Great Expectations by Charles Dickens, Chapter
4
I fully expected to find a Constable in the
kitchen, waiting to take me up.
But not only was there no Constable there,
but no discovery had yet been made of the
robbery.
Mrs. Joe was prodigiously busy in getting
the house ready for the festivities of the
day, and Joe had been put upon the kitchen
doorstep to keep him out of the dust-pan,—an
article into which his destiny always led
him, sooner or later, when my sister was vigorously
reaping the floors of her establishment.
"And where the deuce ha' you been?" was Mrs.
Joe's Christmas salutation, when I and my
conscience showed ourselves.
I said I had been down to hear the Carols.
"Ah! well!" observed Mrs. Joe.
"You might ha' done worse."
Not a doubt of that I thought.
"Perhaps if I warn't a blacksmith's wife,
and (what's the same thing) a slave with her
apron never off, I should have been to hear
the Carols," said Mrs. Joe.
"I'm rather partial to Carols, myself, and
that's the best of reasons for my never hearing
any."
Joe, who had ventured into the kitchen after
me as the dustpan had retired before us, drew
the back of his hand across his nose with
a conciliatory air, when Mrs. Joe darted a
look at him, and, when her eyes were withdrawn,
secretly crossed his two forefingers, and
exhibited them to me, as our token that Mrs.
Joe was in a cross temper.
This was so much her normal state, that Joe
and I would often, for weeks together, be,
as to our fingers, like monumental Crusaders
as to their legs.
We were to have a superb dinner, consisting
of a leg of pickled pork and greens, and a
pair of roast stuffed fowls.
A handsome mince-pie had been made yesterday
morning (which accounted for the mincemeat
not being missed), and the pudding was already
on the boil.
These extensive arrangements occasioned us
to be cut off unceremoniously in respect of
breakfast; "for I ain't," said Mrs. Joe,—"I
ain't a going to have no formal cramming and
busting and washing up now, with what I've
got before me, I promise you!"
So, we had our slices served out, as if we
were two thousand troops on a forced march
instead of a man and boy at home; and we took
gulps of milk and water, with apologetic countenances,
from a jug on the dresser.
In the meantime, Mrs. Joe put clean white
curtains up, and tacked a new flowered flounce
across the wide chimney to replace the old
one, and uncovered the little state parlor
across the passage, which was never uncovered
at any other time, but passed the rest of
the year in a cool haze of silver paper, which
even extended to the four little white crockery
poodles on the mantel-shelf, each with a black
nose and a basket of flowers in his mouth,
and each the counterpart of the other.
Mrs. Joe was a very clean housekeeper, but
had an exquisite art of making her cleanliness
more uncomfortable and unacceptable than dirt
itself.
Cleanliness is next to Godliness, and some
people do the same by their religion.
My sister, having so much to do, was going
to church vicariously, that is to say, Joe
and I were going.
In his working-clothes, Joe was a well-knit
characteristic-looking blacksmith; in his
holiday clothes, he was more like a scarecrow
in good circumstances, than anything else.
Nothing that he wore then fitted him or seemed
to belong to him; and everything that he wore
then grazed him.
On the present festive occasion he emerged
from his room, when the blithe bells were
going, the picture of misery, in a full suit
of Sunday penitentials.
As to me, I think my sister must have had
some general idea that I was a young offender
whom an Accoucheur Policeman had taken up
(on my birthday) and delivered over to her,
to be dealt with according to the outraged
majesty of the law.
I was always treated as if I had insisted
on being born in opposition to the dictates
of reason, religion, and morality, and against
the dissuading arguments of my best friends.
Even when I was taken to have a new suit of
clothes, the tailor had orders to make them
like a kind of Reformatory, and on no account
to let me have the free use of my limbs.
Joe and I going to church, therefore, must
have been a moving spectacle for compassionate
minds.
Yet, what I suffered outside was nothing to
what I underwent within.
The terrors that had assailed me whenever
Mrs. Joe had gone near the pantry, or out
of the room, were only to be equalled by the
remorse with which my mind dwelt on what my
hands had done.
Under the weight of my wicked secret, I pondered
whether the Church would be powerful enough
to shield me from the vengeance of the terrible
young man, if I divulged to that establishment.
I conceived the idea that the time when the
banns were read and when the clergyman said,
"Ye are now to declare it!" would be the time
for me to rise and propose a private conference
in the vestry.
