Paul grows more and more Old-fashioned, and goes Home for the Holidays
When the Midsummer vacation approached, no indecent manifestations of
joy were exhibited by the leaden-eyed young gentlemen assembled at
Doctor Blimber’s. Any such violent expression as “breaking up,” would
have been quite inapplicable to that polite establishment. The young
gentlemen oozed away, semi-annually, to their own homes; but they never
broke up. They would have scorned the action.
Tozer, who was constantly galled and tormented by a starched white
cambric neckerchief, which he wore at the express desire of Mrs Tozer,
his parent, who, designing him for the Church, was of opinion that he
couldn’t be in that forward state of preparation too soon—Tozer said,
indeed, that choosing between two evils, he thought he would rather
stay where he was, than go home. However inconsistent this declaration
might appear with that passage in Tozer’s Essay on the subject, wherein
he had observed “that the thoughts of home and all its recollections,
awakened in his mind the most pleasing emotions of anticipation and
delight,” and had also likened himself to a Roman General, flushed with
a recent victory over the Iceni, or laden with Carthaginian spoil,
advancing within a few hours’ march of the Capitol, presupposed, for
the purposes of the simile, to be the dwelling-place of Mrs Tozer,
still it was very sincerely made. For it seemed that Tozer had a
dreadful Uncle, who not only volunteered examinations of him, in the
holidays, on abstruse points, but twisted innocent events and things,
and wrenched them to the same fell purpose. So that if this Uncle took
him to the Play, or, on a similar pretence of kindness, carried him to
see a Giant, or a Dwarf, or a Conjuror, or anything, Tozer knew he had
read up some classical allusion to the subject beforehand, and was
thrown into a state of mortal apprehension: not foreseeing where he
might break out, or what authority he might not quote against him.
As to Briggs, his father made no show of artifice about it. He never
would leave him alone. So numerous and severe were the mental trials of
that unfortunate youth in vacation time, that the friends of the family
(then resident near Bayswater, London) seldom approached the ornamental
piece of water in Kensington Gardens, without a vague expectation of
seeing Master Briggs’s hat floating on the surface, and an unfinished
exercise lying on the bank. Briggs, therefore, was not at all sanguine
on the subject of holidays; and these two sharers of little Paul’s
bedroom were so fair a sample of the young gentlemen in general, that
the most elastic among them contemplated the arrival of those festive
periods with genteel resignation.
It was far otherwise with little Paul. The end of these first holidays
was to witness his separation from Florence, but who ever looked
forward to the end of holidays whose beginning was not yet come! Not
Paul, assuredly. As the happy time drew near, the lions and tigers
climbing up the bedroom walls became quite tame and frolicsome. The
grim sly faces in the squares and diamonds of the floor-cloth, relaxed
and peeped out at him with less wicked eyes. The grave old clock had
more of personal interest in the tone of its formal inquiry; and the
restless sea went rolling on all night, to the sounding of a melancholy
strain—yet it was pleasant too—that rose and fell with the waves, and
rocked him, as it were, to sleep.
Mr Feeder, B.A., seemed to think that he, too, would enjoy the holidays
very much. Mr Toots projected a life of holidays from that time forth;
for, as he regularly informed Paul every day, it was his “last half” at
Doctor Blimber’s, and he was going to begin to come into his property
directly.
It was perfectly understood between Paul and Mr Toots, that they were
intimate friends, notwithstanding their distance in point of years and
station. As the vacation approached, and Mr Toots breathed harder and
stared oftener in Paul’s society, than he had done before, Paul knew
that he meant he was sorry they were going to lose sight of each other,
and felt very much obliged to him for his patronage and good opinion.
It was even understood by Doctor Blimber, Mrs Blimber, and Miss
Blimber, as well as by the young gentlemen in general, that Toots had
somehow constituted himself protector and guardian of Dombey, and the
circumstance became so notorious, even to Mrs Pipchin, that the good
old creature cherished feelings of bitterness and jealousy against
Toots; and, in the sanctuary of her own home, repeatedly denounced him
as a “chuckle-headed noodle.” Whereas the innocent Toots had no more
idea of awakening Mrs Pipchin’s wrath, than he had of any other
definite possibility or proposition. On the contrary, he was disposed
to consider her rather a remarkable character, with many points of
interest about her. For this reason he smiled on her with so much
urbanity, and asked her how she did, so often, in the course of her
visits to little Paul, that at last she one night told him plainly, she
wasn’t used to it, whatever he might think; and she could not, and she
would not bear it, either from himself or any other puppy then
existing: at which unexpected acknowledgment of his civilities, Mr
Toots was so alarmed that he secreted himself in a retired spot until
she had gone. Nor did he ever again face the doughty Mrs Pipchin, under
Doctor Blimber’s roof.
They were within two or three weeks of the holidays, when, one day,
Cornelia Blimber called Paul into her room, and said, “Dombey, I am
going to send home your analysis.”
“Thank you, Ma’am,” returned Paul.
“You know what I mean, do you, Dombey?” inquired Miss Blimber, looking
hard at him, through the spectacles.
“No, Ma’am,” said Paul.
“Dombey, Dombey,” said Miss Blimber, “I begin to be afraid you are a
sad boy. When you don’t know the meaning of an expression, why don’t
you seek for information?”
“Mrs Pipchin told me I wasn’t to ask questions,” returned Paul.
“I must beg you not to mention Mrs Pipchin to me, on any account,
Dombey,” returned Miss Blimber. “I couldn’t think of allowing it. The
course of study here, is very far removed from anything of that sort. A
repetition of such allusions would make it necessary for me to request
to hear, without a mistake, before breakfast-time to-morrow morning,
from Verbum personale down to simillimia cygno.”
“I didn’t mean, Ma’am—” began little Paul.
“I must trouble you not to tell me that you didn’t mean, if you please,
Dombey,” said Miss Blimber, who preserved an awful politeness in her
admonitions. “That is a line of argument I couldn’t dream of
permitting.”
Paul felt it safest to say nothing at all, so he only looked at Miss
Blimber’s spectacles. Miss Blimber having shaken her head at him
gravely, referred to a paper lying before her.
