Chapter 1

The Old Curiosity Shop

by Charles Dickens

Night is generally my time for walking. In the summer I often
leave home early in the morning, and roam about fields and lanes all
day, or even escape for days or weeks together; but, saving in the
country, I seldom go out until after dark, though, Heaven be thanked,
I love its light and feel the cheerfulness it sheds upon the earth,
as much as any creature living.

I have fallen insensibly into this habit, both because it
favours my infirmity and because it affords me greater opportunity of
speculating on the characters and occupations of those who fill the
streets. The glare and hurry of broad noon are not adapted to idle
pursuits like mine; a glimpse of passing faces caught by the light of
a street-lamp or a shop window is often better for my purpose than
their full revelation in the daylight; and, if I must add the truth,
night is kinder in this respect than day, which too often destroys an
air-built castle at the moment of its completion, without the least
ceremony or remorse.

That constant pacing to and fro, that never-ending restlessness,
that incessant tread of feet wearing the rough stones smooth and
glossy--is it not a wonder how the dwellers in narrows ways can bear
to hear it! Think of a sick man in such a place as Saint Martin's
Court, listening to the footsteps, and in the midst of pain and
weariness obliged, despite himself (as though it were a task he must
perform) to detect the child's step from the man's, the slipshod
beggar from the booted exquisite, the lounging from the busy, the
dull heel of the sauntering outcast from the quick tread of an
expectant pleasure-seeker--think of the hum and noise always being
present to his sense, and of the stream of life that will not stop,
pouring on, on, on, through all his restless dreams, as if he were
condemned to lie, dead but conscious, in a noisy churchyard, and had
no hope of rest for centuries to come.

Then, the crowds for ever passing and repassing on the bridges
(on those which are free of toil at last), where many stop on fine
evenings looking listlessly down upon the water with some vague idea
that by and by it runs between green banks which grow wider and wider
until at last it joins the broad vast sea--where some halt to rest
from heavy loads and think as they look over the parapet that to
smoke and lounge away one's life, and lie sleeping in the sun upon a
hot tarpaulin, in a dull, slow, sluggish barge, must be happiness
unalloyed--and where some, and a very different class, pause with
heaver loads than they, remembering to have heard or read in old time
that drowning was not a hard death, but of all means of suicide the
easiest and best.

Covent Garden Market at sunrise too, in the spring or summer,
when the fragrance of sweet flowers is in the air, over-powering even
the unwholesome streams of last night's debauchery, and driving the
dusky thrust, whose cage has hung outside a garret window all night
long, half mad with joy! Poor bird! the only neighbouring thing at
all akin to the other little captives, some of whom, shrinking from
the hot hands of drunken purchasers, lie drooping on the path
already, while others, soddened by close contact, await the time when
they shall be watered and freshened up to please more sober company,
and make old clerks who pass them on their road to business, wonder
what has filled their breasts with visions of the country.

But my present purpose is not to expatiate upon my walks. The
story I am about to relate, and to which I shall recur at intervals,
arose out of one of these rambles; and thus I have been led to speak
of them by way of preface.

One night I had roamed into the City, and was walking slowly on
in my usual way, musing upon a great many things, when I was arrested
by an inquiry, the purport of which did not reach me, but which
seemed to be addressed to myself, and was preferred in a soft sweet
voice that struck me very pleasantly. I turned hastily round and
found at my elbow a pretty little girl, who begged to be directed to
a certain street at a considerable distance, and indeed in quite
another quarter of the town.

It is a very long way from here,' said I, 'my child.'

'I know that, sir,' she replied timidly. 'I am afraid it is a
very long way, for I came from there to-night.'

'Alone?' said I, in some surprise.

'Oh, yes, I don't mind that, but I am a little frightened now,
for I had lost my road.'

'And what made you ask it of me? Suppose I should tell you
wrong?'

'I am sure you will not do that,' said the little creature,' you
are such a very old gentleman, and walk so slow yourself.'

I cannot describe how much I was impressed by this appeal and
the energy with which it was made, which brought a tear into the
child's clear eye, and made her slight figure tremble as she looked
up into my face.

'Come,' said I, 'I'll take you there.'

