To see Mrs. JARLEY’S wax-work show,
Do you think I’d acknowledge him?
Oh no no!
Then run to Jarley’s----
--besides several compositions in prose, purporting to be dialogues
between the Emperor of China and an oyster, or the Archbishop of
Canterbury and a Dissenter on the subject of church-rates, but all
having the same moral, namely, that the reader must make haste to
Jarley’s, and that children and servants were admitted at half-price.
When she had brought all these testimonials of her important position
in society to bear upon her young companion, Mrs. Jarley rolled them up
and, having put them carefully away, sat down again, and looked at the
child in triumph.
“Never go into the company of a filthy Punch any more,” said Mrs.
Jarley, “after this.”
“I never saw any wax-work, ma’am,” said Nell. “Is it funnier than
Punch?”
“Funnier!” said Mrs. Jarley in a shrill voice. “It is not funny at all.”
“Oh!” said Nell, with all possible humility.
“It isn’t funny at all,” repeated Mrs. Jarley. “It’s calm and--what’s
that word again--critical?--no--classical, that’s it--it’s calm
and classical. No low beatings and knockings about, no jokings and
squeakings like your precious Punches, but always the same, with a
constantly unchanging air of coldness and gentility; and so like life,
that if wax-work only spoke and walked about, you’d hardly know the
difference. I won’t go so far as to say, that, as it is, I’ve seen
wax-work quite like life, but I’ve certainly seen some life that was
exactly like wax-work.”
“Is it here, ma’am?” asked Nell, whose curiosity was awakened by this
description.
“Is what here, child?”
“The wax-work, ma’am.”
“Why, bless you, child, what are you thinking of? How could such a
collection be here, where you see everything except the inside of one
little cupboard and a few boxes? It’s gone on in the other wans to the
assembly-rooms, and there it’ll be exhibited the day after to-morrow.
You are going to the same town, and you’ll see it, I dare say. It’s
natural to expect that you’ll see it, and I’ve no doubt you will. I
suppose you couldn’t stop away if you was to try ever so much.”
“I shall not be in the town, I think, ma’am,” said the child.
“Not there!” cried Mrs. Jarley. “Then where will you be?”
“I--I--don’t quite know. I am not certain.”
“You don’t mean to say that you’re travelling about the country without
knowing where you’re going to?” said the lady of the caravan. “What
curious people you are! What line are you in? You looked to me at the
races, child, as if you were quite out of your element, and had got
there by accident.”
“We were there quite by accident,” returned Nell, confused by this
abrupt questioning. “We are poor people, ma’am, and are only wandering
about. We have nothing to do;--I wish we had.”
“You amaze me more and more,” said Mrs. Jarley, after remaining for
some time as mute as one of her own figures. “Why, what do you call
yourselves? Not beggars?”
“Indeed, ma’am, I don’t know what else we are,” returned the child.
“Lord bless me,” said the lady of the caravan. “I never heard of such a
thing. Who’d have thought it!”
She remained so long silent after this exclamation, that Nell feared
she felt her having been induced to bestow her protection and
conversation upon one so poor, to be an outrage upon her dignity
that nothing could repair. This persuasion was rather confirmed than
otherwise by the tone in which she at length broke silence, and said:
“And yet you can read. And write too, I shouldn’t wonder?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the child, fearful of giving new offense by the
confession.
“Well, and what a thing that is,” returned Mrs. Jarley. “_I_
can’t.”
Mrs. Jarley’s wax-works were carried in other wagons to the town where
they were to be exhibited, and little Nell was engaged to point to each
wax figure, and explain to the audience what it represented. Dozens
of figures of noted persons, all with wax faces, and all dressed in
brilliant clothes, stood stiffly in a row.
Dickens describes the scene where Mrs. Jarley instructs Nell as to her
duties:
* * * * *
When the festoons were all put up as tastily as they might be, the
stupendous collection was uncovered, and there were displayed, on a
raised platform some two feet from the floor, running round the room
and parted from the rude public by a crimson rope breast high, divers
sprightly effigies of celebrated characters, singly and in groups,
clad in glittering dresses of various climes and times, and standing
more or less unsteadily upon their legs, with their eyes very wide
open, and their nostrils very much inflated, and the muscles of their
legs and arms very strongly developed, and all their countenances
expressing great surprise. All the gentlemen were very pigeon-breasted
and very blue about the beards; and all the ladies were miraculous
figures; and all the ladies and all the gentlemen were looking
intensely nowhere, and staring with extraordinary earnestness at
nothing.