“‘Analysis of the character of P. Dombey.’ If my recollection serves
me,” said Miss Blimber breaking off, “the word analysis as opposed to
synthesis, is thus defined by Walker. ‘The resolution of an object,
whether of the senses or of the intellect, into its first elements.’ As
opposed to synthesis, you observe. Now you know what analysis is,
Dombey.”
Dombey didn’t seem to be absolutely blinded by the light let in upon
his intellect, but he made Miss Blimber a little bow.
“‘Analysis,’” resumed Miss Blimber, casting her eye over the paper,
“‘of the character of P. Dombey.’ I find that the natural capacity of
Dombey is extremely good; and that his general disposition to study may
be stated in an equal ratio. Thus, taking eight as our standard and
highest number, I find these qualities in Dombey stated each at six
three-fourths!”
Miss Blimber paused to see how Paul received this news. Being undecided
whether six three-fourths meant six pounds fifteen, or sixpence three
farthings, or six foot three, or three quarters past six, or six
somethings that he hadn’t learnt yet, with three unknown something
elses over, Paul rubbed his hands and looked straight at Miss Blimber.
It happened to answer as well as anything else he could have done; and
Cornelia proceeded.
“‘Violence two. Selfishness two. Inclination to low company, as evinced
in the case of a person named Glubb, originally seven, but since
reduced. Gentlemanly demeanour four, and improving with advancing
years.’ Now what I particularly wish to call your attention to, Dombey,
is the general observation at the close of this analysis.”
Paul set himself to follow it with great care.
“‘It may be generally observed of Dombey,’” said Miss Blimber, reading
in a loud voice, and at every second word directing her spectacles
towards the little figure before her: “‘that his abilities and
inclinations are good, and that he has made as much progress as under
the circumstances could have been expected. But it is to be lamented of
this young gentleman that he is singular (what is usually termed
old-fashioned) in his character and conduct, and that, without
presenting anything in either which distinctly calls for reprobation,
he is often very unlike other young gentlemen of his age and social
position.’ Now, Dombey,” said Miss Blimber, laying down the paper, “do
you understand that?”
“I think I do, Ma’am,” said Paul.
“This analysis, you see, Dombey,” Miss Blimber continued, “is going to
be sent home to your respected parent. It will naturally be very
painful to him to find that you are singular in your character and
conduct. It is naturally painful to us; for we can’t like you, you
know, Dombey, as well as we could wish.”
She touched the child upon a tender point. He had secretly become more
and more solicitous from day to day, as the time of his departure drew
more near, that all the house should like him. From some hidden reason,
very imperfectly understood by himself—if understood at all—he felt a
gradually increasing impulse of affection, towards almost everything
and everybody in the place. He could not bear to think that they would
be quite indifferent to him when he was gone. He wanted them to
remember him kindly; and he had made it his business even to conciliate
a great hoarse shaggy dog, chained up at the back of the house, who had
previously been the terror of his life: that even he might miss him
when he was no longer there.
Little thinking that in this, he only showed again the difference
between himself and his compeers, poor tiny Paul set it forth to Miss
Blimber as well as he could, and begged her, in despite of the official
analysis, to have the goodness to try and like him. To Mrs Blimber, who
had joined them, he preferred the same petition: and when that lady
could not forbear, even in his presence, from giving utterance to her
often-repeated opinion, that he was an odd child, Paul told her that he
was sure she was quite right; that he thought it must be his bones, but
he didn’t know; and that he hoped she would overlook it, for he was
fond of them all.
“Not so fond,” said Paul, with a mixture of timidity and perfect
frankness, which was one of the most peculiar and most engaging
qualities of the child, “not so fond as I am of Florence, of course;
that could never be. You couldn’t expect that, could you, Ma’am?”
“Oh! the old-fashioned little soul!” cried Mrs Blimber, in a whisper.
“But I like everybody here very much,” pursued Paul, “and I should
grieve to go away, and think that anyone was glad that I was gone, or
didn’t care.”
Mrs Blimber was now quite sure that Paul was the oddest child in the
world; and when she told the Doctor what had passed, the Doctor did not
controvert his wife’s opinion. But he said, as he had said before, when
Paul first came, that study would do much; and he also said, as he had
said on that occasion, “Bring him on, Cornelia! Bring him on!”
Cornelia had always brought him on as vigorously as she could; and Paul
had had a hard life of it. But over and above the getting through his
tasks, he had long had another purpose always present to him, and to
which he still held fast. It was, to be a gentle, useful, quiet little
fellow, always striving to secure the love and attachment of the rest;
and though he was yet often to be seen at his old post on the stairs,
or watching the waves and clouds from his solitary window, he was
oftener found, too, among the other boys, modestly rendering them some
little voluntary service. Thus it came to pass, that even among those
rigid and absorbed young anchorites, who mortified themselves beneath
the roof of Doctor Blimber, Paul was an object of general interest; a
fragile little plaything that they all liked, and that no one would
have thought of treating roughly. But he could not change his nature,
or rewrite the analysis; and so they all agreed that Dombey was
old-fashioned.
There were some immunities, however, attaching to the character enjoyed
by no one else. They could have better spared a newer-fashioned child,
and that alone was much. When the others only bowed to Doctor Blimber
and family on retiring for the night, Paul would stretch out his morsel
of a hand, and boldly shake the Doctor’s; also Mrs Blimber’s; also
Cornelia’s. If anybody was to be begged off from impending punishment,
Paul was always the delegate. The weak-eyed young man himself had once
consulted him, in reference to a little breakage of glass and china.
And it was darkly rumoured that the butler, regarding him with favour
such as that stern man had never shown before to mortal boy, had
sometimes mingled porter with his table-beer to make him strong.
Over and above these extensive privileges, Paul had free right of entry
to Mr Feeder’s room, from which apartment he had twice led Mr Toots
into the open air in a state of faintness, consequent on an
unsuccessful attempt to smoke a very blunt cigar: one of a bundle which
that young gentleman had covertly purchased on the shingle from a most
desperate smuggler, who had acknowledged, in confidence, that two
hundred pounds was the price set upon his head, dead or alive, by the
Custom House. It was a snug room, Mr Feeder’s, with his bed in another
little room inside of it; and a flute, which Mr Feeder couldn’t play
yet, but was going to make a point of learning, he said, hanging up
over the fireplace. There were some books in it, too, and a
fishing-rod; for Mr Feeder said he should certainly make a point of
learning to fish, when he could find time. Mr Feeder had amassed, with
similar intentions, a beautiful little curly secondhand key-bugle, a
chess-board and men, a Spanish Grammar, a set of sketching materials,
and a pair of boxing-gloves. The art of self-defence Mr Feeder said he
should undoubtedly make a point of learning, as he considered it the
duty of every man to do; for it might lead to the protection of a
female in distress.