I am far from being sure that I might not
have astonished our small congregation by
resorting to this extreme measure, but for
its being Christmas Day and no Sunday.
Mr. Wopsle, the clerk at church, was to dine
with us; and Mr. Hubble the wheelwright and
Mrs. Hubble; and Uncle Pumblechook (Joe's
uncle, but Mrs. Joe appropriated him), who
was a well-to-do cornchandler in the nearest
town, and drove his own chaise-cart.
The dinner hour was half-past one.
When Joe and I got home, we found the table
laid, and Mrs. Joe dressed, and the dinner
dressing, and the front door unlocked (it
never was at any other time) for the company
to enter by, and everything most splendid.
And still, not a word of the robbery.
The time came, without bringing with it any
relief to my feelings, and the company came.
Mr. Wopsle, united to a Roman nose and a large
shining bald forehead, had a deep voice which
he was uncommonly proud of; indeed it was
understood among his acquaintance that if
you could only give him his head, he would
read the clergyman into fits; he himself confessed
that if the Church was "thrown open," meaning
to competition, he would not despair of making
his mark in it.
The Church not being "thrown open," he was,
as I have said, our clerk.
But he punished the Amens tremendously; and
when he gave out the psalm,—always giving
the whole verse,—he looked all round the
congregation first, as much as to say, "You
have heard my friend overhead; oblige me with
your opinion of this style!"
I opened the door to the company,—making
believe that it was a habit of ours to open
that door,—and I opened it first to Mr.
Wopsle, next to Mr. and Mrs. Hubble, and last
of all to Uncle Pumblechook.
N.B.
I was not allowed to call him uncle, under
the severest penalties.
"Mrs. Joe," said Uncle Pumblechook, a large
hard-breathing middle-aged slow man, with
a mouth like a fish, dull staring eyes, and
sandy hair standing upright on his head, so
that he looked as if he had just been all
but choked, and had that moment come to, "I
have brought you as the compliments of the
season—I have brought you, Mum, a bottle
of sherry wine—and I have brought you, Mum,
a bottle of port wine."
Every Christmas Day he presented himself,
as a profound novelty, with exactly the same
words, and carrying the two bottles like dumb-bells.
Every Christmas Day, Mrs. Joe replied, as
she now replied, "O, Un—cle Pum-ble—chook!
This is kind!"
Every Christmas Day, he retorted, as he now
retorted, "It's no more than your merits.
And now are you all bobbish, and how's Sixpennorth
of halfpence?"
meaning me.
We dined on these occasions in the kitchen,
and adjourned, for the nuts and oranges and
apples to the parlor; which was a change very
like Joe's change from his working-clothes
to his Sunday dress.
My sister was uncommonly lively on the present
occasion, and indeed was generally more gracious
in the society of Mrs. Hubble than in other
company.
I remember Mrs. Hubble as a little curly sharp-edged
person in sky-blue, who held a conventionally
juvenile position, because she had married
Mr. Hubble,—I don't know at what remote
period,—when she was much younger than he.
I remember Mr Hubble as a tough, high-shouldered,
stooping old man, of a sawdusty fragrance,
with his legs extraordinarily wide apart:
so that in my short days I always saw some
miles of open country between them when I
met him coming up the lane.
Among this good company I should have felt
myself, even if I hadn't robbed the pantry,
in a false position.
Not because I was squeezed in at an acute
angle of the tablecloth, with the table in
my chest, and the Pumblechookian elbow in
my eye, nor because I was not allowed to speak
(I didn't want to speak), nor because I was
regaled with the scaly tips of the drumsticks
of the fowls, and with those obscure corners
of pork of which the pig, when living, had
had the least reason to be vain.
No; I should not have minded that, if they
would only have left me alone.
But they wouldn't leave me alone.
They seemed to think the opportunity lost,
if they failed to point the conversation at
me, every now and then, and stick the point
into me.
I might have been an unfortunate little bull
in a Spanish arena, I got so smartingly touched
up by these moral goads.
It began the moment we sat down to dinner.
Mr. Wopsle said grace with theatrical declamation,—as
it now appears to me, something like a religious
cross of the Ghost in Hamlet with Richard
the Third,—and ended with the very proper
aspiration that we might be truly grateful.
