*I. THE HOUSE OF DOMBEY AND SON*
Paul Dombey was a boy born to achieve great things. His birth was theone historic event of the Dombey household--at least, so his fathersaid. 'T is true that Paul's sister Florence was six years older thanhe, but then Florence was only a girl. What Mr. Dombey had long wantedwas a son who could grow up to carry on the business of the great exporthouse, and who from his birth would make possible the imposing title ofDombey and Son.
So Florence, who had remained quietly neglected in her nursery, now cameinto notice only as the sister of Paul, or as a faithful little nursewho could help amuse him.
As for Mr. Dombey himself, he was a cold, haughty man, very proud ofwhat he had done, and at all times exacting obedience from every oneelse. Paul's mother had died soon after he was born; and Mr. Dombeyhaving engaged the best nurses he could find, expected them forthwith tobring the child through all the round of infant ailments--of which thefrail little fellow had more than his full share. Indeed, Mr. Dombeyloved his son with all the love he had. If there were a warm place inhis frosty heart, his son occupied it; though not so much as an infantor a boy, as a prospective man--the "Son" of the firm. Therefore he wasimpatient to have him grow up; feeling as if the boy had a charmed life,and must become the man around whom all his hopes centred.
Thus Paul grew to be nearly five years old. He was a pretty littlefellow, though there was something wan and wistful in his small face,that gave occasion to many significant shakes of his nurse's head. Histemper gave abundant promise of being imperious, like his father's, inafter life. He was childish and sportive enough at times; but he had astrange, old-fashioned, thoughtful way at other times of sittingbrooding in his miniature arm-chair, when he looked and talked like oneof those terrible little beings in the fairy tales, who, at a hundredand fifty or two hundred years of age, fantastically represent thechildren for whom they have been substituted. He would frequently bestricken with this mood upstairs in the nursery, and would sometimeslapse into it suddenly, exclaiming that he was tired, even while playingwith Florence, or driving his nurse in single harness. But at no onetime did he fall into it so surely, as when, his little chair beingcarried down into his father's room, he sat there with him after dinnerby the fire. They were the strangest pair at such a time that everfirelight shone upon. Mr. Dombey, so erect and solemn, gazing at theblaze; his little image, with an old, old face, peering into the redperspective with the fixed and rapt attention of a sage; the two so verymuch alike, and yet so monstrously contrasted.
On one of these occasions, when they had both been perfectly quiet for along time, little Paul broke the silence thus:--
"Papa! what's money?"
The abrupt question had such immediate reference to the subject of Mr.Dombey's thoughts, that Mr. Dombey was quite disconcerted.
"What is money, Paul?" he answered. "Money?"
"Yes," said the child, laying his hands upon the elbows of his littlechair, and turning the old face up towards Mr. Dombey's, "what ismoney?"
Mr. Dombey was in a difficulty. He would have liked to give him somegrown-up explanation; but looking down at the little chair, and seeingwhat a long way down it was, he answered: "Gold, and silver, and copper.Guineas, shillings, halfpence. You know what they are?"
"Oh, yes, I know what they are," said Paul. "I don't mean that, papa. Imean what's money, after all."
"What is money, after all?" said Mr. Dombey, backing his chair a little,that he might the better gaze at the atom that made such an inquiry.
"I mean, papa, what can it do?" returned Paul.
Mr. Dombey drew his chair back to its former place, and patted him onthe head. "You'll know better, by and by, my man," he said. "Money,Paul, can do anything."
"Anything, papa?"
"Yes. Anything--almost," said Mr. Dombey.
"Anything means everything, don't it, papa?" asked his son, notobserving, or possibly not understanding the qualification.
"Yes," said Mr. Dombey.
"Why didn't money save me my mamma?" returned the child. "It isn'tcruel, is it?"
"Cruel!" said Mr. Dombey, settling his neckcloth, and seeming to resentthe idea. "No. A good thing can't be cruel."
"If it's a good thing, and can do anything," said the little fellowthoughtfully, as he looked back at the fire, "I wonder why it didn'tsave me my mamma."
