Chapter 36: The Marshalsea becomes an Orphan

Little Dorrit

by Charles Dickens

And now the day arrived when Mr Dorrit and his family were to
leave the prison for ever, and the stones of its much-trodden
pavement were to know them no more.

The interval had been short, but he had greatly complained of
its length, and had been imperious with Mr Rugg touching the delay.
He had been high with Mr Rugg, and had threatened to employ some one
else. He had requested Mr Rugg not to presume upon the place in
which he found him, but to do his duty, sir, and to do it with
promptitude. He had told Mr Rugg that he knew what lawyers and
agents were, and that he would not submit to imposition. On that
gentleman's humbly representing that he exerted himself to the
utmost, Miss Fanny was very short with him; desiring to know what
less he could do, when he had been told a dozen times that money was
no object, and expressing her suspicion that he forgot whom he talked
to.

Towards the Marshal, who was a Marshal of many years' standing,
and with whom he had never had any previous difference, Mr Dorrit
comported himself with severity. That officer, on personally
tendering his congratulations, offered the free use of two rooms in
his house for Mr Dorrit's occupation until his departure. Mr Dorrit
thanked him at the moment, and replied that he would think of it; but
the Marshal was no sooner gone than he sat down and wrote him a
cutting note, in which he remarked that he had never on any former
occasion had the honour of receiving his congratulations (which was
true, though indeed there had not been anything particular to
congratulate him upon), and that he begged, on behalf of himself and
family, to repudiate the Marshal's offer, with all those thanks which
its disinterested character and its perfect independence of all
worldly considerations demanded.

Although his brother showed so dim a glimmering of interest in
their altered fortunes that it was very doubtful whether he
understood them, Mr Dorrit caused him to be measured for new raiment
by the hosiers, tailors, hatters, and bootmakers whom he called in
for himself; and ordered that his old clothes should be taken from
him and burned. Miss Fanny and Mr Tip required no direction in
making an appearance of great fashion and elegance; and the three
passed this interval together at the best hotel in the
neighbourhood--though truly, as Miss Fanny said, the best was very
indifferent. In connection with that establishment, Mr Tip hired a
cabriolet, horse, and groom, a very neat turn out, which was usually
to be observed for two or three hours at a time gracing the Borough
High Street, outside the Marshalsea court-yard. A modest little
hired chariot and pair was also frequently to be seen there; in
alighting from and entering which vehicle, Miss Fanny fluttered the
Marshal's daughters by the display of inaccessible bonnets.

A great deal of business was transacted in this short period.
Among other items, Messrs Peddle and Pool, solicitors, of Monument
Yard, were instructed by their client Edward Dorrit, Esquire, to
address a letter to Mr Arthur Clennam, enclosing the sum of twenty-
four pounds nine shillings and eightpence, being the amount of
principal and interest computed at the rate of five per cent. per
annum, in which their client believed himself to be indebted to Mr
Clennam. In making this communication and remittance, Messrs Peddle
and Pool were further instructed by their client to remind Mr Clennam
that the favour of the advance now repaid (including gate-fees) had
not been asked of him, and to inform him that it would not have been
accepted if it had been openly proffered in his name. With which
they requested a stamped receipt, and remained his obedient servants.
A great deal of business had likewise to be done, within the
so-soon-to-be-orphaned Marshalsea, by Mr Dorrit so long its Father,
chiefly arising out of applications made to him by Collegians for
small sums of money. To these he responded with the greatest
liberality, and with no lack of formality; always first writing to
appoint a time at which the applicant might wait upon him in his
room, and then receiving him in the midst of a vast accumulation of
documents, and accompanying his donation (for he said in every such
case, 'it is a donation, not a loan') with a great deal of good
counsel: to the effect that he, the expiring Father of the
Marshalsea, hoped to be long remembered, as an example that a man
might preserve his own and the general respect even there.

The Collegians were not envious. Besides that they had a
personal and traditional regard for a Collegian of so many years'
standing, the event was creditable to the College, and made it famous
in the newspapers. Perhaps more of them thought, too, than were
quite aware of it, that the thing might in the lottery of chances
have happened to themselves, or that something of the sort might yet
happen to themselves some day or other. They took it very well. A
few were low at the thought of being left behind, and being left
poor; but even these did not grudge the family their brilliant
reverse. There might have been much more envy in politer places. It
seems probable that mediocrity of fortune would have been disposed to
be less magnanimous than the Collegians, who lived from hand to
mouth--from the pawnbroker's hand to the day's dinner.

They got up an address to him, which they presented in a neat
frame and glass (though it was not afterwards displayed in the family
mansion or preserved among the family papers); and to which he
returned a gracious answer. In that document he assured them, in a
Royal manner, that he received the profession of their attachment
with a full conviction of its sincerity; and again generally exhorted
them to follow his example--which, at least in so far as coming into
a great property was concerned, there is no doubt they would have
gladly imitated. He took the same occasion of inviting them to a
comprehensive entertainment, to be given to the whole College in the
yard, and at which he signified he would have the honour of taking a
parting glass to the health and happiness of all those whom he was
about to leave behind.