Upon which my sister fixed me with her eye,
and said, in a low reproachful voice, "Do
you hear that?
Be grateful."
"Especially," said Mr. Pumblechook, "be grateful,
boy, to them which brought you up by hand."
Mrs. Hubble shook her head, and contemplating
me with a mournful presentiment that I should
come to no good, asked, "Why is it that the
young are never grateful?"
This moral mystery seemed too much for the
company until Mr. Hubble tersely solved it
by saying, "Naterally wicious."
Everybody then murmured "True!" and looked
at me in a particularly unpleasant and personal
manner.
Joe's station and influence were something
feebler (if possible) when there was company
than when there was none.
But he always aided and comforted me when
he could, in some way of his own, and he always
did so at dinner-time by giving me gravy,
if there were any.
There being plenty of gravy to-day, Joe spooned
into my plate, at this point, about half a
pint.
A little later on in the dinner, Mr. Wopsle
reviewed the sermon with some severity, and
intimated—in the usual hypothetical case
of the Church being "thrown open"—what kind
of sermon he would have given them.
After favoring them with some heads of that
discourse, he remarked that he considered
the subject of the day's homily, ill chosen;
which was the less excusable, he added, when
there were so many subjects "going about."
"True again," said Uncle Pumblechook.
"You've hit it, sir!
Plenty of subjects going about, for them that
know how to put salt upon their tails.
That's what's wanted.
A man needn't go far to find a subject, if
he's ready with his salt-box."
Mr. Pumblechook added, after a short interval
of reflection, "Look at Pork alone.
There's a subject!
If you want a subject, look at Pork!"
"True, sir.
Many a moral for the young," returned Mr.
Wopsle,—and I knew he was going to lug me
in, before he said it; "might be deduced from
that text."
("You listen to this," said my sister to me,
in a severe parenthesis.)
Joe gave me some more gravy.
"Swine," pursued Mr. Wopsle, in his deepest
voice, and pointing his fork at my blushes,
as if he were mentioning my Christian name,—"swine
were the companions of the prodigal.
The gluttony of Swine is put before us, as
an example to the young."
(I thought this pretty well in him who had
been praising up the pork for being so plump
and juicy.)
"What is detestable in a pig is more detestable
in a boy."
"Or girl," suggested Mr. Hubble.
"Of course, or girl, Mr. Hubble," assented
Mr. Wopsle, rather irritably, "but there is
no girl present."
"Besides," said Mr. Pumblechook, turning sharp
on me, "think what you've got to be grateful
for.
If you'd been born a Squeaker—"
"He was, if ever a child was," said my sister,
most emphatically.
Joe gave me some more gravy.
"Well, but I mean a four-footed Squeaker,"
said Mr. Pumblechook.
"If you had been born such, would you have
been here now?
Not you—"
"Unless in that form," said Mr. Wopsle, nodding
towards the dish.
"But I don't mean in that form, sir," returned
Mr. Pumblechook, who had an objection to being
interrupted; "I mean, enjoying himself with
his elders and betters, and improving himself
with their conversation, and rolling in the
lap of luxury.
Would he have been doing that?
No, he wouldn't.
And what would have been your destination?"
turning on me again.
"You would have been disposed of for so many
shillings according to the market price of
the article, and Dunstable the butcher would
have come up to you as you lay in your straw,
and he would have whipped you under his left
arm, and with his right he would have tucked
up his frock to get a penknife from out of
his waistcoat-pocket, and he would have shed
your blood and had your life.
No bringing up by hand then.
Not a bit of it!"
Joe offered me more gravy, which I was afraid
to take.
"He was a world of trouble to you, ma'am,"
said Mrs. Hubble, commiserating my sister.
"Trouble?"
echoed my sister; "trouble?" and then entered
on a fearful catalogue of all the illnesses
I had been guilty of, and all the acts of
sleeplessness I had committed, and all the
high places I had tumbled from, and all the
low places I had tumbled into, and all the
injuries I had done myself, and all the times
she had wished me in my grave, and I had contumaciously
refused to go there.
I think the Romans must have aggravated one
another very much, with their noses.
Perhaps, they became the restless people they
were, in consequence.
Anyhow, Mr. Wopsle's Roman nose so aggravated
me, during the recital of my misdemeanours,
that I should have liked to pull it until
he howled.
