for devilish strange arrangements, and for being decidedly the most
unintelligible thing within a man's experience - very odd conjunctions of
that sort. But as I mentioned to my friend Dombey, I could not admit the
criminality of my lovely and accomplished relative until it was perfectly
established. And feeling, when the deceased person was, in point of fact,
destroyed in a devilish horrible manner, that her position was a very
painful one - and feeling besides that our family had been a little to blame
in not paying more attention to her, and that we are a careless family - and
also that my aunt, though a devilish lively woman, had perhaps not been the
very best of mothers - I took the liberty of seeking her in France, and
offering her such protection as a man very much out at elbows could offer.
Upon which occasion, my lovely and accomplished relative did me the honour
to express that she believed I was, in my way, a devilish good sort of
fellow; and that therefore she put herself under my protection. Which in
point of fact I understood to be a kind thing on the part of my lovely and
accomplished relative, as I am getting extremely shaky, and have derived
great comfort from her solicitude.'
Edith, who had taken Florence to a sofa, made a gesture with her hand
as if she would have begged him to say no more.
'My lovely and accomplished relative,' resumed Cousin Feenix, still
ambling about at the door, 'will excuse me, if, for her satisfaction, and my
own, and that of my friend Dombey, whose lovely and accomplished daughter we
so much admire, I complete the thread of my observations. She will remember
that, from the first, she and I never alluded to the subject of her
elopement. My impression, certainly, has always been, that there was a
mystery in the affair which she could explain if so inclined. But my lovely
and accomplished relative being a devilish resolute woman, I knew that she
was not, in point of fact, to be trifled with, and therefore did not involve
myself in any discussions. But, observing lately, that her accessible point
did appear to be a very strong description of tenderness for the daughter of
my friend Dombey, it occurred to me that if I could bring about a meeting,
unexpected on both sides, it might lead to beneficial results. Therefore, we
being in London, in the present private way, before going to the South of
Italy, there to establish ourselves, in point of fact, until we go to our
long homes, which is a devilish disagreeable reflection for a man, I applied
myself to the discovery of the residence of my friend Gay - handsome man of
an uncommonly frank disposition, who is probably known to my lovely and
accomplished relative - and had the happiness of bringing his amiable wife
to the present place. And now,' said Cousin Feenix, with a real and genuine
earnestness shining through the levity of his manner and his slipshod
speech, 'I do conjure my relative, not to stop half way, but to set right,
as far as she can, whatever she has done wrong - not for the honour of her
family, not for her own fame, not for any of those considerations which
unfortunate circumstances have induced her to regard as hollow, and in point
of fact, as approaching to humbug - but because it is wrong, and not right.'
Cousin Feenix's legs consented to take him away after this; and leaving
them alone together, he shut the door.
Edith remained silent for some minutes, with Florence sitting close
beside her. Then she took from her bosom a sealed paper.
'I debated with myself a long time,' she said in a low voice, 'whether
to write this at all, in case of dying suddenly or by accident, and feeling
the want of it upon me. I have deliberated, ever since, when and how to
destroy it. Take it, Florence. The truth is written in it.'
'Is it for Papa?' asked Florence.
'It is for whom you will,' she answered. 'It is given to you, and is
obtained by you. He never could have had it otherwise.'
Again they sat silent, in the deepening darkness.
'Mama,' said Florence, 'he has lost his fortune; he has been at the
point of death; he may not recover, even now. Is there any word that I shall
say to him from you?'
'Did you tell me,' asked Edith, 'that you were very dear to him?'
'Yes!' said Florence, in a thrilling voice.
'Tell him I am sorry that we ever met.
'No more?' said Florence after a pause.
'Tell him, if he asks, that I do not repent of what I have done - not
yet - for if it were to do again to-morrow, I should do it. But if he is a
changed man - '
She stopped. There was something in the silent touch of Florence's hand
that stopped her.
'But that being a changed man, he knows, now, it would never be. Tell
him I wish it never had been.'
'May I say,' said Florence, 'that you grieved to hear of the
afflictions he has suffered?'
'Not,' she replied, 'if they have taught him that his daughter is very
dear to him. He will not grieve for them himself, one day, if they have
brought that lesson, Florence.'
'You wish well to him, and would have him happy. I am sure you would!'
said Florence. 'Oh! let me be able, if I have the occasion at some future
time, to say so?'
Edith sat with her dark eyes gazing steadfastly before her, and did not
reply until Florence had repeated her entreaty; when she drew her hand
within her arm, and said, with the same thoughtful gaze upon the night
outside:
'Tell him that if, in his own present, he can find any reason to
compassionate my past, I sent word that I asked him to do so. Tell him that
if, in his own present, he can find a reason to think less bitterly of me, I
asked him to do so. Tell him, that, dead as we are to one another, never
more to meet on this side of eternity, he knows there is one feeling in
common between us now, that there never was before.'
Her sternness seemed to yield, and there were tears in her dark eyes.
'I trust myself to that,' she said, 'for his better thoughts of me, and
mine of him. When he loves his Florence most, he will hate me least. When he
is most proud and happy in her and her children, he will be most repentant
of his own part in the dark vision of our married life. At that time, I will
be repentant too - let him know it then - and think that when I thought so
much of all the causes that had made me what I was, I needed to have allowed
more for the causes that had made him what he was. I will try, then, to
forgive him his share of blame. Let him try to forgive me mine!'