When Nell had exhausted her first raptures at this glorious sight,
Mrs. Jarley ordered the room to be cleared of all but herself and the
child, and, sitting herself down in an armchair in the centre, formally
invested her with a willow wand, long used by herself for pointing out
the characters, and was at great pains to instruct her in her duty.
“That,” said Mrs. Jarley in her exhibition tone, as Nell touched a
figure at the beginning of the platform, “is an unfortunate Maid of
Honor in the Time of Queen Elizabeth, who died from pricking her finger
in consequence of working upon a Sunday. Observe the blood which is
trickling from her finger; also the gold-eyed needle of the period,
with which she is at work.”
All this Nell repeated twice or thrice, pointing to the finger and the
needle at the right times, and then passed on to the next.
“That, ladies and gentlemen,” said Mrs. Jarley, “is Jasper Packlemerton
of atrocious memory, who courted and married fourteen wives, and
destroyed them all by tickling the soles of their feet when they were
sleeping in the consciousness of innocence and virtue. On being brought
to the scaffold and asked if he was sorry for what he had done, he
replied yes, he was sorry for having let ’em off so easy, and hoped all
Christian husbands would pardon him the offense. Let this be a warning
to all young ladies to be particular in the character of the gentlemen
of their choice. Observe that his fingers are curled as if in the
act of tickling, and that his face is represented with a wink, as he
appeared when committing his barbarous murders.”
When Nell knew all about Mr. Packlemerton, and could say it without
faltering, Mrs. Jarley passed on to the fat man, and then to the thin
man, the tall man, the short man, the old lady who died of dancing at
a hundred and thirty-two, the wild boy of the woods, the woman who
poisoned fourteen families with pickled walnuts, and other historical
characters and interesting but misguided individuals. And so well did
Nell profit by her instructions, and so apt was she to remember them,
that by the time they had been shut up together for a couple of hours,
she was in full possession of the history of the whole establishment,
and perfectly competent to the enlightenment of visitors.
Mrs. Jarley was not slow to express her admiration at this happy
result, and carried her young friend and pupil to inspect the
remaining arrangements within doors, by virtue of which the passage
had been already converted into a grove of green baize hung with the
inscriptions she had already seen (Mr. Slum’s productions), and
a highly ornamented table placed at the upper end for Mrs. Jarley
herself, at which she was to preside and take the money, in company
with his Majesty King George the Third, Mr. Grimaldi as clown, Mary
Queen of Scots, an anonymous gentleman of the Quaker persuasion, and
Mr. Pitt holding in his hand a correct model of the bill for the
imposition of the window duty. The preparations without doors had not
been neglected either; for a nun of great personal attractions was
telling her beads on the little portico over the door; and a brigand
with the blackest possible head of hair, and the clearest possible
complexion, was at that moment going round the town in a cart,
consulting the miniature of a lady.
It now only remained that the compositions in praise of the wax-works
should be judiciously distributed; that the pathetic effusions should
find their way to all private houses and tradespeople; and that the
parody commencing “If I know’d a donkey,” should be confined to the
taverns, and circulated only among the lawyers’ clerks and choice
spirits of the place. When this had been done, and Mrs. Jarley had
waited upon the boarding-schools in person, with a hand-bill composed
expressly for them, in which it was distinctly proved that wax-work
refined the mind, cultivated the taste, and enlarged the sphere of the
human understanding, that lady sat down to dinner.
THE KENWIGSES
XV
THE KENWIGSES
I HAVE always wondered whether I should have liked the Kenwigses if I
had met them in New York or Minneapolis. Probably I should not. But
I like to read about them, and they somehow seem to be amusing and
likeable. That is because they made a part of London once upon a time.
They lived in a tumble-down house, in a tumble-down street. All the
houses had seen better days and seemed to be nodding at each other as
much as to say: “Times are not what they used to be when we were young.”
