Charles Dickens

Hard Times

[First published in 1854]

Content

Book the First: Sowing 5

Chapter I: The One Thing Needful 5

Chapter II: Murdering the Innocents 6

Chapter III: A Loophole 12

Chapter IV: Mr. Bounderby 17

Chapter V: The Keynote 25

Chapter VI: Sleary′s Horsemanship 32

Chapter VII: Mrs. Sparsit 46

Chapter VIII: Never Wonder 53

Chapter IX: Sissy′s Progress 60

Chapter X: Stephen Blackpool 68

Chapter XI: No Way Out 75

Chapter XII: The Old Woman 83

Chapter XIII: Rachael 88

Chapter XIV: The Great Manufacturer 97

Chapter XV: Father and Daughter 102

Chapter XVI: Husband and Wife 111

Book the Second: Reaping 117

Chapter I: Effects in the Bank 117

Chapter II: Mr. James Harthouse 131

Chapter III: The Whelp 140

Chapter IV: Men and Brothers 146

Chapter V: Men and Masters 154

Chapter VI: Fading Away 161

Chapter VII: Gunpowder 175

Chapter VIII: Explosion 188

Chapter IX: Hearing the Last of It 202

Chapter X: Mrs. Sparsit′s Staircase 211

Chapter XI: Lower and Lower 216

Chapter XII: Down 226

Book the Third: Garnering 232

Chapter I: Another Thing Needful 232

Chapter II: Very Ridiculous 239

Chapter III: Very Decided 249

Chapter IV: Lost 259

Chapter V: Found 269

Chapter VI: The Starlight 278

Chapter VII: Whelp-Hunting 289

Chapter VIII: Philosophical 301

Chapter IX: Final 308

Book the First: Sowing

Chapter I: The One Thing Needful

"NOW, what I want is, Facts. Teach these boys and girls nothing but

Facts. Facts alone are wanted in life. Plant nothing else, and root out

everything else. You can only form the minds of reasoning animals upon

Facts: nothing else will ever be of any service to them. This is the

principle on which I bring up my own children, and this is the principle

on which I bring up these children. Stick to Facts, sir!"

The scene was a plain, bare, monotonous vault of a school-room, and

the speaker′s square forefinger emphasized his observations by

underscoring every sentence with a line on the schoolmaster′s sleeve.

The emphasis was helped by the speaker′s square wall of a forehead,

which had his eyebrows for its base, while his eyes found commodious

cellarage in two dark caves, overshadowed by the wall. The emphasis was

helped by the speaker′s mouth, which was wide, thin, and hard set. The

emphasis was helped by the speaker′s voice, which was inflexible, dry,

and dictatorial. The emphasis was helped by the speaker′s hair, which

bristled on the skirts of his bald head, a plantation of firs to keep the

wind from its shining surface, all covered with knobs, like the crust of a

plum pie, as if the head had scarcely warehouse-room for the hard facts

stored inside. The speaker′s obstinate carriage, square coat, square legs,

square shoulders, - nay, his very neckcloth, trained to take him by the

throat with an unaccommodating grasp, like a stubborn fact, as it was, -

all helped the emphasis.

"In this life, we want nothing but Facts, sir; nothing but Facts!"

The speaker, and the schoolmaster, and the third grown person present,

all backed a little, and swept with their eyes the inclined plane of little

vessels then and there arranged in order, ready to have imperial gallons

of facts poured into them until they were full to the brim.

5

Chapter II: Murdering the Innocents

THOMAS GRADGRIND, sir. A man of realities. A man of facts and

calculations. A man who proceeds upon the principle that two and two

are four, and nothing over, and who is not to be talked into allowing for

anything over. Thomas Gradgrind, sir - peremptorily Thomas - Thomas

Gradgrind. With a rule and a pair of scales, and the multiplication table

always in his pocket, sir, ready to weigh and measure any parcel of

human nature, and tell you exactly what it comes to. It is a mere question

of figures, a case of simple arithmetic. You might hope to get some

other nonsensical belief into the head of George Gradgrind, or

Augustus Gradgrind, or John Gradgrind, or Joseph Gradgrind (all

supposititious, non-existent persons), but into the head of Thomas

Gradgrind - no, sir!

In such terms Mr. Gradgrind always mentally introduced himself,

whether to his private circle of acquaintance, or to the public in general.

In such terms, no doubt, substituting the words `boys and girls,′ for `sir,′

Thomas Gradgrind now presented Thomas Gradgrind to the little

pitchers before him, who were to be filled so full of facts.

Indeed, as he eagerly sparkled at them from the cellarage before

mentioned, he seemed a kind of cannon loaded to the muzzle with facts,

and prepared to blow them clean out of the regions of childhood at one

discharge. He seemed a galvanizing apparatus, too, charged with a grim

mechanical substitute for the tender young imaginations that were to be

stormed away.

`Girl number twenty,′ said Mr. Gradgrind, squarely pointing with his

square forefinger, `I don′t know that girl. Who is that girl?′

`Sissy Jupe, sir,′ explained number twenty, blushing, standing up, and

curtseying.

`Sissy is not a name,′ said Mr. Gradgrind. `Don′t call yourself Sissy. Call

yourself Cecilia.′

6

`It′s father as calls me Sissy, sir,′ returned the young girl in a trembling

voice, and with another curtsey.

`Then he has no business to do it,′ said Mr. Gradgrind. `Tell him he

mustn′t. Cecilia Jupe. Let me see. What is your father?′

`He belongs to the horse-riding, if you please, sir.′

Mr. Gradgrind frowned, and waved off the objectionable calling with his

hand.

`We don′t want to know anything about that, here. You mustn′t tell us

about that, here. Your father breaks horses, don′t he?′

`If you please, sir, when they can get any to break, they do break horses

in the ring, sir.′

`You mustn′t tell us about the ring, here. Very well, then. Describe your

father as a horsebreaker. He doctors sick horses, I dare say?′

`Oh yes, sir.′

`Very well, then. He is a veterinary surgeon, a farrier, and horsebreaker.

Give me your definition of a horse.′

(Sissy Jupe thrown into the greatest alarm by this demand.)

`Girl number twenty unable to define a horse!′ said Mr. Gradgrind, for

the general behoof of all the little pitchers. `Girl number twenty

possessed of no facts, in reference to one of the commonest of animals!

Some boy′s definition of a horse. Bitzer, yours.′

The square finger, moving here and there, lighted suddenly on Bitzer,

perhaps because he chanced to sit in the same ray of sunlight which,

darting in at one of the bare windows of the intensely white-washed

room, irradiated Sissy. For, the boys and girls sat on the face of the

inclined plane in two compact bodies, divided up the centre by a narrow

7

interval; and Sissy, being at the corner of a row on the sunny side, came

in for the beginning of a sunbeam, of which Bitzer, being at the corner

of a row on the other side, a few rows in advance, caught the end. But,

whereas the girl was so dark-eyed and dark-haired, that she seemed to

receive a deeper and more lustrous colour from the sun, when it shone

upon her, the boy was so light-eyed and light-haired that the self-same

rays appeared to draw out of him what little colour he ever possessed.

His cold eyes would hardly have been eyes, but for the short ends of

lashes which, by bringing them into immediate contrast with something

paler than themselves, expressed their form. His short-cropped hair

might have been a mere continuation of the sandy freckles on his

forehead and face. His skin was so unwholesomely deficient in the

natural tinge, that he looked as though, if he were cut, he would bleed

white.

`Bitzer,′ said Thomas Gradgrind. `Your definition of a horse.′

`Quadruped. Graminivorous. Forty teeth, namely twenty-four grinders,

four eye-teeth, and twelve incisive. Sheds coat in the spring; in marshy

countries, sheds hoofs, too. Hoofs hard, but requiring to be shod with

iron. Age known by marks in mouth.′ Thus (and much more) Bitzer.

`Now girl number twenty,′ said Mr. Gradgrind. `You know what a horse

is.′

She curtseyed again, and would have blushed deeper, if she could have

blushed deeper than she had blushed all this time. Bitzer, after rapidly

blinking at Thomas Gradgrind with both eyes at once, and so catching

the light upon his quivering ends of lashes that they looked like the

antennae of busy insects, put his knuckles to his freckled forehead, and

sat down again.

The third gentleman now stepped forth. A mighty man at cutting and

drying, he was; a government officer; in his way (and in most other

people′s too), a professed pugilist; always in training, always with a

system to force down the general throat like a bolus, always to be heard

of at the bar of his little Public-office, ready to fight all England. To

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continue in fistic phraseology, he had a genius for coming up to the

scratch, wherever and whatever it was, and proving himself an ugly

customer. He would go in and damage any subject whatever with his

right, follow up with his left, stop, exchange, counter, bore his opponent

(he always fought All England) to the ropes, and fall upon him neatly. He

was certain to knock the wind out of common sense, and render that

unlucky adversary deaf to the call of time. And he had it in charge from

high authority to bring about the great public-office Millennium, when

Commissioners should reign upon earth.

`Very well,′ said this gentleman, briskly smiling, and folding his arms.

`That′s a horse. Now, let me ask you girls and boys, Would you paper a

room with representations of horses?′

After a pause, one half of the children cried in chorus, `Yes, sir!′ Upon

which the other half, seeing in the gentleman′s face that Yes was wrong,

cried out in chorus, `No, sir!′ - as the custom is, in these examinations.

`Of course, No. Why wouldn′t you?′

A pause. One corpulent slow boy, with a wheezy manner of breathing,

ventured the answer, Because he wouldn′t paper a room at all, but would

paint it.

`You must paper it,′ said the gentleman, rather warmly.

`You must paper it,′ said Thomas Gradgrind, `whether you like it or not.

Don′t tell us you wouldn′t paper it. What do you mean, boy?′

`I′ll explain to you, then,′ said the gentleman, after another and a dismal

pause, `why you wouldn′t paper a room with representations of horses.

Do you ever see horses walking up and down the sides of rooms in

reality - in fact? Do you?′

`Yes, sir!′ from one half. `No, sir!′ from the other.

9

`Of course no,′ said the gentleman, with an indignant look at the wrong

half. `Why, then, you are not to see anywhere, what you don′t see in fact;

you are not to have anywhere, what you don′t have in fact. What is called

Taste, is only another name for Fact.′ Thomas Gradgrind nodded his

approbation.

`This is a new principle, a discovery, a great discovery,′ said the

gentleman. `Now, I′l try you again. Suppose you were going to carpet a

room. Would you use a carpet having a representation of flowers upon

it?′

There being a general conviction by this time that `No, sir!′ was always

the right answer to this gentleman, the chorus of

no

was very strong.

Only a few feeble stragglers said Yes: among them Sissy Jupe.

`Girl number twenty,′ said the gentleman, smiling in the calm strength of

knowledge.

Sissy blushed, and stood up.

`So you would carpet your room - or your husband′s room, if you were a

grown woman, and had a husband - with representations of flowers,

would you?′ said the gentleman. `Why would you?′

`If you please, sir, I am very fond of flowers,′ returned the girl.

`And is that why you would put tables and chairs upon them, and have

people walking over them with heavy boots?′

`It wouldn′t hurt them, sir. They wouldn′t crush and wither, if you please,

sir. They would be the pictures of what was very pretty and pleasant, and

I would fancy - ′

`Ay, ay, ay! But you mustn′t fancy,′ cried the gentleman, quite elated by

coming so happily to his point. `That′s it! You are never to fancy.′

10

`You are not, Cecilia Jupe,′ Thomas Gradgrind solemnly repeated, `to do

anything of that kind.′

`Fact, fact, fact!′ said the gentleman. And `Fact, fact, fact!′ repeated

Thomas Gradgrind.

`You are to be in all things regulated and governed,′ said the gentleman,

`by fact. We hope to have, before long, a board of fact, composed of

commissioners of fact, who will force the people to be a people of fact,

and of nothing but fact. You must discard the word Fancy altogether.

You have nothing to do with it. You are not to have, in any object of use

or ornament, what would be a contradiction in fact. You don′t walk upon

flowers in fact; you cannot be allowed to walk upon flowers in carpets.

You don′t find that foreign birds and butterflies come and perch upon

your crockery; you cannot be permitted to paint foreign birds and

butterflies upon your crockery. You never meet with quadrupeds going

up and down walls; you must not have quadrupeds represented upon

walls. You must use,′ said the gentleman, `for all these purposes,

combinations and modifications (in primary colours) of mathematical

figures which are susceptible of proof and demonstration. This is the

new discovery. This is fact. This is taste.′

The girl curtseyed, and sat down. She was very young, and she looked as

if she were frightened by the matter-of-fact prospect the world afforded.

`Now, if Mr. M′Choakumchild,′ said the gentleman, `will proceed to give

his first lesson here, Mr. Gradgrind, I shall be happy, at your request, to

observe his mode of procedure.′

Mr. Gradgrind was much obliged. `Mr. M′Choakumchild, we only wait

for you.′

So, Mr. M′Choakumchild began in his best manner. He and some one

hundred and forty other schoolmasters, had been lately turned at the

same time, in the same factory, on the same principles, like so many

pianoforte legs. He had been put through an immense variety of paces,

and had answered volumes of head-breaking questions. Orthography,

11

etymology, syntax, and prosody, biography, astronomy, geography, and

general cosmography, the sciences of compound proportion, algebra,

land-surveying and levelling, vocal music, and drawing from models,

were all at the ends of his ten chilled fingers. He had worked his stony

way into Her Majesty′s most Honourable Privy Council′s Schedule B, and

had taken the bloom off the higher branches of mathematics and

physical science, French, German, Latin, and Greek. He knew all about

all the Water Sheds of all the world (whatever they are), and all the

histories of all the peoples, and all the names of all the rivers and

mountains, and all the productions, manners, and customs of all the

countries, and all their boundaries and bearings on the two and thirty

points of the compass. Ah, rather overdone, M′Choakumchild. If he had

only learnt a little less, how infinitely better he might have taught much

more!

He went to work in this preparatory lesson, not unlike Morgiana in the

Forty Thieves: looking into all the vessels ranged before him, one after

another, to see what they contained. Say, good M′Choakumchild. When

from thy boiling store, thou shalt fill each jar brim full by-and-by, dost

thou think that thou wilt always kill outright the robber Fancy lurking

within - or sometimes only maim him and distort him!

Chapter III: A Loophole

MR. GRADGRIND walked homeward from the school, in a state of

considerable satisfaction. It was his school, and he intended it to be a

model. He intended every child in it to be a model - just as the young

Gradgrinds were all models.

There were five young Gradgrinds, and they were models every one.

They had been lectured at, from their tenderest years; coursed, like little

hares. Almost as soon as they could run alone, they had been made to

run to the lecture-room. The first object with which they had an

association, or of which they had a remembrance, was a large black

board with a dry Ogre chalking ghastly white figures on it.

12

Not that they knew, by name or nature, anything about an Ogre Fact

forbid! I only use the word to express a monster in a lecturing castle,

with Heaven knows how many heads manipulated into one, taking

childhood captive, and dragging it into gloomy statistical dens by the

hair.

No little Gradgrind had ever seen a face in the moon; it was up in the

moon before it could speak distinctly. No little Gradgrind had ever learnt

the silly jingle, Twinkle, twinkle, little star; how I wonder what you are!

No little Gradgrind had ever known wonder on the subject, each little

Gradgrind having at five years old dissected the Great Bear like a

Professor Owen, and driven Charles′s Wain like a locomotive engine-

driver. No little Gradgrind had ever associated a cow in a field with that

famous cow with the crumpled horn who tossed the dog who worried

the cat who killed the rat who ate the malt, or with that yet more famous

cow who swallowed Tom Thumb: it had never heard of those celebrities,

and had only been introduced to a cow as a graminivorous ruminating

quadruped with several stomachs.

To his matter-of-fact home, which was called Stone Lodge, Mr.

Gradgrind directed his steps. He had virtually retired from the wholesale

hardware trade before he built Stone Lodge, and was now looking about

for a suitable opportunity of making an arithmetical figure in Parliament.

Stone Lodge was situated on a moor within a mile or two of a great

town - called Coketown in the present faithful guide-book.

A very regular feature on the face of the country, Stone Lodge was. Not

the least disguise toned down or shaded off that uncompromising fact in

the landscape. A great square house, with a heavy portico darkening the

principal windows, as its master′s heavy brows overshadowed his eyes. A

calculated, cast up, balanced, and proved house. Six windows on this side

of the door, six on that side; a total of twelve in this wing, a total of

twelve in the other wing; four-and-twenty carried over to the back wings.

A lawn and garden and an infant avenue, all ruled straight like a botanical

account- book. Gas and ventilation, drainage and water-service, all of the

primest quality. Iron clamps and girders, fire-proof from top to bottom;

13

mechanical lifts for the housemaids, with all their brushes and brooms;

everything that heart could desire.

Everything? Well, I suppose so. The little Gradgrinds had cabinets in

various departments of science too. They had a little conchological

cabinet, and a little metallurgical cabinet, and a little mineralogical

cabinet; and the specimens were all arranged and labelled, and the bits of

stone and ore looked as though they might have been broken from the

parent substances by those tremendously hard instruments their own

names; and, to paraphrase the idle legend of Peter Piper, who had never

found his way into their nursery, If the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped

at more than this, what was it for good gracious goodness′ sake, that the

greedy little Gradgrinds grasped it!

Their father walked on in a hopeful and satisfied frame of mind. He was

an affectionate father, after his manner; but he would probably have

described himself (if he had been put, like Sissy Jupe, upon a definition)

as `an eminently practical′ father. He had a particular pride in the phrase

eminently practical, which was considered to have a special application to

him. Whatsoever the public meeting held in Coketown, and whatsoever

the subject of such meeting, some Coketowner was sure to seize the

occasion of alluding to his eminently practical friend Gradgrind. This

always pleased the eminently practical friend. He knew it to be his due,

but his due was acceptable.

He had reached the neutral ground upon the outskirts of the town,

which was neither town nor country, and yet was either spoiled, when his

ears were invaded by the sound of music. The clashing and banging band

attached to the horse-riding establishment, which had there set up its rest

in a wooden pavilion, was in full bray. A flag, floating from the summit

of the temple, proclaimed to mankind that it was `Sleary′s Horse-riding′

which claimed their suffrages. Sleary himself, a stout modern statue with

a money-box at its elbow, in an ecclesiastical niche of early Gothic

architecture, took the money. Miss Josephine Sleary, as some very long

and very narrow strips of printed bill announced, was then inaugurating

the entertainments with her graceful equestrian Tyrolean flower-act.

14

Among the other pleasing but always strictly moral wonders which must

be seen to be believed, Signor Jupe was that afternoon to `elucidate the

diverting accomplishments of his highly trained performing dog

Merrylegs.′ He was also to exhibit `his astounding feat of throwing

seventy-five hundred-weight in rapid succession backhanded over his

head, thus forming a fountain of solid iron in mid-air, a feat never

before attempted in this or any other country, and which having elicited

such rapturous plaudits from enthusiastic throngs it cannot be

withdrawn.′ The same Signor Jupe was to `enliven the varied

performances at frequent intervals with his chaste Shaksperean quips

and retorts.′ Lastly, he was to wind them up by appearing in his favourite

character of Mr. William Button, of Tooley Street, in `the highly novel

and laughable hippo- comedietta of The Tailor′s Journey to Brentford.′

Thomas Gradgrind took no heed of these trivialities of course, but

passed on as a practical man ought to pass on, either brushing the noisy

insects from his thoughts, or consigning them to the House of

Correction. But, the turning of the road took him by the back of the

booth, and at the back of the booth a number of children were

congregated in a number of stealthy attitudes, striving to peep in at the

hidden glories of the place.

This brought him to a stop. `Now, to think of these vagabonds,′ said he,

`attracting the young rabble from a model school.′

A space of stunted grass and dry rubbish being between him and the

young rabble, he took his eyeglass out of his waistcoat to look for any

child he knew by name, and might order off. Phenomenon almost

incredible though distinctly seen, what did he then behold but his own

metallurgical Louisa, peeping with all her might through a hole in a deal

board, and his own mathematical Thomas abasing himself on the

ground to catch but a hoof of the graceful equestrian Tyrolean flower-

act!

Dumb with amazement, Mr. Gradgrind crossed to the spot where his

family was thus disgraced, laid his hand upon each erring child, and said:

15

`Louisa! Thomas!!′

Both rose, red and disconcerted. But, Louisa looked at her father with

more boldness than Thomas did. Indeed, Thomas did not look at him,

but gave himself up to be taken home like a machine.

`In the name of wonder, idleness, and folly!′ said Mr. Gradgrind, leading

each away by a hand; `what do you do here?′

`Wanted to see what it was like,′ returned Louisa, shortly.

`What it was like?′

`Yes, father.′

There was an air of jaded sullenness in them both, and particularly in the

girl: yet, struggling through the dissatisfaction of her face, there was a

light with nothing to rest upon, a fire with nothing to burn, a starved

imagination keeping life in itself somehow, which brightened its

expression. Not with the brightness natural to cheerful youth, but with

uncertain, eager, doubtful flashes, which had something painful in them,

analogous to the changes on a blind face groping its way.

She was a child now, of fifteen or sixteen; but at no distant day would

seem to become a woman all at once. Her father thought so as he looked

at her. She was pretty. Would have been self-willed (he thought in his

eminently practical way) but for her bringing-up.

`Thomas, though I have the fact before me, I find it difficult to believe

that you, with your education and resources, should have brought your

sister to a scene like this.′

`I brought him, father,′ said Louisa, quickly. `I asked him to come.′

`I am sorry to hear it. I am very sorry indeed to hear it. It makes Thomas

no better, and it makes you worse, Louisa.′

16

She looked at her father again, but no tear fell down her cheek.

`You! Thomas and you, to whom the circle of the sciences is open;

Thomas and you, who may be said to be replete with facts; Thomas and

you, who have been trained to mathematical exactness; Thomas and you,

here!′ cried Mr. Gradgrind. `In this degraded position! I am amazed.′

`I was tired, father. I have been tired a long time,′ said Louisa.

`Tired? Of what?′ asked the astonished father.

`I don′t know of what - of everything, I think.′

`Say not another word,′ returned Mr. Gradgrind. `You are childish. I will

hear no more.′ He did not speak again until they had walked some half-a-

mile in silence, when he gravely broke out with: `What would your best

friends say, Louisa? Do you attach no value to their good opinion? What

would Mr. Bounderby say?′ At the mention of this name, his daughter

stole a look at him, remarkable for its intense and searching character.

He saw nothing of it, for before he looked at her, she had again cast

down her eyes!

`What,′ he repeated presently, `would Mr. Bounderby say?′ All the way to

Stone Lodge, as with grave indignation he led the two delinquents home,

he repeated at intervals `What would Mr. Bounderby say?′ - as if Mr.

Bounderby had been Mrs. Grundy.

Chapter IV: Mr. Bounderby

NOT being Mrs. Grundy, who was Mr. Bounderby?

Why, Mr. Bounderby was as near being Mr. Gradgrind′s bosom friend, as

a man perfectly devoid of sentiment can approach that spiritual

relationship towards another man perfectly devoid of sentiment. So near

was Mr. Bounderby - or, if the reader should prefer it, so far off.

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He was a rich man: banker, merchant, manufacturer, and what not. A

big, loud man, with a stare, and a metallic laugh. A man made out of a

coarse material, which seemed to have been stretched to make so much

of him. A man with a great puffed head and forehead, swelled veins in

his temples, and such a strained skin to his face that it seemed to hold his

eyes open, and lift his eyebrows up. A man with a pervading appearance

on him of being inflated like a balloon, and ready to start. A man who

could never sufficiently vaunt himself a self-made man. A man who was

always proclaiming, through that brassy speaking-trumpet of a voice of

his, his old ignorance and his old poverty. A man who was the Bully of

humility.

A year or two younger than his eminently practical friend, Mr.

Bounderby looked older; his seven or eight and forty might have had the

seven or eight added to it again, without surprising anybody. He had not

much hair. One might have fancied he had talked it off; and that what

was left, all standing up in disorder, was in that condition from being

constantly blown about by his windy boastfulness.

In the formal drawing-room of Stone Lodge, standing on the hearthrug,

warming himself before the fire, Mr. Bounderby delivered some

observations to Mrs. Gradgrind on the circumstance of its being his

birthday. He stood before the fire, partly because it was a cool spring

afternoon, though the sun shone; partly because the shade of Stone

Lodge was always haunted by the ghost of damp mortar; partly because

he thus took up a commanding position, from which to subdue Mrs.

Gradgrind.

`I hadn′t a shoe to my foot. As to a stocking, I didn′t know such a thing

by name. I passed the day in a ditch, and the night in a pigsty. That′s the

way I spent my tenth birthday. Not that a ditch was new to me, for I was

born in a ditch.′

Mrs. Gradgrind, a little, thin, white, pink-eyed bundle of shawls, of

surpassing feebleness, mental and bodily; who was always taking physic

without any effect, and who, whenever she showed a symptom of

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coming to life, was invariably stunned by some weighty piece of fact

tumbling on her; Mrs. Gradgrind hoped it was a dry ditch?

`No! As wet as a sop. A foot of water in it,′ said Mr. Bounderby.

`Enough to give a baby cold,′ Mrs. Gradgrind considered.

`Cold? I was born with inflammation of the lungs, and of everything

else, I believe, that was capable of inflammation,′ returned Mr.

Bounderby. `For years, ma′am, I was one of the most miserable little

wretches ever seen. I was so sickly, that I was always moaning and

groaning. I was so ragged and dirty, that you wouldn′t have touched me

with a pair of tongs.′

Mrs. Gradgrind faintly looked at the tongs, as the most appropriate thing

her imbecility could think of doing.

`How I fought through it, I don′t know,′ said Bounderby. `I was

determined, I suppose. I have been a determined character in later life,

and I suppose I was then. Here I am, Mrs. Gradgrind, anyhow, and

nobody to thank for my being here, but myself.′

Mrs. Gradgrind meekly and weakly hoped that his mother -

`My mother? Bolted, ma′am!′ said Bounderby.

Mrs. Gradgrind, stunned as usual, collapsed and gave it up.

`My mother left me to my grandmother,′ said Bounderby; `and, according

to the best of my remembrance, my grandmother was the wickedest and

the worst old woman that ever lived. If I got a little pair of shoes by any

chance, she would take ′em off and sell ′em for drink. Why, I have

known that grandmother of mine lie in her bed and drink her four-teen

glasses of liquor before breakfast!′

19

Mrs. Gradgrind, weakly smiling, and giving no other sign of vitality,

looked (as she always did) like an indifferently executed transparency of

a small female figure, without enough light behind it.

`She kept a chandler′s shop,′ pursued Bounderby, `and kept me in an egg-

box. That was the cot of my infancy; an old egg-box. As soon as I was

big enough to run away, of course I ran away. Then I became a young

vagabond; and instead of one old woman knocking me about and

starving me, everybody of all ages knocked me about and starved me.

They were right; they had no business to do anything else. I was a

nuisance, an incumbrance, and a pest. I know that very wel .′

His pride in having at any time of his life achieved such a great social

distinction as to be a nuisance, an incumbrance, and a pest, was only to

be satisfied by three sonorous repetitions of the boast.

`I was to pull through it, I suppose, Mrs. Gradgrind. Whether I was to do

it or not, ma′am, I did it. I pulled through it, though nobody threw me

out a rope. Vagabond, errand-boy, vagabond, labourer, porter, clerk,

chief manager, small partner, Josiah Bounderby of Coketown. Those are

the antecedents, and the culmination. Josiah Bounderby of Coketown

learnt his letters from the outsides of the shops, Mrs. Gradgrind, and

was first able to tell the time upon a dial-plate, from studying the steeple

clock of St. Giles′s Church, London, under the direction of a drunken

cripple, who was a convicted thief, and an incorrigible vagrant. Tell

Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, of your district schools and your model

schools, and your training schools, and your whole kettle-of-fish of

schools; and Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, tells you plainly, all right,

all correct - he hadn′t such advantages - but let us have hard-headed,

solid-fisted people - the education that made him won′t do for

everybody, he knows well - such and such his education was, however,

and you may force him to swallow boiling fat, but you shall never force

him to suppress the facts of his life.′

Being heated when he arrived at this climax, Josiah Bounderby of

Coketown stopped. He stopped just as his eminently practical friend, still

accompanied by the two young culprits, entered the room. His eminently

20

practical friend, on seeing him, stopped also, and gave Louisa a

reproachful look that plainly said, `Behold your Bounderby!′

`Well!′ blustered Mr. Bounderby, `what′s the matter? What is young

Thomas in the dumps about?′

He spoke of young Thomas, but he looked at Louisa.

`We were peeping at the circus,′ muttered Louisa, haughtily, without

lifting up her eyes, `and father caught us.′

`And, Mrs. Gradgrind,′ said her husband in a lofty manner, `I should as

soon have expected to find my children reading poetry.′

`Dear me,′ whimpered Mrs. Gradgrind. `How can you, Louisa and

Thomas! I wonder at you. I declare you′re enough to make one regret

ever having had a family at all. I have a great mind to say I wish I hadn′t.

Then what would you have done, I should like to know?′

Mr. Gradgrind did not seem favourably impressed by these cogent

remarks. He frowned impatiently.

`As if, with my head in its present throbbing state, you couldn′t go and

look at the shells and minerals and things provided for you, instead of

circuses!′ said Mrs. Gradgrind. `You know, as well as I do, no young

people have circus masters, or keep circuses in cabinets, or attend

lectures about circuses. What can you possibly want to know of circuses

then? I am sure you have enough to do, if that′s what you want. With my

head in its present state, I couldn′t remember the mere names of half

the facts you have got to attend to.′

`That′s the reason!′ pouted Louisa.

`Don′t tell me that′s the reason, because it can′t be nothing of the sort,′

said Mrs. Gradgrind. `Go and be somethingological directly.′ Mrs.

Gradgrind was not a scientific character, and usually dismissed her

21

children to their studies with this general injunction to choose their

pursuit.

In truth, Mrs. Gradgrind′s stock of facts in general was woefully

defective; but Mr. Gradgrind in raising her to her high matrimonial

position, had been influenced by two reasons. Firstly, she was most

satisfactory as a question of figures; and, secondly, she had `no nonsense′

about her. By nonsense he meant fancy; and truly it is probable she was

as free from any alloy of that nature, as any human being not arrived at

the perfection of an absolute idiot, ever was.

The simple circumstance of being left alone with her husband and Mr.

Bounderby, was sufficient to stun this admirable lady again without

collision between herself and any other fact. So, she once more died

away, and nobody minded her.

`Bounderby,′ said Mr. Gradgrind, drawing a chair to the fireside, `you are

always so interested in my young people - particularly in Louisa - that I

make no apology for saying to you, I am very much vexed by this

discovery. I have systematically devoted myself (as you know) to the

education of the reason of my family. The reason is (as you know) the

only faculty to which education should be addressed. `And yet,

Bounderby, it would appear from this unexpected circumstance of to-

day, though in itself a trifling one, as if something had crept into

Thomas′s and Louisa′s minds which is - or rather, which is not - I don′t

know that I can express myself better than by saying - which has never

been intended to be developed, and in which their reason has no part.′

`There certainly is no reason in looking with interest at a parcel of

vagabonds,′ returned Bounderby. `When I was a vagabond myself,

nobody looked with any interest at me; I know that.′

`Then comes the question; said the eminently practical father, with his

eyes on the fire, `in what has this vulgar curiosity its rise?′

`I′ll tell you in what. In idle imagination.′

22

`I hope not,′ said the eminently practical; `I confess, however, that the

misgiving has crossed me on my way home.′

`In idle imagination, Gradgrind,′ repeated Bounderby. `A very bad thing

for anybody, but a cursed bad thing for a girl like Louisa. I should ask

Mrs. Gradgrind′s pardon for strong expressions, but that she knows very

well I am not a refined character. Whoever expects refinement in me will

be disappointed. I hadn′t a refined bringing up.′

`Whether,′ said Gradgrind, pondering with his hands in his pockets, and

his cavernous eyes on the fire, `whether any instructor or servant can

have suggested anything? Whether Louisa or Thomas can have been

reading anything? Whether, in spite of all precautions, any idle story-

book can have got into the house? Because, in minds that have been

practically formed by rule and line, from the cradle upwards, this is so

curious, so incomprehensible.′

`Stop a bit!′ cried Bounderby, who all this time had been standing, as

before, on the hearth, bursting at the very furniture of the room with

explosive humility. `You have one of those strollers′ children in the

school.′

`Cecilia Jupe, by name,′ said Mr. Gradgrind, with something of a stricken

look at his friend.

`Now, stop a bit!′ cried Bounderby again. `How did she come there?′

`Why, the fact is, I saw the girl myself, for the first time, only just now.

She specially applied here at the house to be admitted, as not regularly

belonging to our town, and - yes, you are right, Bounderby, you are right.′

`Now, stop a bit!′ cried Bounderby, once more. `Louisa saw her when she

came?′

`Louisa certainly did see her, for she mentioned the application to me.

But Louisa saw her, I have no doubt, in Mrs. Gradgrind′s presence.′

23

`Pray, Mrs. Gradgrind,′ said Bounderby, `what passed?′

`Oh, my poor health!′ returned Mrs. Gradgrind. `The girl wanted to come

to the school, and Mr. Gradgrind wanted girls to come to the school, and

Louisa and Thomas both said that the girl wanted to come, and that Mr.

Gradgrind wanted girls to come, and how was it possible to contradict

them when such was the fact!′

`Now I tell you what, Gradgrind!′ said Mr. Bounderby. `Turn this girl to

the right about, and there′s an end of it.′

`I am much of your opinion.′

`Do it at once,′ said Bounderby, `has always been my motto from a child.

When I thought I would run away from my egg-box and my

grandmother, I did it at once. Do you the same. Do this at once!′

`Are you walking?′ asked his friend. `I have the father′s address. Perhaps

you would not mind walking to town with me?′

`Not the least in the world,′ said Mr. Bounderby, `as long as you do it at

once!′

So, Mr. Bounderby threw on his hat - he always threw it on, as

expressing a man who had been far too busily employed in making

himself, to acquire any fashion of wearing his hat - and with his hands in

his pockets, sauntered out into the hall. `I never wear gloves,′ it was his

custom to say. `I didn′t climb up the ladder in them. - Shouldn′t be so

high up, if I had.′

Being left to saunter in the hall a minute or two while Mr. Gradgrind

went up-stairs for the address, he opened the door of the children′s

study and looked into that serene floor-clothed apartment, which,

notwithstanding its book-cases and its cabinets and its variety of learned

and philosophical appliances, had much of the genial aspect of a room

devoted to hair-cutting. Louisa languidly leaned upon the window

looking out, without looking at anything, while young Thomas stood

24

sniffing revengefully at the fire. Adam Smith and Malthus, two younger

Gradgrinds, were out at lecture in custody; and little Jane, after

manufacturing a good deal of moist pipe-clay on her face with slate-

pencil and tears, had fallen asleep over vulgar fractions.

`It′s all right now, Louisa: it′s all right, young Thomas,′ said Mr.

Bounderby; `you won′t do so any more. I′ll answer for it′s being all over

with father. Well, Louisa, that′s worth a kiss, isn′t it?′

`You can take one, Mr. Bounderby,′ returned Louisa, when she had coldly

paused, and slowly walked across the room, and ungraciously raised her

cheek towards him, with her face turned away.

`Always my pet; ain′t you, Louisa?′ said Mr. Bounderby. `Good-bye,

Louisa!′

He went his way, but she stood on the same spot, rubbing the cheek he

had kissed, with her handkerchief, until it was burning red. She was still

doing this, five minutes afterwards.

`What are you about, Loo?′ her brother sulkily remonstrated. `You′ll rub

a hole in your face.′

`You may cut the piece out with your penknife if you like, Tom. I

wouldn′t cry!′

Chapter V: The Keynote

COKETOWN, to which Mr′s. Bounderby and Gradgrind now walked,

was a triumph of fact; it had no greater taint of fancy in it than Mrs.

Gradgrind herself. Let us strike the key-note, Coketown, before pursuing

our tune.

It was a town of red brick, or of brick that would have been red if the

smoke and ashes had allowed it; but as matters stood, it was a town of

unnatural red and black like the painted face of a savage. It was a town

of machinery and tall chimneys, out of which interminable serpents of

25

smoke trailed themselves for ever and ever, and never got uncoiled. It

had a black canal in it, and a river that ran purple with ill-smelling dye,

and vast piles of building full of windows where there was a rattling and

a trembling all day long, and where the piston of the steam-engine

worked monotonously up and down, like the head of an elephant in a

state of melancholy madness. It contained several large streets all very

like one another, and many small streets still more like one another,

inhabited by people equally like one another, who all went in and out at

the same hours, with the same sound upon the same pavements, to do

the same work, and to whom every day was the same as yesterday and

to-morrow, and every year the counterpart of the last and the next.

These attributes of Coketown were in the main inseparable from the

work by which it was sustained; against them were to be set off,

comforts of life which found their way all over the world, and elegancies

of life which made, we will not ask how much of the fine lady, who

could scarcely bear to hear the place mentioned. The rest of its features

were voluntary, and they were these.

You saw nothing in Coketown but what was severely workful. If the

members of a religious persuasion built a chapel there - as the members

of eighteen religious persuasions had done - they made it a pious

warehouse of red brick, with sometimes (but this is only in highly

ornamental examples) a bell in a birdcage on the top of it. The solitary

exception was the New Church; a stuccoed edifice with a square steeple

over the door, terminating in four short pinnacles like florid wooden

legs. All the public inscriptions in the town were painted alike, in severe

characters of black and white. The jail might have been the infirmary, the

infirmary might have been the jail, the town-hall might have been either,

or both, or anything else, for anything that appeared to the contrary in

the graces of their construction. Fact, fact, fact, everywhere in the

material aspect of the town; fact, fact, fact, everywhere in the immaterial.

The M′Choakumchild school was all fact, and the school of design was

all fact, and the relations between master and man were all fact, and

everything was fact between the lying-in hospital and the cemetery, and

what you couldn′t state in figures, or show to be purchaseable in the

26

cheapest market and saleable in the dearest, was not, and never should

be, world without end, Amen.

A town so sacred to fact, and so triumphant in its assertion, of course

got on well? Why no, not quite well. No? Dear me!

No. Coketown did not come out of its own furnaces, in all respects like

gold that had stood the fire. First, the perplexing mystery of the place

was, Who belonged to the eighteen denominations? Because, whoever

did, the labouring people did not. It was very strange to walk through the

streets on a Sunday morning, and note how few of them the barbarous

jangling of bells that was driving the sick and nervous mad, called away

from their own quarter, from their own close rooms, from the corners

of their own streets, where they lounged listlessly, gazing at all the

church and chapel going, as at a thing with which they had no manner of

concern. Nor was it merely the stranger who noticed this, because there

was a native organization in Coketown itself, whose members were to be

heard of in the House of Commons every session, indignantly

petitioning for acts of parliament that should make these people

religious by main force. Then came the Teetotal Society, who complained

that these same people would get drunk, and showed in tabular

statements that they did get drunk, and proved at tea parties that no

inducement, human or Divine (except a medal), would induce them to

forego their custom of getting drunk. Then came the chemist and

druggist, with other tabular statements, showing that when they didn′t

get drunk, they took opium. Then came the experienced chaplain of the

jail, with more tabular statements, outdoing all the previous tabular

statements, and showing that the same people would resort to low

haunts, hidden from the public eye, where they heard low singing and

saw low dancing, and mayhap joined in it; and where A. B., aged twenty-

four next birthday, and committed for eighteen months′ solitary, had

himself said (not that he had ever shown himself particularly worthy of

belief) his ruin began, as he was perfectly sure and confident that

otherwise he would have been a tip-top moral specimen. Then came Mr.

Gradgrind and Mr. Bounderby, the two gentlemen at this present

moment walking through Coketown, and both eminently practical, who

27

could, on occasion, furnish more tabular statements derived from their

own personal experience, and illustrated by cases they had known and

seen, from which it clearly appeared - in short, it was the only clear thing

in the case - that these same people were a bad lot altogether, gentlemen;

that do what you would for them they were never thankful for it,

gentlemen; that they were restless, gentlemen; that they never knew what

they wanted; that they lived upon the best, and bought fresh butter; and

insisted on Mocha coffee, and rejected all but prime parts of meat, and

yet were eternally dissatisfied and unmanageable. In short, it was the

moral of the old nursery fable:

There was an old woman, and what do you think?

She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink;

Victuals and drink were the whole of her diet,

And yet this old woman would

never

be quiet.

Is it possible, I wonder, that there was any analogy between the case of

the Coketown population and the case of the little Gradgrinds? Surely,

none of us in our sober senses and acquainted with figures, are to be

told at this time of day, that one of the foremost elements in the

existence of the Coketown working-people had been for scores of years,

deliberately set at nought? That there was any Fancy in them demanding

to be brought into healthy existence instead of struggling on in

convulsions? That exactly in the ratio as they worked long and

monotonously, the craving grew within them for some physical relief -

some relaxation, encouraging good humour and good spirits, and giving

them a vent - some recognized holiday, though it were but for an honest

dance to a stirring band of music - some occasional light pie in which

even M′Choakumchild had no finger - which craving must and would be

satisfied aright, or must and would inevitably go wrong, until the laws of

the Creation were repealed?

`This man lives at Pod′s End, and I don′t quite know Pod′s End,′ said Mr.

Gradgrind. `Which is it, Bounderby?′

28

Mr. Bounderby knew it was somewhere down town, but knew no more

respecting it. So they stopped for a moment, looking about.

Almost as they did so, there came running round the corner of the street

at a quick pace and with a frightened look, a girl whom Mr. Gradgrind

recognized. `Halloa!′ said he. `Stop! Where are you going! Stop!′ Girl

number twenty stopped then, palpitating, and made him a curtsey.

`Why are you tearing about the streets,′ said Mr. Gradgrind, `in this

improper manner?′

`I was - I was run after, sir,′ the girl panted, `and I wanted to get away.′

`Run after?′ repeated Mr. Gradgrind. `Who would run after you?′

The question was unexpectedly and suddenly answered for her, by the

colourless boy, Bitzer, who came round the corner with such blind speed

and so little anticipating a stoppage on the pavement, that he brought

himself up against Mr. Gradgrind′s waistcoat and rebounded into the

road.

`What do you mean, boy?′ said Mr. Gradgrind. `What are you doing?

How dare you dash against - everybody - in this manner?′ Bitzer picked

up his cap, which the concussion had knocked off; and backing, and

knuckling his forehead, pleaded that it was an accident.

`Was this boy running after you, Jupe?′ asked Mr. Gradgrind.

`Yes, sir,′ said the girl reluctantly.

`No, I wasn′t, sir!′ cried Bitzer. `Not till she run away from me. But the

horse-riders never mind what they say, sir; they′re famous for it. You

know the horse-riders are famous for never minding what they say,′

addressing Sissy. `It′s as well known in the town as - please, sir, as the

multiplication table isn′t known to the horse-riders.′ Bitzer tried Mr.

Bounderby with this.

29

`He frightened me so,′ said the girl, `with his cruel faces!′

`Oh!′ cried Bitzer. `Oh! An′t you one of the rest! An′t you a horse-rider! I

never looked at her, sir. I asked her if she would know how to define a

horse to-morrow, and offered to tell her again, and she ran away, and I

ran after her, sir, that she might know how to answer when she was

asked. You wouldn′t have thought of saying such mischief if you hadn′t

been a horse-rider?′

`Her calling seems to be pretty well known among ′em,′ observed Mr.

Bounderby. `You′d have had the whole school peeping in a row, in a

week.′

`Truly, I think so,′ returned his friend. `Bitzer, turn you about and take

yourself home. Jupe, stay here a moment. Let me hear of your running

in this manner any more, boy, and you will hear of me through the

master of the school. You understand what I mean. Go along.′

The boy stopped in his rapid blinking, knuckled his forehead again,

glanced at Sissy, turned about, and retreated.

`Now, girl,′ said Mr. Gradgrind, `take this gentleman and me to your

father′s; we are going there. What have you got in that bottle you are

carrying?′

`Gin,′ said Mr. Bounderby.

`Dear, no, sir! It′s the nine oils.′

`The what?′ cried Mr. Bounderby.

`The nine oils, sir, to rub father with.′

`Then,′ said Mr. Bounderby, with a loud short laugh, `what the devil do

you rub your father with nine oils for?′

30

`It′s what our people aways use, sir, when they get any hurts in the ring,′

replied the girl, looking over her shoulder, to assure herself that her

pursuer was gone. `They bruise themselves very bad sometimes.′

`Serve ′em right,′ said Mr. Bounderby, `for being idle.′ She glanced up at

his face, with mingled astonishment and dread.

`By George!′ said Mr. Bounderby, `when I was four or five years younger

than you, I had worse bruises upon me than ten oils, twenty oils, forty

oils, would have rubbed off. I didn′t get ′em by posture-making, but by

being banged about. There was no rope- dancing for me; I danced on

the bare ground and was larruped with the rope.′

Mr. Gradgrind, though hard enough, was by no means so rough a man as

Mr. Bounderby. His character was not unkind, all things considered; it

might have been a very kind one indeed, if he had only made some

round mistake in the arithmetic that balanced it, years ago. He said, in

what he meant for a reassuring tone, as they turned down a narrow road,

`And this is Pod′s End; is it, Jupe?′

`This is it, sir, and - if you wouldn′t mind, sir - this is the house.′

She stopped, at twilight, at the door of a mean little public- house, with

dim red lights in it. As haggard and as shabby, as if, for want of custom,

it had itself taken to drinking, and had gone the way all drunkards go,

and was very near the end of it.