'Oh Mama!' said Florence. 'How it lightens my heart, even in such a
strange meeting and parting, to hear this!'
'Strange words in my own ears,' said Edith, 'and foreign to the sound
of my own voice! But even if I had been the wretched creature I have given
him occasion to believe me, I think I could have said them still, hearing
that you and he were very dear to one another. Let him, when you are
dearest, ever feel that he is most forbearing in his thoughts of me - that I
am most forbearing in my thoughts of him! Those are the last words I send
him! Now, goodbye, my life!'
She clasped her in her arms, and seemed to pour out all her woman's
soul of love and tenderness at once.
'This kiss for your child! These kisses for a blessing on your head! My
own dear Florence, my sweet girl, farewell!'
'To meet again!' cried Florence.
'Never again! Never again! When you leave me in this dark room, think
that you have left me in the grave. Remember only that I was once, and that
I loved you!'
And Florence left her, seeing her face no more, but accompanied by her
embraces and caresses to the last.
Cousin Feenix met her at the door, and took her down to Walter in the
dingy dining room, upon whose shoulder she laid her head weeping.
'I am devilish sorry,' said Cousin Feenix, lifting his wristbands to
his eyes in the simplest manner possible, and without the least concealment,
'that the lovely and accomplished daughter of my friend Dombey and amiable
wife of my friend Gay, should have had her sensitive nature so very much
distressed and cut up by the interview which is just concluded. But I hope
and trust I have acted for the best, and that my honourable friend Dombey
will find his mind relieved by the disclosures which have taken place. I
exceedingly lament that my friend Dombey should have got himself, in point
of fact, into the devil's own state of conglomeration by an alliance with
our family; but am strongly of opinion that if it hadn't been for the
infernal scoundrel Barker - man with white teeth - everything would have
gone on pretty smoothly. In regard to my relative who does me the honour to
have formed an uncommonly good opinion of myself, I can assure the amiable
wife of my friend Gay, that she may rely on my being, in point of fact, a
father to her. And in regard to the changes of human life, and the
extraordinary manner in which we are perpetually conducting ourselves, all I
can say is, with my friend Shakespeare - man who wasn't for an age but for
all time, and with whom my friend Gay is no doubt acquainted - that its like
the shadow of a dream.'
Final
A bottle that has been long excluded from the light of day, and is
hoary with dust and cobwebs, has been brought into the sunshine; and the
golden wine within it sheds a lustre on the table.
It is the last bottle of the old Madiera.
'You are quite right, Mr Gills,' says Mr Dombey. 'This is a very rare
and most delicious wine.'
The Captain, who is of the party, beams with joy. There is a very halo
of delight round his glowing forehead.
'We always promised ourselves, Sir,' observes Mr Gills,' Ned and
myself, I mean - '
Mr Dombey nods at the Captain, who shines more and more with speechless
gratification.
'-that we would drink this, one day or other, to Walter safe at home:
though such a home we never thought of. If you don't object to our old whim,
Sir, let us devote this first glass to Walter and his wife.'
'To Walter and his wife!' says Mr Dombey. 'Florence, my child' - and
turns to kiss her.
'To Walter and his wife!' says Mr Toots.
'To Wal'r and his wife!' exclaims the Captain. 'Hooroar!' and the
Captain exhibiting a strong desire to clink his glass against some other
glass, Mr Dombey, with a ready hand, holds out his. The others follow; and
there is a blithe and merry ringing, as of a little peal of marriage bells.
Other buried wine grows older, as the old Madeira did in its time; and
dust and cobwebs thicken on the bottles.
Mr Dombey is a white-haired gentleman, whose face bears heavy marks of
care and suffering; but they are traces of a storm that has passed on for
ever, and left a clear evening in its track.
Ambitious projects trouble him no more. His only pride is in his
daughter and her husband. He has a silent, thoughtful, quiet manner, and is
always with his daughter. Miss Tox is not infrequently of the family party,
and is quite devoted to it, and a great favourite. Her admiration of her
once stately patron is, and has been ever since the morning of her shock in
Princess's Place, platonic, but not weakened in the least.
Nothing has drifted to him from the wreck of his fortunes, but a
certain annual sum that comes he knows not how, with an earnest entreaty
that he will not seek to discover, and with the assurance that it is a debt,
and an act of reparation. He has consulted with his old clerk about this,
who is clear it may be honourably accepted, and has no doubt it arises out
of some forgotten transaction in the times of the old House.
That hazel-eyed bachelor, a bachelor no more, is married now, and to
the sister of the grey-haired Junior. He visits his old chief sometimes, but
seldom. There is a reason in the greyhaired Junior's history, and yet a
stronger reason in his name, why he should keep retired from his old
employer; and as he lives with his sister and her husband, they participate
in that retirement. Walter sees them sometimes - Florence too - and the
pleasant house resounds with profound duets arranged for the Piano-Forte and
Violoncello, and with the labours of Harmonious Blacksmiths.
And how goes the wooden Midshipman in these changed days? Why, here he
still is, right leg foremost, hard at work upon the hackney coaches, and
more on the alert than ever, being newly painted from his cocked hat to his
buckled shoes; and up above him, in golden characters, these names shine
refulgent, GILLS AND CUTTLE.
