Paul’s Education
After the lapse of some minutes, which appeared an immense time to
little Paul Dombey on the table, Doctor Blimber came back. The Doctor’s
walk was stately, and calculated to impress the juvenile mind with
solemn feelings. It was a sort of march; but when the Doctor put out
his right foot, he gravely turned upon his axis, with a semi-circular
sweep towards the left; and when he put out his left foot, he turned in
the same manner towards the right. So that he seemed, at every stride
he took, to look about him as though he were saying, “Can anybody have
the goodness to indicate any subject, in any direction, on which I am
uninformed? I rather think not.”
Mrs Blimber and Miss Blimber came back in the Doctor’s company; and the
Doctor, lifting his new pupil off the table, delivered him over to Miss
Blimber.
“Cornelia,” said the Doctor, “Dombey will be your charge at first.
Bring him on, Cornelia, bring him on.”
Miss Blimber received her young ward from the Doctor’s hands; and Paul,
feeling that the spectacles were surveying him, cast down his eyes.
“How old are you, Dombey?” said Miss Blimber.
“Six,” answered Paul, wondering, as he stole a glance at the young
lady, why her hair didn’t grow long like Florence’s, and why she was
like a boy.
“How much do you know of your Latin Grammar, Dombey?” said Miss
Blimber.
“None of it,” answered Paul. Feeling that the answer was a shock to
Miss Blimber’s sensibility, he looked up at the three faces that were
looking down at him, and said:
“I haven’t been well. I have been a weak child. I couldn’t learn a
Latin Grammar when I was out, every day, with old Glubb. I wish you’d
tell old Glubb to come and see me, if you please.”
“What a dreadfully low name” said Mrs Blimber. “Unclassical to a
degree! Who is the monster, child?”
“What monster?” inquired Paul.
“Glubb,” said Mrs Blimber, with a great disrelish.
“He’s no more a monster than you are,” returned Paul.
“What!” cried the Doctor, in a terrible voice. “Ay, ay, ay? Aha! What’s
that?”
Paul was dreadfully frightened; but still he made a stand for the
absent Glubb, though he did it trembling.
“He’s a very nice old man, Ma’am,” he said. “He used to draw my couch.
He knows all about the deep sea, and the fish that are in it, and the
great monsters that come and lie on rocks in the sun, and dive into the
water again when they’re startled, blowing and splashing so, that they
can be heard for miles. There are some creatures, said Paul, warming
with his subject, “I don’t know how many yards long, and I forget their
names, but Florence knows, that pretend to be in distress; and when a
man goes near them, out of compassion, they open their great jaws, and
attack him. But all he has got to do,” said Paul, boldly tendering this
information to the very Doctor himself, “is to keep on turning as he
runs away, and then, as they turn slowly, because they are so long, and
can’t bend, he’s sure to beat them. And though old Glubb don’t know why
the sea should make me think of my Mama that’s dead, or what it is that
it is always saying—always saying! he knows a great deal about it. And
I wish,” the child concluded, with a sudden falling of his countenance,
and failing in his animation, as he looked like one forlorn, upon the
three strange faces, “that you’d let old Glubb come here to see me, for
I know him very well, and he knows me.”
“Ha!” said the Doctor, shaking his head; “this is bad, but study will
do much.”
Mrs Blimber opined, with something like a shiver, that he was an
unaccountable child; and, allowing for the difference of visage, looked
at him pretty much as Mrs Pipchin had been used to do.
“Take him round the house, Cornelia,” said the Doctor, “and familiarise
him with his new sphere. Go with that young lady, Dombey.”
Dombey obeyed; giving his hand to the abstruse Cornelia, and looking at
her sideways, with timid curiosity, as they went away together. For her
spectacles, by reason of the glistening of the glasses, made her so
mysterious, that he didn’t know where she was looking, and was not
indeed quite sure that she had any eyes at all behind them.
Cornelia took him first to the schoolroom, which was situated at the
back of the hall, and was approached through two baize doors, which
deadened and muffled the young gentlemen’s voices. Here, there were
eight young gentlemen in various stages of mental prostration, all very
hard at work, and very grave indeed. Toots, as an old hand, had a desk
to himself in one corner: and a magnificent man, of immense age, he
looked, in Paul’s young eyes, behind it.
Mr Feeder, B.A., who sat at another little desk, had his Virgil stop
on, and was slowly grinding that tune to four young gentlemen. Of the
remaining four, two, who grasped their foreheads convulsively, were
engaged in solving mathematical problems; one with his face like a
dirty window, from much crying, was endeavouring to flounder through a
hopeless number of lines before dinner; and one sat looking at his task
in stony stupefaction and despair—which it seemed had been his
condition ever since breakfast time.
