Chapter 12: Bleeding Heart Yard

Little Dorrit

by Charles Dickens

In London itself, though in the old rustic road towards a suburb
of note where in the days of William Shakespeare, author and stage-
player, there were Royal hunting-seats--howbeit no sport is left
there now but for hunters of men--Bleeding Heart Yard was to be
found; a place much changed in feature and in fortune, yet with some
relish of ancient greatness about it. Two or three mighty stacks of
chimneys, and a few large dark rooms which had escaped being walled
and subdivided out of the recognition of their old proportions, gave
the Yard a character. It was inhabited by poor people, who set up
their rest among its faded glories, as Arabs of the desert pitch
their tents among the fallen stones of the Pyramids; but there was a
family sentimental feeling prevalent in the Yard, that it had a
character.

As if the aspiring city had become puffed up in the very ground
on which it stood, the ground had so risen about Bleeding Heart Yard
that you got into it down a flight of steps which formed no part of
the original approach, and got out of it by a low gateway into a maze
of shabby streets, which went about and about, tortuously ascending
to the level again. At this end of the Yard and over the gateway,
was the factory of Daniel Doyce, often heavily beating like a
bleeding heart of iron, with the clink of metal upon metal. The
opinion of the Yard was divided respecting the derivation of its
name. The more practical of its inmates abided by the tradition of a
murder; the gentler and more imaginative inhabitants, including the
whole of the tender sex, were loyal to the legend of a young lady of
former times closely imprisoned in her chamber by a cruel father for
remaining true to her own true love, and refusing to marry the suitor
he chose for her. The legend related how that the young lady used to
be seen up at her window behind the bars, murmuring a love-lorn song
of which the burden was, 'Bleeding Heart, Bleeding Heart, bleeding
away,' until she died. It was objected by the murderous party that
this Refrain was notoriously the invention of a tambour-worker, a
spinster and romantic, still lodging in the Yard. But, forasmuch as
all favourite legends must be associated with the affections, and as
many more people fall in love than commit murder--which it may be
hoped, howsoever bad we are, will continue until the end of the world
to be the dispensation under which we shall live--the Bleeding Heart,
Bleeding Heart, bleeding away story, carried the day by a great
majority. Neither party would listen to the antiquaries who
delivered learned lectures in the neighbourhood, showing the Bleeding
Heart to have been the heraldic cognisance of the old family to whom
the property had once belonged. And, considering that the hour-glass
they turned from year to year was filled with the earthiest and
coarsest sand, the Bleeding Heart Yarders had reason enough for
objecting to be despoiled of the one little golden grain of poetry
that sparkled in it.

Down in to the Yard, by way of the steps, came Daniel Doyce, Mr
Meagles, and Clennam. Passing along the Yard, and between the open
doors on either hand, all abundantly garnished with light children
nursing heavy ones, they arrived at its opposite boundary, the
gateway. Here Arthur Clennam stopped to look about him for the
domicile of Plornish, plasterer, whose name, according to the custom
of Londoners, Daniel Doyce had never seen or heard of to that
hour.

It was plain enough, nevertheless, as Little Dorrit had said;
over a lime-splashed gateway in the corner, within which Plornish
kept a ladder and a barrel or two. The last house in Bleeding Heart
Yard which she had described as his place of habitation, was a large
house, let off to various tenants; but Plornish ingeniously hinted
that he lived in the parlour, by means of a painted hand under his
name, the forefinger of which hand (on which the artist had depicted
a ring and a most elaborate nail of the genteelest form) referred all
inquirers to that apartment.

Parting from his companions, after arranging another meeting
with Mr Meagles, Clennam went alone into the entry, and knocked with
his knuckles at the parlour-door. It was opened presently by a woman
with a child in her arms, whose unoccupied hand was hastily
rearranging the upper part of her dress. This was Mrs Plornish, and
this maternal action was the action of Mrs Plornish during a large
part of her waking existence.

Was Mr Plornish at home? 'Well, sir,' said Mrs Plornish, a
civil woman, 'not to deceive you, he's gone to look for a job.'

'Not to deceive you' was a method of speech with Mrs Plornish.
She would deceive you, under any circumstances, as little as might
be; but she had a trick of answering in this provisional form.

'Do you think he will be back soon, if I wait for him?'

'I have been expecting him,' said Mrs Plornish, 'this half an
hour, at any minute of time. Walk in, sir.' Arthur entered the
rather dark and close parlour (though it was lofty too), and sat down
in the chair she placed for him.

'Not to deceive you, sir, I notice it,' said Mrs Plornish, 'and
I take it kind of you.'

He was at a loss to understand what she meant; and by expressing
as much in his looks, elicited her explanation.

'It ain't many that comes into a poor place, that deems it worth
their while to move their hats,' said Mrs Plornish. 'But people
think more of it than people think.'

