligated to have no more to do with us and to give us up to him. And then he took us home and hammered us. Which, you see, Pip, were a drawback on my learning. Though mind you, Pip, rendering unto all their doo, and maintaining equal justice betwixt man and man, my father were that good in his hart, don’t you see? Well! somebody must keep the pot a-biling, Pip, or the pot won’t bile, don’t you know? Consequence, my father didn’t make objections to my going to work; so I went to work at my present calling, which were his too, if he would have followed it, and I worked tolerable hard, I assure you, Pip. In time I were able to keep him, and I kep him till he went off in a purple leptic fit. And it were my intentions to have had put upon his tombstone that, Whatsume’er the failings on his part, Remember reader he were that good in his heart. I made it, my own self. I made it in a moment. It was like striking out a horseshoe complete, in a single blow. I never was so much surprised in all my life,—couldn’t credit my own ed,—to tell you the truth, hardly believed it were my own ed. As I was saying, Pip, it were my intentions to have had it cut over him; but poetry costs money, cut it how you will, small or large, and it were not done. Not to mention bearers, all the money that could be spared were wanted for my mother. She were in poor elth, and quite broke. She weren’t long of following, poor soul, and her share of peace come round at last. It were but lonesome then, living here alone, and I got acquainted with your sister. Now, Pip,—your sister is a fine figure of a woman. a-fine-figure—of—a—woman!


I am glad you think so, Joe.


So am I. I am glad I think so, Pip. A little redness or a little matter of Bone, here or there, what does it signify to Me?


Never mind me, Joe.


But I did mind you, Pip. When I offered to your sister to keep company, and to be asked in church at such times as she was willing and ready to come to the forge, I said to her, ‘And bring the poor little child. God bless the poor little child,’ I said to your sister, ‘there’s room for him at the forge!’ Ever the best of friends; an’t us, Pip? Don’t cry, old chap! Well, you see, Pip, and here we are! That’s about where it lights; here we are! Now, when you take me in hand in my learning, Pip (and I tell you beforehand I am awful dull, most awful dull), Mrs. Joe mustn’t see too much of what we’re up to. It must be done, as I may say, on the sly. And why on the sly? I’ll tell you why, Pip. Your sister is given to government.


Given to government, Joe?


Given to government. Which I meantersay the government of you and myself.


Oh!


And she an’t over partial to having scholars on the premises, and in partickler would not be over partial to my being a scholar, for fear as I might rise. Like a sort of rebel, don’t you see?


Why—


Stay a bit. I know what you’re a-going to say, Pip; stay a bit! I don’t deny that your sister comes the Mo-gul over us, now and again. I don’t deny that she do throw us back-falls, and that she do drop down upon us heavy. At such times as when your sister is on the Ram-page, Pip, candour compels fur to admit that she is a Buster. Why don’t I rise? That were your observation when I broke it off, Pip?


Well, your sister’s a master-mind. A master-mind.


What’s that?


Her. And I ain’t a master-mind. And last of all, Pip,—and this I want to say very serious to you, old chap,—I see so much in my poor mother, of a woman drudging and slaving and breaking her honest hart and never getting no peace in her mortal days, that I’m dead afeerd of going wrong in the way of not doing what’s right by a woman, and I’d fur rather of the two go wrong the t’other way, and be a little ill-conwenienced myself. I wish it was only me that got put out, Pip; I wish there warn’t no Tickler for you, old chap; I wish I could take it all on myself; but this is the up-and-down-and-straight on it, Pip, and I hope you’ll overlook shortcomings. However, here’s the Dutch-clock a-working himself up to being equal to strike Eight of ’em, and she’s not come home yet! I hope Uncle Pumblechook’s mare mayn’t have set a forefoot on a piece o’ ice, and gone down.


Here comes the mare, ringing like a peal of bells!


Now, if this boy ain’t grateful this night, he never will be! It’s only to be hoped, that he won’t be Pompeyed. But I have my fears.


She ain’t in that line, Mum. She knows better.


She? She?


Well? What are you staring at? Is the house afire?


—Which some individual, mentioned—she.


And she is a she, I suppose? Unless you call Miss Havisham a he. And I doubt if even you’ll go so far as that.


Miss Havisham, up town?


Is there any Miss Havisham down town? She wants this boy to go and play there. And of course he’s going. And he had better play there, or I’ll work him.


Well to be sure! I wonder how she come to know Pip!


Noodle! Who said she knew him?


—Which some individual, mentioned that she wanted him to go and play there.


And couldn’t she ask Uncle Pumblechook if he knew of a boy to go and play there? Isn’t it just barely possible that Uncle Pumblechook may be a tenant of hers, and that he may sometimes—we won’t say quarterly or half-yearly, for that would be requiring too much of you—but sometimes—go there to pay his rent? And couldn’t she then ask Uncle Pumblechook if he knew of a boy to go and play there? And couldn’t Uncle Pumblechook, being always considerate and thoughtful for us—though you may not think it, Joseph,


Good again! Well put! Prettily pointed! Good indeed! Now Joseph, you know the case.


No, Joseph, you do not yet—though you may not think it—know the case. You may consider that you do, but you do not, Joseph. For you do not know that Uncle Pumblechook, being sensible that for anything we can tell, this boy’s fortune may be made by his going to Miss Havisham’s, has offered to take him into town to-night in his own chaise-cart, and to keep him to-night, and to take him with his own hands to Miss Havisham’s to-morrow morning. And Lor-a-mussy me! here I stand talking to mere Mooncalfs, with Uncle Pumblechook waiting, and the mare catching cold at the door, and the boy grimed with crock and dirt from the hair of his head to the sole of his foot!


Boy, be forever grateful to all friends, but especially unto them which brought you up by hand!


Good-bye, Joe!


God bless you, Pip, old chap!


And fourteen? Quite right. This, is Pip.


This is Pip, is it? come in, Pip. Oh! Did you wish to see Miss Havisham?


If Miss Havisham wished to see me,


Ah! but you see she don’t.


Boy! Let your behaviour here be a credit unto them which brought you up by hand!


You could drink without hurt all the strong beer that’s brewed there now, boy.


I should think I could, miss,


Better not try to brew beer there now, or it would turn out sour, boy; don’t you think so?


It looks like it, miss.


Not that anybody means to try, for that’s all done with, and the place will stand as idle as it is till it falls. As to strong beer, there’s enough of it in the cellars already, to drown the Manor House.


Is that the name of this house, miss?


One of its names, boy.


It has more than one, then, miss?


One more. Its other name was Satis; which is Greek, or Latin, or Hebrew, or all three—or all one to me—for enough.


Enough House, that’s a curious name, miss.


Yes, but it meant more than it said. It meant, when it was given, that whoever had this house could want nothing else. They must have been easily satisfied in those days, I should think. But don’t loiter, boy.


After you, miss.


Who is it?


Pip, ma’am.


Pip?


Mr. Pumblechook’s boy, ma’am. Come—to play.


Come nearer; let me look at you. Come close.


Look at me. You are not afraid of a woman who has never seen the sun since you were born? Do you know what I touch here? Your heart. Broken! I am tired. I want diversion, and I have done with men and women. Play. I sometimes have sick fancies, and I have a sick fancy that I want to see some play. There, there! play, play, play! Are you sullen and obstinate?


No, ma’am, I am very sorry for you, and very sorry I can’t play just now. If you complain of me I shall get into trouble with my sister, so I would do it if I could; but it’s so new here, and so strange, and so fine,—and melancholy—.


so new to him, so old to me; so strange to him, so familiar to me; so melancholy to both of us! Call Estella. Call Estella. You can do that. Call Estella. At the door.


With this boy? Why, he is a common labouring-boy!


Well? You can break his heart.


What do you play, boy?


Nothing but beggar my neighbour, miss.


Beggar him,


He calls the knaves Jacks, this boy! And what coarse hands he has! And what thick boots!


You say nothing of her. She says many hard things of you, but you say nothing of her. What do you think of her?


I don’t like to say,


Tell me in my ear,


I think she is very proud,


Anything else?


I think she is very pretty.


I think she is very insulting.


I think I should like to go home.


And never see her again, though she is so pretty?


I am not sure that I shouldn’t like to see her again, but I should like to go home now.


You shall go soon. Play the game out.


When shall I have you here again? Let me think. There, there! I know nothing of days of the week; I know nothing of weeks of the year. Come again after six days. You hear?


Yes, ma’am.


Estella, take him down. Let him have something to eat, and let him roam and look about him while he eats. Go, Pip.


You are to wait here, you boy,


Why don’t you cry?


Because I don’t want to.


You do. You have been crying till you are half blind, and you are near crying again now.


Well, boy. How did you get on up town?


Pretty well, sir,


Pretty well? Pretty well is no answer. Tell us what you mean by pretty well, boy?


I mean pretty well.