Not another stroke of business does the Midshipman achieve beyond his
usual easy trade. But they do say, in a circuit of some half-mile round the
blue umbrella in Leadenhall Market, that some of Mr Gills's old investments
are coming out wonderfully well; and that instead of being behind the time
in those respects, as he supposed, he was, in truth, a little before it, and
had to wait the fulness of the time and the design. The whisper is that Mr
Gills's money has begun to turn itself, and that it is turning itself over
and over pretty briskly. Certain it is that, standing at his shop-door, in
his coffee-coloured suit, with his chronometer in his pocket, and his
spectacles on his forehead, he don't appear to break his heart at customers
not coming, but looks very jovial and contented, though full as misty as of
yore.
As to his partner, Captain Cuttle, there is a fiction of a business in
the Captain's mind which is better than any reality. The Captain is as
satisfied of the Midshipman's importance to the commerce and navigation of
the country, as he could possibly be, if no ship left the Port of London
without the Midshipman's assistance. His delight in his own name over the
door, is inexhaustible. He crosses the street, twenty times a day, to look
at it from the other side of the way; and invariably says, on these
occasions, 'Ed'ard Cuttle, my lad, if your mother could ha' know'd as you
would ever be a man o' science, the good old creetur would ha' been took
aback in-deed!'
But here is Mr Toots descending on the Midshipman with violent
rapidity, and Mr Toots's face is very red as he bursts into the little
parlour.
'Captain Gills,' says Mr Toots, 'and Mr Sols, I am happy to inform you
that Mrs Toots has had an increase to her family.
'And it does her credit!' cries the Captain.
'I give you joy, Mr Toots!' says old Sol.
'Thank'ee,' chuckles Mr Toots, 'I'm very much obliged to you. I knew
that you'd be glad to hear, and so I came down myself. We're positively
getting on, you know. There's Florence, and Susan, and now here's another
little stranger.'
'A female stranger?' inquires the Captain.
'Yes, Captain Gills,' says Mr Toots, 'and I'm glad of it. The oftener
we can repeat that most extraordinary woman, my opinion is, the better!'
'Stand by!' says the Captain, turning to the old case-bottle with no
throat - for it is evening, and the Midshipman's usual moderate provision of
pipes and glasses is on the board. 'Here's to her, and may she have ever so
many more!'
'Thank'ee, Captain Gills,' says the delighted Mr Toots. 'I echo the
sentiment. If you'll allow me, as my so doing cannot be unpleasant to
anybody, under the circumstances, I think I'll take a pipe.'
Mr Toots begins to smoke, accordingly, and in the openness of his heart
is very loquacious.
'Of all the remarkable instances that that delightful woman has given
of her excellent sense, Captain Gills and Mr Sols,' said Mr Toots, 'I think
none is more remarkable than the perfection with which she has understood my
devotion to Miss Dombey.'
Both his auditors assent.
'Because you know,' says Mr Toots, 'I have never changed my sentiments
towards Miss Dombey. They are the same as ever. She is the same bright
vision to me, at present, that she was before I made Walters's acquaintance.
When Mrs Toots and myself first began to talk of - in short, of the tender
passion, you know, Captain Gills.'
'Ay, ay, my lad,' says the Captain, 'as makes us all slue round - for
which you'll overhaul the book - '
'I shall certainly do so, Captain Gills,' says Mr Toots, with great
earnestness; 'when we first began to mention such subjects, I explained that
I was what you may call a Blighted Flower, you know.'
The Captain approves of this figure greatly; and murmurs that no flower
as blows, is like the rose.
'But Lord bless me,' pursues Mr Toots, 'she was as entirely conscious
of the state of my feelings as I was myself. There was nothing I could tell
her. She was the only person who could have stood between me and the silent
Tomb, and she did it, in a manner to command my everlasting admiration. She
knows that there's nobody in the world I look up to, as I do to Miss Dombey.
Knows that there's nothing on earth I wouldn't do for Miss Dombey. She knows
that I consider Miss Dombey the most beautiful, the most amiable, the most
angelic of her sex. What is her observation upon that? The perfection of
sense. "My dear, you're right. I think so too."'
'And so do I!' says the Captain.
'So do I,' says Sol Gills.
'Then,' resumes Mr Toots, after some contemplative pulling at his pipe,
during which his visage has expressed the most contented reflection, 'what
an observant woman my wife is! What sagacity she possesses! What remarks she
makes! It was only last night, when we were sitting in the enjoyment of
connubial bliss - which, upon my word and honour, is a feeble term to
express my feelings in the society of my wife - that she said how remarkable
it was to consider the present position of our friend Walters. "Here,"
observes my wife, "he is, released from sea-going, after that first long
voyage with his young bride" - as you know he was, Mr Sols.'
'Quite true,' says the old Instrument-maker, rubbing his hands.
"'Here he is," says my wife, "released from that, immediately;
appointed by the same establishment to a post of great trust and confidence
at home; showing himself again worthy; mounting up the ladder with the
greatest expedition; beloved by everybody; assisted by his uncle at the very
best possible time of his fortunes" - which I think is the case, Mr Sols? My
wife is always correct.'
'Why yes, yes - some of our lost ships, freighted with gold, have come
home, truly,' returns old Sol, laughing. 'Small craft, Mr Toots, but
serviceable to my boy!'
'Exactly so,' says Mr Toots. 'You'll never find my wife wrong. "Here he
is," says that most remarkable woman, "so situated, - and what follows? What
follows?" observed Mrs Toots. Now pray remark, Captain Gills, and Mr Sols,
the depth of my wife's penetration. "Why that, under the very eye of Mr
Dombey, there is a foundation going on, upon which a - an Edifice;" that was
Mrs Toots's word,' says Mr Toots exultingly, "'is gradually rising, perhaps
to equal, perhaps excel, that of which he was once the head, and the small
beginnings of which (a common fault, but a bad one, Mrs Toots said) escaped
his memory. Thus," said my wife, "from his daughter, after all, another
Dombey and Son will ascend" - no "rise;" that was Mrs Toots's word -
"triumphant!"'
