第 94 页

myself to have dreamed more than before, I have always dreamed of myself

as very young indeed! I am not very old, you may say. No, but that is

not what I mean. I have always dreamed of myself as a child learning

to do needlework. I have often dreamed of myself as back there, seeing

faces in the yard little known, and which I should have thought I had

quite forgotten; but, as often as not, I have been abroad here--in

Switzerland, or France, or Italy--somewhere where we have been--yet

always as that little child. I have dreamed of going down to Mrs

General, with the patches on my clothes in which I can first remember

myself. I have over and over again dreamed of taking my place at dinner

at Venice when we have had a large company, in the mourning for my poor

mother which I wore when I was eight years old, and wore long after it

was threadbare and would mend no more. It has been a great distress to

me to think how irreconcilable the company would consider it with my

father's wealth, and how I should displease and disgrace him and Fanny

and Edward by so plainly disclosing what they wished to keep secret. But

I have not grown out of the little child in thinking of it; and at the

self-same moment I have dreamed that I have sat with the heart-ache at

table, calculating the expenses of the dinner, and quite distracting

myself with thinking how they were ever to be made good. I have never

dreamed of the change in our fortunes itself; I have never dreamed of

your coming back with me that memorable morning to break it; I have

never even dreamed of you.

Dear Mr Clennam, it is possible that I have thought of you--and

others--so much by day, that I have no thoughts left to wander round

you by night. For I must now confess to you that I suffer from

home-sickness--that I long so ardently and earnestly for home, as

sometimes, when no one sees me, to pine for it. I cannot bear to turn my

face further away from it. My heart is a little lightened when we turn

towards it, even for a few miles, and with the knowledge that we are

soon to turn away again. So dearly do I love the scene of my poverty and

your kindness. O so dearly, O so dearly!

Heaven knows when your poor child will see England again. We are all

fond of the life here (except me), and there are no plans for our

return. My dear father talks of a visit to London late in this next

spring, on some affairs connected with the property, but I have no hope

that he will bring me with him.

I have tried to get on a little better under Mrs General's instruction,

and I hope I am not quite so dull as I used to be. I have begun to speak

and understand, almost easily, the hard languages I told you about. I

did not remember, at the moment when I wrote last, that you knew them

both; but I remembered it afterwards, and it helped me on. God bless

you, dear Mr Clennam. Do not forget your ever grateful and affectionate

LITTLE DORRIT.

P.S.--Particularly remember that Minnie Gowan deserves the best

remembrance in which you can hold her. You cannot think too generously

or too highly of her. I forgot Mr Pancks last time. Please, if you

should see him, give him your Little Dorrit's kind regard. He was very

good to Little D.

CHAPTER 12. In which a Great Patriotic Conference is holden

The famous name of Merdle became, every day, more famous in the land.

Nobody knew that the Merdle of such high renown had ever done any good

to any one, alive or dead, or to any earthly thing; nobody knew that he

had any capacity or utterance of any sort in him, which had ever thrown,

for any creature, the feeblest farthing-candle ray of light on any path

of duty or diversion, pain or pleasure, toil or rest, fact or fancy,

among the multiplicity of paths in the labyrinth trodden by the sons

of Adam; nobody had the smallest reason for supposing the clay of which

this object of worship was made, to be other than the commonest clay,

with as clogged a wick smouldering inside of it as ever kept an image of

humanity from tumbling to pieces. All people knew (or thought they knew)

that he had made himself immensely rich; and, for that reason alone,

prostrated themselves before him, more degradedly and less excusably

than the darkest savage creeps out of his hole in the ground to

propitiate, in some log or reptile, the Deity of his benighted soul.

Nay, the high priests of this worship had the man before them as

a protest against their meanness. The multitude worshipped on

trust--though always distinctly knowing why--but the officiators at the

altar had the man habitually in their view. They sat at his feasts, and

he sat at theirs. There was a spectre always attendant on him, saying to

these high priests, 'Are such the signs you trust, and love to honour;

this head, these eyes, this mode of speech, the tone and manner of this

man? You are the levers of the Circumlocution Office, and the rulers of

men. When half-a-dozen of you fall out by the ears, it seems that mother

earth can give birth to no other rulers. Does your qualification lie in

the superior knowledge of men which accepts, courts, and puffs this man?