No! Don’t lose your temper. Leave this lad to me, ma’am; leave this lad to me. First (to get our thoughts in order): Forty-three pence? Now! How much is forty-three pence?


I don’t know.


Is forty-three pence seven and sixpence three fardens, for instance?


Yes!


Boy! What like is Miss Havisham?


Very tall and dark,


Is she, uncle?


Good! This is the way to have him! We are beginning to hold our own, I think, Mum?


I am sure, uncle. I wish you had him always; you know so well how to deal with him.


Now, boy! What was she a-doing of, when you went in today?


She was sitting, in a black velvet coach.


In a black velvet coach?


Yes. And Miss Estella—that’s her niece, I think—handed her in cake and wine at the coach-window, on a gold plate. And we all had cake and wine on gold plates. And I got up behind the coach to eat mine, because she told me to.


Was anybody else there?


Four dogs,


Large or small?


Immense. And they fought for veal-cutlets out of a silver basket.


Where was this coach, in the name of gracious?


In Miss Havisham’s room. But there weren’t any horses to it.


Can this be possible, uncle? What can the boy mean?


I’ll tell you, Mum. My opinion is, it’s a sedan-chair. She’s flighty, you know,—very flighty,—quite flighty enough to pass her days in a sedan-chair.


Did you ever see her in it, uncle?


How could I, when I never see her in my life? Never clapped eyes upon her!


Goodness, uncle! And yet you have spoken to her?


Why, don’t you know, that when I have been there, I have been took up to the outside of her door, and the door has stood ajar, and she has spoke to me that way. Don’t say you don’t know that, Mum. Howsever, the boy went there to play. What did you play at, boy?


We played with flags,


Flags!


Yes. Estella waved a blue flag, and I waved a red one, and Miss Havisham waved one sprinkled all over with little gold stars, out at the coach-window. And then we all waved our swords and hurrahed.


Swords! Where did you get swords from?


Out of a cupboard. And I saw pistols in it,—and jam,—and pills. And there was no daylight in the room, but it was all lighted up with candles.


That’s true, Mum. That’s the state of the case, for that much I’ve seen myself.


If a fool’s head can’t express better opinions than that, and you have got any work to do, you had better go and do it.


Before the fire goes out, Joe, I should like to tell you something.


Should you, Pip? Then tell us. What is it, Pip?


Joe, you remember all that about Miss Havisham’s?


Remember? I believe you! Wonderful!


It’s a terrible thing, Joe; it ain’t true.


What are you telling of, Pip? You don’t mean to say it’s—


Yes I do; it’s lies, Joe.


But not all of it? Why sure you don’t mean to say, Pip, that there was no black welwet co—eh? But at least there was dogs, Pip? Come, Pip, if there warn’t no weal-cutlets, at least there was dogs?


No, Joe.


A dog? A puppy? Come?


No, Joe, there was nothing at all of the kind.


Pip, old chap! This won’t do, old fellow! I say! Where do you expect to go to?


It’s terrible, Joe; ain’t it?


Terrible? Awful! What possessed you?


I don’t know what possessed me, Joe, but I wish you hadn’t taught me to call Knaves at cards Jacks; and I wish my boots weren’t so thick nor my hands so coarse.


There’s one thing you may be sure of, Pip, namely, that lies is lies. Howsever they come, they didn’t ought to come, and they come from the father of lies, and work round to the same. Don’t you tell no more of ’em, Pip. That ain’t the way to get out of being common, old chap. And as to being common, I don’t make it out at all clear. You are oncommon in some things. You’re oncommon small. Likewise you’re a oncommon scholar.


No, I am ignorant and backward, Joe.


Why, see what a letter you wrote last night! Wrote in print even! I’ve seen letters—Ah! and from gentlefolks!—that I’ll swear weren’t wrote in print,


I have learnt next to nothing, Joe. You think much of me. It’s only that.


Well, Pip, be it so or be it son’t, you must be a common scholar afore you can be a oncommon one, I should hope! The king upon his throne, with his crown upon his ed, can’t sit and write his acts of Parliament in print, without having begun, when he were a unpromoted Prince, with the alphabet.—Ah! and begun at A too, and worked his way to Z. And I know what that is to do, though I can’t say I’ve exactly done it. Whether common ones as to callings and earnings, mightn’t be the better of continuing for to keep company with common ones, instead of going out to play with oncommon ones,—which reminds me to hope that there were a flag, perhaps?


I’m sorry there weren’t a flag, Pip). Whether that might be or mightn’t be, is a thing as can’t be looked into now, without putting your sister on the Rampage; and that’s a thing not to be thought of as being done intentional. Lookee here, Pip, at what is said to you by a true friend. Which this to you the true friend say. If you can’t get to be oncommon through going straight, you’ll never get to do it through going crooked. So don’t tell no more on ’em, Pip, and live well and die happy.


You are not angry with me, Joe?


No, old chap. But bearing in mind that them were which I meantersay of a stunning and outdacious sort,—alluding to them which bordered on weal-cutlets and dog-fighting,—a sincere well-wisher would adwise, Pip, their being dropped into your meditations, when you go upstairs to bed. That’s all, old chap, and don’t never do it no more.


she would,


Halloa, Pip, old chap!


You was saying, that you was a blacksmith.


Yes. I said it, you know,


What’ll you drink, Mr.—? You didn’t mention your name, by the bye. What’ll you drink, Mr. Gargery? At my expense? To top up with?


Well, to tell you the truth, I ain’t much in the habit of drinking at anybody’s expense but my own.


Habit? No, but once and away, and on a Saturday night too. Come! Put a name to it, Mr. Gargery.


I wouldn’t wish to be stiff company. Rum.


Rum. And will the other gentleman originate a sentiment. Three Rums! Glasses round!


This other gentleman, is a gentleman that you would like to hear give it out. Our clerk at church.


Aha! The lonely church, right out on the marshes, with graves round it!


That’s it,


I am not acquainted with this country, gentlemen, but it seems a solitary country towards the river.


Most marshes is solitary,


No doubt, no doubt. Do you find any gypsies, now, or tramps, or vagrants of any sort, out there?


No, none but a runaway convict now and then. And we don’t find them, easy. Eh, Mr. Wopsle?


Seems you have been out after such?


Once. Not that we wanted to take them, you understand; we went out as lookers on; me, and Mr. Wopsle, and Pip. Didn’t us, Pip?


Yes, Joe.


He’s a likely young parcel of bones that. What is it you call him?


Pip,


Christened Pip?


No, not christened Pip.


Surname Pip?


No, it’s a kind of family name what he gave himself when a infant, and is called by.


Son of yours?


Well, well—no. No, he ain’t.


Nevvy?


Well, he is not—no, not to deceive you, he is not—my nevvy.


What the Blue Blazes is he?


—as the poet says.


The half-hour and the rum and water running out together, Joe got up to go, and took me by the hand.


Stop half a moment, Mr. Gargery. I think I’ve got a bright new shilling somewhere in my pocket, and if I have, the boy shall have it. Yours! Mind! Your own.


A bad un, I’ll be bound, or he wouldn’t have given it to the boy! Let’s look at it. But what’s this? Two One-Pound notes?


You are to come this way to-day,


You are to go and stand there boy, till you are wanted.


Poor dear soul! Nobody’s enemy but his own!


It would be much more commendable to be somebody else’s enemy, far more natural.


Cousin Raymond, we are to love our neighbour.


Sarah Pocket, if a man is not his own neighbour, who is?


The idea!


Very true!


Poor soul! he is so very strange! Would anyone believe that when Tom’s wife died, he actually could not be induced to see the importance of the children’s having the deepest of trimmings to their mourning?


Good Lord! Camilla, what can it signify so long as the poor bereaved little things are in black?


So like Matthew! The idea!


Good points in him, good points in him. Heaven forbid I should deny good points in him; but he never had, and he never will have, any sense of the proprieties.


You know I was obliged. I was obliged to be firm. It WILL NOT DO, for the credit of the family.


He paid for them, did he not?


It’s not the question, my dear child, who paid for them. I bought them. And I shall often think of that with peace, when I wake up in the night.


Now, boy!


Well I am sure! What next!


Was there ever such a fancy! The i-de-a!


Well?


Well, miss?


Am I pretty?


Yes; I think you are very pretty.


Am I insulting?


Not so much so as you were last time,


Not so much so?


No.


Now? You little coarse monster, what do you think of me now?


I shall not tell you.


Because you are going to tell upstairs. Is that it?


No, that’s not it.


Why don’t you cry again, you little wretch?


Because I’ll never cry for you again. Whom have we here?


A boy,


Yes, sir. Miss Havisham sent for me, sir,


Well! Behave yourself. I have a pretty large experience of boys, and you’re a bad set of fellows. Now mind! you behave yourself!


So! the days have worn away, have they?


Yes, ma’am. To-day is—


There, there, there! I don’t want to know. Are you ready to play?