Mr Toots, with the assistance of his pipe - which he is extremely glad
to devote to oratorical purposes, as its proper use affects him with a very
uncomfortable sensation - does such grand justice to this prophetic sentence
of his wife's, that the Captain, throwing away his glazed hat in a state of
the greatest excitement, cries:
'Sol Gills, you man of science and my ould pardner, what did I tell
Wal'r to overhaul on that there night when he first took to business? Was it
this here quotation, "Turn again Whittington, Lord Mayor of London, and when
you are old you will never depart from it". Was it them words, Sol Gills?'
'It certainly was, Ned,' replied the old Instrument-maker. 'I remember
well.'
'Then I tell you what,' says the Captain, leaning back in his chair,
and composing his chest for a prodigious roar. 'I'll give you Lovely Peg
right through; and stand by, both on you, for the chorus!'
Buried wine grows older, as the old Madeira did, in its time; and dust
and cobwebs thicken on the bottles.
Autumn days are shining, and on the sea-beach there are often a young
lady, and a white-haired gentleman. With them, or near them, are two
children: boy and girl. And an old dog is generally in their company.
The white-haired gentleman walks with the little boy, talks with him,
helps him in his play, attends upon him, watches him as if he were the
object of his life. If he be thoughtful, the white-haired gentleman is
thoughtful too; and sometimes when the child is sitting by his side, and
looks up in his face, asking him questions, he takes the tiny hand in his,
and holding it, forgets to answer. Then the child says:
'What, grandpa! Am I so like my poor little Uncle again?'
'Yes, Paul. But he was weak, and you are very strong.'
'Oh yes, I am very strong.'
'And he lay on a little bed beside the sea, and you can run about.'
And so they range away again, busily, for the white-haired gentleman
likes best to see the child free and stirring; and as they go about
together, the story of the bond between them goes about, and follows them.
But no one, except Florence, knows the measure of the white-haired
gentleman's affection for the girl. That story never goes about. The child
herself almost wonders at a certain secrecy he keeps in it. He hoards her in
his heart. He cannot bear to see a cloud upon her face. He cannot bear to
see her sit apart. He fancies that she feels a slight, when there is none.
He steals away to look at her, in her sleep. It pleases him to have her
come, and wake him in the morning. He is fondest of her and most loving to
her, when there is no creature by. The child says then, sometimes:
'Dear grandpapa, why do you cry when you kiss me?'
He only answers, 'Little Florence! little Florence!' and smooths away
the curls that shade her earnest eyes.
The voices in the waves speak low to him of Florence, day and night -
plainest when he, his blooming daughter, and her husband, beside them in the
evening, or sit at an open window, listening to their roar. They speak to
him of Florence and his altered heart; of Florence and their ceaseless
murmuring to her of the love, eternal and illimitable, extending still,
beyond the sea, beyond the sky, to the invisible country far away.
Never from the mighty sea may voices rise too late, to come between us
and the unseen region on the other shore! Better, far better, that they
whispered of that region in our childish ears, and the swift river hurried
us away!
End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Domby and Son, by Dickens
End of the
I cannot forego my usual opportunity of saying farewell to my readers
in this greetingplace, though I have only to acknowledge the unbounded
warmth and earnestness of their sympathy in every stage of the journey we
have just concluded.
If any of them have felt a sorrow in one of the principal incidents on
which this fiction turns, I hope it may be a sorrow of that sort which
endears the sharers in it, one to another. This is not unselfish in me. I
may claim to have felt it, at least as much as anybody else; and I would
fain be remembered kindly for my part in the experience.
DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, Twenty-Fourth March, 1848.
I make so bold as to believe that the faculty (or the habit) of
correctly observing the characters of men, is a rare one. I have not even
found, within my experience, that the faculty (or the habit) of correctly
observing so much as the faces of men, is a general one by any means. The
two commonest mistakes in judgement that I suppose to arise from the former
default, are, the confounding of shyness with arrogance - a very common
mistake indeed - and the not understanding that an obstinate nature exists
in a perpetual struggle with itself.
Mr Dombey undergoes no violent change, either in this book, or in real
life. A sense of his injustice is within him, all along. The more he
represses it, the more unjust he necessarily is. Internal shame and external
circumstances may bring the contest to a close in a week, or a day; but, it
has been a contest for years, and is only fought out after a long balance of
victory.
I began this book by the Lake of Geneva, and went on with it for some
months in France, before pursuing it in England. The association between the
writing and the place of writing is so curiously strong in my mind, that at
this day, although I know, in my fancy, every stair in the little
midshipman's house, and could swear to every pew in the church in which
Florence was married, or to every young gentleman's bedstead in Doctor
Blimber's establishment, I yet confusedly imagine Captain Cuttle as
secluding himself from Mrs MacStinger among the mountains of Switzerland.
Similarly, when I am reminded by any chance of what it was that the waves
were always saying, my remembrance wanders for a whole winter night about
the streets of Paris - as I restlessly did with a heavy heart, on the night
when I had written the chapter in which my little friend and I parted
company.