He did not in person dine at this public repast (it took place
at two in the afternoon, and his dinners now came in from the hotel
at six), but his son was so good as to take the head of the principal
table, and to be very free and engaging. He himself went about among
the company, and took notice of individuals, and saw that the viands
were of the quality he had ordered, and that all were served. On the
whole, he was like a baron of the olden time in a rare good humour.
At the conclusion of the repast, he pledged his guests in a bumper of
old Madeira; and told them that he hoped they had enjoyed themselves,
and what was more, that they would enjoy themselves for the rest of
the evening; that he wished them well; and that he bade them
welcome.

His health being drunk with acclamations, he was not so baronial
after all but that in trying to return thanks he broke down, in the
manner of a mere serf with a heart in his breast, and wept before
them all. After this great success, which he supposed to be a
failure, he gave them 'Mr Chivery and his brother officers;' whom he
had beforehand presented with ten pounds each, and who were all in
attendance. Mr Chivery spoke to the toast, saying, What you
undertake to lock up, lock up; but remember that you are, in the
words of the fettered African, a man and a brother ever. The list of
toasts disposed of, Mr Dorrit urbanely went through the motions of
playing a game of skittles with the Collegian who was the next oldest
inhabitant to himself; and left the tenantry to their diversions.

But all these occurrences preceded the final day. And now the
day arrived when he and his family were to leave the prison for ever,
and when the stones of its much-trodden pavement were to know them no
more.

Noon was the hour appointed for the departure. As it
approached, there was not a Collegian within doors, nor a turnkey
absent. The latter class of gentlemen appeared in their Sunday
clothes, and the greater part of the Collegians were brightened up as
much as circumstances allowed. Two or three flags were even
displayed, and the children put on odds and ends of ribbon. Mr
Dorrit himself, at this trying time, preserved a serious but graceful
dignity. Much of his great attention was given to his brother, as to
whose bearing on the great occasion he felt anxious.

'My dear Frederick,' said he, 'if you will give me your arm we
will pass among our friends together. I think it is right that we
should go out arm in arm, my dear Frederick.'

'Hah!' said Frederick. 'Yes, yes, yes, yes.'

'And if, my dear Frederick--if you could, without putting any
great constraint upon yourself, throw a little (pray excuse me,
Frederick), a little Polish into your usual demeanour--'

'William, William,' said the other, shaking his head, 'it's for
you to do all that. I don't know how. All forgotten, forgotten!'

'But, my dear fellow,' returned William, 'for that very reason,
if for no other, you must positively try to rouse yourself. What you
have forgotten you must now begin to recall, my dear Frederick. Your
position--'

'Eh?' said Frederick.

'Your position, my dear Frederick.'

'Mine?' He looked first at his own figure, and then at his
brother's, and then, drawing a long breath, cried, 'Hah, to be sure!
Yes, yes, yes.' 'Your position, my dear Frederick, is now a fine one.
Your position, as my brother, is a very fine one. And I know that
it belongs to your conscientious nature to try to become worthy of
it, my dear Frederick, and to try to adorn it. To be no discredit to
it, but to adorn it.'

'William,' said the other weakly, and with a sigh, 'I will do
anything you wish, my brother, provided it lies in my power. Pray be
so kind as to recollect what a limited power mine is. What would you
wish me to do to-day, brother? Say what it is, only say what it
is.'

'My dearest Frederick, nothing. It is not worth troubling so
good a heart as yours with.'

'Pray trouble it,' returned the other. 'It finds it no trouble,
William, to do anything it can for you.'

William passed his hand across his eyes, and murmured with
august satisfaction, 'Blessings on your attachment, my poor dear
fellow!' Then he said aloud, 'Well, my dear Frederick, if you will
only try, as we walk out, to show that you are alive to the occasion
--that you think about it--'

'What would you advise me to think about it?' returned his
submissive brother.

'Oh! my dear Frederick, how can I answer you? I can only say
what, in leaving these good people, I think myself.'

'That's it!' cried his brother. 'That will help me.'

'I find that I think, my dear Frederick, and with mixed emotions
in which a softened compassion predominates, What will they do
without me!'

'True,' returned his brother. 'Yes, yes, yes, yes. I'll think
that as we go, What will they do without my brother! Poor things!
What will they do without him!'

Twelve o'clock having just struck, and the carriage being
reported ready in the outer court-yard, the brothers proceeded
down-stairs arm-in-arm. Edward Dorrit, Esquire (once Tip), and his
sister Fanny followed, also arm-in-arm; Mr Plornish and Maggy, to
whom had been entrusted the removal of such of the family effects as
were considered worth removing, followed, bearing bundles and burdens
to be packed in a cart.