The appearance of a new boy did not create the sensation that might
have been expected. Mr Feeder, B.A. (who was in the habit of shaving
his head for coolness, and had nothing but little bristles on it), gave
him a bony hand, and told him he was glad to see him—which Paul would
have been very glad to have told him, if he could have done so with the
least sincerity. Then Paul, instructed by Cornelia, shook hands with
the four young gentlemen at Mr Feeder’s desk; then with the two young
gentlemen at work on the problems, who were very feverish; then with
the young gentleman at work against time, who was very inky; and lastly
with the young gentleman in a state of stupefaction, who was flabby and
quite cold.
Paul having been already introduced to Toots, that pupil merely
chuckled and breathed hard, as his custom was, and pursued the
occupation in which he was engaged. It was not a severe one; for on
account of his having “gone through” so much (in more senses than one),
and also of his having, as before hinted, left off blowing in his
prime, Toots now had licence to pursue his own course of study: which
was chiefly to write long letters to himself from persons of
distinction, adds “P. Toots, Esquire, Brighton, Sussex,” and to
preserve them in his desk with great care.
These ceremonies passed, Cornelia led Paul upstairs to the top of the
house; which was rather a slow journey, on account of Paul being
obliged to land both feet on every stair, before he mounted another.
But they reached their journey’s end at last; and there, in a front
room, looking over the wild sea, Cornelia showed him a nice little bed
with white hangings, close to the window, on which there was already
beautifully written on a card in round text—down strokes very thick,
and up strokes very fine—DOMBEY; while two other little bedsteads in
the same room were announced, through like means, as respectively
appertaining unto BRIGGS and TOZER.
Just as they got downstairs again into the hall, Paul saw the weak-eyed
young man who had given that mortal offence to Mrs Pipchin, suddenly
seize a very large drumstick, and fly at a gong that was hanging up, as
if he had gone mad, or wanted vengeance. Instead of receiving warning,
however, or being instantly taken into custody, the young man left off
unchecked, after having made a dreadful noise. Then Cornelia Blimber
said to Dombey that dinner would be ready in a quarter of an hour, and
perhaps he had better go into the schoolroom among his “friends.”
So Dombey, deferentially passing the great clock which was still as
anxious as ever to know how he found himself, opened the schoolroom
door a very little way, and strayed in like a lost boy: shutting it
after him with some difficulty. His friends were all dispersed about
the room except the stony friend, who remained immoveable. Mr Feeder
was stretching himself in his grey gown, as if, regardless of expense,
he were resolved to pull the sleeves off.
“Heigh ho hum!” cried Mr Feeder, shaking himself like a cart-horse. “Oh
dear me, dear me! Ya-a-a-ah!”
Paul was quite alarmed by Mr Feeder’s yawning; it was done on such a
great scale, and he was so terribly in earnest. All the boys too (Toots
excepted) seemed knocked up, and were getting ready for dinner—some
newly tying their neckcloths, which were very stiff indeed; and others
washing their hands or brushing their hair, in an adjoining
ante-chamber—as if they didn’t think they should enjoy it at all.
Young Toots who was ready beforehand, and had therefore nothing to do,
and had leisure to bestow upon Paul, said, with heavy good nature:
“Sit down, Dombey.”
“Thank you, Sir,” said Paul.
His endeavouring to hoist himself on to a very high window-seat, and
his slipping down again, appeared to prepare Toots’s mind for the
reception of a discovery.
“You’re a very small chap;” said Mr Toots.
“Yes, Sir, I’m small,” returned Paul. “Thank you, Sir.”
For Toots had lifted him into the seat, and done it kindly too.
“Who’s your tailor?” inquired Toots, after looking at him for some
moments.
“It’s a woman that has made my clothes as yet,” said Paul. “My sister’s
dressmaker.”
“My tailor’s Burgess and Co.,” said Toots. “Fash’nable. But very dear.”
Paul had wit enough to shake his head, as if he would have said it was
easy to see that; and indeed he thought so.
“Your father’s regularly rich, ain’t he?” inquired Mr Toots.
“Yes, Sir,” said Paul. “He’s Dombey and Son.”
“And which?” demanded Toots.
“And Son, Sir,” replied Paul.
Mr Toots made one or two attempts, in a low voice, to fix the Firm in
his mind; but not quite succeeding, said he would get Paul to mention
the name again to-morrow morning, as it was rather important. And
indeed he purposed nothing less than writing himself a private and
confidential letter from Dombey and Son immediately.
By this time the other pupils (always excepting the stony boy) gathered
round. They were polite, but pale; and spoke low; and they were so
depressed in their spirits, that in comparison with the general tone of
that company, Master Bitherstone was a perfect Miller, or complete Jest
Book.” And yet he had a sense of injury upon him, too, had Bitherstone.
“You sleep in my room, don’t you?” asked a solemn young gentleman,
whose shirt-collar curled up the lobes of his ears.
“Master Briggs?” inquired Paul.
“Tozer,” said the young gentleman.