---------------------------------------------------------------
End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Domby and Son, by Dickens
unintelligible thing within a man's experience - very odd conjunctions of
that sort. But as I mentioned to my friend Dombey, I could not admit the
criminality of my lovely and accomplished relative until it was perfectly
established. And feeling, when the deceased person was, in point of fact,
destroyed in a devilish horrible manner, that her position was a very
painful one - and feeling besides that our family had been a little to blame
in not paying more attention to her, and that we are a careless family - and
also that my aunt, though a devilish lively woman, had perhaps not been the
very best of mothers - I took the liberty of seeking her in France, and
offering her such protection as a man very much out at elbows could offer.
Upon which occasion, my lovely and accomplished relative did me the honour
to express that she believed I was, in my way, a devilish good sort of
fellow; and that therefore she put herself under my protection. Which in
point of fact I understood to be a kind thing on the part of my lovely and
accomplished relative, as I am getting extremely shaky, and have derived
great comfort from her solicitude.'
Edith, who had taken Florence to a sofa, made a gesture with her hand
as if she would have begged him to say no more.
'My lovely and accomplished relative,' resumed Cousin Feenix, still
ambling about at the door, 'will excuse me, if, for her satisfaction, and my
own, and that of my friend Dombey, whose lovely and accomplished daughter we
so much admire, I complete the thread of my observations. She will remember
that, from the first, she and I never alluded to the subject of her
elopement. My impression, certainly, has always been, that there was a
mystery in the affair which she could explain if so inclined. But my lovely
and accomplished relative being a devilish resolute woman, I knew that she
was not, in point of fact, to be trifled with, and therefore did not involve
myself in any discussions. But, observing lately, that her accessible point
did appear to be a very strong description of tenderness for the daughter of
my friend Dombey, it occurred to me that if I could bring about a meeting,
unexpected on both sides, it might lead to beneficial results. Therefore, we
being in London, in the present private way, before going to the South of
Italy, there to establish ourselves, in point of fact, until we go to our
long homes, which is a devilish disagreeable reflection for a man, I applied
myself to the discovery of the residence of my friend Gay - handsome man of
an uncommonly frank disposition, who is probably known to my lovely and
accomplished relative - and had the happiness of bringing his amiable wife
to the present place. And now,' said Cousin Feenix, with a real and genuine
earnestness shining through the levity of his manner and his slipshod
speech, 'I do conjure my relative, not to stop half way, but to set right,
as far as she can, whatever she has done wrong - not for the honour of her
family, not for her own fame, not for any of those considerations which
unfortunate circumstances have induced her to regard as hollow, and in point
of fact, as approaching to humbug - but because it is wrong, and not right.'
Cousin Feenix's legs consented to take him away after this; and leaving
them alone together, he shut the door.
Edith remained silent for some minutes, with Florence sitting close
beside her. Then she took from her bosom a sealed paper.
'I debated with myself a long time,' she said in a low voice, 'whether
to write this at all, in case of dying suddenly or by accident, and feeling
the want of it upon me. I have deliberated, ever since, when and how to
destroy it. Take it, Florence. The truth is written in it.'
'Is it for Papa?' asked Florence.
'It is for whom you will,' she answered. 'It is given to you, and is
obtained by you. He never could have had it otherwise.'
Again they sat silent, in the deepening darkness.
'Mama,' said Florence, 'he has lost his fortune; he has been at the
point of death; he may not recover, even now. Is there any word that I shall
say to him from you?'
'Did you tell me,' asked Edith, 'that you were very dear to him?'
'Yes!' said Florence, in a thrilling voice.
'Tell him I am sorry that we ever met.
'No more?' said Florence after a pause.
'Tell him, if he asks, that I do not repent of what I have done - not
yet - for if it were to do again to-morrow, I should do it. But if he is a
changed man - '
She stopped. There was something in the silent touch of Florence's hand
that stopped her.
'But that being a changed man, he knows, now, it would never be. Tell
him I wish it never had been.'
'May I say,' said Florence, 'that you grieved to hear of the
afflictions he has suffered?'
'Not,' she replied, 'if they have taught him that his daughter is very
dear to him. He will not grieve for them himself, one day, if they have
brought that lesson, Florence.'
'You wish well to him, and would have him happy. I am sure you would!'
said Florence. 'Oh! let me be able, if I have the occasion at some future
time, to say so?'
Edith sat with her dark eyes gazing steadfastly before her, and did not
reply until Florence had repeated her entreaty; when she drew her hand
within her arm, and said, with the same thoughtful gaze upon the night
outside:
'Tell him that if, in his own present, he can find any reason to
compassionate my past, I sent word that I asked him to do so. Tell him that
if, in his own present, he can find a reason to think less bitterly of me, I
asked him to do so. Tell him, that, dead as we are to one another, never
more to meet on this side of eternity, he knows there is one feeling in
common between us now, that there never was before.'
Her sternness seemed to yield, and there were tears in her dark eyes.
'I trust myself to that,' she said, 'for his better thoughts of me, and
mine of him. When he loves his Florence most, he will hate me least. When he
is most proud and happy in her and her children, he will be most repentant
of his own part in the dark vision of our married life. At that time, I will
be repentant too - let him know it then - and think that when I thought so
much of all the causes that had made me what I was, I needed to have allowed
more for the causes that had made him what he was. I will try, then, to
forgive him his share of blame. Let him try to forgive me mine!'
'Oh Mama!' said Florence. 'How it lightens my heart, even in such a
strange meeting and parting, to hear this!'
