Chapter 22

Great Expectations

by Charles Dickens

The pale young gentleman and I stood contemplating one another in
Barnard's Inn, until we both burst out laughing. "The idea of its
being you!" said he. "The idea of its being you!" said I. And then
we contemplated one another afresh, and laughed again. "Well!" said
the pale young gentleman, reaching out his hand goodhumouredly, "it's
all over now, I hope, and it will be magnanimous in you if you'll
forgive me for having knocked you about so."

I derived from this speech that Mr. Herbert Pocket (for Herbert
was the pale young gentleman's name) still rather confounded his
intention with his execution. But I made a modest reply, and we
shook hands warmly.

"You hadn't come into your good fortune at that time?" said
Herbert Pocket.

"No," said I.

"No," he acquiesced: "I heard it had happened very lately. I
was rather on the look-out for good-fortune then."

"Indeed?"

"Yes. Miss Havisham had sent for me, to see if she could take a
fancy to me. But she couldn't - at all events, she didn't."

I thought it polite to remark that I was surprised to hear
that.

"Bad taste," said Herbert, laughing, "but a fact. Yes, she had
sent for me on a trial visit, and if I had come out of it
successfully, I suppose I should have been provided for; perhaps I
should have been what-you-may-called it to Estella."

"What's that?" I asked, with sudden gravity.

He was arranging his fruit in plates while we talked, which
divided his attention, and was the cause of his having made this
lapse of a word. "Affianced," he explained, still busy with the
fruit. "Betrothed. Engaged. What's-his-named. Any word of that
sort."

"How did you bear your disappointment?" I asked.

"Pooh!" said he, "I didn't care much for it. She's a
Tartar."

"Miss Havisham?"

"I don't say no to that, but I meant Estella. That girl's hard
and haughty and capricious to the last degree, and has been brought
up by Miss Havisham to wreak revenge on all the male sex."

"What relation is she to Miss Havisham?"

"None," said he. "Only adopted."

"Why should she wreak revenge on all the male sex? What
revenge?"

"Lord, Mr. Pip!" said he. "Don't you know?"

"No," said I.

"Dear me! It's quite a story, and shall be saved till
dinner-time. And now let me take the liberty of asking you a
question. How did you come there, that day?"

I told him, and he was attentive until I had finished, and then
burst out laughing again, and asked me if I was sore afterwards? I
didn't ask him if he was, for my conviction on that point was
perfectly established.

"Mr. Jaggers is your guardian, I understand?" he went on.

"Yes."

"You know he is Miss Havisham's man of business and solicitor,
and has her confidence when nobody else has?"

This was bringing me (I felt) towards dangerous ground. I
answered with a constraint I made no attempt to disguise, that I had
seen Mr. Jaggers in Miss Havisham's house on the very day of our
combat, but never at any other time, and that I believed he had no
recollection of having ever seen me there.

"He was so obliging as to suggest my father for your tutor, and
he called on my father to propose it. Of course he knew about my
father from his connexion with Miss Havisham. My father is Miss
Havisham's cousin; not that that implies familiar intercourse between
them, for he is a bad courtier and will not propitiate her."

Herbert Pocket had a frank and easy way with him that was very
taking. I had never seen any one then, and I have never seen any one
since, who more strongly expressed to me, in every look and tone, a
natural incapacity to do anything secret and mean. There was
something wonderfully hopeful about his general air, and something
that at the same time whispered to me he would never be very
successful or rich. I don't know how this was. I became imbued with
the notion on that first occasion before we sat down to dinner, but I
cannot define by what means.

He was still a pale young gentleman, and had a certain conquered
languor about him in the midst of his spirits and briskness, that did
not seem indicative of natural strength. He had not a handsome face,
but it was better than handsome: being extremely amiable and
cheerful. His figure was a little ungainly, as in the days when my
knuckles had taken such liberties with it, but it looked as if it
would always be light and young. Whether Mr. Trabb's local work
would have sat more gracefully on him than on me, may be a question;
but I am conscious that he carried off his rather old clothes, much
better than I carried off my new suit.

As he was so communicative, I felt that reserve on my part would
be a bad return unsuited to our years. I therefore told him my small
story, and laid stress on my being forbidden to inquire who my
benefactor was. I further mentioned that as I had been brought up a
blacksmith in a country place, and knew very little of the ways of
politeness, I would take it as a great kindness in him if he would
give me a hint whenever he saw me at a loss or going wrong.

"With pleasure," said he, "though I venture to prophesy that
you'll want very few hints. I dare say we shall be often together,
and I should like to banish any needless restraint between us. Will
you do me the favour to begin at once to call me by my Christian
name, Herbert?"