Clennam returned, with an uncomfortable feeling in so very
slight a courtesy being unusual, Was that all! And stooping down to
pinch the cheek of another young child who was sitting on the floor,
staring at him, asked Mrs Plornish how old that fine boy was?

'Four year just turned, sir,' said Mrs Plornish. 'He is a fine
little fellow, ain't he, sir? But this one is rather sickly.' She
tenderly hushed the baby in her arms, as she said it. 'You wouldn't
mind my asking if it happened to be a job as you was come about, sir,
would you?' asked Mrs Plornish wistfully.

She asked it so anxiously, that if he had been in possession of
any kind of tenement, he would have had it plastered a foot deep
rather than answer No. But he was obliged to answer No; and he saw a
shade of disappointment on her face, as she checked a sigh, and
looked at the low fire. Then he saw, also, that Mrs Plornish was a
young woman, made somewhat slatternly in herself and her belongings
by poverty; and so dragged at by poverty and the children together,
that their united forces had already dragged her face into
wrinkles.

'All such things as jobs,' said Mrs Plornish, 'seems to me to
have gone underground, they do indeed.' (Herein Mrs Plornish limited
her remark to the plastering trade, and spoke without reference to
the Circumlocution Office and the Barnacle Family.)

'Is it so difficult to get work?' asked Arthur Clennam.

'Plornish finds it so,' she returned. 'He is quite unfortunate.
Really he is.' Really he was. He was one of those many wayfarers on
the road of life, who seem to be afflicted with supernatural corns,
rendering it impossible for them to keep up even with their lame
competitors.

A willing, working, soft hearted, not hard-headed fellow,
Plornish took his fortune as smoothly as could be expected; but it
was a rough one. It so rarely happened that anybody seemed to want
him, it was such an exceptional case when his powers were in any
request, that his misty mind could not make out how it happened. He
took it as it came, therefore; he tumbled into all kinds of
difficulties, and tumbled out of them; and, by tumbling through life,
got himself considerably bruised.

'It's not for want of looking after jobs, I am sure,' said Mrs
Plornish, lifting up her eyebrows, and searching for a solution of
the problem between the bars of the grate; 'nor yet for want of
working at them when they are to be got. No one ever heard my
husband complain of work.'

Somehow or other, this was the general misfortune of Bleeding
Heart Yard. From time to time there were public complaints,
pathetically going about, of labour being scarce--which certain
people seemed to take extraordinarily ill, as though they had an
absolute right to it on their own terms--but Bleeding Heart Yard,
though as willing a Yard as any in Britain, was never the better for
the demand. That high old family, the Barnacles, had long been too
busy with their great principle to look into the matter; and indeed
the matter had nothing to do with their watchfulness in
out-generalling all other high old families except the
Stiltstalkings.

While Mrs Plornish spoke in these words of her absent lord, her
lord returned. A smooth-cheeked, fresh-coloured, sandy-whiskered man
of thirty. Long in the legs, yielding at the knees, foolish in the
face, flannel-jacketed, lime-whitened.

'This is Plornish, sir.'

'I came,' said Clennam, rising, 'to beg the favour of a little
conversation with you on the subject of the Dorrit family.'

Plornish became suspicious. Seemed to scent a creditor. Said,
'Ah, yes. Well. He didn't know what satisfaction he could give any
gentleman, respecting that family. What might it be about, now?'

'I know you better,' said Clennam, smiling, 'than you
suppose.'

Plornish observed, not Smiling in return, And yet he hadn't the
pleasure of being acquainted with the gentleman, neither.

'No,' said Arthur, 'I know your kind offices at second hand, but
on the best authority; through Little Dorrit.--I mean,' he explained,
'Miss Dorrit.'

'Mr Clennam, is it? Oh! I've heard of you, Sir.'

'And I of you,' said Arthur.

'Please to sit down again, Sir, and consider yourself welcome.--
Why, yes,' said Plornish, taking a chair, and lifting the elder child
upon his knee, that he might have the moral support of speaking to a
stranger over his head, 'I have been on the wrong side of the Lock
myself, and in that way we come to know Miss Dorrit. Me and my wife,
we are well acquainted with Miss Dorrit.' 'Intimate!' cried Mrs
Plornish. Indeed, she was so proud of the acquaintance, that she had
awakened some bitterness of spirit in the Yard by magnifying to an
enormous amount the sum for which Miss Dorrit's father had become
insolvent. The Bleeding Hearts resented her claiming to know people
of such distinction.

'It was her father that I got acquainted with first. And
through getting acquainted with him, you see--why--I got acquainted
with her,' said Plornish tautologically.

'I see.'

