Dickens' Stories About Children Every Child Can Read

by Charles Dickens

  IV.

  LITTLE DORRIT.

  MANY years ago, when people could be put in prison for debt, a poorgentleman, who was unfortunate enough to lose all his money, was broughtto the Marshalsea prison, which was the prison where debtors were kept.As there seemed no prospect of being able to pay his debts, his wife andtheir two little children came to live there with him. The elder childwas a boy of three; the younger a little girl of two years old, and notlong afterwards another little girl was born. The three children playedin the courtyard, and on the whole were happy, for they were too youngto remember a happier state of things.

  But the youngest child, who had never been outside the prison walls, wasa thoughtful little creature, and wondered what the outside world couldbe like. Her great friend, the turnkey, who was also her godfather,became very fond of her, and as soon as she could walk and talk hebrought a little arm-chair and stood it by his fire at the lodge, andcoaxed her with cheap toys to come and sit with him. In return the childloved him dearly, and would often bring her doll to dress and undressas she sat in the little arm-chair. She was still a very tiny creaturewhen she began to understand that everyone did not live locked up insidehigh walls with spikes at the top, and though she and the rest of thefamily might pass through the door that the great key opened, her fathercould not; and she would look at him with a wondering pity in her tenderlittle heart.

  One day, she was sitting in the lodge gazing wistfully up at the skythrough the barred window. The turnkey, after watching her some time,said:

  "Thinking of the fields, ain't you?"

  "Where are they?" she asked.

  "Why, they're--over there, my dear," said the turnkey, waving his keyvaguely, "just about there."

  "Does anybody open them and shut them? Are they locked?"

  "Well," said the turnkey, not knowing what to say, "not in general."

  "Are they pretty, Bob?" She called him Bob, because he wished it.

  "Lovely. Full of flowers. There's buttercups, and there's daisies, andthere's--" here he hesitated not knowing the names of manyflowers--"there's dandelions, and all manner of games."

  "Is it very pleasant to be there, Bob?"

  "Prime," said the turnkey.

  "Was father ever there?"

  "Hem!" coughed the turnkey. "O yes, he was there, sometimes."

  "Is he sorry not to be there now?"

  "N--not particular," said the turnkey.

  "Nor any of the people?" she asked, glancing at the listless crowdwithin. "O are you quite sure and certain, Bob?"

  At this point, Bob gave in and changed the subject to candy. But afterthis chat, the turnkey and little Amy would go out on his free Sundayafternoons to some meadows or green lanes, and she would pick grass andflowers to bring home, while he smoked his pipe; and then they would goto some tea-gardens for shrimps and tea and other delicacies, and wouldcome back hand in hand, unless she was very tired and had fallen asleepon his shoulder.

  When Amy was only eight years old, her mother died; and the poor fatherwas more helpless and broken-down than ever, and as Fanny was a carelesschild and Edward idle, the little one, who had the bravest and truestheart, was led by her love and unselfishness to be the little mother ofthe forlorn family, and struggled to get some little education forherself and her brother and sister.

  At first, such a baby could do little more than sit with her father,deserting her livelier place by the high fender, and quietly watchinghim. But this made her so far necessary to him that he became accustomedto her, and began to be sensible of missing her when she was not there.Through this little gate, she passed out of her childhood into thecare-laden world.

  What her pitiful look saw, at that early time, in her father, in hersister, in her brother, in the jail; how much or how little of thewretched truth it pleased God to make plain to her, lies hidden withmany mysteries. It is enough that she was inspired to be something whichwas not what the rest were, and to be that something, different andlaborious, for the sake of the rest. Inspired? Yes. Shall we speak of apoet or a priest, and not of the heart impelled by love andself-devotion to the lowliest work in the lowliest way of life?

  The family stayed so long in the prison that the old man came to beknown as "The Father of the Marshalsea;" and little Amy, who had neverknown any other home, as "The Child of the Marshalsea."

  At thirteen she could read and keep accounts--that is, could put down inwords and figures how much the bare necessaries that they wanted wouldcost, and how much less they had to buy them with. She had been, bysnatches of a few weeks at a time, to an evening school outside, and gother sister and brother sent to day-schools from time to time duringthree or four years. There was no teaching for any of them at home; butshe knew well--no one better--that a man so broken as to be the Fatherof the Marshalsea, could be no father to his own children.

  To these scanty means of improvement, she added another of her owncontriving. Once among the crowd of prisoners there appeared adancing-master. Her sister had a great desire to learn thedancing-master's art, and seemed to have a taste that way. At thirteenyears old, the Child of the Marshalsea presented herself to thedancing-master, with a little bag in her hand, and offered her humblepetition.