I thanked him, and said I would. I informed him in exchange
that my Christian name was Philip.

"I don't take to Philip," said he, smiling, "for it sounds like
a moral boy out of the spelling-book, who was so lazy that he fell
into a pond, or so fat that he couldn't see out of his eyes, or so
avaricious that he locked up his cake till the mice ate it, or so
determined to go a bird's-nesting that he got himself eaten by bears
who lived handy in the neighbourhood. I tell you what I should like.
We are so harmonious, and you have been a blacksmith - would you
mind it?"

"I shouldn't mind anything that you propose," I answered, "but I
don't understand you."

"Would you mind Handel for a familiar name? There's a charming
piece of music by Handel, called the Harmonious Blacksmith."

"I should like it very much."

"Then, my dear Handel," said he, turning round as the door
opened, "here is the dinner, and I must beg of you to take the top of
the table, because the dinner is of your providing."

This I would not hear of, so he took the top, and I faced him.
It was a nice little dinner - seemed to me then, a very Lord Mayor's
Feast - and it acquired additional relish from being eaten under
those independent circumstances, with no old people by, and with
London all around us. This again was heightened by a certain gipsy
character that set the banquet off; for, while the table was, as Mr.
Pumblechook might have said, the lap of luxury - being entirely
furnished forth from the coffee-house - the circumjacent region of
sitting-room was of a comparatively pastureless and shifty character:
imposing on the waiter the wandering habits of putting the covers on
the floor (where he fell over them), the melted butter in the
armchair, the bread on the bookshelves, the cheese in the
coalscuttle, and the boiled fowl into my bed in the next room - where
I found much of its parsley and butter in a state of congelation when
I retired for the night. All this made the feast delightful, and
when the waiter was not there to watch me, my pleasure was without
alloy.

We had made some progress in the dinner, when I reminded Herbert
of his promise to tell me about Miss Havisham.

"True," he replied. "I'll redeem it at once. Let me introduce
the topic, Handel, by mentioning that in London it is not the custom
to put the knife in the mouth - for fear of accidents - and that
while the fork is reserved for that use, it is not put further in
than necessary. It is scarcely worth mentioning, only it's as well
to do as other people do. Also, the spoon is not generally used
over-hand, but under. This has two advantages. You get at your
mouth better (which after all is the object), and you save a good
deal of the attitude of opening oysters, on the part of the right
elbow."

He offered these friendly suggestions in such a lively way, that
we both laughed and I scarcely blushed.

"Now," he pursued, "concerning Miss Havisham. Miss Havisham,
you must know, was a spoilt child. Her mother died when she was a
baby, and her father denied her nothing. Her father was a country
gentleman down in your part of the world, and was a brewer. I don't
know why it should be a crack thing to be a brewer; but it is
indisputable that while you cannot possibly be genteel and bake, you
may be as genteel as never was and brew. You see it every day."

"Yet a gentleman may not keep a public-house; may he?" said
I.

"Not on any account," returned Herbert; "but a public-house may
keep a gentleman. Well! Mr. Havisham was very rich and very proud.
So was his daughter."

"Miss Havisham was an only child?" I hazarded.

"Stop a moment, I am coming to that. No, she was not an only
child; she had a half-brother. Her father privately married again -
his cook, I rather think."

"I thought he was proud," said I.

"My good Handel, so he was. He married his second wife
privately, because he was proud, and in course of time she died.
When she was dead, I apprehend he first told his daughter what he had
done, and then the son became a part of the family, residing in the
house you are acquainted with. As the son grew a young man, he
turned out riotous, extravagant, undutiful - altogether bad. At last
his father disinherited him; but he softened when he was dying, and
left him well off, though not nearly so well off as Miss Havisham. -
Take another glass of wine, and excuse my mentioning that society as
a body does not expect one to be so strictly conscientious in
emptying one's glass, as to turn it bottom upwards with the rim on
one's nose."

I had been doing this, in an excess of attention to his recital.
I thanked him, and apologized. He said, "Not at all," and
resumed.

"Miss Havisham was now an heiress, and you may suppose was
looked after as a great match. Her half-brother had now ample means
again, but what with debts and what with new madness wasted them most
fearfully again. There were stronger differences between him and
her, than there had been between him and his father, and it is
suspected that he cherished a deep and mortal grudge against her, as
having influenced the father's anger. Now, I come to the cruel part
of the story - merely breaking off, my dear Handel, to remark that a
dinner-napkin will not go into a tumbler."

Why I was trying to pack mine into my tumbler, I am wholly
unable to say. I only know that I found myself, with a perseverance
worthy of a much better cause, making the most strenuous exertions to
compress it within those limits. Again I thanked him and apologized,
and again he said in the cheerfullest manner, "Not at all, I am
sure!" and resumed.