In the yard, were the Collegians and turnkeys. In the yard,
were Mr Pancks and Mr Rugg, come to see the last touch given to their
work. In the yard, was Young John making a new epitaph for himself,
on the occasion of his dying of a broken heart. In the yard, was the
Patriarchal Casby, looking so tremendously benevolent that many
enthusiastic Collegians grasped him fervently by the hand, and the
wives and female relatives of many more Collegians kissed his hand,
nothing doubting that he had done it all. In the yard, was the man
with the shadowy grievance respecting the Fund which the Marshal
embezzled, who had got up at five in the morning to complete the
copying of a perfectly unintelligible history of that transaction,
which he had committed to Mr Dorrit's care, as a document of the last
importance, calculated to stun the Government and effect the
Marshal's downfall. In the yard, was the insolvent whose utmost
energies were always set on getting into debt, who broke into prison
with as much pains as other men have broken out of it, and who was
always being cleared and complimented; while the insolvent at his
elbow--a mere little, snivelling, striving tradesman, half dead of
anxious efforts to keep out of debt--found it a hard matter, indeed,
to get a Commissioner to release him with much reproof and reproach.
In the yard, was the man of many children and many burdens, whose
failure astonished everybody; in the yard, was the man of no children
and large resources, whose failure astonished nobody. There, were
the people who were always going out to-morrow, and always putting it
off; there, were the people who had come in yesterday, and who were
much more jealous and resentful of this freak of fortune than the
seasoned birds. There, were some who, in pure meanness of spirit,
cringed and bowed before the enriched Collegian and his family;
there, were others who did so really because their eyes, accustomed
to the gloom of their imprisonment and poverty, could not support the
light of such bright sunshine. There, were many whose shillings had
gone into his pocket to buy him meat and drink; but none who were now
obtrusively Hail fellow well met! with him, on the strength of that
assistance. It was rather to be remarked of the caged birds, that
they were a little shy of the bird about to be so grandly free, and
that they had a tendency to withdraw themselves towards the bars, and
seem a little fluttered as he passed.

Through these spectators the little procession, headed by the
two brothers, moved slowly to the gate. Mr Dorrit, yielding to the
vast speculation how the poor creatures were to get on without him,
was great, and sad, but not absorbed. He patted children on the head
like Sir Roger de Coverley going to church, he spoke to people in the
background by their Christian names, he condescended to all present,
and seemed for their consolation to walk encircled by the legend in
golden characters, 'Be comforted, my people! Bear it!'

At last three honest cheers announced that he had passed the
gate, and that the Marshalsea was an orphan. Before they had ceased
to ring in the echoes of the prison walls, the family had got into
their carriage, and the attendant had the steps in his hand.

Then, and not before, 'Good Gracious!' cried Miss Fanny all at
once, 'Where's Amy!'

Her father had thought she was with her sister. Her sister had
thought she was 'somewhere or other.' They had all trusted to
finding her, as they had always done, quietly in the right place at
the right moment. This going away was perhaps the very first action
of their joint lives that they had got through without her.

A minute might have been consumed in the ascertaining of these
points, when Miss Fanny, who, from her seat in the carriage,
commanded the long narrow passage leading to the Lodge, flushed
indignantly.

'Now I do say, Pa,' cried she, 'that this is disgraceful!'

'What is disgraceful, Fanny?'

'I do say,' she repeated, 'this is perfectly infamous! Really
almost enough, even at such a time as this, to make one wish one was
dead! Here is that child Amy, in her ugly old shabby dress, which
she was so obstinate about, Pa, which I over and over again begged
and prayed her to change, and which she over and over again objected
to, and promised to change to-day, saying she wished to wear it as
long as ever she remained in there with you--which was absolutely
romantic nonsense of the lowest kind--here is that child Amy
disgracing us to the last moment and at the last moment, by being
carried out in that dress after all. And by that Mr Clennam too!'

The offence was proved, as she delivered the indictment.
Clennam appeared at the carriage-door, bearing the little insensible
figure in his arms.

'She has been forgotten,' he said, in a tone of pity not free
from reproach. 'I ran up to her room (which Mr Chivery showed me)
and found the door open, and that she had fainted on the floor, dear
child. She appeared to have gone to change her dress, and to have
sunk down overpowered. It may have been the cheering, or it may have
happened sooner. Take care of this poor cold hand, Miss Dorrit.
Don't let it fall.'

'Thank you, sir,' returned Miss Dorrit, bursting into tears. 'I
believe I know what to do, if you will give me leave. Dear Amy, open
your eyes, that's a love! Oh, Amy, Amy, I really am so vexed and
ashamed! Do rouse yourself, darling! Oh, why are they not driving
on! Pray, Pa, do drive on!'

The attendant, getting between Clennam and the carriage-door,
with a sharp 'By your leave, sir!' bundled up the steps, and they
drove away.