Paul answered yes; and Tozer pointing out the stony pupil, said that
was Briggs. Paul had already felt certain that it must be either Briggs
or Tozer, though he didn’t know why.
“Is yours a strong constitution?” inquired Tozer.
Paul said he thought not. Tozer replied that he thought not also,
judging from Paul’s looks, and that it was a pity, for it need be. He
then asked Paul if he were going to begin with Cornelia; and on Paul
saying “yes,” all the young gentlemen (Briggs excepted) gave a low
groan.
It was drowned in the tintinnabulation of the gong, which sounding
again with great fury, there was a general move towards the
dining-room; still excepting Briggs the stony boy, who remained where
he was, and as he was; and on its way to whom Paul presently
encountered a round of bread, genteelly served on a plate and napkin,
and with a silver fork lying crosswise on the top of it. Doctor Blimber
was already in his place in the dining-room, at the top of the table,
with Miss Blimber and Mrs Blimber on either side of him. Mr Feeder in a
black coat was at the bottom. Paul’s chair was next to Miss Blimber;
but it being found, when he sat in it, that his eyebrows were not much
above the level of the table-cloth, some books were brought in from the
Doctor’s study, on which he was elevated, and on which he always sat
from that time— carrying them in and out himself on after occasions,
like a little elephant and castle.
Grace having been said by the Doctor, dinner began. There was some nice
soup; also roast meat, boiled meat, vegetables, pie, and cheese. Every
young gentleman had a massive silver fork, and a napkin; and all the
arrangements were stately and handsome. In particular, there was a
butler in a blue coat and bright buttons, who gave quite a winey
flavour to the table beer; he poured it out so superbly.
Nobody spoke, unless spoken to, except Doctor Blimber, Mrs Blimber, and
Miss Blimber, who conversed occasionally. Whenever a young gentleman
was not actually engaged with his knife and fork or spoon, his eye,
with an irresistible attraction, sought the eye of Doctor Blimber, Mrs
Blimber, or Miss Blimber, and modestly rested there. Toots appeared to
be the only exception to this rule. He sat next Mr Feeder on Paul’s
side of the table, and frequently looked behind and before the
intervening boys to catch a glimpse of Paul.
Only once during dinner was there any conversation that included the
young gentlemen. It happened at the epoch of the cheese, when the
Doctor, having taken a glass of port wine, and hemmed twice or thrice,
said:
“It is remarkable, Mr Feeder, that the Romans—”
At the mention of this terrible people, their implacable enemies, every
young gentleman fastened his gaze upon the Doctor, with an assumption
of the deepest interest. One of the number who happened to be drinking,
and who caught the Doctor’s eye glaring at him through the side of his
tumbler, left off so hastily that he was convulsed for some moments,
and in the sequel ruined Doctor Blimber’s point.
“It is remarkable, Mr Feeder,” said the Doctor, beginning again slowly,
“that the Romans, in those gorgeous and profuse entertainments of which
we read in the days of the Emperors, when luxury had attained a height
unknown before or since, and when whole provinces were ravaged to
supply the splendid means of one Imperial Banquet—”
Here the offender, who had been swelling and straining, and waiting in
vain for a full stop, broke out violently.
“Johnson,” said Mr Feeder, in a low reproachful voice, “take some
water.”
The Doctor, looking very stern, made a pause until the water was
brought, and then resumed:
“And when, Mr Feeder—”
But Mr Feeder, who saw that Johnson must break out again, and who knew
that the Doctor would never come to a period before the young gentlemen
until he had finished all he meant to say, couldn’t keep his eye off
Johnson; and thus was caught in the fact of not looking at the Doctor,
who consequently stopped.
“I beg your pardon, Sir,” said Mr Feeder, reddening. “I beg your
pardon, Doctor Blimber.”
“And when,” said the Doctor, raising his voice, “when, Sir, as we read,
and have no reason to doubt—incredible as it may appear to the
vulgar—of our time—the brother of Vitellius prepared for him a feast,
in which were served, of fish, two thousand dishes—”
“Take some water, Johnson—dishes, Sir,” said Mr Feeder.
“Of various sorts of fowl, five thousand dishes.”
“Or try a crust of bread,” said Mr Feeder.
“And one dish,” pursued Doctor Blimber, raising his voice still higher
as he looked all round the table, “called, from its enormous
dimensions, the Shield of Minerva, and made, among other costly
ingredients, of the brains of pheasants—”
“Ow, ow, ow!” (from Johnson.)
“Woodcocks—”
“Ow, ow, ow!”
“The sounds of the fish called scari—”
“You’ll burst some vessel in your head,” said Mr Feeder. “You had
better let it come.”
“And the spawn of the lamprey, brought from the Carpathian Sea,”
pursued the Doctor, in his severest voice; “when we read of costly
entertainments such as these, and still remember, that we have a
Titus—”
“What would be your mother’s feelings if you died of apoplexy!” said Mr
Feeder.