'Ah! And there's manners! There's polish! There's a gentleman
to have run to seed in the Marshalsea jail! Why, perhaps you are not
aware,' said Plornish, lowering his voice, and speaking with a
perverse admiration of what he ought to have pitied or despised, 'not
aware that Miss Dorrit and her sister dursn't let him know that they
work for a living. No!' said Plornish, looking with a ridiculous
triumph first at his wife, and then all round the room. 'Dursn't let
him know it, they dursn't!'

'Without admiring him for that,' Clennam quietly observed, 'I am
very sorry for him.' The remark appeared to suggest to Plornish, for
the first time, that it might not be a very fine trait of character
after all. He pondered about it for a moment, and gave it up.

'As to me,' he resumed, 'certainly Mr Dorrit is as affable with
me, I am sure, as I can possibly expect. Considering the differences
and distances betwixt us, more so. But it's Miss Dorrit that we were
speaking of.'

'True. Pray how did you introduce her at my mother's!'

Mr Plornish picked a bit of lime out of his whisker, put it
between his lips, turned it with his tongue like a sugar-plum,
considered, found himself unequal to the task of lucid explanation,
and appealing to his wife, said, 'Sally, you may as well mention how
it was, old woman.'

'Miss Dorrit,' said Sally, hushing the baby from side to side,
and laying her chin upon the little hand as it tried to disarrange
the gown again, 'came here one afternoon with a bit of writing,
telling that how she wished for needlework, and asked if it would be
considered any ill-conwenience in case she was to give her address
here.' (Plornish repeated, her address here, in a low voice, as if
he were making responses at church.) 'Me and Plornish says, No, Miss
Dorrit, no ill-conwenience,' (Plornish repeated, no ill-
conwenience,) 'and she wrote it in, according. Which then me and
Plornish says, Ho Miss Dorrit!' (Plornish repeated, Ho Miss Dorrit.)
'Have you thought of copying it three or four times, as the way to
make it known in more places than one? No, says Miss Dorrit, I have
not, but I will. She copied it out according, on this table, in a
sweet writing, and Plornish, he took it where he worked, having a job
just then,' (Plornish repeated job just then,) 'and likewise to the
landlord of the Yard; through which it was that Mrs Clennam first
happened to employ Miss Dorrit.' Plornish repeated, employ Miss
Dorrit; and Mrs Plornish having come to an end, feigned to bite the
fingers of the little hand as she kissed it.

'The landlord of the Yard,' said Arthur Clennam, 'is--'

'He is Mr Casby, by name, he is,' said Plornish, 'and Pancks, he
collects the rents. That,' added Mr Plornish, dwelling on the
subject with a slow thoughtfulness that appeared to have no
connection with any specific object, and to lead him nowhere, 'that
is about what they are, you may believe me or not, as you think
proper.'

'Ay?' returned Clennam, thoughtful in his turn. 'Mr Casby, too!
An old acquaintance of mine, long ago!'

Mr Plornish did not see his road to any comment on this fact,
and made none. As there truly was no reason why he should have the
least interest in it, Arthur Clennam went on to the present purport
of his visit; namely, to make Plornish the instrument of effecting
Tip's release, with as little detriment as possible to the self-
reliance and self-helpfulness of the young man, supposing him to
possess any remnant of those qualities: without doubt a very wide
stretch of supposition. Plornish, having been made acquainted with
the cause of action from the Defendant's own mouth, gave Arthur to
understand that the Plaintiff was a 'Chaunter'--meaning, not a singer
of anthems, but a seller of horses--and that he (Plornish) considered
that ten shillings in the pound 'would settle handsome,' and that
more would be a waste of money. The Principal and instrument soon
drove off together to a stable-yard in High Holborn, where a
remarkably fine grey gelding, worth, at the lowest figure,
seventy-five guineas (not taking into account the value of the shot
he had been made to swallow for the improvement of his form), was to
be parted with for a twenty-pound note, in consequence of his having
run away last week with Mrs Captain Barbary of Cheltenham, who wasn't
up to a horse of his courage, and who, in mere spite, insisted on
selling him for that ridiculous sum: or, in other words, on giving
him away. Plornish, going up this yard alone and leaving his
Principal outside, found a gentleman with tight drab legs, a rather
old hat, a little hooked stick, and a blue neckerchief (Captain
Maroon of Gloucestershire, a private friend of Captain Barbary); who
happened to be there, in a friendly way, to mention these little
circumstances concerning the remarkably fine grey gelding to any real
judge of a horse and quick snapper-up of a good thing, who might look
in at that address as per advertisement. This gentleman, happening
also to be the Plaintiff in the Tip case, referred Mr Plornish to his
solicitor, and declined to treat with Mr Plornish, or even to endure
his presence in the yard, unless he appeared there with a
twenty-pound note: in which case only, the gentleman would augur from
appearances that he meant business, and might be induced to talk to
him. On this hint, Mr Plornish retired to communicate with his
Principal, and presently came back with the required credentials.
Then said Captain Maroon, 'Now, how much time do you want to make the
other twenty in? Now, I'll give you a month.' Then said Captain
Maroon, when that wouldn't suit, 'Now, I'll tell what I'll do with
you. You shall get me a good bill at four months, made payable at a
banking-house, for the other twenty!' Then said Captain Maroon, when
that wouldn't suit, 'Now, come; Here's the last I've got to say to
you. You shall give me another ten down, and I'll run my pen clean
through it.' Then said Captain Maroon when that wouldn't suit, 'Now,
I'll tell you what it is, and this shuts it up; he has used me bad,
but I'll let him off for another five down and a bottle of wine; and
if you mean done, say done, and if you don't like it, leave it.'
Finally said Captain Maroon, when that wouldn't suit either, 'Hand
over, then!'--And in consideration of the first offer, gave a receipt
in full and discharged the prisoner.