Mr. Dombey having recovered from his surprise, not to say his alarm (forit was the very first occasion on which the child had ever broached thesubject of his mother to him), expounded to him how that money, though avery potent spirit, could not keep people alive whose time was come todie; and how that we must all die, unfortunately, even in the city,though we were never so rich.
Paul listened to all this and much more with grave attention, and thensuddenly asked a question which was still more alarming.
"It can't make me strong and quite well, either, papa, can it?"
"Why, you _are_ strong and quite well," returned Mr. Dombey. "Are younot?"
Oh! the age of the face that was turned up again, with an expression,half of melancholy, half of slyness on it!
"You are as strong and well as such little people usually are, eh?" saidMr. Dombey.
"Florence is older than I am, but I'm not as strong and well asFlorence, I know," returned the child; "but I believe that when Florencewas as little as me, she could play a great deal longer at a timewithout tiring herself. I am so tired sometimes that I don't know whatto do."
"But that's at night," said Mr. Dombey, drawing his own chair closer tohis son's, and laying his hand gently on his back; "little people shouldbe tired at night, for then they sleep well."
"Oh, it's not at night, papa," returned the child, "it's in the day; andI lie down in Florence's lap, and she sings to me. At night I dreamabout such cu-ri-ous things!"
Mr. Dombey was so astonished, and so perfectly at a loss how to pursuethe conversation, that he could only sit looking at his son by the lightof the fire.
Here they sat until Florence came timidly into the room to take Paulupstairs to bed; when he raised towards his father, in bidding himgood-night, a countenance so much brighter, so much younger, and so muchmore childlike altogether, that Mr. Dombey, while he felt greatlyreassured by the change, was quite amazed at it.
After they had left the room together, he thought he heard a soft voicesinging; and remembering that Paul had said his sister sang to him, hehad the curiosity to open the door and listen, and look after them. Shewas toiling up the great, wide staircase, with him in her arms; his headwas lying on her shoulder, one of his arms thrown negligently round herneck. So they went, toiling up; she singing all the way, and Paulsometimes crooning out a feeble accompaniment.
Mr. Dombey was so alarmed about Paul's remarks as to his health, that hecalled the family doctor in consultation the very next day. The doctoradmitted that Paul was not as strong as he could hope, and suggestedthat sea air might benefit him. So the boy was sent to the home of aMrs. Pipchin at Brighton. But he refused to go without Florence, much tothe secret displeasure of Mr. Dombey, who did not like to see anyone--especially this neglected daughter--gain more influence with Paulthan he himself had.
Mrs. Pipchin was a cross-grained old lady who gained a livelihood bytaking care of delicate children. But she was not unkind to Paul, whosepatient little face and strange way of asking questions attracted her,as they did everybody else.
When he had been with her for some time and it was found that he did notgain in strength, a little carriage was hired for him, in which he couldlie at his ease with his books and be wheeled down to the seaside.
Consistent in his odd tastes, the child set aside a ruddy-faced lad whowas proposed as the drawer of this carriage, and selected, instead, theboy's grandfather--a weazen, old, crab-faced man, in a suit of batteredoilskin. With this attendant to pull him along, and Florence alwayswalking by his side, he went down to the margin of the ocean every day;and there he would sit or lie in
his carriage for hours together; neverso distressed as by the company of children--Florence alone excepted,always.
Some small voice, near his ear, would ask him how he was, perhaps.
"I am very well, I thank you," he would answer. "But you had better goand play, if you please."
Then he would turn his head, and watch the child away, and say toFlorence, "We don't want any others, do we? Kiss me, Floy."
His favorite spot was quite a lonely one, far away from most loungers;and with Florence sitting by his side at work, or reading to him, ortalking to him, and the wind blowing on his face, and the water comingup among the wheels of his bed, he wanted nothing more.
"Floy," he said one day, "where's India?"
"Oh, it's a long, long distance off," said Florence, raising her eyesfrom her work.
"Weeks off?" asked Paul.
"Yes, dear. Many weeks' journey, night and day."
"If you were in India, Floy," said Paul, after being silent for aminute. "I should--what is it that mamma did? I forget."
"Loved me?" answered Florence.
"No, no. Don't I love you now, Floy? What is it?--Died. If you were inIndia, I should die, Floy."
She hurriedly put her work aside, and laid her head down on his pillow,caressing him. And so would she, she said, if he were there. He would bebetter soon.