But Mr Feeder’s great possession was a large green jar of snuff, which
Mr Toots had brought down as a present, at the close of the last
vacation; and for which he had paid a high price, having been the
genuine property of the Prince Regent. Neither Mr Toots nor Mr Feeder
could partake of this or any other snuff, even in the most stinted and
moderate degree, without being seized with convulsions of sneezing.
Nevertheless it was their great delight to moisten a box-full with cold
tea, stir it up on a piece of parchment with a paper-knife, and devote
themselves to its consumption then and there. In the course of which
cramming of their noses, they endured surprising torments with the
constancy of martyrs: and, drinking table-beer at intervals, felt all
the glories of dissipation.
To little Paul sitting silent in their company, and by the side of his
chief patron, Mr Toots, there was a dread charm in these reckless
occasions: and when Mr Feeder spoke of the dark mysteries of London,
and told Mr Toots that he was going to observe it himself closely in
all its ramifications in the approaching holidays, and for that purpose
had made arrangements to board with two old maiden ladies at Peckham,
Paul regarded him as if he were the hero of some book of travels or
wild adventure, and was almost afraid of such a slashing person.
Going into this room one evening, when the holidays were very near,
Paul found Mr Feeder filling up the blanks in some printed letters,
while some others, already filled up and strewn before him, were being
folded and sealed by Mr Toots. Mr Feeder said, “Aha, Dombey, there you
are, are you?”—for they were always kind to him, and glad to see
him—and then said, tossing one of the letters towards him, “And there
you are, too, Dombey. That’s yours.”
“Mine, Sir?” said Paul.
“Your invitation,” returned Mr Feeder.
Paul, looking at it, found, in copper-plate print, with the exception
of his own name and the date, which were in Mr Feeder’s penmanship,
that Doctor and Mrs Blimber requested the pleasure of Mr P. Dombey’s
company at an early party on Wednesday Evening the Seventeenth Instant;
and that the hour was half-past seven o’clock; and that the object was
Quadrilles. Mr Toots also showed him, by holding up a companion sheet
of paper, that Doctor and Mrs Blimber requested the pleasure of Mr
Toots’s company at an early party on Wednesday Evening the Seventeenth
Instant, when the hour was half-past seven o’clock, and when the object
was Quadrilles. He also found, on glancing at the table where Mr Feeder
sat, that the pleasure of Mr Briggs’s company, and of Mr Tozer’s
company, and of every young gentleman’s company, was requested by
Doctor and Mrs Blimber on the same genteel Occasion.
Mr Feeder then told him, to his great joy, that his sister was invited,
and that it was a half-yearly event, and that, as the holidays began
that day, he could go away with his sister after the party, if he
liked, which Paul interrupted him to say he would like, very much. Mr
Feeder then gave him to understand that he would be expected to inform
Doctor and Mrs Blimber, in superfine small-hand, that Mr P. Dombey
would be happy to have the honour of waiting on them, in accordance
with their polite invitation. Lastly, Mr Feeder said, he had better not
refer to the festive occasion, in the hearing of Doctor and Mrs
Blimber; as these preliminaries, and the whole of the arrangements,
were conducted on principles of classicality and high breeding; and
that Doctor and Mrs Blimber on the one hand, and the young gentlemen on
the other, were supposed, in their scholastic capacities, not to have
the least idea of what was in the wind.
Paul thanked Mr Feeder for these hints, and pocketing his invitation,
sat down on a stool by the side of Mr Toots, as usual. But Paul’s head,
which had long been ailing more or less, and was sometimes very heavy
and painful, felt so uneasy that night, that he was obliged to support
it on his hand. And yet it dropped so, that by little and little it
sunk on Mr Toots’s knee, and rested there, as if it had no care to be
ever lifted up again.
That was no reason why he should be deaf; but he must have been, he
thought, for, by and by, he heard Mr Feeder calling in his ear, and
gently shaking him to rouse his attention. And when he raised his head,
quite scared, and looked about him, he found that Doctor Blimber had
come into the room; and that the window was open, and that his forehead
was wet with sprinkled water; though how all this had been done without
his knowledge, was very curious indeed.
“Ah! Come, come! That’s well! How is my little friend now?” said Doctor
Blimber, encouragingly.
“Oh, quite well, thank you, Sir,” said Paul.
But there seemed to be something the matter with the floor, for he
couldn’t stand upon it steadily; and with the walls too, for they were
inclined to turn round and round, and could only be stopped by being
looked at very hard indeed. Mr Toots’s head had the appearance of being
at once bigger and farther off than was quite natural; and when he took
Paul in his arms, to carry him upstairs, Paul observed with
astonishment that the door was in quite a different place from that in
which he had expected to find it, and almost thought, at first, that Mr
Toots was going to walk straight up the chimney.
It was very kind of Mr Toots to carry him to the top of the house so
tenderly; and Paul told him that it was. But Mr Toots said he would do
a great deal more than that, if he could; and indeed he did more as it
was: for he helped Paul to undress, and helped him to bed, in the
kindest manner possible, and then sat down by the bedside and chuckled
very much; while Mr Feeder, B.A., leaning over the bottom of the
bedstead, set all the little bristles on his head bolt upright with his
bony hands, and then made believe to spar at Paul with great science,
on account of his being all right again, which was so uncommonly
facetious, and kind too in Mr Feeder, that Paul, not being able to make
up his mind whether it was best to laugh or cry at him, did both at
once.
How Mr Toots melted away, and Mr Feeder changed into Mrs Pipchin, Paul
never thought of asking; neither was he at all curious to know; but
when he saw Mrs Pipchin standing at the bottom of the bed, instead of
Mr Feeder, he cried out, “Mrs Pipchin, don’t tell Florence!”
“Don’t tell Florence what, my little Paul?” said Mrs Pipchin, coming
round to the bedside, and sitting down in the chair.
“About me,” said Paul.
“No, no,” said Mrs Pipchin.