'Mr Plornish,' said Arthur, 'I trust to you, if you please, to
keep my secret. If you will undertake to let the young man know that
he is free, and to tell him that you were employed to compound for
the debt by some one whom you are not at liberty to name, you will
not only do me a service, but may do him one, and his sister
also.'

'The last reason, sir,' said Plornish, 'would be quite
sufficient. Your wishes shall be attended to.'

'A Friend has obtained his discharge, you can say if you please.
A Friend who hopes that for his sister's sake, if for no one else's,
he will make good use of his liberty.'

'Your wishes, sir, shall be attended to.'

'And if you will be so good, in your better knowledge of the
family, as to communicate freely with me, and to point out to me any
means by which you think I may be delicately and really useful to
Little Dorrit, I shall feel under an obligation to you.'

'Don't name it, sir,' returned Plornish, 'it'll be ekally a
pleasure an a--it'l be ekally a pleasure and a--' Finding himself
unable to balance his sentence after two efforts, Mr Plornish wisely
dropped it. He took Clennam's card and appropriate pecuniary
compliment.

He was earnest to finish his commission at once, and his
Principal was in the same mind. So his Principal offered to set him
down at the Marshalsea Gate, and they drove in that direction over
Blackfriars Bridge. On the way, Arthur elicited from his new friend
a confused summary of the interior life of Bleeding Heart Yard. They
was all hard up there, Mr Plornish said, uncommon hard up, to be
sure. Well, he couldn't say how it was; he didn't know as anybody
could say how it was; all he know'd was, that so it was.

When a man felt, on his own back and in his own belly, that poor
he was, that man (Mr Plornish gave it as his decided belief) know'd
well that he was poor somehow or another, and you couldn't talk it
out of him, no more than you could talk Beef into him. Then you see,
some people as was better off said, and a good many such people lived
pretty close up to the mark themselves if not beyond it so he'd
heerd, that they was 'improvident' (that was the favourite word) down
the Yard. For instance, if they see a man with his wife and children
going to Hampton Court in a Wan, perhaps once in a year, they says,
'Hallo! I thought you was poor, my improvident friend!' Why, Lord,
how hard it was upon a man! What was a man to do? He couldn't go
mollancholy mad, and even if he did, you wouldn't be the better for
it. In Mr Plornish's judgment you would be the worse for it. Yet
you seemed to want to make a man mollancholy mad. You was always at
it--if not with your right hand, with your left. What was they a
doing in the Yard? Why, take a look at 'em and see. There was the
girls and their mothers a working at their sewing, or their
shoe-binding, or their trimming, or their waistcoat making, day and
night and night and day, and not more than able to keep body and soul
together after all--often not so much. There was people of pretty
well all sorts of trades you could name, all wanting to work, and yet
not able to get it. There was old people, after working all their
lives, going and being shut up in the workhouse, much worse fed and
lodged and treated altogether, than--Mr Plornish said manufacturers,
but appeared to mean malefactors. Why, a man didn't know where to
turn himself for a crumb of comfort. As to who was to blame for it,
Mr Plornish didn't know who was to blame for it. He could tell you
who suffered, but he couldn't tell you whose fault it was. It wasn't
his place to find out, and who'd mind what he said, if he did find
out? He only know'd that it wasn't put right by them what undertook
that line of business, and that it didn't come right of itself. And,
in brief, his illogical opinion was, that if you couldn't do nothing
for him, you had better take nothing from him for doing of it; so far
as he could make out, that was about what it come to. Thus, in a
prolix, gently-growling, foolish way, did Plornish turn the tangled
skein of his estate about and about, like a blind man who was trying
to find some beginning or end to it; until they reached the prison
gate. There, he left his Principal alone; to wonder, as he rode
away, how many thousand Plornishes there might be within a day or
two's journey of the Circumlocution Office, playing sundry curious
variations on the same tune, which were not known by ear in that
glorious institution.