"There appeared upon the scene - say at the races, or the public
balls, or anywhere else you like - a certain man, who made love to
Miss Havisham. I never saw him, for this happened five-and-twenty
years ago (before you and I were, Handel), but I have heard my father
mention that he was a showy-man, and the kind of man for the purpose.
But that he was not to be, without ignorance or prejudice, mistaken
for a gentleman, my father most strongly asseverates; because it is a
principle of his that no man who was not a true gentleman at heart,
ever was, since the world began, a true gentleman in manner. He
says, no varnish can hide the grain of the wood; and that the more
varnish you put on, the more the grain will express itself. Well!
This man pursued Miss Havisham closely, and professed to be devoted
to her. I believe she had not shown much susceptibility up to that
time; but all the susceptibility she possessed, certainly came out
then, and she passionately loved him. There is no doubt that she
perfectly idolized him. He practised on her affection in that
systematic way, that he got great sums of money from her, and he
induced her to buy her brother out of a share in the brewery (which
had been weakly left him by his father) at an immense price, on the
plea that when he was her husband he must hold and manage it all.
Your guardian was not at that time in Miss Havisham's councils, and
she was too haughty and too much in love, to be advised by any one.
Her relations were poor and scheming, with the exception of my
father; he was poor enough, but not time-serving or jealous. The
only independent one among them, he warned her that she was doing too
much for this man, and was placing herself too unreservedly in his
power. She took the first opportunity of angrily ordering my father
out of the house, in his presence, and my father has never seen her
since."

I thought of her having said, "Matthew will come and see me at
last when I am laid dead upon that table;" and I asked Herbert
whether his father was so inveterate against her?

"It's not that," said he, "but she charged him, in the presence
of her intended husband, with being disappointed in the hope of
fawning upon her for his own advancement, and, if he were to go to
her now, it would look true - even to him - and even to her. To
return to the man and make an end of him. The marriage day was
fixed, the wedding dresses were bought, the wedding tour was planned
out, the wedding guests were invited. The day came, but not the
bridegroom. He wrote her a letter--"

"Which she received," I struck in, "when she was dressing for
her marriage? At twenty minutes to nine?"

"At the hour and minute," said Herbert, nodding, "at which she
afterwards stopped all the clocks. What was in it, further than that
it most heartlessly broke the marriage off, I can't tell you, because
I don't know. When she recovered from a bad illness that she had,
she laid the whole place waste, as you have seen it, and she has
never since looked upon the light of day."

"Is that all the story?" I asked, after considering it.

"All I know of it; and indeed I only know so much, through
piecing it out for myself; for my father always avoids it, and, even
when Miss Havisham invited me to go there, told me no more of it than
it was absolutely requisite I should understand. But I have
forgotten one thing. It has been supposed that the man to whom she
gave her misplaced confidence, acted throughout in concert with her
half-brother; that it was a conspiracy between them; and that they
shared the profits."

"I wonder he didn't marry her and get all the property," said
I.

"He may have been married already, and her cruel mortification
may have been a part of her half-brother's scheme," said Herbert.

"Mind! I don't know that."

"What became of the two men?" I asked, after again considering
the subject.

"They fell into deeper shame and degradation - if there can be
deeper - and ruin."

"Are they alive now?"

"I don't know."

"You said just now, that Estella was not related to Miss
Havisham, but adopted. When adopted?"

Herbert shrugged his shoulders. "There has always been an
Estella, since I have heard of a Miss Havisham. I know no more. And
now, Handel," said he, finally throwing off the story as it were,
"there is a perfectly open understanding between us. All that I know
about Miss Havisham, you know."

"And all that I know," I retorted, "you know."

"I fully believe it. So there can be no competition or
perplexity between you and me. And as to the condition on which you
hold your advancement in life - namely, that you are not to inquire
or discuss to whom you owe it - you may be very sure that it will
never be encroached upon, or even approached, by me, or by any one
belonging to me."

In truth, he said this with so much delicacy, that I felt the
subject done with, even though I should be under his father's roof
for years and years to come. Yet he said it with so much meaning,
too, that I felt he as perfectly understood Miss Havisham to be my
benefactress, as I understood the fact myself.

It had not occurred to me before, that he had led up to the
theme for the purpose of clearing it out of our way; but we were so
much the lighter and easier for having broached it, that I now
perceived this to be the case. We were very gay and sociable, and I
asked him, in the course of conversation, what he was? He replied,
"A capitalist - an Insurer of Ships." I suppose he saw me glancing
about the room in search of some tokens of Shipping, or capital, for
he added, "In the City."