“A Domitian—”
“And you’re blue, you know,” said Mr Feeder.
“A Nero, a Tiberius, a Caligula, a Heliogabalus, and many more, pursued
the Doctor; “it is, Mr Feeder—if you are doing me the honour to
attend—remarkable; VERY remarkable, Sir—”
But Johnson, unable to suppress it any longer, burst at that moment
into such an overwhelming fit of coughing, that although both his
immediate neighbours thumped him on the back, and Mr Feeder himself
held a glass of water to his lips, and the butler walked him up and
down several times between his own chair and the sideboard, like a
sentry, it was a full five minutes before he was moderately composed.
Then there was a profound silence.
“Gentlemen,” said Doctor Blimber, “rise for Grace! Cornelia, lift
Dombey down”—nothing of whom but his scalp was accordingly seen above
the tablecloth. “Johnson will repeat to me tomorrow morning before
breakfast, without book, and from the Greek Testament, the first
chapter of the Epistle of Saint Paul to the Ephesians. We will resume
our studies, Mr Feeder, in half-an-hour.”
[Illustration]
The young gentlemen bowed and withdrew. Mr Feeder did likewise. During
the half-hour, the young gentlemen, broken into pairs, loitered
arm-in-arm up and down a small piece of ground behind the house, or
endeavoured to kindle a spark of animation in the breast of Briggs. But
nothing happened so vulgar as play. Punctually at the appointed time,
the gong was sounded, and the studies, under the joint auspices of
Doctor Blimber and Mr Feeder, were resumed.
As the Olympic game of lounging up and down had been cut shorter than
usual that day, on Johnson’s account, they all went out for a walk
before tea. Even Briggs (though he hadn’t begun yet) partook of this
dissipation; in the enjoyment of which he looked over the cliff two or
three times darkly. Doctor Blimber accompanied them; and Paul had the
honour of being taken in tow by the Doctor himself: a distinguished
state of things, in which he looked very little and feeble.
Tea was served in a style no less polite than the dinner; and after
tea, the young gentlemen rising and bowing as before, withdrew to fetch
up the unfinished tasks of that day, or to get up the already looming
tasks of to-morrow. In the meantime Mr Feeder withdrew to his own room;
and Paul sat in a corner wondering whether Florence was thinking of
him, and what they were all about at Mrs Pipchin’s.
Mr Toots, who had been detained by an important letter from the Duke of
Wellington, found Paul out after a time; and having looked at him for a
long while, as before, inquired if he was fond of waistcoats.
Paul said “Yes, Sir.”
“So am I,” said Toots.
No word more spoke Toots that night; but he stood looking at Paul as if
he liked him; and as there was company in that, and Paul was not
inclined to talk, it answered his purpose better than conversation.
At eight o’clock or so, the gong sounded again for prayers in the
dining-room, where the butler afterwards presided over a side-table, on
which bread and cheese and beer were spread for such young gentlemen as
desired to partake of those refreshments. The ceremonies concluded by
the Doctor’s saying, “Gentlemen, we will resume our studies at seven
to-morrow;” and then, for the first time, Paul saw Cornelia Blimber’s
eye, and saw that it was upon him. When the Doctor had said these
words, “Gentlemen, we will resume our studies at seven tomorrow,” the
pupils bowed again, and went to bed.
In the confidence of their own room upstairs, Briggs said his head
ached ready to split, and that he should wish himself dead if it wasn’t
for his mother, and a blackbird he had at home. Tozer didn’t say much,
but he sighed a good deal, and told Paul to look out, for his turn
would come to-morrow. After uttering those prophetic words, he
undressed himself moodily, and got into bed. Briggs was in his bed too,
and Paul in his bed too, before the weak-eyed young man appeared to
take away the candle, when he wished them good-night and pleasant
dreams. But his benevolent wishes were in vain, as far as Briggs and
Tozer were concerned; for Paul, who lay awake for a long while, and
often woke afterwards, found that Briggs was ridden by his lesson as a
nightmare: and that Tozer, whose mind was affected in his sleep by
similar causes, in a minor degree talked unknown tongues, or scraps of
Greek and Latin—it was all one to Paul—which, in the silence of night,
had an inexpressibly wicked and guilty effect.
Paul had sunk into a sweet sleep, and dreamed that he was walking hand
in hand with Florence through beautiful gardens, when they came to a
large sunflower which suddenly expanded itself into a gong, and began
to sound. Opening his eyes, he found that it was a dark, windy morning,
with a drizzling rain: and that the real gong was giving dreadful note
of preparation, down in the hall.