`It′s only crossing the bar, sir, and up the stairs, if you wouldn′t mind,

and waiting there for a moment till I get a candle. If you should hear a

dog, sir, it′s only Merrylegs, and he only barks.′

`Merrylegs and nine oils, eh!′ said Mr. Bounderby, entering last with his

metallic laugh. `Pretty well this, for a self-made man!′

31

Chapter VI: Sleary′s Horsemanship

THE name of the public-house was the Pegasus′s Arms. The Pegasus′s

legs might have been more to the purpose; but, underneath the winged

horse upon the sign-board, the Pegasus′s Arms was inscribed in Roman

letters. Beneath that inscription again, in a flowing scroll, the painter had

touched off the lines:

Good malt makes good beer,

Walk in, and they′ll draw it here;

Good wine makes good brandy,

Give us a call, and you′ll find it handy.

Framed and glazed upon the wall behind the dingy little bar, was another

Pegasus - a theatrical one - with real gauze let in for his wings, golden

stars stuck on all over him, and his ethereal harness made of red silk.

As it had grown too dusky without, to see the sign, and as it had not

grown light enough within to see the picture, Mr. Gradgrind and Mr.

Bounderby received no offence from these idealities. They followed the

girl up some steep corner-stairs without meeting any one, and stopped in

the dark while she went on for a candle. They expected every moment to

hear Merrylegs give tongue, but the highly trained performing dog had

not barked when the girl and the candle appeared together.

`Father is not in our room, sir,′ she said, with a face of great surprise. `If

you wouldn′t mind walking in, I′ll find him directly.′ They walked in; and

Sissy, having set two chairs for them, sped away with a quick light step. It

was a mean, shabbily furnished room, with a bed in it. The white night-

cap, embellished with two peacock′s feathers and a pigtail bolt upright, in

which Signor Jupe had that very afternoon enlivened the varied

performances with his chaste Shaksperean quips and retorts, hung upon

a nail; but no other portion of his wardrobe, or other token of himself

or his pursuits, was to be seen anywhere. As to Merrylegs, that

respectable ancestor of the highly trained animal who went aboard the

32

ark, might have been accidentally shut out of it, for any sign of a dog

that was manifest to eye or ear in the Pegasus′s Arms.

They heard the doors of rooms above, opening and shutting as Sissy

went from one to another in quest of her father; and presently they

heard voices expressing surprise. She came bounding down again in a

great hurry, opened a battered and mangy old hair trunk, found it empty,

and looked round with her hands clasped and her face full of terror.

`Father must have gone down to the Booth, sir. I don′t know why he

should go there, but he must be there; I′ll bring him in a minute!′ She

was gone directly, without her bonnet; with her long, dark, childish hair

streaming behind her.

`What does she mean!′ said Mr. Gradgrind. `Back in a minute? It′s more

than a mile off.′

Before Mr. Bounderby could reply, a young man appeared at the door,

and introducing himself with the words, `By your leaves, gentlemen!′

walked in with his hands in his pockets. His face, close-shaven, thin, and

sallow, was shaded by a great quantity of dark hair, brushed into a roll all

round his head, and parted up the centre. His legs were very robust, but

shorter than legs of good proportions should have been. His chest and

back were as much too broad, as his legs were too short. He was dressed

in a Newmarket coat and tight-fitting trousers; wore a shawl round his

neck; smelt of lamp-oil, straw, orange-peel, horses′ provender, and

sawdust; and looked a most remarkable sort of Centaur, compounded of

the stable and the play-house. Where the one began, and the other

ended, nobody could have told with any precision. This gentleman was

mentioned in the bills of the day as Mr. E. W. B. Childers, so justly

celebrated for his daring vaulting act as the Wild Huntsman of the

North American Prairies; in which popular performance, a diminutive

boy with an old face, who now accompanied him, assisted as his infant

son: being carried upside down over his father′s shoulder, by one foot,

and held by the crown of his head, heels upwards, in the palm of his

father′s hand, according to the violent paternal manner in which wild

huntsmen may be observed to fondle their offspring. Made up with curls,

33

wreaths, wings, white bismuth, and carmine, this hopeful young person

soared into so pleasing a Cupid as to constitute the chief delight of the

maternal part of the spectators; but in private, where his characteristics

were a precocious cutaway coat and an extremely gruff voice, he became

of the Turf, turfy.

`By your leaves, gentlemen,′ said Mr. E. W. B. Childers, glancing round

the room. `It was you, I believe, that were wishing to see Jupe!′

`It was,′ said Mr. Gradgrind. `His daughter has gone to fetch him, but I

can′t wait; therefore, if you please, I will leave a message for him with

you.′

`You see, my friend,′ Mr. Bounderby put in, `we are the kind of people

who know the value of time, and you are the kind of people who don′t

know the value of time.′

`I have not,′ retorted Mr. Childers, after surveying him from head to foot,

`the honour of knowing you, - but if you mean that you can make more

money of your time than I can of mine, I should judge from your

appearance, that you are about right.′

`And when you have made it, you can keep it too, I should think,′ said

Cupid.

`Kidderminster, stow that!′ said Mr. Childers. (Master Kidderminster was

Cupid′s mortal name.)

`What does he come here cheeking us for, then?′ cried Master

Kidderminster, showing a very irascible temperament. `If you want to

cheek us, pay your ochre at the doors and take it out.′

`Kidderminster,′ said Mr. Childers, raising his voice, `stow that! - Sir,′ to

Mr. Gradgrind, `I was addressing myself to you. You may or you may not

be aware (for perhaps you have not been much in the audience), that

Jupe has missed his tip very often, lately.′

34

`Has - what has he missed?′ asked Mr. Gradgrind, glancing at the potent

Bounderby for assistance.

`Missed his tip.′

`Offered at the Garters four times last night, and never done ′em once,′

said Master Kidderminster. `Missed his tip at the banners, too, and was

loose in his ponging.′

`Didn′t do what he ought to do. Was short in his leaps and bad in his

tumbling,′ Mr. Childers interpreted.

`Oh!′ said Mr. Gradgrind, `that is tip, is it?′

`In a general way that′s missing his tip,′ Mr. E. W. B. Childers answered.

`Nine oils, Merrylegs, missing tips, garters, banners, and Ponging, eh!′

ejaculated Bounderby, with his laugh of laughs. `Queer sort of company,

too, for a man who has raised himself!′

`Lower yourself, then,′ retorted Cupid. `Oh Lord! if you′ve raised

yourself so high as all that comes to, let yourself down a bit.′

`This is a very obtrusive lad!′ said Mr. Gradgrind, turning, and knitting

his brows on him.

`We′d have had a young gentleman to meet you, if we had known you

were coming,′ retorted Master Kidderminster, nothing abashed. `It′s a

pity you don′t have a bespeak, being so particular. You′re on the Tight-

Jeff, ain′t you?′

`What does this unmannerly boy mean,′ asked Mr. Gradgrind, eyeing him

in a sort of desperation, `by Tight-Jeff?′

`There! Get out, get out!′ said Mr. Childers, thrusting his young friend

from the room, rather in the prairie manner. `Tight-Jeff or Slack-Jeff, it

35

don′t much signify: it′s only tight-rope and slack- rope. You were going

to give me a message for Jupe?′

`Yes, I was.′

`Then,′ continued Mr. Childers, quickly, `my opinion is, he will never

receive it. Do you know much of him?′

`I never saw the man in my life.′

`I doubt if you ever will see him now. It′s pretty plain to me, he′s off.′

`Do you mean that he has deserted his daughter?′

`Ay! I mean,′ said Mr. Childers, with a nod, `that he has cut. He was

goosed last night, he was goosed the night before last, he was goosed to-

day. He has lately got in the way of being always goosed, and he can′t

stand it.′

`Why has he been - so very much - Goosed?′ asked Mr. Gradgrind,

forcing the word out of himself, with great solemnity and reluctance.

`His joints are turning stiff, and he is getting used up,′ said Childers. `He

has his points as a Cackler still, but he can′t get a living out of them.′

`A Cackler!′ Bounderby repeated. `Here we go again!′

`A speaker, if the gentleman likes it better,′ said Mr. E. W. B. Childers,

superciliously throwing the interpretation over his shoulder, and

accompanying it with a shake of his long hair - which all shook at once.

`Now, it′s a remarkable fact, sir, that it cut that man deeper, to know that

his daughter knew of his being goosed, than to go through with it.′

`Good!′ interrupted Mr. Bounderby. `This is good, Gradgrind! A man so

fond of his daughter, that he runs away from her! This is devilish good!

Ha! ha! Now, I′ll tell you what, young man. I haven′t always occupied my

36

present station of life. I know what these things are. You may be

astonished to hear it, but my mother - ran away from me.′

E. W. B. Childers replied pointedly, that he was not at all astonished to

hear it.

`Very well,′ said Bounderby. `I was born in a ditch, and my mother ran

away from me. Do I excuse her for it? No. Have I ever excused her for

it? Not I. What do I call her for it? I call her probably the very worst

woman that ever lived in the world, except my drunken grandmother.

There′s no family pride about me, there′s no imaginative sentimental

humbug about me. I call a spade a spade; and I call the mother of Josiah

Bounderby of Coketown, without any fear or any favour, what I should

call her if she had been the mother of Dick Jones of Wapping. So, with

this man. He is a runaway rogue and a vagabond, that′s what he is, in

English.′

`It′s all the same to me what he is or what he is not, whether in English

or whether in French,′ retorted Mr. E. W. B. Childers, facing about. `I am

telling your friend what′s the fact; if you don′t like to hear it, you can

avail yourself of the open air. You give it mouth enough, you do; but

give it mouth in your own building at least,′ remonstrated E. W. B. with

stern irony. `Don′t give it mouth in this building, till you′re called upon.

You have got some building of your own I dare say, now?′

`Perhaps so,′ replied Mr. Bounderby, rattling his money and laughing.

`Then give it mouth in your own building, will you, if you please?′ said

Childers. `Because this isn′t a strong building, and too much of you

might bring it down!′

Eyeing Mr. Bounderby from head to foot again, he turned from him, as

from a man finally disposed of, to Mr. Gradgrind.

`Jupe sent his daughter out on an errand not an hour ago, and then was

seen to slip out himself, with his hat over his eyes, and a bundle tied up

37

in a handkerchief under his arm. She will never believe it of him, but he

has cut away and left her.′

`Pray,′ said Mr. Gradgrind, `why will she never believe it of him?′

`Because those two were one. Because they were never asunder. Because,

up to this time, he seemed to dote upon her,′ said Childers, taking a step

or two to look into the empty trunk. Both Mr. Childers and Master

Kidderminster walked in a curious manner; with their legs wider apart

than the general run of men, and with a very knowing assumption of

being stiff in the knees. This walk was common to all the male members

of Sleary′s company, and was understood to express, that they were

always on horseback.

`Poor Sissy! He had better have apprenticed her,′ said Childers, giving his

hair another shake, as he looked up from the empty box. `Now, he leaves

her without anything to take to.′

`It is creditable to you, who have never been apprenticed, to express that

opinion,′ returned Mr. Gradgrind, approvingly.

`I never apprenticed? I was apprenticed when I was seven year old.′

`Oh! Indeed?′ said Mr. Gradgrind, rather resentfully, as having been

defrauded of his good opinion. `I was not aware of its being the custom

to apprentice young persons to - ′

`Idleness,′ Mr. Bounderby put in with a loud laugh. `No, by the Lord

Harry! Nor I!′

`Her father always had it in his head,′ resumed Childers, feigning

unconsciousness of Mr. Bounderby′s existence, `that she was to be

taught the deuce-and-all of education. How it got into his head, I can′t

say; I can only say that it never got out. He has been picking up a bit of

reading for her, here - and a bit of writing for her, there - and a bit of

ciphering for her, somewhere else - these seven years.′

38

Mr. E. W. B. Childers took one of his hands out of his pockets, stroked

his face and chin, and looked, with a good deal of doubt and a little

hope, at Mr. Gradgrind. From the first he had sought to conciliate that

gentleman, for the sake of the deserted girl.

`When Sissy got into the school here,′ he pursued, `her father was as

pleased as Punch. I couldn′t altogether make out why, myself, as we were

not stationary here, being but comers and goers anywhere. I suppose,

however, he had this move in his mind - he was always half-cracked - and

then considered her provided for. If you should happen to have looked

in to-night, for the purpose of telling him that you were going to do her

any little service,′ said Mr. Childers, stroking his face again, and repeating

his look, `it would be very fortunate and well-timed; very fortunate and

wel - timed.′

`On the contrary,′ returned Mr. Gradgrind. `I came to tell him that her

connections made her not an object for the school, and that she must

not attend any more. Still, if her father really has left her, without any

connivance on her part - Bounderby, let me have a word with you.′

Upon this, Mr. Childers politely betook himself, with his equestrian walk,

to the landing outside the door, and there stood stroking his face, and

softly whistling. While thus engaged, he overheard such phrases in Mr.

Bounderby′s voice as `No. I say no. I advise you not. I say by no means.′

While, from Mr. Gradgrind, he heard in his much lower tone the words,

`But even as an example to Louisa, of what this pursuit which has been

the subject of a vulgar curiosity, leads to and ends in. Think of it,

Bounderby, in that point of view.′

Meanwhile, the various members of Sleary′s company gradually gathered

together from the upper regions, where they were quartered, and, from

standing about, talking in low voices to one another and to Mr. Childers,

gradually insinuated themselves and him into the room. There were two

or three handsome young women among them, with their two or three

husbands, and their two or three mothers, and their eight or nine little

children, who did the fairy business when required. The father of one of

the families was in the habit of balancing the father of another of the

39

families on the top of a great pole; the father of a third family often

made a pyramid of both those fathers, with Master Kidderminster for

the apex, and himself for the base; all the fathers could dance upon

rolling casks, stand upon bottles, catch knives and balls, twirl hand-

basins, ride upon anything, jump over everything, and stick at nothing.

All the mothers could (and did) dance, upon the slack wire and the tight-

rope, and perform rapid acts on bare-backed steeds; none of them were

at all particular in respect of showing their legs; and one of them, alone

in a Greek chariot, drove six in hand into every town they came to. They

all assumed to be mighty rakish and knowing, they were not very tidy in

their private dresses, they were not at all orderly in their domestic

arrangements, and the combined literature of the whole company would

have produced but a poor letter on any subject. Yet there was a

remarkable gentleness and childishness about these people, a special

inaptitude for any kind of sharp practice, and an untiring readiness to

help and pity one another, deserving often of as much respect, and

always of as much generous construction, as the every- day virtues of

any class of people in the world.

Last of all appeared Mr. Sleary: a stout man as already mentioned, with

one fixed eye, and one loose eye, a voice (if it can be called so) like the

efforts of a broken old pair of bellows, a flabby surface, and a muddled

head which was never sober and never drunk.

`Thquire!′ said Mr. Sleary, who was troubled with asthma, and whose

breath came far too thick and heavy for the letter s, `Your thervant! Thith

ith a bad piethe of bithnith, thith ith. You′ve heard of my Clown and

hith dog being thuppothed to have morrithed?′

He addressed Mr. Gradgrind, who answered `Yes.′

`Well, Thquire,′ he returned, taking off his hat, and rubbing the lining

with his pocket-handkerchief, which he kept inside for the purpose. `Ith

it your intenthion to do anything for the poor girl, Thquire?′

`I shall have something to propose to her when she comes back,′ said Mr.

Gradgrind.

40

`Glad to hear it, Thquire. Not that I want to get rid of the child, any

more than I want to thtand in her way. I′m willing to take her prentith,

though at her age ith late. My voithe ith a little huthky, Thquire, and not

eathy heard by them ath don′t know me; but if you′d been chilled and

heated, heated and chilled, chilled and heated in the ring when you wath

young, ath often ath I have been, your voithe wouldn′t have lathted out,

Thquire, no more than mine.′

`I dare say not,′ said Mr. Gradgrind.

`What thall it be, Thquire, while you wait? Thall it be Therry? Give it a

name, Thquire!′ said Mr. Sleary, with hospitable ease.

`Nothing for me, I thank you,′ said Mr. Gradgrind.

`Don′t thay nothing, Thquire. What doth your friend thay? If you haven′t

took your feed yet, have a glath of bitterth.′

Here his daughter Josephine - a pretty fair-haired girl of eighteen, who

had been tied on a horse at two years old, and had made a will at twelve,

which she always carried about with her, expressive of her dying desire

to be drawn to the grave by the two piebald ponies - cried, `Father, hush!

she has come back!′ Then came Sissy Jupe, running into the room as she

had run out of it. And when she saw them all assembled, and saw their

looks, and saw no father there, she broke into a most deplorable cry, and

took refuge on the bosom of the most accomplished tight-rope lady

(herself in the family-way), who knelt down on the floor to nurse her,

and to weep over her.

`Ith an internal thame, upon my thoul it ith,′ said Sleary.

`O my dear father, my good kind father, where are you gone? You are

gone to try to do me some good, I know! You are gone away for my

sake, I am sure! And how miserable and helpless you will be without me,

poor, poor father, until you come back!′ It was so pathetic to hear her

saying many things of this kind, with her face turned upward, and her

arms stretched out as if she were trying to stop his departing shadow

41

and embrace it, that no one spoke a word until Mr. Bounderby (growing

impatient) took the case in hand.

`Now, good people all,′ said he, `this is wanton waste of time. Let the girl

understand the fact. Let her take it from me, if you like, who have been

run away from, myself. Here, what′s your name! Your father has

absconded - deserted you - and you mustn′t expect to see him again as

long as you live.′

They cared so little for plain Fact, these people, and were in that

advanced state of degeneracy on the subject, that instead of being

impressed by the speaker′s strong common sense, they took it in

extraordinary dudgeon. The men muttered `Shame!′ and the women

`Brute!′ and Sleary, in some haste, communicated the following hint,

apart to Mr. Bounderby.

`I tell you what, Thquire. To thpeak plain to you, my opinion ith that you

had better cut it thort, and drop it. They′re a very good natur′d people,

my people, but they′re accuthtomed to be quick in their movementh; and

if you don′t act upon my advithe, I′m damned if I don′t believe they′ll

pith you out o′ winder.′

Mr. Bounderby being restrained by this mild suggestion, Mr. Gradgrind

found an opening for his eminently practical exposition of the subject.

`It is of no moment,′ said he, `whether this person is to be expected back

at any time, or the contrary. He is gone away, and there is no present

expectation of his return. That, I believe, is agreed on all hands.′

`Thath agreed, Thquire. Thick to that!′ From Sleary.

`Well then. I, who came here to inform the father of the poor girl, Jupe,

that she could not be received at the school any more, in consequence of

there being practical objections, into which I need not enter, to the

reception there of the children of persons so employed, am prepared in

these altered circumstances to make a proposal. I am willing to take

charge of you, Jupe, and to educate you, and provide for you. The only

42

condition (over and above your good behaviour) I make is, that you

decide now, at once, whether to accompany me or remain here. Also,

that if you accompany me now, it is understood that you communicate

no more with any of your friends who are here present. These

observations comprise the whole of the case.′

`At the thame time,′ said Sleary, `I mutht put in my word, Thquire, tho

that both thides of the banner may be equal y theen. If you like,

Thethilia, to be prentitht, you know the natur of the work and you know

your companionth. Emma Gordon, in whothe lap you′re a lying at

prethent, would be a mother to you, and Joth′phine would be a thithter

to you. I don′t pretend to be of the angel breed myself, and I don′t thay

but what, when you mith′d your tip, you′d find me cut up rough, and

thwear an oath or two at you. But what I thay, Thquire, ith, that good

tempered or bad tempered, I never did a horthe a injury yet, no more

than thwearing at him went, and that I don′t expect I thall begin

otherwithe at my time of life, with a rider. I never wath much of a

Cackler, Thquire, and I have thed my thay.′

The latter part of this speech was addressed to Mr. Gradgrind, who

received it with a grave inclination of his head, and then remarked:

`The only observation I will make to you, Jupe, in the way of influencing

your decision, is, that it is highly desirable to have a sound practical

education, and that even your father himself (from what I understand)

appears, on your behalf, to have known and felt that much.′

The last words had a visible effect upon her. She stopped in her wild

crying, a little detached herself from Emma Gordon, and turned her face

full upon her patron. The whole company perceived the force of the

change, and drew a long breath together, that plainly said, `she will go!′

`Be sure you know your own mind, Jupe,′ Mr. Gradgrind cautioned her;

`I say no more. Be sure you know your own mind!′

`When father comes back,′ cried the girl, bursting into tears again after a

minute′s silence, `how will he ever find me if I go away!′

43

`You may be quite at ease,′ said Mr. Gradgrind, calmly; he worked out the

whole matter like a sum: `you may be quite at ease, Jupe, on that score. In

such a case, your father, I apprehend, must find out Mr. - ′

`Thleary. Thath my name, Thquire. Not athamed of it. Known all over

England, and alwayth paythe ith way.′

`Must find out Mr. Sleary, who would then let him know where you went.

I should have no power of keeping you against his wish, and he would

have no difficulty, at any time, in finding Mr. Thomas Gradgrind of

Coketown. I am well known.′

`Well known,′ assented Mr. Sleary, rolling his loose eye. `You′re one of

the thort, Thquire, that keepth a prethiouth thight of money out of the

houthe. But never mind that at prethent.′

There was another silence; and then she exclaimed, sobbing with her

hands before her face, `Oh, give me my clothes, give me my clothes, and

let me go away before I break my heart!′

The women sadly bestirred themselves to get the clothes together - it

was soon done, for they were not many - and to pack them in a basket

which had often travelled with them. Sissy sat all the time upon the

ground, still sobbing, and covering her eyes. Mr. Gradgrind and his

friend Bounderby stood near the door, ready to take her away. Mr. Sleary

stood in the middle of the room, with the male members of the

company about him, exactly as he would have stood in the centre of the

ring during his daughter Josephine′s performance. He wanted nothing

but his whip.

The basket packed in silence, they brought her bonnet to her, and

smoothed her disordered hair, and put it on. Then they pressed about

her, and bent over her in very natural attitudes, kissing and embracing

her: and brought the children to take leave of her; and were a tender-

hearted, simple, foolish set of women altogether.

`Now, Jupe,′ said Mr. Gradgrind. `If you are quite determined, come!′

44

But she had to take her farewell of the male part of the company yet,

and every one of them had to unfold his arms (for they all assumed the

professional attitude when they found themselves near Sleary), and give

her a parting kiss - Master Kidderminster excepted, in whose young

nature there was an original flavour of the misanthrope, who was also

known to have harboured matrimonial views, and who moodily

withdrew. Mr. Sleary was reserved until the last. Opening his arms wide

he took her by both her hands, and would have sprung her up and down,

after the riding-master manner of congratulating young ladies on their

dismounting from a rapid act; but there was no rebound in Sissy, and she

only stood before him crying.

`Good-bye, my dear!′ said Sleary. `You′ll make your fortun, I hope, and

none of our poor folkth will ever trouble you, I′ll pound it. I with your

father hadn′t taken hith dog with him; ith a ill- conwenienth to have the

dog out of the billth. But on thecond thoughth, he wouldn′t have

performed without hith mathter, tho ith ath broad ath ith long!′

With that he regarded her attentively with his fixed eye, surveyed his

company with his loose one, kissed her, shook his head, and handed her

to Mr. Gradgrind as to a horse.

`There the ith, Thquire,′ he said, sweeping her with a professional glance

as if she were being adjusted in her seat, `and the′ll do you juthtithe.

Good-bye, Thethilia!′

`Good-bye, Cecilia!′ `Good-bye, Sissy!′ `God bless you, dear!′ In a variety

of voices from all the room.

But the riding-master eye had observed the bottle of the nine oils in her

bosom, and he now interposed with `Leave the bottle, my dear; ith large

to carry; it will be of no uthe to you now. Give it to me!′

`No, no!′ she said, in another burst of tears. `Oh, no! Pray let me keep it

for father till he comes back! He will want it when he comes back. He

had never thought of going away, when he sent me for it. I must keep it

for him, if you please!′

45

`Tho be it, my dear. (You thee how it ith, Thquire!) Farewell, Thethilia!

My latht wordth to you ith thith, Thtick to the termth of your

engagement, be obedient to the Thquire, and forget uth. But if, when

you′re grown up and married and well off, you come upon any horthe-

riding ever, don′t be hard upon it, don′t be croth with it, give it a

Bethpeak if you can, and think you might do wurth. People mutht be

amuthed, Thquire, thomehow,′ continued Sleary, rendered more pursy

than ever, by so much talking; `they can′t be alwayth a working, nor yet

they can′t be alwayth a learning. Make the betht of uth; not the wurtht.

I′ve got my living out of the horthe-riding all my life, I know; but I

conthider that I lay down the philothophy of the thubject when I thay to

you, Thquire, make the betht of uth: not the wurtht!′

The Sleary philosophy was propounded as they went downstairs and the

fixed eye of Philosophy - and its rolling eye, too - soon lost the three

figures and the basket in the darkness of the street.

Chapter VII: Mrs. Sparsit

MR. BOUNDERBY being a bachelor, an elderly lady presided over his

establishment, in consideration of a certain annual stipend. Mrs. Sparsit

was this lady′s name; and she was a prominent figure in attendance on

Mr. Bounderby′s car, as it rolled along in triumph with the Bully of

humility inside.

For, Mrs. Sparsit had not only seen different days, but was highly

connected. She had a great aunt living in these very times called Lady

Scadgers. Mr. Sparsit, deceased, of whom she was the relict, had been by

the mother′s side what Mrs. Sparsit still called `a Powler.′ Strangers of

limited information and dull apprehension were sometimes observed not

to know what a Powler was, and even to appear uncertain whether it

might be a business, or a political party, or a profession of faith. The

better class of minds, however, did not need to be informed that the

Powlers were an ancient stock, who could trace themselves so

exceedingly far back that it was not surprising if they sometimes lost

themselves - which they had rather frequently done, as respected horse-

46

flesh, blind-hookey, Hebrew monetary transactions, and the Insolvent

Debtors′ Court.

The late Mr. Sparsit, being by the mother′s side a Powler, married this

lady, being by the father′s side a Scadgers. Lady Scadgers (an immensely

fat old woman, with an inordinate appetite for butcher′s meat, and a

mysterious leg which had now refused to get out of bed for fourteen

years) contrived the marriage, at a period when Sparsit was just of age,

and chiefly noticeable for a slender body, weakly supported on two long

slim props, and surmounted by no head worth mentioning. He inherited

a fair fortune from his uncle, but owed it all before he came into it, and

spent it twice over immediately afterwards. Thus, when he died, at

twenty-four (the scene of his decease, Calais, and the cause, brandy), he

did not leave his widow, from whom he had been separated soon after

the honeymoon, in affluent circumstances. That bereaved lady, fifteen

years older than he, fell presently at deadly feud with her only relative,

Lady Scadgers; and, partly to spite her ladyship, and partly to maintain

herself, went out at a salary. And here she was now, in her elderly days,

with the Coriolanian style of nose and the dense black eyebrows which

had captivated Sparsit, making Mr. Bounderby′s tea as he took his

breakfast.

If Bounderby had been a Conqueror, and Mrs. Sparsit a captive Princess

whom he took about as a feature in his state-processions, he could not

have made a greater flourish with her than he habitually did. Just as it

belonged to his boastfulness to depreciate his own extraction, so it

belonged to it to exalt Mrs. Sparsit′s. In the measure that he would not

allow his own youth to have been attended by a single favourable

circumstance, he brightened Mrs. Sparsit′s juvenile career with every

possible advantage, and showered waggon-loads of early roses all over

that lady′s path. `And yet, sir,′ he would say, `how does it turn out after

all? Why here she is at a hundred a year (I give her a hundred, which she

is pleased to term handsome), keeping the house of Josiah Bounderby

of Coketown!′

47

Nay, he made this foil of his so very widely known, that third parties

took it up, and handled it on some occasions with considerable briskness.

It was one of the most exasperating attributes of Bounderby, that he not

only sang his own praises but stimulated other men to sing them. There

was a moral infection of clap-trap in him. Strangers, modest enough

elsewhere, started up at dinners in Coketown, and boasted, in quite a

rampant way, of Bounderby. They made him out to be the Royal arms,

the Union-Jack, Magna Charta, John Bull, Habeas Corpus, the Bill of

Rights, An Englishman′s house is his castle, Church and State, and God

save the Queen, al put together. And as often (and it was very often) as

an orator of this kind brought into his peroration,

`Princes and lords may flourish or may fade, A breath can make them, as

a breath has made,′

- it was, for certain, more or less understood among the company that he

had heard of Mrs. Sparsit.

`Mr. Bounderby,′ said Mrs. Sparsit, `you are unusually slow, sir, with your

breakfast this morning.′

`Why, ma′am,′ he returned, `I am thinking about Tom Gradgrind′s whim;′

Tom Gradgrind, for a bluff independent manner of speaking - as if

somebody were always endeavouring to bribe him with immense sums to

say Thomas, and he wouldn′t; `Tom Gradgrind′s whim, ma′am, of

bringing up the tumbling-girl.′

`The girl is now waiting to know,′ said Mrs. Sparsit, `whether she is to go

straight to the school, or up to the Lodge.′

`She must wait, ma′am,′ answered Bounderby, `till I know myself. We

shall have Tom Gradgrind down here presently, I suppose. If he should

wish her to remain here a day or two longer, of course she can, ma′am.′

`Of course she can if you wish it, Mr. Bounderby.′

48

`I told him I would give her a shake-down here, last night, in order that

he might sleep on it before he decided to let her have any association

with Louisa.′

`Indeed, Mr. Bounderby? Very thoughtful of you!′ Mrs. Sparsit′s

Coriolanian nose underwent a slight expansion of the nostrils, and her

black eyebrows contracted as she took a sip of tea.

`It′s tolerably clear to me,′ said Bounderby, `that the little puss can get

small good out of such companionship.′

`Are you speaking of young Miss Gradgrind, Mr. Bounderby?′

`Yes, ma′am, I′m speaking of Louisa.′

`Your observation being limited to "little puss,"′ said Mrs. Sparsit, `and

there being two little girls in question, I did not know which might be

indicated by that expression.′

`Louisa,′ repeated Mr. Bounderby. `Louisa, Louisa.′

`You are quite another father to Louisa, sir.′ Mrs. Sparsit took a little

more tea; and, as she bent her again contracted eyebrows over her

steaming cup, rather looked as if her classical countenance were invoking

the infernal gods.

`If you had said I was another father to Tom - young Tom, I mean, not

my friend Tom Gradgrind - you might have been nearer the mark. I am

going to take young Tom into my office. Going to have him under my

wing, ma′am.′

`Indeed? Rather young for that, is he not, sir?′ Mrs. Sparsit′s `sir,′ in

addressing Mr. Bounderby, was a word of ceremony, rather exacting

consideration for herself in the use, than honouring him.

`I′m not going to take him at once; he is to finish his educational

cramming before then,′ said Bounderby. `By the Lord Harry, he′ll have

49

enough of it, first and last! He′d open his eyes, that boy would, if he

knew how empty of learning my young maw was, at his time of life.′

Which, by the by, he probably did know, for he had heard of it often

enough. `But it′s extraordinary the difficulty I have on scores of such

subjects, in speaking to any one on equal terms. Here, for example, I

have been speaking to you this morning about tumblers. Why, what do

you know about tumblers? At the time when, to have been a tumbler in

the mud of the streets, would have been a godsend to me, a prize in the

lottery to me, you were at the Italian Opera. You were coming out of the

Italian Opera, ma′am, in white satin and jewels, a blaze of splendour,

when I hadn′t a penny to buy a link to light you.′

`I certainly, sir,′ returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a dignity serenely mournful,

`was familiar with the Italian Opera at a very early age.′

`Egad, ma′am, so was I,′ said Bounderby, ′ - with the wrong side of it. A

hard bed the pavement of its Arcade used to make, I assure you. People

like you, ma′am, accustomed from infancy to lie on Down feathers, have

no idea how hard a paving-stone is, without trying it. No, no, it′s of no

use my talking to you about tumblers. I should speak of foreign dancers,

and the West End of London, and May Fair, and lords and ladies and

honourables.′

`I trust, sir,′ rejoined Mrs. Sparsit, with decent resignation, `it is not

necessary that you should do anything of that kind. I hope I have learnt

how to accommodate myself to the changes of life. If I have acquired

an interest in hearing of your instructive experiences, and can scarcely

hear enough of them, I claim no merit for that, since I believe it is a

general sentiment.′

`Well, ma′am,′ said her patron, `perhaps some people may be pleased to

say that they do like to hear, in his own unpolished way, what Josiah

Bounderby, of Coketown, has gone through. But you must confess that

you were born in the lap of luxury, yourself. Come, ma′am, you know

you were born in the lap of luxury.′

`I do not, sir,′ returned Mrs. Sparsit with a shake of her head, `deny it.′

50

Mr. Bounderby was obliged to get up from table, and stand with his back

to the fire, looking at her; she was such an enhancement of his position.

`And you were in crack society. Devilish high society,′ he said, warming

his legs.

`It is true, sir,′ returned Mrs. Sparsit, with an affectation of humility the

very opposite of his, and therefore in no danger of jostling it.

`You were in the tiptop fashion, and all the rest of it,′ said Mr.

Bounderby.

`Yes, sir,′ returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a kind of social widowhood upon

her. `It is unquestionably true.′

Mr. Bounderby, bending himself at the knees, literally embraced his legs

in his great satisfaction and laughed aloud. Mr. and Miss Gradgrind

being then announced, he received the former with a shake of the hand,

and the latter with a kiss.

`Can Jupe be sent here, Bounderby?′ asked Mr. Gradgrind.

Certainly. So Jupe was sent there. On coming in, she curtseyed to Mr.

Bounderby, and to his friend Tom Gradgrind, and also to Louisa; but in

her confusion unluckily omitted Mrs. Sparsit. Observing this, the

blustrous Bounderby had the following remarks to make:

`Now, I tell you what, my girl. The name of that lady by the teapot, is

Mrs. Sparsit. That lady acts as mistress of this house, and she is a highly

connected lady. Consequently, if ever you come again into any room in

this house, you will make a short stay in it if you don′t behave towards

that lady in your most respectful manner. Now, I don′t care a button

what you do to me, because I don′t affect to be anybody. So far from

having high connections I have no connections at all, and I come of the

scum of the earth. But towards that lady, I do care what you do; and you

shall do what is deferential and respectful, or you shall not come here.′

51

`I hope, Bounderby,′ said Mr. Gradgrind, in a conciliatory voice, `that this

was merely an oversight.′

`My friend Tom Gradgrind suggests, Mrs. Sparsit,′ said Bounderby, `that

this was merely an oversight. Very likely. However, as you are aware,

ma′am, I don′t allow of even oversights towards you.′

`You are very good indeed, sir,′ returned Mrs. Sparsit, shaking her head

with her State humility. `It is not worth speaking of.′

Sissy, who all this time had been faintly excusing herself with tears in her

eyes, was now waved over by the master of the house to Mr. Gradgrind.

She stood looking intently at him, and Louisa stood coldly by, with her

eyes upon the ground, while he proceeded thus:

`Jupe, I have made up my mind to take you into my house; and, when

you are not in attendance at the school, to employ you about Mrs.

Gradgrind, who is rather an invalid. I have explained to Miss Louisa -

this is Miss Louisa - the miserable but natural end of your late career;

and you are to expressly understand that the whole of that subject is

past, and is not to be referred to any more. From this time you begin

your history. You are, at present, ignorant, I know.′

`Yes, sir, very,′ she answered, curtseying.

`I shall have the satisfaction of causing you to be strictly educated; and

you will be a living proof to all who come into communication with you,

of the advantages of the training you will receive. You will be reclaimed

and formed. You have been in the habit now of reading to your father,

and those people I found you among, I dare say?′ said Mr. Gradgrind,

beckoning her nearer to him before he said so, and dropping his voice.

`Only to father and Merrylegs, sir. At least I mean to father, when

Merrylegs was always there.′

52

`Never mind Merrylegs, Jupe,′ said Mr. Gradgrind, with a passing frown.

`I don′t ask about him. I understand you to have been in the habit of

reading to your father?′

`O, yes, sir, thousands of times. They were the happiest - O, of all the

happy times we had together, sir!′

It was only now when her sorrow broke out, that Louisa looked at her.

`And what,′ asked Mr. Gradgrind, in a still lower voice, `did you read to

your father, Jupe?′

`About the Fairies, sir, and the Dwarf, and the Hunchback, and the

Genies,′ she sobbed out; `and about - ′

`Hush!′ said Mr. Gradgrind, `that is enough. Never breathe a word of

such destructive nonsense any more. Bounderby, this is a case for rigid

training, and I shall observe it with interest.′

`Well,′ returned Mr. Bounderby, `I have given you my opinion already,

and I shouldn′t do as you do. But, very well, very well. Since you are bent

upon it, very well!′

So, Mr. Gradgrind and his daughter took Cecilia Jupe off with them to

Stone Lodge, and on the way Louisa never spoke one word, good or bad.

And Mr. Bounderby went about his daily pursuits. And Mrs. Sparsit got

behind her eyebrows and meditated in the gloom of that retreat, all the

evening.

Chapter VIII: Never Wonder

LET us strike the key-note again, before pursuing the tune.

When she was half a dozen years younger, Louisa had been overheard to

begin a conversation with her brother one day, by saying `Tom, I wonder′

- upon which Mr. Gradgrind, who was the person overhearing, stepped

forth into the light and said, `Louisa, never wonder!′

53

Herein lay the spring of the mechanical art and mystery of educating the

reason without stooping to the cultivation of the sentiments and

affections. Never wonder. By means of addition, subtraction,

multiplication, and division, settle everything somehow, and never

wonder. Bring to me, says M′Choakumchild, yonder baby just able to

walk, and I will engage that it shall never wonder.

Now, besides very many babies just able to walk, there happened to be in

Coketown a considerable population of babies who had been walking

against time towards the infinite world, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty years

and more. These portentous infants being alarming creatures to stalk

about in any human society, the eighteen denominations incessantly

scratched one another′s faces and pulled one another′s hair by way of

agreeing on the steps to be taken for their improvement - which they

never did; a surprising circumstance, when the happy adaptation of the

means to the end is considered. Still, although they differed in every

other particular, conceivable and inconceivable (especially inconceivable),

they were pretty well united on the point that these unlucky infants were

never to wonder. Body number one, said they must take everything on

trust. Body number two, said they must take everything on political

economy. Body number three, wrote leaden little books for them,

showing how the good grown-up baby invariably got to the Savings-

bank, and the bad grown-up baby invariably got transported. Body

number four, under dreary pretences of being droll (when it was very

melancholy indeed), made the shallowest pretences of concealing pitfalls

of knowledge, into which it was the duty of these babies to be smuggled

and inveigled. But, all the bodies agreed that they were never to wonder.

There was a library in Coketown, to which general access was easy. Mr.

Gradgrind greatly tormented his mind about what the people read in this

library: a point whereon little rivers of tabular statements periodically

flowed into the howling ocean of tabular statements, which no diver ever

got to any depth in and came up sane. It was a disheartening

circumstance, but a melancholy fact, that even these readers persisted in

wondering. They wondered about human nature, human passions,

human hopes and fears, the struggles, triumphs and defeats, the cares

54

and joys and sorrows, the lives and deaths of common men and women!

They sometimes, after fifteen hours′ work, sat down to read mere fables

about men and women, more or less like themselves, and about children,

more or less like their own. They took De Foe to their bosoms, instead

of Euclid, and seemed to be on the whole more comforted by

Goldsmith than by Cocker. Mr. Gradgrind was for ever working, in print

and out of print, at this eccentric sum, and he never could make out how

it yielded this unaccountable product.

`I am sick of my life, Loo. I, hate it altogether, and I hate everybody

except you,′ said the unnatural young Thomas Gradgrind in the hair-

cutting chamber at twilight.

`You don′t hate Sissy, Tom?′

`I hate to be obliged to call her Jupe. And she hates me,′ said Tom,

moodily.

`No, she does not, Tom, I am sure!′

`She must,′ said Tom. `She must just hate and detest the whole set-out of

us. They′ll bother her head off, I think, before they have done with her.

Already she′s getting as pale as wax, and as heavy as - I am.′

Young Thomas expressed these sentiments sitting astride of a chair

before the fire, with his arms on the back, and his sulky face on his arms.

His sister sat in the darker corner by the fireside, now looking at him,

now looking at the bright sparks as they dropped upon the hearth.

`As to me,′ said Tom, tumbling his hair all manner of ways with his sulky

hands, `I am a Donkey, that′s what I am. I am as obstinate as one, I am

more stupid than one, I get as much pleasure as one, and I should like to

kick like one.′

`Not me, I hope, Tom?′

55

`No, Loo; I wouldn′t hurt you. I made an exception of you at first. I

don′t know what this - jol y old - Jaundiced Jail,′ Tom had paused to find

a sufficiently complimentary and expressive name for the parental roof,

and seemed to relieve his mind for a moment by the strong alliteration

of this one, `would be without you.′

`Indeed, Tom? Do you really and truly say so?′

`Why, of course I do. What′s the use of talking about it!′ returned Tom,

chafing his face on his coat-sleeve, as if to mortify his flesh, and have it

in unison with his spirit.

`Because, Tom,′ said his sister, after silently watching the sparks awhile,

`as I get older, and nearer growing up, I often sit wondering here, and

think how unfortunate it is for me that I can′t reconcile you to home

better than I am able to do. I don′t know what other girls know. I can′t

play to you, or sing to you. I can′t talk to you so as to lighten your mind,

for I never see any amusing sights or read any amusing books that it

would be a pleasure or a relief to you to talk about, when you are tired.′

`Well, no more do I. I am as bad as you in that respect; and I am a Mule

too, which you′re not. If father was determined to make me either a Prig

or a Mule, and I am not a Prig, why, it stands to reason, I must be a

Mule. And so I am,′ said Tom, desperately.

`It′s a great pity,′ said Louisa, after another pause, and speaking

thoughtfully out of her dark corner: `it′s a great pity, Tom. It′s very

unfortunate for both of us.′

`Oh! You,′ said Tom; `you are a girl, Loo, and a girl comes out of it better

than a boy does. I don′t miss anything in you. You are the only pleasure I

have - you can brighten even this place - and you can always lead me as

you like.′

`You are a dear brother, Tom; and while you think I can do such things, I

don′t so much mind knowing better. Though I do know better, Tom, and

56

am very sorry for it.′ She came and kissed him, and went back into her

corner again.

`I wish I could collect all the Facts we hear so much about,′ said Tom,

spitefully setting his teeth, `and all the Figures, and all the people who

found them out: and I wish I could put a thousand barrels of gunpowder

under them, and blow them all up together! However, when I go to live

with old Bounderby, I′ll have my revenge.′

`Your revenge, Tom?′

`I mean, I′ll enjoy myself a little, and go about and see something, and

hear something. I′ll recompense myself for the way in which I have been

brought up.′

`But don′t disappoint yourself beforehand, Tom. Mr. Bounderby thinks

as father thinks, and is a great deal rougher, and not half so kind.′

`Oh!′ said Tom, laughing; `I don′t mind that. I shall very well know how

to manage and smooth old Bounderby!′

Their shadows were defined upon the wall, but those of the high presses

in the room were all blended together on the wall and on the ceiling, as

if the brother and sister were overhung by a dark cavern. Or, a fanciful

imagination - if such treason could have been there - might have made it

out to be the shadow of their subject, and of its lowering association

with their future.

`What is your great mode of smoothing and managing, Tom? Is it a

secret?′

`Oh!′ said Tom, `if it is a secret, it′s not far off. It′s you. You are his little

pet, you are his favourite; he′ll do anything for you. When he says to me

what I don′t like, I shall say to him, "My sister Loo will be hurt and

disappointed, Mr. Bounderby. She always used to tell me she was sure

you would be easier with me than this." That′ll bring him about, or

nothing will.′

57

After waiting for some answering remark, and getting none, Tom wearily

relapsed into the present time, and twined himself yawning round and

about the rails of his chair, and rumpled his head more and more, until

he suddenly looked up, and asked:

`Have you gone to sleep, Loo?′

`No, Tom. I am looking at the fire.′

`You seem to find more to look at in it than ever I could find,′ said Tom.

`Another of the advantages, I suppose, of being a girl.′

`Tom,′ enquired his sister, slowly, and in a curious tone, as if she were

reading what she asked in the fire, and it was not quite plainly written

there, `do you look forward with any satisfaction to this change to Mr.

Bounderby′s?′

`Why, there′s one thing to be said of it,′ returned Tom, pushing his chair

from him, and standing up; `it will be getting away from home.′

`There is one thing to be said of it,′ Louisa repeated in her former

curious tone; `it will be getting away from home. Yes.′

`Not but what I shall be very unwilling, both to leave you, Loo, and to

leave you here. But I must go, you know, whether I like it or not; and I

had better go where I can take with me some advantage of your

influence, than where I should lose it altogether. Don′t you see?′

`Yes, Tom.′

The answer was so long in coming, though there was no indecision in it,

that Tom went and leaned on the back of her chair, to contemplate the

fire which so engrossed her, from her point of view, and see what he

could make of it.

`Except that it is a fire,′ said Tom, `it looks to me as stupid and blank as

everything else looks. What do you see in it? Not a circus?′

58

`I don′t see anything in it, Tom, particularly. But since I have been

looking at it, I have been wondering about you and me, grown up.′

`Wondering again!′ said Tom.

`I have such unmanageable thoughts,′ returned his sister, `that they will

wonder.′

`Then I beg of you, Louisa,′ said Mrs. Gradgrind, who had opened the

door without being heard, `to do nothing of that description, for

goodness′ sake, you inconsiderate girl, or I shall never hear the last of it

from your father. And, Thomas, it is really shameful, with my poor head

continually wearing me out, that a boy brought up as you have been, and

whose education has cost what yours has, should be found encouraging

his sister to wonder, when he knows his father has expressly said that she

is not to do it.′

Louisa denied Tom′s participation in the offence; but her mother

stopped her with the conclusive answer, `Louisa, don′t tell me, in my

state of health; for unless you had been encouraged, it is morally and

physically impossible that you could have done it.′

`I was encouraged by nothing, mother, but by looking at the red sparks

dropping out of the fire, and whitening and dying. It made me think,

after all, how short my life would be, and how little I could hope to do in

it.′

`Nonsense!′ said Mrs. Gradgrind, rendered almost energetic. `Nonsense!

