Hard Times

by Dickens, Charles

  'Serve you right, you Noodle, and I am glad of it.'

  Mr. Bounderby had not been long gone, when Bitzer appeared. Bitzer

  had come down by train, shrieking and rattling over the long line

  of arches that bestrode the wild country of past and present coalpits,

  with an express from Stone Lodge. It was a hasty note to

  inform Louisa that Mrs. Gradgrind lay very ill. She had never been

  well within her daughter's knowledge; but, she had declined within

  the last few days, had continued sinking all through the night, and

  was now as nearly dead, as her limited capacity of being in any

  state that implied the ghost of an intention to get out of it,

  allowed.

  Accompanied by the lightest of porters, fit colourless servitor at

  Death's door when Mrs. Gradgrind knocked, Louisa rumbled to

  Coketown, over the coal-pits past and present, and was whirled into

  its smoky jaws. She dismissed the messenger to his own devices,

  and rode away to her old home.

  She had seldom been there since her marriage. Her father was

  usually sifting and sifting at his parliamentary cinder-heap in

  London (without being observed to turn up many precious articles

  among the rubbish), and was still hard at it in the national dustyard.

  Her mother had taken it rather as a disturbance than

  otherwise, to be visited, as she reclined upon her sofa; young

  people, Louisa felt herself all unfit for; Sissy she had never

  softened to again, since the night when the stroller's child had

  raised her eyes to look at Mr. Bounderby's intended wife. She had

  no inducements to go back, and had rarely gone.

  Neither, as she approached her old home now, did any of the best

  influences of old home descend upon her. The dreams of childhood -

  its airy fables; its graceful, beautiful, humane, impossible

  adornments of the world beyond: so good to be believed in once, so

  good to be remembered when outgrown, for then the least among them

  rises to the stature of a great Charity in the heart, suffering

  little children to come into the midst of it, and to keep with

  their pure hands a garden in the stony ways of this world, wherein

  it were better for all the children of Adam that they should

  oftener sun themselves, simple and trustful, and not worldly-wise -

  what had she to do with these? Remembrances of how she had

  journeyed to the little that she knew, by the enchanted roads of

  what she and millions of innocent creatures had hoped and imagined;

  of how, first coming upon Reason through the tender light of Fancy,

  she had seen it a beneficent god, deferring to gods as great as

  itself; not a grim Idol, cruel and cold, with its victims bound

  hand to foot, and its big dumb shape set up with a sightless stare,

  never to be moved by anything but so many calculated tons of

  leverage - what had she to do with these? Her remembrances of home

  and childhood were remembrances of the drying up of every spring

  and fountain in her young heart as it gushed out. The golden

  waters were not there. They were flowing for the fertilization of

  the land where grapes are gathered from thorns, and figs from

  thistles.

  She went, with a heavy, hardened kind of sorrow upon her, into the

  house and into her mother's room. Since the time of her leaving

  home, Sissy had lived with the rest of the family on equal terms.

  Sissy was at her mother's side; and Jane, her sister, now ten or

  twelve years old, was in the room.

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  There was great trouble before it could be made known to Mrs.

  Gradgrind that her eldest child was there. She reclined, propped

  up, from mere habit, on a couch: as nearly in her old usual

  attitude, as anything so helpless could be kept in. She had

  positively refused to take to her bed; on the ground that if she

  did, she would never hear the last of it.

  Her feeble voice sounded so far away in her bundle of shawls, and

  the sound of another voice addressing her seemed to take such a

  long time in getting down to her ears, that she might have been

  lying at the bottom of a well. The poor lady was nearer Truth than

  she ever had been: which had much to do with it.

  On being told that Mrs. Bounderby was there, she replied, at crosspurposes,

  that she had never called him by that name since he

  married Louisa; that pending her choice of an objectionable name,

  she had called him J; and that she could not at present depart from

  that regulation, not being yet provided with a permanent

  substitute. Louisa had sat by her for some minutes, and had spoken

  to her often, before she arrived at a clear understanding who it

  was. She then seemed to come to it all at once.

  'Well, my dear,' said Mrs. Gradgrind, 'and I hope you are going on

  satisfactorily to yourself. It was all your father's doing. He

  set his heart upon it. And he ought to know.'

  'I want to hear of you, mother; not of myself.'

  'You want to hear of me, my dear? That's something new, I am sure,

  when anybody wants to hear of me. Not at all well, Louisa. Very

  faint and giddy.'

  'Are you in pain, dear mother?'

  'I think there's a pain somewhere in the room,' said Mrs.

  Gradgrind, 'but I couldn't positively say that I have got it.'

  After this strange speech, she lay silent for some time. Louisa,

  holding her hand, could feel no pulse; but kissing it, could see a

  slight thin thread of life in fluttering motion.

  'You very seldom see your sister,' said Mrs. Gradgrind. 'She grows

  like you. I wish you would look at her. Sissy, bring her here.'