I don’t think I am, ma’am.


Not at cards again?


Yes, ma’am; I could do that, if I was wanted.


Since this house strikes you old and grave, boy, and you are unwilling to play, are you willing to work?


Then go into that opposite room,


and wait there till I come.


This, is where I will be laid when I am dead. They shall come and look at me here. What do you think that is? that, where those cobwebs are?


I can’t guess what it is, ma’am.


It’s a great cake. A bride-cake. Mine! Come, come, come! Walk me, walk me! Slower! Call Estella!


Dear Miss Havisham. How well you look!


I do not. I am yellow skin and bone.


Certainly not to be expected to look well, poor thing. The idea! The idea!


And how are you?


Thank you, Miss Havisham. I am as well as can be expected.


Why, what’s the matter with you?


Nothing worth mentioning. I don’t wish to make a display of my feelings, but I have habitually thought of you more in the night than I am quite equal to.


Then don’t think of me,


Very easily said! Raymond is a witness what ginger and sal volatile I am obliged to take in the night. Raymond is a witness what nervous jerkings I have in my legs. Chokings and nervous jerkings, however, are nothing new to me when I think with anxiety of those I love. If I could be less affectionate and sensitive, I should have a better digestion and an iron set of nerves. I am sure I wish it could be so. But as to not thinking of you in the night—The idea!


Camilla, my dear, it is well known that your family feelings are gradually undermining you to the extent of making one of your legs shorter than the other.


I am not aware, that to think of any person is to make a great claim upon that person, my dear.


No, indeed, my dear. Hem!


Thinking is easy enough,


What is easier, you know?


Oh, yes, yes! It’s all very true! It’s a weakness to be so affectionate, but I can’t help it. No doubt my health would be much better if it was otherwise, still I wouldn’t change my disposition if I could. It’s the cause of much suffering, but it’s a consolation to know I possess it, when I wake up in the night. There’s Matthew! Never mixing with any natural ties, never coming here to see how Miss Havisham is! I have taken to the sofa with my staylace cut, and have lain there hours insensible, with my head over the side, and my hair all down, and my feet I don’t know where—


Much higher than your head, my love,


I have gone off into that state, hours and hours, on account of Matthew’s strange and inexplicable conduct, and nobody has thanked me.


Really I must say I should think not!


You see, my dear, the question to put to yourself is, who did you expect to thank you, my love?


Without expecting any thanks, or anything of the sort. I have remained in that state, hours and hours, and Raymond is a witness of the extent to which I have choked, and what the total inefficacy of ginger has been, and I have been heard at the piano-forte tuner’s across the street, where the poor mistaken children have even supposed it to be pigeons cooing at a distance,—and now to be told—


Matthew will come and see me at last, when I am laid on that table. That will be his place,—there, at my head! And yours will be there! And your husband’s there! And Sarah Pocket’s there! And Georgiana’s there! Now you all know where to take your stations when you come to feast upon me. And now go! Walk me, walk me!


I suppose there’s nothing to be done, but comply and depart. It’s something to have seen the object of one’s love and duty for even so short a time. I shall think of it with a melancholy satisfaction when I wake up in the night. I wish Matthew could have that comfort, but he sets it at defiance. I am determined not to make a display of my feelings, but it’s very hard to be told one wants to feast on one’s relations,—as if one was a Giant,—and to be told to go. The bare idea!


Bless you, Miss Havisham dear!


This is my birthday, Pip. I don’t suffer it to be spoken of. I don’t suffer those who were here just now, or any one to speak of it. They come here on the day, but they dare not refer to it. On this day of the year, long before you were born, this heap of decay, was brought here. It and I have worn away together. The mice have gnawed at it, and sharper teeth than teeth of mice have gnawed at me. When the ruin is complete, and when they lay me dead, in my bride’s dress on the bride’s table,—which shall be done, and which will be the finished curse upon him,—so much the better if it is done on this day! Let me see you two play cards; why have you not begun?


Halloa! young fellow!


Halloa!


Who let you in?


Miss Estella.


Who gave you leave to prowl about?


Come and fight. Stop a minute, though. I ought to give you a reason for fighting, too. There it is! Aha! Would you? Laws of the game! Regular rules! Come to the ground, and go through the preliminaries!


Available for both,


That means you have won.


Can I help you?


No thankee,


Good afternoon,


Same to you.


Come here! You may kiss me, if you like.


Does she grow prettier and prettier, Pip? Break their hearts my pride and hope, break their hearts and have no mercy!


There, there, there! Sing!


Now, Mum, here is this boy! Here is this boy which you brought up by hand. Hold up your head, boy, and be forever grateful unto them which so did do. Now, Mum, with respections to this boy!


Come! there’s enough of you! You get along to bed; you’ve given trouble enough for one night, I hope!


You are growing tall, Pip! Tell me the name again of that blacksmith of yours.


Joe Gargery, ma’am.


Meaning the master you were to be apprenticed to?


Yes, Miss Havisham.


You had better be apprenticed at once. Would Gargery come here with you, and bring your indentures, do you think? Then let him come.


At any particular time, Miss Havisham?


There, there! I know nothing about times. Let him come soon, and come along with you.


went on the Rampage whether we supposed she was door-mats under our feet, and how we dared to use her so, and what company we graciously thought she was fit for? why he hadn’t married a Negress Slave at once?


when we had done with our fine ladies


Oh! You are the husband of the sister of this boy? You are the husband, of the sister of this boy?


Which I meantersay, Pip, as I hup and married your sister, and I were at the time what you might call (if you was anyways inclined) a single man.


Well! And you have reared the boy, with the intention of taking him for your apprentice; is that so, Mr. Gargery?


You know, Pip, as you and me were ever friends, and it were looked for’ard to betwixt us, as being calc’lated to lead to larks. Not but what, Pip, if you had ever made objections to the business,—such as its being open to black and sut, or such-like,—not but what they would have been attended to, don’t you see?


Has the boy ever made any objection? Does he like the trade?


Which it is well beknown to yourself, Pip, that it were the wish of your own hart. And there weren’t no objection on your part, and Pip it were the great wish of your hart!


Have you brought his indentures with you?


Well, Pip, you know, you yourself see me put ’em in my ’at, and therefore you know as they are here.


You expected no premium with the boy?


Joe! Why don’t you answer—


Pip, which I meantersay that were not a question requiring a answer betwixt yourself and me, and which you know the answer to be full well No. You know it to be No, Pip, and wherefore should I say it?


Pip has earned a premium here, and here it is. There are five-and-twenty guineas in this bag. Give it to your master, Pip.


This is wery liberal on your part, Pip, and it is as such received and grateful welcome, though never looked for, far nor near, nor nowheres. And now, old chap, may we do our duty! May you and me do our duty, both on us, by one and another, and by them which your liberal present—have-conweyed—to be—for the satisfaction of mind-of—them as never— and from myself far be it!


Good-bye, Pip! Let them out, Estella.


Am I to come again, Miss Havisham?


No. Gargery is your master now. Gargery! One word! The boy has been a good boy here, and that is his reward. Of course, as an honest man, you will expect no other and no more.


Astonishing! Astonishing Pip, I do assure you this is as-TON-ishing!


Well? And what’s happened to you? I wonder you condescend to come back to such poor society as this, I am sure I do!


Miss Havisham made it wery partick’ler that we should give her—were it compliments or respects, Pip?


Compliments,


Which that were my own belief; her compliments to Mrs. J. Gargery—


Much good they’ll do me!


And wishing that the state of Miss Havisham’s elth were sitch as would have—allowed, were it, Pip?


Of her having the pleasure,


Of ladies’ company,


Well! She might have had the politeness to send that message at first, but it’s better late than never. And what did she give young Rantipole here?


She giv’ him, nothing. What she giv’, she giv’ to his friends. And by his friends. I mean into the hands of his sister Mrs. J. Gargery. Mrs. J. Gargery. She mayn’t have know’d, whether it were Joe, or Jorge.


And how much have you got?


What would present company say to ten pound?


They’d say, pretty well. Not too much, but pretty well.


It’s more than that, then,


It’s more than that, Mum.


Why, you don’t mean to say—


Yes I do, Mum, but wait a bit. Go on, Joseph. Good in you! Go on!


What would present company say, to twenty pound?


Handsome would be the word,


Well, then. It’s more than twenty pound.


It’s more than that, Mum. Good again! Follow her up, Joseph!


Then to make an end of it, it’s five-and-twenty pound.


It’s five-and-twenty pound, Mum, and it’s no more than your merits (as I said when my opinion was asked), and I wish you joy of the money! Now you see, Joseph and wife. I am one of them that always go right through with what they’ve begun. This boy must be bound, out of hand. That’s my way. Bound out of hand.


Goodness knows, Uncle Pumblechook, we’re deeply beholden to you.