So he got up directly, and found Briggs with hardly any eyes, for
nightmare and grief had made his face puffy, putting his boots on:
while Tozer stood shivering and rubbing his shoulders in a very bad
humour. Poor Paul couldn’t dress himself easily, not being used to it,
and asked them if they would have the goodness to tie some strings for
him; but as Briggs merely said “Bother!” and Tozer, “Oh yes!” he went
down when he was otherwise ready, to the next storey, where he saw a
pretty young woman in leather gloves, cleaning a stove. The young woman
seemed surprised at his appearance, and asked him where his mother was.
When Paul told her she was dead, she took her gloves off, and did what
he wanted; and furthermore rubbed his hands to warm them; and gave him
a kiss; and told him whenever he wanted anything of that sort—meaning
in the dressing way—to ask for “Melia; which Paul, thanking her very
much, said he certainly would. He then proceeded softly on his journey
downstairs, towards the room in which the young gentlemen resumed their
studies, when, passing by a door that stood ajar, a voice from within
cried, “Is that Dombey?” On Paul replying, “Yes, Ma’am:” for he knew
the voice to be Miss Blimber’s: Miss Blimber said, “Come in, Dombey.”
And in he went.
Miss Blimber presented exactly the appearance she had presented
yesterday, except that she wore a shawl. Her little light curls were as
crisp as ever, and she had already her spectacles on, which made Paul
wonder whether she went to bed in them. She had a cool little
sitting-room of her own up there, with some books in it, and no fire
But Miss Blimber was never cold, and never sleepy.
Now, Dombey,” said Miss Blimber, “I am going out for a constitutional.”
Paul wondered what that was, and why she didn’t send the footman out to
get it in such unfavourable weather. But he made no observation on the
subject: his attention being devoted to a little pile of new books, on
which Miss Blimber appeared to have been recently engaged.
“These are yours, Dombey,” said Miss Blimber.
“All of ’em, Ma’am?” said Paul.
“Yes,” returned Miss Blimber; “and Mr Feeder will look you out some
more very soon, if you are as studious as I expect you will be,
Dombey.”
“Thank you, Ma’am,” said Paul.
“I am going out for a constitutional,” resumed Miss Blimber; “and while
I am gone, that is to say in the interval between this and breakfast,
Dombey, I wish you to read over what I have marked in these books, and
to tell me if you quite understand what you have got to learn. Don’t
lose time, Dombey, for you have none to spare, but take them
downstairs, and begin directly.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” answered Paul.
There were so many of them, that although Paul put one hand under the
bottom book and his other hand and his chin on the top book, and hugged
them all closely, the middle book slipped out before he reached the
door, and then they all tumbled down on the floor. Miss Blimber said,
“Oh, Dombey, Dombey, this is really very careless!” and piled them up
afresh for him; and this time, by dint of balancing them with great
nicety, Paul got out of the room, and down a few stairs before two of
them escaped again. But he held the rest so tight, that he only left
one more on the first floor, and one in the passage; and when he had
got the main body down into the schoolroom, he set off upstairs again
to collect the stragglers. Having at last amassed the whole library,
and climbed into his place, he fell to work, encouraged by a remark
from Tozer to the effect that he “was in for it now;” which was the
only interruption he received till breakfast time. At that meal, for
which he had no appetite, everything was quite as solemn and genteel as
at the others; and when it was finished, he followed Miss Blimber
upstairs.
“Now, Dombey,” said Miss Blimber. “How have you got on with those
books?”
They comprised a little English, and a deal of Latin—names of things,
declensions of articles and substantives, exercises thereon, and
preliminary rules—a trifle of orthography, a glance at ancient history,
a wink or two at modern ditto, a few tables, two or three weights and
measures, and a little general information. When poor Paul had spelt
out number two, he found he had no idea of number one; fragments
whereof afterwards obtruded themselves into number three, which slided
into number four, which grafted itself on to number two. So that
whether twenty Romuluses made a Remus, or hic haec hoc was troy weight,
or a verb always agreed with an ancient Briton, or three times four was
Taurus a bull, were open questions with him.
“Oh, Dombey, Dombey!” said Miss Blimber, “this is very shocking.”
“If you please,” said Paul, “I think if I might sometimes talk a little
to old Glubb, I should be able to do better.”
“Nonsense, Dombey,” said Miss Blimber. “I couldn’t hear of it. This is
not the place for Glubbs of any kind. You must take the books down, I
suppose, Dombey, one by one, and perfect yourself in the day’s
instalment of subject A, before you turn at all to subject B. I am
sorry to say, Dombey, that your education appears to have been very
much neglected.”
“So Papa says,” returned Paul; “but I told you—I have been a weak
child. Florence knows I have. So does Wickam.”
“Who is Wickam?” asked Miss Blimber.
“She has been my nurse,” Paul answered.
“I must beg you not to mention Wickam to me, then,” said Miss Blimber.
“I couldn’t allow it”.
“You asked me who she was,” said Paul.