'Strange words in my own ears,' said Edith, 'and foreign to the sound
of my own voice! But even if I had been the wretched creature I have given
him occasion to believe me, I think I could have said them still, hearing
that you and he were very dear to one another. Let him, when you are
dearest, ever feel that he is most forbearing in his thoughts of me - that I
am most forbearing in my thoughts of him! Those are the last words I send
him! Now, goodbye, my life!'
She clasped her in her arms, and seemed to pour out all her woman's
soul of love and tenderness at once.
'This kiss for your child! These kisses for a blessing on your head! My
own dear Florence, my sweet girl, farewell!'
'To meet again!' cried Florence.
'Never again! Never again! When you leave me in this dark room, think
that you have left me in the grave. Remember only that I was once, and that
I loved you!'
And Florence left her, seeing her face no more, but accompanied by her
embraces and caresses to the last.
Cousin Feenix met her at the door, and took her down to Walter in the
dingy dining room, upon whose shoulder she laid her head weeping.
'I am devilish sorry,' said Cousin Feenix, lifting his wristbands to
his eyes in the simplest manner possible, and without the least concealment,
'that the lovely and accomplished daughter of my friend Dombey and amiable
wife of my friend Gay, should have had her sensitive nature so very much
distressed and cut up by the interview which is just concluded. But I hope
and trust I have acted for the best, and that my honourable friend Dombey
will find his mind relieved by the disclosures which have taken place. I
exceedingly lament that my friend Dombey should have got himself, in point
of fact, into the devil's own state of conglomeration by an alliance with
our family; but am strongly of opinion that if it hadn't been for the
infernal scoundrel Barker - man with white teeth - everything would have
gone on pretty smoothly. In regard to my relative who does me the honour to
have formed an uncommonly good opinion of myself, I can assure the amiable
wife of my friend Gay, that she may rely on my being, in point of fact, a
father to her. And in regard to the changes of human life, and the
extraordinary manner in which we are perpetually conducting ourselves, all I
can say is, with my friend Shakespeare - man who wasn't for an age but for
all time, and with whom my friend Gay is no doubt acquainted - that its like
the shadow of a dream.'
Final
A bottle that has been long excluded from the light of day, and is
hoary with dust and cobwebs, has been brought into the sunshine; and the
golden wine within it sheds a lustre on the table.
It is the last bottle of the old Madiera.
'You are quite right, Mr Gills,' says Mr Dombey. 'This is a very rare
and most delicious wine.'
The Captain, who is of the party, beams with joy. There is a very halo
of delight round his glowing forehead.
'We always promised ourselves, Sir,' observes Mr Gills,' Ned and
myself, I mean - '
Mr Dombey nods at the Captain, who shines more and more with speechless
gratification.
'-that we would drink this, one day or other, to Walter safe at home:
though such a home we never thought of. If you don't object to our old whim,
Sir, let us devote this first glass to Walter and his wife.'
'To Walter and his wife!' says Mr Dombey. 'Florence, my child' - and
turns to kiss her.
'To Walter and his wife!' says Mr Toots.
'To Wal'r and his wife!' exclaims the Captain. 'Hooroar!' and the
Captain exhibiting a strong desire to clink his glass against some other
glass, Mr Dombey, with a ready hand, holds out his. The others follow; and
there is a blithe and merry ringing, as of a little peal of marriage bells.
Other buried wine grows older, as the old Madeira did in its time; and
dust and cobwebs thicken on the bottles.
Mr Dombey is a white-haired gentleman, whose face bears heavy marks of
care and suffering; but they are traces of a storm that has passed on for
ever, and left a clear evening in its track.
Ambitious projects trouble him no more. His only pride is in his
daughter and her husband. He has a silent, thoughtful, quiet manner, and is
always with his daughter. Miss Tox is not infrequently of the family party,
and is quite devoted to it, and a great favourite. Her admiration of her
once stately patron is, and has been ever since the morning of her shock in
Princess's Place, platonic, but not weakened in the least.
Nothing has drifted to him from the wreck of his fortunes, but a
certain annual sum that comes he knows not how, with an earnest entreaty
that he will not seek to discover, and with the assurance that it is a debt,
and an act of reparation. He has consulted with his old clerk about this,
who is clear it may be honourably accepted, and has no doubt it arises out
of some forgotten transaction in the times of the old House.
That hazel-eyed bachelor, a bachelor no more, is married now, and to
the sister of the grey-haired Junior. He visits his old chief sometimes, but
seldom. There is a reason in the greyhaired Junior's history, and yet a
stronger reason in his name, why he should keep retired from his old
employer; and as he lives with his sister and her husband, they participate
in that retirement. Walter sees them sometimes - Florence too - and the
pleasant house resounds with profound duets arranged for the Piano-Forte and
Violoncello, and with the labours of Harmonious Blacksmiths.
And how goes the wooden Midshipman in these changed days? Why, here he
still is, right leg foremost, hard at work upon the hackney coaches, and
more on the alert than ever, being newly painted from his cocked hat to his
buckled shoes; and up above him, in golden characters, these names shine
refulgent, GILLS AND CUTTLE.