She put her hand in mind as confidingly as if she had known me
from her cradle, and we trudged away together; the little creature
accommodating her pace to mine, and rather seeming to lead and take
care of me than I to be protecting her. I observed that every now and
then she stole a curious look at my face, as if to make quite sure
that I was not deceiving her, and that these glances (very sharp and
keen they were too) seemed to increase her confidence at every
repetition.

For my part, my curiosity and interest were at least equal to
the child's, for child she certainly was, although I thought it
probably from what I could make out, that her very small and delicate
frame imparted a peculiar youthfulness to her appearance. Though more
scantily attired than she might have been she was dressed with
perfect neatness, and betrayed no marks of poverty or neglect.

'Who has sent you so far by yourself?' said I.

'Someone who is very kind to me, sir.'

'And what have you been doing?'

'That, I must not tell,' said the child firmly.

There was something in the manner of this reply which caused me
to look at the little creature with an involuntary expression of
surprise; for I wondered what kind of errand it might be that
occasioned her to be prepared for questioning. Her quick eye seemed
to read my thoughts, for as it met mine she added that there was no
harm in what she had been doing, but it was a great secret--a secret
which she did not even know herself.

This was said with no appearance of cunning or deceit, but with
an unsuspicious frankness that bore the impress of truth. She walked
on as before, growing more familiar with me as we proceeded and
talking cheerfully by the way, but she said no more about her home,
beyond remarking that we were going quite a new road and asking if it
were a short one.

While we were thus engaged, I revolved in my mind a hundred
different explanations of the riddle and rejected them every one. I
really felt ashamed to take advantage of the ingenuousness or
grateful feeling of the child for the purpose of gratifying my
curiosity. I love these little people; and it is not a slight thing
when they, who are so fresh from God, love us. As I had felt pleased
at first by her confidence I determined to deserve it, and to do
credit to the nature which had prompted her to repose it in me.

There was no reason, however, why I should refrain from seeing
the person who had inconsiderately sent her to so great a distance by
night and alone, and as it was not improbable that if she found
herself near home she might take farewell of me and deprive me of the
opportunity, I avoided the most frequented ways and took the most
intricate, and thus it was not until we arrived in the street itself
that she knew where we were. Clapping her hands with pleasure and
running on before me for a short distance, my little acquaintance
stopped at a door and remaining on the step till I came up knocked at
it when I joined her.

A part of this door was of glass unprotected by any shutter,
which I did not observe at first, for all was very dark and silent
within, and I was anxious (as indeed the child was also) for an
answer to our summons. When she had knocked twice or thrice there was
a noise as if some person were moving inside, and at length a faint
light appeared through the glass which, as it approached very slowly,
the bearer having to make his way through a great many scattered
articles, enabled me to see both what kind of person it was who
advanced and what kind of place it was through which he came.

It was an old man with long grey hair, whose face and figure as
he held the light above his head and looked before him as he
approached, I could plainly see. Though much altered by age, I
fancied I could recognize in his spare and slender form something of
that delicate mould which I had noticed in a child. Their bright blue
eyes were certainly alike, but his face was so deeply furrowed and so
very full of care, that here all resemblance ceased.

The place through which he made his way at leisure was one of
those receptacles for old and curious things which seem to crouch in
odd corners of this town and to hide their musty treasures from the
public eye in jealousy and distrust. There were suits of mail
standing like ghosts in armour here and there, fantastic carvings
brought from monkish cloisters, rusty weapons of various kinds,
distorted figures in china and wood and iron and ivory: tapestry and
strange furniture that might have been designed in dreams. The
haggard aspect of the little old man was wonderfully suited to the
place; he might have groped among old churches and tombs and deserted
houses and gathered all the spoils with his own hands. There was
nothing in the whole collection but was in keeping with himself
nothing that looked older or more worn than he.

As he turned the key in the lock, he surveyed me with some
astonishment which was not diminished when he looked from me to my
companion. The door being opened, the child addressed him as
grandfather, and told him the little story of our companionship.

'Why, bless thee, child,' said the old man, patting her on the
head, 'how couldst thou miss thy way? What if I had lost thee,
Nell!'

'I would have found my way back to you, grandfather,' said the
child boldly; 'never fear.'