Don′t stand there and tell me such stuff, Louisa, to my face, when you

know very wel that if it was ever to reach your father′s ears I should

never hear the last of it. After all the trouble that has been taken with

you! After the lectures you have attended, and the experiments you have

seen! After I have heard you myself, when the whole of my right side has

been benumbed, going on with your master about combustion, and

calcination, and calorification, and I may say every kind of ation that

could drive a poor invalid distracted, to hear you talking in this absurd

way about sparks and ashes! I wish,′ whimpered Mrs. Gradgrind, taking a

59

chair, and discharging her strongest point before succumbing under

these mere shadows of facts, `yes, I really do wish that I had never had a

family, and then you would have known what it was to do without me!′

Chapter IX: Sissy′s Progress

SISSY JUPE had not an easy time of it, between Mr. M′Choakumchild

and Mrs. Gradgrind, and was not without strong impulses, in the first

months of her probation, to run away. It hailed facts all day long so very

hard, and life in general was opened to her as such a closely ruled

ciphering-book, that assuredly she would have run away, but for only one

restraint.

It is lamentable to think of; but this restraint was the result of no

arithmetical process, was self-imposed in defiance of all calculation, and

went dead against any table of probabilities that any Actuary would have

drawn up from the premises. The girl believed that her father had not

deserted her; she lived in the hope that he would come back, and in the

faith that he would be made the happier by her remaining where she was.

The wretched ignorance with which Jupe clung to this consolation,

rejecting the superior comfort of knowing, on a sound arithmetical basis,

that her father was an unnatural vagabond, filled Mr. Gradgrind with

pity. Yet, what was to be done? M′Choakumchild reported that she had a

very dense head for figures; that, once possessed with a general idea of

the globe, she took the smallest conceivable interest in its exact

measurements; that she was extremely slow in the acquisition of dates,

unless some pitiful incident happened to be connected therewith; that

she would burst into tears on being required (by the mental process)

immediately to name the cost of two hundred and forty-seven muslin

caps at fourteen-pence halfpenny; that she was as low down, in the

school, as low could be; that after eight weeks of induction into the

elements of Political Economy, she had only yesterday been set right by a

prattler three feet high, for returning to the question, `What is the first

principle of this science?′ the absurd answer, `To do unto others as I

would that they should do unto me.′

60

Mr. Gradgrind observed, shaking his head, that all this was very bad; that

it showed the necessity of infinite grinding at the mill of knowledge, as

per system, schedule, blue book, report, and tabular statements A to Z;

and that Jupe `must be kept to it.′ So Jupe was kept to it, and became

low-spirited, but no wiser.

`It would be a fine thing to be you, Miss Louisa!′ she said, one night,

when Louisa had endeavoured to make her perplexities for next day

something clearer to her.

`Do you think so?′

`I should know so much, Miss Louisa. All that is difficult to me now,

would be so easy then.′

`You might not be the better for it, Sissy.′

Sissy submitted, after a little hesitation, `I should not be the worse, Miss

Louisa.′ To which Miss Louisa answered, `I don′t know that.′

There had been so little communication between these two - both

because life at Stone Lodge went monotonously round like a piece of

machinery which discouraged human interference, and because of the

prohibition relative to Sissy′s past career - that they were still almost

strangers. Sissy, with her dark eyes wonderingly directed to Louisa′s face,

was uncertain whether to say more or to remain silent.

`You are more useful to my mother, and more pleasant with her than I

can ever be,′ Louisa resumed. `You are pleasanter to yourself, than I am

to myself.′

`But, if you please, Miss Louisa,′ Sissy pleaded, `I am - O so stupid!′

Louisa, with a brighter laugh than usual, told her she would be wiser by-

and-by.

61

`You don′t know,′ said Sissy, half crying, `what a stupid girl I am. All

through school hours I make mistakes. Mr. and Mrs. M′Choakumchild

call me up, over and over again, regularly to make mistakes. I can′t help

them. They seem to come natural to me.′

`Mr. and Mrs. M′Choakumchild never make any mistakes themselves, I

suppose, Sissy?′

`O no!′ she eagerly returned. `They know everything.′

`Tell me some of your mistakes.′

`I am almost ashamed,′ said Sissy, with reluctance. `But to-day, for

instance, Mr. M′Choakumchild was explaining to us about Natural

Prosperity.′

`National, I think it must have been,′ observed Louisa.

`Yes, it was. - But isn′t it the same?′ she timidly asked.

`You had better say, National, as he said so,′ returned Louisa, with her

dry reserve.

`National Prosperity. And he said, Now, this schoolroom is a Nation.

And in this nation, there are fifty millions of money. Isn′t this a

prosperous nation? Girl number twenty, isn′t this a prosperous nation,

and a′n′t you in a thriving state?′

`What did you say?′ asked Louisa.

`Miss Louisa, I said I didn′t know. I thought I couldn′t know whether it

was a prosperous nation or not, and whether I was in a thriving state or

not, unless I knew who had got the money, and whether any of it was

mine. But that had nothing to do with it. It was not in the figures at all,′

said Sissy, wiping her eyes.

`That was a great mistake of yours,′ observed Louisa.

62

`Yes, Miss Louisa, I know it was, now. Then Mr. M′Choakumchild said he

would try me again. And he said, This schoolroom is an immense town,

and in it there are a million of inhabitants, and only five-and-twenty are

starved to death in the streets, in the course of a year. What is your

remark on that proportion? And my remark was - for I couldn′t think of

a better one - that I thought it must be just as hard upon those who were

starved, whether the others were a million, or a million million. And that

was wrong, too.′

`Of course it was.′

`Then Mr. M′Choakumchild said he would try me once more. And he

said, Here are the stutterings - ′

`Statistics,′ said Louisa.

`Yes, Miss Louisa - they always remind me of stutterings, and that′s

another of my mistakes - of accidents upon the sea. And I find (Mr.

M′Choakumchild said) that in a given time a hundred thousand persons

went to sea on long voyages, and only five hundred of them were

drowned or burnt to death. What is the percentage? And I said, Miss;′

here Sissy fairly sobbed as confessing with extreme contrition to her

greatest error; `I said it was nothing.′

`Nothing, Sissy?′

`Nothing, Miss - to the relations and friends of the people who were

killed. I shall never learn,′ said Sissy. `And the worst of all is, that

although my poor father wished me so much to learn, and although I am

so anxious to learn, because he wished me to, I am afraid I don′t like it.′

Louisa stood looking at the pretty modest head, as it drooped abashed

before her, until it was raised again to glance at her face. Then she asked:

`Did your father know so much himself, that he wished you to be well

taught too, Sissy?′

63

Sissy hesitated before replying, and so plainly showed her sense that they

were entering on forbidden ground, that Louisa added, `No one hears us;

and if any one did, I am sure no harm could be found in such an

innocent question.′

`No, Miss Louisa,′ answered Sissy, upon this encouragement, shaking her

head; `father knows very little indeed. It′s as much as he can do to write;

and it′s more than people in general can do to read his writing. Though

it′s plain to me.′

`Your mother!′

`Father says she was quite a scholar. She died when I was born. She was;′

Sissy made the terrible communication nervously; `she was a dancer.′

`Did your father love her?′ Louisa asked these questions with a strong,

wild, wandering interest peculiar to her; an interest gone astray like a

banished creature, and hiding in solitary places.

`O yes! As dearly as he loves me. Father loved me, first, for her sake. He

carried me about with him when I was quite a baby. We have never been

asunder from that time.′

`Yet he leaves you now, Sissy?′

`Only for my good. Nobody understands him as I do; nobody knows

him as I do. When he left me for my good - he never would have left me

for his own - I know he was almost broken-hearted with the trial. He will

not be happy for a single minute, till he comes back.′

`Tell me more about him,′ said Louisa, `I will never ask you again. Where

did you live?′

`We travelled about the country, and had no fixed place to live in. Father′s

a;′ Sissy whispered the awful word, `a clown.′

`To make the people laugh?′ said Louisa, with a nod of intelligence.

64

`Yes. But they wouldn′t laugh sometimes, and then father cried. Lately,

they very often wouldn′t laugh, and he used to come home despairing.

Father′s not like most. Those who didn′t know him as wel as I do, and

didn′t love him as dearly as I do, might believe he was not quite right.

Sometimes they played tricks upon him; but they never knew how he felt

them, and shrunk up, when he was alone with me. He was far, far timider

than they thought!′

`And you were his comfort through everything?′

She nodded, with the tears rolling down her face. `I hope so, and father

said I was. It was because he grew so scared and trembling, and because

he felt himself to be a poor, weak, ignorant, helpless man (those used to

be his words), that he wanted me so much to know a great deal, and be

different from him. I used to read to him to cheer his courage, and he

was very fond of that. They were wrong books - I am never to speak of

them here - but we didn′t know there was any harm in them.′

`And he liked them?′ said Louisa, with a searching gaze on Sissy all this

time.

`O very much! They kept him, many times, from what did him real harm.

And often and often of a night, he used to forget all his troubles in

wondering whether the Sultan would let the lady go on with the story, or

would have her head cut off before it was finished.′

`And your father was always kind? To the last?′ asked Louisa

contravening the great principle, and wondering very much.

`Always, always!′ returned Sissy, clasping her hands. `Kinder and kinder

than I can tell. He was angry only one night, and that was not to me, but

Merrylegs. Merrylegs;′ she whispered the awful fact; `is his performing

dog.′

`Why was he angry with the dog?′ Louisa demanded.

65

`Father, soon after they came home from performing, told Merrylegs to

jump up on the backs of the two chairs and stand across them - which is

one of his tricks. He looked at father, and didn′t do it at once.

Everything of father′s had gone wrong that night, and he hadn′t pleased

the public at all. He cried out that the very dog knew he was failing, and

had no compassion on him. Then he beat the dog, and I was frightened,

and said, "Father, father! Pray don′t hurt the creature who is so fond of

you! O Heaven forgive you, father, stop!" And he stopped, and the dog

was bloody, and father lay down crying on the floor with the dog in his

arms, and the dog licked his face.′

Louisa saw that she was sobbing; and going to her, kissed her, took her

hand, and sat down beside her.

`Finish by telling me how your father left you, Sissy. Now that I have

asked you so much, tell me the end. The blame, if there is any blame, is

mine, not yours.′

`Dear Miss Louisa,′ said Sissy, covering her eyes, and sobbing yet; `I came

home from the school that afternoon, and found poor father just come

home too, from the booth. And he sat rocking himself over the fire, as if

he was in pain. And I said, "Have you hurt yourself, father?" (as he did

sometimes, like they all did), and he said, "A little, my darling." And when

I came to stoop down and look up at his face, I saw that he was crying.

The more I spoke to him, the more he hid his face; and at first he shook

all over, and said nothing but "My darling;" and "My love!"′

Here Tom came lounging in, and stared at the two with a coolness not

particularly savouring of interest in anything but himself, and not much

of that at present.

`I am asking Sissy a few questions, Tom,′ observed his sister. `You have

no occasion to go away; but don′t interrupt us for a moment, Tom dear.′

`Oh! very well!′ returned Tom. `Only father has brought old Bounderby

home, and I want you to come into the drawing-room. Because if you

66

come, there′s a good chance of old Bounderby′s asking me to dinner;

and if you don′t, there′s none.′

`I′ll come directly.′

`I′ll wait for you,′ said Tom, `to make sure.′

Sissy resumed in a lower voice. `At last poor father said that he had given

no satisfaction again, and never did give any satisfaction now, and that he

was a shame and disgrace, and I should have done better without him all

along. I said all the affectionate things to him that came into my heart,

and presently he was quiet and I sat down by him, and told him all about

the school and everything that had been said and done there. When I

had no more left to tell, he put his arms round my neck, and kissed me a

great many times. Then he asked me to fetch some of the stuff he used,

for the little hurt he had had, and to get it at the best place, which was at

the other end of town from there; and then, after kissing me again, he let

me go. When I had gone down-stairs, I turned back that I might be a

little bit more company to him yet, and looked in at the door, and said,

"Father dear, shall I take Merrylegs?" Father shook his head and said,

"No, Sissy, no; take nothing that′s known to be mine, my darling;" and I

left him sitting by the fire. Then the thought must have come upon him,

poor, poor father! of going away to try something for my sake; for when

I came back, he was gone.′

`I say! Look sharp for old Bounderby, Loo!′ Tom remonstrated.

`There′s no more to tell, Miss Louisa. I keep the nine oils ready for him,

and I know he will come back. Every letter that I see in Mr. Gradgrind′s

hand takes my breath away and blinds my eyes, for I think it comes from

father, or from Mr. Sleary about father. Mr. Sleary promised to write as

soon as ever father should be heard of, and I trust to him to keep his

word.′

`Do look sharp for old Bounderby, Loo!′ said Tom, with an impatient

whistle. `He′ll be off if you don′t look sharp!′

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After this, whenever Sissy dropped a curtsey to Mr. Gradgrind in the

presence of his family, and said in a faltering way, `I beg your pardon, sir,

for being troublesome - but - have you had any letter yet about me?′

Louisa would suspend the occupation of the moment, whatever it was,

and look for the reply as earnestly as Sissy did. And when Mr. Gradgrind

regularly answered, `No, Jupe, nothing of the sort,′ the trembling of

Sissy′s lip would be repeated in Louisa′s face, and her eyes would follow

Sissy with compassion to the door. Mr. Gradgrind usually improved

these occasions by remarking, when she was gone, that if Jupe had been

properly trained from an early age she would have remonstrated to

herself on sound principles the baselessness of these fantastic hopes. Yet

it did seem (though not to him, for he saw nothing of it) as if fantastic

hope could take as strong a hold as Fact.

This observation must be limited exclusively to his daughter. As to Tom,

he was becoming that not unprecedented triumph of calculation which

is usually at work on number one. As to Mrs. Gradgrind, if she said

anything on the subject, she would come a little way out of her wrappers,

like a feminine dormouse, and say:

`Good gracious bless me, how my poor head is vexed and worried by

that girl Jupe′s so perseveringly asking, over and over again, about her

tiresome letters! Upon my word and honour I seem to be fated, and

destined, and ordained, to live in the midst of things that I am never to

hear the last of. It really is a most extraordinary circumstance that it

appears as if I never was to hear the last of anything!′

At about this point, Mr. Gradgrind′s eye would fal upon her; and under

the influence of that wintry piece of fact, she would become torpid

again.

Chapter X: Stephen Blackpool

I ENTERTAIN a weak idea that the English people are as hard-worked

as any people upon whom the sun shines. I acknowledge to this

68

ridiculous idiosyncrasy, as a reason why I would give them a little more

play.

In the hardest working part of Coketown; in the innermost fortifications

of that ugly citadel, where Nature was as strongly bricked out as killing

airs and gases were bricked in; at the heart of the labyrinth of narrow

courts upon courts, and close streets upon streets, which had come into

existence piecemeal, every piece in a violent hurry for some one man′s

purpose, and the whole an unnatural family, shouldering, and trampling,

and pressing one another to death; in the last close nook of this great

exhausted receiver, where the chimneys, for want of air to make a

draught, were built in an immense variety of stunted and crooked shapes,

as though every house put out a sign of the kind of people who might

be expected to be born in it; among the multitude of Coketown,

generically called `the Hands,′ - a race who would have found more

favour with some people, if Providence had seen fit to make them only

hands, or, like the lower creatures of the seashore, only hands and

stomachs - lived a certain Stephen Blackpool, forty years of age.

Stephen looked older, but he had had a hard life. It is said that every life

has its roses and thorns; there seemed, however, to have been a

misadventure or mistake in Stephen′s case, whereby somebody else had

become possessed of his roses, and he had become possessed of the

same somebody else′s thorns in addition to his own. He had known, to

use his words, a peck of trouble. He was usually called Old Stephen, in a

kind of rough homage to the fact.

A rather stooping man, with a knitted brow, a pondering expression of

face, and a hard-looking head sufficiently capacious, on which his iron-

grey hair lay long and thin, Old Stephen might have passed for a

particularly intelligent man in his condition. Yet he was not. He took no

place among those remarkable `Hands,′ who, piecing together their

broken intervals of leisure through many years, had mastered difficult

sciences, and acquired a knowledge of most unlikely things. He held no

station among the Hands who could make speeches and carry on

debates. Thousands of his compeers could talk much better than he, at

69

any time. He was a good power-loom weaver, and a man of perfect

integrity. What more he was, or what else he had in him, if anything, let

him show for himself.

The lights in the great factories, which looked, when they were

illuminated, like Fairy palaces - or the travellers by express- train said so -

were all extinguished; and the bells had rung for knocking off for the

night, and had ceased again; and the Hands, men and women, boy and

girl, were clattering home. Old Stephen was standing in the street, with

the old sensation upon him which the stoppage of the machinery always

produced - the sensation of its having worked and stopped in his own

head.

`Yet I don′t see Rachael, still!′ said he.

It was a wet night, and many groups of young women passed him, with

their shawls drawn over their bare heads and held close under their chins

to keep the rain out. He knew Rachael well, for a glance at any one of

these groups was sufficient to show him that she was not there. At last,

there were no more to come; and then he turned away, saying in a tone

of disappointment, `Why, then, ha′ missed her!′

But, he had not gone the length of three streets, when he saw another of

the shawled figures in advance of him, at which he looked so keenly that

perhaps its mere shadow indistinctly reflected on the wet pavement - if

he could have seen it without the figure itself moving along from lamp

to lamp, brightening and fading as it went - would have been enough to

tell him who was there. Making his pace at once much quicker and much

softer, he darted on until he was very near this figure, then fell into his

former walk, and called `Rachael!′

She turned, being then in the brightness of a lamp; and raising her hood

a little, showed a quiet oval face, dark and rather delicate, irradiated by a

pair of very gentle eyes, and further set off by the perfect order of her

shining black hair. It was not a face in its first bloom; she was a woman

five and thirty years of age.

70

`Ah, lad! ′Tis thou?′ When she had said this, with a smile which would

have been quite expressed, though nothing of her had been seen but her

pleasant eyes, she replaced her hood again, and they went on together.

`I thought thou wast ahind me, Rachael?′

`No.′

`Early t′night, lass?′

′′Times I′m a little early, Stephen! `times a little late. I′m never to be

counted on, going home.′

`Nor going t′other way, neither, `t seems to me, Rachael?′

`No, Stephen.′

He looked at her with some disappointment in his face, but with a

respectful and patient conviction that she must be right in whatever she

did. The expression was not lost upon her; she laid her hand lightly on

his arm a moment as if to thank him for it.

`We are such true friends, lad, and such old friends, and getting to be

such old folk, now.′

`No, Rachael, thou′rt as young as ever thou wast.′

`One of us would be puzzled how to get old, Stephen, without `t other

getting so too, both being alive,′ she answered, laughing; `but, anyways,

we′re such old friends, and t′ hide a word of honest truth fro′ one

another would be a sin and a pity. ′Tis better not to walk too much

together. `Times, yes! `Twould be hard, indeed, if ′twas not to be at all,′

she said, with a cheerfulness she sought to communicate to him.

′′Tis hard, anyways, Rachael.′

`Try to think not; and ′twill seem better.′

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`I′ve tried a long time, and `ta′nt got better. But thou′rt right; `t might

mak fok talk, even of thee. Thou hast been that to me, Rachael, through

so many year: thou hast done me so much good, and heartened of me in

that cheering way, that thy word is a law to me. Ah, lass, and a bright

good law! Better than some real ones.′

`Never fret about them, Stephen,′ she answered quickly, and not without

an anxious glance at his face. `Let the laws be.′

`Yes,′ he said, with a slow nod or two. `Let ′em be. Let everything be. Let

all sorts alone. ′Tis a muddle, and that′s aw.′

`Always a muddle?′ said Rachael, with another gentle touch upon his arm,

as if to recall him out of the thoughtfulness, in which he was biting the

long ends of his loose neckerchief as he walked along. The touch had its

instantaneous effect. He let them fall, turned a smiling face upon her,

and said, as he broke into a good-humoured laugh, `Ay, Rachael, lass,

awlus a muddle. That′s where I stick. I come to the muddle many times

and agen, and I never get beyond it.′

They had walked some distance, and were near their own homes. The

woman′s was the first reached. It was in one of the many small streets

for which the favourite undertaker (who turned a handsome sum out of

the one poor ghastly pomp of the neighbourhood) kept a black ladder,

in order that those who had done their daily groping up and down the

narrow stairs might slide out of this working world by the windows. She

stopped at the corner, and putting her hand in his, wished him good

night.

`Good night, dear lass; good night!′

She went, with her neat figure and her sober womanly step, down the

dark street, and he stood looking after her until she turned into one of

the small houses. There was not a flutter of her coarse shawl, perhaps,

but had its interest in this man′s eyes; not a tone of her voice but had its

echo in his innermost heart.

72

When she was lost to his view, he pursued his homeward way, glancing

up sometimes at the sky, where the clouds were sailing fast and wildly.

But, they were broken now, and the rain had ceased, and the moon

shone, - looking down the high chimneys of Coketown on the deep

furnaces below, and casting Titanic shadows of the steam-engines at rest,

upon the walls where they were lodged. The man seemed to have

brightened with the night, as he went on.

His home, in such another street as the first, saving that it was narrower,

was over a little shop. How it came to pass that any people found it

worth their while to sell or buy the wretched little toys, mixed up in its

window with cheap newspapers and pork (there was a leg to be raffled

for to-morrow-night), matters not here. He took his end of candle from

a shelf, lighted it at another end of candle on the counter, without

disturbing the mistress of the shop who was asleep in her little room,

and went upstairs into his lodging.

It was a room, not unacquainted with the black ladder under various

tenants; but as neat, at present, as such a room could be. A few books

and writings were on an old bureau in a corner, the furniture was decent

and sufficient, and, though the atmosphere was tainted, the room was

clean.

Going to the hearth to set the candle down upon a round three- legged

table standing there, he stumbled against something. As he recoiled,

looking down at it, it raised itself up into the form of a woman in a

sitting attitude.

`Heaven′s mercy, woman!′ he cried, falling farther off from the figure.

`Hast thou come back again!′

Such a woman! A disabled, drunken creature, barely able to preserve her

sitting posture by steadying herself with one begrimed hand on the floor,

while the other was so purposeless in trying to push away her tangled

hair from her face, that it only blinded her the more with the dirt upon it.

A creature so foul to look at, in her tatters, stains and splashes, but so

73

much fouler than that in her moral infamy, that it was a shameful thing

even to see her.

After an impatient oath or two, and some stupid clawing of herself with

the hand not necessary to her support, she got her hair away from her

eyes sufficiently to obtain a sight of him. Then she sat swaying her body

to and fro, and making gestures with her unnerved arm, which seemed

intended as the accompaniment to a fit of laughter, though her face was

stolid and drowsy.

`Eigh, lad? What, yo′r there?′ Some hoarse sounds meant for this, came

mockingly out of her at last; and her head dropped forward on her

breast.

`Back agen?′ she screeched, after some minutes, as if he had that

moment said it. `Yes! And back agen. Back agen ever and ever so often.

Back? Yes, back. Why not?′

Roused by the unmeaning violence with which she cried it out, she

scrambled up, and stood supporting herself with her shoulders against

the wall; dangling in one hand by the string, a dunghill- fragment of a

bonnet, and trying to look scornfully at him.

`I′ll sel thee off again, and I′ll sel thee off again, and I′ll sell thee off a

score of times!′ she cried, with something between a furious menace and

an effort at a defiant dance. `Come awa′ from th′ bed!′ He was sitting on

the side of it, with his face hidden in his hands. `Come awa! from `t. ′Tis

mine, and I′ve a right to t′!′

As she staggered to it, he avoided her with a shudder, and passed - his

face still hidden - to the opposite end of the room. She threw herself

upon the bed heavily, and soon was snoring hard. He sunk into a chair,

and moved but once all that night. It was to throw a covering over her; as

if his hands were not enough to hide her, even in the darkness.

74

Chapter XI: No Way Out

THE Fairy palaces burst into illumination, before pale morning showed

the monstrous serpents of smoke trailing themselves over Coketown. A

clattering of clogs upon the pavement; a rapid ringing of bells; and all

the melancholy mad elephants, polished and oiled up for the day′s

monotony, were at their heavy exercise again.

Stephen bent over his loom, quiet, watchful, and steady. A special

contrast, as every man was in the forest of looms where Stephen

worked, to the crashing, smashing, tearing piece of mechanism at which

he laboured. Never fear, good people of an anxious turn of mind, that

Art will consign Nature to oblivion. Set anywhere, side by side, the work

of

God

and the work of man; and the former, even though it be a troop

of Hands of very smal account, will gain in dignity from the

comparison.

So many hundred Hands in this Mill; so many hundred horse Steam

Power. It is known, to the force of a single pound weight, what the

engine will do; but, not all the calculators of the National Debt can tell

me the capacity for good or evil, for love or hatred, for patriotism or

discontent, for the decomposition of virtue into vice, or the reverse, at

any single moment in the soul of one of these its quiet servants, with the

composed faces and the regulated actions. There is no mystery in it;

there is an unfathomable mystery in the meanest of them, for ever. -

Supposing we were to reserve our arithmetic for material objects, and to

govern these awful unknown quantities by other means!

The day grew strong, and showed itself outside, even against the flaming

lights within. The lights were turned out, and the work went on. The rain

fell, and the Smoke-serpents, submissive to the curse of all that tribe,

trailed themselves upon the earth. In the waste-yard outside, the steam

from the escape pipe, the litter of barrels and old iron, the shining heaps

of coals, the ashes everywhere, were shrouded in a veil of mist and rain.

75

The work went on, until the noon-bell rang. More clattering upon the

pavements. The looms, and wheels, and Hands all out of gear for an

hour.

Stephen came out of the hot mill into the damp wind and cold wet

streets, haggard and worn. He turned from his own class and his own

quarter, taking nothing but a little bread as he walked along, towards the

hill on which his principal employer lived, in a red house with black

outside shutters, green inside blinds, a black street door, up two white

steps,

Bounderby

(in letters very like himself) upon a brazen plate, and a

round brazen door-handle underneath it, like a brazen full-stop.

Mr. Bounderby was at his lunch. So Stephen had expected. Would his

servant say that one of the Hands begged leave to speak to him?

Message in return, requiring name of such Hand. Stephen Blackpool.

There was nothing troublesome against Stephen Blackpool; yes, he might

come in.

Stephen Blackpool in the parlour. Mr. Bounderby (whom he just knew

by sight), at lunch on chop and sherry. Mrs. Sparsit netting at the fireside,

in a side-saddle attitude, with one foot in a cotton stirrup. It was a part,

at once of Mrs. Sparsit′s dignity and service, not to lunch. She supervised

the meal officially, but implied that in her own stately person she

considered lunch a weakness.

`Now, Stephen,′ said Mr. Bounderby, `what′s the matter with you?′

Stephen made a bow. Not a servile one - these Hands will never do that!

Lord bless you, sir, you′ll never catch them at that, if they have been with

you twenty years! - and, as a complimentary toilet for Mrs. Sparsit, tucked

his neckerchief ends into his waistcoat.

`Now, you know,′ said Mr. Bounderby, taking some sherry, `we have never

had any difficulty with you, and you have never been one of the

unreasonable ones. You don′t expect to be set up in a coach and six, and

to be fed on turtle soup and venison, with a gold spoon, as a good many

of ′em do!′ Mr. Bounderby always represented this to be the sole,

76

immediate, and direct object of any Hand who was not entirely satisfied;

`and therefore I know already that you have not come here to make a

complaint. Now, you know, I am certain of that, beforehand.′

`No, sir, sure I ha′ not coom for nowt o′ th′ kind.′

Mr. Bounderby seemed agreeably surprised, notwithstanding his

previous strong conviction. `Very well,′ he returned. `You′re a steady

Hand, and I was not mistaken. Now, let me hear what it′s all about. As

it′s not that, let me hear what it is. What have you got to say? Out with it,

lad!′

Stephen happened to glance towards Mrs. Sparsit. `I can go, Mr.

Bounderby, if you wish it,′ said that self-sacrificing lady, making a feint

of taking her foot out of the stirrup.

Mr. Bounderby stayed her, by holding a mouthful of chop in suspension

before swallowing it, and putting out his left hand. Then, withdrawing

his hand and swallowing his mouthful of chop, he said to Stephen:

`Now you know, this good lady is a born lady, a high lady. You are not to

suppose because she keeps my house for me, that she hasn′t been very

high up the tree - ah, up at the top of the tree! Now, if you have got

anything to say that can′t be said before a born lady, this lady will leave

the room. If what you have got to say can be said before a born lady, this

lady will stay where she is.′

`Sir, I hope I never had nowt to say, not fitten for a born lady to year, sin′

I were born mysen′,′ was the reply, accompanied with a slight flush.

`Very well,′ said Mr. Bounderby, pushing away his plate, and leaning back.

`Fire away!′

`I ha′ coom,′ Stephen began, raising his eyes from the floor, after a

moment′s consideration, `to ask yo yor advice. I need `t overmuch. I were

married on Eas′r Monday nineteen year sin, long and dree. She were a

young lass - pretty enow - wi′ good accounts of herseln. Well! She went

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bad - soon. Not along of me. Gonnows I were not a unkind husband to

her.′

`I have heard all this before,′ said Mr. Bounderby. `She took to drinking,

left off working, sold the furniture, pawned the clothes, and played old

Gooseberry.′

`I were patient wi′ her.′

(′The more fool you, I think,′ said Mr. Bounderby, in confidence to his

wine-glass.)

`I were very patient wi′ her. I tried to wean her fra `t ower and ower agen.

I tried this, I tried that, I tried t′other. I ha′ gone home, many′s the time,

and found all vanished as I had in the world, and her without a sense left

to bless herseln lying on bare ground. I ha′ dun `t not once, not twice -

twenty time!′

Every line in his face deepened as he said it, and put in its affecting

evidence of the suffering he had undergone.

`From bad to worse, from worse to worsen. She left me. She disgraced

herseln everyways, bitter and bad. She coom back, she coom back, she

coom back. What could I do t′ hinder her? I ha′ walked the streets nights

long, ere ever I′d go home. I ha′ gone t′ th′ brigg, minded to fling myseln

ower, and ha′ no more on′t. I ha′ bore that much, that I were owd when I

were young.′

Mrs. Sparsit, easily ambling along with her netting-needles, raised the

Coriolanian eyebrows and shook her head, as much as to say, `The great

know trouble as wel as the small. Please to turn your humble eye in My

direction.′

`I ha′ paid her to keep awa′ fra′ me. These five year I ha′ paid her. I ha′

gotten decent fewtrils about me agen. I ha′ lived hard and sad, but not

ashamed and fearfo′ a′ the minnits o′ my life. Last night, I went home.

There she lay upon my har-stone! There she is!′

78

In the strength of his misfortune, and the energy of his distress, he fired

for the moment like a proud man. In another moment, he stood as he

had stood all the time - his usual stoop upon him; his pondering face

addressed to Mr. Bounderby, with a curious expression on it, half

shrewd, half perplexed, as if his mind were set upon unravelling

something very difficult; his hat held tight in his left hand, which rested

on his hip; his right arm, with a rugged propriety and force of action,

very earnestly emphasizing what he said: not least so when it always

paused, a little bent, but not withdrawn, as he paused.

`I was acquainted with all this, you know,′ said Mr. Bounderby, `except the

last clause, long ago. It′s a bad job; that′s what it is. You had better have

been satisfied as you were, and not have got married. However, it′s too

late to say that.′

`Was it an unequal marriage, sir, in point of years?′ asked Mrs. Sparsit.

`You hear what this lady asks. Was it an unequal marriage in point of

years, this unlucky job of yours?′ said Mr. Bounderby.

`Not e′en so. I were one-and-twenty myseln; she were twenty nighbut.′

`Indeed, sir?′ said Mrs. Sparsit to her Chief, with great placidity. `I

inferred, from its being so miserable a marriage, that it was probably an

unequal one in point of years.′

Mr. Bounderby looked very hard at the good lady in a side-long way that

had an odd sheepishness about it. He fortified himself with a little more

sherry.

`Well? Why don′t you go on?′ he then asked, turning rather irritably on

Stephen Blackpool.

`I ha′ coom to ask yo, sir, how I am to be ridded o′ this woman.′ Stephen

infused a yet deeper gravity into the mixed expression of his attentive

face. Mrs. Sparsit uttered a gentle ejaculation, as having received a moral

shock.

79

`What do you mean?′ said Bounderby, getting up to lean his back against

the chimney-piece. `What are you talking about? You took her for better

for worse.′

`I mun′ be ridden o′ her. I cannot bear `t nommore. I ha′ lived under `t so

long, for that I ha′ had′n the pity and comforting words o′ th′ best lass

living or dead. Haply, but for her, I should ha′ gone battering mad.′

`He wishes to be free, to marry the female of whom he speaks, I fear,

sir,′ observed Mrs. Sparsit in an undertone, and much dejected by the

immorality of the people.

`I do. The lady says what′s right. I do. I were a coming to `t. I ha′ read i′

th′ papers that great folk (fair faw ′em a′! I wishes ′em no hurt!) are not

bonded together for better for worst so fast, but that they can be set free

fro′ their misfortnet marriages, an′ marry ower agen. When they dunnot

agree, for that their tempers is ill-sorted, they has rooms o′ one kind an′

another in their houses, above a bit, and they can live asunders. We fok

ha′ only one room, and we can′t. When that won′t do, they ha′ gowd an′

other cash, an′ they can say "This for yo′ an′ that for me," an′ they can go

their separate ways. We can′t. Spite o′ all that, they can be set free for

smaller wrongs than mine. So, I mun be ridden o′ this woman, and I

want t′ know how?′

`No how,′ returned Mr. Bounderby.

`If I do her any hurt, sir, there′s a law to punish me?′

`Of course there is.′

`If I flee from her, there′s a law to punish me?′

`Of course there is.′

`If I marry t′oother dear lass, there′s a law to punish me?′

`Of course there is.′

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`If I was to live wi′ her an′ not marry her - saying such a thing could be,

which it never could or would, an′ her so good - there′s a law to punish

me, in every innocent child belonging to me?′

`Of course there is.′

`Now, a′ God′s name,′ said Stephen Blackpool, `show me the law to help

me!′

`Hem! There′s a sanctity in this relation of life,′ said Mr. Bounderby, `and

- and - it must be kept up.′

`No no, dunnot say that, sir. `Tan′t kep′ up that way. Not that way. ′Tis

kep′ down that way. I′m a weaver, I were in a fact′ry when a chilt, but I

ha′ gotten een to see wi′ and eern to year wi′. I read in th′ papers every

`Sizes, every Sessions - and you read too - I know it! - with dismay - how

th′ supposed unpossibility o′ ever getting unchained from one another, at

any price, on any terms, brings blood upon this land, and brings many

common married fok to battle, murder, and sudden death. Let us ha′

this, right understood. Mine′s a grievous case, an′ I want - if yo wil be so

good - t′ know the law that helps me.′

`Now, I tell you what!′ said Mr. Bounderby, putting his hands in his

pockets. `There is such a law.′

Stephen, subsiding into his quiet manner, and never wandering in his

attention, gave a nod.

`But it′s not for you at all. It costs money. It costs a mint of money.′

`How much might that be?′ Stephen calmly asked.

`Why, you′d have to go to Doctors′ Commons with a suit, and you′d have

to go to a court of Common Law with a suit, and you′d have to go to

the House of Lords with a suit, and you′d have to get an Act of

Parliament to enable you to marry again, and it would cost you (if it was

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a case of very plain sailing), I suppose from a thousand to fifteen

hundred pound,′ said Mr. Bounderby. `Perhaps twice the money.′

`There′s no other law?′

`Certainly not.′

`Why then, sir,′ said Stephen, turning white, and motioning with that

right hand of his, as if he gave everything to the four winds, ′′tis a

muddle. ′Tis just a muddle a′toogether, an′ the sooner I am dead, the

better.′

(Mrs. Sparsit again dejected by the impiety of the people.)

`Pooh, pooh! Don′t you talk nonsense, my good fellow,′ said Mr.

Bounderby, `about things you don′t understand; and don′t you call the

Institutions of your country a muddle, or you′ll get yourself into a real

muddle one of these fine mornings. The institutions of your country are

not your piece-work, and the only thing you have got to do, is, to mind

your piece-work. You didn′t take your wife for fast and for loose; but for

better for worse. If she has turned out worse - why, all we have got to

say is, she might have turned out better.′

′′Tis a muddle,′ said Stephen, shaking his head as he moved to the door.

′′Tis a′ a muddle!′

`Now, I′ll tell you what!′ Mr. Bounderby resumed, as a valedictory

address. `With what I shall call your unhallowed opinions, you have been

quite shocking this lady: who, as I have already told you, is a born lady,

and who, as I have not already told you, has had her own marriage

misfortunes to the tune of tens of thousands of pounds - tens of

Thousands of Pounds!′ (he repeated it with great relish). `Now, you have

always been a steady Hand hitherto; but my opinion is, and so I tell you

plainly, that you are turning into the wrong road. You have been listening

to some mischievous stranger or other - they′re always about - and the

best thing you can do is, to come out of that. Now you know;′ here his

countenance expressed marvellous acuteness; `I can see as far into a

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grindstone as another man; farther than a good many, perhaps, because I

had my nose well kept to it when I was young. I see traces of the turtle

soup, and venison, and gold spoon in this. Yes, I do!′ cried Mr.

Bounderby, shaking his head with obstinate cunning. `By the Lord Harry,

I do!′

With a very different shake of the head and deep sigh, Stephen said,

`Thank you, sir, I wish you good day.′ So he left Mr. Bounderby swelling

at his own portrait on the wall, as if he were going to explode himself

into it; and Mrs. Sparsit still ambling on with her foot in her stirrup,

looking quite cast down by the popular vices.

Chapter XII: The Old Woman

OLD STEPHEN descended the two white steps, shutting the black door

with the brazen door-plate, by the aid of the brazen full-stop, to which

he gave a parting polish with the sleeve of his coat, observing that his

hot hand clouded it. He crossed the street with his eyes bent upon the

ground, and thus was walking sorrowfully away, when he felt a touch

upon his arm.

It was not the touch he needed most at such a moment - the touch that

could calm the wild waters of his soul, as the uplifted hand of the

sublimest love and patience could abate the raging of the sea - yet it was

a woman′s hand too. It was an old woman, tall and shapely still, though

withered by time, on whom his eyes fell when he stopped and turned.

She was very cleanly and plainly dressed, had country mud upon her

shoes, and was newly come from a journey. The flutter of her manner, in

the unwonted noise of the streets; the spare shawl, carried unfolded on

her arm; the heavy umbrella, and little basket; the loose long-fingered

gloves, to which her hands were unused; all bespoke an old woman from

the country, in her plain holiday clothes, come into Coketown on an

expedition of rare occurrence. Remarking this at a glance, with the quick

observation of his class, Stephen Blackpool bent his attentive face - his

face, which, like the faces of many of his order, by dint of long working

with eyes and hands in the midst of a prodigious noise, had acquired the

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concentrated look with which we are familiar in the countenances of the

deaf - the better to hear what she asked him.

`Pray, sir,′ said the old woman, `didn′t I see you come out of that

gentleman′s house?′ pointing back to Mr. Bounderby′s. `I believe it was

you, unless I have had the bad luck to mistake the person in following?′

`Yes, missus,′ returned Stephen, `it were me.′

`Have you - you′ll excuse an old woman′s curiosity - have you seen the

gentleman?′

`Yes, missus.′

`And how did he look, sir? Was he portly, bold, outspoken, and hearty?′

As she straightened her own figure, and held up her head in adapting her

action to her words, the idea crossed Stephen that he had seen this old

woman before, and had not quite liked her.

`O yes,′ he returned, observing her more attentively, `he were all that.′

`And healthy,′ said the old woman, `as the fresh wind?′

`Yes,′ returned Stephen. `He were ett′n and drinking - as large and as loud

as a Hummobee.′

`Thank you!′ said the old woman, with infinite content. `Thank you!′

He certainly never had seen this old woman before. Yet there was a

vague remembrance in his mind, as if he had more than once dreamed

of some old woman like her.

She walked along at his side, and, gently accommodating himself to her

humour, he said Coketown was a busy place, was it not? To which she

answered `Eigh sure! Dreadful busy!′ Then he said, she came from the

country, he saw? To which she answered in the affirmative.

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`By Parliamentary, this morning. I came forty mile by Parliamentary this

morning, and I′m going back the same forty mile this afternoon. I

walked nine mile to the station this morning, and if I find nobody on the

road to give me a lift, I shall walk the nine mile back to-night. That′s

pretty well, sir, at my age!′ said the chatty old woman, her eye brightening

with exultation.

′′Deed ′tis. Don′t do′t too often, missus.′

`No, no. Once a year,′ she answered, shaking her head. `I spend my

savings so, once every year. I come regular, to tramp about the streets,

and see the gentlemen.′

`Only to see ′em?′ returned Stephen.

`That′s enough for me,′ she replied, with great earnestness and interest

of manner. `I ask no more! I have been standing about, on this side of

the way, to see that gentleman,′ turning her head back towards Mr.

Bounderby′s again, `come out. But, he′s late this year, and I have not seen

him. You came out instead. Now, if I am obliged to go back without a

glimpse of him - I only want a glimpse - well! I have seen you, and you

have seen him, and I must make that do.′ Saying this, she looked at

Stephen as if to fix his features in her mind, and her eye was not so

bright as it had been.

With a large allowance for difference of tastes, and with all submission

to the patricians of Coketown, this seemed so extraordinary a source of

interest to take so much trouble about, that it perplexed him. But they

were passing the church now, and as his eye caught the clock, he

quickened his pace.

He was going to his work? the old woman said, quickening hers, too,

quite easily. Yes, time was nearly out. On his telling her where he worked,

the old woman became a more singular old woman than before.

`An′t you happy?′ she asked him.

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`Why - there′s awmost nobbody but has their troubles, missus.′ He

answered evasively, because the old woman appeared to take it for

granted that he would be very happy indeed, and he had not the heart to

disappoint her. He knew that there was trouble enough in the world; and

if the old woman had lived so long, and could count upon his having so

little, why so much the better for her, and none the worse for him.

`Ay, ay! You have your troubles at home, you mean?′ she said.

`Times. Just now and then,′ he answered, slightly.

`But, working under such a gentleman, they don′t fol ow you to the

Factory?′

No, no; they didn′t follow him there, said Stephen. All correct there.

Everything accordant there. (He did not go so far as to say, for her

pleasure, that there was a sort of Divine Right there; but, I have heard

claims almost as magnificent of late years.)

They were now in the black by-road near the place, and the Hands were

crowding in. The bell was ringing, and the Serpent was a Serpent of

many coils, and the Elephant was getting ready. The strange old woman

was delighted with the very bell. It was the beautifullest bell she had ever

heard, she said, and sounded grand!

She asked him, when he stopped good-naturedly to shake hands with her

before going in, how long he had worked there?

`A dozen year,′ he told her.

`I must kiss the hand,′ said she, `that has worked in this fine factory for a

dozen year!′ And she lifted it, though he would have prevented her, and

put it to her lips. What harmony, besides her age and her simplicity,

surrounded her, he did not know, but even in this fantastic action there

was a something neither out of time nor place: a something which it

seemed as if nobody else could have made as serious, or done with such

a natural and touching air.

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He had been at his loom full half an hour, thinking about this old

woman, when, having occasion to move round the loom for its

adjustment, he glanced through a window which was in his corner, and

saw her still looking up at the pile of building, lost in admiration.

Heedless of the smoke and mud and wet, and of her two long journeys,

she was gazing at it, as if the heavy thrum that issued from its many

stories were proud music to her.

She was gone by and by, and the day went after her, and the lights sprung

up again, and the Express whirled in full sight of the Fairy Palace over

the arches near: little felt amid the jarring of the machinery, and scarcely

heard above its crash and rattle. Long before then his thoughts had gone

back to the dreary room above the little shop, and to the shameful figure

heavy on the bed, but heavier on his heart.

Machinery slackened; throbbing feebly like a fainting pulse; stopped. The

bell again; the glare of light and heat dispelled; the factories, looming

heavy in the black wet night - their tall chimneys rising up into the air like

competing Towers of Babel.

He had spoken to Rachael only last night, it was true, and had walked

with her a little way; but he had his new misfortune on him, in which no

one else could give him a moment′s relief, and, for the sake of it, and

because he knew himself to want that softening of his anger which no

voice but hers could effect, he felt he might so far disregard what she

had said as to wait for her again. He waited, but she had eluded him. She

was gone. On no other night in the year could he so ill have spared her

patient face.

O! Better to have no home in which to lay his head, than to have a home

and dread to go to it, through such a cause. He ate and drank, for he was

exhausted - but he little knew or cared what; and he wandered about in

the chill rain, thinking and thinking, and brooding and brooding.

No word of a new marriage had ever passed between them; but Rachael

had taken great pity on him years ago, and to her alone he had opened

his closed heart all this time, on the subject of his miseries; and he knew

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very well that if he were free to ask her, she would take him. He thought

of the home he might at that moment have been seeking with pleasure

and pride; of the different man he might have been that night; of the

lightness then in his now heavy- laden breast; of the then restored

honour, self-respect, and tranquillity all torn to pieces. He thought of the

waste of the best part of his life, of the change it made in his character

for the worse every day, of the dreadful nature of his existence, bound

hand and foot, to a dead woman, and tormented by a demon in her

shape. He thought of Rachael, how young when they were first brought

together in these circumstances, how mature now, how soon to grow old.

He thought of the number of girls and women she had seen marry, how

many homes with children in them she had seen grow up around her,

how she had contentedly pursued her own lone quiet path - for him -

and how he had sometimes seen a shade of melancholy on her blessed

face, that smote him with remorse and despair. He set the picture of her

up, beside the infamous image of last night; and thought, Could it be,

that the whole earthly course of one so gentle, good, and self-denying,

was subjugate to such a wretch as that!