I had grand ideas of the wealth and importance of Insurers of
Ships in the City, and I began to think with awe, of having laid a
young Insurer on his back, blackened his enterprising eye, and cut
his responsible head open. But, again, there came upon me, for my
relief, that odd impression that Herbert Pocket would never be very
successful or rich.

"I shall not rest satisfied with merely employing my capital in
insuring ships. I shall buy up some good Life Assurance shares, and
cut into the Direction. I shall also do a little in the mining way.
None of these things will interfere with my chartering a few thousand
tons on my own account. I think I shall trade," said he, leaning
back in his chair, "to the East Indies, for silks, shawls, spices,
dyes, drugs, and precious woods. It's an interesting trade."

"And the profits are large?" said I.

"Tremendous!" said he.

I wavered again, and began to think here were greater
expectations than my own.

"I think I shall trade, also," said he, putting his thumbs in
his waistcoat pockets, "to the West Indies, for sugar, tobacco, and
rum. Also to Ceylon, specially for elephants' tusks."

"You will want a good many ships," said I.

"A perfect fleet," said he.

Quite overpowered by the magnificence of these transactions, I
asked him where the ships he insured mostly traded to at present?

"I haven't begun insuring yet," he replied. "I am looking about
me."

Somehow, that pursuit seemed more in keeping with Barnard's Inn.
I said (in a tone of conviction), "Ah-h!"

"Yes. I am in a counting-house, and looking about me."

"Is a counting-house profitable?" I asked.

"To - do you mean to the young fellow who's in it?" he asked, in
reply.

"Yes; to you."

"Why, n-no: not to me." He said this with the air of one
carefully reckoning up and striking a balance. "Not directly
profitable. That is, it doesn't pay me anything, and I have to -
keep myself."

This certainly had not a profitable appearance, and I shook my
head as if I would imply that it would be difficult to lay by much
accumulative capital from such a source of income.

"But the thing is," said Herbert Pocket, "that you look about
you. That's the grand thing. You are in a counting-house, you know,
and you look about you."

It struck me as a singular implication that you couldn't be out
of a counting-house, you know, and look about you; but I silently
deferred to his experience.

"Then the time comes," said Herbert, "when you see your opening.
And you go in, and you swoop upon it and you make your capital, and
then there you are! When you have once made your capital, you have
nothing to do but employ it."

This was very like his way of conducting that encounter in the
garden; very like. His manner of bearing his poverty, too, exactly
corresponded to his manner of bearing that defeat. It seemed to me
that he took all blows and buffets now, with just the same air as he
had taken mine then. It was evident that he had nothing around him
but the simplest necessaries, for everything that I remarked upon
turned out to have been sent in on my account from the coffee-house
or somewhere else.

Yet, having already made his fortune in his own mind, he was so
unassuming with it that I felt quite grateful to him for not being
puffed up. It was a pleasant addition to his naturally pleasant
ways, and we got on famously. In the evening we went out for a walk
in the streets, and went half-price to the Theatre; and next day we
went to church at Westminster Abbey, and in the afternoon we walked
in the Parks; and I wondered who shod all the horses there, and
wished Joe did.

On a moderate computation, it was many months, that Sunday,
since I had left Joe and Biddy. The space interposed between myself
and them, partook of that expansion, and our marshes were any
distance off. That I could have been at our old church in my old
church-going clothes, on the very last Sunday that ever was, seemed a
combination of impossibilities, geographical and social, solar and
lunar. Yet in the London streets, so crowded with people and so
brilliantly lighted in the dusk of evening, there were depressing
hints of reproaches for that I had put the poor old kitchen at home
so far away; and in the dead of night, the footsteps of some
incapable impostor of a porter mooning about Barnard's Inn, under
pretence of watching it, fell hollow on my heart.

On the Monday morning at a quarter before nine, Herbert went to
the counting-house to report himself - to look about him, too, I
suppose - and I bore him company. He was to come away in an hour or
two to attend me to Hammersmith, and I was to wait about for him. It
appeared to me that the eggs from which young Insurers were hatched,
were incubated in dust and heat, like the eggs of ostriches, judging
from the places to which those incipient giants repaired on a Monday
morning. Nor did the counting-house where Herbert assisted, show in
my eyes as at all a good Observatory; being a back second floor up a
yard, of a grimy presence in all particulars, and with a look into
another back second floor, rather than a look out.