“What do you think I mean to do when I grow up, Mrs Pipchin?” inquired
Paul, turning his face towards her on his pillow, and resting his chin
wistfully on his folded hands.
Mrs Pipchin couldn’t guess.
“I mean,” said Paul, “to put my money all together in one Bank, never
try to get any more, go away into the country with my darling Florence,
have a beautiful garden, fields, and woods, and live there with her all
my life!”
“Indeed!” cried Mrs Pipchin.
“Yes,” said Paul. “That’s what I mean to do, when I—” He stopped, and
pondered for a moment.
Mrs Pipchin’s grey eye scanned his thoughtful face.
“If I grow up,” said Paul. Then he went on immediately to tell Mrs
Pipchin all about the party, about Florence’s invitation, about the
pride he would have in the admiration that would be felt for her by all
the boys, about their being so kind to him and fond of him, about his
being so fond of them, and about his being so glad of it. Then he told
Mrs Pipchin about the analysis, and about his being certainly
old-fashioned, and took Mrs Pipchin’s opinion on that point, and
whether she knew why it was, and what it meant. Mrs Pipchin denied the
fact altogether, as the shortest way of getting out of the difficulty;
but Paul was far from satisfied with that reply, and looked so
searchingly at Mrs Pipchin for a truer answer, that she was obliged to
get up and look out of the window to avoid his eyes.
There was a certain calm Apothecary, who attended at the establishment
when any of the young gentlemen were ill, and somehow he got into the
room and appeared at the bedside, with Mrs Blimber. How they came
there, or how long they had been there, Paul didn’t know; but when he
saw them, he sat up in bed, and answered all the Apothecary’s questions
at full length, and whispered to him that Florence was not to know
anything about it, if he pleased, and that he had set his mind upon her
coming to the party. He was very chatty with the Apothecary, and they
parted excellent friends. Lying down again with his eyes shut, he heard
the Apothecary say, out of the room and quite a long way off—or he
dreamed it—that there was a want of vital power (what was that, Paul
wondered!) and great constitutional weakness. That as the little fellow
had set his heart on parting with his school-mates on the seventeenth,
it would be better to indulge the fancy if he grew no worse. That he
was glad to hear from Mrs Pipchin, that the little fellow would go to
his friends in London on the eighteenth. That he would write to Mr
Dombey, when he should have gained a better knowledge of the case, and
before that day. That there was no immediate cause for—what? Paul lost
that word. And that the little fellow had a fine mind, but was an
old-fashioned boy.
What old fashion could that be, Paul wondered with a palpitating heart,
that was so visibly expressed in him; so plainly seen by so many
people!
He could neither make it out, nor trouble himself long with the effort.
Mrs Pipchin was again beside him, if she had ever been away (he thought
she had gone out with the Doctor, but it was all a dream perhaps), and
presently a bottle and glass got into her hands magically, and she
poured out the contents for him. After that, he had some real good
jelly, which Mrs Blimber brought to him herself; and then he was so
well, that Mrs Pipchin went home, at his urgent solicitation, and
Briggs and Tozer came to bed. Poor Briggs grumbled terribly about his
own analysis, which could hardly have discomposed him more if it had
been a chemical process; but he was very good to Paul, and so was
Tozer, and so were all the rest, for they every one looked in before
going to bed, and said, “How are you now, Dombey?” “Cheer up, little
Dombey!” and so forth. After Briggs had got into bed, he lay awake for
a long time, still bemoaning his analysis, and saying he knew it was
all wrong, and they couldn’t have analysed a murderer worse, and—how
would Doctor Blimber like it if his pocket-money depended on it? It was
very easy, Briggs said, to make a galley-slave of a boy all the
half-year, and then score him up idle; and to crib two dinners a-week
out of his board, and then score him up greedy; but that wasn’t going
to be submitted to, he believed, was it? Oh! Ah!
Before the weak-eyed young man performed on the gong next morning, he
came upstairs to Paul and told him he was to lie still, which Paul very
gladly did. Mrs Pipchin reappeared a little before the Apothecary, and
a little after the good young woman whom Paul had seen cleaning the
stove on that first morning (how long ago it seemed now!) had brought
him his breakfast. There was another consultation a long way off, or
else Paul dreamed it again; and then the Apothecary, coming back with
Doctor and Mrs Blimber, said:
“Yes, I think, Doctor Blimber, we may release this young gentleman from
his books just now; the vacation being so very near at hand.”
“By all means,” said Doctor Blimber. “My love, you will inform
Cornelia, if you please.”
“Assuredly,” said Mrs Blimber.
The Apothecary bending down, looked closely into Paul’s eyes, and felt
his head, and his pulse, and his heart, with so much interest and care,
that Paul said, “Thank you, Sir.”
“Our little friend,” observed Doctor Blimber, “has never complained.”
“Oh no!” replied the Apothecary. “He was not likely to complain.”
“You find him greatly better?” said Doctor Blimber.
“Oh! he is greatly better, Sir,” returned the Apothecary.
Paul had begun to speculate, in his own odd way, on the subject that
might occupy the Apothecary’s mind just at that moment; so musingly had
he answered the two questions of Doctor Blimber. But the Apothecary
happening to meet his little patient’s eyes, as the latter set off on
that mental expedition, and coming instantly out of his abstraction
with a cheerful smile, Paul smiled in return and abandoned it.
He lay in bed all that day, dozing and dreaming, and looking at Mr
Toots; but got up on the next, and went downstairs. Lo and behold,
there was something the matter with the great clock; and a workman on a
pair of steps had taken its face off, and was poking instruments into
the works by the light of a candle! This was a great event for Paul,
who sat down on the bottom stair, and watched the operation
attentively: now and then glancing at the clock face, leaning all
askew, against the wall hard by, and feeling a little confused by a
suspicion that it was ogling him.
The workman on the steps was very civil; and as he said, when he
observed Paul, “How do you do, Sir?” Paul got into conversation with
him, and told him he hadn’t been quite well lately. The ice being thus
broken, Paul asked him a multitude of questions about chimes and
clocks: as, whether people watched up in the lonely church steeples by
night to make them strike, and how the bells were rung when people
died, and whether those were different bells from wedding bells, or
only sounded dismal in the fancies of the living. Finding that his new
acquaintance was not very well informed on the subject of the Curfew
Bell of ancient days, Paul gave him an account of that institution; and
also asked him, as a practical man, what he thought about King Alfred’s
idea of measuring time by the burning of candles; to which the workman
replied, that he thought it would be the ruin of the clock trade if it
was to come up again. In fine, Paul looked on, until the clock had
quite recovered its familiar aspect, and resumed its sedate inquiry;
when the workman, putting away his tools in a long basket, bade him
good day, and went away. Though not before he had whispered something,
on the door-mat, to the footman, in which there was the phrase
“old-fashioned”—for Paul heard it.