Filled with these thoughts - so filled that he had an unwholesome sense

of growing larger, of being placed in some new and diseased relation

towards the objects among which he passed, of seeing the iris round

every misty light turn red - he went home for shelter.

Chapter XIII: Rachael

A CANDLE faintly burned in the window, to which the black ladder had

often been raised for the sliding away of all that was most precious in

this world to a striving wife and a brood of hungry babies; and Stephen

added to his other thoughts the stern reflection, that of all the casualties

of this existence upon earth, not one was dealt out with so unequal a

hand as Death. The inequality of Birth was nothing to it. For, say that

the child of a King and the child of a Weaver were born to-night in the

same moment, what was that disparity, to the death of any human

creature who was serviceable to, or beloved by, another, while this

abandoned woman lived on!

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From the outside of his home he gloomily passed to the inside, with

suspended breath and with a slow footstep. He went up to his door,

opened it, and so into the room.

Quiet and peace were there. Rachael was there, sitting by the bed.

She turned her head, and the light of her face shone in upon the

midnight of his mind. She sat by the bed, watching and tending his wife.

That is to say, he saw that some one lay there, and he knew too well it

must be she; but Rachael′s hands had put a curtain up, so that she was

screened from his eyes. Her disgraceful garments were removed, and

some of Rachael′s were in the room. Everything was in its place and

order as he had always kept it, the little fire was newly trimmed, and the

hearth was freshly swept. It appeared to him that he saw all this in

Rachael′s face, and looked at nothing besides. While looking at it, it was

shut out from his view by the softened tears that fil ed his eyes; but not

before he had seen how earnestly she looked at him, and how her own

eyes were filled too.

She turned again towards the bed, and satisfying herself that all was quiet

there, spoke in a low, calm, cheerful voice.

`I am glad you have come at last, Stephen. You are very late.′

`I ha′ been walking up an′ down.′

`I thought so. But ′tis too bad a night for that. The rain fal s very heavy,

and the wind has risen.′

The wind? True. It was blowing hard. Hark to the thundering in the

chimney, and the surging noise! To have been out in such a wind, and not

to have known it was blowing!

`I have been here once before, to-day, Stephen. Landlady came round for

me at dinner-time. There was some one here that needed looking to, she

said. And `deed she was right. All wandering and lost, Stephen. Wounded

too, and bruised.′

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He slowly moved to a chair and sat down, drooping his head before her.

`I came to do what little I could, Stephen; first, for that she worked with

me when we were girls both, and for that you courted her and married

her when I was her friend - ′

He laid his furrowed forehead on his hand, with a low groan.

`And next, for that I know your heart, and am right sure and certain that

′tis far too merciful to let her die, or even so much as suffer, for want of

aid. Thou knowest who said, "Let him who is without sin among you

cast the first stone at her!" There have been plenty to do that. Thou art

not the man to cast the last stone, Stephen, when she is brought so low.′

`O Rachael, Rachael!′

`Thou hast been a cruel sufferer, Heaven reward thee!′ she said, in

compassionate accents. `I am thy poor friend, with all my heart and

mind.′

The wounds of which she had spoken, seemed to be about the neck of

the self-made outcast. She dressed them now, still without showing her.

She steeped a piece of linen in a basin, into which she poured some

liquid from a bottle, and laid it with a gentle hand upon the sore. The

three-legged table had been drawn close to the bedside, and on it there

were two bottles. This was one.

It was not so far off, but that Stephen, following her hands with his eyes,

could read what was printed on it in large letters. He turned of a deadly

hue, and a sudden horror seemed to fall upon him.

`I will stay here, Stephen,′ said Rachael, quietly resuming her seat, `till the

bells go Three. ′Tis to be done again at three, and then she may be left

till morning.′

`But thy rest agen to-morrow′s work, my dear.′

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`I slept sound last night. I can wake many nights, when I am put to it.

′Tis thou who art in need of rest - so white and tired. Try to sleep in the

chair there, while I watch. Thou hadst no sleep last night, I can well

believe. To-morrow′s work is far harder for thee than for me.′

He heard the thundering and surging out of doors, and it seemed to him

as if his late angry mood were going about trying to get at him. She had

cast it out; she would keep it out; he trusted to her to defend him from

himself.

`She don′t know me, Stephen; she just drowsily mutters and stares. I have

spoken to her times and again, but she don′t notice! ′Tis as well so. When

she comes to her right mind once more, I shall have done what I can,

and she never the wiser.′

`How long, Rachael, is `t looked for, that she′ll be so?′

`Doctor said she would haply come to her mind to-morrow.′

His eyes fell again on the bottle, and a tremble passed over him, causing

him to shiver in every limb. She thought he was chilled with the wet.

`No,′ he said, `it was not that. He had had a fright.′

`A fright?′

`Ay, ay! coming in. When I were walking. When I were thinking. When I -

′ It seized him again; and he stood up, holding by the mantel-shelf, as he

pressed his dank cold hair down with a hand that shook as if it were

palsied.

`Stephen!′

She was coming to him, but he stretched out his arm to stop her.

`No! Don′t, please; don′t. Let me see thee setten by the bed. Let me see

thee, a′ so good, and so forgiving. Let me see thee as I see thee when I

coom in. I can never see thee better than so. Never, never, never!′

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He had a violent fit of trembling, and then sunk into his chair. After a

time he controlled himself, and, resting with an elbow on one knee, and

his head upon that hand, could look towards Rachael. Seen across the

dim candle with his moistened eyes, she looked as if she had a glory

shining round her head. He could have believed she had. He did believe

it, as the noise without shook the window, rattled at the door below, and

went about the house clamouring and lamenting.

`When she gets better, Stephen, ′tis to be hoped she′ll leave thee to

thyself again, and do thee no more hurt. Anyways we will hope so now.

And now I shall keep silence, for I want thee to sleep.′

He closed his eyes, more to please her than to rest his weary head; but,

by slow degrees as he listened to the great noise of the wind, he ceased

to hear it, or it changed into the working of his loom, or even into the

voices of the day (his own included) saying what had been really said.

Even this imperfect consciousness faded away at last, and he dreamed a

long, troubled dream.

He thought that he, and some one on whom his heart had long been set

- but she was not Rachael, and that surprised him, even in the midst of

his imaginary happiness - stood in the church being married. While the

ceremony was performing, and while he recognized among the witnesses

some whom he knew to be living, and many whom he knew to be dead,

darkness came on, succeeded by the shining of a tremendous light. It

broke from one line in the table of commandments at the altar, and

illuminated the building with the words. They were sounded through the

church, too, as if there were voices in the fiery letters. Upon this, the

whole appearance before him and around him changed, and nothing was

left as it had been, but himself and the clergyman. They stood in the

daylight before a crowd so vast, that if all the people in the world could

have been brought together into one space, they could not have looked,

he thought, more numerous; and they all abhorred him, and there was

not one pitying or friendly eye among the millions that were fastened on

his face. He stood on a raised stage, under his own loom; and, looking

up at the shape the loom took, and hearing the burial service distinctly

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read, he knew that he was there to suffer death. In an instant what he

stood on fell below him, and he was gone.

- Out of what mystery he came back to his usual life, and to places that

he knew, he was unable to consider; but he was back in those places by

some means, and with this condemnation upon him, that he was never,

in this world or the next, through all the unimaginable ages of eternity,

to look on Rachael′s face or hear her voice. Wandering to and fro,

unceasingly, without hope, and in search of he knew not what (he only

knew that he was doomed to seek it), he was the subject of a nameless,

horrible dread, a mortal fear of one particular shape which everything

took. Whatsoever he looked at, grew into that form sooner or later. The

object of his miserable existence was to prevent its recognition by any

one among the various people he encountered. Hopeless labour! If he

led them out of rooms where it was, if he shut up drawers and closets

where it stood, if he drew the curious from places where he knew it to

be secreted, and got them out into the streets, the very chimneys of the

mills assumed that shape, and round them was the printed word.

The wind was blowing again, the rain was beating on the house-tops, and

the larger spaces through which he had strayed contracted to the four

walls of his room. Saving that the fire had died out, it was as his eyes had

closed upon it. Rachael seemed to have fallen into a doze, in the chair by

the bed. She sat wrapped in her shawl, perfectly still. The table stood in

the same place, close by the bedside, and on it, in its real proportions and

appearance, was the shape so often repeated.

He thought he saw the curtain move. He looked again, and he was sure it

moved. He saw a hand come forth and grope about a little. Then the

curtain moved more perceptibly, and the woman in the bed put it back,

and sat up.

With her woful eyes, so haggard and wild, so heavy and large, she looked

all round the room, and passed the corner where he slept in his chair.

Her eyes returned to that corner, and she put her hand over them as a

shade, while she looked into it. Again they went all round the room,

scarcely heeding Rachael if at all, and returned to that corner. He

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thought, as she once more shaded them - not so much looking at him, as

looking for him with a brutish instinct that he was there - that no single

trace was left in those debauched features, or in the mind that went along

with them, of the woman he had married eighteen years before. But that

he had seen her come to this by inches, he never could have believed her

to be the same.

All this time, as if a spell were on him, he was motionless and powerless,

except to watch her.

Stupidly dozing, or communing with her incapable self about nothing,

she sat for a little while with her hands at her ears, and her head resting

on them. Presently, she resumed her staring round the room. And now,

for the first time, her eyes stopped at the table with the bottles on it.

Straightway she turned her eyes back to his corner, with the defiance of

last night, and moving very cautiously and softly, stretched out her

greedy hand. She drew a mug into the bed, and sat for a while

considering which of the two bottles she should choose. Finally, she laid

her insensate grasp upon the bottle that had swift and certain death in it,

and, before his eyes, pulled out the cork with her teeth.

Dream or reality, he had no voice, nor had he power to stir. If this be

real, and her allotted time be not yet come, wake, Rachael, wake!

She thought of that, too. She looked at Rachael, and very slowly, very

cautiously, poured out the contents. The draught was at her lips. A

moment and she would be past all help, let the whole world wake and

come about her with its utmost power. But in that moment Rachael

started up with a suppressed cry. The creature struggled, struck her,

seized her by the hair; but Rachael had the cup.

Stephen broke out of his chair. `Rachael, am I wakin′ or dreamin′ this

dreadfo′ night?′

′′Tis all well, Stephen. I have been asleep, myself. ′Tis near three. Hush! I

hear the bells.′

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The wind brought the sounds of the church clock to the window. They

listened, and it struck three. Stephen looked at her, saw how pale she

was, noted the disorder of her hair, and the red marks of fingers on her

forehead, and felt assured that his senses of sight and hearing had been

awake. She held the cup in her hand even now.

`I thought it must be near three,′ she said, calmly pouring from the cup

into the basin, and steeping the linen as before. `I am thankful I stayed!

′Tis done now, when I have put this on. There! And now she′s quiet

again. The few drops in the basin I′ll pour away, for ′tis bad stuff to leave

about, though ever so little of it.′ As she spoke, she drained the basin

into the ashes of the fire, and broke the bottle on the hearth.

She had nothing to do, then, but to cover herself with her shawl before

going out into the wind and rain.

`Thou′lt let me walk wi′ thee at this hour, Rachael?′

`No, Stephen. ′Tis but a minute, and I′m home.′

`Thou′rt not fearfo′;′ he said it in a low voice, as they went out at the

door; `to leave me alone wi′ her!′

As she looked at him, saying, `Stephen?′ he went down on his knee

before her, on the poor mean stairs, and put an end of her shawl to his

lips.

`Thou art an Angel. Bless thee, bless thee!′

`I am, as I have told thee, Stephen, thy poor friend. Angels are not like

me. Between them, and a working woman fu′ of faults, there is a deep

gulf set. My little sister is among them, but she is changed.′

She raised her eyes for a moment as she said the words; and then they

fell again, in all their gentleness and mildness, on his face.

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`Thou changest me from bad to good. Thou mak′st me humbly wishfo′

to be more like thee, and fearfo′ to lose thee when this life is ower, and a′

the muddle cleared awa′. Thou′rt an Angel; it may be, thou hast saved my

soul alive!′

She looked at him, on his knee at her feet, with her shawl still in his

hand, and the reproof on her lips died away when she saw the working

of his face.

`I coom home desp′rate. I coom home wi′out a hope, and mad wi′

thinking that when I said a word o′ complaint I was reckoned a

unreasonable Hand. I told thee I had had a fright. It were the Poison-

bottle on table. I never hurt a livin′ creetur; but happenin′ so suddenly

upon `t, I thowt, "How can I say what I might ha′ done to myseln, or

her, or both!"′

She put her two hands on his mouth, with a face of terror, to stop him

from saying more. He caught them in his unoccupied hand, and holding

them, and still clasping the border of her shawl, said hurriedly:

`But I see thee, Rachael, setten by the bed. I ha′ seen thee, aw this night.

In my troublous sleep I ha′ known thee still to be there. Evermore I will

see thee there. I nevermore will see her or think o′ her, but thou shalt be

beside her. I nevermore will see or think o′ anything that angers me, but

thou, so much better than me, shalt be by th′ side on′t. And so I will try

t′ look t′ th′ time, and so I will try t′ trust t′ th′ time, when thou and me

at last shall walk together far awa′, beyond the deep gulf, in th′ country

where thy little sister is.′

He kissed the border of her shawl again, and let her go. She bade him

good night in a broken voice, and went out into the street.

The wind blew from the quarter where the day would soon appear, and

still blew strongly. It had cleared the sky before it, and the rain had spent

itself or travelled elsewhere, and the stars were bright. He stood bare-

headed in the road, watching her quick disappearance. As the shining

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stars were to the heavy candle in the window, so was Rachael, in the

rugged fancy of this man, to the common experiences of his life.

Chapter XIV: The Great Manufacturer

TIME went on in Coketown like its own machinery: so much material

wrought up, so much fuel consumed, so many powers worn out, so

much money made. But, less inexorable than iron, steal, and brass, it

brought its varying seasons even into that wilderness of smoke and

brick, and made the only stand that ever was made in the place against its

direful uniformity.

`Louisa is becoming,′ said Mr. Gradgrind, `almost a young woman.′

Time, with his innumerable horse-power, worked away, not minding

what anybody said, and presently turned out young Thomas a foot taller

than when his father had last taken particular notice of him.

`Thomas is becoming,′ said Mr. Gradgrind, `almost a young man.′

Time passed Thomas on in the mill, while his father was thinking about

it, and there he stood in a long-tailed coat and a stiff shirt-collar.

`Really,′ said Mr. Gradgrind, `the period has arrived when Thomas ought

to go to Bounderby.′

Time, sticking to him, passed him on into Bounderby′s Bank, made him

an inmate of Bounderby′s house, necessitated the purchase of his first

razor, and exercised him diligently in his calculations relative to number

one.

The same great manufacturer, always with an immense variety of work

on hand, in every stage of development, passed Sissy onward in his mill,

and worked her up into a very pretty article indeed.

`I fear, Jupe,′ said Mr. Gradgrind, `that your continuance at the school

any longer would be useless.′

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`I am afraid it would, sir,′ Sissy answered with a curtsey.

`I cannot disguise from you, Jupe,′ said Mr. Gradgrind, knitting his brow,

`that the result of your probation there has disappointed me; has greatly

disappointed me. You have not acquired, under Mr. and Mrs.

M′Choakumchild, anything like that amount of exact knowledge which I

looked for. You are extremely deficient in your facts. Your acquaintance

with figures is very limited. You are altogether backward, and below the

mark.′

`I am sorry, sir,′ she returned; `but I know it is quite true. Yet I have tried

hard, sir.′

`Yes,′ said Mr. Gradgrind, `yes, I believe you have tried hard; I have

observed you, and I can find no fault in that respect.′

`Thank you, sir. I have thought sometimes;′ Sissy very timid here; `that

perhaps I tried to learn too much, and that if I had asked to be allowed

to try a little less, I might have - ′

`No, Jupe, no,′ said Mr. Gradgrind, shaking his head in his profoundest

and most eminently practical way. `No. The course you pursued, you

pursued according to the system - the system - and there is no more to

be said about it. I can only suppose that the circumstances of your early

life were too unfavourable to the development of your reasoning powers,

and that we began too late. Still, as I have said already, I am

disappointed.′

`I wish I could have made a better acknowledgment, sir, of your kindness

to a poor forlorn girl who had no claim upon you, and of your

protection of her.′

`Don′t shed tears,′ said Mr. Gradgrind. `Don′t shed tears. I don′t

complain of you. You are an affectionate, earnest, good young woman -

and - and we must make that do.′

`Thank you, sir, very much,′ said Sissy, with a grateful curtsey.

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`You are useful to Mrs. Gradgrind, and (in a generally pervading way) you

are serviceable in the family also; so I understand from Miss Louisa, and,

indeed, so I have observed myself. I therefore hope,′ said Mr. Gradgrind,

`that you can make yourself happy in those relations.′

`I should have nothing to wish, sir, if - ′

`I understand you,′ said Mr. Gradgrind; `you still refer to your father. I

have heard from Miss Louisa that you still preserve that bottle. Well! If

your training in the science of arriving at exact results had been more

successful, you would have been wiser on these points. I will say no

more.′

He really liked Sissy too well to have a contempt for her; otherwise he

held her calculating powers in such very slight estimation that he must

have fallen upon that conclusion. Somehow or other, he had become

possessed by an idea that there was something in this girl which could

hardly be set forth in a tabular form. Her capacity of definition might be

easily stated at a very low figure, her mathematical knowledge at nothing;

yet he was not sure that if he had been required, for example, to tick her

off into columns in a parliamentary return, he would have quite known

how to divide her.

In some stages of his manufacture of the human fabric, the processes of

Time are very rapid. Young Thomas and Sissy being both at such a stage

of their working up, these changes were effected in a year or two; while

Mr. Gradgrind himself seemed stationary in his course, and underwent

no alteration.

Except one, which was apart from his necessary progress through the

mill. Time hustled him into a little noisy and rather dirty machinery, in a

by-comer, and made him Member of Parliament for Coketown: one of

the respected members for ounce weights and measures, one of the

representatives of the multiplication table, one of the deaf honourable

gentlemen, dumb honourable gentlemen, blind honourable gentlemen,

lame honourable gentlemen, dead honourable gentlemen, to every other

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consideration. Else wherefore live we in a Christian land, eighteen

hundred and odd years after our Master?

All this while, Louisa had been passing on, so quiet and reserved, and so

much given to watching the bright ashes at twilight as they fell into the

grate, and became extinct, that from the period when her father had said

she was almost a young woman - which seemed but yesterday - she had

scarcely attracted his notice again, when he found her quite a young

woman.

`Quite a young woman,′ said Mr. Gradgrind, musing. `Dear me!′

Soon after this discovery, he became more thoughtful than usual for

several days, and seemed much engrossed by one subject. On a certain

night, when he was going out, and Louisa came to bid him good-bye

before his departure - as he was not to be home until late and she would

not see him again until the morning - he held her in his arms, looking at

her in his kindest manner, and said:

`My dear Louisa, you are a woman!′

She answered with the old, quick, searching look of the night when she

was found at the Circus; then cast down her eyes. `Yes, father.′

`My dear,′ said Mr. Gradgrind, `I must speak with you alone and seriously.

Come to me in my room after breakfast to-morrow, will you?′

`Yes, father.′

`Your hands are rather cold, Louisa. Are you not well?′

`Quite well, father.′

`And cheerful?′

She looked at him again, and smiled in her peculiar manner. `I am as

cheerful, father, as I usually am, or usually have been.′

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`That′s well,′ said Mr. Gradgrind. So, he kissed her and went away; and

Louisa returned to the serene apartment of the haircutting character, and

leaning her elbow on her hand, looked again at the short-lived sparks

that so soon subsided into ashes.

`Are you there, Loo?′ said her brother, looking in at the door. He was

quite a young gentleman of pleasure now, and not quite a prepossessing

one.

`Dear Tom,′ she answered, rising and embracing him, `how long it is

since you have been to see me!′

`Why, I have been otherwise engaged, Loo, in the evenings; and in the

daytime old Bounderby has been keeping me at it rather. But I touch him

up with you when he comes it too strong, and so we preserve an

understanding. I say! Has father said anything particular to you to-day or

yesterday, Loo?′

`No, Tom. But he told me to-night that he wished to do so in the

morning.′

`Ah! That′s what I mean,′ said Tom. `Do you know where he is to- night?′

- with a very deep expression.

`No.′

`Then I′ll tell you. He′s with old Bounderby. They are having a regular

confab together up at the Bank. Why at the Bank, do you think? Well, I′ll

tell you again. To keep Mrs. Sparsit′s ears as far off as possible, I expect.′

With her hand upon her brother′s shoulder, Louisa still stood looking at

the fire. Her brother glanced at her face with greater interest than usual,

and, encircling her waist with his arm, drew her coaxingly to him.

`You are very fond of me, an′t you, Loo?′

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`Indeed I am, Tom, though you do let such long intervals go by without

coming to see me.′

`Well, sister of mine,′ said Tom, `when you say that, you are near my

thoughts. We might be so much oftener together - mightn′t we? Always

together, almost - mightn′t we? It would do me a great deal of good if

you were to make up your mind to I know what, Loo. It would be a

splendid thing for me. It would be uncommonly jolly!′

Her thoughtfulness baffled his cunning scrutiny. He could make nothing

of her face. He pressed her in his arm, and kissed her cheek. She

returned the kiss, but still looked at the fire.

`I say, Loo! I thought I′d come, and just hint to you what was going on:

though I supposed you′d most likely guess, even if you didn′t know. I

can′t stay, because I′m engaged to some fellows to- night. You won′t

forget how fond you are of me?′

`No, dear Tom, I won′t forget.′

`That′s a capital girl,′ said Tom. `Good-bye, Loo.′

She gave him an affectionate good-night, and went out with him to the

door, whence the fires of Coketown could be seen, making the distance

lurid. She stood there, looking steadfastly towards them, and listening to

his departing steps. They retreated quickly, as glad to get away from

Stone Lodge; and she stood there yet, when he was gone and all was

quiet. It seemed as if, first in her own fire within the house, and then in

the fiery haze without, she tried to discover what kind of woof Old

Time, that greatest and longest- established Spinner of all, would weave

from the threads he had already spun into a woman. But his factory is a

secret place, his work is noiseless, and his Hands are mutes.

Chapter XV: Father and Daughter

ALTHOUGH Mr. Gradgrind did not take after Blue Beard, his room

was quite a blue chamber in its abundance of blue books. Whatever they

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could prove (which is usually anything you like), they proved there, in an

army constantly strengthening by the arrival of new recruits. In that

charmed apartment, the most complicated social questions were cast up,

got into exact totals, and finally settled - if those concerned could only

have been brought to know it. As if an astronomical observatory should

be made without any windows, and the astronomer within should

arrange the starry universe solely by pen, ink, and paper, so Mr.

Gradgrind, in his Observatory (and there are many like it), had no need

to cast an eye upon the teeming myriads of human beings around him,

but could settle all their destinies on a slate, and wipe out all their tears

with one dirty little bit of sponge.

To this Observatory, then: a stern room, with a deadly statistical clock in

it, which measured every second with a beat like a rap upon a coffin-lid;

Louisa repaired on the appointed morning. A window looked towards

Coketown; and when she sat down near her father′s table, she saw the

high chimneys and the long tracts of smoke looming in the heavy

distance gloomily.

`My dear Louisa,′ said her father, `I prepared you last night to give me

your serious attention in the conversation we are now going to have

together. You have been so well trained, and you do, I am happy to say,

so much justice to the education you have received, that I have perfect

confidence in your good sense. You are not impulsive, you are not

romantic, you are accustomed to view everything from the strong

dispassionate ground of reason and calculation. From that ground alone,

I know you will view and consider what I am going to communicate.′

He waited, as if he would have been glad that she said something. But

she said never a word.

`Louisa, my dear, you are the subject of a proposal of marriage that has

been made to me.′

Again he waited, and again she answered not one word. This so far

surprised him, as to induce him gently to repeat, `a proposal of marriage,

my dear.′ To which she returned, without any visible emotion whatever:

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`I hear you, father. I am attending, I assure you.′

`Well!′ said Mr. Gradgrind, breaking into a smile, after being for the

moment at a loss, `you are even more dispassionate than I expected,

Louisa. Or, perhaps, you are not unprepared for the announcement I

have it in charge to make?′

`I cannot say that, father, until I hear it. Prepared or unprepared, I wish

to hear it all from you. I wish to hear you state it to me, father.′

Strange to relate, Mr. Gradgrind was not so collected at this moment as

his daughter was. He took a paper-knife in his hand, turned it over, laid it

down, took it up again, and even then had to look along the blade of it,

considering how to go on.

`What you say, my dear Louisa, is perfectly reasonable. I have undertaken

then to let you know that - in short, that Mr. Bounderby has informed

me that he has long watched your progress with particular interest and

pleasure, and has long hoped that the time might ultimately arrive when

he should offer you his hand in marriage. That time, to which he has so

long, and certainly with great constancy, looked forward, is now come.

Mr. Bounderby has made his proposal of marriage to me, and has

entreated me to make it known to you, and to express his hope that you

will take it into your favourable consideration.′

Silence between them. The deadly statistical clock very hollow. The

distant smoke very black and heavy.

`Father,′ said Louisa, `do you think I love Mr. Bounderby?′

Mr. Gradgrind was extremely discomfited by this unexpected question.

`Well, my child,′ he returned, `I - really - cannot take upon myself to say.′

`Father,′ pursued Louisa in exactly the same voice as before, `do you ask

me to love Mr. Bounderby?′

`My dear Louisa, no. No. I ask nothing.′

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`Father,′ she still pursued, `does Mr. Bounderby ask me to love him?′

`Really, my dear,′ said Mr. Gradgrind, `it is difficult to answer your

question - ′

`Difficult to answer it, Yes or No, father?

`Certainly, my dear. Because;′ here was something to demonstrate, and it

set him up again; `because the reply depends so materially, Louisa, on the

sense in which we use the expression. Now, Mr. Bounderby does not do

you the injustice, and does not do himself the injustice, of pretending to

anything fanciful, fantastic, or (I am using synonymous terms)

sentimental. Mr. Bounderby would have seen you grow up under his

eyes, to very little purpose, if he could so far forget what is due to your

good sense, not to say to his, as to address you from any such ground.

Therefore, perhaps the expression itself - I merely suggest this to you,

my dear - may be a little misplaced.′

`What would you advise me to use in its stead, father?′

`Why, my dear Louisa,′ said Mr. Gradgrind, completely recovered by this

time, `I would advise you (since you ask me) to consider this question, as

you have been accustomed to consider every other question, simply as

one of tangible Fact. The ignorant and the giddy may embarrass such

subjects with irrelevant fancies, and other absurdities that have no

existence, properly viewed - really no existence - but it is no compliment

to you to say, that you know better. Now, what are the Facts of this case?

You are, we will say in round numbers, twenty years of age; Mr.

Bounderby is, we will say in round numbers, fifty. There is some disparity

in your respective years, but in your means and positions there is none;

on the contrary, there is a great suitability. Then the question arises, Is

this one disparity sufficient to operate as a bar to such a marriage? In

considering this question, it is not unimportant to take into account the

statistics of marriage, so far as they have yet been obtained, in England

and Wales. I find, on reference to the figures, that a large proportion of

these marriages are contracted between parties of very unequal ages, and

that the elder of these contracting parties is, in rather more than three-

105

fourths of these instances, the bridegroom. It is remarkable as showing

the wide prevalence of this law, that among the natives of the British

possessions in India, also in a considerable part of China, and among the

Calmucks of Tartary, the best means of computation yet furnished us by

travellers, yield similar results. The disparity I have mentioned, therefore,

almost ceases to be disparity, and (virtually) all but disappears.′

`What do you recommend, father,′ asked Louisa, her reserved composure

not in the least affected by these gratifying results, `that I should

substitute for the term I used just now? For the misplaced expression?′

`Louisa,′ returned her father, `it appears to me that nothing can be

plainer. Confining yourself rigidly to Fact, the question of Fact you state

to yourself is: Does Mr. Bounderby ask me to marry him? Yes, he does.

The sole remaining question then is: Shall I marry him? I think nothing

can be plainer than that?′

`Shall I marry him?′ repeated Louisa, with great deliberation.

`Precisely. And it is satisfactory to me, as your father, my dear Louisa, to

know that you do not come to the consideration of that question with

the previous habits of mind, and habits of life, that belong to many

young women.′

`No, father,′ she returned, `I do not.′

`I now leave you to judge for yourself,′ said Mr. Gradgrind. `I have stated

the case, as such cases are usually stated among practical minds; I have

stated it, as the case of your mother and myself was stated in its time.

The rest, my dear Louisa, is for you to decide.′

From the beginning, she had sat looking at him fixedly. As he now

leaned back in his chair, and bent his deep-set eyes upon her in his turn,

perhaps he might have seen one wavering moment in her, when she was

impelled to throw herself upon his breast, and give him the pent-up

confidences of her heart. But, to see it, he must have overleaped at a

bound the artificial barriers he had for many years been erecting,

106

between himself and all those subtle essences of humanity which will

elude the utmost cunning of algebra until the last trumpet ever to be

sounded shall blow even algebra to wreck. The barriers were too many

and too high for such a leap. With his unbending, utilitarian, matter-of-

fact face, he hardened her again; and the moment shot away into the

plumbless depths of the past, to mingle with all the lost opportunities

that are drowned there.

Removing her eyes from him, she sat so long looking silently towards the

town, that he said, at length: `Are you consulting the chimneys of the

Coketown works, Louisa?′

`There seems to be nothing there but languid and monotonous smoke.

Yet when the night comes, Fire bursts out, father!′ she answered, turning

quickly.

`Of course I know that, Louisa. I do not see the application of the

remark.′ To do him justice he did not, at all.

She passed it away with a slight motion of her hand, and concentrating

her attention upon him again, said, `Father, I have often thought that life

is very short.′ - This was so distinctly one of his subjects that he

interposed.

`It is short, no doubt, my dear. Still, the average duration of human life is

proved to have increased of late years. The calculations of various life

assurance and annuity offices, among other figures which cannot go

wrong, have established the fact.′

`I speak of my own life, father.′

`O indeed? Still,′ said Mr. Gradgrind, `I need not point out to you,

Louisa, that it is governed by the laws which govern lives in the

aggregate.′

`While it lasts, I would wish to do the little I can, and the little I am fit

for. What does it matter?′

107

Mr. Gradgrind seemed rather at a loss to understand the last four words;

replying, `How, matter? What matter, my dear?′

`Mr. Bounderby,′ she went on in a steady, straight way, without regarding

this, `asks me to marry him. The question I have to ask myself is, shall I

marry him? That is so, father, is it not? You have told me so, father. Have

you not?′

`Certainly, my dear.′

`Let it be so. Since Mr. Bounderby likes to take me thus, I am satisfied to

accept his proposal. Tell him, father, as soon as you please, that this was

my answer. Repeat it, word for word, if you can, because I should wish

him to know what I said.′

`It is quite right, my dear,′ retorted her father approvingly, `to be exact. I

will observe your very proper request. Have you any wish in reference to

the period of your marriage, my child?′

`None, father. What does it matter!′

Mr. Gradgrind had drawn his chair a little nearer to her, and taken her

hand. But, her repetition of these words seemed to strike with some little

discord on his ear. He paused to look at her, and, still holding her hand,

said:

`Louisa, I have not considered it essential to ask you one question,

because the possibility implied in it appeared to me to be too remote.

But perhaps I ought to do so. You have never entertained in secret any

other proposal?′

`Father,′ she returned, almost scornfully, `what other proposal can have

been made to me? Whom have I seen? Where have I been? What are my

heart′s experiences?′

`My dear Louisa,′ returned Mr. Gradgrind, reassured and satisfied. `You

correct me justly. I merely wished to discharge my duty.′

108

`What do I know, father,′ said Louisa in her quiet manner, `of tastes and

fancies; of aspirations and affections; of all that part of my nature in

which such light things might have been nourished? What escape have I

had from problems that could be demonstrated, and realities that could

be grasped?′ As she said it, she unconsciously closed her hand, as if

upon a solid object, and slowly opened it as though she were releasing

dust or ash.

`My dear,′ assented her eminently practical parent, `quite true, quite true.′

`Why, father,′ she pursued, `what a strange question to ask me! The baby-

preference that even I have heard of as common among children, has

never had its innocent resting-place in my breast. You have been so

careful of me, that I never had a child′s heart. You have trained me so

wel , that I never dreamed a child′s dream. You have dealt so wisely with

me, father, from my cradle to this hour, that I never had a child′s belief

or a child′s fear.′

Mr. Gradgrind was quite moved by his success, and by this testimony to

it. `My dear Louisa,′ said he, `you abundantly repay my care. Kiss me, my

dear girl.′

So, his daughter kissed him. Detaining her in his embrace, he said, `I may

assure you now, my favourite child, that I am made happy by the sound

decision at which you have arrived. Mr. Bounderby is a very remarkable

man; and what little disparity can be said to exist between you - if any - is

more than counterbalanced by the tone your mind has acquired. It has

always been my object so to educate you, as that you might, while still in

your early youth, be (if I may so express myself) almost any age. Kiss me

once more, Louisa. Now, let us go and find your mother.′

Accordingly, they went down to the drawing-room, where the esteemed

lady with no nonsense about her, was recumbent as usual, while Sissy

worked beside her. She gave some feeble signs of returning animation

when they entered, and presently the faint transparency was presented in

a sitting attitude.

109

`Mrs. Gradgrind,′ said her husband, who had waited for the achievement

of this feat with some impatience, `allow me to present to you Mrs.

Bounderby.′

`Oh!′ said Mrs. Gradgrind, `so you have settled it! Well, I′m sure I hope

your health may be good, Louisa; for if your head begins to split as soon

as you are married, which was the case with mine, I cannot consider that

you are to be envied, though I have no doubt you think you are, as al

girls do. However, I give you joy, my dear - and I hope you may now turn

all your ological studies to good account, I am sure I do! I must give you

a kiss of congratulation, Louisa; but don′t touch my right shoulder, for

there′s something running down it all day long. And now you see,′

whimpered Mrs. Gradgrind, adjusting her shawls after the affectionate

ceremony, `I shall be worrying myself, morning, noon, and night, to

know what I am to call him!′

`Mrs. Gradgrind,′ said her husband, solemnly, `what do you mean?′

`Whatever I am to call him, Mr. Gradgrind, when he is married to

Louisa! I must call him something. It′s impossible,′ said Mrs. Gradgrind,

with a mingled sense of politeness and injury, `to be constantly

addressing him and never giving him a name. I cannot call him Josiah,

for the name is insupportable to me. You yourself wouldn′t hear of Joe,

you very well know. Am I to call my own son- in-law, Mister! Not, I

believe, unless the time has arrived when, as an invalid, I am to be

trampled upon by my relations. Then, what am I to call him!′

Nobody present having any suggestion to offer in the remarkable

emergency, Mrs. Gradgrind departed this life for the time being, after

delivering the following codicil to her remarks already executed:

`As to the wedding, all I ask, Louisa, is, - and I ask it with a fluttering in

my chest, which actually extends to the soles of my feet, - that it may

take place soon. Otherwise, I know it is one of those subjects I shall

never hear the last of.′

110

When Mr. Gradgrind had presented Mrs. Bounderby, Sissy had suddenly

turned her head, and looked, in wonder, in pity, in sorrow, in doubt, in a

multitude of emotions, towards Louisa. Louisa had known it, and seen it,

without looking at her. From that moment she was impassive, proud and

cold - held Sissy at a distance - changed to her altogether.

Chapter XVI: Husband and Wife

MR. BOUNDERBY′S first disquietude on hearing of his happiness, was

occasioned by the necessity of imparting it to Mrs. Sparsit. He could not

make up his mind how to do that, or what the consequences of the step

might be. Whether she would instantly depart, bag and baggage, to Lady

Scadgers, or would positively refuse to budge from the premises;

whether she would be plaintive or abusive, tearful or tearing; whether she

would break her heart, or break the looking- glass; Mr. Bounderby could

not all foresee. However, as it must be done, he had no choice but to do

it; so, after attempting several letters, and failing in them all, he resolved

to do it by word of mouth.

On his way home, on the evening he set aside for this momentous

purpose, he took the precaution of stepping into a chemist′s shop and

buying a bottle of the very strongest smelling-salts. `By George!′ said Mr.

Bounderby, `if she takes it in the fainting way, I′ll have the skin off her

nose, at all events!′ But, in spite of being thus forearmed, he entered his

own house with anything but a courageous air; and appeared before the

object of his misgivings, like a dog who was conscious of coming direct

from the pantry.

`Good evening, Mr. Bounderby!′

`Good evening, ma′am, good evening.′ He drew up his chair, and Mrs.

Sparsit drew back hers, as who should say, `Your fireside, sir. I freely

admit it. It is for you to occupy it all, if you think proper.′

`Don′t go to the North Pole, ma′am!′ said Mr. Bounderby.

111

`Thank you, sir,′ said Mrs. Sparsit, and returned, though short of her

former position.

Mr. Bounderby sat looking at her, as, with the points of a stiff, sharp pair

of scissors, she picked out holes for some inscrutable ornamental

purpose, in a piece of cambric. An operation which, taken in connexion

with the bushy eyebrows and the Roman nose, suggested with some

liveliness the idea of a hawk engaged upon the eyes of a tough little bird.

She was so steadfastly occupied, that many minutes elapsed before she

looked up from her work; when she did so Mr. Bounderby bespoke her

attention with a hitch of his head.

`Mrs. Sparsit, ma′am,′ said Mr. Bounderby, putting his hands in his

pockets, and assuring himself with his right hand that the cork of the

little bottle was ready for use, `I have no occasion to say to you, that you

are not only a lady born and bred, but a devilish sensible woman.′

`Sir,′ returned the lady, `this is indeed not the first time that you have

honoured me with similar expressions of your good opinion.′

`Mrs. Sparsit, ma′am,′ said Mr. Bounderby, `I am going to astonish you.′

`Yes, sir?′ returned Mrs. Sparsit, interrogatively, and in the most tranquil

manner possible. She generally wore mittens, and she now laid down her

work, and smoothed those mittens.

`I am going, ma′am,′ said Bounderby, `to marry Tom Gradgrind′s

daughter.′

`Yes, sir,′ returned Mrs. Sparsit. `I hope you may be happy, Mr.

Bounderby. Oh, indeed I hope you may be happy, sir!′ And she said it

with such great condescension as well as with such great compassion for

him, that Bounderby, - far more disconcerted than if she had thrown her

workbox at the mirror, or swooned on the hearthrug, - corked up the

smelling-salts tight in his pocket, and thought, `Now confound this

woman, who could have even guessed that she would take it in this way!′

112

`I wish with all my heart, sir,′ said Mrs. Sparsit, in a highly superior

manner; somehow she seemed, in a moment, to have established a right

to pity him ever afterwards; `that you may be in all respects very happy.′

`Well, ma′am,′ returned Bounderby, with some resentment in his tone:

which was clearly lowered, though in spite of himself, `I am obliged to

you. I hope I shall be.′

`Do you, sir!′ said Mrs. Sparsit, with great affability. `But naturally you do;

of course you do.′

A very awkward pause on Mr. Bounderby′s part, succeeded. Mrs. Sparsit

sedately resumed her work and occasionally gave a small cough, which

sounded like the cough of conscious strength and forbearance.

`Well, ma′am,′ resumed Bounderby, `under these circumstances, I imagine

it would not be agreeable to a character like yours to remain here, though

you would be very welcome here.′

`Oh, dear no, sir, I could on no account think of that!′ Mrs. Sparsit

shook her head, still in her highly superior manner, and a little changed

the small cough - coughing now, as if the spirit of prophecy rose within

her, but had better be coughed down.

`However, ma′am,′ said Bounderby, `there are apartments at the Bank,

where a born and bred lady, as keeper of the place, would be rather a

catch than otherwise; and if the same terms - ′

`I beg your pardon, sir. You were so good as to promise that you would

always substitute the phrase, annual compliment.′

`Well, ma′am, annual compliment. If the same annual compliment would

be acceptable there, why, I see nothing to part us, unless you do.′

`Sir,′ returned Mrs. Sparsit. `The proposal is like yourself, and if the

position I shall assume at the Bank is one that I could occupy without

descending lower in the social scale - ′

113

`Why, of course it is,′ said Bounderby. `If it was not, ma′am, you don′t

suppose that I should offer it to a lady who has moved in the society you

have moved in. Not that I care for such society, you know! But you do.′

`Mr. Bounderby, you are very considerate.′

`You′ll have your own private apartments, and you′ll have your coals and

your candles, and all the rest of it, and you′ll have your maid to attend

upon you, and you′ll have your light porter to protect you, and you′ll be

what I take the liberty of considering precious comfortable,′ said

Bounderby.

`Sir,′ rejoined Mrs. Sparsit, `say no more. In yielding up my

trust here, I shall not be freed from the necessity of eating the bread of

dependence:′ she might have said the sweetbread, for that delicate article

in a savoury brown sauce was her favourite supper: `and I would rather

receive it from your hand, than from any other. Therefore, sir, I accept

your offer gratefully, and with many sincere acknowledgments for past

favours. And I hope, sir,′ said Mrs. Sparsit, concluding in an impressively

compassionate manner, `I fondly hope that Miss Gradgrind may be all

you desire, and deserve!′

Nothing moved Mrs. Sparsit from that position any more. It was in vain

for Bounderby to bluster or to assert himself in any of his explosive

ways; Mrs. Sparsit was resolved to have compassion on him, as a Victim.

She was polite, obliging, cheerful, hopeful; but, the more polite, the more

obliging, the more cheerful, the more hopeful, the more exemplary

altogether, she; the forlorner Sacrifice and Victim, he. She had that

tenderness for his melancholy fate, that his great red countenance used

to break out into cold perspirations when she looked at him.

Meanwhile the marriage was appointed to be solemnized in eight weeks′

time, and Mr. Bounderby went every evening to Stone Lodge as an

accepted wooer. Love was made on these occasions in the form of

bracelets; and, on all occasions during the period of betrothal, took a

manufacturing aspect. Dresses were made, jewellery was made, cakes and

114

gloves were made, settlements were made, and an extensive assortment

of Facts did appropriate honour to the contract. The business was all

Fact, from first to last. The Hours did not go through any of those rosy

performances, which foolish poets have ascribed to them at such times;

neither did the clocks go any faster, or any slower, than at other seasons.

The deadly statistical recorder in the Gradgrind observatory knocked

every second on the head as it was born, and buried it with his

accustomed regularity.

So the day came, as all other days come to people who will only stick to

reason; and when it came, there were married in the church of the florid

wooden legs - that popular order of architecture - Josiah Bounderby

Esquire of Coketown, to Louisa eldest daughter of Thomas Gradgrind

Esquire of Stone Lodge, M.P. for that borough. And when they were

united in holy matrimony, they went home to breakfast at Stone Lodge

aforesaid.

There was an improving party assembled on the auspicious occasion,

who knew what everything they had to eat and drink was made of, and

how it was imported or exported, and in what quantities, and in what

bottoms, whether native or foreign, and all about it. The bridesmaids,

down to little Jane Gradgrind, were, in an intellectual point of view, fit

helpmates for the calculating boy; and there was no nonsense about any

of the company.

After breakfast, the bridegroom addressed them in the following terms:

`Ladies and gentlemen, I am Josiah Bounderby of Coketown. Since you

have done my wife and myself the honour of drinking our healths and

happiness, I suppose I must acknowledge the same; though, as you all

know me, and know what I am, and what my extraction was, you won′t

expect a speech from a man who, when he sees a Post, says "that′s a

Post," and when he sees a Pump, says "that′s a Pump," and is not to be

got to call a Post a Pump, or a Pump a Post, or either of them a

Toothpick. If you want a speech this morning, my friend and father-in-

law, Tom Gradgrind, is a Member of Parliament, and you know where to

get it. I am not your man. However, if I feel a little independent when I

115

look around this table to-day, and reflect how little I thought of

marrying Tom Gradgrind′s daughter when I was a ragged street-boy, who

never washed his face unless it was at a pump, and that not oftener than

once a fortnight, I hope I may be excused. So, I hope you like my feeling

independent; if you don′t, I can′t help it. I do feel independent. Now I

have mentioned, and you have mentioned, that I am this day married to

Tom Gradgrind′s daughter. I am very glad to be so. It has long been my

wish to be so. I have watched her bringing-up, and I believe she is worthy

of me. At the same time - not to deceive you - I believe I am worthy of

her. So, I thank you, on both our parts, for the good-will you have shown

towards us; and the best wish I can give the unmarried part of the

present company, is this: I hope every bachelor may find as good a wife

as I have found. And I hope every spinster may find as good a husband

as my wife has found.′

Shortly after which oration, as they were going on a nuptial trip to Lyons,

in order that Mr. Bounderby might take the opportunity of seeing how

the Hands got on in those parts, and whether they, too, required to be

fed with gold spoons; the happy pair departed for the railroad. The

bride, in passing down-stairs, dressed for her journey, found Tom waiting

for her - flushed, either with his feelings, or the vinous part of the

breakfast.

`What a game girl you are, to be such a first-rate sister, Loo!′ whispered

Tom.

She clung to him as she should have clung to some far better nature that

day, and was a little shaken in her reserved composure for the first time.

`Old Bounderby′s quite ready,′ said Tom. `Time′s up. Good-bye! I shall be

on the look-out for you, when you come back. I say, my dear Loo!

An′t

it

uncommonly jolly now!′

End

of

the

first

Book

116

Book the Second: Reaping

Chapter I: Effects in the Bank

A SUNNY midsummer day. There was such a thing sometimes, even in

Coketown.

Seen from a distance in such weather, Coketown lay shrouded in a haze

of its own, which appeared impervious to the sun′s rays. You only knew

the town was there, because you knew there could have been no such

sulky blotch upon the prospect without a town. A blur of soot and

smoke, now confusedly tending this way, now that way, now aspiring to

the vault of Heaven, now murkily creeping along the earth, as the wind

rose and fell, or changed its quarter: a dense formless jumble, with sheets

of cross light in it, that showed nothing but masses of darkness:-

Coketown in the distance was suggestive of itself, though not a brick of

it could be seen.