But for all their dreary surroundings, the Kenwigses, big and little,
were very cheery people, and had a remarkably good time. The great
thing about them was that they admired each other so much, and told
each other so. That doesn’t seem to be very much. Anybody could do
that, but most people don’t. I have known very nice people to live
together for years without ever telling one another how nice they
are. In that way the niceness often disappears. It wasn’t so with the
Kenwigses. They made the most of each other and got a great deal of
satisfaction out of a very little. They were all proud of the family,
and didn’t care who knew it.
They lived on the first floor of the house, which was never kept in a
tidy condition. Mrs. Kenwigs put all her time in keeping the little
girls tidy, and I am not sure that any one can blame her for the fact
that the entry was always in disorder. Mr. Kenwigs was very proud of
his wife, and Mrs. Kenwigs was proud of her uncle, Mr. Lillyvick,
whose business it was to collect water-rents in that neighborhood. He
would go about with his bills and knock loudly at the doors of all the
people who hadn’t paid their water-rates, and threaten them in a most
terrifying manner. So every one was afraid of Mr. Lillyvick except Mrs.
Kenwigs, who was proud of him. For she was his niece.
[Illustration:
_Copyright by Charles Scribner’s Sons_
MRS. KENWIGS AND THE FOUR LITTLE KENWIGSES]
We are introduced to the Kenwigs children at a party, which Mrs.
Kenwigs made in order to show off her uncle to the admiring neighbors.
The reason why the children sat up for the party was because it was
held in the sitting-room, which was also the place where they slept.
It was a very great occasion, and the children were on their good
behavior. Uncle Lillyvick was seated in a large armchair by the
fireside, and the four little Kenwigses sat side by side on a small
bench facing the fire, with their nice little pig-tails tied up with
blue ribbons.
“They are so beautiful,” said Mrs. Kenwigs, sobbing. It was very easy
for Mrs. Kenwigs to sob.
“Oh dear,” said all the ladies, “but don’t give way, don’t!”
“I can’t help it,” sobbed Mrs. Kenwigs. “Oh, they are too beautiful to
live, much too beautiful!”
On hearing this all the four little girls began to cry, too, and hid
their heads in their mother’s lap. This made a great excitement.
At last the little Kenwigses were distributed among the company, so
that their mother might not be overcome by the sight of their combined
beauty. Then the conversation was taken up again by the older people.
When it threatened to stop, Mrs. Kenwigs turned to Morleena, the oldest
of the little girls.
“Morleena Kenwigs, kiss your dear uncle.” Morleena obeyed, and then the
three other little girls had to do the same thing, and then they had
to kiss all the other members of the company. Then Morleena, who had
been at the dancing-school, had to dance and be admired again by her
mother. What with kissing, and dancing, and being wept over, the little
Kenwigses had a very busy evening, and were the life of the party.
THE CHILD’S STORY
XVI
THE CHILD’S STORY
ONCE upon a time, a good many years ago, there was a traveller, and he
set out upon a journey. It was a magic journey, and was to seem very
long when he began it, and very short when he got half-way through.
He travelled along a rather dark path for some little time without
meeting anything, until at last he came to a beautiful child. So he
said to the child: “What do you do here?” And the child said: “I am
always at play. Come and play with me!”
So he played with that child the whole day long, and they were very
merry. The sky was so blue, the sun was so bright, the water was so
sparkling, the leaves were so green, the flowers were so lovely, and
they heard such singing birds, and saw so many butterflies, that
everything was beautiful. This was in fine weather. When it rained,
they loved to watch the falling drops, and to smell the fresh scents.
When it blew, it was delightful to listen to the wind, and fancy
what it said, as it came rushing from its home--where was that, they
wondered!--whistling and howling, driving the clouds before it, bending
the trees, rumbling in the chimneys, shaking the house, and making the
sea roar in fury. But when it snowed, that was best of all; for they
liked nothing so well as to look up at the white flakes falling fast
and thick, like down from the breasts of millions of white birds; and
to see how smooth and deep the drift was; and to listen to the hush
upon the paths and roads.
They had plenty of the finest toys in the world, and the most
astonishing picture-books: all about scimitars and slippers and
turbans, and dwarfs and giants and genii and fairies, and blue-beards
and bean-stalks and riches and caverns, and forests and Valentines and
Orsons: and all new and all true.