Not another stroke of business does the Midshipman achieve beyond his
usual easy trade. But they do say, in a circuit of some half-mile round the
blue umbrella in Leadenhall Market, that some of Mr Gills's old investments
are coming out wonderfully well; and that instead of being behind the time
in those respects, as he supposed, he was, in truth, a little before it, and
had to wait the fulness of the time and the design. The whisper is that Mr
Gills's money has begun to turn itself, and that it is turning itself over
and over pretty briskly. Certain it is that, standing at his shop-door, in
his coffee-coloured suit, with his chronometer in his pocket, and his
spectacles on his forehead, he don't appear to break his heart at customers
not coming, but looks very jovial and contented, though full as misty as of
yore.
As to his partner, Captain Cuttle, there is a fiction of a business in
the Captain's mind which is better than any reality. The Captain is as
satisfied of the Midshipman's importance to the commerce and navigation of
the country, as he could possibly be, if no ship left the Port of London
without the Midshipman's assistance. His delight in his own name over the
door, is inexhaustible. He crosses the street, twenty times a day, to look
at it from the other side of the way; and invariably says, on these
occasions, 'Ed'ard Cuttle, my lad, if your mother could ha' know'd as you
would ever be a man o' science, the good old creetur would ha' been took
aback in-deed!'
But here is Mr Toots descending on the Midshipman with violent
rapidity, and Mr Toots's face is very red as he bursts into the little
parlour.
'Captain Gills,' says Mr Toots, 'and Mr Sols, I am happy to inform you
that Mrs Toots has had an increase to her family.
'And it does her credit!' cries the Captain.
'I give you joy, Mr Toots!' says old Sol.
'Thank'ee,' chuckles Mr Toots, 'I'm very much obliged to you. I knew
that you'd be glad to hear, and so I came down myself. We're positively
getting on, you know. There's Florence, and Susan, and now here's another
little stranger.'
'A female stranger?' inquires the Captain.
'Yes, Captain Gills,' says Mr Toots, 'and I'm glad of it. The oftener
we can repeat that most extraordinary woman, my opinion is, the better!'
'Stand by!' says the Captain, turning to the old case-bottle with no
throat - for it is evening, and the Midshipman's usual moderate provision of
pipes and glasses is on the board. 'Here's to her, and may she have ever so
many more!'
'Thank'ee, Captain Gills,' says the delighted Mr Toots. 'I echo the
sentiment. If you'll allow me, as my so doing cannot be unpleasant to
anybody, under the circumstances, I think I'll take a pipe.'
Mr Toots begins to smoke, accordingly, and in the openness of his heart
is very loquacious.
'Of all the remarkable instances that that delightful woman has given
of her excellent sense, Captain Gills and Mr Sols,' said Mr Toots, 'I think
none is more remarkable than the perfection with which she has understood my
devotion to Miss Dombey.'
Both his auditors assent.
'Because you know,' says Mr Toots, 'I have never changed my sentiments
towards Miss Dombey. They are the same as ever. She is the same bright
vision to me, at present, that she was before I made Walters's acquaintance.
When Mrs Toots and myself first began to talk of - in short, of the tender
passion, you know, Captain Gills.'
'Ay, ay, my lad,' says the Captain, 'as makes us all slue round - for
which you'll overhaul the book - '
'I shall certainly do so, Captain Gills,' says Mr Toots, with great
earnestness; 'when we first began to mention such subjects, I explained that
I was what you may call a Blighted Flower, you know.'
The Captain approves of this figure greatly; and murmurs that no flower
as blows, is like the rose.
'But Lord bless me,' pursues Mr Toots, 'she was as entirely conscious
of the state of my feelings as I was myself. There was nothing I could tell
her. She was the only person who could have stood between me and the silent
Tomb, and she did it, in a manner to command my everlasting admiration. She
knows that there's nobody in the world I look up to, as I do to Miss Dombey.
Knows that there's nothing on earth I wouldn't do for Miss Dombey. She knows
that I consider Miss Dombey the most beautiful, the most amiable, the most
angelic of her sex. What is her observation upon that? The perfection of
sense. "My dear, you're right. I think so too."'
'And so do I!' says the Captain.
'So do I,' says Sol Gills.
'Then,' resumes Mr Toots, after some contemplative pulling at his pipe,
during which his visage has expressed the most contented reflection, 'what
an observant woman my wife is! What sagacity she possesses! What remarks she
makes! It was only last night, when we were sitting in the enjoyment of
connubial bliss - which, upon my word and honour, is a feeble term to
express my feelings in the society of my wife - that she said how remarkable
it was to consider the present position of our friend Walters. "Here,"
observes my wife, "he is, released from sea-going, after that first long
voyage with his young bride" - as you know he was, Mr Sols.'
'Quite true,' says the old Instrument-maker, rubbing his hands.
"'Here he is," says my wife, "released from that, immediately;
appointed by the same establishment to a post of great trust and confidence
at home; showing himself again worthy; mounting up the ladder with the
greatest expedition; beloved by everybody; assisted by his uncle at the very
best possible time of his fortunes" - which I think is the case, Mr Sols? My
wife is always correct.'
'Why yes, yes - some of our lost ships, freighted with gold, have come
home, truly,' returns old Sol, laughing. 'Small craft, Mr Toots, but
serviceable to my boy!'
'Exactly so,' says Mr Toots. 'You'll never find my wife wrong. "Here he
is," says that most remarkable woman, "so situated, - and what follows? What
follows?" observed Mrs Toots. Now pray remark, Captain Gills, and Mr Sols,
the depth of my wife's penetration. "Why that, under the very eye of Mr
Dombey, there is a foundation going on, upon which a - an Edifice;" that was
Mrs Toots's word,' says Mr Toots exultingly, "'is gradually rising, perhaps
to equal, perhaps excel, that of which he was once the head, and the small
beginnings of which (a common fault, but a bad one, Mrs Toots said) escaped
his memory. Thus," said my wife, "from his daughter, after all, another
Dombey and Son will ascend" - no "rise;" that was Mrs Toots's word -
"triumphant!"'