I waited about until it was noon, and I went upon 'Change, and I
saw fluey men sitting there under the bills about shipping, whom I
took to be great merchants, though I couldn't understand why they
should all be out of spirits. When Herbert came, we went and had
lunch at a celebrated house which I then quite venerated, but now
believe to have been the most abject superstition in Europe, and
where I could not help noticing, even then, that there was much more
gravy on the tablecloths and knives and waiters' clothes, than in the
steaks. This collation disposed of at a moderate price (considering
the grease: which was not charged for), we went back to Barnard's
Inn and got my little portmanteau, and then took coach for
Hammersmith. We arrived there at two or three o'clock in the
afternoon, and had very little way to walk to Mr. Pocket's house.
Lifting the latch of a gate, we passed direct into a little garden
overlooking the river, where Mr. Pocket's children were playing
about. And unless I deceive myself on a point where my interests or
prepossessions are certainly not concerned, I saw that Mr. and Mrs.
Pocket's children were not growing up or being brought up, but were
tumbling up.

Mrs. Pocket was sitting on a garden chair under a tree, reading,
with her legs upon another garden chair; and Mrs. Pocket's two
nursemaids were looking about them while the children played.
"Mamma," said Herbert, "this is young Mr. Pip." Upon which Mrs.
Pocket received me with an appearance of amiable dignity.

"Master Alick and Miss Jane," cried one of the nurses to two of
the children, "if you go a-bouncing up against them bushes you'll
fall over into the river and be drownded, and what'll your pa say
then?"

At the same time this nurse picked up Mrs. Pocket's
handkerchief, and said, "If that don't make six times you've dropped
it, Mum!" Upon which Mrs. Pocket laughed and said, "Thank you,
Flopson," and settling herself in one chair only, resumed her book.
Her countenance immediately assumed a knitted and intent expression
as if she had been reading for a week, but before she could have read
half a dozen lines, she fixed her eyes upon me, and said, "I hope
your mamma is quite well?" This unexpected inquiry put me into such
a difficulty that I began saying in the absurdest way that if there
had been any such person I had no doubt she would have been quite
well and would have been very much obliged and would have sent her
compliments, when the nurse came to my rescue.

"Well!" she cried, picking up the pocket handkerchief, "if that
don't make seven times! What are you a-doing of this afternoon,
Mum!" Mrs. Pocket received her property, at first with a look of
unutterable surprise as if she had never seen it before, and then
with a laugh of recognition, and said, "Thank you, Flopson," and
forgot me, and went on reading.

I found, now I had leisure to count them, that there were no
fewer than six little Pockets present, in various stages of tumbling
up. I had scarcely arrived at the total when a seventh was heard, as
in the region of air, wailing dolefully.

"If there ain't Baby!" said Flopson, appearing to think it most
surprising. "Make haste up, Millers."

Millers, who was the other nurse, retired into the house, and by
degrees the child's wailing was hushed and stopped, as if it were a
young ventriloquist with something in its mouth. Mrs. Pocket read
all the time, and I was curious to know what the book could be.

We were waiting, I supposed, for Mr. Pocket to come out to us;
at any rate we waited there, and so I had an opportunity of observing
the remarkable family phenomenon that whenever any of the children
strayed near Mrs. Pocket in their play, they always tripped
themselves up and tumbled over her - always very much to her
momentary astonishment, and their own more enduring lamentation. I
was at a loss to account for this surprising circumstance, and could
not help giving my mind to speculations about it, until by-and-by
Millers came down with the baby, which baby was handed to Flopson,
which Flopson was handing it to Mrs. Pocket, when she too went fairly
head foremost over Mrs. Pocket, baby and all, and was caught by
Herbert and myself.

"Gracious me, Flopson!" said Mrs. Pocket, looking off her book
for a moment, "everybody's tumbling!"

"Gracious you, indeed, Mum!" returned Flopson, very red in the
face; "what have you got there?"

"I got here, Flopson?" asked Mrs. Pocket.

"Why, if it ain't your footstool!" cried Flopson. "And if you
keep it under your skirts like that, who's to help tumbling? Here!
Take the baby, Mum, and give me your book."

Mrs. Pocket acted on the advice, and inexpertly danced the
infant a little in her lap, while the other children played about it.
This had lasted but a very short time, when Mrs. Pocket issued
summary orders that they were all to be taken into the house for a
nap. Thus I made the second discovery on that first occasion, that
the nurture of the little Pockets consisted of alternately tumbling
up and lying down.

Under these circumstances, when Flopson and Millers had got the
children into the house, like a little flock of sheep, and Mr. Pocket
came out of it to make my acquaintance, I was not much surprised to
find that Mr. Pocket was a gentleman with a rather perplexed
expression of face, and with his very grey hair disordered on his
head, as if he didn't quite see his way to putting anything
straight.