But one day, of a sudden, the traveller lost the child. He called to
him over and over again, but got no answer. So he went upon his road,
and went on for a little while without meeting anything, until at last
he came to a handsome boy. So he said to the boy, “What do you do
here?” And the boy said: “I am always learning. Come and learn with me.”
So he learned with that boy about Jupiter and Juno, and the Greeks
and the Romans, and I don’t know what, and learned more than I could
tell--or he either, for he soon forgot a deal of it. But they were not
always learning; they had the merriest games that ever were played.
They rowed upon the river in summer, and skated on the ice in winter;
they were active afoot, and active on horseback; at cricket, and all
games at ball; at prisoners’ base, hare and hounds, follow my leader,
and more sports than I can think of; nobody could beat them. They had
holidays, too, and Twelfth cakes, and parties where they danced till
midnight, and real theatres where they saw palaces of real gold and
silver rise out of the real earth, and saw all the wonders of the
world at once. As to friends, they had such dear friends, and so many
of them, that I want the time to reckon them up. They were all young,
like the handsome boy, and were never to be strange to one another all
their lives through.
Still, one day, in the midst of all these pleasures, the traveller lost
the boy as he had lost the child, and, after calling to him in vain,
went on upon his journey. So he went on for a little while without
seeing anything, until at last he came to a young man. So he said to
the young man: “What do you do here?” And the young man said: “I am
always in love. Come and love with me?”
So he went away with that young man, and presently they came to one of
the prettiest girls that ever was seen--just like Fanny in the corner
there--and she had eyes like Fanny, and hair like Fanny, and dimples
like Fanny’s, and she laughed and colored just as Fanny does while I
am talking about her. So the young man fell in love directly--just as
Somebody I won’t mention, the first time he came here, did with Fanny.
Well! he was teased sometimes--just as Somebody used to be by Fanny;
and they quarrelled sometimes--just as Somebody and Fanny used to
quarrel; and they made it up, and sat in the dark, and wrote letters
every day, and never were happy asunder, and were always looking out
for one another and pretending not to, and were engaged at Christmas
time, and sat close to one another by the fire, and were going to be
married very soon--all exactly like Somebody I won’t mention, and
Fanny!
But the traveller lost them one day, as he had lost the rest of his
friends, and, after calling to them to come back, which they never did,
went on upon his journey. So he went on for a little while without
seeing anything, until at last he came to a middle-aged gentleman. So
he said to the gentleman, “What are you doing here?” And his answer
was: “I am always busy. Come and be busy with me!”
So he began to be very busy with that gentleman, and they went on
through the wood together. The whole journey was through a wood, only
it had been open and green at first, like a wood in spring; and now
began to be thick and dark, like a wood in summer; some of the little
trees that had come out earliest were even turning brown. The gentleman
was not alone, but had a lady of about the same age with him, who was
his wife; and they had children, who were with them too. So they all
went on together through the wood, cutting down the trees, and making a
path through the branches and the fallen leaves, and carrying burdens,
and working hard.
Sometimes, they came to a long green avenue that opened into deeper
woods. Then they would hear a very little distant voice crying:
“Father, father, I am another child! Stop for me!” And presently they
would see a very little figure, growing larger as it came along,
running to join them. When it came up, they all crowded round it, and
kissed and welcomed it; and then they all went on together.
Sometimes, they came to several avenues at once, and then they all
stood still, and one of the children said: “Father, I am going to
sea,” and another said, “Father, I am going to India,” and another,
“Father, I am going to seek my fortune where I can,” and another,
“Father, I am going to Heaven!” So, with many tears at parting, they
went, solitary, down those avenues, each child upon its way; and the
child who went to Heaven rose into the golden air and vanished.
Whenever these partings happened, the traveller looked at the
gentleman, and saw him glance up at the sky above the trees, where the
day was beginning to decline, and the sunset to come on. He saw, too,
that his hair was turning gray. But they never could rest long, for
they had their journey to perform, and it was necessary for them to be
always busy.
At last, there had been so many partings that there were no children
left, and only the traveller, the gentleman, and the lady, went upon
their way in company. And now the wood was yellow; and now brown; and
the leaves, even of the forest trees, began to fall.
So they came to an avenue that was darker than the rest, and were
pressing forward on their journey without looking down it when the lady
stopped.