"Oh! I am a great deal better now!" he answered. "I don't mean that.I mean that I should die of being so sorry and so lonely, Floy!"
Another time, in the same place, he fell asleep, and slept quietly for along time. Awaking suddenly, he started up, and sat listening.
Florence asked him what he thought he heard.
"I want to know what it says," he answered, looking steadily in herface. "The sea, Floy; what is it that it keeps on saying?"
She told him that it was only the noise of the rolling waves.
"Yes, yes," he said. "But I know that they are always saying something.Always the same thing. What place is over there?" He rose up, lookingeagerly at the horizon.
She told him that there was another country opposite, but he said hedidn't mean that; he meant farther away--farther away.
Very often afterwards, in the midst of their talk, he would break off totry to understand what it was that the waves were always saying; andwould rise up in his couch to look towards that invisible region faraway.
But in spite of Paul's brooding fancies, the days in the open air, andwith the salt spray blowing about him, began to have good effect. Littleby little he grew stronger until he became able to do without hiscarriage; though he still remained the same old, quiet, dreamy child.
One day after he had been with Mrs. Pipchin about a year, Mr. Dombeycame to see her. He informed Mrs. Pipchin that, as Paul was now sixyears old and so much stronger, it was time his education was beingconsidered; and so the child was to be sent to a certain Dr. Blimber,who lived near by and managed a select school of boys. Meanwhile,Florence could continue to live here, so that Paul need not be entirelyseparated from his sister.
Accordingly, a few days later, Paul stood upon the Doctor's doorsteps,with his small right hand in his father's, and his other locked in thatof Florence. How tight the tiny pressure of that one, and how loose andcold the other!
The doctor was sitting in his portentous study, with a globe at eachknee, books all round him, Homer over the door, and Minerva on themantel-shelf.
"And how do you do, sir," he said to Mr. Dombey, when they had beenushered in, "and how is my little friend?"
Grave as an organ was the doctor's speech; and when he ceased, the greatclock in the hall seemed (to Paul at least) to take him up, and to go onsaying, "how-is-my-lit-tle-friend-how-is-my-lit-tle-friend," over andover and over again.
The little friend being something too small to be seen at all from wherethe doctor sat, over the books on his table, the doctor made severalfutile attempts to get a view of him round the legs; which Mr. Dombeyperceiving, relieved the doctor from his embarrassment by taking Paul upin his arms and sitting him on another little table, over against thedoctor, in the middle of the room.
"Ha!" said the doctor, leaning back in his chair with his hand in hisbreast. "Now I see my little friend. How do you do, my little friend?"
The clock in the hall wouldn't subscribe to this alteration in the formof words, but continued to repeat"how-is-my--lit-tle-friend--how-is-my-lit-tle-friend!"
"Very well, I thank you, sir," returned Paul, answering the clock quiteas much as the doctor.
"Ha!" said Doctor Blimber. "Shall we make a man of him?"
"Do you hear, Paul?" added Mr. Dombey, Paul being silent.
"Shall we make a man of him?" repeated the doctor.
"I had rather be a child," replied Paul.
"Indeed!" said the doctor. "Why?"
The child sat on the table looking at him, with a curious expression ofsuppressed emotion in his face, and beating one hand proudly on his kneeas if he had the rising tears beneath it, and crushed them. But hisother hand strayed a little way the while, a little farther--fartherfrom him yet--until it lighted on the neck of Florence. "This is why,"it seemed to say, and then the steady look was broken up and gone, theworking lip was loosened and the tears came streaming forth.
"Never mind," said the doctor, blandly nodding his head. "Ne-ver mind;we shall substitute new cares and new impressions, Mr. Dombey, veryshortly. You would wish my little friend to acquire--"
"Everything, if you please, doctor," returned Mr. Dombey, firmly.
"Yes," said the doctor, who, with his half-shut eyes, and his usualsmile, seemed to survey Paul with the sort of interest that might attachto some choice little animal he was going to stuff. "Yes, exactly. Ha!We shall impart a great variety of information to our little friend, andbring him quickly forward, I dare say. I dare say."