The old man kissed her, then turning to me and begging me to
walk in, I did so. The door was closed and locked. Preceding me with
the light, he led me through the place I had already seen from
without, into a small sitting-room behind, in which was another door
opening into a kind of closet, where I saw a little bed that a fairy
might have slept in, it looked so very small and was so prettily
arranged. The child took a candle and tripped into this little room,
leaving the old man and me together.

'You must be tired, sir,' said he as he placed a chair near the
fire, 'how can I thank you?'

'By taking more care of your grandchild another time, my good
friend,' I replied.

'More care!' said the old man in a shrill voice, 'more care of
Nelly! Why, who ever loved a child as I love Nell?'

He said this with such evident surprise that I was perplexed
what answer to make, and the more so because coupled with something
feeble and wandering in his manner, there were in his face marks of
deep and anxious thought which convinced me that he could not be, as
I had been at first inclined to suppose, in a state of dotage or
imbecility.

'I don't think you consider--' I began.

'I don't consider!' cried the old man interrupting me, 'I don't
consider her! Ah, how little you know of the truth! Little Nelly,
little Nelly!'

It would be impossible for any man, I care not what his form of
speech might be, to express more affection than the dealer in
curiosities did, in these four words. I waited for him to speak
again, but he rested his chin upon his hand and shaking his head
twice or thrice fixed his eyes upon the fire.

While we were sitting thus in silence, the door of the closet
opened, and the child returned, her light brown hair hanging loose
about her neck, and her face flushed with the haste she had made to
rejoin us. She busied herself immediately in preparing supper, and
while she was thus engaged I remarked that the old man took an
opportunity of observing me more closely than he had done yet. I was
surprised to see that all this time everything was done by the child,
and that there appeared to be no other persons but ourselves in the
house. I took advantage of a moment when she was absent to venture a
hint on this point, to which the old man replied that there were few
grown persons as trustworthy or as careful as she.

'It always grieves me, ' I observed, roused by what I took to be
his selfishness, 'it always grieves me to contemplate the initiation
of children into the ways of life, when they are scarcely more than
infants. It checks their confidence and simplicity--two of the best
qualities that Heaven gives them--and demands that they share our
sorrows before they are capable of entering into our enjoyments.'

'It will never check hers,' said the old man looking steadily at
me, 'the springs are too deep. Besides, the children of the poor know
but few pleasures. Even the cheap delights of childhood must be
bought and paid for.

'But--forgive me for saying this--you are surely not so very
poor'--said I.

'She is not my child, sir,' returned the old man. 'Her mother
was, and she was poor. I save nothing--not a penny--though I live as
you see, but'--he laid his hand upon my arm and leant forward to
whisper--'she shall be rich one of these days, and a fine lady. Don't
you think ill of me because I use her help. She gives it cheerfully
as you see, and it would break her heart if she knew that I suffered
anybody else to do for me what her little hands could undertake. I
don't consider!'--he cried with sudden querulousness, 'why, God knows
that this one child is there thought and object of my life, and yet
he never prospers me--no, never!'

At this juncture, the subject of our conversation again
returned, and the old men motioning to me to approach the table,
broke off, and said no more.

We had scarcely begun our repast when there was a knock at the
door by which I had entered, and Nell bursting into a hearty laugh,
which I was rejoiced to hear, for it was childlike and full of
hilarity, said it was no doubt dear old Kit coming back at last.

'Foolish Nell!' said the old man fondling with her hair. 'She
always laughs at poor Kit.'

The child laughed again more heartily than before, I could not
help smiling from pure sympathy. The little old man took up a candle
and went to open the door. When he came back, Kit was at his
heels.

Kit was a shock-headed, shambling, awkward lad with an
uncommonly wide mouth, very red cheeks, a turned-up nose, and
certainly the most comical expression of face I ever saw. He stopped
short at the door on seeing a stranger, twirled in his hand a
perfectly round old hat without any vestige of a brim, and resting
himself now on one leg and now on the other and changing them
constantly, stood in the doorway, looking into the parlour with the
most extraordinary leer I ever beheld. I entertained a grateful
feeling towards the boy from that minute, for I felt that he was the
comedy of the child's life.

'A long way, wasn't it, Kit?' said the little old man.

'Why, then, it was a goodish stretch, master,' returned Kit.

'Of course you have come back hungry?'

'Why, then, I do consider myself rather so, master,' was the
answer.