“Very well,” returned Miss Blimber; “but this is all very different
indeed from anything of that sort, Dombey, and I couldn’t think of
permitting it. As to having been weak, you must begin to be strong. And
now take away the top book, if you please, Dombey, and return when you
are master of the theme.”
Miss Blimber expressed her opinions on the subject of Paul’s
uninstructed state with a gloomy delight, as if she had expected this
result, and were glad to find that they must be in constant
communication. Paul withdrew with the top task, as he was told, and
laboured away at it, down below: sometimes remembering every word of
it, and sometimes forgetting it all, and everything else besides: until
at last he ventured upstairs again to repeat the lesson, when it was
nearly all driven out of his head before he began, by Miss Blimber’s
shutting up the book, and saying, “Go on, Dombey!” a proceeding so
suggestive of the knowledge inside of her, that Paul looked upon the
young lady with consternation, as a kind of learned Guy Fawkes, or
artificial Bogle, stuffed full of scholastic straw.
He acquitted himself very well, nevertheless; and Miss Blimber,
commending him as giving promise of getting on fast, immediately
provided him with subject B; from which he passed to C, and even D
before dinner. It was hard work, resuming his studies, soon after
dinner; and he felt giddy and confused and drowsy and dull. But all the
other young gentlemen had similar sensations, and were obliged to
resume their studies too, if there were any comfort in that. It was a
wonder that the great clock in the hall, instead of being constant to
its first inquiry, never said, “Gentlemen, we will now resume our
studies,” for that phrase was often enough repeated in its
neighbourhood. The studies went round like a mighty wheel, and the
young gentlemen were always stretched upon it.
After tea there were exercises again, and preparations for next day by
candlelight. And in due course there was bed; where, but for that
resumption of the studies which took place in dreams, were rest and
sweet forgetfulness.
Oh Saturdays! Oh happy Saturdays, when Florence always came at noon,
and never would, in any weather, stay away, though Mrs Pipchin snarled
and growled, and worried her bitterly. Those Saturdays were Sabbaths
for at least two little Christians among all the Jews, and did the holy
Sabbath work of strengthening and knitting up a brother’s and a
sister’s love.
Not even Sunday nights—the heavy Sunday nights, whose shadow darkened
the first waking burst of light on Sunday mornings—could mar those
precious Saturdays. Whether it was the great sea-shore, where they sat,
and strolled together; or whether it was only Mrs Pipchin’s dull back
room, in which she sang to him so softly, with his drowsy head upon her
arm; Paul never cared. It was Florence. That was all he thought of. So,
on Sunday nights, when the Doctor’s dark door stood agape to swallow
him up for another week, the time was come for taking leave of
Florence; no one else.
Mrs Wickam had been drafted home to the house in town, and Miss Nipper,
now a smart young woman, had come down. To many a single combat with
Mrs Pipchin, did Miss Nipper gallantly devote herself, and if ever Mrs
Pipchin in all her life had found her match, she had found it now. Miss
Nipper threw away the scabbard the first morning she arose in Mrs
Pipchin’s house. She asked and gave no quarter. She said it must be
war, and war it was; and Mrs Pipchin lived from that time in the midst
of surprises, harassings, and defiances, and skirmishing attacks that
came bouncing in upon her from the passage, even in unguarded moments
of chops, and carried desolation to her very toast.
Miss Nipper had returned one Sunday night with Florence, from walking
back with Paul to the Doctor’s, when Florence took from her bosom a
little piece of paper, on which she had pencilled down some words.
“See here, Susan,” she said. “These are the names of the little books
that Paul brings home to do those long exercises with, when he is so
tired. I copied them last night while he was writing.”
“Don’t show ’em to me, Miss Floy, if you please,” returned Nipper, “I’d
as soon see Mrs Pipchin.”
“I want you to buy them for me, Susan, if you will, tomorrow morning. I
have money enough,” said Florence.
“Why, goodness gracious me, Miss Floy,” returned Miss Nipper, “how can
you talk like that, when you have books upon books already, and
masterses and mississes a teaching of you everything continual, though
my belief is that your Pa, Miss Dombey, never would have learnt you
nothing, never would have thought of it, unless you’d asked him—when he
couldn’t well refuse; but giving consent when asked, and offering when
unasked, Miss, is quite two things; I may not have my objections to a
young man’s keeping company with me, and when he puts the question, may
say ‘yes,’ but that’s not saying ‘would you be so kind as like me.’”
“But you can buy me the books, Susan; and you will, when you know why I
want them.”
“Well, Miss, and why do you want ’em?” replied Nipper; adding, in a
lower voice, “If it was to fling at Mrs Pipchin’s head, I’d buy a
cart-load.”
“Paul has a great deal too much to do, Susan,” said Florence, “I am
sure of it.”
“And well you may be, Miss,” returned her maid, “and make your mind
quite easy that the willing dear is worked and worked away. If those is
Latin legs,” exclaimed Miss Nipper, with strong feeling—in allusion to
Paul’s; “give me English ones.”