  "If you please, I was born here, sir."

  "Oh! you are the young lady, are you?" said the dancing-master,surveying the small figure and uplifted face.

  "Yes, sir."

  "And what can I do for you?" said the dancing-master.

  "Nothing for me, sir, thank you," anxiously undrawing the strings of thelittle bag; "but if, while you stay here, you could be so kind as toteach my sister cheap--"

  "My child, I'll teach her for nothing," said the dancing-master,shutting up the bag. He was as good-natured a dancing-master as everdanced to the Insolvent Court, and he kept his word. The sister was soapt a pupil, and the dancing-master had such abundant time to give her,that wonderful progress was made. Indeed, the dancing-master was soproud of it, and so wishful to show it before he left, to a few selectfriends among the collegians (the debtors in the prison were called"collegians"), that at six o'clock on a certain fine morning, anexhibition was held in the yard--the college-rooms being of too smallsize for the purpose--in which so much ground was covered, and the stepswere so well executed, that the dancing-master, having to play hisfiddle besides, was thoroughly tired out.

  The success of this beginning, which led to the dancing-master'scontinuing his teaching after his release, led the poor child to tryagain. She watched and waited months for a seamstress. In the fullnessof time a milliner came in, sent there like all the rest for a debtwhich she could not pay; and to her she went to ask a favor forherself.

  "I beg your pardon, ma'am," she said, looking timidly round the door ofthe milliner, whom she found in tears and in bed: "but I was born here."

  Everybody seemed to hear of her as soon as they arrived; for themilliner sat up in bed, drying her eyes, and said, just as thedancing-master had said:

  "Oh! _you_ are the child, are you?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "I am sorry I haven't got anything for you," said the milliner, shakingher head.

  "It's not that, ma'am. If you please, I want to learn needlework."

  "Why should you do that," returned the milliner, "with me before you? Ithas not done me much good."

  "Nothing--whatever it is--seems to have done anybody much good who comeshere," she returned in her simple way; "but I want to learn, just thesame."

  "I am afraid you are so weak, you see," the milliner objected.

  "I don't think I am weak, ma'am."

  "And you are so very, very little, you see," the milliner objected.

  "Yes, I am afraid I am very little indeed," returned the Child of theMarshalsea; and so began to sob over that unfortunate smallness ofhers, which came so often in her way. The milliner--who was not unkindor hardhearted, only badly in debt--was touched, took her in hand withgood-will, found her the most patient and earnest of pupils, and madeher a good workwom
an.

  In course of time, the Father of the Marshalsea gradually developed anew trait of character. He was very greatly ashamed of having his twodaughters work for their living; and tried to make it appear that theywere only doing work for pleasure, not for pay. But at the same time hewould take money from any one who would give it to him, without anysense of shame. With the same hand that had pocketed a fellow-prisoner'shalf-crown half an hour ago, he would wipe away the tears that streamedover his cheeks if anything was spoken of his daughters' earning theirbread. So, over and above her other daily cares, the Child of theMarshalsea had always upon her the care of keeping up the make-believethat they were all idle beggars together.

  The sister became a dancer. There was a ruined uncle in the familygroup--ruined by his brother, the Father of the Marshalsea, and knowingno more how, than his ruiner did, but taking the fact as something thatcould not be helped. Naturally a retired and simple man, he had shown noparticular sense of being ruined, at the time when that calamity fellupon him, further than he left off washing himself when the shock wasannounced, and never took to washing his face and hands any more. He hadbeen a rather poor musician in his better days; and when he fell withhis brother, supported himself in a poor way by playing a clarionet asdirty as himself in a small theatre band. It was the theatre in whichhis niece became a dancer; he had been a fixture there a long time whenshe took her poor station in it; and he accepted the task of serving asher guardian, just as he would have accepted an illness, a legacy, afeast, starvation--anything but soap.

  To enable this girl to earn her few weekly shillings, it was necessaryfor the Child of the Marshalsea to go through a careful form with herfather.

  "Fanny is not going to live with us, just now, father. She will be herea good deal in the day, but she is going to live outside with uncle."

  "You surprise me. Why?"

  "I think uncle wants a companion, father. He should be attended to andlooked after."

  "A companion? He passes much of his time here. And you attend and lookafter him, Amy, a great deal more than ever your sister will. You all goout so much; you all go out so much."

  This was to keep up the form and pretense of his having no idea that Amyherself went out by the day to work.

  "But we are always very glad to come home father; now, are we not? Andas to Fanny, perhaps besides keeping uncle company and taking care ofhim, it may be as well for her not quite to live here always. She wasnot born here as I was you know, father."