Mr Toots, with the assistance of his pipe - which he is extremely glad
to devote to oratorical purposes, as its proper use affects him with a very
uncomfortable sensation - does such grand justice to this prophetic sentence
of his wife's, that the Captain, throwing away his glazed hat in a state of
the greatest excitement, cries:
'Sol Gills, you man of science and my ould pardner, what did I tell
Wal'r to overhaul on that there night when he first took to business? Was it
this here quotation, "Turn again Whittington, Lord Mayor of London, and when
you are old you will never depart from it". Was it them words, Sol Gills?'
'It certainly was, Ned,' replied the old Instrument-maker. 'I remember
well.'
'Then I tell you what,' says the Captain, leaning back in his chair,
and composing his chest for a prodigious roar. 'I'll give you Lovely Peg
right through; and stand by, both on you, for the chorus!'
Buried wine grows older, as the old Madeira did, in its time; and dust
and cobwebs thicken on the bottles.
Autumn days are shining, and on the sea-beach there are often a young
lady, and a white-haired gentleman. With them, or near them, are two
children: boy and girl. And an old dog is generally in their company.
The white-haired gentleman walks with the little boy, talks with him,
helps him in his play, attends upon him, watches him as if he were the
object of his life. If he be thoughtful, the white-haired gentleman is
thoughtful too; and sometimes when the child is sitting by his side, and
looks up in his face, asking him questions, he takes the tiny hand in his,
and holding it, forgets to answer. Then the child says:
'What, grandpa! Am I so like my poor little Uncle again?'
'Yes, Paul. But he was weak, and you are very strong.'
'Oh yes, I am very strong.'
'And he lay on a little bed beside the sea, and you can run about.'
And so they range away again, busily, for the white-haired gentleman
likes best to see the child free and stirring; and as they go about
together, the story of the bond between them goes about, and follows them.
But no one, except Florence, knows the measure of the white-haired
gentleman's affection for the girl. That story never goes about. The child
herself almost wonders at a certain secrecy he keeps in it. He hoards her in
his heart. He cannot bear to see a cloud upon her face. He cannot bear to
see her sit apart. He fancies that she feels a slight, when there is none.
He steals away to look at her, in her sleep. It pleases him to have her
come, and wake him in the morning. He is fondest of her and most loving to
her, when there is no creature by. The child says then, sometimes:
'Dear grandpapa, why do you cry when you kiss me?'
He only answers, 'Little Florence! little Florence!' and smooths away
the curls that shade her earnest eyes.
The voices in the waves speak low to him of Florence, day and night -
plainest when he, his blooming daughter, and her husband, beside them in the
evening, or sit at an open window, listening to their roar. They speak to
him of Florence and his altered heart; of Florence and their ceaseless
murmuring to her of the love, eternal and illimitable, extending still,
beyond the sea, beyond the sky, to the invisible country far away.
Never from the mighty sea may voices rise too late, to come between us
and the unseen region on the other shore! Better, far better, that they
whispered of that region in our childish ears, and the swift river hurried
us away!
End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Domby and Son, by Dickens
End of the
I cannot forego my usual opportunity of saying farewell to my readers
in this greetingplace, though I have only to acknowledge the unbounded
warmth and earnestness of their sympathy in every stage of the journey we
have just concluded.
If any of them have felt a sorrow in one of the principal incidents on
which this fiction turns, I hope it may be a sorrow of that sort which
endears the sharers in it, one to another. This is not unselfish in me. I
may claim to have felt it, at least as much as anybody else; and I would
fain be remembered kindly for my part in the experience.
DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, Twenty-Fourth March, 1848.
I make so bold as to believe that the faculty (or the habit) of
correctly observing the characters of men, is a rare one. I have not even
found, within my experience, that the faculty (or the habit) of correctly
observing so much as the faces of men, is a general one by any means. The
two commonest mistakes in judgement that I suppose to arise from the former
default, are, the confounding of shyness with arrogance - a very common
mistake indeed - and the not understanding that an obstinate nature exists
in a perpetual struggle with itself.
Mr Dombey undergoes no violent change, either in this book, or in real
life. A sense of his injustice is within him, all along. The more he
represses it, the more unjust he necessarily is. Internal shame and external
circumstances may bring the contest to a close in a week, or a day; but, it
has been a contest for years, and is only fought out after a long balance of
victory.
I began this book by the Lake of Geneva, and went on with it for some
months in France, before pursuing it in England. The association between the
writing and the place of writing is so curiously strong in my mind, that at
this day, although I know, in my fancy, every stair in the little
midshipman's house, and could swear to every pew in the church in which
Florence was married, or to every young gentleman's bedstead in Doctor
Blimber's establishment, I yet confusedly imagine Captain Cuttle as
secluding himself from Mrs MacStinger among the mountains of Switzerland.
Similarly, when I am reminded by any chance of what it was that the waves
were always saying, my remembrance wanders for a whole winter night about
the streets of Paris - as I restlessly did with a heavy heart, on the night
when I had written the chapter in which my little friend and I parted
company.
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End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Domby and Son, by Dickens