As soon as Mr. Dombey and Florence were gone, Dr. Blimber gave into thecharge of his learned daughter Cornelia the little new pupil, saying,"Bring him on, Cornelia, bring him on."
Miss Blimber received her young ward from the doctor's hands; and Paul,feeling that the spectacles were surveying him, cast down his eyes.
"How old are you, Dombey?" said Miss Blimber.
"Six," answered Paul, wondering, as he stole a glance at the young lady,why her hair didn't grow long like Florence's, and why she was like aboy.
"How much do you know of your Latin Grammar, Dombey?" said Miss Blimber.
"None of it," answered Paul. Feeling that the answer was a shock toMiss Blimber's sensibility, he looked up and added timidly,--
"I haven't been well. I have been a weak child. I couldn't learn aLatin Grammar when I was out, every day, with old Glubb. I wish you'dtell old Glubb to come and see me, if you please."
"What a dreadfully low name!" said Miss Blimber. "Unclassical to adegree! Who is the monster, child?"
"What monster?" inquired Paul.
"Glubb."
"He's no more a monster than you are," returned Paul.
"What!" cried the doctor, in a terrible voice. "What's that?"
Paul was dreadfully frightened; but still he made a stand for the absentGlubb, though he did it trembling.
"He's a very nice old man, ma'am," he said. "He used to pull my carriagefor me, down along the beach. I wish you'd let him come to see me. Heknows lots of things."
"Ha!" said the doctor, shaking his head; "this is bad, but study will domuch."
Mrs. Blimber opined, with something like a shiver, that he was anunaccountable child; and, allowing for the difference of visage, lookedat him pretty much as Mrs. Pipchin had been used to do.
As for Miss Blimber, she told him to come down to her room that eveningat tea-time. When he did so he noticed a little pile of new books, whichshe was glancing over.
"These are yours, Dombey," she said.
"All of 'em, ma'am?" said Paul.
"Yes," returned Miss Blimber; "and Mr. Feeder will look you out somemore very soon, if you are as studious as I ex
pect you will be, Dombey."
"Thank you, ma'am," said Paul.
"I am going out for a constitutional," resumed Miss Blimber; "and whileI am gone, that is to say, in the interval between this and breakfast,Dombey, I wish you to read over what I have marked in these books, andto tell me if you quite understand what you have got to learn. Don'tlose time, Dombey, for you have none to spare, but take them downstairs,and begin directly."
"Yes, ma'am," answered Paul.
There were so many of them that although Paul put one hand under thebottom book and his other hand and his chin on the top book, and huggedthem all closely, the middle book slipped out before he reached thedoor, and then they all tumbled down on the floor. Miss Blimber said,"Oh, Dombey, Dombey, this is really very careless!" and piled them upafresh for him; and this time, by dint of balancing them with greatnicety, Paul got out of the room.
But if the poor child found them heavy to carry downstairs, how muchharder was it to cram their contents into his head. Oh, how tired hegrew! But always there was a never-ending round of lessons waiting forhim during these long days and nights that Dr. Blimber and Corneliatried to make a man of him. And all week long his aching head held butone longing desire--for Saturday to come.
Oh, Saturdays! Oh, happy Saturdays! when Florence always came at noon,and never would, in any weather, stay away.
And when Florence found how hard Paul's studies were for him, shequietly bought books just like his and studied them during the week, sothat she might keep along with him and help him when they were together.
Not a word of this was breathed to Mrs. Pipchin; but many a night whenshe was in bed and the candles were spluttering and burning low,Florence tried so hard to be a substitute for one small Dombey, that herfortitude and perseverance might have almost won her a free right tobear the name herself.
And high was her reward, when, one Saturday evening, as little Paul wassitting down as usual to "resume his studies," she sat down by his side,and showed him all that was so rough made smooth, and all that was sodark made clear and plain before him. It was nothing but a startledlook in Paul's wan face--a flush--a smile--and then a close embrace--butGod knows how her heart leaped up at this rich payment for her trouble.
"Oh, Floy!" cried her brother, "how I love you! How I love you, Floy!"
"And I you, dear!"
"Oh! I am sure of that, Floy."
And so little Paul struggled on bravely under his heavy load, nevercomplaining, but growing more old-fashioned day by day--and growingfrailer, too.