“I am afraid he feels lonely and lost at Doctor Blimber’s, Susan,”
pursued Florence, turning away her face.
“Ah,” said Miss Nipper, with great sharpness, “Oh, them ‘Blimbers’”
“Don’t blame anyone,” said Florence. “It’s a mistake.”
“I say nothing about blame, Miss,” cried Miss Nipper, “for I know that
you object, but I may wish, Miss, that the family was set to work to
make new roads, and that Miss Blimber went in front and had the
pickaxe.”
After this speech, Miss Nipper, who was perfectly serious, wiped her
eyes.
[Illustration]
“I think I could perhaps give Paul some help, Susan, if I had these
books,” said Florence, “and make the coming week a little easier to
him. At least I want to try. So buy them for me, dear, and I will never
forget how kind it was of you to do it!”
It must have been a harder heart than Susan Nipper’s that could have
rejected the little purse Florence held out with these words, or the
gentle look of entreaty with which she seconded her petition. Susan put
the purse in her pocket without reply, and trotted out at once upon her
errand.
The books were not easy to procure; and the answer at several shops
was, either that they were just out of them, or that they never kept
them, or that they had had a great many last month, or that they
expected a great many next week But Susan was not easily baffled in
such an enterprise; and having entrapped a white-haired youth, in a
black calico apron, from a library where she was known, to accompany
her in her quest, she led him such a life in going up and down, that he
exerted himself to the utmost, if it were only to get rid of her; and
finally enabled her to return home in triumph.
With these treasures then, after her own daily lessons were over,
Florence sat down at night to track Paul’s footsteps through the thorny
ways of learning; and being possessed of a naturally quick and sound
capacity, and taught by that most wonderful of masters, love, it was
not long before she gained upon Paul’s heels, and caught and passed
him.
Not a word of this was breathed to Mrs Pipchin: but many a night when
they were all in bed, and when Miss Nipper, with her hair in papers and
herself asleep in some uncomfortable attitude, reposed unconscious by
her side; and when the chinking ashes in the grate were cold and grey;
and when the candles were burnt down and guttering out;—Florence tried
so hard to be a substitute for one small Dombey, that her fortitude and
perseverance might have almost won her a free right to bear the name
herself.
And high was her reward, when one Saturday evening, as little Paul was
sitting down as usual to “resume his studies,” she sat down by his
side, and showed him all that was so rough, made smooth, and all that
was so dark, made clear and plain, before him. It was nothing but a
startled look in Paul’s wan face—a flush—a smile—and then a close
embrace—but God knows how her heart leapt up at this rich payment for
her trouble.
“Oh, Floy!” cried her brother, “how I love you! How I love you, Floy!”
“And I you, dear!”
“Oh! I am sure of that, Floy.”
He said no more about it, but all that evening sat close by her, very
quiet; and in the night he called out from his little room within hers,
three or four times, that he loved her.
Regularly, after that, Florence was prepared to sit down with Paul on
Saturday night, and patiently assist him through so much as they could
anticipate together of his next week’s work. The cheering thought that
he was labouring on where Florence had just toiled before him, would,
of itself, have been a stimulant to Paul in the perpetual resumption of
his studies; but coupled with the actual lightening of his load,
consequent on this assistance, it saved him, possibly, from sinking
underneath the burden which the fair Cornelia Blimber piled upon his
back.
It was not that Miss Blimber meant to be too hard upon him, or that
Doctor Blimber meant to bear too heavily on the young gentlemen in
general. Cornelia merely held the faith in which she had been bred; and
the Doctor, in some partial confusion of his ideas, regarded the young
gentlemen as if they were all Doctors, and were born grown up.
Comforted by the applause of the young gentlemen’s nearest relations,
and urged on by their blind vanity and ill-considered haste, it would
have been strange if Doctor Blimber had discovered his mistake, or
trimmed his swelling sails to any other tack.
Thus in the case of Paul. When Doctor Blimber said he made great
progress and was naturally clever, Mr Dombey was more bent than ever on
his being forced and crammed. In the case of Briggs, when Doctor
Blimber reported that he did not make great progress yet, and was not
naturally clever, Briggs senior was inexorable in the same purpose. In
short, however high and false the temperature at which the Doctor kept
his hothouse, the owners of the plants were always ready to lend a
helping hand at the bellows, and to stir the fire.
Such spirits as he had in the outset, Paul soon lost of course. But he
retained all that was strange, and old, and thoughtful in his
character: and under circumstances so favourable to the development of
those tendencies, became even more strange, and old, and thoughtful,
than before.
