Chapter 39

Great Expectations

by Charles Dickens

I was three-and-twenty years of age. Not another word had I
heard to enlighten me on the subject of my expectations, and my
twenty-third birthday was a week gone. We had left Barnard's Inn
more than a year, and lived in the Temple. Our chambers were in
Garden-court, down by the river.

Mr. Pocket and I had for some time parted company as to our
original relations, though we continued on the best terms.
Notwithstanding my inability to settle to anything - which I hope
arose out of the restless and incomplete tenure on which I held my
means - I had a taste for reading, and read regularly so many hours a
day. That matter of Herbert's was still progressing, and everything
with me was as I have brought it down to the close of the last
preceding chapter.

Business had taken Herbert on a journey to Marseilles. I was
alone, and had a dull sense of being alone. Dispirited and anxious,
long hoping that to-morrow or next week would clear my way, and long
disappointed, I sadly missed the cheerful face and ready response of
my friend.

It was wretched weather; stormy and wet, stormy and wet; and
mud, mud, mud, deep in all the streets. Day after day, a vast heavy
veil had been driving over London from the East, and it drove still,
as if in the East there were an Eternity of cloud and wind. So
furious had been the gusts, that high buildings in town had had the
lead stripped off their roofs; and in the country, trees had been
torn up, and sails of windmills carried away; and gloomy accounts had
come in from the coast, of shipwreck and death. Violent blasts of
rain had accompanied these rages of wind, and the day just closed as
I sat down to read had been the worst of all.

Alterations have been made in that part of the Temple since that
time, and it has not now so lonely a character as it had then, nor is
it so exposed to the river. We lived at the top of the last house,
and the wind rushing up the river shook the house that night, like
discharges of cannon, or breakings of a sea. When the rain came with
it and dashed against the windows, I thought, raising my eyes to them
as they rocked, that I might have fancied myself in a storm-beaten
lighthouse. Occasionally, the smoke came rolling down the chimney as
though it could not bear to go out into such a night; and when I set
the doors open and looked down the staircase, the staircase lamps
were blown out; and when I shaded my face with my hands and looked
through the black windows (opening them ever so little, was out of
the question in the teeth of such wind and rain) I saw that the lamps
in the court were blown out, and that the lamps on the bridges and
the shore were shuddering, and that the coal fires in barges on the
river were being carried away before the wind like red-hot splashes
in the rain.

I read with my watch upon the table, purposing to close my book
at eleven o'clock. As I shut it, Saint Paul's, and all the many
church-clocks in the City - some leading, some accompanying, some
following - struck that hour. The sound was curiously flawed by the
wind; and I was listening, and thinking how the wind assailed and
tore it, when I heard a footstep on the stair.

What nervous folly made me start, and awfully connect it with
the footstep of my dead sister, matters not. It was past in a
moment, and I listened again, and heard the footstep stumble in
coming on. Remembering then, that the staircase-lights were blown
out, I took up my reading-lamp and went out to the stair-head.
Whoever was below had stopped on seeing my lamp, for all was
quiet.

"There is some one down there, is there not?" I called out,
looking down.

"Yes," said a voice from the darkness beneath.

"What floor do you want?"

"The top. Mr. Pip."

"That is my name. - There is nothing the matter?"

"Nothing the matter," returned the voice. And the man came
on.

I stood with my lamp held out over the stair-rail, and he came
slowly within its light. It was a shaded lamp, to shine upon a book,
and its circle of light was very contracted; so that he was in it for
a mere instant, and then out of it. In the instant, I had seen a
face that was strange to me, looking up with an incomprehensible air
of being touched and pleased by the sight of me.

Moving the lamp as the man moved, I made out that he was
substantially dressed, but roughly; like a voyager by sea. That he
had long iron-grey hair. That his age was about sixty. That he was
a muscular man, strong on his legs, and that he was browned and
hardened by exposure to weather. As he ascended the last stair or
two, and the light of my lamp included us both, I saw, with a stupid
kind of amazement, that he was holding out both his hands to me.

"Pray what is your business?" I asked him.

"My business?" he repeated, pausing. "Ah! Yes. I will explain
my business, by your leave."

"Do you wish to come in?"

"Yes," he replied; "I wish to come in, Master."

I had asked him the question inhospitably enough, for I resented
the sort of bright and gratified recognition that still shone in his
face. I resented it, because it seemed to imply that he expected me
to respond to it. But, I took him into the room I had just left,
and, having set the lamp on the table, asked him as civilly as I
could, to explain himself.