MRS. PIPCHIN AND PAUL DOMBEY.]
Then came the holidays, and a grand party at the school, to whichFlorence came, looking so beautiful in her simple ball dress that Paulcould hardly make up his mind to let her go again.
"But what is the matter, Floy?" he asked, almost sure he saw a tear onher face.
"Nothing, dear. We will go home together, and I'll nurse you till youare strong again."
"Nurse me!" echoed Paul.
Paul couldn't understand what that had to do with it, nor why the otherguests looked on so seriously, nor why Florence turned away her face fora 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 whatthey mean, Floy."
Florence would have sat by him all night, and would not have danced atall of her own accord, but Paul made her, by telling her how much itpleased him. And he told her the truth, too; for his small heartswelled, and his face glowed, when he saw how much they all admired her,and how she was the beautiful little rosebud of the room.
Then after the party came the leave-takings, for Paul was going home.And every one was good to him--even the pompous doctor, andCornelia--and bade him good-bye with many regrets; for they were afraid,as they looked upon his pinched, wan face, that he would not be able tocome back and take up that load of heavy books ever again.
There was a great deal, the next day and afterwards, which Paul couldnot quite get clear in his mind. As, why they stopped at Mrs. Pipchin'sfor a while instead of going straight home; why he lay in bed, withFlorence sitting by him; whether that had been his father in the room,or only a tall shadow on the wall.
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. Hefancied 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 thewell-remembered stairs, that there had been the rumbling of a coach formany hours together, while he lay upon the seat, with Florence stillbeside him, and Mrs. Pipchin sitting opposite. He remembered his oldbed too, when they laid him down in it; 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 byherself, 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 fromthe coach?"
"Yes, dear."
"He didn't cry, and go into his room, Floy, did he, when he saw mecoming 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."
Paul never rose from his little bed. He lay there, listening to thenoises in the street quite tranquilly; not caring much how time went,but watching everything about him with observing eyes. And whenvisitors or servants came softly to the door to inquire how he was, healways answered for himself, "I am better; I am a great deal better,thank you! Tell papa so!"
And sometimes when he awoke out of a feverish dream, in which he thoughta river was bearing him away, he would see a figure seated motionless,with bowed head, at the foot of his couch. Then he would stretch outhis hands and cry, "Don't be so sorry for me, dear papa! Indeed, I amquite happy!"
His father coming, and bending down to him--which he did quickly, andwithout first pausing by the bedside--Paul held him round the neck, andrepeated those words to him several times, and very earnestly; and Paulnever saw him in his room at any time, whether it were day or night, buthe called out "Don't be so sorry for me! Indeed, I am quite happy!"This was the beginning of his always saying in the morning that he was agreat deal better, and that they were to tell his father so.
Then one day he asked to see all his friends, and shook hands with eachone quietly, and bade them good-bye. His father he clung to as thoughhe felt more deeply for that proud man's sorrow and disappointment, thanany unhappiness on his own account. For he was going to hismother--about whom he had often talked with Florence in these closingdays.
"Now lay me down," he said, "and Floy, come close to me, and let me seeyou!"
Sister and brother wound their arms around each other, and the goldenlight came streaming in, and fell upon them, locked together.
"How fast the river runs, between its green banks and the rushes, Floy!But it's very near the sea. I hear the waves! They always said so!"
Presently he told her that the motion of the boat upon the stream waslulling him to rest. How green the banks were now, how bright theflowers growing on them, and how tall the rushes! Now the boat was outat sea, but gliding smoothly on. And now there was a shore before him.Who stood on the bank!--
He put his hands together, as he had been used to do at his prayers. Hedid not remove his arms to do it; but they saw him fold them so, behindher neck.
"Mamma is like you, Floy. I know her by the face. But tell them thatthe print upon the stairs at school is not divine enough. The lightabout the head is shining on me as I go!"
The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing else stirredin the room. The old, old fashion! T
he fashion that came in with ourfirst garments, and will last unchanged until our race has run itscourse, and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, oldfashion--Death!
Oh, thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, ofImmortality! And look upon us, angels of young children, with regardsnot quite estranged, when the swift river bears us to the ocean!
Stories from Dickens Page 11