Never mind me, Mum. A pleasure’s a pleasure all the world over. But this boy, you know; we must have him bound. I said I’d see to it—to tell you the truth.


What’s he done?


He’s a young ’un, too, but looks bad, don’t he?


The Commercials underneath sent up their compliments, and it wasn’t the Tumblers’ Arms.


Joe,


don’t you think I ought to make Miss Havisham a visit?


Well, Pip. What for?


What for, Joe? What is any visit made for?


There is some wisits p’r’aps, as for ever remains open to the question, Pip. But in regard to wisiting Miss Havisham. She might think you wanted something,—expected something of her.


Don’t you think I might say that I did not, Joe?


You might, old chap. And she might credit it. Similarly she mightn’t. You see, Pip. Miss Havisham done the handsome thing by you. When Miss Havisham done the handsome thing by you, she called me back to say to me as that were all.


Yes, Joe. I heard her.


ALL,


Yes, Joe. I tell you, I heard her.


Which I meantersay, Pip, it might be that her meaning were,—Make a end on it!—As you was!—Me to the North, and you to the South!—Keep in sunders!


But, Joe.


Yes, old chap.


Here am I, getting on in the first year of my time, and, since the day of my being bound, I have never thanked Miss Havisham, or asked after her, or shown that I remember her.


That’s true, Pip; and unless you was to turn her out a set of shoes all four round,—and which I meantersay as even a set of shoes all four round might not be acceptable as a present, in a total wacancy of hoofs—


I don’t mean that sort of remembrance, Joe; I don’t mean a present.


Or even, if you was helped to knocking her up a new chain for the front door,—or say a gross or two of shark-headed screws for general use,—or some light fancy article, such as a toasting-fork when she took her muffins,—or a gridiron when she took a sprat or such like—


I don’t mean any present at all, Joe,


Well, if I was yourself, Pip, I wouldn’t. No, I would not. For what’s a door-chain when she’s got one always up? And shark-headers is open to misrepresentations. And if it was a toasting-fork, you’d go into brass and do yourself no credit. And the oncommonest workman can’t show himself oncommon in a gridiron,—for a gridiron IS a gridiron, and you may haim at what you like, but a gridiron it will come out, either by your leave or again your leave, and you can’t help yourself—


My dear Joe, don’t go on in that way. I never thought of making Miss Havisham any present.


No, Pip, and what I say to you is, you are right, Pip.


Yes, Joe; but what I wanted to say, was, that as we are rather slack just now, if you would give me a half-holiday to-morrow, I think I would go uptown and make a call on Miss Est—Havisham.


Which her name, ain’t Estavisham, Pip, unless she have been rechris’ened.


I know, Joe, I know. It was a slip of mine. What do you think of it, Joe?


Now, master! Sure you’re not a-going to favour only one of us. If Young Pip has a half-holiday, do as much for Old Orlick.


Why, what’ll you do with a half-holiday, if you get it?


What’ll I do with it! What’ll he do with it? I’ll do as much with it as him,


As to Pip, he’s going up town,


Well then, as to Old Orlick, he’s a-going up town. Two can go up town. Tain’t only one wot can go up town.


Don’t lose your temper,


Shall if I like. Some and their uptowning! Now, master! Come. No favouring in this shop. Be a man! Now, master!


Are you all right now?


Ah! I am all right,


Then, as in general you stick to your work as well as most men, let it be a half-holiday for all.


Like you, you fool! giving holidays to great idle hulkers like that. You are a rich man, upon my life, to waste wages in that way. I wish I was his master!


You’d be everybody’s master, if you durst,


Let her alone,


I’d be a match for all noodles and all rogues. And I couldn’t be a match for the noodles, without being a match for your master, who’s the dunder-headed king of the noodles. And I couldn’t be a match for the rogues, without being a match for you, who are the blackest-looking and the worst rogue between this and France. Now!


You’re a foul shrew, Mother Gargery. If that makes a judge of rogues, you ought to be a good’un.


Let her alone, will you?


What did you say? What did you say? What did that fellow Orlick say to me, Pip? What did he call me, with my husband standing by? Oh! oh! oh! what was the name he gave me before the base man who swore to defend me? Oh! Hold me! Oh!


Ah-h-h! I’d hold you, if you was my wife. I’d hold you under the pump, and choke it out of you.


I tell you, let her alone,


Oh! To hear him! To hear the names he’s giving me! That Orlick! In my own house! Me, a married woman! With my husband standing by! Oh! Oh!


On the Rampage, Pip, and off the Rampage, Pip:—such is Life!


How, then? You here again? What do you want?


come up.


Well? I hope you want nothing? You’ll get nothing.


No indeed, Miss Havisham. I only wanted you to know that I am doing very well in my apprenticeship, and am always much obliged to you.


There, there! Come now and then; come on your birthday.—Ay! You are looking round for Estella? Hey?


I hoped she was well.


Abroad, educating for a lady; far out of reach; prettier than ever; admired by all who see her. Do you feel that you have lost her?


Take warning, boy, take warning!


Halloa! Orlick there?


Ah! I was standing by a minute, on the chance of company.


You are late,


Well? And you’re late.


We have been, we have been indulging, Mr. Orlick, in an intellectual evening.


Yes, all of it. I come in behind yourself. I didn’t see you, but I must have been pretty close behind you. By the by, the guns is going again.


At the Hulks?


Ay! There’s some of the birds flown from the cages. The guns have been going since dark, about. You’ll hear one presently. A good night for cutting off in. We’d be puzzled how to bring down a jail-bird on the wing, to-night.


Beat it out, beat it out,—Old Clem! With a clink for the stout,—Old Clem!


There’s something wrong, up at your place, Pip. Run all!


What is it?


I can’t quite understand. The house seems to have been violently entered when Joe Gargery was out. Supposed by convicts. Somebody has been attacked and hurt.


Such a fine figure of a woman as she once were, Pip!


Why, of course! Don’t you see? It’s him!


if I expected more?


Biddy,


how do you manage it? Either I am very stupid, or you are very clever.


What is it that I manage? I don’t know,


How do you manage, Biddy, to learn everything that I learn, and always to keep up with me?


I might as well ask you, how you manage?


No; because when I come in from the forge of a night, any one can see me turning to at it. But you never turn to at it, Biddy.


I suppose I must catch it like a cough,


You are one of those, Biddy, who make the most of every chance. You never had a chance before you came here, and see how improved you are!


I was your first teacher though; wasn’t I?


Biddy! Why, you are crying!


No I am not. What put that in your head?


Yes, Biddy, you were my first teacher, and that at a time when we little thought of ever being together like this, in this kitchen.


Ah, poor thing! that’s sadly true!


Well! we must talk together a little more, as we used to do. And I must consult you a little more, as I used to do. Let us have a quiet walk on the marshes next Sunday, Biddy, and a long chat.


Biddy. I want to be a gentleman.


O, I wouldn’t, if I was you! I don’t think it would answer.


Biddy. I have particular reasons for wanting to be a gentleman.


You know best, Pip; but don’t you think you are happier as you are?


Biddy. I am not at all happy as I am. I am disgusted with my calling and with my life. I have never taken to either, since I was bound. Don’t be absurd.


Was I absurd? I am sorry for that; I didn’t mean to be. I only want you to do well, and to be comfortable.


Well, then, understand once for all that I never shall or can be comfortable—or anything but miserable—there, Biddy!—unless I can lead a very different sort of life from the life I lead now.


That’s a pity!


If I could have settled down, if I could have settled down and been but half as fond of the forge as I was when I was little, I know it would have been much better for me. You and I and Joe would have wanted nothing then, and Joe and I would perhaps have gone partners when I was out of my time, and I might even have grown up to keep company with you, and we might have sat on this very bank on a fine Sunday, quite different people. I should have been good enough for you; shouldn’t I, Biddy?


Yes; I am not over-particular.


Instead of that, see how I am going on. Dissatisfied, and uncomfortable, and—what would it signify to me, being coarse and common, if nobody had told me so!


It was neither a very true nor a very polite thing to say. Who said it?


The beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham’s, and she’s more beautiful than anybody ever was, and I admire her dreadfully, and I want to be a gentleman on her account.


Do you want to be a gentleman, to spite her or to gain her over?


I don’t know,


Because, if it is to spite her. I should think—but you know best—that might be better and more independently done by caring nothing for her words. And if it is to gain her over, I should think—but you know best—she was not worth gaining over.


It may be all quite true, but I admire her dreadfully.


I am glad of one thing, and that is, that you have felt you could give me your confidence, Pip. And I am glad of another thing, and that is, that of course you know you may depend upon my keeping it and always so far deserving it. If your first teacher (dear! such a poor one, and so much in need of being taught herself!) had been your teacher at the present time, she thinks she knows what lesson she would set. But it would be a hard one to learn, and you have got beyond her, and it’s of no use now. Shall we walk a little farther, or go home?