The wonder was, it was there at all. It had been ruined so often, that it

was amazing how it had borne so many shocks. Surely there never was

such fragile china-ware as that of which the millers of Coketown were

made. Handle them never so lightly, and they fell to pieces with such ease

that you might suspect them of having been flawed before. They were

ruined, when they were required to send labouring children to school;

they were ruined when inspectors were appointed to look into their

works; they were ruined, when such inspectors considered it doubtful

whether they were quite justified in chopping people up with their

machinery; they were utterly undone, when it was hinted that perhaps

they need not always make quite so much smoke. Besides Mr.

Bounderby′s gold spoon which was generally received in Coketown,

another prevalent fiction was very popular there. It took the form of a

threat. Whenever a Coketowner felt he was ill-used - that is to say,

whenever he was not left entirely alone, and it was proposed to hold him

accountable for the consequences of any of his acts - he was sure to

come out with the awful menace, that he would `sooner pitch his

117

property into the Atlantic.′ This had terrified the Home Secretary within

an inch of his life, on several occasions.

However, the Coketowners were so patriotic after all, that they never had

pitched their property into the Atlantic yet, but, on the contrary, had

been kind enough to take mighty good care of it. So there it was, in the

haze yonder; and it increased and multiplied.

The streets were hot and dusty on the summer day, and the sun was so

bright that it even shone through the heavy vapour drooping over

Coketown, and could not be looked at steadily. Stokers emerged from

low underground doorways into factory yards, and sat on steps, and

posts, and palings, wiping their swarthy visages, and contemplating coals.

The whole town seemed to be frying in oil. There was a stifling smell of

hot oil everywhere. The steam- engines shone with it, the dresses of the

Hands were soiled with it, the mills throughout their many stories oozed

and trickled it. The atmosphere of those Fairy palaces was like the breath

of the simoom: and their inhabitants, wasting with heat, toiled languidly

in the desert. But no temperature made the melancholy mad elephants

more mad or more sane. Their wearisome heads went up and down at

the same rate, in hot weather and cold, wet weather and dry, fair weather

and foul. The measured motion of their shadows on the walls, was the

substitute Coketown had to show for the shadows of rustling woods;

while, for the summer hum of insects, it could offer, all the year round,

from the dawn of Monday to the night of Saturday, the whirr of shafts

and wheels.

Drowsily they whirred all through this sunny day, making the passenger

more sleepy and more hot as he passed the humming walls of the mills.

Sun-blinds, and sprinklings of water, a little cooled the main streets and

the shops; but the mills, and the courts and alleys, baked at a fierce heat.

Down upon the river that was black and thick with dye, some Coketown

boys who were at large - a rare sight there - rowed a crazy boat, which

made a spumous track upon the water as it jogged along, while every dip

of an oar stirred up vile smells. But the sun itself, however beneficent,

generally, was less kind to Coketown than hard frost, and rarely looked

118

intently into any of its closer regions without engendering more death

than life. So does the eye of Heaven itself become an evil eye, when

incapable or sordid hands are interposed between it and the things it

looks upon to bless.

Mrs. Sparsit sat in her afternoon apartment at the Bank, on the shadier

side of the frying street. Office-hours were over: and at that period of

the day, in warm weather, she usually embellished with her genteel

presence, a managerial board-room over the public office. Her own

private sitting-room was a story higher, at the window of which post of

observation she was ready, every morning, to greet Mr. Bounderby, as he

came across the road, with the sympathizing recognition appropriate to a

Victim. He had been married now a year; and Mrs. Sparsit had never

released him from her determined pity a moment.

The Bank offered no violence to the wholesome monotony of the town.

It was another red brick house, with black outside shutters, green inside

blinds, a black street-door up two white steps, a brazen door-plate, and a

brazen door-handle full stop. It was a size larger than Mr. Bounderby′s

house, as other houses were from a size to half-a-dozen sizes smaller; in

all other particulars, it was strictly according to pattern.

Mrs. Sparsit was conscious that by coming in the evening-tide among the

desks and writing implements, she shed a feminine, not to say also

aristocratic, grace upon the office. Seated, with her needlework or netting

apparatus, at the window, she had a self- laudatory sense of correcting,

by her ladylike deportment, the rude business aspect of the place. With

this impression of her interesting character upon her, Mrs. Sparsit

considered herself, in some sort, the Bank Fairy. The townspeople who,

in their passing and repassing, saw her there, regarded her as the Bank

Dragon keeping watch over the treasures of the mine.

What those treasures were, Mrs. Sparsit knew as little as they did. Gold

and silver coin, precious paper, secrets that if divulged would bring

vague destruction upon vague persons (generally, however, people whom

she disliked), were the chief items in her ideal catalogue thereof. For the

rest, she knew that after office- hours, she reigned supreme over all the

119

office furniture, and over a locked-up iron room with three locks, against

the door of which strong chamber the light porter laid his head every

night, on a truckle bed, that disappeared at cockcrow. Further, she was

lady paramount over certain vaults in the basement, sharply spiked off

from communication with the predatory world; and over the relics of the

current day′s work, consisting of blots of ink, worn-out pens, fragments

of wafers, and scraps of paper torn so small, that nothing interesting

could ever be deciphered on them when Mrs. Sparsit tried. Lastly, she

was guardian over a little armoury of cutlasses and carbines, arrayed in

vengeful order above one of the official chimney-pieces; and over that

respectable tradition never to be separated from a place of business

claiming to be wealthy - a row of fire-buckets - vessels calculated to be

of no physical utility on any occasion, but observed to exercise a fine

moral influence, almost equal to bullion, on most beholders.

A deaf serving-woman and the light porter completed Mrs. Sparsit′s

empire. The deaf serving-woman was rumoured to be wealthy; and a

saying had for years gone about among the lower orders of Coketown,

that she would be murdered some night when the Bank was shut, for the

sake of her money. It was generally considered, indeed, that she had

been due some time, and ought to have fallen long ago; but she had kept

her life, and her situation, with an ill-conditioned tenacity that

occasioned much offence and disappointment.

Mrs. Sparsit′s tea was just set for her on a pert little table, with its tripod

of legs in an attitude, which she insinuated after office-hours, into the

company of the stern, leathern-topped, long board-table that bestrode

the middle of the room. The light porter placed the tea-tray on it,

knuckling his forehead as a form of homage.

`Thank you, Bitzer,′ said Mrs. Sparsit.

`Thank you, ma′am,′ returned the light porter. He was a very light porter

indeed; as light as in the days when he blinkingly defined a horse, for girl

number twenty.

`All is shut up, Bitzer?′ said Mrs. Sparsit.

120

`All is shut up, ma′am.′

`And what,′ said Mrs. Sparsit, pouring out her tea, `is the news of the

day? Anything?′

`Well, ma′am, I can′t say that I have heard anything particular. Our

people are a bad lot, ma′am; but that is no news, unfortunately.′

`What are the restless wretches doing now?′ asked Mrs. Sparsit.

`Merely going on in the old way, ma′am. Uniting, and leaguing, and

engaging to stand by one another.′

`It is much to be regretted,′ said Mrs. Sparsit, making her nose more

Roman and her eyebrows more Coriolanian in the strength of her

severity, `that the united masters allow of any such class- combinations.′

`Yes, ma′am,′ said Bitzer.

`Being united themselves, they ought one and all to set their faces against

employing any man who is united with any other man,′ said Mrs. Sparsit.

`They have done that, ma′am,′ returned Bitzer; `but it rather fell through,

ma′am.′

`I do not pretend to understand these things,′ said Mrs. Sparsit, with

dignity, `my lot having been signally cast in a widely different sphere; and

Mr. Sparsit, as a Powler, being also quite out of the pale of any such

dissensions. I only know that these people must be conquered, and that

it′s high time it was done, once for all.′

`Yes, ma′am,′ returned Bitzer, with a demonstration of great respect for

Mrs. Sparsit′s oracular authority. `You couldn′t put it clearer, I am sure,

ma′am.′

As this was his usual hour for having a little confidential chat with Mrs.

Sparsit, and as he had already caught her eye and seen that she was going

121

to ask him something, he made a pretence of arranging the rulers,

inkstands, and so forth, while that lady went on with her tea, glancing

through the open window, down into the street.

`Has it been a busy day, Bitzer?′ asked Mrs. Sparsit.

`Not a very busy day, my lady. About an average day.′ He now and then

slided into my lady, instead of ma′am, as an involuntary acknowledgment

of Mrs. Sparsit′s personal dignity and claims to reverence.

`The clerks,′ said Mrs. Sparsit, carefully brushing an imperceptible crumb

of bread and butter from her left-hand mitten, `are trustworthy,

punctual, and industrious, of course?′

`Yes, ma′am, pretty fair, ma′am. With the usual exception.′

He held the respectable office of general spy and informer in the

establishment, for which volunteer service he received a present at

Christmas, over and above his weekly wage. He had grown into an

extremely clear-headed, cautious, prudent young man, who was safe to

rise in the world. His mind was so exactly regulated, that he had no

affections or passions. All his proceedings were the result of the nicest

and coldest calculation; and it was not without cause that Mrs. Sparsit

habitually observed of him, that he was a young man of the steadiest

principle she had ever known. Having satisfied himself, on his father′s

death, that his mother had a right of settlement in Coketown, this

excellent young economist had asserted that right for her with such a

steadfast adherence to the principle of the case, that she had been shut

up in the workhouse ever since. It must be admitted that he allowed her

half a pound of tea a year, which was weak in him: first, because all gifts

have an inevitable tendency to pauperise the recipient, and secondly,

because his only reasonable transaction in that commodity would have

been to buy it for as little as he could possibly give, and sell it for as

much as he could possibly get; it having been clearly ascertained by

philosophers that in this is comprised the whole duty of man - not a part

of man′s duty, but the whole.

122

`Pretty fair, ma′am. With the usual exception, ma′am,′ repeated Bitzer.

`Ah - h!′ said Mrs. Sparsit, shaking her head over her tea-cup, and taking a

long gulp.

`Mr. Thomas, ma′am, I doubt Mr. Thomas very much, ma′am, I don′t

like his ways at all.′

`Bitzer,′ said Mrs. Sparsit, in a very impressive manner, `do you recollect

my having said anything to you respecting names?′

`I beg your pardon, ma′am. It′s quite true that you did object to names

being used, and they′re always best avoided.′

`Please to remember that I have a charge here,′ said Mrs. Sparsit, with her

air of state. `I hold a trust here, Bitzer, under Mr. Bounderby. However

improbable both Mr. Bounderby and myself might have deemed it years

ago, that he would ever become my patron, making me an annual

compliment, I cannot but regard him in that light. From Mr. Bounderby

I have received every acknowledgment of my social station, and every

recognition of my family descent, that I could possibly expect. More, far

more. Therefore, to my patron I will be scrupulously true. And I do not

consider, I will not consider, I cannot consider,′ said Mrs. Sparsit, with a

most extensive stock on hand of honour and morality, `that I should be

scrupulously true, if I allowed names to be mentioned under this roof,

that are unfortunately - most unfortunately - no doubt of that -

connected with his.′

Bitzer knuckled his forehead again, and again begged pardon.

`No, Bitzer,′ continued Mrs. Sparsit, `say an individual, and I will hear

you; say Mr. Thomas, and you must excuse me.′

`With the usual exception, ma′am,′ said Bitzer, trying back, `of an

individual.′

123

`Ah - h!′ Mrs. Sparsit repeated the ejaculation, the shake of the head over

her tea-cup, and the long gulp, as taking up the conversation again at the

point where it had been interrupted.

`An individual, ma′am,′ said Bitzer, `has never been what he ought to

have been, since he first came into the place. He is a dissipated,

extravagant idler. He is not worth his salt, ma′am. He wouldn′t get it

either, if he hadn′t a friend and relation at court, ma′am!′

`Ah - h!′ said Mrs. Sparsit, with another melancholy shake of her head.

`I only hope, ma′am,′ pursued Bitzer, `that his friend and relation may not

supply him with the means of carrying on. Otherwise, ma′am, we know

out of whose pocket that money comes.′

`Ah - h!′ sighed Mrs. Sparsit again, with another melancholy shake of her

head.

`He is to be pitied, ma′am. The last party I have alluded to, is to be pitied,

ma′am,′ said Bitzer.

`Yes, Bitzer,′ said Mrs. Sparsit. `I have always pitied the delusion, always.′

`As to an individual, ma′am,′ said Bitzer, dropping his voice and drawing

nearer, `he is as improvident as any of the people in this town. And you

know what their improvidence is, ma′am. No one could wish to know it

better than a lady of your eminence does.′

`They would do well,′ returned Mrs. Sparsit, `to take example by you,

Bitzer.′

`Thank you, ma′am. But, since you do refer to me, now look at me,

ma′am. I have put by a little, ma′am, already. That gratuity which I

receive at Christmas, ma′am: I never touch it. I don′t even go the length

of my wages, though they′re not high, ma′am. Why can′t they do as I

have done, ma′am? What one person can do, another can do.′

124

This, again, was among the fictions of Coketown. Any capitalist there,

who had made sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, always professed

to wonder why the sixty thousand nearest Hands didn′t each make sixty

thousand pounds out of sixpence, and more or less reproached them

every one for not accomplishing the little feat. What I did you can do.

Why don′t you go and do it?

`As to their wanting recreations, ma′am,′ said Bitzer, `it′s stuff and

nonsense. I don′t want recreations. I never did, and I never shall; I don′t

like ′em. As to their combining together; there are many of them, I have

no doubt, that by watching and informing upon one another could earn

a trifle now and then, whether in money or good will, and improve their

livelihood. Then, why don′t they improve it, ma′am! It′s the first

consideration of a rational creature, and it′s what they pretend to want.′

`Pretend indeed!′ said Mrs. Sparsit.

`I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma′am, till it becomes quite

nauseous, concerning their wives and families,′ said Bitzer. `Why look at

me, ma′am! I don′t want a wife and family. Why should they?′

`Because they are improvident,′ said Mrs. Sparsit.

`Yes, ma′am,′ returned Bitzer, `that′s where it is. If they were more

provident and less perverse, ma′am, what would they do? They would

say, "While my hat covers my family," or "while my bonnet covers my

family," - as the case might be, ma′am - "I have only one to feed, and

that′s the person I most like to feed."′

`To be sure,′ assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin.

`Thank you, ma′am,′ said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return

for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit′s improving conversation. `Would you wish

a little more hot water, ma′am, or is there anything else that I could fetch

you?′

`Nothing just now, Bitzer.′

125

`Thank you, ma′am. I shouldn′t wish to disturb you at your meals,

ma′am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it,′ said Bitzer, craning

a little to look over into the street from where he stood; `but there′s a

gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma′am, and he has

come across as if he was going to knock. That is his knock, ma′am, no

doubt.′

He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head

again, confirmed himself with, `Yes, ma′am. Would you wish the

gentleman to be shown in, ma′am?′

`I don′t know who it can be,′ said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and

arranging her mittens.

`A stranger, ma′am, evidently.′

`What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless

he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don′t know,′

said Mrs. Sparsit, `but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr.

Bounderby, and I wil never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of

the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer.′

Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit′s magnanimous words,

repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open

the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little

table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped

up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity.

`If you please, ma′am, the gentleman would wish to see you,′ said Bitzer,

with his light eye at Mrs. Sparsit′s keyhole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, who had

improved the interval by touching up her cap, took her classical features

down-stairs again, and entered the board- room in the manner of a

Roman matron going outside the city walls to treat with an invading

general.

The visitor having strolled to the window, and being then engaged in

looking carelessly out, was as unmoved by this impressive entry as man

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could possibly be. He stood whistling to himself with all imaginable

coolness, with his hat still on, and a certain air of exhaustion upon him,

in part arising from excessive summer, and in part from excessive

gentility. For it was to be seen with half an eye that he was a thorough

gentleman, made to the model of the time; weary of everything, and

putting no more faith in anything than Lucifer.

`I believe, sir,′ quoth Mrs. Sparsit, `you wished to see me.′

`I beg your pardon,′ he said, turning and removing his hat; `pray excuse

me.′

`Humph!′ thought Mrs. Sparsit, as she made a stately bend. `Five and

thirty, good-looking, good figure, good teeth, good voice, good breeding,

well-dressed, dark hair, bold eyes.′ All which Mrs. Sparsit observed in her

womanly way - like the Sultan who put his head in the pail of water -

merely in dipping down and coming up again.

`Please to be seated, sir,′ said Mrs. Sparsit.

`Thank you. Allow me.′ He placed a chair for her, but remained himself

carelessly lounging against the table. `I left my servant at the railway

looking after the luggage - very heavy train and vast quantity of it in the

van - and strolled on, looking about me. Exceedingly odd place. Will you

allow me to ask you if it′s always as black as this?′

`In general much blacker,′ returned Mrs. Sparsit, in her uncompromising

way.

`Is it possible! Excuse me: you are not a native, I think?′

`No, sir,′ returned Mrs. Sparsit. `It was once my good or ill fortune, as it

may be - before I became a widow - to move in a very different sphere.

My husband was a Powler.′

`Beg your pardon, really!′ said the stranger. `Was - ?′

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Mrs. Sparsit repeated, `A Powler.′

`Powler Family,′ said the stranger, after reflecting a few moments. Mrs.

Sparsit signified assent. The stranger seemed a little more fatigued than

before.

`You must be very much bored here?′ was the inference he drew from

the communication.

`I am the servant of circumstances, sir,′ said Mrs. Sparsit, `and I have

long adapted myself to the governing power of my life.′

`Very philosophical,′ returned the stranger, `and very exemplary and

laudable, and - ′ It seemed to be scarcely worth his while to finish the

sentence, so he played with his watch-chain wearily.

`May I be permitted to ask, sir,′ said Mrs. Sparsit, `to what I am indebted

for the favour of - ′

`Assuredly,′ said the stranger. `Much obliged to you for reminding me. I

am the bearer of a letter of introduction to Mr. Bounderby, the banker.

Walking through this extraordinarily black town, while they were getting

dinner ready at the hotel, I asked a fellow whom I met; one of the

working people; who appeared to have been taking a shower-bath of

something fluffy, which I assume to be the raw material - ′

Mrs. Sparsit inclined her head.

′ - Raw material - where Mr. Bounderby, the banker, might reside. Upon

which, misled no doubt by the word Banker, he directed me to the Bank.

Fact being, I presume, that Mr. Bounderby the Banker does not reside in

the edifice in which I have the honour of offering this explanation?′

`No, sir,′ returned Mrs. Sparsit, `he does not.′

`Thank you. I had no intention of delivering my letter at the present

moment, nor have I. But strolling on to the Bank to kill time, and having

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the good fortune to observe at the window,′ towards which he languidly

waved his hand, then slightly bowed, `a lady of a very superior and

agreeable appearance, I considered that I could not do better than take

the liberty of asking that lady where Mr. Bounderby the Banker does live.

Which I accordingly venture, with all suitable apologies, to do.′

The inattention and indolence of his manner were sufficiently relieved,

to Mrs. Sparsit′s thinking, by a certain gallantry at ease, which offered her

homage too. Here he was, for instance, at this moment, all but sitting on

the table, and yet lazily bending over her, as if he acknowledged an

attraction in her that made her charming - in her way.

`Banks, I know, are always suspicious, and officially must be,′ said the

stranger, whose lightness and smoothness of speech were pleasant

likewise; suggesting matter far more sensible and humorous than it ever

contained - which was perhaps a shrewd device of the founder of this

numerous sect, whosoever may have been that great man: `therefore I

may observe that my letter - here it is - is from the member for this place

- Gradgrind - whom I have had the pleasure of knowing in London.′

Mrs. Sparsit recognized the hand, intimated that such confirmation was

quite unnecessary, and gave Mr. Bounderby′s address, with all needful

clues and directions in aid.

`Thousand thanks,′ said the stranger. `Of course you know the Banker

wel ?′

`Yes, sir,′ rejoined Mrs. Sparsit. `In my dependent relation towards him, I

have known him ten years.′

`Quite an eternity! I think he married Gradgrind′s daughter?′

`Yes,′ said Mrs. Sparsit, suddenly compressing her mouth, `he had that -

honour.′

`The lady is quite a philosopher, I am told?′

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`Indeed, sir,′ said Mrs. Sparsit. `Is she?′

`Excuse my impertinent curiosity,′ pursued the stranger, fluttering over

Mrs. Sparsit′s eyebrows, with a propitiatory air, `but you know the family,

and know the world. I am about to know the family, and may have much

to do with them. Is the lady so very alarming? Her father gives her such a

portentously hard-headed reputation, that I have a burning desire to

know. Is she absolutely unapproachable? Repellently and stunningly

clever? I see, by your meaning smile, you think not. You have poured

balm into my anxious soul. As to age, now. Forty? Five and thirty?′

Mrs. Sparsit laughed outright. `A chit,′ said she. `Not twenty when she

was married.′

`I give you my honour, Mrs. Powler,′ returned the stranger, detaching

himself from the table, `that I never was so astonished in my life!′

It really did seem to impress him, to the utmost extent of his capacity of

being impressed. He looked at his informant for full a quarter of a

minute, and appeared to have the surprise in his mind all the time. `I

assure you, Mrs. Powler,′ he then said, much exhausted, `that the father′s

manner prepared me for a grim and stony maturity. I am obliged to you,

of all things, for correcting so absurd a mistake. Pray excuse my

intrusion. Many thanks. Good day!′

He bowed himself out; and Mrs. Sparsit, hiding in the window curtain,

saw him languishing down the street on the shady side of the way,

observed of all the town.

`What do you think of the gentleman, Bitzer?′ she asked the light porter,

when he came to take away.

`Spends a deal of money on his dress, ma′am.′

`It must be admitted,′ said Mrs. Sparsit, `that it′s very tasteful.′

`Yes, ma′am,′ returned Bitzer, `if that′s worth the money.′

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`Besides which, ma′am,′ resumed Bitzer, while he was polishing the table,

`he looks to me as if he gamed.′

`It′s immoral to game,′ said Mrs. Sparsit.

`It′s ridiculous, ma′am,′ said Bitzer, `because the chances are against the

players.′

Whether it was that the heat prevented Mrs. Sparsit from working, or

whether it was that her hand was out, she did no work that night. She sat

at the window, when the sun began to sink behind the smoke; she sat

there, when the smoke was burning red, when the colour faded from it,

when darkness seemed to rise slowly out of the ground, and creep

upward, upward, up to the house-tops, up the church steeple, up to the

summits of the factory chimneys, up to the sky. Without a candle in the

room, Mrs. Sparsit sat at the window, with her hands before her, not

thinking much of the sounds of evening; the whooping of boys, the

barking of dogs, the rumbling of wheels, the steps and voices of

passengers, the shrill street cries, the clogs upon the pavement when it

was their hour for going by, the shutting-up of shop-shutters. Not until

the light porter announced that her nocturnal sweetbread was ready, did

Mrs. Sparsit arouse herself from her reverie, and convey her dense black

eyebrows - by that time creased with meditation, as if they needed

ironing out-up-stairs.

`O, you Fool!′ said Mrs. Sparsit, when she was alone at her supper.

Whom she meant, she did not say; but she could scarcely have meant the

sweetbread.

Chapter II: Mr. James Harthouse

THE Gradgrind party wanted assistance in cutting the throats of the

Graces. They went about recruiting; and where could they enlist recruits

more hopefully, than among the fine gentlemen who, having found out

everything to be worth nothing, were equally ready for anything?

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Moreover, the healthy spirits who had mounted to this sublime height

were attractive to many of the Gradgrind school. They liked fine

gentlemen; they pretended that they did not, but they did. They became

exhausted in imitation of them; and they yaw-yawed in their speech like

them; and they served out, with an enervated air, the little mouldy rations

of political economy, on which they regaled their disciples. There never

before was seen on earth such a wonderful hybrid race as was thus

produced.

Among the fine gentlemen not regularly belonging to the Gradgrind

school, there was one of a good family and a better appearance, with a

happy turn of humour which had told immensely with the House of

Commons on the occasion of his entertaining it with his (and the Board

of Directors) view of a railway accident, in which the most careful

officers ever known, employed by the most liberal managers ever heard

of, assisted by the finest mechanical contrivances ever devised, the whole

in action on the best line ever constructed, had killed five people and

wounded thirty-two, by a casualty without which the excellence of the

whole system would have been positively incomplete. Among the slain

was a cow, and among the scattered articles unowned, a widow′s cap.

And the honourable member had so tickled the House (which has a

delicate sense of humour) by putting the cap on the cow, that it became

impatient of any serious reference to the Coroner′s Inquest, and brought

the railway off with Cheers and Laughter.

Now, this gentleman had a younger brother of still better appearance

than himself, who had tried life as a Cornet of Dragoons, and found it a

bore; and had afterwards tried it in the train of an English minister

abroad, and found it a bore; and had then strolled to Jerusalem, and got

bored there; and had then gone yachting about the world, and got bored

everywhere. To whom this honourable and jocular, member fraternally

said one day, `Jem, there′s a good opening among the hard Fact fellows,

and they want men. I wonder you don′t go in for statistics.′ Jem, rather

taken by the novelty of the idea, and very hard up for a change, was as

ready to `go in′ for statistics as for anything else. So, he went in. He

coached himself up with a blue-book or two; and his brother put it

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about among the hard Fact fellows, and said, `If you want to bring in, for

any place, a handsome dog who can make you a devilish good speech,

look after my brother Jem, for he′s your man.′ After a few dashes in the

public meeting way, Mr. Gradgrind and a council of political sages

approved of Jem, and it was resolved to send him down to Coketown, to

become known there and in the neighbourhood. Hence the letter Jem

had last night shown to Mrs. Sparsit, which Mr. Bounderby now held in

his hand; superscribed, `Josiah Bounderby, Esquire, Banker, Coketown.

Specially to introduce James Harthouse, Esquire. Thomas Gradgrind.′

Within an hour of the receipt of this dispatch and Mr. James

Harthouse′s card, Mr. Bounderby put on his hat and went down to the

Hotel. There he found Mr. James Harthouse looking out of window, in a

state of mind so disconsolate, that he was already half- disposed to `go

in′ for something else.

`My name, sir,′ said his visitor, `is Josiah Bounderby, of Coketown.′

Mr. James Harthouse was very happy indeed (though he scarcely looked

so) to have a pleasure he had long expected.

`Coketown, sir,′ said Bounderby, obstinately taking a chair, `is not the

kind of place you have been accustomed to. Therefore, if you will allow

me - or whether you will or not, for I am a plain man - I′ll tel you

something about it before we go any further.′

Mr. Harthouse would be charmed.

`Don′t be too sure of that,′ said Bounderby. `I don′t promise it. First of

all, you see our smoke. That′s meat and drink to us. It′s the healthiest

thing in the world in all respects, and particularly for the lungs. If you are

one of those who want us to consume it, I differ from you. We are not

going to wear the bottoms of our boilers out any faster than we wear

′em out now, for all the humbugging sentiment in Great Britain and

Ireland.′

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By way of `going in′ to the fullest extent, Mr. Harthouse rejoined, `Mr.

Bounderby, I assure you I am entirely and completely of your way of

thinking. On conviction.′

`I am glad to hear it,′ said Bounderby. `Now, you have heard a lot of talk

about the work in our mills, no doubt. You have? Very good. I′ll state the

fact of it to you. It′s the pleasantest work there is, and it′s the lightest

work there is, and it′s the best- paid work there is. More than that, we

couldn′t improve the mills themselves, unless we laid down Turkey

carpets on the floors. Which we′re not a-going to do.′

`Mr. Bounderby, perfectly right.′

`Lastly,′ said Bounderby, `as to our Hands. There′s not a Hand in this

town, sir, man, woman, or child, but has one ultimate object in life. That

object is, to be fed on turtle soup and venison with a gold spoon. Now,

they′re not a-going - none of ′em - ever to be fed on turtle soup and

venison with a gold spoon. And now you know the place.′

Mr. Harthouse professed himself in the highest degree instructed and

refreshed, by this condensed epitome of the whole Coketown question.

`Why, you see,′ replied Mr. Bounderby, `it suits my disposition to have a

full understanding with a man, particularly with a public man, when I

make his acquaintance. I have only one thing more to say to you, Mr.

Harthouse, before assuring you of the pleasure with which I shall

respond, to the utmost of my poor ability, to my friend Tom Gradgrind′s

letter of introduction. You are a man of family. Don′t you deceive

yourself by supposing for a moment that I am a man of family. I am a

bit of dirty riff-raff, and a genuine scrap of tag, rag, and bobtail.′

If anything could have exalted Jem′s interest in Mr. Bounderby, it would

have been this very circumstance. Or, so he told him.

`So now,′ said Bounderby, `we may shake hands on equal terms. I say,

equal terms, because although I know what I am, and the exact depth of

the gutter I have lifted myself out of, better than any man does, I am as

134

proud as you are. I am just as proud as you are. Having now asserted my

independence in a proper manner, I may come to how do you find

yourself, and I hope you′re pretty well.′

The better, Mr. Harthouse gave him to understand as they shook hands,

for the salubrious air of Coketown. Mr. Bounderby received the answer

with favour.

`Perhaps you know,′ said he, `or perhaps you don′t know, I married Tom

Gradgrind′s daughter. If you have nothing better to do than to walk up

town with me, I shall be glad to introduce you to Tom Gradgrind′s

daughter.′

`Mr. Bounderby,′ said Jem, `you anticipate my dearest wishes.′

They went out without further discourse; and Mr. Bounderby piloted the

new acquaintance who so strongly contrasted with him, to the private

red brick dwelling, with the black outside shutters, the green inside

blinds, and the black street door up the two white steps. In the drawing-

room of which mansion, there presently entered to them the most

remarkable girl Mr. James Harthouse had ever seen. She was so

constrained, and yet so careless; so reserved, and yet so watchful; so cold

and proud, and yet so sensitively ashamed of her husband′s braggart

humility - from which she shrunk as if every example of it were a cut or

a blow; that it was quite a new sensation to observe her. In face she was

no less remarkable than in manner. Her features were handsome; but

their natural play was so locked up, that it seemed impossible to guess at

their genuine expression. Utterly indifferent, perfectly self- reliant, never

at a loss, and yet never at her ease, with her figure in company with them

there, and her mind apparently quite alone - it was of no use `going in′

yet awhile to comprehend this girl, for she baffled all penetration.

From the mistress of the house, the visitor glanced to the house itself.

There was no mute sign of a woman in the room. No graceful little

adornment, no fanciful little device, however trivial, anywhere expressed

her influence. Cheerless and comfortless, boastfully and doggedly rich,

there the room stared at its present occupants, unsoftened and

135

unrelieved by the least trace of any womanly occupation. As Mr.

Bounderby stood in the midst of his household gods, so those

unrelenting divinities occupied their places around Mr. Bounderby, and

they were worthy of one another, and well matched.

`This, sir,′ said Bounderby, `is my wife, Mrs. Bounderby: Tom Gradgrind′s

eldest daughter. Loo, Mr. James Harthouse. Mr. Harthouse has joined

your father′s muster-rol . If he is not Torn Gradgrind′s colleague before

long, I believe we shall at least hear of him in connexion with one of our

neighbouring towns. You observe, Mr. Harthouse, that my wife is my

junior. I don′t know what she saw in me to marry me, but she saw

something in me, I suppose, or she wouldn′t have married me. She has

lots of expensive knowledge, sir, political and otherwise. If you want to

cram for anything, I should be troubled to recommend you to a better

adviser than Loo Bounderby.′

To a more agreeable adviser, or one from whom he would be more likely

to learn, Mr. Harthouse could never be recommended.

`Come!′ said his host. `If you′re in the complimentary line, you′ll get on

here, for you′ll meet with no competition. I have never been in the way

of learning compliments myself, and I don′t profess to understand the

art of paying ′em. In fact, despise ′em. But, your bringing-up was

different from mine; mine was a real thing, by George! You′re a

gentleman, and I don′t pretend to be one. I am Josiah Bounderby of

Coketown, and that′s enough for me. However, though I am not

influenced by manners and station, Loo Bounderby may be. She hadn′t

my advantages - disadvantages you would call ′em, but I call ′em

advantages - so you′ll not waste your power, I dare say.′

`Mr. Bounderby,′ said Jem, turning with a smile to Louisa, `is a noble

animal in a comparatively natural state, quite free from the harness in

which a conventional hack like myself works.′

`You respect Mr. Bounderby very much,′ she quietly returned. `It is

natural that you should.′

136

He was disgracefully thrown out, for a gentleman who had seen so much

of the world, and thought, `Now, how am I to take this?′

`You are going to devote yourself, as I gather from what Mr. Bounderby

has said, to the service of your country. You have made up your mind,′

said Louisa, still standing before him where she had first stopped - in all

the singular contrariety of her self- possession, and her being obviously

very ill at ease - `to show the nation the way out of all its difficulties.′

`Mrs. Bounderby,′ he returned, laughing, `upon my honour, no. I will

make no such pretence to you. I have seen a little, here and there, up and

down; I have found it all to be very worthless, as everybody has, and as

some confess they have, and some do not; and I am going in for your

respected father′s opinions - really because I have no choice of opinions,

and may as well back them as anything else.′

`Have you none of your own?′ asked Louisa.

`I have not so much as the slightest predilection left. I assure you I attach

not the least importance to any opinions. The result of the varieties of

boredom I have undergone, is a conviction (unless conviction is too

industrious a word for the lazy sentiment I entertain on the subject), that

any set of ideas wil do just as much good as any other set, and just as

much harm as any other set. There′s an English family with a charming

Italian motto. What will be, will be. It′s the only truth going!′

This vicious assumption of honesty in dishonesty - a vice so dangerous,

so deadly, and so common - seemed, he observed, a little to impress her

in his favour. He followed up the advantage, by saying in his pleasantest

manner: a manner to which she might attach as much or as little meaning

as she pleased: `The side that can prove anything in a line of units, tens,

hundreds, and thousands, Mrs. Bounderby, seems to me to afford the

most fun, and to give a man the best chance. I am quite as much attached

to it as if I believed it. I am quite ready to go in for it, to the same extent

as if I believed it. And what more could I possibly do, if I did believe it!′

`You are a singular politician,′ said Louisa.

137

`Pardon me; I have not even that merit. We are the largest party in the

state, I assure you, Mrs. Bounderby, if we all fell out of our adopted

ranks and were reviewed together.′

Mr. Bounderby, who had been in danger of bursting in silence,

interposed here with a project for postponing the family dinner till half-

past six, and taking Mr. James Harthouse in the meantime on a round of

visits to the voting and interesting notabilities of Coketown and its

vicinity. The round of visits was made; and Mr. James Harthouse, with a

discreet use of his blue coaching, came off triumphantly, though with a

considerable accession of boredom.

In the evening, he found the dinner-table laid for four, but they sat down

only three. It was an appropriate occasion for Mr. Bounderby to discuss

the flavour of the hap′orth of stewed eels he had purchased in the

streets at eight years old; and also of the inferior water, specially used for

laying the dust, with which he had washed down that repast. He likewise

entertained his guest over the soup and fish, with the calculation that he

(Bounderby) had eaten in his youth at least three horses under the guise

of polonies and saveloys. These recitals, Jem, in a languid manner,

received with `charming!′ every now and then; and they probably would

have decided him to `go in′ for Jerusalem again to-morrow morning, had

he been less curious respecting Louisa.

`Is there nothing,′ he thought, glancing at her as she sat at the head of

the table, where her youthful figure, small and slight, but very graceful,

looked as pretty as it looked misplaced; `is there nothing that will move

that face?′

Yes! By Jupiter, there was something, and here it was, in an unexpected

shape. Tom appeared. She changed as the door opened, and broke into a

beaming smile.

A beautiful smile. Mr. James Harthouse might not have thought so much

of it, but that he had wondered so long at her impassive face. She put

out her hand - a pretty little soft hand; and her fingers closed upon her

brother′s, as if she would have carried them to her lips.

138

`Ay, ay?′ thought the visitor. `This whelp is the only creature she cares for.

So, so!′

The whelp was presented, and took his chair. The appellation was not

flattering, but not unmerited.

`When I was your age, young Tom,′ said Bounderby, `I was punctual, or I

got no dinner!′

`When you were my age,′ resumed Tom, `you hadn′t a wrong balance to

get right, and hadn′t to dress afterwards.′

`Never mind that now,′ said Bounderby.

`Well, then,′ grumbled Tom. `Don′t begin with me.′

`Mrs. Bounderby,′ said Harthouse, perfectly hearing this under- strain as

it went on; `your brother′s face is quite familiar to me. Can I have seen

him abroad? Or at some public school, perhaps?′

`No,′ she resumed, quite interested, `he has never been abroad yet, and

was educated here, at home. Tom, love, I am telling Mr. Harthouse that

he never saw you abroad.′

`No such luck, sir,′ said Tom.

There was little enough in him to brighten her face, for he was a sullen

young fellow, and ungracious in his manner even to her. So much the

greater must have been the solitude of her heart, and her need of some

one on whom to bestow it. `So much the more is this whelp the only

creature she has ever cared for,′ thought Mr. James Harthouse, turning it

over and over. `So much the more. So much the more.′

Both in his sister′s presence, and after she had left the room, the whelp

took no pains to hide his contempt for Mr. Bounderby, whenever he

could indulge it without the observation of that independent man, by

making wry faces, or shutting one eye. Without responding to these

139

telegraphic communications, Mr. Harthouse encouraged him much in

the course of the evening, and showed an unusual liking for him. At last,

when he rose to return to his hotel, and was a little doubtful whether he

knew the way by night, the whelp immediately proffered his services as

guide, and turned out with him to escort him thither.

Chapter III: The Whelp

IT was very remarkable that a young gentleman who had been brought

up under one continuous system of unnatural restraint, should be a

hypocrite; but it was certainly the case with Tom. It was very strange that

a young gentleman who had never been left to his own guidance for five

consecutive minutes, should be incapable at last of governing himself;

but so it was with Tom. It was altogether unaccountable that a young

gentleman whose imagination had been strangled in his cradle, should be

still inconvenienced by its ghost in the form of grovelling sensualities;

but such a monster, beyond all doubt, was Tom.

`Do you smoke?′ asked Mr. James Harthouse, when they came to the

hotel.

`I believe you!′ said Tom.

He could do no less than ask Tom up; and Tom could do no less than go

up. What with a cooling drink adapted to the weather, but not so weak as

cool; and what with a rarer tobacco than was to be bought in those parts;

Tom was soon in a highly free and easy state at his end of the sofa, and

more than ever disposed to admire his new friend at the other end.

Tom blew his smoke aside, after he had been smoking a little while, and

took an observation of his friend. `He don′t seem to care about his

dress,′ thought Tom, `and yet how capitally he does it. What an easy swell

he is!′

Mr. James Harthouse, happening to catch Tom′s eye, remarked that he

drank nothing, and filled his glass with his own negligent hand.

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`Thank′ee,′ said Tom. `Thank′ee. Well, Mr. Harthouse, I hope you have

had about a dose of old Bounderby to-night.′ Tom said this with one eye

shut up again, and looking over his glass knowingly, at his entertainer.

`A very good fellow indeed!′ returned Mr. James Harthouse.

`You think so, don′t you?′ said Tom. And shut up his eye again.

Mr. James Harthouse smiled; and rising from his end of the sofa, and

lounging with his back against the chimney-piece, so that he stood

before the empty fire-grate as he smoked, in front of Tom and looking

down at him, observed:

`What a comical brother-in-law you are!′

`What a comical brother-in-law old Bounderby is, I think you mean,′ said

Tom.

`You are a piece of caustic, Tom,′ retorted Mr. James Harthouse.

There was something so very agreeable in being so intimate with such a

waistcoat; in being called Tom, in such an intimate way, by such a voice;

in being on such off-hand terms so soon, with such a pair of whiskers;

that Tom was uncommonly pleased with himself.

`Oh! I don′t care for old Bounderby,′ said he, `if you mean that. I have

always called old Bounderby by the same name when I have talked about

him, and I have always thought of him in the same way. I am not going

to begin to be polite now, about old Bounderby. It would be rather late in

the day.′

`Don′t mind me,′ returned James; `but take care when his wife is by, you

know.′

`His wife?′ said Tom. `My sister Loo? O yes!′ And he laughed, and took a

little more of the cooling drink.

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James Harthouse continued to lounge in the same place and attitude,

smoking his cigar in his own easy way, and looking pleasantly at the

whelp, as if he knew himself to be a kind of agreeable demon who had

only to hover over him, and he must give up his whole soul if required.

It certainly did seem that the whelp yielded to this influence. He looked

at his companion sneakingly, he looked at him admiringly, he looked at

him boldly, and put up one leg on the sofa.

`My sister Loo?′ said Tom. `She never cared for old Bounderby.′

`That′s the past tense, Tom,′ returned Mr. James Harthouse, striking the

ash from his cigar with his little finger. `We are in the present tense, now.′

`Verb neuter, not to care. Indicative mood, present tense. First person

singular, I do not care; second person singular, thou dost not care; third

person singular, she does not care,′ returned Tom.

`Good! Very quaint!′ said his friend. `Though you don′t mean it.′

`But I do mean it,′ cried Tom. `Upon my honour! Why, you won′t tell me,

Mr. Harthouse, that you really suppose my sister Loo does care for old

Bounderby.′

`My dear fellow,′ returned the other, `what am I bound to suppose, when

I find two married people living in harmony and happiness?′

Tom had by this time got both his legs on the sofa. If his second leg had

not been already there when he was called a dear fellow, he would have

put it up at that great stage of the conversation. Feeling it necessary to

do something then, he stretched himself out at greater length, and,

reclining with the back of his head on the end of the sofa, and smoking

with an infinite assumption of negligence, turned his common face, and

not too sober eyes, towards the face looking down upon him so

carelessly yet so potently.

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`You know our governor, Mr. Harthouse,′ said Tom, `and therefore, you

needn′t be surprised that Loo married old Bounderby. She never had a

lover, and the governor proposed old Bounderby, and she took him.′

`Very dutiful in your interesting sister,′ said Mr. James Harthouse.

`Yes, but she wouldn′t have been as dutiful, and it would not have come

off as easily,′ returned the whelp, `if it hadn′t been for me.′

The tempter merely lifted his eyebrows; but the whelp was obliged to go

on.

`I persuaded her,′ he said, with an edifying air of superiority. `I was stuck

into old Bounderby′s bank (where I never wanted to be), and I knew I

should get into scrapes there, if she put old Bounderby′s pipe out; so I

told her my wishes, and she came into them. She would do anything for

me. It was very game of her, wasn′t it?′

`It was charming, Tom!′

`Not that it was altogether so important to her as it was to me,′

continued Tom coolly, `because my liberty and comfort, and perhaps my

getting on, depended on it; and she had no other lover, and staying at

home was like staying in jail - especially when I was gone. It wasn′t as if

she gave up another lover for old Bounderby; but still it was a good thing

in her.′

`Perfectly delightful. And she gets on so placidly.′

`Oh,′ returned Tom, with contemptuous patronage, `she′s a regular girl. A

girl can get on anywhere. She has settled down to the life, and she don′t

mind. It does just as well as another. Besides, though Loo is a girl, she′s

not a common sort of girl. She can shut herself up within herself, and

think - as I have often known her sit and watch the fire - for an hour at a

stretch.′

`Ay, ay? Has resources of her own,′ said Harthouse, smoking quietly.

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`Not so much of that as you may suppose,′ returned Tom; `for our

governor had her crammed with all sorts of dry bones and sawdust. It′s

his system.′

`Formed his daughter on his own model?′ suggested Harthouse.

`His daughter? Ah! and everybody else. Why, he formed Me that way!′

said Tom.

`Impossible!′

`He did, though,′ said Tom, shaking his head. `I mean to say, Mr.

Harthouse, that when I first left home and went to old Bounderby′s, I

was as flat as a warming-pan, and knew no more about life, than any

oyster does.′

`Come, Tom! I can hardly believe that. A joke′s a joke.′

`Upon my soul!′ said the whelp. `I am serious; I am indeed!′ He smoked

with great gravity and dignity for a little while, and then added, in a

highly complacent tone, `Oh! I have picked up a little since. I don′t deny

that. But I have done it myself; no thanks to the governor.′

`And your intelligent sister?′

`My intelligent sister is about where she was. She used to complain to me

that she had nothing to fall back upon, that girls usually fall back upon;

and I don′t see how she is to have got over that since. But she don′t

mind,′ he sagaciously added, puffing at his cigar again. `Girls can always

get on, somehow.′

`Calling at the Bank yesterday evening, for Mr. Bounderby′s address, I

found an ancient lady there, who seems to entertain great admiration for

your sister,′ observed Mr. James Harthouse, throwing away the last small

remnant of the cigar he had now smoked out.

`Mother Sparsit!′ said Tom. `What! you have seen her already, have you?′

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His friend nodded. Tom took his cigar out of his mouth, to shut up his

eye (which had grown rather unmanageable) with the greater expression,

and to tap his nose several times with his finger.

`Mother Sparsit′s feeling for Loo is more than admiration, I should

think,′ said Tom. `Say affection and devotion. Mother Sparsit never set

her cap at Bounderby when he was a bachelor. Oh no!′

These were the last words spoken by the whelp, before a giddy

drowsiness came upon him, followed by complete oblivion. He was

roused from the latter state by an uneasy dream of being stirred up with

a boot, and also of a voice saying: `Come, it′s late. Be off!′

`Well!′ he said, scrambling from the sofa. `I must take my leave of you

though. I say. Yours is very good tobacco. But it′s too mild.′

`Yes, it′s too mild,′ returned his entertainer.

`It′s - it′s ridiculously mild,′ said Tom. `Where′s the door! Good night!′

`He had another odd dream of being taken by a waiter through a mist,

which, after giving him some trouble and difficulty, resolved itself into

the main street, in which he stood alone. He then walked home pretty

easily, though not yet free from an impression of the presence and

influence of his new friend - as if he were lounging somewhere in the

air, in the same negligent attitude, regarding him with the same look.