What could that old fashion be, that seemed to make the people sorry!
What could it be!
Having nothing to learn now, he thought of this frequently; though not
so often as he might have done, if he had had fewer things to think of.
But he had a great many; and was always thinking, all day long.
First, there was Florence coming to the party. Florence would see that
the boys were fond of him; and that would make her happy. This was his
great theme. Let Florence once be sure that they were gentle and good
to him, and that he had become a little favourite among them, and then
she would always think of the time he had passed there, without being
very sorry. Florence might be all the happier too for that, perhaps,
when he came back.
When he came back! Fifty times a day, his noiseless little feet went up
the stairs to his own room, as he collected every book, and scrap, and
trifle that belonged to him, and put them all together there, down to
the minutest thing, for taking home! There was no shade of coming back
on little Paul; no preparation for it, or other reference to it, grew
out of anything he thought or did, except this slight one in connexion
with his sister. On the contrary, he had to think of everything
familiar to him, in his contemplative moods and in his wanderings about
the house, as being to be parted with; and hence the many things he had
to think of, all day long.
He had to peep into those rooms upstairs, and think how solitary they
would be when he was gone, and wonder through how many silent days,
weeks, months, and years, they would continue just as grave and
undisturbed. He had to think—would any other child (old-fashioned, like
himself) stray there at any time, to whom the same grotesque
distortions of pattern and furniture would manifest themselves; and
would anybody tell that boy of little Dombey, who had been there once?
He had to think of a portrait on the stairs, which always looked
earnestly after him as he went away, eyeing it over his shoulder; and
which, when he passed it in the company of anyone, still seemed to gaze
at him, and not at his companion. He had much to think of, in
association with a print that hung up in another place, where, in the
centre of a wondering group, one figure that he knew, a figure with a
light about its head—benignant, mild, and merciful—stood pointing
upward.
At his own bedroom window, there were crowds of thoughts that mixed
with these, and came on, one upon another, like the rolling waves.
Where those wild birds lived, that were always hovering out at sea in
troubled weather; where the clouds rose and first began; whence the
wind issued on its rushing flight, and where it stopped; whether the
spot where he and Florence had so often sat, and watched, and talked
about these things, could ever be exactly as it used to be without
them; whether it could ever be the same to Florence, if he were in some
distant place, and she were sitting there alone.
He had to think, too, of Mr Toots, and Mr Feeder, B.A., of all the
boys; and of Doctor Blimber, Mrs Blimber, and Miss Blimber; of home,
and of his aunt and Miss Tox; of his father; Dombey and Son, Walter
with the poor old Uncle who had got the money he wanted, and that
gruff-voiced Captain with the iron hand. Besides all this, he had a
number of little visits to pay, in the course of the day; to the
schoolroom, to Doctor Blimber’s study, to Mrs Blimber’s private
apartment, to Miss Blimber’s, and to the dog. For he was free of the
whole house now, to range it as he chose; and, in his desire to part
with everybody on affectionate terms, he attended, in his way, to them
all. Sometimes he found places in books for Briggs, who was always
losing them; sometimes he looked up words in dictionaries for other
young gentlemen who were in extremity; sometimes he held skeins of silk
for Mrs Blimber to wind; sometimes he put Cornelia’s desk to rights;
sometimes he would even creep into the Doctor’s study, and, sitting on
the carpet near his learned feet, turn the globes softly, and go round
the world, or take a flight among the far-off stars.
In those days immediately before the holidays, in short, when the other
young gentlemen were labouring for dear life through a general
resumption of the studies of the whole half-year, Paul was such a
privileged pupil as had never been seen in that house before. He could
hardly believe it himself; but his liberty lasted from hour to hour,
and from day to day; and little Dombey was caressed by everyone. Doctor
Blimber was so particular about him, that he requested Johnson to
retire from the dinner-table one day, for having thoughtlessly spoken
to him as “poor little Dombey;” which Paul thought rather hard and
severe, though he had flushed at the moment, and wondered why Johnson
should pity him. It was the more questionable justice, Paul thought, in
the Doctor, from his having certainly overheard that great authority
give his assent on the previous evening, to the proposition (stated by
Mrs Blimber) that poor dear little Dombey was more old-fashioned than
ever. And now it was that Paul began to think it must surely be
old-fashioned to be very thin, and light, and easily tired, and soon
disposed to lie down anywhere and rest; for he couldn’t help feeling
that these were more and more his habits every day.
At last the party-day arrived; and Doctor Blimber said at breakfast,
“Gentlemen, we will resume our studies on the twenty-fifth of next
month.” Mr Toots immediately threw off his allegiance, and put on his
ring: and mentioning the Doctor in casual conversation shortly
afterwards, spoke of him as “Blimber”! This act of freedom inspired the
older pupils with admiration and envy; but the younger spirits were
appalled, and seemed to marvel that no beam fell down and crushed him.
Not the least allusion was made to the ceremonies of the evening,
either at breakfast or at dinner; but there was a bustle in the house
all day, and in the course of his perambulations, Paul made
acquaintance with various strange benches and candlesticks, and met a
harp in a green greatcoat standing on the landing outside the
drawing-room door. There was something queer, too, about Mrs Blimber’s
head at dinner-time, as if she had screwed her hair up too tight; and
though Miss Blimber showed a graceful bunch of plaited hair on each
temple, she seemed to have her own little curls in paper underneath,
and in a play-bill too; for Paul read “Theatre Royal” over one of her
sparkling spectacles, and “Brighton” over the other.
There was a grand array of white waistcoats and cravats in the young
gentlemen’s bedrooms as evening approached; and such a smell of singed
hair, that Doctor Blimber sent up the footman with his compliments, and
wished to know if the house was on fire. But it was only the
hairdresser curling the young gentlemen, and over-heating his tongs in
the ardour of business.