He looked about him with the strangest air - an air of wondering
pleasure, as if he had some part in the things he admired - and he
pulled off a rough outer coat, and his hat. Then, I saw that his
head was furrowed and bald, and that the long iron-grey hair grew
only on its sides. But, I saw nothing that in the least explained
him. On the contrary, I saw him next moment, once more holding out
both his hands to me.

"What do you mean?" said I, half suspecting him to be mad.

He stopped in his looking at me, and slowly rubbed his right
hand over his head. "It's disapinting to a man," he said, in a
coarse broken voice, "arter having looked for'ard so distant, and
come so fur; but you're not to blame for that - neither on us is to
blame for that. I'll speak in half a minute. Give me half a minute,
please."

He sat down on a chair that stood before the fire, and covered
his forehead with his large brown veinous hands. I looked at him
attentively then, and recoiled a little from him; but I did not know
him.

"There's no one nigh," said he, looking over his shoulder; "is
there?"

"Why do you, a stranger coming into my rooms at this time of the
night, ask that question?" said I.

"You're a game one," he returned, shaking his head at me with a
deliberate affection, at once most unintelligible and most
exasperating; "I'm glad you've grow'd up, a game one! But don't
catch hold of me. You'd be sorry arterwards to have done it."

I relinquished the intention he had detected, for I knew him!
Even yet, I could not recall a single feature, but I knew him! If
the wind and the rain had driven away the intervening years, had
scattered all the intervening objects, had swept us to the churchyard
where we first stood face to face on such different levels, I could
not have known my convict more distinctly than I knew him now as he
sat in the chair before the fire. No need to take a file from his
pocket and show it to me; no need to take the handkerchief from his
neck and twist it round his head; no need to hug himself with both
his arms, and take a shivering turn across the room, looking back at
me for recognition. I knew him before he gave me one of those aids,
though, a moment before, I had not been conscious of remotely
suspecting his identity.

He came back to where I stood, and again held out both his
hands. Not knowing what to do - for, in my astonishment I had lost my
self-possession - I reluctantly gave him my hands. He grasped them
heartily, raised them to his lips, kissed them, and still held
them.

"You acted noble, my boy," said he. "Noble, Pip! And I have
never forgot it!"

At a change in his manner as if he were even going to embrace
me, I laid a hand upon his breast and put him away.

"Stay!" said I. "Keep off! If you are grateful to me for what
I did when I was a little child, I hope you have shown your gratitude
by mending your way of life. If you have come here to thank me, it
was not necessary. Still, however you have found me out, there must
be something good in the feeling that has brought you here, and I
will not repulse you; but surely you must understand that - I--"

My attention was so attracted by the singularity of his fixed
look at me, that the words died away on my tongue.

"You was a saying," he observed, when we had confronted one
another in silence, "that surely I must understand. What, surely
must I understand?"

"That I cannot wish to renew that chance intercourse with you of
long ago, under these different circumstances. I am glad to believe
you have repented and recovered yourself. I am glad to tell you so.
I am glad that, thinking I deserve to be thanked, you have come to
thank me. But our ways are different ways, none the less. You are
wet, and you look weary. Will you drink something before you go?"

He had replaced his neckerchief loosely, and had stood, keenly
observant of me, biting a long end of it. "I think," he answered,
still with the end at his mouth and still observant of me, "that I
will drink (I thank you) afore I go."

There was a tray ready on a side-table. I brought it to the
table near the fire, and asked him what he would have? He touched
one of the bottles without looking at it or speaking, and I made him
some hot rum-and-water. I tried to keep my hand steady while I did
so, but his look at me as he leaned back in his chair with the long
draggled end of his neckerchief between his teeth - evidently
forgotten - made my hand very difficult to master. When at last I
put the glass to him, I saw with amazement that his eyes were full of
tears.

Up to this time I had remained standing, not to disguise that I
wished him gone. But I was softened by the softened aspect of the
man, and felt a touch of reproach. "I hope," said I, hurriedly
putting something into a glass for myself, and drawing a chair to the
table, "that you will not think I spoke harshly to you just now. I
had no intention of doing it, and I am sorry for it if I did. I wish
you well, and happy!"