The whelp went home, and went to bed. If he had had any sense of

what he had done that night, and had been less of a whelp and more of

a brother, he might have turned short on the road, might have gone

down to the ill-smelling river that was dyed black, might have gone to

bed in it for good and all, and have curtained his head for ever with its

filthy waters.

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Chapter IV: Men and Brothers

`OH, my friends, the down-trodden operatives of Coketown! Oh, my

friends and fellow-countrymen, the slaves of an iron-handed and a

grinding despotism! Oh, my friends and fellow-sufferers, and fellow-

workmen, and fellow-men! I tell you that the hour is come, when we

must rally round one another as One united power, and crumble into

dust the oppressors that too long have battened upon the plunder of our

families, upon the sweat of our brows, upon the labour of our hands,

upon the strength of our sinews, upon the God- created glorious rights

of Humanity, and upon the holy and eternal privileges of Brotherhood!′

`Good!′ `Hear, hear, hear!′ `Hurrah!′ and other cries, arose in many voices

from various parts of the densely crowded and suffocatingly close Hall,

in which the orator, perched on a stage, delivered himself of this and

what other froth and fume he had in him. He had declaimed himself

into a violent heat, and was as hoarse as he was hot. By dint of roaring at

the top of his voice under a flaring gaslight, clenching his fists, knitting

his brows, setting his teeth, and pounding with his arms, he had taken so

much out of himself by this time, that he was brought to a stop, and

called for a glass of water.

As he stood there, trying to quench his fiery face with his drink of water,

the comparison between the orator and the crowd of attentive faces

turned towards him, was extremely to his disadvantage. Judging him by

Nature′s evidence, he was above the mass in very little but the stage on

which he stood. In many great respects he was essentially below them.

He was not so honest, he was not so manly, he was not so good-

humoured; he substituted cunning for their simplicity, and passion for

their safe solid sense. An ill-made, high-shouldered man, with lowering

brows, and his features crushed into an habitually sour expression, he

contrasted most unfavourably, even in his mongrel dress, with the great

body of his hearers in their plain working clothes. Strange as it always is

to consider any assembly in the act of submissively resigning itself to the

dreariness of some complacent person, lord or commoner, whom three-

fourths of it could, by no human means, raise out of the slough of

inanity to their own intellectual level, it was particularly strange, and it

146

was even particularly affecting, to see this crowd of earnest faces, whose

honesty in the main no competent observer free from bias could doubt,

so agitated by such a leader.

Good! Hear, hear! Hurrah! The eagerness both of attention and

intention, exhibited in all the countenances, made them a most

impressive sight. There was no carelessness, no languor, no idle curiosity;

none of the many shades of indifference to be seen in all other

assemblies, visible for one moment there. That every man felt his

condition to be, somehow or other, worse than it might be; that every

man considered it incumbent on him to join the rest, towards the making

of it better; that every man felt his only hope to be in his allying himself

to the comrades by whom he was surrounded; and that in this belief,

right or wrong (unhappily wrong then), the whole of that crowd were

gravely, deeply, faithfully in earnest; must have been as plain to any one

who chose to see what was there, as the bare beams of the roof and the

whitened brick walls. Nor could any such spectator fail to know in his

own breast, that these men, through their very delusions, showed great

qualities, susceptible of being turned to the happiest and best account;

and that to pretend (on the strength of sweeping axioms, howsoever cut

and dried) that they went astray wholly without cause, and of their own

irrational wills, was to pretend that there could be smoke without fire,

death without birth, harvest without seed, anything or everything

produced from nothing.

The orator having refreshed himself, wiped his corrugated forehead

from left to right several times with his handkerchief folded into a pad,

and concentrated all his revived forces, in a sneer of great disdain and

bitterness.

`But oh, my friends and brothers! Oh, men and Englishmen, the down-

trodden operatives of Coketown! What shall we say of that man - that

working-man, that I should find it necessary so to libel the glorious name

- who, being practically and well acquainted with the grievances and

wrongs of you, the injured pith and marrow of this land, and having

heard you, with a noble and majestic unanimity that will make Tyrants

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tremble, resolve for to subscribe to the funds of the United Aggregate

Tribunal, and to abide by the injunctions issued by that body for your

benefit, whatever they may be - what, I ask you, wil you say of that

working-man, since such I must acknowledge him to be, who, at such a

time, deserts his post, and sells his flag; who, at such a time, turns a

traitor and a craven and a recreant, who, at such a time, is not ashamed

to make to you the dastardly and humiliating avowal that he will hold

himself aloof, and will not be one of those associated in the gallant

stand for Freedom and for Right?′

The assembly was divided at this point. There were some groans and

hisses, but the general sense of honour was much too strong for the

condemnation of a man unheard. `Be sure you′re right, Slackbridge!′ `Put

him up!′ `Let′s hear him!′ Such things were said on many sides. Finally,

one strong voice called out, `Is the man heer? If the man′s heer,

Slackbridge, let′s hear the man himseln, `stead o′ yo.′ Which was received

with a round of applause.

Slackbridge, the orator, looked about him with a withering smile; and,

holding out his right hand at arm′s length (as the manner of all

Slackbridges is), to still the thundering sea, waited until there was a

profound silence.

`Oh, my friends and fellow-men!′ said Slackbridge then, shaking his head

with violent scorn, `I do not wonder that you, the prostrate sons of

labour, are incredulous of the existence of such a man. But he who sold

his birthright for a mess of pottage existed, and Judas Iscariot existed,

and Castlereagh existed, and this man exists!′

Here, a brief press and confusion near the stage, ended in the man

himself standing at the orator′s side before the concourse. He was pale

and a little moved in the face - his lips especially showed it; but he stood

quiet, with his left hand at his chin, waiting to be heard. There was a

chairman to regulate the proceedings, and this functionary now took the

case into his own hands.

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`My friends,′ said he, `by virtue o′ my office as your president, I askes o′

our friend Slackbridge, who may be a little over hetter in this business, to

take his seat, whiles this man Stephen Blackpool is heern. You all know

this man Stephen Blackpool. You know him awlung o′ his misfort′ns,

and his good name.′

With that, the chairman shook him frankly by the hand, and sat down

again. Slackbridge likewise sat down, wiping his hot forehead - always

from left to right, and never the reverse way.

`My friends,′ Stephen began, in the midst of a dead calm; `I ha′ hed

what′s been spok′n o′ me, and ′tis lickly that I shan′t mend it. But I′d

liefer you′d hearn the truth concernin myseln, fro my lips than fro onny

other man′s, though I never cud′n speak afore so monny, wi′out bein

moydert and muddled.′

Slackbridge shook his head as if he would shake it off, in his bitterness.

`I′m th′ one single Hand in Bounderby′s mill, o′ a′ the men theer, as don′t

coom in wi′ th′ proposed reg′lations. I canna coom in wi′ ′em. My

friends, I doubt their doin′ yo onny good. Licker they′ll do yo hurt.′

Slackbridge laughed, folded his arms, and frowned sarcastically.

`But `t an′t sommuch for that as I stands out. If that were aw, I′d coom in

wi′ th′ rest. But I ha′ my reasons - mine, yo see - for being hindered; not

on′y now, but awlus - awlus - life long!′

Slackbridge jumped up and stood beside him, gnashing and tearing. `Oh,

my friends, what but this did I tell you? Oh, my fellow- countrymen,

what warning but this did I give you? And how shows this recreant

conduct in a man on whom unequal laws are known to have fallen

heavy? Oh, you Englishmen, I ask you how does this subornation show

in one of yourselves, who is thus consenting to his own undoing and to

yours, and to your children′s and your children′s children′s?′

149

There was some applause, and some crying of Shame upon the man; but

the greater part of the audience were quiet. They looked at Stephen′s

worn face, rendered more pathetic by the homely emotions it evinced;

and, in the kindness of their nature, they were more sorry than

indignant.

′′Tis this Delegate′s trade for t′ speak,′ said Stephen, `an′ he′s paid for `t,

an′ he knows his work. Let him keep to `t. Let him give no heed to what

I ha had′n to bear. That′s not for him. That′s not for nobbody but me.′

There was a propriety, not to say a dignity in these words, that made the

hearers yet more quiet and attentive. The same strong voice called out,

`Slackbridge, let the man be heern, and howd thee tongue!′ Then the

place was wonderfully still.

`My brothers,′ said Stephen, whose low voice was distinctly heard, `and

my fellow-workmen - for that yo are to me, though not, as I knows on,

to this delegate here - I ha but a word to sen, and I could sen nommore

if I was to speak till Strike o′ day. I know weel, aw what′s afore me. I

know weel that yo aw resolve to ha nommore ado wi′ a man who is not

wi′ yo in this matther. I know weel that if I was a lyin parisht i′ th′ road,

yo′d feel it right to pass me by, as a forrenner and stranger. What I ha

getn, I mun mak th′ best on.′

`Stephen Blackpool,′ said the chairman, rising, `think on `t agen. Think

on `t once agen, lad, afore thou′rt shunned by aw owd friends.′

There was an universal murmur to the same effect, though no man

articulated a word. Every eye was fixed on Stephen′s face. To repent of

his determination, would be to take a load from all their minds. He

looked around him, and knew that it was so. Not a grain of anger with

them was in his heart; he knew them, far below their surface weaknesses

and misconceptions, as no one but their fellow- labourer could.

`I ha thowt on `t, above a bit, sir. I simply canna coom in. I mun go th′

way as lays afore me. I mun tak my leave o′ aw heer.′

150

He made a sort of reverence to them by holding up his arms, and stood

for the moment in that attitude; not speaking until they slowly dropped

at his sides.

`Monny′s the pleasant word as soom heer has spok′n wi′ me; monny′s the

face I see heer, as I first seen when I were yoong and lighter heart′n than

now. I ha′ never had no fratch afore, sin ever I were born, wi′ any o′ my

like; Gonnows I ha′ none now that′s o′ my makin′. Yo′ll ca′ me traitor

and that - yo I mean t′ say,′ addressing Slackbridge, `but ′tis easier to ca′

than mak′ out. So let be.′

He had moved away a pace or two to come down from the platform,

when he remembered something he had not said, and returned again.

`Haply,′ he said, turning his furrowed face slowly about, that he might as

it were individually address the whole audience, those both near and

distant; `haply, when this question has been tak′n up and discoosed,

there′ll be a threat to turn out if I′m let to work among yo. I hope I shall

die ere ever such a time cooms, and I shall work solitary among yo unless

it cooms - truly, I mun do `t, my friends; not to brave yo, but to live. I ha

nobbut work to live by; and wheerever can I go, I who ha worked sin I

were no heighth at aw, in Coketown heer? I mak′ no complaints o′ bein

turned to the wa′, o′ bein outcasten and overlooken fro this time forrard,

but hope I shall be let to work. If there is any right for me at aw, my

friends, I think ′tis that.′

Not a word was spoken. Not a sound was audible in the building, but the

slight rustle of men moving a little apart, all along the centre of the

room, to open a means of passing out, to the man with whom they had

all bound themselves to renounce companionship. Looking at no one,

and going his way with a lowly steadiness upon him that asserted nothing

and sought nothing, Old Stephen, with all his troubles on his head, left

the scene.

Then Slackbridge, who had kept his oratorical arm extended during the

going out, as if he were repressing with infinite solicitude and by a

wonderful moral power the vehement passions of the multitude, applied

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himself to raising their spirits. Had not the Roman Brutus, oh, my

British countrymen, condemned his son to death; and had not the

Spartan mothers, oh my soon to be victorious friends, driven their flying

children on the points of their enemies′ swords? Then was it not the

sacred duty of the men of Coketown, with forefathers before them, an

admiring world in company with them, and a posterity to come after

them, to hurl out traitors from the tents they had pitched in a sacred and

a God-like cause? The winds of heaven answered Yes; and bore Yes,

east, west, north, and south. And consequently three cheers for the

United Aggregate Tribunal!

Slackbridge acted as fugleman, and gave the time. The multitude of

doubtful faces (a little conscience-stricken) brightened at the sound, and

took it up. Private feeling must yield to the common cause. Hurrah! The

roof yet vibrated with the cheering, when the assembly dispersed.

Thus easily did Stephen Blackpool fall into the loneliest of lives, the life

of solitude among a familiar crowd. The stranger in the land who looks

into ten thousand faces for some answering look and never finds it, is in

cheering society as compared with him who passes ten averted faces

daily, that were once the countenances of friends. Such experience was

to be Stephen′s now, in every waking moment of his life; at his work, on

his way to it and from it, at his door, at his window, everywhere. By

general consent, they even avoided that side of the street on which he

habitually walked; and left it, of all the working men, to him only.

He had been for many years, a quiet silent man, associating but little with

other men, and used to companionship with his own thoughts. He had

never known before the strength of the want in his heart for the

frequent recognition of a nod, a look, a word; or the immense amount

of relief that had been poured into it by drops through such small

means. It was even harder than he could have believed possible, to

separate in his own conscience his abandonment by all his fellows from a

baseless sense of shame and disgrace.

The first four days of his endurance were days so long and heavy, that he

began to be appalled by the prospect before him. Not only did he see no

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Rachael all the time, but he avoided every chance of seeing her; for,

although he knew that the prohibition did not yet formally extend to the

women working in the factories, he found that some of them with

whom he was acquainted were changed to him, and he feared to try

others, and dreaded that Rachael might be even singled out from the rest

if she were seen in his company. So, he had been quite alone during the

four days, and had spoken to no one, when, as he was leaving his work at

night, a young man of a very light complexion accosted him in the street.

`Your name′s Blackpool, ain′t it?′ said the young man.

Stephen coloured to find himself with his hat in his hand, in his

gratitude for being spoken to, or in the suddenness of it, or both. He

made a feint of adjusting the lining, and said, `Yes.′

`You are the Hand they have sent to Coventry, I mean?′ said Bitzer, the

very light young man in question.

Stephen answered `Yes,′ again.

`I supposed so, from their all appearing to keep away from you. Mr.

Bounderby wants to speak to you. You know his house, don′t you?′

Stephen said `Yes,′ again.

`Then go straight up there, will you?′ said Bitzer. `You′re expected, and

have only to tell the servant it′s you. I belong to the Bank; so, if you go

straight up without me (I was sent to fetch you), you′ll save me a walk.′

Stephen, whose way had been in the contrary direction, turned about,

and betook himself as in duty bound, to the red brick castle of the giant

Bounderby.

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Chapter V: Men and Masters

`WELL, Stephen,′ said Bounderby, in his windy manner, `what′s this I

hear? What have these pests of the earth been doing to you? Come in,

and speak up.′

It was into the drawing-room that he was thus bidden. A tea-table was

set out; and Mr. Bounderby′s young wife, and her brother, and a great

gentleman from London, were present. To whom Stephen made his

obeisance, closing the door and standing near it, with his hat in his hand.

`This is the man I was telling you about, Harthouse,′ said Mr. Bounderby.

The gentleman he addressed, who was talking to Mrs. Bounderby on the

sofa, got up, saying in an indolent way, `Oh really?′ and dawdled to the

hearthrug where Mr. Bounderby stood.

`Now,′ said Bounderby, `speak up!′

After the four days he had passed, this address fell rudely and

discordantly on Stephen′s ear. Besides being a rough handling of his

wounded mind, it seemed to assume that he really was the self- interested

deserter he had been called.

`What were it, sir,′ said Stephen, `as yo were pleased to want wi′ me?′

`Why, I have told you,′ returned Bounderby. `Speak up like a man, since

you are a man, and tell us about yourself and this Combination.′

`Wi′ yor pardon, sir,′ said Stephen Blackpool, `I ha′ nowt to sen about it.′

Mr. Bounderby, who was always more or less like a Wind, finding

something in his way here, began to blow at it directly.

`Now, look here, Harthouse,′ said he, `here′s a specimen of ′em. When

this man was here once before, I warned this man against the

mischievous strangers who are always about - and who ought to be

hanged wherever they are found - and I told this man that he was going

154

in the wrong direction. Now, would you believe it, that although they

have put this mark upon him, he is such a slave to them still, that he′s

afraid to open his lips about them?′

`I sed as I had nowt to sen, sir; not as I was fearfo′ o′ openin′ my lips.′

`You said! Ah! I know what you said; more than that, I know what you

mean, you see. Not always the same thing, by the Lord Harry! Quite

different things. You had better tell us at once, that that fellow

Slackbridge is not in the town, stirring up the people to mutiny; and that

he is not a regular qualified leader of the people: that is, a most

confounded scoundrel. You had better tell us so at once; you can′t

deceive me. You want to tell us so. Why don′t you?′

`I′m as sooary as yo, sir, when the people′s leaders is bad,′ said Stephen,

shaking his head. `They taks such as offers. Haply ′tis na′ the sma′est o′

their misfortuns when they can get no better.′

The wind began to get boisterous.

`Now, you′ll think this pretty well, Harthouse,′ said Mr. Bounderby.

`You′ll think this tolerably strong. You′ll say, upon my soul this is a tidy

specimen of what my friends have to deal with; but this is nothing, sir!

You shall hear me ask this man a question. Pray, Mr. Blackpool′ - wind

springing up very fast - `may I take the liberty of asking you how it

happens that you refused to be in this Combination?′

`How `t happens?′

`Ah!′ said Mr. Bounderby, with his thumbs in the arms of his coat, and

jerking his head and shutting his eyes in confidence with the opposite

wall: `how it happens.′

`I′d leefer not coom to `t, sir; but sin you put th′ question - an′ not want′n

t′ be ill-manner′n - I′ll answer. I ha passed a promess.′

155

`Not to me, you know,′ said Bounderby. (Gusty weather with deceitful

calms. One now prevailing.)

`O no, sir. Not to yo.′

`As for me, any consideration for me has had just nothing at all to do

with it,′ said Bounderby, still in confidence with the wall. `If only Josiah

Bounderby of Coketown had been in question, you would have joined

and made no bones about it?′

`Why yes, sir. ′Tis true.′

`Though he knows,′ said Mr. Bounderby, now blowing a gale, `that there

are a set of rascals and rebels whom transportation is too good for!

Now, Mr. Harthouse, you have been knocking about in the world some

time. Did you ever meet with anything like that man out of this blessed

country?′ And Mr. Bounderby pointed him out for inspection, with an

angry finger.

`Nay, ma′am,′ said Stephen Blackpool, staunchly protesting against the

words that had been used, and instinctively addressing himself to Louisa,

after glancing at her face. `Not rebels, nor yet rascals. Nowt o′ th′ kind,

ma′am, nowt o′ th′ kind. They′ve not doon me a kindness, ma′am, as I

know and feel. But there′s not a dozen men amoong ′em, ma′am - a

dozen? Not six - but what believes as he has doon his duty by the rest

and by himseln. God forbid as I, that ha′ known, and had′n experience o′

these men aw my life - I, that ha′ ett′n an′ droonken wi′ ′em, an′ seet′n

wi′ ′em, and toil′n wi′ ′em, and lov′n ′em, should fail fur to stan by ′em

wi′ the truth, let ′em ha′ doon to me what they may!′

He spoke with the rugged earnestness of his place and character -

deepened perhaps by a proud consciousness that he was faithful to his

class under all their mistrust; but he fully remembered where he was, and

did not even raise his voice.

`No, ma′am, no. They′re true to one another, faithfo′ to one another,

`fectionate to one another, e′en to death. Be poor amoong ′em, be sick

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amoong ′em, grieve amoong ′em for onny o′ th′ monny causes that

carries grief to the poor man′s door, an′ they′ll be tender wi′ yo, gentle

wi′ yo, comfortable wi′ yo, Chrisen wi′ yo. Be sure o′ that, ma′am. They′d

be riven to bits, ere ever they′d be different.′

`In short,′ said Mr. Bounderby, `it′s because they are so full of virtues that

they have turned you adrift. Go through with it while you are about it.

Out with it.′

`How ′tis, ma′am,′ resumed Stephen, appearing still to find his natural

refuge in Louisa′s face, `that what is best in us fok, seems to turn us most

to trouble an′ misfort′n an′ mistake, I dunno. But ′tis so. I know ′tis, as I

know the heavens is over me ahint the smoke. We′re patient too, an′

wants in general to do right. An′ I canna think the fawt is aw wi′ us.′

`Now, my friend,′ said Mr. Bounderby, whom he could not have

exasperated more, quite unconscious of it though he was, than by

seeming to appeal to any one else, `if you will favour me with your

attention for half a minute, I should like to have a word or two with you.

You said just now, that you had nothing to tell us about this business.

You are quite sure of that before we go any further.′

`Sir, I am sure on `t.′

`Here′s a gentleman from London present,′ Mr. Bounderby made a

backhanded point at Mr. James Harthouse with his thumb, `a Parliament

gentleman. I should like him to hear a short bit of dialogue between you

and me, instead of taking the substance of it - for I know precious well,

beforehand, what it will be; nobody knows better than I do, take notice! -

instead of receiving it on trust from my mouth.′

Stephen bent his head to the gentleman from London, and showed a

rather more troubled mind than usual. He turned his eyes involuntarily

to his former refuge, but at a look from that quarter (expressive though

instantaneous) he settled them on Mr. Bounderby′s face.

`Now, what do you complain of?′ asked Mr. Bounderby.

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`I ha′ not coom here, sir,′ Stephen reminded him, `to complain. I coom

for that I were sent for.′

`What,′ repeated Mr. Bounderby, folding his arms, `do you people, in a

general way, complain of?′

Stephen looked at him with some little irresolution for a moment, and

then seemed to make up his mind.

`Sir, I were never good at showin o `t, though I ha had′n my share in

feeling o `t. `Deed we are in a muddle, sir. Look round town - so rich as

′tis - and see the numbers o′ people as has been broughten into bein

heer, fur to weave, an′ to card, an′ to piece out a livin′, aw the same one

way, somehows, `twixt their cradles and their graves. Look how we live,

an′ wheer we live, an′ in what numbers, an′ by what chances, and wi′ what

sameness; and look how the mills is awlus a goin, and how they never

works us no nigher to ony dis′ant object - ceptin awlus, Death. Look

how you considers of us, and writes of us, and talks of us, and goes up

wi′ yor deputations to Secretaries o′ State `bout us, and how yo are awlus

right, and how we are awlus wrong, and never had′n no reason in us sin

ever we were born. Look how this ha growen an′ growen, sir, bigger an′

bigger, broader an′ broader, harder an′ harder, fro year to year, fro

generation unto generation. Who can look on `t, sir, and fairly tell a man

′tis not a muddle?′

`Of course,′ said Mr. Bounderby. `Now perhaps you′ll let the gentleman

know, how you would set this muddle (as you′re so fond of calling it) to

rights.′

`I donno, sir. I canna be expecten to `t. ′Tis not me as should be looken

to for that, sir. ′Tis them as is put ower me, and ower aw the rest of us.

What do they tak upon themseln, sir, if not to do′t?′

`I′ll tell you something towards it, at any rate,′ returned Mr. Bounderby.

`We will make an example of half a dozen Slackbridges. We′ll indict the

blackguards for felony, and get ′em shipped off to penal settlements.′

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Stephen gravely shook his head.

`Don′t tell me we won′t, man,′ said Mr. Bounderby, by this time blowing a

hurricane, `because we will, I tell you!′

`Sir,′ returned Stephen, with the quiet confidence of absolute certainty,

`if yo was t′ tak a hundred Slackbridges - aw as there is, and aw the

number ten times towd - an′ was t′ sew ′em up in separate sacks, an′ sink

′em in the deepest ocean as were made ere ever dry land coom to be,

yo′d leave the muddle just wheer ′tis. Mischeevous strangers!′ said

Stephen, with an anxious smile; `when ha we not heern, I am sure, sin

ever we can call to mind, o′ th′ mischeevous strangers! ′Tis not by them

the trouble′s made, sir. ′Tis not wi′ them `t commences. I ha no favour

for ′em - I ha no reason to favour ′em - but ′tis hopeless and useless to

dream o′ takin them fro their trade, `stead o′ takin their trade fro them!

Aw that′s now about me in this room were heer afore I coom, an′ will be

heer when I am gone. Put that clock aboard a ship an′ pack it off to

Norfolk Island, an′ the time will go on just the same. So ′tis wi′

Slackbridge every bit.′

Reverting for a moment to his former refuge, he observed a cautionary

movement of her eyes towards the door. Stepping back, he put his hand

upon the lock. But he had not spoken out of his own will and desire; and

he felt it in his heart a noble return for his late injurious treatment to be

faithful to the last to those who had repudiated him. He stayed to finish

what was in his mind.

`Sir, I canna, wi′ my little learning an′ my common way, tell the genelman

what will better aw this - though some working men o′ this town could,

above my powers - but I can tell him what I know will never do `t. The

strong hand will never do `t. Vict′ry and triumph will never do `t.

Agreeing fur to mak one side unnat′rally awlus and for ever right, and

toother side unnat′rally awlus and for ever wrong, will never, never do `t.

Nor yet lettin alone will never do `t. Let thousands upon thousands

alone, aw leading the like lives and aw faw′en into the like muddle, and

they will be as one, and yo will be as anoother, wi′ a black unpassable

world betwixt yo, just as long or short a time as sich-like misery can last.

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Not drawin nigh to fok, wi′ kindness and patience an′ cheery ways, that

so draws nigh to one another in their monny troubles, and so cherishes

one another in their distresses wi′ what they need themseln - like, I

humbly believe, as no people the genelman ha seen in aw his travels can

beat - will never do `t till th′ Sun turns t′ ice. Most o′ aw, rating ′em as so

much Power, and reg′latin ′em as if they was figures in a soom, or

machines: wi′out loves and likens, wi′out memories and inclinations,

wi′out souls to weary and souls to hope - when aw goes quiet, draggin

on wi′ ′em as if they′d nowt o′ th′ kind, and when aw goes onquiet,

reproachin ′em for their want o′ sitch humanly feelins in their dealins wi′

yo - this will never do `t, sir, till God′s work is onmade.′

Stephen stood with the open door in his hand, waiting to know if

anything more were expected of him.

`Just stop a moment,′ said Mr. Bounderby, excessively red in the face. `I

told you, the last time you were here with a grievance, that you had better

turn about and come out of that. And I also told you, if you remember,

that I was up to the gold spoon look- out.′

`I were not up to `t myseln, sir; I do assure yo.′

`Now it′s clear to me,′ said Mr. Bounderby, `that you are one of those

chaps who have always got a grievance. And you go about, sowing it and

raising crops. That′s the business of your life, my friend.′

Stephen shook his head, mutely protesting that indeed he had other

business to do for his life.

`You are such a waspish, raspish, ill-conditioned chap, you see,′ said Mr.

Bounderby, `that even your own Union, the men who know you best, will

have nothing to do with you. I never thought those fellows could be

right in anything; but I tell you what! I so far go along with them for a

novelty, that I′ll have nothing to do with you either.′

Stephen raised his eyes quickly to his face.

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`You can finish off what you′re at,′ said Mr. Bounderby, with a meaning

nod, `and then go elsewhere.′

`Sir, yo know weel,′ said Stephen expressively, `that if I canna get work

wi′ yo, I canna get it elsewheer.′

The reply was, `What I know, I know; and what you know, you know. I

have no more to say about it.′

Stephen glanced at Louisa again, but her eyes were raised to his no more;

therefore, with a sigh, and saying, barely above his breath, `Heaven help

us aw in this world!′ he departed.

Chapter VI: Fading Away

IT was falling dark when Stephen came out of Mr. Bounderby′s house.

The shadows of night had gathered so fast, that he did not look about

him when he closed the door, but plodded straight along the street.

Nothing was further from his thoughts than the curious old woman he

had encountered on his previous visit to the same house, when he heard

a step behind him that he knew, and turning, saw her in Rachael′s

company.

He saw Rachael first, as he had heard her only.

`Ah, Rachael, my dear! Missus, thou wi′ her!′

`Well, and now you are surprised to be sure, and with reason I must say,′

the old woman returned. `Here I am again, you see.′

`But how wi′ Rachael?′ said Stephen, falling into their step, walking

between them, and looking from the one to the other.

`Why, I come to be with this good lass pretty much as I came to be with

you,′ said the old woman, cheerfully, taking the reply upon herself. `My

visiting time is later this year than usual, for I have been rather troubled

with shortness of breath, and so put it off till the weather was fine and

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warm. For the same reason I don′t make all my journey in one day, but

divide it into two days, and get a bed to-night at the Travellers′ Coffee

House down by the railroad (a nice clean house), and go back

Parliamentary, at six in the morning. Well, but what has this to do with

this good lass, says you? I′m going to tell you. I have heard of Mr.

Bounderby being married. I read it in the paper, where it looked grand -

oh, it looked fine!′ the old woman dwelt on it with strange enthusiasm:

`and I want to see his wife. I have never seen her yet. Now, if you′ll

believe me, she hasn′t come out of that house since noon to- day. So not

to give her up too easily, I was waiting about, a little last bit more, when I

passed close to this good lass two or three times; and her face being so

friendly I spoke to her, and she spoke to me. There!′ said the old woman

to Stephen, `you can make all the rest out for yourself now, a deal shorter

than I can, I dare say!′

Once again, Stephen had to conquer an instinctive propensity to dislike

this old woman, though her manner was as honest and simple as a

manner possibly could be. With a gentleness that was as natural to him

as he knew it to be to Rachael, he pursued the subject that interested her

in her old age.

`Well, missus,′ said he, `I ha seen the lady, and she were young and

hansom. Wi′ fine dark thinkin eyes, and a still way, Rachael, as I ha never

seen the like on.′

`Young and handsome. Yes!′ cried the old woman, quite delighted. `As

bonny as a rose! And what a happy wife!′

`Aye, missus, I suppose she be,′ said Stephen. But with a doubtful glance

at Rachael.

`Suppose she be? She must be. She′s your master′s wife,′ returned the old

woman.

Stephen nodded assent. `Though as to master,′ said he, glancing again at

Rachael, `not master onny more. That′s aw enden `twixt him and me.′

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`Have you left his work, Stephen?′ asked Rachael, anxiously and quickly.

`Why, Rachael,′ he replied, `whether I ha lef ′n his work, or whether his

work ha lef ′n me, cooms t′ th′ same. His work and me are parted. ′Tis as

weel so - better, I were thinkin when yo coom up wi′ me. It would ha

brought′n trouble upon trouble if I had stayed theer. Haply ′tis a

kindness to monny that I go; haply ′tis a kindness to myseln; anyways it

mun be done. I mun turn my face fro Coketown fur th′ time, and seek a

fort′n, dear, by beginnin fresh.′

`Where will you go, Stephen?′

`I donno t′night,′ said he, lifting off his hat, and smoothing his thin hair

with the flat of his hand. `But I′m not goin t′night, Rachael, nor yet

t′morrow. `Tan′t easy overmuch t′ know wheer t′ turn, but a good heart

will coom to me.′

Herein, too, the sense of even thinking unselfishly aided him. Before he

had so much as closed Mr. Bounderby′s door, he had reflected that at

least his being obliged to go away was good for her, as it would save her

from the chance of being brought into question for not withdrawing

from him. Though it would cost him a hard pang to leave her, and

though he could think of no similar place in which his condemnation

would not pursue him, perhaps it was almost a relief to be forced away

from the endurance of the last four days, even to unknown difficulties

and distresses.

So he said, with truth, `I′m more leetsome, Rachael, under `t, than I

could′n ha believed.′ It was not her part to make his burden heavier. She

answered with her comforting smile, and the three walked on together.

Age, especially when it strives to be self-reliant and cheerful, finds much

consideration among the poor. The old woman was so decent and

contented, and made so light of her infirmities, though they had

increased upon her since her former interview with Stephen, that they

both took an interest in her. She was too sprightly to allow of their

walking at a slow pace on her account, but she was very grateful to be

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talked to, and very willing to talk to any extent: so, when they came to

their part of the town, she was more brisk and vivacious than ever.

`Come to my poor place, missus,′ said Stephen, `and tak a coop o′ tea.

Rachael will coom then; and arterwards I′ll see thee safe t′ thy Travellers′

lodgin. `T may be long, Rachael, ere ever I ha th′ chance o′ thy coompany

agen.′

They complied, and the three went on to the house where he lodged.

When they turned into a narrow street, Stephen glanced at his window

with a dread that always haunted his desolate home; but it was open, as

he had left it, and no one was there. The evil spirit of his life had flitted

away again, months ago, and he had heard no more of her since. The

only evidence of her last return now, were the scantier moveables in his

room, and the grayer hair upon his head.

He lighted a candle, set out his little tea-board, got hot water from below,

and brought in small portions of tea and sugar, a loaf, and some butter

from the nearest shop. The bread was new and crusty, the butter fresh,

and the sugar lump, of course - in fulfilment of the standard testimony

of the Coketown magnates, that these people lived like princes, sir.

Rachael made the tea (so large a party necessitated the borrowing of a

cup), and the visitor enjoyed it mightily. It was the first glimpse of

sociality the host had had for many days. He too, with the world a wide

heath before him, enjoyed the meal - again in corroboration of the

magnates, as exemplifying the utter want of calculation on the part of

these people, sir.

`I ha never thowt yet, missus,′ said Stephen, `o′ askin thy name.′

The old lady announced herself as `Mrs. Pegler.′

`A widder, I think?′ said Stephen.

`Oh, many long years!′ Mrs. Pegler′s husband (one of the best on record)

was already dead, by Mrs. Pegler′s calculation, when Stephen was born.

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′ Twere a bad job, too, to lose so good a one,′ said Stephen. `Onny

children?′

Mrs. Pegler′s cup, rattling against her saucer as she held it, denoted some

nervousness on her part. `No,′ she said. `Not now, not now.′

`Dead, Stephen,′ Rachael softly hinted.

`I′m sooary I ha spok′n on `t,′ said Stephen, `I ought t′ hadn in my mind

as I might touch a sore place. I - I blame myseln.′

While he excused himself, the old lady′s cup rattled more and more. `I

had a son,′ she said, curiously distressed, and not by any of the usual

appearances of sorrow; `and he did well, wonderfully well. But he is not

to be spoken of if you please. He is - ′ Putting down her cup, she moved

her hands as if she would have added, by her action, `dead!′ Then she

said aloud, `I have lost him.′

Stephen had not yet got the better of his having given the old lady pain,

when his landlady came stumbling up the narrow stairs, and calling him

to the door, whispered in his ear. Mrs. Pegler was by no means deaf, for

she caught a word as it was uttered.

`Bounderby!′ she cried, in a suppressed voice, starting up from the table.

`Oh hide me! Don′t let me be seen for the world. Don′t let him come up

till I′ve got away. Pray, pray!′ She trembled, and was excessively agitated;

getting behind Rachael, when Rachael tried to reassure her; and not

seeming to know what she was about.

`But hearken, missus, hearken,′ said Stephen, astonished. "Tisn′t Mr.

Bounderby; ′tis his wife. Yo′r not fearfo′ o′ her. Yo was hey-go-mad

about her, but an hour sin.′

`But are you sure it′s the lady, and not the gentleman?′ she asked, still

trembling.

`Certain sure!′

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`Well then, pray don′t speak to me, nor yet take any notice of me,′ said

the old woman. `Let me be quite to myself in this corner.′

Stephen nodded; looking to Rachael for an explanation, which she was

quite unable to give him; took the candle, went downstairs, and in a few

moments returned, lighting Louisa into the room. She was followed by

the whelp.

Rachael had risen, and stood apart with her shawl and bonnet in her

hand, when Stephen, himself profoundly astonished by this visit, put the

candle on the table. Then he too stood, with his doubled hand upon the

table near it, waiting to be addressed.

For the first time in her life Louisa had come into one of the dwellings

of the Coketown Hands; for the first time in her life she was face to face

with anything like individuality in connection with them. She knew of

their existence by hundreds and by thousands. She knew what results in

work a given number of them would produce in a given space of time.

She knew them in crowds passing to and from their nests, like ants or

beetles. But she knew from her reading infinitely more of the ways of

toiling insects than of these toiling men and women.

Something to be worked so much and paid so much, and there ended;

something to be infallibly settled by laws of supply and demand;

something that blundered against those laws, and floundered into

difficulty; something that was a little pinched when wheat was dear, and

over-ate itself when wheat was cheap; something that increased at such a

rate of percentage, and yielded such another percentage of crime, and

such another percentage of pauperism; something wholesale, of which

vast fortunes were made; something that occasionally rose like a sea, and

did some harm and waste (chiefly to itself), and fell again; this she knew

the Coketown Hands to be. But, she had scarcely thought more of

separating them into units, than of separating the sea itself into its

component drops.

166

She stood for some moments looking round the room. From the few

chairs, the few books, the common prints, and the bed, she glanced to

the two women, and to Stephen.

`I have come to speak to you, in consequence of what passed just now. I

should like to be serviceable to you, if you will let me. Is this your wife?′

Rachael raised her eyes, and they sufficiently answered no, and dropped

again.

`I remember,′ said Louisa, reddening at her mistake; `I recollect, now, to

have heard your domestic misfortunes spoken of, though I was not

attending to the particulars at the time. It was not my meaning to ask a

question that would give pain to any one here. If I should ask any other

question that may happen to have that result, give me credit, if you

please, for being in ignorance how to speak to you as I ought.′

As Stephen had but a little while ago instinctively addressed himself to

her, so she now instinctively addressed herself to Rachael. Her manner

was short and abrupt, yet faltering and timid.

`He has told you what has passed between himself and my husband?

You would be his first resource, I think.′

`I have heard the end of it, young lady,′ said Rachael.

`Did I understand, that, being rejected by one employer, he would

probably be rejected by all? I thought he said as much?′

`The chances are very small, young lady - next to nothing - for a man

who gets a bad name among them.′

`What shall I understand that you mean by a bad name?′

`The name of being troublesome.′

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`Then, by the prejudices of his own class, and by the prejudices of the

other, he is sacrificed alike? Are the two so deeply separated in this town,

that there is no place whatever for an honest workman between them?′

Rachael shook her head in silence.

`He fell into suspicion,′ said Louisa, `with his fellow-weavers, because -

he had made a promise not to be one of them. I think it must have been

to you that he made that promise. Might I ask you why he made it?′

Rachael burst into tears. `I didn′t seek it of him, poor lad. I prayed him

to avoid trouble for his own good, little thinking he′d come to it through

me. But I know he′d die a hundred deaths, ere ever he′d break his word. I

know that of him well.′

Stephen had remained quietly attentive, in his usual thoughtful attitude,

with his hand at his chin. He now spoke in a voice rather less steady than

usual.

`No one, excepting myseln, can ever know what honour, an′ what love,

an′ respect, I bear to Rachael, or wi′ what cause. When I passed that

promess, I towd her true, she were th′ Angel o′ my life. `Twere a solemn

promess. ′Tis gone fro′ me, for ever.′

Louisa turned her head to him, and bent it with a deference that was new

in her. She looked from him to Rachael, and her features softened. `What

will you do?′ she asked him. And her voice had softened too.

`Weel, ma′am,′ said Stephen, making the best of it, with a smile; `when I

ha finished off, I mun quit this part, and try another. Fortnet or

misfortnet, a man can but try; there′s nowt to be done wi′out tryin′ - cept

laying down and dying.′

`How will you travel?′

`Afoot, my kind ledy, afoot.′

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Louisa coloured, and a purse appeared in her hand. The rustling of a

bank-note was audible, as she unfolded one and laid it on the table.

`Rachael, will you tell him - for you know how, without offence - that this

is freely his, to help him on his way? Will you entreat him to take it?′

`I canna do that, young lady,′ she answered, turning her head aside. `Bless

you for thinking o′ the poor lad wi′ such tenderness. But ′tis for him to

know his heart, and what is right according to it.′

Louisa looked, in part incredulous, in part frightened, in part overcome

with quick sympathy, when this man of so much self- command, who

had been so plain and steady through the late interview, lost his

composure in a moment, and now stood with his hand before his face.

She stretched out hers, as if she would have touched him; then checked

herself, and remained still.

`Not e′en Rachael,′ said Stephen, when he stood again with his face

uncovered, `could mak sitch a kind offerin, by onny words, kinder. T′

show that I′m not a man wi′out reason and gratitude, I′ll tak two pound.

I′ll borrow `t for t′ pay `t back. ′Twill be the sweetest work as ever I ha

done, that puts it in my power t′ acknowledge once more my lastin

thankfulness for this present action.′

She was fain to take up the note again, and to substitute the much

smaller sum he had named. He was neither courtly, nor handsome, nor

picturesque, in any respect; and yet his manner of accepting it, and of

expressing his thanks without more words, had a grace in it that Lord

Chesterfield could not have taught his son in a century.

Tom had sat upon the bed, swinging one leg and sucking his walking-

stick with sufficient unconcern, until the visit had attained this stage.

Seeing his sister ready to depart, he got up, rather hurriedly, and put in a

word.

`Just wait a moment, Loo! Before we go, I should like to speak to him a

moment. Something comes into my head. If you′ll step out on the stairs,

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Blackpool, I′ll mention it. Never mind a light, man!′ Tom was remarkably

impatient of his moving towards the cupboard, to get one. `It don′t want

a light.′

Stephen followed him out, and Tom closed the room door, and held the

lock in his hand.

`I say!′ he whispered. `I think I can do you a good turn. Don′t ask me

what it is, because it may not come to anything. But there′s no harm in

my trying.′

His breath fell like a flame of fire on Stephen′s ear, it was so hot.

`That was our light porter at the Bank,′ said Tom, `who brought you the

message to-night. I call him our light porter, because I belong to the

Bank too.′

Stephen thought, `What a hurry he is in!′ He spoke so confusedly.

`Well!′ said Tom. `Now look here! When are you off?′

`T′ day′s Monday,′ replied Stephen, considering. `Why, sir, Friday or

Saturday, nigh `bout.′

`Friday or Saturday,′ said Tom. `Now look here! I am not sure that I can

do you the good turn I want to do you - that′s my sister, you know, in

your room - but I may be able to, and if I should not be able to, there′s

no harm done. So I tell you what. You′ll know our light porter again?′

`Yes, sure,′ said Stephen.

`Very well,′ returned Tom. `When you leave work of a night, between this

and your going away, just hang about the Bank an hour or so, will you?

Don′t take on, as if you meant anything, if he should see you hanging

about there; because I shan′t put him up to speak to you, unless I find I

can do you the service I want to do you. In that case he′ll have a note or

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a message for you, but not else. Now look here! You are sure you

understand.′

He had wormed a finger, in the darkness, through a button-hole of

Stephen′s coat, and was screwing that corner of the garment tight up

round and round, in an extraordinary manner.

`I understand, sir,′ said Stephen.

`Now look here!′ repeated Tom. `Be sure you don′t make any mistake

then, and don′t forget. I shall tell my sister as we go home, what I have in

view, and she′ll approve, I know. Now look here! You′re all right, are you?

You understand all about it? Very well then. Come along, Loo!′

He pushed the door open as he called to her, but did not return into the

room, or wait to be lighted down the narrow stairs. He was at the

bottom when she began to descend, and was in the street before she

could take his arm.

Mrs. Pegler remained in her corner until the brother and sister were

gone, and until Stephen came back with the candle in his hand. She was

in a state of inexpressible admiration of Mrs. Bounderby, and, like an

unaccountable old woman, wept, `because she was such a pretty dear.′

Yet Mrs. Pegler was so flurried lest the object of her admiration should

return by chance, or anybody else should come, that her cheerfulness

was ended for that night. It was late too, to people who rose early and

worked hard; therefore the party broke up; and Stephen and Rachael

escorted their mysterious acquaintance to the door of the Travellers′

Coffee House, where they parted from her.

They walked back together to the corner of the street where Rachael

lived, and as they drew nearer and nearer to it, silence crept upon them.

When they came to the dark corner where their unfrequent meetings

always ended, they stopped, still silent, as if both were afraid to speak.

`I shall strive t′ see thee agen, Rachael, afore I go, but if not - ′

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`Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. ′Tis better that we make up our minds

to be open wi′ one another.′

`Thou′rt awlus right. ′Tis bolder and better. I ha been thinkin then,

Rachael, that as ′tis but a day or two that remains, `twere better for thee,

my dear, not t′ be seen wi′ me. `T might bring thee into trouble, fur no

good.′

′′Tis not for that, Stephen, that I mind. But thou know′st our old

agreement. ′Tis for that.′

`Well, well,′ said he. "Tis better, onnyways.′

`Thou′lt write to me, and tell me all that happens, Stephen?′

`Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be wi′ thee, Heaven bless thee,

Heaven thank thee and reward thee!′

`May it bless thee, Stephen, too, in all thy wanderings, and send thee

peace and rest at last!′

`I towd thee, my dear,′ said Stephen Blackpool - `that night - that I would

never see or think o′ onnything that angered me, but thou, so much

better than me, should′st be beside it. Thou′rt beside it now. Thou mak′st

me see it wi′ a better eye. Bless thee. Good night. Good-bye!′

It was but a hurried parting in a common street, yet it was a sacred

remembrance to these two common people. Utilitarian economists,

skeletons of schoolmasters, Commissioners of Fact, genteel and used-up

infidels, gabblers of many little dog′s-eared creeds, the poor you will have

always with you. Cultivate in them, while there is yet time, the utmost

graces of the fancies and affections, to adorn their lives so much in need

of ornament; or, in the day of your triumph, when romance is utterly

driven out of their souls, and they and a bare existence stand face to

face, Reality will take a wolfish turn, and make an end of you.

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Stephen worked the next day, and the next, uncheered by a word from

any one, and shunned in all his comings and goings as before. At the end

of the second day, he saw land; at the end of the third, his loom stood

empty.

He had overstayed his hour in the street outside the Bank, on each of

the two first evenings; and nothing had happened there, good or bad.

That he might not be remiss in his part of the engagement, he resolved

to wait full two hours, on this third and last night.

There was the lady who had once kept Mr. Bounderby′s house, sitting at

the first-floor window as he had seen her before; and there was the light

porter, sometimes talking with her there, and sometimes looking over the

blind below which had

Bank

upon it, and sometimes coming to the door

and standing on the steps for a breath of air. When he first came out,

Stephen thought he might be looking for him, and passed near; but the

light porter only cast his winking eyes upon him slightly, and said

nothing.