  "Well, Amy, well. I don't quite follow you, but it's natural I supposethat Fanny should prefer to be outside, and even that you often should,too. So, you and Fanny and your uncle, my dear, shall have your own way.Good, good. I'll not meddle; don't mind me."

  To get her brother out of the prison; out of the low work of runningerrands for the prisoners outside, and out of the bad company into whichhe had fallen, was her hardest task. At eighteen years of age herbrother Edward would have dragged on from hand to mouth, from hour tohour, from penny to penny, until eighty. Nobody got into the prison fromwhom he gained anything useful or good, and she could find no patronfor him but her old friend and godfather, the turnkey.

  "Dear Bob," said she, "what is to become of poor Tip?" His name wasEdward, and Ted had been changed into Tip, within the walls.

  The turnkey had strong opinions of his own as to what would become ofpoor Tip, and had even gone so far with the view of preventing theirfulfilment, as to talk to Tip in urging him to run away and serve hiscountry as a soldier. But Tip had thanked him, and said he didn't seemto care for his country.

  "Well, my dear," said the turnkey, "something ought to be done with him.Suppose I try and get him into the law?"

  "That would be so good of you, Bob!"

  The turnkey now began to speak to the lawyers as they passed in and outof the prison. He spoke so perseveringly that a stool and twelveshillings a week were at last found for Tip in the office of a lawyer atClifford's Inn, in the Palace Court.

  Tip idled in Clifford's Inn for six months, and at the end of that termsauntered back one evening with his hands in his pockets, and remarkedto his sister that he was not going back again.

  "Not going back again?" said the poor little anxious Child of theMarshalsea, always calculating and planning for Tip, in the front rankof her charges.

  "I am so tired of it," said Tip, "that I have cut it."

  Tip tired of everything. With intervals of Marshalsea lounging, anderrand-running, his small second mother, aided by her trusty friend, gothim into a warehouse, into a market garden, into the hop trade, into thelaw again, into an auctioneer's, into a brewery, into a stockbroker's,into the law again, into a coach office, into a wagon office, into thelaw again, into a general dealer's, into a distillery, into the lawagain, into a wool house, into a dry goods house, into the fish-market,into the foreign fruit trade, and into the docks. But whatever Tip wentinto he came out of tired, announcing that he had cut it. Wherever hewent, this useless Tip appeared to take the prison walls with him, andto set them up in such trade or calling; and to prowl about within theirnarrow limits in the old slipshod, purposeless, down-at-heel way; untilthe real immovable Marshalsea walls asserted their power over him andbrought him back.

  Nevertheless, the brave little creature did so fix her heart on herbrother's rescue that, while he was ringing out these doleful changes,she pinched and scraped enough together to ship him for Canada. When hewas tired of nothing to do, and disposed in its turn to cut even that,he graciously consented to go to Canada. And there was grief in herbosom over parting with him, and joy in the hope of his being put in astraight course at last.

  "God bless you, dear Tip. Don't be too proud to come and see us, whenyou have made your fortune."

  "All right!" said Tip, and went.

  But not all the way to Canada; in fact, not further than Liverpool.After making the voyage to that port from London, he found himself sostrongly impelled to cut the vessel, that he resolved to walk backagain. Carrying out which intention, he presented himself before her atthe expiration of a month, in rags, without shoes, and much more tiredthan ever.

  At length, after another period of running errands, he found a pursuitfor himself, and announced it.

  "Amy, I have got a situation."

  "Have you really and truly, Tip?"

  "All right. I shall do now. You needn't look anxious about me any more,old girl."

  "What is it, Tip?"

  "Why, you know Slingo by sight?"

  "Not the man they call the dealer?"

  "That's the chap. He'll be out on Monday, and he's going to give me aberth."

  "What is he a dealer in, Tip?"

  "Horses. All right! I shall do now, Amy."

  She lost sight of him for months afterwards, and only heard from himonce. A whisper passed among the elder prisoners that he had been seenat a mock auction in Moorfields, pretending to buy plated articles forreal silver, and paying for them with the greatest liberality inbank-notes; but it never reached her ears. One evening she was alone atwork--standing up at the window, to save the twilight lingering abovethe wall--when he opened the door and walked in.

  She kissed and welcomed him; but was afraid to ask him any question. Hesaw how anxious and timid she was, and appeared sorry.

  "I am afraid, Amy, you'll be vexed this time. Upon my life I am!"

  "I am very sorry to hear you say so, Tip. Have you come back?"

  "Why--yes."

  "Not expecting this time that what you had found would answer very well,I am less surprised and sorry than I might have been, Tip."

  "Ah! But that's not the worst of it."

  "Not the worst of it?"