As I put my glass to my lips, he glanced with surprise at the
end of his neckerchief, dropping from his mouth when he opened it,
and stretched out his hand. I gave him mine, and then he drank, and
drew his sleeve across his eyes and forehead.

"How are you living?" I asked him.

"I've been a sheep-farmer, stock-breeder, other trades besides,
away in the new world," said he: "many a thousand mile of stormy
water off from this."

"I hope you have done well?"

"I've done wonderfully well. There's others went out alonger me
as has done well too, but no man has done nigh as well as me. I'm
famous for it."

"I am glad to hear it."

"I hope to hear you say so, my dear boy."

Without stopping to try to understand those words or the tone in
which they were spoken, I turned off to a point that had just come
into my mind.

"Have you ever seen a messenger you once sent to me," I
inquired, "since he undertook that trust?"

"Never set eyes upon him. I warn't likely to it."

"He came faithfully, and he brought me the two one-pound notes.
I was a poor boy then, as you know, and to a poor boy they were a
little fortune. But, like you, I have done well since, and you must
let me pay them back. You can put them to some other poor boy's
use." I took out my purse.

He watched me as I laid my purse upon the table and opened it,
and he watched me as I separated two one-pound notes from its
contents. They were clean and new, and I spread them out and handed
them over to him. Still watching me, he laid them one upon the
other, folded them long-wise, gave them a twist, set fire to them at
the lamp, and dropped the ashes into the tray.

"May I make so bold," he said then, with a smile that was like a
frown, and with a frown that was like a smile, "as ask you how you
have done well, since you and me was out on them lone shivering
marshes?"

"How?"

"Ah!"

He emptied his glass, got up, and stood at the side of the fire,
with his heavy brown hand on the mantelshelf. He put a foot up to
the bars, to dry and warm it, and the wet boot began to steam; but,
he neither looked at it, nor at the fire, but steadily looked at me.
It was only now that I began to tremble.

When my lips had parted, and had shaped some words that were
without sound, I forced myself to tell him (though I could not do it
distinctly), that I had been chosen to succeed to some property.

"Might a mere warmint ask what property?" said he.

I faltered, "I don't know."

"Might a mere warmint ask whose property?" said he.

I faltered again, "I don't know."

"Could I make a guess, I wonder," said the Convict, "at your
income since you come of age! As to the first figure now. Five?"

With my heart beating like a heavy hammer of disordered action,
I rose out of my chair, and stood with my hand upon the back of it,
looking wildly at him.

"Concerning a guardian," he went on. "There ought to have been
some guardian, or such-like, whiles you was a minor. Some lawyer,
maybe. As to the first letter of that lawyer's name now. Would it be
J?"

All the truth of my position came flashing on me; and its
disappointments, dangers, disgraces, consequences of all kinds,
rushed in in such a multitude that I was borne down by them and had
to struggle for every breath I drew.

"Put it," he resumed, "as the employer of that lawyer whose name
begun with a J, and might be Jaggers - put it as he had come over sea
to Portsmouth, and had landed there, and had wanted to come on to
you. 'However, you have found me out,' you says just now. Well!
However, did I find you out? Why, I wrote from Portsmouth to a
person in London, for particulars of your address. That person's
name? Why, Wemmick."

I could not have spoken one word, though it had been to save my
life. I stood, with a hand on the chair-back and a hand on my
breast, where I seemed to be suffocating - I stood so, looking wildly
at him, until I grasped at the chair, when the room began to surge
and turn. He caught me, drew me to the sofa, put me up against the
cushions, and bent on one knee before me: bringing the face that I
now well remembered, and that I shuddered at, very near to mine.

"Yes, Pip, dear boy, I've made a gentleman on you! It's me wot
has done it! I swore that time, sure as ever I earned a guinea, that
guinea should go to you. I swore arterwards, sure as ever I
spec'lated and got rich, you should get rich. I lived rough, that
you should live smooth; I worked hard, that you should be above work.
What odds, dear boy? Do I tell it, fur you to feel a obligation?
Not a bit. I tell it, fur you to know as that there hunted dunghill
dog wot you kep life in, got his head so high that he could make a
gentleman - and, Pip, you're him!"

The abhorrence in which I held the man, the dread I had of him,
the repugnance with which I shrank from him, could not have been
exceeded if he had been some terrible beast.