But, all I had endured up to this time was
nothing in comparison with the awful feelings
that took possession of me when the pause
was broken which ensued upon my sister's recital,
and in which pause everybody had looked at
me (as I felt painfully conscious) with indignation
and abhorrence.
"Yet," said Mr. Pumblechook, leading the company
gently back to the theme from which they had
strayed, "Pork—regarded as biled—is rich,
too; ain't it?"
"Have a little brandy, uncle," said my sister.
O Heavens, it had come at last!
He would find it was weak, he would say it
was weak, and I was lost!
I held tight to the leg of the table under
the cloth, with both hands, and awaited my
fate.
My sister went for the stone bottle, came
back with the stone bottle, and poured his
brandy out: no one else taking any.
The wretched man trifled with his glass,—took
it up, looked at it through the light, put
it down,—prolonged my misery.
All this time Mrs. Joe and Joe were briskly
clearing the table for the pie and pudding.
I couldn't keep my eyes off him.
Always holding tight by the leg of the table
with my hands and feet, I saw the miserable
creature finger his glass playfully, take
it up, smile, throw his head back, and drink
the brandy off.
Instantly afterwards, the company were seized
with unspeakable consternation, owing to his
springing to his feet, turning round several
times in an appalling spasmodic whooping-cough
dance, and rushing out at the door; he then
became visible through the window, violently
plunging and expectorating, making the most
hideous faces, and apparently out of his mind.
I held on tight, while Mrs. Joe and Joe ran
to him.
I didn't know how I had done it, but I had
no doubt I had murdered him somehow.
In my dreadful situation, it was a relief
when he was brought back, and surveying the
company all round as if they had disagreed
with him, sank down into his chair with the
one significant gasp, "Tar!"
I had filled up the bottle from the tar-water
jug.
I knew he would be worse by and by.
I moved the table, like a Medium of the present
day, by the vigor of my unseen hold upon it.
"Tar!" cried my sister, in amazement.
"Why, how ever could Tar come there?"
But, Uncle Pumblechook, who was omnipotent
in that kitchen, wouldn't hear the word, wouldn't
hear of the subject, imperiously waved it
all away with his hand, and asked for hot
gin and water.
My sister, who had begun to be alarmingly
meditative, had to employ herself actively
in getting the gin, the hot water, the sugar,
and the lemon-peel, and mixing them.
For the time being at least, I was saved.
I still held on to the leg of the table, but
clutched it now with the fervor of gratitude.
By degrees, I became calm enough to release
my grasp and partake of pudding.
Mr. Pumblechook partook of pudding.
All partook of pudding.
The course terminated, and Mr. Pumblechook
had begun to beam under the genial influence
of gin and water.
I began to think I should get over the day,
when my sister said to Joe, "Clean plates,—cold."
I clutched the leg of the table again immediately,
and pressed it to my bosom as if it had been
the companion of my youth and friend of my
soul.
I foresaw what was coming, and I felt that
this time I really was gone.
"You must taste," said my sister, addressing
the guests with her best grace—"you must
taste, to finish with, such a delightful and
delicious present of Uncle Pumblechook's!"
Must they!
Let them not hope to taste it!
"You must know," said my sister, rising, "it's
a pie; a savory pork pie."
The company murmured their compliments.
Uncle Pumblechook, sensible of having deserved
well of his fellow-creatures, said,—quite
vivaciously, all things considered,—"Well,
Mrs. Joe, we'll do our best endeavors; let
us have a cut at this same pie."
My sister went out to get it.
I heard her steps proceed to the pantry.
I saw Mr. Pumblechook balance his knife.
I saw reawakening appetite in the Roman nostrils
of Mr. Wopsle.
I heard Mr. Hubble remark that "a bit of savory
pork pie would lay atop of anything you could
mention, and do no harm," and I heard Joe
say, "You shall have some, Pip."
I have never been absolutely certain whether
I uttered a shrill yell of terror, merely
in spirit, or in the bodily hearing of the
company.
I felt that I could bear no more, and that
I must run away.
I released the leg of the table, and ran for
my life.
But I ran no farther than the house door,
for there I ran head-foremost into a party
of soldiers with their muskets, one of whom
held out a pair of handcuffs to me, saying,
"Here you are, look sharp, come on!"
End of Chapter 4