When Paul was dressed—which was very soon done, for he felt unwell and
drowsy, and was not able to stand about it very long—he went down into
the drawing-room; where he found Doctor Blimber pacing up and down the
room full dressed, but with a dignified and unconcerned demeanour, as
if he thought it barely possible that one or two people might drop in
by and by. Shortly afterwards, Mrs Blimber appeared, looking lovely,
Paul thought; and attired in such a number of skirts that it was quite
an excursion to walk round her. Miss Blimber came down soon after her
Mama; a little squeezed in appearance, but very charming.
Mr Toots and Mr Feeder were the next arrivals. Each of these gentlemen
brought his hat in his hand, as if he lived somewhere else; and when
they were announced by the butler, Doctor Blimber said, “Ay, ay, ay!
God bless my soul!” and seemed extremely glad to see them. Mr Toots was
one blaze of jewellery and buttons; and he felt the circumstance so
strongly, that when he had shaken hands with the Doctor, and had bowed
to Mrs Blimber and Miss Blimber, he took Paul aside, and said, “What do
you think of this, Dombey?”
But notwithstanding this modest confidence in himself, Mr Toots
appeared to be involved in a good deal of uncertainty whether, on the
whole, it was judicious to button the bottom button of his waistcoat,
and whether, on a calm revision of all the circumstances, it was best
to wear his waistbands turned up or turned down. Observing that Mr
Feeder’s were turned up, Mr Toots turned his up; but the waistbands of
the next arrival being turned down, Mr Toots turned his down. The
differences in point of waistcoat-buttoning, not only at the bottom,
but at the top too, became so numerous and complicated as the arrivals
thickened, that Mr Toots was continually fingering that article of
dress, as if he were performing on some instrument; and appeared to
find the incessant execution it demanded, quite bewildering.
All the young gentlemen, tightly cravatted, curled, and pumped, and
with their best hats in their hands, having been at different times
announced and introduced, Mr Baps, the dancing-master, came,
accompanied by Mrs Baps, to whom Mrs Blimber was extremely kind and
condescending. Mr Baps was a very grave gentleman, with a slow and
measured manner of speaking; and before he had stood under the lamp
five minutes, he began to talk to Toots (who had been silently
comparing pumps with him) about what you were to do with your raw
materials when they came into your ports in return for your drain of
gold. Mr Toots, to whom the question seemed perplexing, suggested “Cook
’em.” But Mr Baps did not appear to think that would do.
Paul now slipped away from the cushioned corner of a sofa, which had
been his post of observation, and went downstairs into the tea-room to
be ready for Florence, whom he had not seen for nearly a fortnight, as
he had remained at Doctor Blimber’s on the previous Saturday and
Sunday, lest he should take cold. Presently she came: looking so
beautiful in her simple ball dress, with her fresh flowers in her hand,
that when she knelt down on the ground to take Paul round the neck and
kiss him (for there was no one there, but his friend and another young
woman waiting to serve out the tea), he could hardly make up his mind
to let her go again, or to take away her bright and loving eyes from
his face.
“But what is the matter, Floy?” asked Paul, almost sure that he saw a
tear there.
“Nothing, darling; nothing,” returned Florence.
Paul touched her cheek gently with his finger—and it was a tear! “Why,
Floy!” said he.
“We’ll go home together, and I’ll nurse you, love,” said Florence.
“Nurse me!” echoed Paul.
Paul couldn’t understand what that had to do with it, nor why the two
young women looked on so seriously, nor why Florence turned away her
face for a moment, and then turned it back, lighted up again with
smiles.
“Floy,” said Paul, holding a ringlet of her dark hair in his hand.
“Tell me, dear, Do you think I have grown old-fashioned?”
His sister laughed, and fondled him, and told him “No.”
“Because I know they say so,” returned Paul, “and I want to know what
they mean, Floy.”
But a loud double knock coming at the door, and Florence hurrying to
the table, there was no more said between them. Paul wondered again
when he saw his friend whisper to Florence, as if she were comforting
her; but a new arrival put that out of his head speedily.
It was Sir Barnet Skettles, Lady Skettles, and Master Skettles. Master
Skettles was to be a new boy after the vacation, and Fame had been
busy, in Mr Feeder’s room, with his father, who was in the House of
Commons, and of whom Mr Feeder had said that when he did catch the
Speaker’s eye (which he had been expected to do for three or four
years), it was anticipated that he would rather touch up the Radicals.
“And what room is this now, for instance?” said Lady Skettles to Paul’s
friend, “Melia.
“Doctor Blimber’s study, Ma’am,” was the reply.
Lady Skettles took a panoramic survey of it through her glass, and said
to Sir Barnet Skettles, with a nod of approval, “Very good.” Sir Barnet
assented, but Master Skettles looked suspicious and doubtful.
“And this little creature, now,” said Lady Skettles, turning to Paul.
“Is he one of the—”
“Young gentlemen, Ma’am; yes, Ma’am,” said Paul’s friend.
“And what is your name, my pale child?” said Lady Skettles.
“Dombey,” answered Paul.
Sir Barnet Skettles immediately interposed, and said that he had had
the honour of meeting Paul’s father at a public dinner, and that he
hoped he was very well. Then Paul heard him say to Lady Skettles,
“City—very rich—most respectable—Doctor mentioned it.” And then he said
to Paul, “Will you tell your good Papa that Sir Barnet Skettles
rejoiced to hear that he was very well, and sent him his best
compliments?”
“Yes, Sir,” answered Paul.
“That is my brave boy,” said Sir Barnet Skettles. “Barnet,” to Master
Skettles, who was revenging himself for the studies to come, on the
plum-cake, “this is a young gentleman you ought to know. This is a
young gentleman you may know, Barnet,” said Sir Barnet Skettles, with
an emphasis on the permission.
“What eyes! What hair! What a lovely face!” exclaimed Lady Skettles
softly, as she looked at Florence through her glass.
“My sister,” said Paul, presenting her.
The satisfaction of the Skettleses was now complete. And as Lady
Skettles had conceived, at first sight, a liking for Paul, they all
went upstairs together: Sir Barnet Skettles taking care of Florence,
and young Barnet following.