Two hours were a long stretch of lounging about, after a long day′s

labour. Stephen sat upon the step of a door, leaned against a wall under

an archway, strolled up and down, listened for the church clock, stopped

and watched children playing in the street. Some purpose or other is so

natural to every one, that a mere loiterer always looks and feels

remarkable. When the first hour was out, Stephen even began to have an

uncomfortable sensation upon him of being for the time a disreputable

character.

Then came the lamplighter, and two lengthening lines of light all down

the long perspective of the street, until they were blended and lost in the

distance. Mrs. Sparsit closed the first-floor window, drew down the blind,

and went up-stairs. Presently, a light went up-stairs after her, passing first

the fanlight of the door, and afterwards the two staircase windows, on its

way up. By and by, one corner of the second-floor blind was disturbed,

as if Mrs. Sparsit′s eye were there; also the other corner, as if the light

porter′s eye were on that side. Still, no communication was made to

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Stephen. Much relieved when the two hours were at last accomplished,

he went away at a quick pace, as a recompense for so much loitering.

He had only to take leave of his landlady, and lie down on his temporary

bed upon the floor; for his bundle was made up for to- morrow, and all

was arranged for his departure. He meant to be clear of the town very

early; before the Hands were in the streets.

It was barely daybreak, when, with a parting look round his room,

mournfully wondering whether he should ever see it again, he went out.

The town was as entirely deserted as if the inhabitants had abandoned it,

rather than hold communication with him. Everything looked wan at

that hour. Even the coming sun made but a pale waste in the sky, like a

sad sea.

By the place where Rachael lived, though it was not in his way; by the red

brick streets; by the great silent factories, not trembling yet; by the

railway, where the danger-lights were waning in the strengthening day; by

the railway′s crazy neighbourhood, half pulled down and half built up;

by scattered red brick villas, where the besmoked evergreens were

sprinkled with a dirty powder, like untidy snuff-takers; by coal-dust paths

and many varieties of ugliness; Stephen got to the top of the hill, and

looked back.

Day was shining radiantly upon the town then, and the bells were going

for the morning work. Domestic fires were not yet lighted, and the high

chimneys had the sky to themselves. Puffing out their poisonous

volumes, they would not be long in hiding it; but, for half an hour, some

of the many windows were golden, which showed the Coketown people

a sun eternally in eclipse, through a medium of smoked glass.

So strange to turn from the chimneys to the birds. So strange, to have

the road-dust on his feet instead of the coal-grit. So strange to have lived

to his time of life, and yet to be beginning like a boy this summer

morning! With these musings in his mind, and his bundle under his arm,

Stephen took his attentive face along the high road. And the trees arched

over him, whispering that he left a true and loving heart behind.

174

Chapter VII: Gunpowder

MR. JAMES HARTHOUSE, `going in′ for his adopted party, soon

began to score. With the aid of a little more coaching for the political

sages, a little more genteel listlessness for the general society, and a

tolerable management of the assumed honesty in dishonesty, most

effective and most patronized of the polite deadly sins, he speedily came

to be considered of much promise. The not being troubled with

earnestness was a grand point in his favour, enabling him to take to the

hard Fact fellows with as good a grace as if he had been born one of the

tribe, and to throw all other tribes overboard, as conscious hypocrites.

`Whom none of us believe, my dear Mrs. Bounderby, and who do not

believe themselves. The only difference between us and the professors

of virtue or benevolence, or philanthropy - never mind the name - is,

that we know it is all meaningless, and say so; while they know it equally

and will never say so.′

Why should she be shocked or warned by this reiteration? It was not so

unlike her father′s principles, and her early training, that it need startle

her. Where was the great difference between the two schools, when each

chained her down to material realities, and inspired her with no faith in

anything else? What was there in her soul for James Harthouse to

destroy, which Thomas Gradgrind had nurtured there in its state of

innocence!

It was even the worse for her at this pass, that in her mind - implanted

there before her eminently practical father began to form it - a struggling

disposition to believe in a wider and nobler humanity than she had ever

heard of, constantly strove with doubts and resentments. With doubts,

because the aspiration had been so laid waste in her youth. With

resentments, because of the wrong that had been done her, if it were

indeed a whisper of the truth. Upon a nature long accustomed to self-

suppression, thus torn and divided, the Harthouse philosophy came as a

relief and justification. Everything being hollow and worthless, she had

missed nothing and sacrificed nothing. What did it matter, she had said

to her father, when he proposed her husband. What did it matter, she

175

said still. With a scornful self-reliance, she asked herself, What did

anything matter - and went on.

Towards what? Step by step, onward and downward, towards some end,

yet so gradually, that she believed herself to remain motionless. As to Mr.

Harthouse, whither he tended, he neither considered nor cared. He had

no particular design or plan before him: no energetic wickedness ruffled

his lassitude. He was as much amused and interested, at present, as it

became so fine a gentleman to be; perhaps even more than it would have

been consistent with his reputation to confess. Soon after his arrival he

languidly wrote to his brother, the honourable and jocular member, that

the Bounderbys were `great fun;′ and further, that the female Bounderby,

instead of being the Gorgon he had expected, was young, and

remarkably pretty. After that, he wrote no more about them, and devoted

his leisure chiefly to their house. He was very often in their house, in his

flittings and visitings about the Coketown district; and was much

encouraged by Mr. Bounderby. It was quite in Mr. Bounderby′s gusty way

to boast to all his world that he didn′t care about your highly connected

people, but that if his wife Tom Gradgrind′s daughter did, she was

welcome to their company.

Mr. James Harthouse began to think it would be a new sensation, if the

face which changed so beautifully for the whelp, would change for him.

He was quick enough to observe; he had a good memory, and did not

forget a word of the brother′s revelations. He interwove them with

everything he saw of the sister, and he began to understand her. To be

sure, the better and profounder part of her character was not within his

scope of perception; for in natures, as in seas, depth answers unto depth;

but he soon began to read the rest with a student′s eye.

Mr. Bounderby had taken possession of a house and grounds, about

fifteen miles from the town, and accessible within a mile or two, by a

railway striding on many arches over a wild country, undermined by

deserted coal-shafts, and spotted at night by fires and black shapes of

stationary engines at pits′ mouths. This country, gradually softening

towards the neighbourhood of Mr. Bounderby′s retreat, there mellowed

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into a rustic landscape, golden with heath, and snowy with hawthorn in

the spring of the year, and tremulous with leaves and their shadows all

the summer time. The bank had foreclosed a mortgage effected on the

property thus pleasantly situated, by one of the Coketown magnates,

who, in his determination to make a shorter cut than usual to an

enormous fortune, overspeculated himself by about two hundred

thousand pounds. These accidents did sometimes happen in the best

regulated families of Coketown, but the bankrupts had no connexion

whatever with the improvident classes.

It afforded Mr. Bounderby supreme satisfaction to instal himself in this

snug little estate, and with demonstrative humility to grow cabbages in

the flower-garden. He delighted to live, barrack- fashion, among the

elegant furniture, and he bullied the very pictures with his origin. `Why,

sir,′ he would say to a visitor, `I am told that Nickits,′ the late owner,

`gave seven hundred pound for that Seabeach. Now, to be plain with you,

if I ever, in the whole course of my life, take seven looks at it, at a

hundred pound a look, it will be as much as I shall do. No, by George! I

don′t forget that I am Josiah Bounderby of Coketown. For years upon

years, the only pictures in my possession, or that I could have got into

my possession, by any means, unless I stole ′em, were the engravings of

a man shaving himself in a boot, on the blacking bottles that I was

overjoyed to use in cleaning boots with, and that I sold when they were

empty for a farthing a-piece, and glad to get it!′

Then he would address Mr. Harthouse in the same style.

`Harthouse, you have a couple of horses down here. Bring half a dozen

more if you like, and we′ll find room for ′em. There′s stabling in this

place for a dozen horses; and unless Nickits is belied, he kept the full

number. A round dozen of ′em, sir. When that man was a boy, he went

to Westminster School. Went to Westminster School as a King′s Scholar,

when I was principally living on garbage, and sleeping in market baskets.

Why, if I wanted to keep a dozen horses - which I don′t, for one′s

enough for me - I couldn′t bear to see ′em in their stalls here, and think

what my own lodging used to be. I couldn′t look at ′em, sir, and not

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order ′em out. Yet so things come round. You see this place; you know

what sort of a place it is; you are aware that there′s not a completer place

of its size in this kingdom or elsewhere - I don′t care where - and here,

got into the middle of it, like a maggot into a nut, is Josiah Bounderby.

While Nickits (as a man came into my office, and told me yesterday),

Nickits, who used to act in Latin, in the Westminster School plays, with

the chief- justices and nobility of this country applauding him till they

were black in the face, is drivelling at this minute - drivelling, sir! - in a

fifth floor, up a narrow dark back street in Antwerp.′

It was among the leafy shadows of this retirement, in the long sultry

summer days, that Mr. Harthouse began to prove the face which had set

him wondering when he first saw it, and to try if it would change for

him.

`Mrs. Bounderby, I esteem it a most fortunate accident that I find you

alone here. I have for some time had a particular wish to speak to you.′

It was not by any wonderful accident that he found her, the time of day

being that at which she was always alone, and the place being her

favourite resort. It was an opening in a dark wood, where some felled

trees lay, and where she would sit watching the fallen leaves of last year,

as she had watched the falling ashes at home.

He sat down beside her, with a glance at her face.

`Your brother. My young friend Tom - ′

Her colour brightened, and she turned to him with a look of interest. `I

never in my life,′ he thought, `saw anything so remarkable and so

captivating as the lighting of those features!′ His face betrayed his

thoughts - perhaps without betraying him, for it might have been

according to its instructions so to do.

`Pardon me. The expression of your sisterly interest is so beautiful - Tom

should be so proud of it - I know this is inexcusable, but I am so

compelled to admire.′

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`Being so impulsive,′ she said composedly.

`Mrs. Bounderby, no: you know I make no pretence with you. You know

I am a sordid piece of human nature, ready to sell myself at any time for

any reasonable sum, and altogether incapable of any Arcadian

proceeding whatever.′

`I am waiting,′ she returned, `for your further reference to my brother.′

`You are rigid with me, and I deserve it. I am as worthless a dog as you

will find, except that I am not false - not false. But you surprised and

started me from my subject, which was your brother. I have an interest in

him.′

`Have you an interest in anything, Mr. Harthouse?′ she asked, half

incredulously and half gratefully.

`If you had asked me when I first came here, I should have said no. I

must say now - even at the hazard of appearing to make a pretence, and

of justly awakening your incredulity - yes.′

She made a slight movement, as if she were trying to speak, but could

not find voice; at length she said, `Mr. Harthouse, I give you credit for

being interested in my brother.′

`Thank you. I claim to deserve it. You know how little I do claim, but I

will go that length. You have done so much for him, you are so fond of

him; your whole life, Mrs. Bounderby, expresses such charming self-

forgetfulness on his account - pardon me again - I am running wide of

the subject. I am interested in him for his own sake.′

She had made the slightest action possible, as if she would have risen in

a hurry and gone away. He had turned the course of what he said at that

instant, and she remained.

`Mrs. Bounderby,′ he resumed, in a lighter manner, and yet with a show

of effort in assuming it, which was even more expressive than the

179

manner he dismissed; `it is no irrevocable offence in a young fellow of

your brother′s years, if he is heedless, inconsiderate, and expensive - a

little dissipated, in the common phrase. Is he?′

`Yes.′

`Allow me to be frank. Do you think he games at all?′

`I think he makes bets.′ Mr. Harthouse waiting, as if that were not her

whole answer, she added, `I know he does.′

`Of course he loses?′

`Yes.′

`Everybody does lose who bets. May I hint at the probability of your

sometimes supplying him with money for these purposes?′

She sat, looking down; but, at this question, raised her eyes searchingly

and a little resentfully.

`Acquit me of impertinent curiosity, my dear Mrs. Bounderby. I think

Tom may be gradually falling into trouble, and I wish to stretch out a

helping hand to him from the depths of my wicked experience. - Shall I

say again, for his sake? Is that necessary?′

She seemed to try to answer, but nothing came of it.

`Candidly to confess everything that has occurred to me,′ said James

Harthouse, again gliding with the same appearance of effort into his

more airy manner; `I will confide to you my doubt whether he has had

many advantages. Whether - forgive my plainness - whether any great

amount of confidence is likely to have been established between himself

and his most worthy father.′

`I do not,′ said Louisa, flushing with her own great remembrance in that

wise, `think it likely.′

180

`Or, between himself, and - I may trust to your perfect understanding of

my meaning, I am sure - and his highly esteemed brother-in-law.′

She flushed deeper and deeper, and was burning red when she replied in

a fainter voice, `I do not think that likely, either.′

`Mrs. Bounderby,′ said Harthouse, after a short silence, `may there be a

better confidence between yourself and me? Tom has borrowed a

considerable sum of you?′

`You will understand, Mr. Harthouse,′ she returned, after some

indecision: she had been more or less uncertain, and troubled

throughout the conversation, and yet had in the main preserved her self-

contained manner; `you will understand that if I tell you what you press

to know, it is not by way of complaint or regret. I would never complain

of anything, and what I have done I do not in the least regret.′

`So spirited, too!′ thought James Harthouse.

`When I married, I found that my brother was even at that time heavily

in debt. Heavily for him, I mean. Heavily enough to oblige me to sell

some trinkets. They were no sacrifice. I sold them very willingly. I

attached no value to them. They, were quite worthless to me.′

Either she saw in his face that he knew, or she only feared in her

conscience that he knew, that she spoke of some of her husband′s gifts.

She stopped, and reddened again. If he had not known it before, he

would have known it then, though he had been a much duller man than

he was.

`Since then, I have given my brother, at various times, what money I

could spare: in short, what money I have had. Confiding in you at all, on

the faith of the interest you profess for him, I will not do so by halves.

Since you have been in the habit of visiting here, he has wanted in one

sum as much as a hundred pounds. I have not been able to give it to him.

I have felt uneasy for the consequences of his being so involved, but I

have kept these secrets until now, when I trust them to your honour. I

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have held no confidence with any one, because - you anticipated my

reason just now.′ She abruptly broke off.

He was a ready man, and he saw, and seized, an opportunity here of

presenting her own image to her, slightly disguised as her brother.

`Mrs. Bounderby, though a graceless person, of the world worldly, I feel

the utmost interest, I assure you, in what you tell me. I cannot possibly

be hard upon your brother. I understand and share the wise

consideration with which you regard his errors. With all possible respect

both for Mr. Gradgrind and for Mr. Bounderby, I think I perceive that he

has not been fortunate in his training. Bred at a disadvantage towards the

society in which he has his part to play, he rushes into these extremes for

himself, from opposite extremes that have long been forced - with the

very best intentions we have no doubt - upon him. Mr. Bounderby′s fine

bluff English independence, though a most charming characteristic, does

not - as we have agreed - invite confidence. If I might venture to remark

that it is the least in the world deficient in that delicacy to which a youth

mistaken, a character misconceived, and abilities misdirected, would turn

for relief and guidance, I should express what it presents to my own

view.′

As she sat looking straight before her, across the changing lights upon

the grass into the darkness of the wood beyond, he saw in her face her

application of his very distinctly uttered words.

`All allowance,′ he continued, `must be made. I have one great fault to

find with Tom, however, which I cannot forgive, and for which I take

him heavily to account.′

Louisa turned her eyes to his face, and asked him what fault was that?

`Perhaps,′ he returned, `I have said enough. Perhaps it would have been

better, on the whole, if no allusion to it had escaped me.′

`You alarm me, Mr. Harthouse. Pray let me know it.′

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`To relieve you from needless apprehension - and as this confidence

regarding your brother, which I prize I am sure above all possible things,

has been established between us - I obey. I cannot forgive him for not

being more sensible in every word, look, and act of his life, of the

affection of his best friend; of the devotion of his best friend; of her

unselfishness; of her sacrifice. The return he makes her, within my

observation, is a very poor one. What she has done for him demands his

constant love and gratitude, not his ill- humour and caprice. Careless

fellow as I am, I am not so indifferent, Mrs. Bounderby, as to be

regardless of this vice in your brother, or inclined to consider it a venial

offence.′

The wood floated before her, for her eyes were suffused with tears. They

rose from a deep well, long concealed, and her heart was filled with acute

pain that found no relief in them.

`In a word, it is to correct your brother in this, Mrs. Bounderby, that I

must aspire. My better knowledge of his circumstances, and my direction

and advice in extricating them - rather valuable, I hope, as coming from a

scapegrace on a much larger scale - will give me some influence over

him, and all I gain I shall certainly use towards this end. I have said

enough, and more than enough. I seem to be protesting that I am a sort

of good fellow, when, upon my honour, I have not the least intention to

make any protestation to that effect, and openly announce that I am

nothing of the sort. Yonder, among the trees,′ he added, having lifted up

his eyes and looked about; for he had watched her closely until now; `is

your brother himself; no doubt, just come down. As he seems to be

loitering in this direction, it may be as well, perhaps, to walk towards

him, and throw ourselves in his way. He has been very silent and doleful

of late. Perhaps, his brotherly conscience is touched - if there are such

things as consciences. Though, upon my honour, I hear of them much

too often to believe in them.′

He assisted her to rise, and she took his arm, and they advanced to meet

the whelp. He was idly beating the branches as he lounged along: or he

stooped viciously to rip the moss from the trees with his stick. He was

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startled when they came upon him while he was engaged in this latter

pastime, and his colour changed.

`Halloa!′ he stammered; `I didn′t know you were here.′

`Whose name, Tom,′ said Mr. Harthouse, putting his hand upon his

shoulder and turning him, so that they all three walked towards the

house together, `have you been carving on the trees?′

`Whose name?′ returned Tom. `Oh! You mean what girl′s name?′

`You have a suspicious appearance of inscribing some fair creature′s on

the bark, Tom.′

`Not much of that, Mr. Harthouse, unless some fair creature with a

slashing fortune at her own disposal would take a fancy to me. Or she

might be as ugly as she was rich, without any fear of losing me. I′d carve

her name as often as she liked.′

`I am afraid you are mercenary, Tom.′

`Mercenary,′ repeated Tom. `Who is not mercenary? Ask my sister.′

`Have you so proved it to be a failing of mine, Tom?′ said Louisa,

showing no other sense of his discontent and ill-nature.

`You know whether the cap fits you, Loo,′ returned her brother sulkily.

`If it does, you can wear it.′

`Tom is misanthropical to-day, as all bored people are now and then,′ said

Mr. Harthouse. `Don′t believe him, Mrs. Bounderby. He knows much

better. I shall disclose some of his opinions of you, privately expressed

to me, unless he relents a little.′

`At all events, Mr. Harthouse,′ said Tom, softening in his admiration of

his patron, but shaking his head sullenly too, `you can′t tell her that I ever

praised her for being mercenary. I may have praised her for being the

184

contrary, and I should do it again, if I had as good reason. However,

never mind this now; it′s not very interesting to you, and I am sick of the

subject.′

They walked on to the house, where Louisa quitted her visitor′s arm and

went in. He stood looking after her, as she ascended the steps, and

passed into the shadow of the door; then put his hand upon her

brother′s shoulder again, and invited him with a confidential nod to a

walk in the garden.

`Tom, my fine fellow, I want to have a word with you.′

They had stopped among a disorder of roses - it was part of Mr.

Bounderby′s humility to keep Nickits′s roses on a reduced scale - and

Tom sat down on a terrace-parapet, plucking buds and picking them to

pieces; while his powerful Familiar stood over him, with a foot upon the

parapet, and his figure easily resting on the arm supported by that knee.

They were just visible from her window. Perhaps she saw them.

`Tom, what′s the matter?′

`Oh! Mr. Harthouse,′ said Tom with a groan, `I am hard up, and bothered

out of my life.′

`My good fellow, so am I.′

`You!′ returned Tom. `You are the picture of independence. Mr.

Harthouse, I am in a horrible mess. You have no idea what a state I have

got myself into - what a state my sister might have got me out of, if she

would only have done it.′

He took to biting the rosebuds now, and tearing them away from his

teeth with a hand that trembled like an infirm old man′s. After one

exceedingly observant look at him, his companion relapsed into his

lightest air.

185

`Tom, you are inconsiderate: you expect too much of your sister. You

have had money of her, you dog, you know you have.′

`Well, Mr. Harthouse, I know I have. How else was I to get it? Here′s old

Bounderby always boasting that at my age he lived upon twopence a

month, or something of that sort. Here′s my father drawing what he calls

a line, and tying me down to it from a baby, neck and heels. Here′s my

mother who never has anything of her own, except her complaints.

What is a fellow to do for money, and where am I to look for it, if not to

my sister?′

He was almost crying, and scattered the buds about by dozens. Mr.

Harthouse took him persuasively by the coat.

`But, my dear Tom, if your sister has not got it - ′

`Not got it, Mr. Harthouse? I don′t say she has got it. I may have wanted

more than she was likely to have got. But then she ought to get it. She

could get it. It′s of no use pretending to make a secret of matters now,

after what I have told you already; you know she didn′t marry old

Bounderby for her own sake, or for his sake, but for my sake. Then why

doesn′t she get what I want, out of him, for my sake? She is not obliged

to say what she is going to do with it; she is sharp enough; she could

manage to coax it out of him, if she chose. Then why doesn′t she

choose, when I tell her of what consequence it is? But no. There she sits

in his company like a stone, instead of making herself agreeable and

getting it easily. I don′t know what you may call this, but I call it

unnatural conduct.′

There was a piece of ornamental water immediately below the parapet,

on the other side, into which Mr. James Harthouse had a very strong

inclination to pitch Mr. Thomas Gradgrind junior, as the injured men of

Coketown threatened to pitch their property into the Atlantic. But he

preserved his easy attitude; and nothing more solid went over the stone

balustrades than the accumulated rosebuds now floating about, a little

surface-island.

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`My dear Tom,′ said Harthouse, `let me try to be your banker.′

`For God′s sake,′ replied Tom, suddenly, `don′t talk about bankers!′ And

very white he looked, in contrast with the roses. Very white.

Mr. Harthouse, as a thoroughly well-bred man, accustomed to the best

society, was not to be surprised - he could as soon have been affected -

but he raised his eyelids a little more, as if they were lifted by a feeble

touch of wonder. Albeit it was as much against the precepts of his

school to wonder, as it was against the doctrines of the Gradgrind

Col ege.

`What is the present need, Tom? Three figures? Out with them. Say what

they are.′

`Mr. Harthouse,′ returned Tom, now actually crying; and his tears were

better than his injuries, however pitiful a figure he made: `it′s too late; the

money is of no use to me at present. I should have had it before to be of

use to me. But I am very much obliged to you; you′re a true friend.′

A true friend! `Whelp, whelp!′ thought Mr. Harthouse, lazily; `what an

Ass you are!′

`And I take your offer as a great kindness,′ said Tom, grasping his hand.

`As a great kindness, Mr. Harthouse.′

`Well,′ returned the other, `it may be of more use by and by. And, my

good fellow, if you will open your bedevilments to me when they come

thick upon you, I may show you better ways out of them than you can

find for yourself.′

`Thank you,′ said Tom, shaking his head dismally, and chewing rosebuds.

`I wish I had known you sooner, Mr. Harthouse.′

`Now, you see, Tom,′ said Mr. Harthouse in conclusion, himself tossing

over a rose or two, as a contribution to the island, which was always

drifting to the wall as if it wanted to become a part of the mainland:

187

`every man is selfish in everything he does, and I am exactly like the rest

of my fellow-creatures. I am desperately intent;′ the languor of his

desperation being quite tropical; `on your softening towards your sister -

which you ought to do; and on your being a more loving and agreeable

sort of brother - which you ought to be.′

`I will be, Mr. Harthouse.′

`No time like the present, Tom. Begin at once.′

`Certainly I will. And my sister Loo shall say so.′

`Having made which bargain, Tom,′ said Harthouse, clapping him on the

shoulder again, with an air which left him at liberty to infer - as he did,

poor fool - that this condition was imposed upon him in mere careless

good nature to lessen his sense of obligation, `we will tear ourselves

asunder until dinner-time.′

When Tom appeared before dinner, though his mind seemed heavy

enough, his body was on the alert; and he appeared before Mr.

Bounderby came in. `I didn′t mean to be cross, Loo,′ he said, giving her

his hand, and kissing her. `I know you are fond of me, and you know I

am fond of you.′

After this, there was a smile upon Louisa′s face that day, for some one

else. Alas, for some one else!

`So much the less is the whelp the only creature that she cares for,′

thought James Harthouse, reversing the reflection of his first day′s

knowledge of her pretty face. `So much the less, so much the less.′

Chapter VIII: Explosion

THE next morning was too bright a morning for sleep, and James

Harthouse rose early, and sat in the pleasant bay window of his dressing-

room, smoking the rare tobacco that had had so wholesome an influence

on his young friend. Reposing in the sunlight, with the fragrance of his

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eastern pipe about him, and the dreamy smoke vanishing into the air, so

rich and soft with summer odours, he reckoned up his advantages as an

idle winner might count his gains. He was not at all bored for the time,

and could give his mind to it.

He had established a confidence with her, from which her husband was

excluded. He had established a confidence with her, that absolutely

turned upon her indifference towards her husband, and the absence, now

and at all times, of any congeniality between them. He had artfully, but

plainly, assured her that he knew her heart in its last most delicate

recesses; he had come so near to her through its tenderest sentiment; he

had associated himself with that feeling; and the barrier behind which

she lived, had melted away. All very odd, and very satisfactory!

And yet he had not, even now, any earnest wickedness of purpose in

him. Publicly and privately, it were much better for the age in which he

lived, that he and the legion of whom he was one were designedly bad,

than indifferent and purposeless. It is the drifting icebergs setting with

any current anywhere, that wreck the ships.

When the Devil goeth about like a roaring lion, he goeth about in a

shape by which few but savages and hunters are attracted. But, when he

is trimmed, smoothed, and varnished, according to the mode; when he is

aweary of vice, and aweary of virtue, used up as to brimstone, and used

up as to bliss; then, whether he take to the serving out of red tape, or to

the kindling of red fire, he is the very Devil.

So James Harthouse reclined in the window, indolently smoking, and

reckoning up the steps he had taken on the road by which he happened

to be travelling. The end to which it led was before him, pretty plainly;

but he troubled himself with no calculations about it. What will be, will

be.

As he had rather a long ride to take that day - for there was a public

occasion `to do′ at some distance, which afforded a tolerable opportunity

of going in for the Gradgrind men - he dressed early and went down to

breakfast. He was anxious to see if she had relapsed since the previous

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evening. No. He resumed where he had left off. There was a look of

interest for him again.

He got through the day as much (or as little) to his own satisfaction, as

was to be expected under the fatiguing circumstances; and came riding

back at six o′clock. There was a sweep of some half-mile between the

lodge and the house, and he was riding along at a foot pace over the

smooth gravel, once Nickits′s, when Mr. Bounderby burst out of the

shrubbery, with such violence as to make his horse shy across the road.

`Harthouse!′ cried Mr. Bounderby. `Have you heard?′

`Heard what?′ said Harthouse, soothing his horse, and inwardly

favouring Mr. Bounderby with no good wishes.

`Then you haven′t heard!′

`I have heard you, and so has this brute. I have heard nothing else.′

Mr. Bounderby, red and hot, planted himself in the centre of the path

before the horse′s head, to explode his bombshell with more effect.

`The Bank′s robbed!′

`You don′t mean it!′

`Robbed last night, sir. Robbed in an extraordinary manner. Robbed with

a false key.′

`Of much?′

Mr. Bounderby, in his desire to make the most of it, really seemed

mortified by being obliged to reply, `Why, no; not of very much. But it

might have been.′

`Of how much?′

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`Oh! as a sum - if you stick to a sum - of not more than a hundred and

fifty pound,′ said Bounderby, with impatience. `But it′s not the sum; it′s

the fact. It′s the fact of the Bank being robbed, that′s the important

circumstance. I am surprised you don′t see it.′

`My dear Bounderby,′ said James, dismounting, and giving his bridle to

his servant, `I do see it; and am as overcome as you can possibly desire

me to be, by the spectacle afforded to my mental view. Nevertheless, I

may be allowed, I hope, to congratulate you - which I do with all my

soul, I assure you - on your not having sustained a greater loss.′

`Thank′ee,′ replied Bounderby, in a short, ungracious manner. `But I tell

you what. It might have been twenty thousand pound.′

`I suppose it might.′

`Suppose it might! By the Lord, you may suppose so. By George!′ said

Mr. Bounderby, with sundry menacing nods and shakes of his head. `It

might have been twice twenty. There′s no knowing what it would have

been, or wouldn′t have been, as it was, but for the fellows′ being

disturbed.′

Louisa had come up now, and Mrs. Sparsit, and Bitzer.

`Here′s Tom Gradgrind′s daughter knows pretty well what it might have

been, if you don′t,′ blustered Bounderby. `Dropped, sir, as if she was

shot when I told her! Never knew her do such a thing before. Does her

credit, under the circumstances, in my opinion!′

She still looked faint and pale. James Harthouse begged her to take his

arm; and as they moved on very slowly, asked her how the robbery had

been committed.

`Why, I am going to tell you,′ said Bounderby, irritably giving his arm to

Mrs. Sparsit. `If you hadn′t been so mighty particular about the sum, I

should have begun to tell you before. You know this lady (for she is a

lady), Mrs. Sparsit?′

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`I have already had the honour - ′

`Very well. And this young man, Bitzer, you saw him too on the same

occasion?′ Mr. Harthouse inclined his head in assent, and Bitzer

knuckled his forehead.

`Very well. They live at the Bank. You know they live at the Bank,

perhaps? Very well. Yesterday afternoon, at the close of business hours,

everything was put away as usual. In the iron room that this young fellow

sleeps outside of, there was never mind how much. In the little safe in

young Tom′s closet, the safe used for petty purposes, there was a

hundred and fifty odd pound.′

`A hundred and fifty-four, seven, one,′ said Bitzer.

`Come!′ retorted Bounderby, stopping to wheel round upon him, `let′s

have none of your interruptions. It′s enough to be robbed while you′re

snoring because you′re too comfortable, without being put right with

your four seven ones. I didn′t snore, myself, when I was your age, let me

tell you. I hadn′t victuals enough to snore. And I didn′t four seven one.

Not if I knew it.′

Bitzer knuckled his forehead again, in a sneaking manner, and seemed at

once particularly impressed and depressed by the instance last given of

Mr. Bounderby′s moral abstinence.

`A hundred and fifty odd pound,′ resumed Mr. Bounderby. `That sum of

money, young Tom locked in his safe, not a very strong safe, but that′s

no matter now. Everything was left, all right. Some time in the night,

while this young fellow snored - Mrs. Sparsit, ma′am, you say you have

heard him snore?′

`Sir,′ returned Mrs. Sparsit, `I cannot say that I have heard him precisely

snore, and therefore must not make that statement. But on winter

evenings, when he has fallen asleep at his table, I have heard him, what I

should prefer to describe as partially choke. I have heard him on such

occasions produce sounds of a nature similar to what may be sometimes

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heard in Dutch clocks. Not,′ said Mrs. Sparsit, with a lofty sense of

giving strict evidence, `that I would convey any imputation on his moral

character. Far from it. I have always considered Bitzer a young man of

the most upright principle; and to that I beg to bear my testimony.′

`Well!′ said the exasperated Bounderby, `while he was snoring, or

choking, or Dutch-clocking, or something or other - being asleep - some

fellows, somehow, whether previously concealed in the house or not

remains to be seen, got to young Tom′s safe, forced it, and abstracted the

contents. Being then disturbed, they made off; letting themselves out at

the main door, and double-locking it again (it was double-locked, and the

key under Mrs. Sparsit′s pil ow) with a false key, which was picked up in

the street near the Bank, about twelve o′clock to-day. No alarm takes

place, till this chap, Bitzer, turns out this morning, and begins to open

and prepare the offices for business. Then, looking at Tom′s safe, he sees

the door ajar, and finds the lock forced, and the money gone.′

`Where is Tom, by the by?′ asked Harthouse, glancing round.

`He has been helping the police,′ said Bounderby, `and stays behind at the

Bank. I wish these fellows had tried to rob me when I was at his time of

life. They would have been out of pocket if they had invested

eighteenpence in the job; I can tell ′em that.′

`Is anybody suspected?′

`Suspected? I should think there was somebody suspected. Egod!′ said

Bounderby, relinquishing Mrs. Sparsit′s arm to wipe his heated head.

`Josiah Bounderby of Coketown is not to be plundered and nobody

suspected. No, thank you!′

Might Mr. Harthouse inquire Who was suspected?

`Well,′ said Bounderby, stopping and facing about to confront them all,

`I′ll tell you. It′s not to be mentioned everywhere; it′s not to be

mentioned anywhere: in order that the scoundrels concerned (there′s a

gang of ′em) may be thrown off their guard. So take this in confidence.

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Now wait a bit.′ Mr. Bounderby wiped his head again. `What should you

say to;′ here he violently exploded: `to a Hand being in it?′

`I hope,′ said Harthouse, lazily, `not our friend Blackpot?′

`Say Pool instead of Pot, sir,′ returned Bounderby, `and that′s the man.′

Louisa faintly uttered some word of incredulity and surprise.

`O yes! I know!′ said Bounderby, immediately catching at the sound. `I

know! I am used to that. I know all about it. They are the finest people in

the world, these fel ows are. They have got the gift of the gab, they have.

They only want to have their rights explained to them, they do. But I tell

you what. Show me a dissatisfied Hand, and I′ll show you a man that′s fit

for anything bad, I don′t care what it is.′

Another of the popular fictions of Coketown, which some pains had

been taken to disseminate - and which some people really believed.

`But I am acquainted with these chaps,′ said Bounderby. `I can read ′em

off, like books. Mrs. Sparsit, ma′am, I appeal to you. What warning did I

give that fellow, the first time he set foot in the house, when the express

object of his visit was to know how he could knock Religion over, and

floor the Established Church? Mrs. Sparsit, in point of high connexions,

you are on a level with the aristocracy, - did I say, or did I not say, to that

fellow, "you can′t hide the truth from me: you are not the kind of fellow

I like; you′ll come to no good"?′

`Assuredly, sir,′ returned Mrs. Sparsit, `you did, in a highly impressive

manner, give him such an admonition.′

`When he shocked you, ma′am,′ said Bounderby; `when he shocked your

feelings?′

`Yes, sir,′ returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a meek shake of her head, `he

certainly did so. Though I do not mean to say but that my feelings may

194

be weaker on such points - more foolish if the term is preferred - than

they might have been, if I had always occupied my present position.′

Mr. Bounderby stared with a bursting pride at Mr. Harthouse, as much as

to say, `I am the proprietor of this female, and she′s worth your

attention, I think.′ Then, resumed his discourse.

`You can recall for yourself, Harthouse, what I said to him when you saw

him. I didn′t mince the matter with him. I am never mealy with ′em. I

know

′em. Very well, sir. Three days after that, he bolted. Went off,

nobody knows where: as my mother did in my infancy - only with this

difference, that he is a worse subject than my mother, if possible. What

did he do before he went? What do you say;′ Mr. Bounderby, with his hat

in his hand, gave a beat upon the crown at every little division of his

sentences, as if it were a tambourine; `to his being seen - night after night

- watching the Bank? - to his lurking about there - after dark? - To its

striking Mrs. Sparsit - that he could be lurking for no good - To her

calling Bitzer′s attention to him, and their both taking notice of him -

And to its appearing on inquiry to-day - that he was also noticed by the

neighbours?′ Having come to the climax, Mr. Bounderby, like an oriental

dancer, put his tambourine on his head.

`Suspicious,′ said James Harthouse, `certainly.′

`I think so, sir,′ said Bounderby, with a defiant nod. `I think so. But there

are more of ′em in it. There′s an old woman. One never hears of these

things till the mischief ′s done; all sorts of defects are found out in the

stable door after the horse is stolen; there′s an old woman turns up now.

An old woman who seems to have been flying into town on a

broomstick, every now and then. She watches the place a whole day

before this fellow begins, and on the night when you saw him, she steals

away with him and holds a council with him - I suppose, to make her

report on going off duty, and be damned to her.′

There was such a person in the room that night, and she shrunk from

observation, thought Louisa.

195

`This is not all of ′em, even as we already know ′em,′ said Bounderby,

with many nods of hidden meaning. `But I have said enough for the

present. You′ll have the goodness to keep it quiet, and mention it to no

one. It may take time, but we shall have ′em. It′s policy to give ′em line

enough, and there′s no objection to that.′

`Of course, they will be punished with the utmost rigour of the law, as

notice-boards observe,′ replied James Harthouse, `and serve them right.

Fellows who go in for Banks must take the consequences. If there were

no consequences, we should all go in for Banks.′ He had gently taken

Louisa′s parasol from her hand, and had put it up for her; and she walked

under its shade, though the sun did not shine there.

`For the present, Loo Bounderby,′ said her husband, `here′s Mrs. Sparsit

to look after. Mrs. Sparsit′s nerves have been acted upon by this business,

and she′ll stay here a day or two. So make her comfortable.′

`Thank you very much, sir,′ that discreet lady observed, `but pray do not

let My comfort be a consideration. Anything will do for Me.′

It soon appeared that if Mrs. Sparsit had a failing in her association with

that domestic establishment, it was that she was so excessively regardless

of herself and regardful of others, as to be a nuisance. On being shown

her chamber, she was so dreadfully sensible of its comforts as to suggest

the inference that she would have preferred to pass the night on the

mangle in the laundry. True, the Powlers and the Scadgerses were

accustomed to splendour, `but it is my duty to remember,′ Mrs. Sparsit

was fond of observing with a lofty grace: particularly when any of the

domestics were present, `that what I was, I am no longer. Indeed,′ said

she, `if I could altogether cancel the remembrance that Mr. Sparsit was a

Powler, or that I myself am related to the Scadgers family; or if I could

even revoke the fact, and make myself a person of common descent and

ordinary connexions; I would gladly do so. I should think it, under

existing circumstances, right to do so.′ The same Hermitical state of

mind led to her renunciation of made dishes and wines at dinner, until

fairly commanded by Mr. Bounderby to take them; when she said,

`Indeed you are very good, sir;′ and departed from a resolution of which

196

she had made rather formal and public announcement, to `wait for the

simple mutton.′ She was likewise deeply apologetic for wanting the salt;

and, feeling amiably bound to bear out Mr. Bounderby to the fullest

extent in the testimony he had borne to her nerves, occasionally sat back

in her chair and silently wept; at which periods a tear of large

dimensions, like a crystal ear-ring, might be observed (or rather, must be,

for it insisted on public notice) sliding down her Roman nose.

But Mrs. Sparsit′s greatest point, first and last, was her determination to

pity Mr. Bounderby. There were occasions when in looking at him she

was involuntarily moved to shake her head, as who would say, `Alas, poor

Yorick!′ After al owing herself to be betrayed into these evidences of

emotion, she would force a lambent brightness, and would be fitfully

cheerful, and would say, `You have still good spirits, sir, I am thankful to

find;′ and would appear to hail it as a blessed dispensation that Mr.

Bounderby bore up as he did. One idiosyncrasy for which she often

apologized, she found it excessively difficult to conquer. She had a

curious propensity to call Mrs. Bounderby `Miss Gradgrind,′ and yielded

to it some three or four score times in the course of the evening. Her

repetition of this mistake covered Mrs. Sparsit with modest confusion;

but indeed, she said, it seemed so natural to say Miss Gradgrind:

whereas, to persuade herself that the young lady whom she had had the

happiness of knowing from a child could be really and truly Mrs.

Bounderby, she found almost impossible. It was a further singularity of

this remarkable case, that the more she thought about it, the more

impossible it appeared; `the differences,′ she observed, `being such.′

In the drawing-room after dinner, Mr. Bounderby tried the case of the

robbery, examined the witnesses, made notes of the evidence, found the

suspected persons guilty, and sentenced them to the extreme punishment

of the law. That done, Bitzer was dismissed to town with instructions to

recommend Tom to come home by the mail- train.

When candles were brought, Mrs. Sparsit murmured, `Don′t be low, sir.

Pray let me see you cheerful, sir, as I used to do.′ Mr. Bounderby, upon

whom these consolations had begun to produce the effect of making

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him, in a bull-headed blundering way, sentimental, sighed like some large

sea-animal. `I cannot bear to see you so, sir,′ said Mrs. Sparsit. `Try a

hand at backgammon, sir, as you used to do when I had the honour of

living under your roof.′ `I haven′t played backgammon, ma′am,′ said Mr.

Bounderby, `since that time.′ `No, sir,′ said Mrs. Sparsit, soothingly, `I am

aware that you have not. I remember that Miss Gradgrind takes no

interest in the game. But I shall be happy, sir, if you will condescend.′

They played near a window, opening on the garden. It was a fine night:

not moonlight, but sultry and fragrant. Louisa and Mr. Harthouse

strolled out into the garden, where their voices could be heard in the

stillness, though not what they said. Mrs. Sparsit, from her place at the

backgammon board, was constantly straining her eyes to pierce the

shadows without. `What′s the matter, ma′am? ′ said Mr. Bounderby; `you

don′t see a Fire, do you?′ `Oh dear no, sir,′ returned Mrs. Sparsit, `I was

thinking of the dew.′ `What have you got to do with the dew, ma′am?′

said Mr. Bounderby. `It′s not myself, sir,′ returned Mrs. Sparsit, `I am

fearful of Miss Gradgrind′s taking cold.′ `She never takes cold,′ said Mr.

Bounderby. `Really, sir?′ said Mrs. Sparsit. And was affected with a cough

in her throat.

When the time drew near for retiring, Mr. Bounderby took a glass of

water. `Oh, sir?′ said Mrs. Sparsit. `Not your sherry warm, with lemon-

peel and nutmeg?′ `Why, I have got out of the habit of taking it now,

ma′am,′ said Mr. Bounderby. `The more′s the pity, sir,′ returned Mrs.

Sparsit; `you are losing all your good old habits. Cheer up, sir! If Miss

Gradgrind will permit me, I will offer to make it for you, as I have often

done.′

Miss Gradgrind readily permitting Mrs. Sparsit to do anything she

pleased, that considerate lady made the beverage, and handed it to Mr.

Bounderby. `It will do you good, sir. It will warm your heart. It is the sort

of thing you want, and ought to take, sir.′ And when Mr. Bounderby

said, `Your health, ma′am!′ she answered with great feeling, `Thank you,

sir. The same to you, and happiness also.′ Finally, she wished him good

night, with great pathos; and Mr. Bounderby went to bed, with a maudlin

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persuasion that he had been crossed in something tender, though he

could not, for his life, have mentioned what it was.

Long after Louisa had undressed and lain down, she watched and waited

for her brother′s coming home. That could hardly be, she knew, until an

hour past midnight; but in the country silence, which did anything but

calm the trouble of her thoughts, time lagged wearily. At last, when the

darkness and stillness had seemed for hours to thicken one another, she

heard the bell at the gate. She felt as though she would have been glad

that it rang on until daylight; but it ceased, and the circles of its last

sound spread out fainter and wider in the air, and all was dead again.

She waited yet some quarter of an hour, as she judged. Then she arose,

put on a loose robe, and went out of her room in the dark, and up the

staircase to her brother′s room. His door being shut, she softly opened it

and spoke to him, approaching his bed with a noiseless step.

She kneeled down beside it, passed her arm over his neck, and drew his

face to hers. She knew that he only feigned to be asleep, but she said

nothing to him.

He started by and by as if he were just then awakened, and asked who

that was, and what was the matter?

`Tom, have you anything to tell me? If ever you loved me in your life,

and have anything concealed from every one besides, tell it to me.′

`I don′t know what you mean, Loo. You have been dreaming.′

`My dear brother:′ she laid her head down on his pillow, and her hair

flowed over him as if she would hide him from every one but herself: `is

there nothing that you have to tell me? Is there nothing you can tell me

if you will? You can tell me nothing that will change me. O Tom, tell me

the truth!′

`I don′t know what you mean, Loo!′

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`As you lie here alone, my dear, in the melancholy night, so you must lie

somewhere one night, when even I, if I am living then, shall have left

you. As I am here beside you, barefoot, unclothed, undistinguishable in

darkness, so must I lie through all the night of my decay, until I am dust.

In the name of that time, Tom, tell me the truth now!′

`What is it you want to know?′

`You may be certain;′ in the energy of her love she took him to her

bosom as if he were a child; `that I will not reproach you. You may be

certain that I will be compassionate and true to you. You may be certain

that I will save you at whatever cost. O Tom, have you nothing to tel

me? Whisper very softly. Say only "yes," and I shall understand you!′

She turned her ear to his lips, but he remained doggedly silent.

`Not a word, Tom?′

`How can I say Yes, or how can I say No, when I don′t know what you

mean? Loo, you are a brave, kind girl, worthy I begin to think of a better

brother than I am. But I have nothing more to say. Go to bed, go to

bed.′

`You are tired,′ she whispered presently, more in her usual way.

`Yes, I am quite tired out.′

`You have been so hurried and disturbed to-day. Have any fresh

discoveries been made?′

`Only those you have heard of, from - him.′

`Tom, have you said to any one that we made a visit to those people, and

that we saw those three together?′

`No. Didn′t you yourself particularly ask me to keep it quiet when you

asked me to go there with you?′

200

`Yes. But I did not know then what was going to happen.′

`Nor I neither. How could I?′

He was very quick upon her with this retort.

`Ought I to say, after what has happened,′ said his sister, standing by the

bed - she had gradually withdrawn herself and risen, `that I made that

visit? Should I say so? Must I say so?′

`Good Heavens, Loo,′ returned her brother, `you are not in the habit of

asking my advice. say what you like. If you keep it to yourself, I shall

keep it to myself. If you disclose it, there′s an end of it.′

It was too dark for either to see the other′s face; but each seemed very

attentive, and to consider before speaking.