  She was brought, and stood with her hand in her sister's. Louisa

  had observed her with her arm round Sissy's neck, and she felt the

  difference of this approach.

  'Do you see the likeness, Louisa?'

  'Yes, mother. I should think her like me. But - '

  'Eh! Yes, I always say so,' Mrs. Gradgrind cried, with unexpected

  quickness. 'And that reminds me. I - I want to speak to you, my

  dear. Sissy, my good girl, leave us alone a minute.' Louisa had

  relinquished the hand: had thought that her sister's was a better

  and brighter face than hers had ever been: had seen in it, not

  without a rising feeling of resentment, even in that place and at

  that time, something of the gentleness of the other face in the

  room; the sweet face with the trusting eyes, made paler than

  watching and sympathy made it, by the rich dark hair.

  Left alone with her mother, Louisa saw her lying with an awful lull

  upon her face, like one who was floating away upon some great

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  water, all resistance over, content to be carried down the stream.

  She put the shadow of a hand to her lips again, and recalled her.

  'You were going to speak to me, mother.'

  'Eh? Yes, to be sure, my dear. You know your father is almost

  always away now, and therefore I must write to him about it.'

  'About what, mother? Don't be troubled. About what?'

  'You must remember, my dear, that whenever I have said anything, o
n

  any subject, I have never heard the last of it: and consequently,

  that I have long left off saying anything.'

  'I can hear you, mother.' But, it was only by dint of bending down

  to her ear, and at the same time attentively watching the lips as

  they moved, that she could link such faint and broken sounds into

  any chain of connexion.

  'You learnt a great deal, Louisa, and so did your brother. Ologies

  of all kinds from morning to night. If there is any Ology left, of

  any description, that has not been worn to rags in this house, all

  I can say is, I hope I shall never hear its name.'

  'I can hear you, mother, when you have strength to go on.' This,

  to keep her from floating away.

  'But there is something - not an Ology at all - that your father

  has missed, or forgotten, Louisa. I don't know what it is. I have

  often sat with Sissy near me, and thought about it. I shall never

  get its name now. But your father may. It makes me restless. I

  want to write to him, to find out for God's sake, what it is. Give

  me a pen, give me a pen.'

  Even the power of restlessness was gone, except from the poor head,

  which could just turn from side to side.

  She fancied, however, that her request had been complied with, and

  that the pen she could not have held was in her hand. It matters

  little what figures of wonderful no-meaning she began to trace upon

  her wrappers. The hand soon stopped in the midst of them; the

  light that had always been feeble and dim behind the weak

  transparency, went out; and even Mrs. Gradgrind, emerged from the

  shadow in which man walketh and disquieteth himself in vain, took

  upon her the dread solemnity of the sages and patriarchs.

  CHAPTER X - MRS. SPARSIT'S STAIRCASE

  MRS. SPARSIT'S nerves being slow to recover their tone, the worthy

  woman made a stay of some weeks in duration at Mr. Bounderby's

  retreat, where, notwithstanding her anchorite turn of mind based

  upon her becoming consciousness of her altered station, she

  resigned herself with noble fortitude to lodging, as one may say,

  in clover, and feeding on the fat of the land. During the whole

  term of this recess from the guardianship of the Bank, Mrs. Sparsit

  was a pattern of consistency; continuing to take such pity on Mr.

  Bounderby to his face, as is rarely taken on man, and to call his

  portrait a Noodle to its face, with the greatest acrimony and

  contempt.

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  Mr. Bounderby, having got it into his explosive composition that

  Mrs. Sparsit was a highly superior woman to perceive that he had

  that general cross upon him in his deserts (for he had not yet

  settled what it was), and further that Louisa would have objected

  to her as a frequent visitor if it had comported with his greatness

  that she should object to anything he chose to do, resolved not to

  lose sight of Mrs. Sparsit easily. So when her nerves were strung

  up to the pitch of again consuming sweetbreads in solitude, he said

  to her at the dinner-table, on the day before her departure, 'I

  tell you what, ma'am; you shall come down here of a Saturday, while

  the fine weather lasts, and stay till Monday.' To which Mrs.

  Sparsit returned, in effect, though not of the Mahomedan

  persuasion: 'To hear is to obey.'

  Now, Mrs. Sparsit was not a poetical woman; but she took an idea in

  the nature of an allegorical fancy, into her head. Much watching

  of Louisa, and much consequent observation of her impenetrable

  demeanour, which keenly whetted and sharpened Mrs. Sparsit's edge,

  must have given her as it were a lift, in the way of inspiration.

  She erected in her mind a mighty Staircase, with a dark pit of

  shame and ruin at the bottom; and down those stairs, from day to

  day and hour to hour, she saw Louisa coming.

  It became the business of Mrs. Sparsit's life, to look up at her

  staircase, and to watch Louisa coming down. Sometimes slowly,

  sometimes quickly, sometimes several steps at one bout, sometimes

  stopping, never turning back. If she had once turned back, it

  might have been the death of Mrs. Sparsit in spleen and grief.