Biddy. I shall always tell you everything.


Till you’re a gentleman,


You know I never shall be, so that’s always. Not that I have any occasion to tell you anything, for you know everything I know,—as I told you at home the other night.


Ah! shall we walk a little farther, or go home?


Biddy. Pip, what a fool you are! Biddy. I wish you could put me right.


I wish I could!


If I could only get myself to fall in love with you,—you don’t mind my speaking so openly to such an old acquaintance?


Oh dear, not at all! Don’t mind me.


If I could only get myself to do it, that would be the thing for me.


But you never will, you see,


Where should we be going, but home? I’m jiggered if I don’t see you home!


Don’t let him come; I don’t like him.


We thank you, but we didn’t want seeing home.


because I—I am afraid he likes me.


Did he ever tell you he liked you?


No, he never told me so; but he dances at me, whenever he can catch my eye. Nor I neither,


Exactly, but I must tell you I should have no opinion of you, Biddy, if he danced at you with your own consent.


I am done for. I’ll serve you out,


Well! you have settled it all to your own satisfaction, I have no doubt? Guilty, of course? Out with it. Come!


Sir, without having the honour of your acquaintance, I do say Guilty.


I know you do. I knew you would. I told you so. But now I’ll ask you a question. Do you know, or do you not know, that the law of England supposes every man to be innocent, until he is proved—proved—to be guilty?


Sir, as an Englishman myself, I—


Come! Don’t evade the question. Either you know it, or you don’t know it. Which is it to be? Now! Do you know it, or don’t you know it?


Certainly I know it,


Certainly you know it. Then why didn’t you say so at first? Now, I’ll ask you another question, do you know that none of these witnesses have yet been cross-examined?


I can only say—


What? You won’t answer the question, yes or no? Now, I’ll try you again. Attend to me. Are you aware, or are you not aware, that none of these witnesses have yet been cross-examined? Come, I only want one word from you. Yes, or no? I’ll help you. You don’t deserve help, but I’ll help you. Look at that paper you hold in your hand. What is it?


What is it?


Is it, the printed paper you have just been reading from?


Undoubtedly.


Undoubtedly. Now, turn to that paper, and tell me whether it distinctly states that the prisoner expressly said that his legal advisers instructed him altogether to reserve his defence?


I read that just now,


Never mind what you read just now, sir; I don’t ask you what you read just now. You may read the Lord’s Prayer backwards, if you like,—and, perhaps, have done it before to-day. Turn to the paper. No, no, no my friend; not to the top of the column; you know better than that; to the bottom, to the bottom. Well? Have you found it?


Here it is,


Now, follow that passage with your eye, and tell me whether it distinctly states that the prisoner expressly said that he was instructed by his legal advisers wholly to reserve his defence? Come! Do you make that of it?


Those are not the exact words.


Not the exact words! Is that the exact substance?


Yes,


And now I ask you what you say to the conscience of that man who, with that passage before his eyes, can lay his head upon his pillow after having pronounced a fellow-creature guilty, unheard? that same man might be summoned as a juryman upon this very trial, and, having thus deeply committed himself, might return to the bosom of his family and lay his head upon his pillow, after deliberately swearing that he would well and truly try the issue joined between Our Sovereign Lord the King and the prisoner at the bar, and would a true verdict give according to the evidence, so help him God!


From information I have received. I have reason to believe there is a blacksmith among you, by name Joseph—or Joe—Gargery. Which is the man?


Here is the man,


You have an apprentice, commonly known as Pip? Is he here?


I am here!


I wish to have a private conference with you two. It will take a little time. Perhaps we had better go to your place of residence. I prefer not to anticipate my communication here; you will impart as much or as little of it as you please to your friends afterwards; I have nothing to do with that.


My name, is Jaggers, and I am a lawyer in London. I am pretty well known. I have unusual business to transact with you, and I commence by explaining that it is not of my originating. If my advice had been asked, I should not have been here. It was not asked, and you see me here. What I have to do as the confidential agent of another, I do. No less, no more. Now, Joseph Gargery, I am the bearer of an offer to relieve you of this young fellow your apprentice. You would not object to cancel his indentures at his request and for his good? You would want nothing for so doing?


Lord forbid that I should want anything for not standing in Pip’s way,


Lord forbidding is pious, but not to the purpose. The question is, Would you want anything? Do you want anything?


The answer is. No.


Very well. Recollect the admission you have made, and don’t try to go from it presently.


Who’s a-going to try?


I don’t say anybody is. Do you keep a dog?


Yes, I do keep a dog.


Bear in mind then, that Brag is a good dog, but Holdfast is a better. Bear that in mind, will you? Now, I return to this young fellow. And the communication I have got to make is, that he has great expectations. I am instructed to communicate to him, that he will come into a handsome property. Further, that it is the desire of the present possessor of that property, that he be immediately removed from his present sphere of life and from this place, and be brought up as a gentleman,—in a word, as a young fellow of great expectations. Now, Mr. Pip. You are to understand, first, that it is the request of the person from whom I take my instructions that you always bear the name of Pip. You will have no objection, I dare say, to your great expectations being encumbered with that easy condition. But if you have any objection, this is the time to mention it. I should think not! Now you are to understand, secondly, Mr. Pip, that the name of the person who is your liberal benefactor remains a profound secret, until the person chooses to reveal it. I am empowered to mention that it is the intention of the person to reveal it at first hand by word of mouth to yourself. When or where that intention may be carried out, I cannot say; no one can say. It may be years hence. Now, you are distinctly to understand that you are most positively prohibited from making any inquiry on this head, or any allusion or reference, however distant, to any individual whomsoever as the individual, in all the communications you may have with me. If you have a suspicion in your own breast, keep that suspicion in your own breast. It is not the least to the purpose what the reasons of this prohibition are; they may be the strongest and gravest reasons, or they may be mere whim. This is not for you to inquire into. The condition is laid down. Your acceptance of it, and your observance of it as binding, is the only remaining condition that I am charged with, by the person from whom I take my instructions, and for whom I am not otherwise responsible. That person is the person from whom you derive your expectations, and the secret is solely held by that person and by me. Again, not a very difficult condition with which to encumber such a rise in fortune; but if you have any objection to it, this is the time to mention it. Speak out. I should think not! Now, Mr. Pip, I have done with stipulations. We come next, to mere details of arrangement. You must know that, although I have used the term ‘expectations’ more than once, you are not endowed with expectations only. There is already lodged in my hands a sum of money amply sufficient for your suitable education and maintenance. You will please consider me your guardian. Oh! I tell you at once, I am paid for my services, or I shouldn’t render them. It is considered that you must be better educated, in accordance with your altered position, and that you will be alive to the importance and necessity of at once entering on that advantage.


I said I had always longed for it.


Never mind what you have always longed for, Mr. Pip, keep to the record. If you long for it now, that’s enough. Am I answered that you are ready to be placed at once under some proper tutor? Is that it?


I stammered yes, that was it.


Good. Now, your inclinations are to be consulted. I don’t think that wise, mind, but it’s my trust. Have you ever heard of any tutor whom you would prefer to another?


I had never heard of any tutor but Biddy and Mr. Wopsle’s great-aunt;


There is a certain tutor, of whom I have some knowledge, who I think might suit the purpose. I don’t recommend him, observe; because I never recommend anybody. The gentleman I speak of is one Mr. Matthew Pocket. You know the name?


My answer was, that I had heard of the name.


Oh! You have heard of the name. But the question is, what do you say of it?


I said, or tried to say, that I was much obliged to him for his recommendation—


No, my young friend! Recollect yourself!


Not recollecting myself, I began again that I was much obliged to him for his recommendation—


No, my young friend, no, no, no; it’s very well done, but it won’t do; you are too young to fix me with it. Recommendation is not the word, Mr. Pip. Try another.


Correcting myself, I said that I was much obliged to him for his mention of Mr. Matthew Pocket—


That’s more like it!


And (I added), I would gladly try that gentleman.


Good. You had better try him in his own house. The way shall be prepared for you, and you can see his son first, who is in London. When will you come to London?


I said (glancing at Joe, who stood looking on, motionless), that I supposed I could come directly.


First, you should have some new clothes to come in, and they should not be working-clothes. Say this day week. You’ll want some money. Shall I leave you twenty guineas?


I am!


It was understood that you wanted nothing for yourself, remember?


It were understood. And it are understood. And it ever will be similar according.


But what, what if it was in my instructions to make you a present, as compensation?


As compensation what for?


For the loss of his services.


Pip is that hearty welcome, to go free with his services, to honour and fortun’, as no words can tell him. But if you think as Money can make compensation to me for the loss of the little child—what come to the forge—and ever the best of friends!—


Now, Joseph Gargery, I warn you this is your last chance. No half measures with me. If you mean to take a present that I have it in charge to make you, speak out, and you shall have it. If on the contrary you mean to say—


Which I meantersay, that if you come into my place bull-baiting and badgering me, come out! Which I meantersay as sech if you’re a man, come on! Which I meantersay that what I say, I meantersay and stand or fall by!