Or, if you are competent to judge aright the signs I never fail to

show you when he appears among you, is your superior honesty your

qualification?' Two rather ugly questions these, always going about

town with Mr Merdle; and there was a tacit agreement that they must be

stifled. In Mrs Merdle's absence abroad, Mr Merdle still kept the great

house open for the passage through it of a stream Of visitors. A few of

these took affable possession of the establishment. Three or four ladies

of distinction and liveliness used to say to one another, 'Let us dine

at our dear Merdle's next Thursday. Whom shall we have?' Our dear Merdle

would then receive his instructions; and would sit heavily among

the company at table and wander lumpishly about his drawing-rooms

afterwards, only remarkable for appearing to have nothing to do with the

entertainment beyond being in its way.

The Chief Butler, the Avenging Spirit of this great man's life, relaxed

nothing of his severity. He looked on at these dinners when the bosom

was not there, as he looked on at other dinners when the bosom was

there; and his eye was a basilisk to Mr Merdle. He was a hard man, and

would never bate an ounce of plate or a bottle of wine. He would not

allow a dinner to be given, unless it was up to his mark. He set forth

the table for his own dignity. If the guests chose to partake of what

was served, he saw no objection; but it was served for the maintenance

of his rank. As he stood by the sideboard he seemed to announce, 'I have

accepted office to look at this which is now before me, and to look at

nothing less than this.' If he missed the presiding bosom, it was as a

part of his own state of which he was, from unavoidable circumstances,

temporarily deprived, just as he might have missed a centre-piece, or a

choice wine-cooler, which had been sent to the Banker's.

Mr Merdle issued invitations for a Barnacle dinner. Lord Decimus was to

be there, Mr Tite Barnacle was to be there, the pleasant young Barnacle

was to be there; and the Chorus of Parliamentary Barnacles who went

about the provinces when the House was up, warbling the praises of their

Chief, were to be represented there. It was understood to be a great

occasion. Mr Merdle was going to take up the Barnacles. Some delicate

little negotiations had occurred between him and the noble Decimus--the

young Barnacle of engaging manners acting as negotiator--and Mr Merdle

had decided to cast the weight of his great probity and great riches

into the Barnacle scale. Jobbery was suspected by the malicious; perhaps

because it was indisputable that if the adherence of the immortal Enemy

of Mankind could have been secured by a job, the Barnacles would have

jobbed him--for the good of the country, for the good of the country.

Mrs Merdle had written to this magnificent spouse of hers, whom it was

heresy to regard as anything less than all the British Merchants since

the days of Whittington rolled into one, and gilded three feet deep all

over--had written to this spouse of hers, several letters from Rome, in

quick succession, urging upon him with importunity that now or never was

the time to provide for Edmund Sparkler. Mrs Merdle had shown him that

the case of Edmund was urgent, and that infinite advantages might result

from his having some good thing directly. In the grammar of Mrs

Merdle's verbs on this momentous subject, there was only one mood, the

Imperative; and that Mood had only one Tense, the Present. Mrs Merdle's

verbs were so pressingly presented to Mr Merdle to conjugate, that his

sluggish blood and his long coat-cuffs became quite agitated.

In which state of agitation, Mr Merdle, evasively rolling his eyes

round the Chief Butler's shoes without raising them to the index of that

stupendous creature's thoughts, had signified to him his intention of

giving a special dinner: not a very large dinner, but a very special

dinner. The Chief Butler had signified, in return, that he had no

objection to look on at the most expensive thing in that way that could

be done; and the day of the dinner was now come.