“My husband,” said the lady. “I am called.”
They listened, and they heard a voice a long way down the avenue say:
“Mother, mother!”
It was the voice of the first child who had said: “I am going to
Heaven!” and the father said, “I pray not yet. The sunset is very near.
I pray not yet!”
But the voice cried: “Mother, mother!” without minding him, though his
hair was now quite white, and tears were on his face.
Then the mother, who was already drawn into the shade of the dark
avenue and moving away with her arms still round his neck, kissed him,
and said: “My dearest, I am summoned, and I go!” And she was gone. And
the traveller and he were left alone together.
And they went on and on together, until they came to very near the end
of the wood: so near, that they could see the sunset shining red before
them through the trees.
Yet, once more, while he broke his way among the branches, the
traveller lost his friend. He called and called, but there was no
reply, and when he passed out of the wood and saw the peaceful sun
going down upon a wide purple prospect, he came to an old man sitting
on a fallen tree. So he said to the old man: “What do you do here?” And
the old man said with a calm smile: “I am always remembering. Come and
remember with me!”
So the traveller sat down by the side of that old man, face to face
with the serene sunset; and all his friends came softly back and
stood around him. The beautiful child, the handsome boy, the young
man in love, the father, mother, and children; every one of them was
there, and he had lost nothing. So he loved them all, and was kind and
forbearing with them all, and was always pleased to watch them all,
and they all honored and loved him. And I think the traveller must be
yourself, dear grandfather, because this is what you do to us, and what
we do to you.
THE BOY AT TODGERS’S
XVII
THE BOY AT TODGERS’S
WHEN Mr. Pecksniff and his two daughters came to London, they found
their way to Mrs. Todgers’s Boarding House. It was early in the morning
and they rang two or three times without making any impression on
anything but a dog over the way. At last a chain and some bolts were
withdrawn, and a small boy with a large red head, and no nose to speak
of, and a pair of huge boots under his arm, appeared. The boy rubbed
his nose with the back of his shoe brush and said nothing.
“Still abed, my man?” asked Mr. Pecksniff.
“Still abed!” replied the boy, “I wish they wos still abed. They’re
very noisy abed, all calling for their boots at once. I thought you
was the Paper and wondered why you didn’t shove yourself through the
grating as usual. What do you want?”
The boy was called Bailey, and though he was a little cross when the
Pecksniffs came because it was so early in the morning, he was usually
the soul of good humor. Indeed, good humor was about the only thing he
had, for no one had taken the trouble to teach him good manners.
Bailey would roll up his sleeves to the shoulders and find his way all
over the house, and wherever he went he made things lively. He wore an
apron of coarse green baize. He would answer the door and then make a
bolt for the alley, and in a moment be playing leap-frog, till Mrs.
Todgers followed him and pulled him into the house by the hair of his
head.
When the two Miss Pecksniffs were sitting primly on the sofa, Bailey
would greet them with such compliments as: “There you are agin! Ain’t
it nice!” This made them feel very much at home.
“I say,” he whispered, stopping in one of his journeys to and fro,
“young ladies, there’s soup to-morrow. She’s making it now. Ain’t she
putting in the water? Oh! not at all neither!”
The next time he passed by he called out:
“I say--there’s fowls to-morrow. Not skinny ones. Oh, no!”
Presently he called through the keyhole:
“There’s a fish to-morrow--just come. Don’t eat none of him!” And, with
this warning, he vanished again.
* * * * *
By-and-by, he returned to lay the cloth for supper, it having been
arranged between Mrs. Todgers and the young ladies that they should
partake of an exclusive veal-cutlet together in the privacy of that
apartment. He entertained them on this occasion by thrusting the
lighted candle into his mouth, and exhibiting his face in a state of
transparency; after the performance of which feat he went on with his
professional duties; brightening every knife as he laid it on the
table, by breathing on the blade and afterward polishing the same on
the apron already mentioned. When he had completed his preparations, he
grinned at the sisters, and expressed his belief that the approaching
collation would be of “rather a spicy sort.”
“Will it be long before it’s ready, Bailey?” asked Mercy.
“No,” said Bailey, “it _is_ cooked. When I come up, she was
dodging among the tender pieces with a fork, and eating of ’em.”