"Look'ee here, Pip. I'm your second father. You're my son -
more to me nor any son. I've put away money, only for you to spend.
When I was a hired-out shepherd in a solitary hut, not seeing no
faces but faces of sheep till I half forgot wot men's and women's
faces wos like, I see yourn. I drops my knife many a time in that
hut when I was a-eating my dinner or my supper, and I says, 'Here's
the boy again, a-looking at me whiles I eats and drinks!' I see you
there a many times, as plain as ever I see you on them misty marshes.
'Lord strike me dead!' I says each time - and I goes out in the air
to say it under the open heavens - 'but wot, if I gets liberty and
money, I'll make that boy a gentleman!' And I done it. Why, look at
you, dear boy! Look at these here lodgings o'yourn, fit for a lord!
A lord? Ah! You shall show money with lords for wagers, and beat
'em!"

In his heat and triumph, and in his knowledge that I had been
nearly fainting, he did not remark on my reception of all this. It
was the one grain of relief I had.

"Look'ee here!" he went on, taking my watch out of my pocket,
and turning towards him a ring on my finger, while I recoiled from
his touch as if he had been a snake, "a gold 'un and a beauty:
that's a gentleman's, I hope! A diamond all set round with rubies;
that's a gentleman's, I hope! Look at your linen; fine and
beautiful! Look at your clothes; better ain't to be got! And your
books too," turning his eyes round the room, "mounting up, on their
shelves, by hundreds! And you read 'em; don't you? I see you'd been
a reading of 'em when I come in. Ha, ha, ha! You shall read 'em to
me, dear boy! And if they're in foreign languages wot I don't
understand, I shall be just as proud as if I did."

Again he took both my hands and put them to his lips, while my
blood ran cold within me.

"Don't you mind talking, Pip," said he, after again drawing his
sleeve over his eyes and forehead, as the click came in his throat
which I well remembered - and he was all the more horrible to me that
he was so much in earnest; "you can't do better nor keep quiet, dear
boy. You ain't looked slowly forward to this as I have; you wosn't
prepared for this, as I wos. But didn't you never think it might be
me?"

"O no, no, no," I returned, "Never, never!"

"Well, you see it wos me, and single-handed. Never a soul in it
but my own self and Mr. Jaggers."

"Was there no one else?" I asked.

"No," said he, with a glance of surprise: "who else should
there be? And, dear boy, how good looking you have growed! There's
bright eyes somewheres - eh? Isn't there bright eyes somewheres, wot
you love the thoughts on?"

O Estella, Estella!

"They shall be yourn, dear boy, if money can buy 'em. Not that
a gentleman like you, so well set up as you, can't win 'em off of his
own game; but money shall back you! Let me finish wot I was a-
telling you, dear boy. From that there hut and that there
hiring-out, I got money left me by my master (which died, and had
been the same as me), and got my liberty and went for myself. In
every single thing I went for, I went for you. 'Lord strike a blight
upon it,' I says, wotever it was I went for, 'if it ain't for him!'
It all prospered wonderful. As I giv' you to understand just now,
I'm famous for it. It was the money left me, and the gains of the
first few year wot I sent home to Mr. Jaggers - all for you - when he
first come arter you, agreeable to my letter."

O, that he had never come! That he had left me at the forge -
far from contented, yet, by comparison happy!

"And then, dear boy, it was a recompense to me, look'ee here, to
know in secret that I was making a gentleman. The blood horses of
them colonists might fling up the dust over me as I was walking; what
do I say? I says to myself, 'I'm making a better gentleman nor ever
you'll be!' When one of 'em says to another, 'He was a convict, a
few year ago, and is a ignorant common fellow now, for all he's
lucky,' what do I say? I says to myself, 'If I ain't a gentleman,
nor yet ain't got no learning, I'm the owner of such. All on you owns
stock and land; which on you owns a brought-up London gentleman?'
This way I kep myself a-going. And this way I held steady afore my
mind that I would for certain come one day and see my boy, and make
myself known to him, on his own ground."

He laid his hand on my shoulder. I shuddered at the thought
that for anything I knew, his hand might be stained with blood.

"It warn't easy, Pip, for me to leave them parts, nor yet it
warn't safe. But I held to it, and the harder it was, the stronger I
held, for I was determined, and my mind firm made up. At last I done
it. Dear boy, I done it!"

I tried to collect my thoughts, but I was stunned. Throughout,
I had seemed to myself to attend more to the wind and the rain than
to him; even now, I could not separate his voice from those voices,
though those were loud and his was silent.