Young Barnet did not remain long in the background after they had
reached the drawing-room, for Dr Blimber had him out in no time,
dancing with Florence. He did not appear to Paul to be particularly
happy, or particularly anything but sulky, or to care much what he was
about; but as Paul heard Lady Skettles say to Mrs Blimber, while she
beat time with her fan, that her dear boy was evidently smitten to
death by that angel of a child, Miss Dombey, it would seem that
Skettles Junior was in a state of bliss, without showing it.
Little Paul thought it a singular coincidence that nobody had occupied
his place among the pillows; and that when he came into the room again,
they should all make way for him to go back to it, remembering it was
his. Nobody stood before him either, when they observed that he liked
to see Florence dancing, but they left the space in front quite clear,
so that he might follow her with his eyes. They were so kind, too, even
the strangers, of whom there were soon a great many, that they came and
spoke to him every now and then, and asked him how he was, and if his
head ached, and whether he was tired. He was very much obliged to them
for all their kindness and attention, and reclining propped up in his
corner, with Mrs Blimber and Lady Skettles on the same sofa, and
Florence coming and sitting by his side as soon as every dance was
ended, he looked on very happily indeed.
Florence would have sat by him all night, and would not have danced at
all of her own accord, but Paul made her, by telling her how much it
pleased him. And he told her the truth, too; for his small heart
swelled, and his face glowed, when he saw how much they all admired
her, and how she was the beautiful little rosebud of the room.
From his nest among the pillows, Paul could see and hear almost
everything that passed as if the whole were being done for his
amusement. Among other little incidents that he observed, he observed
Mr Baps the dancing-master get into conversation with Sir Barnet
Skettles, and very soon ask him, as he had asked Mr Toots, what you
were to do with your raw materials, when they came into your ports in
return for your drain of gold—which was such a mystery to Paul that he
was quite desirous to know what ought to be done with them. Sir Barnet
Skettles had much to say upon the question, and said it; but it did not
appear to solve the question, for Mr Baps retorted, Yes, but supposing
Russia stepped in with her tallows; which struck Sir Barnet almost
dumb, for he could only shake his head after that, and say, Why then
you must fall back upon your cottons, he supposed.
Sir Barnet Skettles looked after Mr Baps when he went to cheer up Mrs
Baps (who, being quite deserted, was pretending to look over the
music-book of the gentleman who played the harp), as if he thought him
a remarkable kind of man; and shortly afterwards he said so in those
words to Doctor Blimber, and inquired if he might take the liberty of
asking who he was, and whether he had ever been in the Board of Trade.
Doctor Blimber answered no, he believed not; and that in fact he was a
Professor of—”
“Of something connected with statistics, I’ll swear?” observed Sir
Barnet Skettles.
“Why no, Sir Barnet,” replied Doctor Blimber, rubbing his chin. “No,
not exactly.”
“Figures of some sort, I would venture a bet,” said Sir Barnet
Skettles.
“Why yes,” said Doctor Blimber, yes, but not of that sort. Mr Baps is a
very worthy sort of man, Sir Barnet, and—in fact he’s our Professor of
dancing.”
Paul was amazed to see that this piece of information quite altered Sir
Barnet Skettles’s opinion of Mr Baps, and that Sir Barnet flew into a
perfect rage, and glowered at Mr Baps over on the other side of the
room. He even went so far as to D— Mr Baps to Lady Skettles, in telling
her what had happened, and to say that it was like his most
con-sum-mate and con-foun-ded impudence.
There was another thing that Paul observed. Mr Feeder, after imbibing
several custard-cups of negus, began to enjoy himself. The dancing in
general was ceremonious, and the music rather solemn—a little like
church music in fact—but after the custard-cups, Mr Feeder told Mr
Toots that he was going to throw a little spirit into the thing. After
that, Mr Feeder not only began to dance as if he meant dancing and
nothing else, but secretly to stimulate the music to perform wild
tunes. Further, he became particular in his attentions to the ladies;
and dancing with Miss Blimber, whispered to her—whispered to
her!—though not so softly but that Paul heard him say this remarkable
poetry,
“Had I a heart for falsehood framed,
I ne’er could injure You!”
This, Paul heard him repeat to four young ladies, in succession. Well
might Mr Feeder say to Mr Toots, that he was afraid he should be the
worse for it to-morrow!
Mrs Blimber was a little alarmed by this—comparatively
speaking—profligate behaviour; and especially by the alteration in the
character of the music, which, beginning to comprehend low melodies
that were popular in the streets, might not unnaturally be supposed to
give offence to Lady Skettles. But Lady Skettles was so very kind as to
beg Mrs Blimber not to mention it; and to receive her explanation that
Mr Feeder’s spirits sometimes betrayed him into excesses on these
occasions, with the greatest courtesy and politeness; observing, that
he seemed a very nice sort of person for his situation, and that she
particularly liked the unassuming style of his hair—which (as already
hinted) was about a quarter of an inch long.
Once, when there was a pause in the dancing, Lady Skettles told Paul
that he seemed very fond of music. Paul replied, that he was; and if
she was too, she ought to hear his sister, Florence, sing. Lady
Skettles presently discovered that she was dying with anxiety to have
that gratification; and though Florence was at first very much
frightened at being asked to sing before so many people, and begged
earnestly to be excused, yet, on Paul calling her to him, and saying,
“Do, Floy! Please! For me, my dear!” she went straight to the piano,
and began. When they all drew a little away, that Paul might see her;
and when he saw her sitting there all alone, so young, and good, and
beautiful, and kind to him; and heard her thrilling voice, so natural
and sweet, and such a golden link between him and all his life’s love
and happiness, rising out of the silence; he turned his face away, and
hid his tears. Not, as he told them when they spoke to him, not that
the music was too plaintive or too sorrowful, but it was so dear to
him.
They all loved Florence. How could they help it! Paul had known
beforehand that they must and would; and sitting in his cushioned
corner, with calmly folded hands; and one leg loosely doubled under
him, few would have thought what triumph and delight expanded his
childish bosom while he watched her, or what a sweet tranquillity he
felt. Lavish encomiums on “Dombey’s sister” reached his ears from all
the boys: admiration of the self-possessed and modest little beauty was
on every lip: reports of her intelligence and accomplishments floated
past him, constantly; and, as if borne in upon the air of the summer
night, there was a half intelligible sentiment diffused around,
referring to Florence and himself, and breathing sympathy for both,
that soothed and touched him.