The only difference was, that he kept his character to himself. He grew
more thoughtful and reserved, every day; and had no such curiosity in
any living member of the Doctor’s household, as he had had in Mrs
Pipchin. He loved to be alone; and in those short intervals when he was
not occupied with his books, liked nothing so well as wandering about
the house by himself, or sitting on the stairs, listening to the great
clock in the hall. He was intimate with all the paperhanging in the
house; saw things that no one else saw in the patterns; found out
miniature tigers and lions running up the bedroom walls, and squinting
faces leering in the squares and diamonds of the floor-cloth.
The solitary child lived on, surrounded by this arabesque work of his
musing fancy, and no one understood him. Mrs Blimber thought him “odd,”
and sometimes the servants said among themselves that little Dombey
“moped;” but that was all.
Unless young Toots had some idea on the subject, to the expression of
which he was wholly unequal. Ideas, like ghosts (according to the
common notion of ghosts), must be spoken to a little before they will
explain themselves; and Toots had long left off asking any questions of
his own mind. Some mist there may have been, issuing from that leaden
casket, his cranium, which, if it could have taken shape and form,
would have become a genie; but it could not; and it only so far
followed the example of the smoke in the Arabian story, as to roll out
in a thick cloud, and there hang and hover. But it left a little figure
visible upon a lonely shore, and Toots was always staring at it.
“How are you?” he would say to Paul, fifty times a day. “Quite well,
Sir, thank you,” Paul would answer. “Shake hands,” would be Toots’s
next advance.
Which Paul, of course, would immediately do. Mr Toots generally said
again, after a long interval of staring and hard breathing, “How are
you?” To which Paul again replied, “Quite well, Sir, thank you.”
One evening Mr Toots was sitting at his desk, oppressed by
correspondence, when a great purpose seemed to flash upon him. He laid
down his pen, and went off to seek Paul, whom he found at last, after a
long search, looking through the window of his little bedroom.
“I say!” cried Toots, speaking the moment he entered the room, lest he
should forget it; “what do you think about?”
“Oh! I think about a great many things,” replied Paul.
“Do you, though?” said Toots, appearing to consider that fact in itself
surprising. “If you had to die,” said Paul, looking up into his face—Mr
Toots started, and seemed much disturbed.
“Don’t you think you would rather die on a moonlight night, when the
sky was quite clear, and the wind blowing, as it did last night?”
Mr Toots said, looking doubtfully at Paul, and shaking his head, that
he didn’t know about that.
“Not blowing, at least,” said Paul, “but sounding in the air like the
sea sounds in the shells. It was a beautiful night. When I had listened
to the water for a long time, I got up and looked out. There was a boat
over there, in the full light of the moon; a boat with a sail.”
The child looked at him so steadfastly, and spoke so earnestly, that Mr
Toots, feeling himself called upon to say something about this boat,
said, “Smugglers.” But with an impartial remembrance of there being two
sides to every question, he added, “or Preventive.”
“A boat with a sail,” repeated Paul, “in the full light of the moon.
The sail like an arm, all silver. It went away into the distance, and
what do you think it seemed to do as it moved with the waves?”
“Pitch,” said Mr Toots.
“It seemed to beckon,” said the child, “to beckon me to come!—There she
is! There she is!”
Toots was almost beside himself with dismay at this sudden exclamation,
after what had gone before, and cried “Who?”
“My sister Florence!” cried Paul, “looking up here, and waving her
hand. She sees me—she sees me! Good-night, dear, good-night,
good-night.”
His quick transition to a state of unbounded pleasure, as he stood at
his window, kissing and clapping his hands: and the way in which the
light retreated from his features as she passed out of his view, and
left a patient melancholy on the little face: were too remarkable
wholly to escape even Toots’s notice. Their interview being interrupted
at this moment by a visit from Mrs Pipchin, who usually brought her
black skirts to bear upon Paul just before dusk, once or twice a week,
Toots had no opportunity of improving the occasion: but it left so
marked an impression on his mind that he twice returned, after having
exchanged the usual salutations, to ask Mrs Pipchin how she did. This
the irascible old lady conceived to be a deeply devised and
long-meditated insult, originating in the diabolical invention of the
weak-eyed young man downstairs, against whom she accordingly lodged a
formal complaint with Doctor Blimber that very night; who mentioned to
the young man that if he ever did it again, he should be obliged to
part with him.
The evenings being longer now, Paul stole up to his window every
evening to look out for Florence. She always passed and repassed at a
certain time, until she saw him; and their mutual recognition was a
gleam of sunshine in Paul’s daily life. Often after dark, one other
figure walked alone before the Doctor’s house. He rarely joined them on
the Saturdays now. He could not bear it. He would rather come
unrecognised, and look up at the windows where his son was qualifying
for a man; and wait, and watch, and plan, and hope.
Oh! could he but have seen, or seen as others did, the slight spare boy
above, watching the waves and clouds at twilight, with his earnest
eyes, and breasting the window of his solitary cage when birds flew by,
as if he would have emulated them, and soared away!