  "Don't look so startled. No, Amy, not the worst of it. I have come back,you see; but--_don't_ look so startled--I have come back in what I maycall a new way. I am off the volunteer list altogether. I am in now, asone of the regulars. I'm here in prison for debt, like everybody else."

  "Oh! Don't say that you are a prisoner, Tip! Don't,
don't!"

  "Well, I don't want to say it," he returned in unwilling tone; "but ifyou can't understand me without my saying it, what am I to do? I am infor forty pound odd."

  For the first time in all those years, she sunk under her cares. Shecried, with her clasped hands lifted above her head, that it would killtheir father if he ever knew it; and fell down at Tip's worthless feet.

  It was easier for Tip to bring her to her senses than for her to bring_him_ to understand that the Father of the Marshalsea would be besidehimself if he knew the truth. Tip thought that there was nothing strangein being there a prisoner, but he agreed that his father should not betold about it. There were plenty of reasons that could be given for hisreturn; it was accounted for to the father in the usual way; and thecollegians, with a better understanding of the kind fraud than Tip,stood by it faithfully.

  This was the life, and this the history, of the Child of the Marshalsea,at twenty-two. With a still abiding interest in the one miserable yardand block of houses as her birthplace and home, she passed to and fro init shrinking now, with a womanly consciousness that she was pointed outto everyone. Since she had begun to work beyond the walls, she had foundit necessary to hide where she lived, and to come and go secretly as shecould, between the free city and the iron gates, outside of which shehad never slept in her life. Her original timidity had grown with thisconcealment, and her light step and her little figure shunned thethronged streets while they passed along them.

  Worldly wise in hard and poor necessities, she was innocent in allthings else. Innocent, in the mist through which she saw her father, andthe prison, and the dark living river that flowed through it and flowedon.

  "Mr. Clennam Followed Her Home."

  Page 65]

  This was the life, and this the history, of Little Dorrit, until the sonof a lady, Mrs. Clennam, to whose house Amy went to do needlework,became interested in the pale, patient little creature. He followedher to her home one day and when he found that it was the debtor'sprison, he walked in. Learning her sad history from her father, ArthurClennam resolved to do his best to try to get him released and to helpthem all.

  One day when he was walking home with Amy to try to find out the namesof some of the people her father owed money to, a voice was heardcalling, "Little mother, little mother," and a strange figure camebouncing up to them and fell down, scattering her basketful of potatoeson the ground. "Oh Maggie," said Amy, "what a clumsy child you are!"

  She was about eight and twenty, with large bones, large features, largehands and feet, large eyes, and no hair. Amy told Mr. Clennam thatMaggie was the granddaughter of her old nurse, who had been dead a longtime, and that her grandmother had been very unkind to her and beat her.

  "When Maggie was ten years old she had a fever, and she has never grownolder since."

  "Ten years old," said Maggie. "But what a nice hospital! So comfortable,wasn't it? Such a 'e'v'nly place! Such beds there is there! Suchlemonades! Such oranges! Such delicious broth and wine! Such chicking!Oh, AIN'T it a delightful place to stop at!"

  "Poor Maggie thought that a hospital was the nicest place in all theworld, because she had never seen another home as good. For years andyears she looked back to the hospital as a sort of heaven on earth."

  "Then when she came out, her grandmother did not know what to do withher, and was very unkind. But after some time Maggie tried to improve,and was very attentive and industrious and now she can earn her ownliving entirely, sir!"

  Amy did not say who had taken pains to teach and encourage the poorhalf-witted creature, but Mr. Clennam guessed from the name "littlemother" and the fondness of the poor creature for Amy.

  One cold, wet evening, Amy and Maggie went to Mr. Clennam's house tothank him for having freed Edward from the prison, and on coming outfound it was too late to get home, as the gate was locked. They tried toget in at Maggie's lodgings, but, though they knocked twice, the peoplewere asleep. As Amy did not wish to disturb them, they wandered aboutall night, sometimes sitting at the gate of the prison, Maggie shiveringand whimpering.

  "It will soon be over, dear," said patient Amy.

  "Oh, it's all very well for you, mother," said Maggie, "but I'm a poorthing, only ten years old."

  Thanks to Mr. Clennam, a great change took place in the fortunes of thefamily, and not long after this wretched night it was discovered thatMr. Dorrit was owner of a large property, and they became very rich.

  But Little Dorrit never forgot, as, sad to say, the rest of the familydid, the friends who had been kind to them in their poverty; and when,in his turn, Mr. Clennam became a prisoner in the Marshalsea, LittleDorrit came to comfort and console him, and after many changes offortune she became his wife, and they lived happy ever after.