He did not know why. For all that the child observed, and felt, and
thought, that night—the present and the absent; what was then and what
had been—were blended like the colours in the rainbow, or in the
plumage of rich birds when the sun is shining on them, or in the
softening sky when the same sun is setting. The many things he had had
to think of lately, passed before him in the music; not as claiming his
attention over again, or as likely evermore to occupy it, but as
peacefully disposed of and gone. A solitary window, gazed through years
ago, looked out upon an ocean, miles and miles away; upon its waters,
fancies, busy with him only yesterday, were hushed and lulled to rest
like broken waves. The same mysterious murmur he had wondered at, when
lying on his couch upon the beach, he thought he still heard sounding
through his sister’s song, and through the hum of voices, and the tread
of feet, and having some part in the faces flitting by, and even in the
heavy gentleness of Mr Toots, who frequently came up to shake him by
the hand. Through the universal kindness he still thought he heard it,
speaking to him; and even his old-fashioned reputation seemed to be
allied to it, he knew not how. Thus little Paul sat musing, listening,
looking on, and dreaming; and was very happy.
Until the time arrived for taking leave: and then, indeed, there was a
sensation in the party. Sir Barnet Skettles brought up Skettles Junior
to shake hands with him, and asked him if he would remember to tell his
good Papa, with his best compliments, that he, Sir Barnet Skettles, had
said he hoped the two young gentlemen would become intimately
acquainted. Lady Skettles kissed him, and patted his hair upon his
brow, and held him in her arms; and even Mrs Baps—poor Mrs Baps! Paul
was glad of that—came over from beside the music-book of the gentleman
who played the harp, and took leave of him quite as heartily as anybody
in the room.
“Good-bye, Doctor Blimber,” said Paul, stretching out his hand.
“Good-bye, my little friend,” returned the Doctor.
“I’m very much obliged to you, Sir,” said Paul, looking innocently up
into his awful face. “Ask them to take care of Diogenes, if you
please.”
Diogenes was the dog: who had never in his life received a friend into
his confidence, before Paul. The Doctor promised that every attention
should be paid to Diogenes in Paul’s absence, and Paul having again
thanked him, and shaken hands with him, bade adieu to Mrs Blimber and
Cornelia with such heartfelt earnestness that Mrs Blimber forgot from
that moment to mention Cicero to Lady Skettles, though she had fully
intended it all the evening. Cornelia, taking both Paul’s hands in
hers, said, “Dombey, Dombey, you have always been my favourite pupil.
God bless you!” And it showed, Paul thought, how easily one might do
injustice to a person; for Miss Blimber meant it—though she was a
Forcer—and felt it.
A buzz then went round among the young gentlemen, of “Dombey’s going!”
“Little Dombey’s going!” and there was a general move after Paul and
Florence down the staircase and into the hall, in which the whole
Blimber family were included. Such a circumstance, Mr Feeder said
aloud, as had never happened in the case of any former young gentleman
within his experience; but it would be difficult to say if this were
sober fact or custard-cups. The servants, with the butler at their
head, had all an interest in seeing Little Dombey go; and even the
weak-eyed young man, taking out his books and trunks to the coach that
was to carry him and Florence to Mrs Pipchin’s for the night, melted
visibly.
Not even the influence of the softer passion on the young gentlemen—and
they all, to a boy, doted on Florence—could restrain them from taking
quite a noisy leave of Paul; waving hats after him, pressing downstairs
to shake hands with him, crying individually “Dombey, don’t forget me!”
and indulging in many such ebullitions of feeling, uncommon among those
young Chesterfields. Paul whispered Florence, as she wrapped him up
before the door was opened, Did she hear them? Would she ever forget
it? Was she glad to know it? And a lively delight was in his eyes as he
spoke to her.
[Illustration]
Once, for a last look, he turned and gazed upon the faces thus
addressed to him, surprised to see how shining and how bright, and
numerous they were, and how they were all piled and heaped up, as faces
are at crowded theatres. They swam before him as he looked, like faces
in an agitated glass; and next moment he was in the dark coach outside,
holding close to Florence. From that time, whenever he thought of
Doctor Blimber’s, it came back as he had seen it in this last view; and
it never seemed to be a real place again, but always a dream, full of
eyes.
This was not quite the last of Doctor Blimber’s, however. There was
something else. There was Mr Toots. Who, unexpectedly letting down one
of the coach-windows, and looking in, said, with a most egregious
chuckle, “Is Dombey there?” and immediately put it up again, without
waiting for an answer. Nor was this quite the last of Mr Toots, even;
for before the coachman could drive off, he as suddenly let down the
other window, and looking in with a precisely similar chuckle, said in
a precisely similar tone of voice, “Is Dombey there?” and disappeared
precisely as before.
How Florence laughed! Paul often remembered it, and laughed himself
whenever he did so.
But there was much, soon afterwards—next day, and after that—which Paul
could only recollect confusedly. As, why they stayed at Mrs Pipchin’s
days and nights, instead of going home; why he lay in bed, with
Florence sitting by his side; whether that had been his father in the
room, or only a tall shadow on the wall; whether he had heard his
doctor say, of someone, that if they had removed him before the
occasion on which he had built up fancies, strong in proportion to his
own weakness, it was very possible he might have pined away.
He could not even remember whether he had often said to Florence, “Oh
Floy, take me home, and never leave me!” but he thought he had. He
fancied sometimes he had heard himself repeating, “Take me home, Floy!
take me home!”
But he could remember, when he got home, and was carried up the
well-remembered stairs, that there had been the rumbling of a coach for
many hours together, while he lay upon the seat, with Florence still
beside him, and old Mrs Pipchin sitting opposite. He remembered his old
bed too, when they laid him down in it: his aunt, Miss Tox, and Susan:
but there was something else, and recent too, that still perplexed him.
“I want to speak to Florence, if you please,” he said. “To Florence by
herself, for a moment!”
She bent down over him, and the others stood away.
“Floy, my pet, wasn’t that Papa in the hall, when they brought me from
the coach?”
“Yes, dear.”
“He didn’t cry, and go into his room, Floy, did he, when he saw me
coming in?”
Florence shook her head, and pressed her lips against his cheek.
“I’m very glad he didn’t cry,” said little Paul. “I thought he did.
Don’t tell them that I asked.”