Mr Merdle stood in one of his drawing-rooms, with his back to the fire,

waiting for the arrival of his important guests. He seldom or never took

the liberty of standing with his back to the fire unless he was quite

alone. In the presence of the Chief Butler, he could not have done such

a deed. He would have clasped himself by the wrists in that constabulary

manner of his, and have paced up and down the hearthrug, or gone

creeping about among the rich objects of furniture, if his oppressive

retainer had appeared in the room at that very moment. The sly shadows

which seemed to dart out of hiding when the fire rose, and to dart back

into it when the fire fell, were sufficient witnesses of his making

himself so easy.

They were even more than sufficient, if his uncomfortable glances at

them might be taken to mean anything.

Mr Merdle's right hand was filled with the evening paper, and the

evening paper was full of Mr Merdle. His wonderful enterprise, his

wonderful wealth, his wonderful Bank, were the fattening food of the

evening paper that night. The wonderful Bank, of which he was the chief

projector, establisher, and manager, was the latest of the many Merdle

wonders. So modest was Mr Merdle withal, in the midst of these splendid

achievements, that he looked far more like a man in possession of his

house under a distraint, than a commercial Colossus bestriding his own

hearthrug, while the little ships were sailing into dinner.

Behold the vessels coming into port! The engaging young Barnacle was the

first arrival; but Bar overtook him on the staircase. Bar, strengthened

as usual with his double eye-glass and his little jury droop, was

overjoyed to see the engaging young Barnacle; and opined that we were

going to sit in Banco, as we lawyers called it, to take a special

argument?

'Indeed,' said the sprightly young Barnacle, whose name was Ferdinand;

'how so?'

'Nay,' smiled Bar. 'If you don't know, how can I know? You are in the

innermost sanctuary of the temple; I am one of the admiring concourse on

the plain without.'

Bar could be light in hand, or heavy in hand, according to the customer

he had to deal with. With Ferdinand Barnacle he was gossamer. Bar was

likewise always modest and self-depreciatory--in his way. Bar was a man

of great variety; but one leading thread ran through the woof of all his

patterns. Every man with whom he had to do was in his eyes a jury-man;

and he must get that jury-man over, if he could.

'Our illustrious host and friend,' said Bar; 'our shining mercantile

star;--going into politics?'

'Going? He has been in Parliament some time, you know,' returned the

engaging young Barnacle.

'True,' said Bar, with his light-comedy laugh for special jury-men,

which was a very different thing from his low-comedy laugh for comic

tradesmen on common juries: 'he has been in Parliament for some time.

Yet hitherto our star has been a vacillating and wavering star? Humph?'

An average witness would have been seduced by the Humph? into an

affirmative answer, But Ferdinand Barnacle looked knowingly at Bar as he

strolled up-stairs, and gave him no answer at all.

'Just so, just so,' said Bar, nodding his head, for he was not to be put

off in that way, 'and therefore I spoke of our sitting in Banco to take

a special argument--meaning this to be a high and solemn occasion, when,

as Captain Macheath says, "the judges are met: a terrible show!" We

lawyers are sufficiently liberal, you see, to quote the Captain, though

the Captain is severe upon us. Nevertheless, I think I could put in

evidence an admission of the Captain's,' said Bar, with a little jocose

roll of his head; for, in his legal current of speech, he always assumed

the air of rallying himself with the best grace in the world; 'an

admission of the Captain's that Law, in the gross, is at least

intended to be impartial. For what says the Captain, if I quote

him correctly--and if not,' with a light-comedy touch of his double

eye-glass on his companion's shoulder, 'my learned friend will set me

right:

"Since laws were made for every degree,

To curb vice in others as well as in me,

I wonder we ha'n't better company

Upon Tyburn Tree!"'

These words brought them to the drawing-room, where Mr Merdle stood

before the fire. So immensely astounded was Mr Merdle by the entrance

of Bar with such a reference in his mouth, that Bar explained himself

to have been quoting Gay. 'Assuredly not one of our Westminster Hall

authorities,' said he, 'but still no despicable one to a man possessing

the largely-practical Mr Merdle's knowledge of the world.'

Mr Merdle looked as if he thought he would say something, but