Well, Mr. Pip, I think the sooner you leave here—as you are to be a gentleman—the better. Let it stand for this day week, and you shall receive my printed address in the meantime. You can take a hackney-coach at the stage-coach office in London, and come straight to me. Understand, that I express no opinion, one way or other, on the trust I undertake. I am paid for undertaking it, and I do so. Now, understand that, finally. Understand that!


I beg your pardon, Mr. Jaggers.


Halloa! what’s the matter?


I wish to be quite right, Mr. Jaggers, and to keep to your directions; so I thought I had better ask. Would there be any objection to my taking leave of any one I know, about here, before I go away?


No,


I don’t mean in the village only, but up town?


No. No objection.


Joe, have you told Biddy?


No, Pip, which I left it to yourself, Pip.


I would rather you told, Joe.


Pip’s a gentleman of fortun’ then, and God bless him in it!


Saturday night. Five more days, and then the day before the day! They’ll soon go.


Yes, Pip. They’ll soon go.


Soon, soon go,


I have been thinking, Joe, that when I go down town on Monday, and order my new clothes, I shall tell the tailor that I’ll come and put them on there, or that I’ll have them sent to Mr. Pumblechook’s. It would be very disagreeable to be stared at by all the people here.


Mr. and Mrs. Hubble might like to see you in your new gen-teel figure too, Pip. So might Wopsle. And the Jolly Bargemen might take it as a compliment.


That’s just what I don’t want, Joe. They would make such a business of it,—such a coarse and common business,—that I couldn’t bear myself.


Ah, that indeed, Pip! If you couldn’t abear yourself—


Have you thought about when you’ll show yourself to Mr. Gargery, and your sister and me? You will show yourself to us; won’t you?


Biddy, you are so exceedingly quick that it’s difficult to keep up with you.


She always were quick,


If you had waited another moment, Biddy, you would have heard me say that I shall bring my clothes here in a bundle one evening,—most likely on the evening before I go away.


As being the last time, Pip, I thought I’d foller.


And Joe, I am very glad you did so.


Thankee, Pip.


You may be sure, dear Joe, that I shall never forget you.


No, no, Pip! I’m sure of that. Ay, ay, old chap! Bless you, it were only necessary to get it well round in a man’s mind, to be certain on it. But it took a bit of time to get it well round, the change come so oncommon plump; didn’t it? Have you though? Astonishing!


It’s a pity now, Joe, that you did not get on a little more, when we had our lessons here; isn’t it?


Well, I don’t know. I’m so awful dull. I’m only master of my own trade. It were always a pity as I was so awful dull; but it’s no more of a pity now, than it was—this day twelvemonth—don’t you see?


And it is, Biddy, that you will not omit any opportunity of helping Joe on, a little.


How helping him on?


Well! Joe is a dear good fellow,—in fact, I think he is the dearest fellow that ever lived,—but he is rather backward in some things. For instance, Biddy, in his learning and his manners.


O, his manners! won’t his manners do then?


My dear Biddy, they do very well here—


O! they do very well here?


Hear me out,—but if I were to remove Joe into a higher sphere, as I shall hope to remove him when I fully come into my property, they would hardly do him justice.


And don’t you think he knows that?


Biddy, what do you mean?


Have you never considered that he may be proud?


Proud?


O! there are many kinds of pride, pride is not all of one kind—


Well? What are you stopping for?


Not all of one kind. He may be too proud to let any one take him out of a place that he is competent to fill, and fills well and with respect. To tell you the truth, I think he is; though it sounds bold in me to say so, for you must know him far better than I do.


Now, Biddy. I am very sorry to see this in you. I did not expect to see this in you. You are envious, Biddy, and grudging. You are dissatisfied on account of my rise in fortune, and you can’t help showing it.


If you have the heart to think so, say so. Say so over and over again, if you have the heart to think so.


If you have the heart to be so, you mean, Biddy, don’t put it off upon me. I am very sorry to see it, and it’s a—it’s a bad side of human nature. I did intend to ask you to use any little opportunities you might have after I was gone, of improving dear Joe. But after this I ask you nothing. I am extremely sorry to see this in you, Biddy. It’s a—it’s a bad side of human nature.


Whether you scold me or approve of me, you may equally depend upon my trying to do all that lies in my power, here, at all times. And whatever opinion you take away of me, shall make no difference in my remembrance of you. Yet a gentleman should not be unjust neither,


Well! How are you, and what can I do for you?


Mr. Trabb, it’s an unpleasant thing to have to mention, because it looks like boasting; but I have come into a handsome property.


Lord bless my soul!


I am going up to my guardian in London, and I want a fashionable suit of clothes to go in. I wish to pay for them, with ready money.


My dear sir, don’t hurt me by mentioning that. May I venture to congratulate you? Would you do me the favour of stepping into the shop? Hold that noise, or I’ll knock your head off!—Do me the favour to be seated, sir. Now, this, is a very sweet article. I can recommend it for your purpose, sir, because it really is extra super. But you shall see some others. Give me Number Four, you! And let me have none of your tricks here, or you shall repent it, you young scoundrel, the longest day you have to live. Are you bringing numbers five and eight, you vagabond, or shall I kick you out of the shop and bring them myself?


I know, sir, that London gentlemen cannot be expected to patronise local work, as a rule; but if you would give me a turn now and then in the quality of a townsman, I should greatly esteem it. Good-morning, sir, much obliged.—Door!


come out of the gangway My dear friend. I give you joy of your good fortune. Well deserved, well deserved! To think, that I should have been the humble instrument of leading up to this, is a proud reward. My dear young friend, if you will allow me to call you so—


Certainly,


My dear young friend, rely upon my doing my little all in your absence, by keeping the fact before the mind of Joseph.—Joseph! Joseph!! Joseph!!! But my dear young friend, you must be hungry, you must be exhausted. Be seated. Here is a chicken had round from the Boar, here is a tongue had round from the Boar, here’s one or two little things had round from the Boar, that I hope you may not despise. But do I, see afore me, him as I ever sported with in his times of happy infancy? And may I—may I—? Here is wine. Let us drink, Thanks to Fortune, and may she ever pick out her favourites with equal judgment! And yet I cannot, see afore me One—and likewise drink to One—without again expressing—May I—may I—? Ah! poultry, poultry! You little thought, when you was a young fledgling, what was in store for you. You little thought you was to be refreshment beneath this humble roof for one as—Call it a weakness, if you will,


but may I? may I—?


And your sister, which had the honour of bringing you up by hand! It’s a sad picter, to reflect that she’s no longer equal to fully understanding the honour. May—


We’ll drink her health,


Ah! that’s the way you know ’em, sir! that’s the way you know the noble-minded, sir! Ever forgiving and ever affable. It might, to a common person, have the appearance of repeating—but may I—? Let us never be blind, to her faults of temper, but it is to be hoped she meant well.


Wait a bit!


That boy is no common boy, and mark me, his fortun’ will be no common fortun’.


No, my dear friend. Not if I can help it. This occasion shall not entirely pass without that affability on your part.—May I, as an old friend and well-wisher? May I?


You? You? Good gracious! What do you want?


I am going to London, Miss Pocket, and want to say good-bye to Miss Havisham.


Don’t go, Sarah. Well, Pip?


I start for London, Miss Havisham, to-morrow, and I thought you would kindly not mind my taking leave of you.


This is a gay figure, Pip,


I have come into such good fortune since I saw you last, Miss Havisham. And I am so grateful for it, Miss Havisham!


Ay, ay! I have seen Mr. Jaggers. I have heard about it, Pip. So you go to-morrow?


Yes, Miss Havisham.


And you are adopted by a rich person?


Not named?


No, Miss Havisham.


And Mr. Jaggers is made your guardian?


Well! you have a promising career before you. Be good—deserve it—and abide by Mr. Jaggers’s instructions. Good-bye, Pip!—you will always keep the name of Pip, you know.


Good-bye, Pip!


Good-bye, Miss Pocket;


Well! I suppose I must be off!


Hooroar!


Good-bye, O my dear, dear friend!


How much?


A shilling—unless you wish to make it more. Then it must be a shilling. I don’t want to get into trouble. I know him!


He is not. He is in Court at present. Am I addressing Mr. Pip? Mr. Jaggers left word, would you wait in his room. He couldn’t say how long he might be, having a case on. But it stands to reason, his time being valuable, that he won’t be longer than he can help. Go and wait outside, Mike,


Newgate Prison.


four on ’em


Jaggers would do it if it was to be done.


Jaggers is for him, ’Melia, and what more could you have?


O Jaggerth, Jaggerth, Jaggerth! all otherth ith Cag-Maggerth, give me Jaggerth!