"Where will you put me?" he asked, presently. "I must be put
somewheres, dear boy."

"To sleep?" said I.

"Yes. And to sleep long and sound," he answered; "for I've been
sea-tossed and sea-washed, months and months."

"My friend and companion," said I, rising from the sofa, "is
absent; you must have his room."

"He won't come back to-morrow; will he?"

"No," said I, answering almost mechanically, in spite of my
utmost efforts; "not to-morrow."

"Because, look'ee here, dear boy," he said, dropping his voice,
and laying a long finger on my breast in an impressive manner,
"caution is necessary."

"How do you mean? Caution?"

"By G - , it's Death!"

"What's death?"

"I was sent for life. It's death to come back. There's been
overmuch coming back of late years, and I should of a certainty be
hanged if took."

Nothing was needed but this; the wretched man, after loading
wretched me with his gold and silver chains for years, had risked his
life to come to me, and I held it there in my keeping! If I had
loved him instead of abhorring him; if I had been attracted to him by
the strongest admiration and affection, instead of shrinking from him
with the strongest repugnance; it could have been no worse. On the
contrary, it would have been better, for his preservation would then
have naturally and tenderly addressed my heart.

My first care was to close the shutters, so that no light might
be seen from without, and then to close and make fast the doors.
While I did so, he stood at the table drinking rum and eating
biscuit; and when I saw him thus engaged, I saw my convict on the
marshes at his meal again. It almost seemed to me as if he must
stoop down presently, to file at his leg.

When I had gone into Herbert's room, and had shut off any other
communication between it and the staircase than through the room in
which our conversation had been held, I asked him if he would go to
bed? He said yes, but asked me for some of my "gentleman's linen" to
put on in the morning. I brought it out, and laid it ready for him,
and my blood again ran cold when he again took me by both hands to
give me good night.

I got away from him, without knowing how I did it, and mended
the fire in the room where we had been together, and sat down by it,
afraid to go to bed. For an hour or more, I remained too stunned to
think; and it was not until I began to think, that I began fully to
know how wrecked I was, and how the ship in which I had sailed was
gone to pieces.

Miss Havisham's intentions towards me, all a mere dream; Estella
not designed for me; I only suffered in Satis House as a convenience,
a sting for the greedy relations, a model with a mechanical heart to
practise on when no other practice was at hand; those were the first
smarts I had. But, sharpest and deepest pain of all - it was for the
convict, guilty of I knew not what crimes, and liable to be taken out
of those rooms where I sat thinking, and hanged at the Old Bailey
door, that I had deserted Joe.

I would not have gone back to Joe now, I would not have gone
back to Biddy now, for any consideration: simply, I suppose, because
my sense of my own worthless conduct to them was greater than every
consideration. No wisdom on earth could have given me the comfort
that I should have derived from their simplicity and fidelity; but I
could never, never, undo what I had done.

In every rage of wind and rush of rain, I heard pursuers.
Twice, I could have sworn there was a knocking and whispering at the
outer door. With these fears upon me, I began either to imagine or
recall that I had had mysterious warnings of this man's approach.
That, for weeks gone by, I had passed faces in the streets which I
had thought like his. That, these likenesses had grown more
numerous, as he, coming over the sea, had drawn nearer. That, his
wicked spirit had somehow sent these messengers to mine, and that now
on this stormy night he was as good as his word, and with me.

Crowding up with these reflections came the reflection that I
had seen him with my childish eyes to be a desperately violent man;
that I had heard that other convict reiterate that he had tried to
murder him; that I had seen him down in the ditch tearing and
fighting like a wild beast. Out of such remembrances I brought into
the light of the fire, a half-formed terror that it might not be safe
to be shut up there with him in the dead of the wild solitary night.
This dilated until it filled the room, and impelled me to take a
candle and go in and look at my dreadful burden.

He had rolled a handkerchief round his head, and his face was
set and lowering in his sleep. But he was asleep, and quietly too,
though he had a pistol lying on the pillow. Assured of this, I
softly removed the key to the outside of his door, and turned it on
him before I again sat down by the fire. Gradually I slipped from
the chair and lay on the floor. When I awoke, without having parted
in my sleep with the perception of my wretchedness, the clocks of the
Eastward churches were striking five, the candles were wasted out,
the fire was dead, and the wind and rain intensified the thick black
darkness.

This is the end of the second stage of Pip's expectations.