`Tom, do you believe the man I gave the money to, is really implicated in

this crime?′

`I don′t know. I don′t see why he shouldn′t be.′

`He seemed to me an honest man.′

`Another person may seem to you dishonest, and yet not be so.′ There

was a pause, for he had hesitated and stopped.

`In short,′ resumed Tom, as if he had made up his mind, `if you come to

that, perhaps I was so far from being altogether in his favour, that I took

him outside the door to tell him quietly, that I thought he might consider

himself very well off to get such a windfall as he had got from my sister,

and that I hoped he would make good use of it. You remember whether

I took him out or not. I say nothing against the man; he may be a very

good fellow, for anything I know; I hope he is.′

`Was he offended by what you said?′

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`No, he took it pretty well; he was civil enough. Where are you, Loo?′ He

sat up in bed and kissed her. `Good night, my dear, good night.′

`You have nothing more to tell me?′

`No. What should I have? You wouldn′t have me tell you a lie!′

`I wouldn′t have you do that to-night, Tom, of all the nights in your life;

many and much happier as I hope they will be.′

`Thank you, my dear Loo. I am so tired, that I am sure I wonder I don′t

say anything to get to sleep. Go to bed, go to bed.′

Kissing her again, he turned round, drew the coverlet over his head, and

lay as still as if that time had come by which she had adjured him. She

stood for some time at the bedside before she slowly moved away. She

stopped at the door, looked back when she had opened it, and asked him

if he had called her? But he lay still, and she softly closed the door and

returned to her room.

Then the wretched boy looked cautiously up and found her gone, crept

out of bed, fastened his door, and threw himself upon his pillow again:

tearing his hair, morosely crying, grudgingly loving her, hatefully but

impenitently spurning himself, and no less hatefully and unprofitably

spurning all the good in the world.

Chapter IX: Hearing the Last of It

MRS. SPARSIT, lying by to recover the tone of her nerves in Mr.

Bounderby′s retreat, kept such a sharp look-out, night and day, under her

Coriolanian eyebrows, that her eyes, like a couple of lighthouses on an

iron-bound coast, might have warned all prudent mariners from that

bold rock her Roman nose and the dark and craggy region in its

neighbourhood, but for the placidity of her manner. Although it was

hard to believe that her retiring for the night could be anything but a

form, so severely wide awake were those classical eyes of hers, and so

impossible did it seem that her rigid nose could yield to any relaxing

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influence, yet her manner of sitting, smoothing her uncomfortable, not

to say, gritty mittens (they were constructed of a cool fabric like a meat-

safe), or of ambling to unknown places of destination with her foot in

her cotton stirrup, was so perfectly serene, that most observers would

have been constrained to suppose her a dove, embodied by some freak

of nature, in the earthly tabernacle of a bird of the hook-beaked order.

She was a most wonderful woman for prowling about the house. How

she got from story to story was a mystery beyond solution. A lady so

decorous in herself, and so highly connected, was not to be suspected of

dropping over the banisters or sliding down them, yet her extraordinary

facility of locomotion suggested the wild idea. Another noticeable

circumstance in Mrs. Sparsit was, that she was never hurried. She would

shoot with consummate velocity from the roof to the hall, yet would be

in full possession of her breath and dignity on the moment of her arrival

there. Neither was she ever seen by human vision to go at a great pace.

She took very kindly to Mr. Harthouse, and had some pleasant

conversation with him soon after her arrival. She made him her stately

curtsey in the garden, one morning before breakfast.

`It appears but yesterday, sir,′ said Mrs. Sparsit, `that I had the honour of

receiving you at the Bank, when you were so good as to wish to be made

acquainted with Mr. Bounderby′s address.′

`An occasion, I am sure, not to be forgotten by myself in the course of

Ages,′ said Mr. Harthouse, inclining his head to Mrs. Sparsit with the

most indolent of all possible airs.

`We live in a singular world, sir,′ said Mrs. Sparsit.

`I have had the honour, by a coincidence of which I am proud, to have

made a remark, similar in effect, though not so epigrammatically

expressed.′

`A singular world, I would say, sir,′ pursued Mrs. Sparsit; after

acknowledging the compliment with a drooping of her dark eyebrows,

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not altogether so mild in its expression as her voice was in its dulcet

tones; `as regards the intimacies we form at one time, with individuals we

were quite ignorant of, at another. I recall, sir, that on that occasion you

went so far as to say you were actually apprehensive of Miss Gradgrind.′

`Your memory does me more honour than my insignificance deserves. I

availed myself of your obliging hints to correct my timidity, and it is

unnecessary to add that they were perfectly accurate. Mrs. Sparsit′s talent

for - in fact for anything requiring accuracy - with a combination of

strength of mind - and Family - is too habitually developed to admit of

any question.′ He was almost falling asleep over this compliment; it took

him so long to get through, and his mind wandered so much in the

course of its execution.

`You found Miss Gradgrind - I really cannot call her Mrs. Bounderby; it′s

very absurd of me - as youthful as I described her?′ asked Mrs. Sparsit,

sweetly.

`You drew her portrait perfectly,′ said Mr. Harthouse. `Presented her dead

image.′

`Very engaging, sir,′ said Mrs. Sparsit, causing her mittens slowly to

revolve over one another.

`Highly so.′

`It used to be considered,′ said Mrs. Sparsit, `that Miss Gradgrind was

wanting in animation, but I confess she appears to me considerably and

strikingly improved in that respect. Ay, and indeed here is Mr.

Bounderby!′ cried Mrs. Sparsit, nodding her head a great many times, as

if she had been talking and thinking of no one else. `How do you find

yourself this morning, sir? Pray let us see you cheerful, sir.′

Now, these persistent assuagements of his misery, and lightenings of his

load, had by this time begun to have the effect of making Mr. Bounderby

softer than usual towards Mrs. Sparsit, and harder than usual to most

other people from his wife downward. So, when Mrs. Sparsit said with

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forced lightness of heart, `You want your breakfast, sir, but I dare say

Miss Gradgrind will soon be here to preside at the table,′ Mr. Bounderby

replied, `If I waited to be taken care of by my wife, ma′am, I believe you

know pretty well I should wait till Doomsday, so I′ll trouble you to take

charge of the teapot.′ Mrs. Sparsit complied, and assumed her old

position at table.

This again made the excellent woman vastly sentimental. She was so

humble withal, that when Louisa appeared, she rose, protesting she never

could think of sitting in that place under existing circumstances, often as

she had had the honour of making Mr. Bounderby′s breakfast, before

Mrs. Gradgrind - she begged pardon, she meant to say Miss Bounderby -

she hoped to be excused, but she really could not get it right yet, though

she trusted to become familiar with it by and by - had assumed her

present position. It was only (she observed) because Miss Gradgrind

happened to be a little late, and Mr. Bounderby′s time was so very

precious, and she knew it of old to be so essential that he should

breakfast to the moment, that she had taken the liberty of complying

with his request; long as his will had been a law to her.

`There! Stop where you are, ma′am,′ said Mr. Bounderby, `stop where you

are! Mrs. Bounderby will be very glad to be relieved of the trouble, I

believe.′

`Don′t say that, sir,′ returned Mrs. Sparsit, almost with severity, `because

that is very unkind to Mrs. Bounderby. And to be unkind is not to be

you, sir.′

`You may set your mind at rest, ma′am. - You can take it very quietly,

can′t you, Loo?′ said Mr. Bounderby, in a blustering way to his wife.

`Of course. It is of no moment. Why should it be of any importance to

me?′

`Why should it be of any importance to any one, Mrs. Sparsit, ma′am?′

said Mr. Bounderby, swelling with a sense of slight. `You attach too

much importance to these things, ma′am. By George, you′ll be corrupted

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in some of your notions here. You are old- fashioned, ma′am. You are

behind Tom Gradgrind′s children′s time.′

`What is the matter with you?′ asked Louisa, coldly surprised. `What has

given you offence?′

`Offence!′ repeated Bounderby. `Do you suppose if there was any

offence given me, I shouldn′t name it, and request to have it corrected? I

am a straightforward man, I believe. I don′t go beating about for side-

winds.′

`I suppose no one ever had occasion to think you too diffident, or too

delicate,′ Louisa answered him composedly: `I have never made that

objection to you, either as a child or as a woman. I don′t understand

what you would have.′

`Have?′ returned Mr. Bounderby. `Nothing. Otherwise, don′t you, Loo

Bounderby, know thoroughly well that I, Josiah Bounderby of

Coketown, would have it?′

She looked at him, as he struck the table and made the teacups ring, with

a proud colour in her face that was a new change, Mr. Harthouse

thought. `You are incomprehensible this morning,′ said Louisa. `Pray take

no further trouble to explain yourself. I am not curious to know your

meaning. What does it matter?′

Nothing more was said on this theme, and Mr. Harthouse was soon idly

gay on indifferent subjects. But from this day, the Sparsit action upon

Mr. Bounderby threw Louisa and James Harthouse more together, and

strengthened the dangerous alienation from her husband and confidence

against him with another, into which she had fallen by degrees so fine

that she could not retrace them if she tried. But whether she ever tried

or no, lay hidden in her own closed heart.

Mrs. Sparsit was so much affected on this particular occasion, that,

assisting Mr. Bounderby to his hat after breakfast, and being then alone

with him in the hall, she imprinted a chaste kiss upon his hand,

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murmured `My benefactor!′ and retired, overwhelmed with grief. Yet it is

an indubitable fact, within the cognizance of this history, that five

minutes after he had left the house in the self-same hat, the same

descendant of the Scadgerses and connexion by matrimony of the

Powlers, shook her right-hand mitten at his portrait, made a

contemptuous grimace at that work of art, and said `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 coal- pits, 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 dust- yard. 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

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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.

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

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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 cross-

purposes, 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.

209

`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 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, on

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

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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.

211

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?′

212

`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 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.′

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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 figures; 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

214

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 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 over with

my friend Tom more than once - of course I remain on terms of perfect

confidence with Tom - and he is quite of my opinion, and I am quite of

his. Will you walk?′

They strolled away, among the lanes beginning to be indistinct in the

twilight - she leaning on his arm - and she little thought how she was

going down, down, down, Mrs. Sparsit′s staircase.

Night and day, Mrs. Sparsit kept it standing. When Louisa had arrived at

the bottom and disappeared in the gulf, it might fall in upon her if it

would; but, until then, there it was to be, a Building, before Mrs. Sparsit′s

eyes. And there Louisa always was, upon it.

And always gliding down, down, down!

215

Mrs. Sparsit saw James Harthouse come and go; she heard of him here

and there; she saw the changes of the face he had studied; she, too,

remarked to a nicety how and when it clouded, how and when it cleared;

she kept her black eyes wide open, with no touch of pity, with no touch

of compunction, all absorbed in interest. In the interest of seeing her,

ever drawing, with no hand to stay her, nearer and nearer to the bottom

of this new Giant′s Staircase.

With all her deference for Mr. Bounderby as contradistinguished from

his portrait, Mrs. Sparsit had not the smallest intention of interrupting

the descent. Eager to see it accomplished, and yet patient, she waited for

the last fall, as for the ripeness and fulness of the harvest of her hopes.

Hushed in expectancy, she kept her wary gaze upon the stairs; and

seldom so much as darkly shook her right mitten (with her fist in it), at

the figure coming down.

Chapter XI: Lower and Lower

THE figure descended the great stairs, steadily, steadily; always verging,

like a weight in deep water, to the black gulf at the bottom.

Mr. Gradgrind, apprised of his wife′s decease, made an expedition from

London, and buried her in a business-like manner. He then returned with

promptitude to the national cinder-heap, and resumed his sifting for the

odds and ends he wanted, and his throwing of the dust about into the

eyes of other people who wanted other odds and ends - in fact resumed

his parliamentary duties.

In the meantime, Mrs. Sparsit kept unwinking watch and ward. Separated

from her staircase, all the week, by the length of iron road dividing

Coketown from the country house, she yet maintained her cat-like

observation of Louisa, through her husband, through her brother,

through James Harthouse, through the outsides of letters and packets,

through everything animate and inanimate that at any time went near the

stairs. `Your foot on the last step, my lady,′ said Mrs. Sparsit,

216

apostrophizing the descending figure, with the aid of her threatening

mitten, `and all your art shall never blind me.′

Art or nature though, the original stock of Louisa′s character or the graft

of circumstances upon it, - her curious reserve did baffle, while it

stimulated, one as sagacious as Mrs. Sparsit. There were times when Mr.

James Harthouse was not sure of her. There were times when he could

not read the face he had studied so long; and when this lonely girl was a

greater mystery to him, than any woman of the world with a ring of

satellites to help her.

So the time went on; until it happened that Mr. Bounderby was called

away from home by business which required his presence elsewhere, for

three or four days. It was on a Friday that he intimated this to Mrs.

Sparsit at the Bank, adding: `But you′ll go down to-morrow, ma′am, all

the same. You′ll go down just as if I was there. It will make no difference

to you.′

`Pray, sir,′ returned Mrs. Sparsit, reproachfully, `let me beg you not to say

that. Your absence wil make a vast difference to me, sir, as I think you

very wel know.′

`Well, ma′am, then you must get on in my absence as well as you can,′

said Mr. Bounderby, not displeased.

`Mr. Bounderby,′ retorted Mrs. Sparsit, `your will is to me a law, sir;

otherwise, it might be my inclination to dispute your kind commands,

not feeling sure that it will be quite so agreeable to Miss Gradgrind to

receive me, as it ever is to your own munificent hospitality. But you shall

say no more, sir. I will go, upon your invitation.′

`Why, when I invite you to my house, ma′am,′ said Bounderby, opening

his eyes, `I should hope you want no other invitation.′

`No, indeed, sir,′ returned Mrs. Sparsit, `I should hope not. Say no more,

sir. I would, sir, I could see you gay again.′

217

`What do you mean, ma′am?′ blustered Bounderby.

`Sir,′ rejoined Mrs. Sparsit, `there was wont to be an elasticity in you

which I sadly miss. Be buoyant, sir!′

Mr. Bounderby, under the influence of this difficult adjuration, backed

up by her compassionate eye, could only scratch his head in a feeble and

ridiculous manner, and afterwards assert himself at a distance, by being

heard to bully the small fry of business all the morning.

`Bitzer,′ said Mrs. Sparsit that afternoon, when her patron was gone on

his journey, and the Bank was closing, `present my compliments to young

Mr. Thomas, and ask him if he would step up and partake of a lamb

chop and walnut ketchup, with a glass of India ale?′ Young Mr. Thomas

being usually ready for anything in that way, returned a gracious answer,

and followed on its heels. `Mr. Thomas,′ said Mrs. Sparsit, `these plain

viands being on table, I thought you might be tempted.′

`Thank′ee, Mrs. Sparsit,′ said the whelp. And gloomily fell to.

`How is Mr. Harthouse, Mr. Tom?′ asked Mrs. Sparsit.

`Oh, he′s all right,′ said Tom.

`Where may he be at present?′ Mrs. Sparsit asked in a light conversational

manner, after mentally devoting the whelp to the Furies for being so

uncommunicative.

`He is shooting in Yorkshire,′ said Tom. `Sent Loo a basket half as big as

a church, yesterday.′

`The kind of gentleman, now,′ said Mrs. Sparsit, sweetly, `whom one

might wager to be a good shot!′

`Crack,′ said Tom.

218

He had long been a down-looking young fellow, but this characteristic

had so increased of late, that he never raised his eyes to any face for

three seconds together. Mrs. Sparsit consequently had ample means of

watching his looks, if she were so inclined.

`Mr. Harthouse is a great favourite of mine,′ said Mrs. Sparsit, `as indeed

he is of most people. May we expect to see him again shortly, Mr. Tom?′

`Why, I expect to see him to-morrow,′ returned the whelp.

`Good news!′ cried Mrs. Sparsit, blandly.

`I have got an appointment with him to meet him in the evening at the

station here,′ said Tom, `and I am going to dine with him afterwards, I

believe. He is not coming down to the country house for a week or so,

being due somewhere else. At least, he says so; but I shouldn′t wonder if

he was to stop here over Sunday, and stray that way.′

`Which reminds me!′ said Mrs. Sparsit. `Would you remember a message

to your sister, Mr. Tom, if I was to charge you with one?′

`Well? I′ll try,′ returned the reluctant whelp, `if it isn′t a long un.′

`It is merely my respectful compliments,′ said Mrs. Sparsit, `and I fear I

may not trouble her with my society this week; being still a little nervous,

and better perhaps by my poor self.′

`Oh! If that′s al ,′ observed Tom, `it wouldn′t much matter, even if I was

to forget it, for Loo′s not likely to think of you unless she sees you.′

Having paid for his entertainment with this agreeable compliment, he

relapsed into a hangdog silence until there was no more India ale left,

when he said, `Well, Mrs. Sparsit, I must be off!′ and went off.

Next day, Saturday, Mrs. Sparsit sat at her window all day long looking at

the customers coming in and out, watching the postmen, keeping an eye

on the general traffic of the street, revolving many things in her mind,

219

but, above all, keeping her attention on her staircase. The evening come,

she put on her bonnet and shawl, and went quietly out: having her

reasons for hovering in a furtive way about the station by which a

passenger would arrive from Yorkshire, and for preferring to peep into it

round pillars and corners, and out of ladies′ waiting-room windows, to

appearing in its precincts openly.

Tom was in attendance, and loitered about until the expected train came

in. It brought no Mr. Harthouse. Tom waited until the crowd had

dispersed, and the bustle was over; and then referred to a posted list of

trains, and took counsel with porters. That done, he strol ed away idly,

stopping in the street and looking up it and down it, and lifting his hat

off and putting it on again, and yawning and stretching himself, and

exhibiting all the symptoms of mortal weariness to be expected in one

who had still to wait until the next train should come in, an hour and

forty minutes hence.

`This is a device to keep him out of the way,′ said Mrs. Sparsit, starting

from the dull office window whence she had watched him last.

`Harthouse is with his sister now!′

It was the conception of an inspired moment, and she shot off with her

utmost swiftness to work it out. The station for the country house was at

the opposite end of the town, the time was short, the road not easy; but

she was so quick in pouncing on a disengaged coach, so quick in darting

out of it, producing her money, seizing her ticket, and diving into the

train, that she was borne along the arches spanning the land of coal-pits

past and present, as if she had been caught up in a cloud and whirled

away.

All the journey, immovable in the air though never left behind; plain to

the dark eyes of her mind, as the electric wires which ruled a colossal

strip of music-paper out of the evening sky, were plain to the dark eyes

of her body; Mrs. Sparsit saw her staircase, with the figure coming down.

Very near the bottom now. Upon the brink of the abyss.

220

An overcast September evening, just at nightfall, saw beneath its

drooping eyelids Mrs. Sparsit glide out of her carriage, pass down the

wooden steps of the little station into a stony road, cross it into a green

lane, and become hidden in a summer-growth of leaves and branches.

One or two late birds sleepily chirping in their nests, and a bat heavily

crossing and recrossing her, and the reek of her own tread in the thick

dust that felt like velvet, were all Mrs. Sparsit heard or saw until she very

softly closed a gate.

She went up to the house, keeping within the shrubbery, and went round

it, peeping between the leaves at the lower windows. Most of them were

open, as they usually were in such warm weather, but there were no

lights yet, and all was silent. She tried the garden with no better effect.

She thought of the wood, and stole towards it, heedless of long grass

and briers: of worms, snails, and slugs, and all the creeping things that

be. With her dark eyes and her hook nose warily in advance of her, Mrs.

Sparsit softly crushed her way through the thick undergrowth, so intent

upon her object that she probably would have done no less, if the wood

had been a wood of adders.

Hark!

The smaller birds might have tumbled out of their nests, fascinated by

the glittering of Mrs. Sparsit′s eyes in the gloom, as she stopped and

listened.

Low voices close at hand. His voice and hers. The appointment was a

device to keep the brother away! There they were yonder, by the felled

tree.

Bending low among the dewy grass, Mrs. Sparsit advanced closer to

them. She drew herself up, and stood behind a tree, like Robinson

Crusoe in his ambuscade against the savages; so near to them that at a

spring, and that no great one, she could have touched them both. He was

there secretly, and had not shown himself at the house. He had come on

horseback, and must have passed through the neighbouring fields; for his

horse was tied to the meadow side of the fence, within a few paces.

221

`My dearest love,′ said he, `what could I do? Knowing you were alone,

was it possible that I could stay away?′

`You may hang your head, to make yourself the more attractive; I don′t

know what they see in you when you hold it up,′ thought Mrs. Sparsit;

`but you little think, my dearest love, whose eyes are on you!′

That she hung her head, was certain. She urged him to go away, she

commanded him to go away; but she neither turned her face to him, nor

raised it. Yet it was remarkable that she sat as still as ever the amiable

woman in ambuscade had seen her sit, at any period in her life. Her

hands rested in one another, like the hands of a statue; and even her

manner of speaking was not hurried.

`My dear child,′ said Harthouse; Mrs. Sparsit saw with delight that his

arm embraced her; `will you not bear with my society for a little while?′

`Not here.′

`Where, Louisa?

`Not here.′

`But we have so little time to make so much of, and I have come so far,

and am altogether so devoted, and distracted. There never was a slave at

once so devoted and ill-used by his mistress. To look for your sunny

welcome that has warmed me into life, and to be received in your frozen

manner, is heart-rending.′

`Am I to say again, that I must be left to myself here?′

`But we must meet, my dear Louisa. Where shall we meet?′

They both started. The listener started, guiltily, too; for she thought there

was another listener among the trees. It was only rain, beginning to fall

fast, in heavy drops.

222

`Shall I ride up to the house a few minutes hence, innocently supposing

that its master is at home and will be charmed to receive me?′

`No!′

`Your cruel commands are implicitly to be obeyed; though I am the most

unfortunate fellow in the world, I believe, to have been insensible to all

other women, and to have fallen prostrate at last under the foot of the

most beautiful, and the most engaging, and the most imperious. My

dearest Louisa, I cannot go myself, or let you go, in this hard abuse of

your power.′

Mrs. Sparsit saw him detain her with his encircling arm, and heard him

then and there, within her (Mrs. Sparsit′s) greedy hearing, tell her how he

loved her, and how she was the stake for which he ardently desired to

play away all that he had in life. The objects he had lately pursued, turned

worthless beside her; such success as was almost in his grasp, he flung

away from him like the dirt it was, compared with her. Its pursuit,

nevertheless, if it kept him near her, or its renunciation if it took him

from her, or flight if she shared it, or secrecy if she commanded it, or

any fate, or every fate, all was alike to him, so that she was true to him, -

the man who had seen how cast away she was, whom she had inspired at

their first meeting with an admiration, an interest, of which he had

thought himself incapable, whom she had received into her confidence,

who was devoted to her and adored her. All this, and more, in his hurry,

and in hers, in the whirl of her own gratified malice, in the dread of

being discovered, in the rapidly increasing noise of heavy rain among the

leaves, and a thunderstorm rolling up - Mrs. Sparsit received into her

mind, set off with such an unavoidable halo of confusion and

indistinctness, that when at length he climbed the fence and led his horse

away, she was not sure where they were to meet, or when, except that

they had said it was to be that night.

But one of them yet remained in the darkness before her; and while she

tracked that one she must be right. `Oh, my dearest love,′ thought Mrs.

Sparsit, `you little think how well attended you are!′

223

Mrs. Sparsit saw her out of the wood, and saw her enter the house. What

to do next? It rained now, in a sheet of water. Mrs. Sparsit′s white

stockings were of many colours, green predominating; prickly things

were in her shoes; caterpillars slung themselves, in hammocks of their

own making, from various parts of her dress; rills ran from her bonnet,

and her Roman nose. In such condition, Mrs. Sparsit stood hidden in the

density of the shrubbery, considering what next?

Lo, Louisa coming out of the house! Hastily cloaked and muffled, and

stealing away. She elopes! She falls from the lowermost stair, and is

swallowed up in the gulf.

Indifferent to the rain, and moving with a quick determined step, she

struck into a side-path parallel with the ride. Mrs. Sparsit followed in the

shadow of the trees, at but a short distance; for it was not easy to keep a

figure in view going quickly through the umbrageous darkness.

When she stopped to close the side-gate without noise, Mrs. Sparsit

stopped. When she went on, Mrs. Sparsit went on. She went by the way

Mrs. Sparsit had come, emerged from the green lane, crossed the stony

road, and ascended the wooden steps to the railroad. A train for

Coketown would come through presently, Mrs. Sparsit knew; so she

understood Coketown to be her first place of destination.

In Mrs. Sparsit′s limp and streaming state, no extensive precautions were

necessary to change her usual appearance; but, she stopped under the lee

of the station wall, tumbled her shawl into a new shape, and put it on

over her bonnet. So disguised she had no fear of being recognized when

she followed up the railroad steps, and paid her money in the small

office. Louisa sat waiting in a corner. Mrs. Sparsit sat waiting in another

corner. Both listened to the thunder, which was loud, and to the rain, as

it washed off the roof, and pattered on the parapets of the arches. Two

or three lamps were rained out and blown out; so, both saw the lightning

to advantage as it quivered and zigzagged on the iron tracks.

The seizure of the station with a fit of trembling, gradually deepening to

a complaint of the heart, announced the train. Fire and steam, and

224

smoke, and red light; a hiss, a crash, a bel , and a shriek; Louisa put into

one carriage, Mrs. Sparsit put into another: the little station a desert

speck in the thunderstorm.

Though her teeth chattered in her head from wet and cold, Mrs. Sparsit

exulted hugely. The figure had plunged down the precipice, and she felt

herself, as it were, attending on the body. Could she, who had been so

active in the getting up of the funeral triumph, do less than exult? `She

will be at Coketown long before him,′ thought Mrs. Sparsit, `though his

horse is never so good. Where will she wait for him? And where will they

go together? Patience. We shall see.′

The tremendous rain occasioned infinite confusion, when the train

stopped at its destination. Gutters and pipes had burst, drains had

overflowed, and streets were under water. In the first instant of alighting,

Mrs. Sparsit turned her distracted eyes towards the waiting coaches,

which were in great request. `She will get into one,′ she considered, `and

will be away before I can follow in another. At all risks of being run

over, I must see the number, and hear the order given to the coachman.′

But, Mrs. Sparsit was wrong in her calculation. Louisa got into no coach,

and was already gone. The black eyes kept upon the railroad-carriage in

which she had travelled, settled upon it a moment too late. The door not

being opened after several minutes, Mrs. Sparsit passed it and repassed it,

saw nothing, looked in, and found it empty. Wet through and through:

with her feet squelching and squashing in her shoes whenever she

moved; with a rash of rain upon her classical visage; with a bonnet like

an over-ripe fig; with all her clothes spoiled; with damp impressions of

every button, string, and hook-and-eye she wore, printed off upon her

highly connected back; with a stagnant verdure on her general exterior,

such as accumulates on an old park fence in a mouldy lane; Mrs. Sparsit

had no resource but to burst into tears of bitterness and say, `I have lost

her!′

225

Chapter XII: Down

THE national dustmen, after entertaining one another with a great many

noisy little fights among themselves, had dispersed for the present, and

Mr. Gradgrind was at home for the vacation.

He sat writing in the room with the deadly statistical clock, proving

something no doubt - probably, in the main, that the Good Samaritan

was a Bad Economist. The noise of the rain did not disturb him much;

but it attracted his attention sufficiently to make him raise his head

sometimes, as if he were rather remonstrating with the elements. When

it thundered very loudly, he glanced towards Coketown, having it in his

mind that some of the tall chimneys might be struck by lightning.

The thunder was rolling into distance, and the rain was pouring down

like a deluge, when the door of his room opened. He looked round the

lamp upon his table, and saw, with amazement, his eldest daughter.

`Louisa!′

`Father, I want to speak to you.′

`What is the matter? How strange you look! And good Heaven,′ said Mr.

Gradgrind, wondering more and more, `have you come here exposed to

this storm?′

She put her hands to her dress, as if she hardly knew. `Yes.′ Then she

uncovered her head, and letting her cloak and hood fall where they

might, stood looking at him: so colourless, so dishevelled, so defiant and

despairing, that he was afraid of her.

`What is it? I conjure you, Louisa, tell me what is the matter.′

She dropped into a chair before him, and put her cold hand on his arm.

`Father, you have trained me from my cradle?′

226

`Yes, Louisa.′

`I curse the hour in which I was born to such a destiny.′

He looked at her in doubt and dread, vacantly repeating: `Curse the

hour? Curse the hour?′

`How could you give me life, and take from me all the inappreciable

things that raise it from the state of conscious death? Where are the

graces of my soul? Where are the sentiments of my heart? What have

you done, O father, what have you done, with the garden that should

have bloomed once, in this great wilderness here!′

She struck herself with both her hands upon her bosom.

`If it had ever been here, its ashes alone would save me from the void in

which my whole life sinks. I did not mean to say this; but, father, you

remember the last time we conversed in this room?′

He had been so wholly unprepared for what he heard now, that it was

with difficulty he answered, `Yes, Louisa.′

`What has risen to my lips now, would have risen to my lips then, if you

had given me a moment′s help. I don′t reproach you, father. What you

have never nurtured in me, you have never nurtured in yourself; but O! if

you had only done so long ago, or if you had only neglected me, what a

much better and much happier creature I should have been this day!′

On hearing this, after all his care, he bowed his head upon his hand and

groaned aloud.

`Father, if you had known, when we were last together here, what even I

feared while I strove against it - as it has been my task from infancy to

strive against every natural prompting that has arisen in my heart; if you

had known that there lingered in my breast, sensibilities, affections,

weaknesses capable of being cherished into strength, defying all the

calculations ever made by man, and no more known to his arithmetic

227

than his Creator is, - would you have given me to the husband whom I

am now sure that I hate?′

He said, `No. No, my poor child.′

`Would you have doomed me, at any time, to the frost and blight that

have hardened and spoiled me? Would you have robbed me - for no

one′s enrichment - only for the greater desolation of this world - of the

immaterial part of my life, the spring and summer of my belief, my

refuge from what is sordid and bad in the real things around me, my

school in which I should have learned to be more humble and more

trusting with them, and to hope in my little sphere to make them better?′

`O no, no. No, Louisa.′

`Yet, father, if I had been stone blind; if I had groped my way by my

sense of touch, and had been free, while I knew the shapes and surfaces

of things, to exercise my fancy somewhat, in regard to them; I should

have been a million times wiser, happier, more loving, more contented,

more innocent and human in all good respects, than I am with the eyes I

have. Now, hear what I have come to say.′

He moved, to support her with his arm. She rising as he did so, they

stood close together: she, with a hand upon his shoulder, looking fixedly

in his face.

`With a hunger and thirst upon me, father, which have never been for a

moment appeased; with an ardent impulse towards some region where

rules, and figures, and definitions were not quite absolute; I have grown

up, battling every inch of my way.′

`I never knew you were unhappy, my child.′

`Father, I always knew it. In this strife I have almost repulsed and

crushed my better angel into a demon. What I have learned has left me

doubting, misbelieving, despising, regretting, what I have not learned;

228

and my dismal resource has been to think that life would soon go by, and

that nothing in it could be worth the pain and trouble of a contest.′

`And you so young, Louisa!′ he said with pity.

`And I so young. In this condition, father - for I show you now, without

fear or favour, the ordinary deadened state of my mind as I know it - you

proposed my husband to me. I took him. I never made a pretence to him

or you that I loved him. I knew, and, father, you knew, and he knew, that

I never did. I was not wholly indifferent, for I had a hope of being

pleasant and useful to Tom. I made that wild escape into something

visionary, and have slowly found out how wild it was. But Tom had been

the subject of all the little tenderness of my life; perhaps he became so

because I knew so well how to pity him. It matters little now, except as it

may dispose you to think more leniently of his errors.′

As her father held her in his arms, she put her other hand upon his other

shoulder, and still looking fixedly in his face, went on.

`When I was irrevocably married, there rose up into rebellion against the

tie, the old strife, made fiercer by all those causes of disparity which arise

out of our two individual natures, and which no general laws shall ever

rule or state for me, father, until they shall be able to direct the anatomist

where to strike his knife into the secrets of my soul.′

`Louisa!′ he said, and said imploringly; for he well remembered what had

passed between them in their former interview.

`I do not reproach you, father, I make no complaint. I am here with

another object.′

`What can I do, child? Ask me what you will.′

`I am coming to it. Father, chance then threw into my way a new

acquaintance; a man such as I had had no experience of; used to the

world; light, polished, easy; making no pretences; avowing the low

estimate of everything, that I was half afraid to form in secret;

229

conveying to me almost immediately, though I don′t know how or by

what degrees, that he understood me, and read my thoughts. I could not

find that he was worse than I. There seemed to be a near affinity

between us. I only wondered it should be worth his while, who cared for

nothing else, to care so much for me.′

`For you, Louisa!′

Her father might instinctively have loosened his hold, but that he felt her

strength departing from her, and saw a wild dilating fire in the eyes

steadfastly regarding him.

`I say nothing of his plea for claiming my confidence. It matters very

little how he gained it. Father, he did gain it. What you know of the story

of my marriage, he soon knew, just as well.′

Her father′s face was ashy white, and he held her in both his arms.

`I have done no worse, I have not disgraced you. But if you ask me

whether I have loved him, or do love him, I tell you plainly, father, that it

may be so. I don′t know.′

She took her hands suddenly from his shoulders, and pressed them both

upon her side; while in her face, not like itself - and in her figure, drawn

up, resolute to finish by a last effort what she had to say - the feelings

long suppressed broke loose.

`This night, my husband being away, he has been with me, declaring

himself my lover. This minute he expects me, for I could release myself

of his presence by no other means. I do not know that I am sorry, I do

not know that I am ashamed, I do not know that I am degraded in my

own esteem. All that I know is, your philosophy and your teaching will

not save me. Now, father, you have brought me to this. Save me by some

other means!′

He tightened his hold in time to prevent her sinking on the floor, but she

cried out in a terrible voice, `I shall die if you hold me! Let me fall upon

230

the ground!′ And he laid her down there, and saw the pride of his heart

and the triumph of his system, lying, an insensible heap, at his feet.

End

of

the

Second

Book

231

Book the Third: Garnering

Chapter I: Another Thing Needful

LOUISA awoke from a torpor, and her eyes languidly opened on her old

bed at home, and her old room. It seemed, at first, as if all that had

happened since the days when these objects were familiar to her were the

shadows of a dream, but gradually, as the objects became more real to

her sight, the events became more real to her mind.

She could scarcely move her head for pain and heaviness, her eyes were

strained and sore, and she was very weak. A curious passive inattention

had such possession of her, that the presence of her little sister in the

room did not attract her notice for some time. Even when their eyes had

met, and her sister had approached the bed, Louisa lay for minutes

looking at her in silence, and suffering her timidly to hold her passive

hand, before she asked:

`When was I brought to this room?′

`Last night, Louisa.′

`Who brought me here?′

`Sissy, I believe.′

`Why do you believe so?′

`Because I found her here this morning. She didn′t come to my bedside

to wake me, as she always does; and I went to look for her. She was not

in her own room either; and I went looking for her all over the house,

until I found her here taking care of you and cooling your head. Will you

see father? Sissy said I was to tell him when you woke.′

232

`What a beaming face you have, Jane!′ said Louisa, as her young sister -

timidly still - bent down to kiss her.

`Have I? I am very glad you think so. I am sure it must be Sissy′s doing.′

The arm Louisa had begun to twine around her neck, unbent itself. `You

can tell father if you will.′ Then, staying her for a moment, she said, `It

was you who made my room so cheerful, and gave it this look of

welcome?′

`Oh no, Louisa, it was done before I came. It was - ′

Louisa turned upon her pillow, and heard no more. When her sister had

withdrawn, she turned her head back again, and lay with her face towards

the door, until it opened and her father entered.

He had a jaded anxious look upon him, and his hand, usually steady,

trembled in hers. He sat down at the side of the bed, tenderly asking

how she was, and dwelling on the necessity of her keeping very quiet

after her agitation and exposure to the weather last night. He spoke in a

subdued and troubled voice, very different from his usual dictatorial

manner; and was often at a loss for words.

`My dear Louisa. My poor daughter.′ He was so much at a loss at that

place, that he stopped altogether. He tried again.

`My unfortunate child.′ The place was so difficult to get over, that he

tried again.

`It would be hopeless for me, Louisa, to endeavour to tell you how

overwhelmed I have been, and still am, by what broke upon me last

night. The ground on which I stand has ceased to be solid under my feet.

The only support on which I leaned, and the strength of which it

seemed, and still does seem, impossible to question, has given way in an

instant. I am stunned by these discoveries. I have no selfish meaning in

what I say; but I find the shock of what broke upon me last night, to be

very heavy indeed.′

233

She could give him no comfort herein. She had suffered the wreck of

her whole life upon the rock.

`I wil not say, Louisa, that if you had by any happy chance undeceived

me some time ago, it would have been better for us both; better for your

peace, and better for mine. For I am sensible that it may not have been a

part of my system to invite any confidence of that kind. I had proved

my - my system to myself, and I have rigidly administered it; and I must

bear the responsibility of its failures. I only entreat you to believe, my

favourite child, that I have meant to do right.′

He said it earnestly, and to do him justice he had. In gauging fathomless

deeps with his little mean excise-rod, and in staggering over the universe

with his rusty stiff-legged compasses, he had meant to do great things.

Within the limits of his short tether he had tumbled about, annihilating

the flowers of existence with greater singleness of purpose than many

of the blatant personages whose company he kept.

`I am well assured of what you say, father. I know I have been your

favourite child. I know you have intended to make me happy. I have

never blamed you, and I never shall.′

He took her outstretched hand, and retained it in his.

`My dear, I have remained all night at my table, pondering again and

again on what has so painfully passed between us. When I consider your

character; when I consider that what has been known to me for hours,

has been concealed by you for years; when I consider under what

immediate pressure it has been forced from you at last; I come to the

conclusion that I cannot but mistrust myself.′

He might have added more than all, when he saw the face now looking

at him. He did add it in effect, perhaps, as he softly moved her scattered

hair from her forehead with his hand. Such little actions, slight in another

man, were very noticeable in him; and his daughter received them as if

they had been words of contrition.

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`But,′ said Mr. Gradgrind, slowly, and with hesitation, as well as with a

wretched sense of happiness, `if I see reason to mistrust myself for the

past, Louisa, I should also mistrust myself for the present and the future.

To speak unreservedly to you, I do. I am far from feeling convinced now,

however differently I might have felt only this time yesterday, that I am

fit for the trust you repose in me; that I know how to respond to the

appeal you have come home to make to me; that I have the right instinct

- supposing it for the moment to be some quality of that nature - how to

help you, and to set you right, my child.′

She had turned upon her pillow, and lay with her face upon her arm, so

that he could not see it. All her wildness and passion had subsided; but,

though softened, she was not in tears. Her father was changed in nothing

so much as in the respect that he would have been glad to see her in

tears.

`Some persons hold,′ he pursued, still hesitating, `that there is a wisdom

of the Head, and that there is a wisdom of the Heart. I have not

supposed so; but, as I have said, I mistrust myself now. I have supposed

the head to be all-sufficient. It may not be all- sufficient; how can I

venture this morning to say it is! If that other kind of wisdom should be

what I have neglected, and should be the instinct that is wanted, Louisa -

′

He suggested it very doubtfully, as if he were half unwilling to admit it

even now. She made him no answer, lying before him on her bed, still

half-dressed, much as he had seen her lying on the floor of his room last

night.

`Louisa,′ and his hand rested on her hair again, `I have been absent from

here, my dear, a good deal of late; and though your sister′s training has

been pursued according to - the system,′ he appeared to come to that

word with great reluctance always, `it has necessarily been modified by

daily associations begun, in her case, at an early age. I ask you -

ignorantly and humbly, my daughter - for the better, do you think?′

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`Father,′ she replied, without stirring, `if any harmony has been awakened

in her young breast that was mute in mine until it turned to discord, let

her thank Heaven for it, and go upon her happier way, taking it as her

greatest blessing that she has avoided my way.′

`O my child, my child!′ he said, in a forlorn manner, `I am an unhappy

man to see you thus! What avails it to me that you do not reproach me,

if I so bitterly reproach myself!′ He bent his head, and spoke low to her.

`Louisa, I have a misgiving that some change may have been slowly

working about me in this house, by mere love and gratitude: that what

the Head had left undone and could not do, the Heart may have been

doing silently. Can it be so?′

She made him no reply.

`I am not too proud to believe it, Louisa. How could I be arrogant, and

you before me! Can it be so? Is it so, my dear?′ He looked upon her once

more, lying cast away there; and without another word went out of the

room. He had not been long gone, when she heard a light tread near the

door, and knew that some one stood beside her.

She did not raise her head. A dul anger that she should be seen in her

distress, and that the involuntary look she had so resented should come

to this fulfilment, smouldered within her like an unwholesome fire. All

closely imprisoned forces rend and destroy. The air that would be

healthful to the earth, the water that would enrich it, the heat that would

ripen it, tear it when caged up. So in her bosom even now; the strongest

qualities she possessed, long turned upon themselves, became a heap of

obduracy, that rose against a friend.

It was well that soft touch came upon her neck, and that she understood

herself to be supposed to have fallen asleep. The sympathetic hand did

not claim her resentment. Let it lie there, let it lie.

It lay there, warming into life a crowd of gentler thoughts; and she

rested. As she softened with the quiet, and the consciousness of being so

watched, some tears made their way into her eyes. The face touched hers,

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and she knew that there were tears upon it too, and she the cause of

them.

As Louisa feigned to rouse herself, and sat up, Sissy retired, so that she

stood placidly near the bedside.

`I hope I have not disturbed you. I have come to ask if you would let me

stay with you?′

`Why should you stay with me? My sister will miss you. You are

everything to her.′

`Am I?′ returned Sissy, shaking her head. `I would be something to you, if

I might.′

`What?′ said Louisa, almost sternly.

`Whatever you want most, if I could be that. At all events, I would like to

try to be as near it as I can. And however far off that may be, I will never

tire of trying. Will you let me?′

`My father sent you to ask me.′

`No indeed,′ replied Sissy. `He told me that I might come in now, but he

sent me away from the room this morning - or at least - ′

She hesitated and stopped.

`At least, what?′ said Louisa, with her searching eyes upon her.

`I thought it best myself that I should be sent away, for I felt very

uncertain whether you would like to find me here.′

`Have I always hated you so much?′

`I hope not, for I have always loved you, and have always wished that you

should know it. But you changed to me a little, shortly before you left

237

home. Not that I wondered at it. You knew so much, and I knew so

little, and it was so natural in many ways, going as you were among other

friends, that I had nothing to complain of, and was not at all hurt.′

Her colour rose as she said it modestly and hurriedly. Louisa understood

the loving pretence, and her heart smote her.

`May I try?′ said Sissy, emboldened to raise her hand to the neck that was

insensibly drooping towards her.

Louisa, taking down the hand that would have embraced her in another

moment, held it in one of hers, and answered:

`First, Sissy, do you know what I am? I am so proud and so hardened, so

confused and troubled, so resentful and unjust to every one and to

myself, that everything is stormy, dark, and wicked to me. Does not that

repel you?′

`No!′

`I am so unhappy, and all that should have made me otherwise is so laid

waste, that if I had been bereft of sense to this hour, and instead of

being as learned as you think me, had to begin to acquire the simplest

truths, I could not want a guide to peace, contentment, honour, all the

good of which I am quite devoid, more abjectly than I do. Does not that

repel you?′

`No!′

In the innocence of her brave affection, and the brimming up of her old

devoted spirit, the once deserted girl shone like a beautiful light upon the

darkness of the other.

Louisa raised the hand that it might clasp her neck and join its fellow

there. She fell upon her knees, and clinging to this stroller′s child looked

up at her almost with veneration.

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`Forgive me, pity me, help me! Have compassion on my great need, and

let me lay this head of mine upon a loving heart!′

`O lay it here!′ cried Sissy. `Lay it here, my dear.′

Chapter II: Very Ridiculous

MR. JAMES HARTHOUSE passed a whole night and a day in a state of

so much hurry, that the World, with its best glass in his eye, would

scarcely have recognized him during that insane interval, as the brother

Jem of the honourable and jocular member. He was positively agitated.

He several times spoke with an emphasis, similar to the vulgar manner.

He went in and went out in an unaccountable way, like a man without an

object. He rode like a highwayman. In a word, he was so horribly bored

by existing circumstances, that he forgot to go in for boredom in the

manner prescribed by the authorities.

After putting his horse at Coketown through the storm, as if it were a

leap, he waited up all night: from time to time ringing his bell with the

greatest fury, charging the porter who kept watch with delinquency in

withholding letters or messages that could not fail to have been

entrusted to him, and demanding restitution on the spot. The dawn

coming, the morning coming, and the day coming, and neither message

nor letter coming with either, he went down to the country house. There,

the report was, Mr. Bounderby away, and Mrs. Bounderby in town. Left

for town suddenly last evening. Not even known to be gone until receipt

of message, importing that her return was not to be expected for the

present.

In these circumstances he had nothing for it but to follow her to town.

He went to the house in town. Mrs. Bounderby not there. He looked in

at the Bank. Mr. Bounderby away and Mrs. Sparsit away. Mrs. Sparsit

away? Who could have been reduced to sudden extremity for the

company of that griffin!

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`Well! I don′t know,′ said Tom, who had his own reasons for being uneasy

about it. `She was off somewhere at daybreak this morning. She′s always

full of mystery; I hate her. So I do that white chap; he′s always got his

blinking eyes upon a fellow.′

`Where were you last night, Tom?′

`Where was I last night!′ said Tom. `Come! I like that. I was waiting for

you, Mr. Harthouse, till it came down as I never saw it come down

before. Where was I too! Where were you, you mean.′

`I was prevented from coming - detained.′

`Detained!′ murmured Tom. `Two of us were detained. I was detained

looking for you, till I lost every train but the mail. It would have been a

pleasant job to go down by that on such a night, and have to walk home

through a pond. I was obliged to sleep in town after all.′

`Where?′