Now, I have nothing to say to you. I want to know no more than I know. As to the result, it’s a toss-up. I told you from the first it was a toss-up. Have you paid Wemmick?


We made the money up this morning, sir,


I don’t ask you when you made it up, or where, or whether you made it up at all. Has Wemmick got it?


Yes, sir,


Very well; then you may go. Now, I won’t have it! If you say a word to me, I’ll throw up the case.


We thought, Mr. Jaggers—


That’s what I told you not to do. You thought! I think for you; that’s enough for you. If I want you, I know where to find you; I don’t want you to find me. Now I won’t have it. I won’t hear a word. And now you! Oh! Amelia, is it?


Yes, Mr. Jaggers.


And do you remember, that but for me you wouldn’t be here and couldn’t be here?


O yes, sir! Lord bless you, sir, well we knows that!


Then why, do you come here?


My Bill, sir!


Now, I tell you what! Once for all. If you don’t know that your Bill’s in good hands, I know it. And if you come here bothering about your Bill, I’ll make an example of both your Bill and you, and let him slip through my fingers. Have you paid Wemmick?


O yes, sir! Every farden.


Very well. Then you have done all you have got to do. Say another word—one single word—and Wemmick shall give you your money back. I don’t know this man! What does this fellow want?


Ma thear Mithter Jaggerth. Hown brother to Habraham Latharuth?


Who’s he? Let go of my coat.


Habraham Latharuth, on thuthpithion of plate.


You’re too late. I am over the way.


Holy father, Mithter Jaggerth! don’t thay you’re again Habraham Latharuth!


I am, and there’s an end of it. Get out of the way.


Mithter Jaggerth! Half a moment! My hown cuthen’th gone to Mithter Wemmick at thith prethent minute, to hoffer him hany termth. Mithter Jaggerth! Half a quarter of a moment! If you’d have the condethenthun to be bought off from the t’other thide—at hany thuperior prithe!—money no object!—Mithter Jaggerth—Mithter—!


Here’s Mike,


Oh! your man comes on this afternoon. Well?


Well, Mas’r Jaggers, arter a deal o’ trouble, I’ve found one, sir, as might do.


What is he prepared to swear?


Well, Mas’r Jaggers, in a general way, anythink.


Now, I warned you before, that if you ever presumed to talk in that way here, I’d make an example of you. You infernal scoundrel, how dare you tell ME that?


Spooney! Soft Head! Need you say it face to face?


Now, I ask you, you blundering booby, once more and for the last time, what the man you have brought here is prepared to swear?


Ayther to character, or to having been in his company and never left him all the night in question.


Now, be careful. In what station of life is this man?


We’ve dressed him up like—


What? You WILL, will you?


Spooney!


He is dressed like a ’spectable pieman. A sort of a pastry-cook.


Is he here?


I left him, a setting on some doorsteps round the corner.


Take him past that window, and let me see him. Tell him to take his witness away directly, and ask him what he means by bringing such a fellow as that.


You will find your credit good, Mr. Pip, but I shall by this means be able to check your bills, and to pull you up if I find you outrunning the constable. Of course you’ll go wrong somehow, but that’s no fault of mine.


I tell you it’s no use; he won’t have a word to say to one of you;


So you were never in London before?


No,


I was new here once. Rum to think of now!


You are well acquainted with it now?


Why, yes. I know the moves of it.


Is it a very wicked place?


You may get cheated, robbed, and murdered in London. But there are plenty of people anywhere, who’ll do that for you.


If there is bad blood between you and them,


O! I don’t know about bad blood, there’s not much bad blood about. They’ll do it, if there’s anything to be got by it.


That makes it worse.


You think so? Much about the same, I should say.


Do you know where Mr. Matthew Pocket lives?


Yes. At Hammersmith, west of London.


Is that far?


Well! Say five miles.


Do you know him?


Why, you’re a regular cross-examiner! Yes, I know him. I know him!


Ah! the retirement reminds you of the country. So it does me. He hardly thought you’d come so soon. You don’t want me any more?


No, thank you,


As I keep the cash, we shall most likely meet pretty often. Good day.


Good day.


To be sure! Yes. You’re in the habit of shaking hands? I have got so out of it! except at last. Very glad, I’m sure, to make your acquaintance. Good day!


Mr. Pip?


Mr. Pocket?


Dear me! I am extremely sorry; but I knew there was a coach from your part of the country at midday, and I thought you would come by that one. The fact is, I have been out on your account,—not that that is any excuse,—for I thought, coming from the country, you might like a little fruit after dinner, and I went to Covent Garden Market to get it good.


Dear me! This door sticks so! Pray come in. Allow me to lead the way. I am rather bare here, but I hope you’ll be able to make out tolerably well till Monday. My father thought you would get on more agreeably through to-morrow with me than with him, and might like to take a walk about London. I am sure I shall be very happy to show London to you. As to our table, you won’t find that bad, I hope, for it will be supplied from our coffee-house here, and (it is only right I should add) at your expense, such being Mr. Jaggers’s directions. As to our lodging, it’s not by any means splendid, because I have my own bread to earn, and my father hasn’t anything to give me, and I shouldn’t be willing to take it, if he had. This is our sitting-room,—just such chairs and tables and carpet and so forth, you see, as they could spare from home. You mustn’t give me credit for the tablecloth and spoons and castors, because they come for you from the coffee-house. This is my little bedroom; rather musty, but Barnard’s is musty. This is your bedroom; the furniture’s hired for the occasion, but I trust it will answer the purpose; if you should want anything, I’ll go and fetch it. The chambers are retired, and we shall be alone together, but we shan’t fight, I dare say. But dear me, I beg your pardon, you’re holding the fruit all this time. Pray let me take these bags from you. I am quite ashamed. Lord bless me, you’re the prowling boy!


And you, are the pale young gentleman!


The idea of its being you!


Well! it’s all over now, I hope, and it will be magnanimous in you if you’ll forgive me for having knocked you about so. You hadn’t come into your good fortune at that time?


No,


No. I heard it had happened very lately. I was rather on the lookout for good fortune then.


Indeed?


Yes. Miss Havisham had sent for me, to see if she could take a fancy to me. But she couldn’t,—at all events, she didn’t.


Bad taste,


but a fact. Yes, she had sent for me on a trial visit, and if I had come out of it successfully, I suppose I should have been provided for; perhaps I should have been what-you-may-called it to Estella.


What’s that?


Affianced. Betrothed. Engaged. What’s-his-named. Any word of that sort.


How did you bear your disappointment?


Pooh! I didn’t care much for it. She’s a Tartar.


Miss Havisham?


I don’t say no to that, but I meant Estella. That girl’s hard and haughty and capricious to the last degree, and has been brought up by Miss Havisham to wreak revenge on all the male sex.


What relation is she to Miss Havisham?


None. Only adopted.


Why should she wreak revenge on all the male sex? What revenge?


Lord, Mr. Pip! Don’t you know?


Dear me! It’s quite a story, and shall be saved till dinner-time. And now let me take the liberty of asking you a question. How did you come there, that day? Mr. Jaggers is your guardian, I understand?


Yes.


You know he is Miss Havisham’s man of business and solicitor, and has her confidence when nobody else has? He was so obliging as to suggest my father for your tutor, and he called on my father to propose it. Of course he knew about my father from his connection with Miss Havisham. My father is Miss Havisham’s cousin; not that that implies familiar intercourse between them, for he is a bad courtier and will not propitiate her.


With pleasure, though I venture to prophesy that you’ll want very few hints. I dare say we shall be often together, and I should like to banish any needless restraint between us. Will you do me the favour to begin at once to call me by my Christian name, Herbert?


I shouldn’t mind anything that you propose, but I don’t understand you.


Would you mind Handel for a familiar name? There’s a charming piece of music by Handel, called the Harmonious Blacksmith.


I should like it very much.


Then, my dear Handel, here is the dinner, and I must beg of you to take the top of the table, because the dinner is of your providing.


True. I’ll redeem it at once. Let me introduce the topic, Handel, by mentioning that in London it is not the custom to put the knife in the mouth,—for fear of accidents,—and that while the fork is reserved for that use, it is not put further in than necessary. It is scarcely worth mentioning, only it’s as well to do as other people do. Also, the spoon is not generally used over-hand, but under. This has two advantages. You get at your mouth better (which after all is the object), and you save a good deal of the attitude of opening oysters, on the part of the right elbow. Now, concerning Miss Havisham. Miss Havisham, you must know, was a spoilt child. Her mother died when she was a baby, and her father denied her nothing. Her father was a country gentleman down in your part of the world, and was a brewer. I don’t know why it should be a crack thing to be a brewer; but it is indisputable that while you cannot possibly be genteel and bake, you may be as genteel as never was and brew. You see it every day.


Yet a gentleman may not keep a public-house; may he?