  She had been descending steadily, to the day, and on the day, when

  Mr. Bounderby issued the weekly invitation recorded above. Mrs.

  Sparsit was in good spirits, and inclined to be conversational.

  'And pray, sir,' said she, 'if I may venture to ask a question

  appertaining to any subject on which you show reserve - which is

  indeed hardy in me, for I well know you have a reason for

  everything you do - have you received intelligence respecting the

  robbery?'

  'Why, ma'am, no; not yet. Under the circumstances, I didn't expect

  it yet. Rome wasn't built in a day, ma'am.'

  'Very true, sir,' said Mrs. Sparsit, shaking her head.

  'Nor yet in a week, ma'am.'

  'No, indeed, sir,' returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a gentle melancholy

  upon her.

  'In a similar manner, ma'am,' said Bounderby, 'I can wait, you

  know. If Romulus and Remus could wait, Josiah Bounderby can wait.

  They were better off in their youth than I was, however. They had

  a she-wolf for a nurse; I had only a she-wolf for a grandmother.

  She didn't give any milk, ma'am; she gave bruises. She was a

  regular Alderney at that.'

  'Ah!' Mrs. Sparsit sighed and shuddered.

  'No, ma'am,' continued Bounderby, 'I have not heard anything more

  about it. It's in hand, though; and young Tom, who rather sticks

  to business at present - something new for him; he hadn't the

  schooling I had - is helping. My injunction is, Keep it quiet, and

  let it seem to blow over. Do what you like under the rose, but

  don't give a sign of what you're about; or half a hundred of 'em

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  will combine together and get this fellow who has bolted, out of

  reach for good. Keep it quiet, and the thieves will grow in

  confidence by little and little, and we shall have 'em.'

  'Very sagacious indeed, sir,' said Mrs. Sparsit. 'Very

  interesting. The old woman you mentioned, sir - '

  'The old woman I mentioned, ma'am,' said Bounderby, cutting the

  matter short, as it was nothing to boast about, 'is not laid hold

  of; but, she may take her oath she will be, if that is any

  satisfaction to her villainous old mind. In the mean time, ma'am,

  I am of opinion, if you ask me my opinion, that the less she is

  talked about, the better.'

  The same evening, Mrs. Sparsit, in her chamber window, resting from

  her packing operations, looked towards her great staircase and saw

  Louisa still descending.

  She sat by Mr. Harthouse, in an alcove in the garden, talking very

  low; he stood leaning over her, as they whispered together, and his

  face almost touched her hair. 'If not quite!' said Mrs. Sparsit,

  straining her hawk's eyes to the utmost. Mrs. Sparsit was too

  distant to hear a word of their discourse, or even to know that

  they were speaking softly, otherwise than from the expression of

  their fig
ures; but what they said was this:

  'You recollect the man, Mr. Harthouse?'

  'Oh, perfectly!'

  'His face, and his manner, and what he said?'

  'Perfectly. And an infinitely dreary person he appeared to me to

  be. Lengthy and prosy in the extreme. It was knowing to hold

  forth, in the humble-virtue school of eloquence; but, I assure you

  I thought at the time, "My good fellow, you are over-doing this!"'

  'It has been very difficult to me to think ill of that man.'

  'My dear Louisa - as Tom says.' Which he never did say. 'You know

  no good of the fellow?'

  'No, certainly.'

  'Nor of any other such person?'

  'How can I,' she returned, with more of her first manner on her

  than he had lately seen, 'when I know nothing of them, men or

  women?'

  'My dear Louisa, then consent to receive the submissive

  representation of your devoted friend, who knows something of

  several varieties of his excellent fellow-creatures - for excellent

  they are, I am quite ready to believe, in spite of such little

  foibles as always helping themselves to what they can get hold of.

  This fellow talks. Well; every fellow talks. He professes

  morality. Well; all sorts of humbugs profess morality. From the

  House of Commons to the House of Correction, there is a general

  profession of morality, except among our people; it really is that

  exception which makes our people quite reviving. You saw and heard

  the case. Here was one of the fluffy classes pulled up extremely

  short by my esteemed friend Mr. Bounderby - who, as we know, is not

  possessed of that delicacy which would soften so tight a hand. The

  member of the fluffy classes was injured, exasperated, left the

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  house grumbling, met somebody who proposed to him to go in for some

  share in this Bank business, went in, put something in his pocket

  which had nothing in it before, and relieved his mind extremely.

  Really he would have been an uncommon, instead of a common, fellow,

  if he had not availed himself of such an opportunity. Or he may

  have originated it altogether, if he had the cleverness.'

  'I almost feel as though it must be bad in me,' returned Louisa,

  after sitting thoughtful awhile, 'to be so ready to agree with you,

  and to be so lightened in my heart by what you say.'

  'I only say what is reasonable; nothing worse. I have talked it