Not on any account, but a public-house may keep a gentleman. Well! Mr. Havisham was very rich and very proud. So was his daughter.


Miss Havisham was an only child?


Stop a moment, I am coming to that. No, she was not an only child; she had a half-brother. Her father privately married again—his cook, I rather think.


I thought he was proud,


My good Handel, so he was. He married his second wife privately, because he was proud, and in course of time she died. When she was dead, I apprehend he first told his daughter what he had done, and then the son became a part of the family, residing in the house you are acquainted with. As the son grew a young man, he turned out riotous, extravagant, undutiful,—altogether bad. At last his father disinherited him; but he softened when he was dying, and left him well off, though not nearly so well off as Miss Havisham.—Take another glass of wine, and excuse my mentioning that society as a body does not expect one to be so strictly conscientious in emptying one’s glass, as to turn it bottom upwards with the rim on one’s nose. Not at all. Miss Havisham was now an heiress, and you may suppose was looked after as a great match. Her half-brother had now ample means again, but what with debts and what with new madness wasted them most fearfully again. There were stronger differences between him and her than there had been between him and his father, and it is suspected that he cherished a deep and mortal grudge against her as having influenced the father’s anger. Now, I come to the cruel part of the story,—merely breaking off, my dear Handel, to remark that a dinner-napkin will not go into a tumbler. Not at all, I am sure! There appeared upon the scene—say at the races, or the public balls, or anywhere else you like—a certain man, who made love to Miss Havisham. I never saw him (for this happened five-and-twenty years ago, before you and I were, Handel), but I have heard my father mention that he was a showy man, and the kind of man for the purpose. But that he was not to be, without ignorance or prejudice, mistaken for a gentleman, my father most strongly asseverates; because it is a principle of his that no man who was not a true gentleman at heart ever was, since the world began, a true gentleman in manner. He says, no varnish can hide the grain of the wood; and that the more varnish you put on, the more the grain will express itself. Well! This man pursued Miss Havisham closely, and professed to be devoted to her. I believe she had not shown much susceptibility up to that time; but all the susceptibility she possessed certainly came out then, and she passionately loved him. There is no doubt that she perfectly idolized him. He practised on her affection in that systematic way, that he got great sums of money from her, and he induced her to buy her brother out of a share in the brewery (which had been weakly left him by his father) at an immense price, on the plea that when he was her husband he must hold and manage it all. Your guardian was not at that time in Miss Havisham’s counsels, and she was too haughty and too much in love to be advised by any one. Her relations were poor and scheming, with the exception of my father; he was poor enough, but not time-serving or jealous. The only independent one among them, he warned her that she was doing too much for this man, and was placing herself too unreservedly in his power. She took the first opportunity of angrily ordering my father out of the house, in his presence, and my father has never seen her since.


Matthew will come and see me at last when I am laid dead upon that table;


It’s not that. Which she received. At the hour and minute,


Is that all the story?


All I know of it; and indeed I only know so much, through piecing it out for myself; for my father always avoids it, and, even when Miss Havisham invited me to go there, told me no more of it than it was absolutely requisite I should understand. But I have forgotten one thing. It has been supposed that the man to whom she gave her misplaced confidence acted throughout in concert with her half-brother; that it was a conspiracy between them; and that they shared the profits.


I wonder he didn’t marry her and get all the property,


He may have been married already, and her cruel mortification may have been a part of her half-brother’s scheme. Mind! I don’t know that.


What became of the two men?


They fell into deeper shame and degradation—if there can be deeper—and ruin.


Are they alive now?


I don’t know.


You said just now that Estella was not related to Miss Havisham, but adopted. When adopted?


There has always been an Estella, since I have heard of a Miss Havisham. I know no more. And now, Handel, there is a perfectly open understanding between us. All that I know about Miss Havisham, you know.


And all that I know,


I fully believe it. So there can be no competition or perplexity between you and me. And as to the condition on which you hold your advancement in life,—namely, that you are not to inquire or discuss to whom you owe it,—you may be very sure that it will never be encroached upon, or even approached, by me, or by any one belonging to me.


A capitalist,—an Insurer of Ships. In the City. I shall not rest satisfied with merely employing my capital in insuring ships. I shall buy up some good Life Assurance shares, and cut into the Direction. I shall also do a little in the mining way. None of these things will interfere with my chartering a few thousand tons on my own account. I think I shall trade, to the East Indies, for silks, shawls, spices, dyes, drugs, and precious woods. It’s an interesting trade.


And the profits are large?


Tremendous! I think I shall trade, also, to the West Indies, for sugar, tobacco, and rum. Also to Ceylon, especially for elephants’ tusks.


You will want a good many ships,


A perfect fleet,


I haven’t begun insuring yet,


I am looking about me.


Ah-h!


Yes. I am in a counting-house, and looking about me.


Is a counting-house profitable?


To—do you mean to the young fellow who’s in it?


Yes; to you.


Why, n-no; not to me. Not directly profitable. That is, it doesn’t pay me anything, and I have to—keep myself. But the thing is. That’s the grand thing. You are in a counting-house, you know, and you look about you. Then the time comes, when you see your opening. And you go in, and you swoop upon it and you make your capital, and then there you are! When you have once made your capital, you have nothing to do but employ it.


Mamma,


Master Alick and Miss Jane, if you go a bouncing up against them bushes you’ll fall over into the river and be drownded, and what’ll your pa say then? If that don’t make six times you’ve dropped it, Mum!


Thank you, Flopson. I hope your mamma is quite well?


Well! if that don’t make seven times! What ARE you a-doing of this afternoon, Mum!


Thank you, Flopson,


Gracious me, Flopson! everybody’s tumbling!


Gracious you, indeed, Mum!


I got here, Flopson?


Why, if it ain’t your footstool! And if you keep it under your skirts like that, who’s to help tumbling? Here! Take the baby, Mum, and give me your book.


Mr. Pocket said he was glad to see me, and he hoped I was not sorry to see him. For, I really am not, an alarming personage. Belinda, I hope you have welcomed Mr. Pip?


Yes.


a treasure for a Prince.


But dear Mrs. Pocket, after her early disappointment (not that dear Mr. Pocket was to blame in that), requires so much luxury and elegance—


Yes, ma’am,


And she is of so aristocratic a disposition—


—That it is hard, to have dear Mr. Pocket’s time and attention diverted from dear Mrs. Pocket.


Here! Give me your fork, Mum, and take the baby. Don’t take it that way, or you’ll get its head under the table. Dear, dear! Give it me back, Mum, and Miss Jane, come and dance to baby, do!


You naughty child, how dare you? Go and sit down this instant!


Mamma dear, baby ood have put hith eyeth out.


How dare you tell me so? Go and sit down in your chair this moment!


Belinda, how can you be so unreasonable? Jane only interfered for the protection of baby.


I will not allow anybody to interfere. I am surprised, Matthew, that you should expose me to the affront of interference.


Good God! Are infants to be nut-crackered into their tombs, and is nobody to save them?


I will not be interfered with by Jane. I hope I know my poor grandpapa’s position. Jane, indeed!


Hear this! Babies are to be nut-crackered dead, for people’s poor grandpapa’s positions!


Mr. Drummle, will you ring for Flopson? Jane, you undutiful little thing, go and lie down. Now, baby darling, come with ma!


Pa, Flopson was going to mend it when she had time,


Pa, Millers was going to poultice it when she didn’t forget.


If you please, sir, I should wish to speak to you.


Speak to your master? How can you think of such a thing? Go and speak to Flopson. Or speak to me—at some other time.


Begging your pardon, ma’am. I should wish to speak at once, and to speak to master.


This is a pretty thing, Belinda! Here’s the cook lying insensibly drunk on the kitchen floor, with a large bundle of fresh butter made up in the cupboard ready to sell for grease!


This is that odious Sophia’s doing!


What do you mean, Belinda?


Sophia has told you. Did I not see her with my own eyes and hear her with my own ears, come into the room just now and ask to speak to you?


But has she not taken me downstairs, Belinda, and shown me the woman, and the bundle too?


And do you defend her, Matthew, for making mischief? Am I, grandpapa’s granddaughter, to be nothing in the house? Besides, the cook has always been a very nice respectful woman, and said in the most natural manner when she came to look after the situation, that she felt I was born to be a Duchess.


Good night, Mr. Pip,


If I could buy the furniture now hired for me, and one or two other little things, I should be quite at home there.


Go it! I told you you’d get on. Well! How much do you want?


I didn’t know how much.


Come! How much? Fifty pounds?


O, not nearly so much.


Five pounds?


O, more than that.


More than that, eh! how much more?


It is so difficult to fix a sum,


Come! Let’s get at it. Twice five; will that do? Three times five; will that do? Four times five; will that do?


I thought that would do handsomely.


Four times five will do handsomely, will it? Now, what do you make of four times five?


What do I make of it?


Ah! how much?


I suppose you make it twenty pounds,