The lad had a remarkable manner of standing sideways as he
spoke, and thrusting his head forward over his shoulder, as if he
could not get at his voice without that accompanying action. I think
he would have amused one anywhere, but the child's exquisite
enjoyment of his oddity, and the relief it was to find that there was
something she associated with merriment in a place that appeared so
unsuited to her, were quite irresistible. It was a great point too
that Kit himself was flattered by the sensation he created, and after
several efforts to preserve his gravity, burst into a loud roar, and
so stood with his mouth wide open and his eyes nearly shut, laughing
violently.

The old man had again relapsed into his former abstraction and
took no notice of what passed, but I remarked that when her laugh was
over, the child's bright eyes were dimmed with tears, called forth by
the fullness of heart with which she welcomed her uncouth favourite
after the little anxiety of the night. As for Kit himself (whose
laugh had been all the time one of that sort which very little would
change into a cry) he carried a large slice of bread and meat and a
mug of beer into a corner, and applied himself to disposing of them
with great voracity.

'Ah!' said the old man turning to me with a sigh, as if I had
spoken to him but that moment, 'you don't know what you say when you
tell me that I don't consider her.'

'You must not attach too great weight to a remark founded on
first appearances, my friend,' said I.

'No,' returned the old man thoughtfully, 'no. Come hither,
Nell.'

The little girl hastened from her seat, and put her arm about
his neck.

'Do I love thee, Nell?' said he. 'Say--do I love thee, Nell, or
no?'

The child only answered by her caresses, and laid her head upon
his breast.

'Why dost thou sob?' said the grandfather, pressing her closer
to him and glancing towards me. 'Is it because thou know'st I love
thee, and dost not like that I should seem to doubt it by my
question? Well, well--then let us say I love thee dearly.'

'Indeed, indeed you do,' replied the child with great
earnestness, 'Kit knows you do.'

Kit, who in despatching his bread and meat had been swallowing
two-thirds of his knife at every mouthful with the coolness of a
juggler, stopped short in his operations on being thus appealed to,
and bawled 'Nobody isn't such a fool as to say he doosn't,' after
which he incapacitated himself for further conversation by taking a
most prodigious sandwich at one bite.

'She is poor now'--said the old men, patting the child's cheek,
'but I say again that the time is coming when she shall be rich. It
has been a long time coming, but it must come at last; a very long
time, but it surely must come. It has come to other men who do
nothing but waste and riot. When will it come to me!'

'I am very happy as I am, grandfather,' said the child.

'Tush, tush!' returned the old man, 'thou dost not know--how
should'st thou!' then he muttered again between his teeth, 'The time
must come, I am very sure it must. It will be all the better for
coming late'; and then he sighed and fell into his former musing
state, and still holding the child between his knees appeared to be
insensible to everything around him. By this time it wanted but a few
minutes of midnight and I rose to go, which recalled him to
himself.

'One moment, sir,' he said, 'Now, Kit--near midnight, boy, and
you still here! Get home, get home, and be true to your time in the
morning, for there's work to do. Good night! There, bid him good
night, Nell, and let him be gone!'

'Good night, Kit,' said the child, her eyes lighting up with
merriment and kindness.'

'Good night, Miss Nell,' returned the boy.

'And thank this gentleman,' interposed the old man, 'but for
whose care I might have lost my little girl to-night.'

'No, no, master,' said Kit, 'that won't do, that won't.'

'What do you mean?' cried the old man.

'I'd have found her, master,' said Kit, 'I'd have found her.
I'll bet that I'd find her if she was above ground, I would, as quick
as anybody, master. Ha, ha, ha!'

Once more opening his mouth and shutting his eyes, and laughing
like a stentor, Kit gradually backed to the door, and roared himself
out.

Free of the room, the boy was not slow in taking his departure;
when he had gone, and the child was occupied in clearing the table,
the old man said:

'I haven't seemed to thank you, sir, for what you have done
to-night, but I do thank you humbly and heartily, and so does she,
and her thanks are better worth than mine. I should be sorry that you
went away, and thought I was unmindful of your goodness, or careless
of her--I am not indeed.'

I was sure of that, I said, from what I had seen. 'But,' I
added, 'may I ask you a question?'

'Ay, sir,' replied the old man, 'What is it?'

'This delicate child,' said I, 'with so much beauty and
intelligence--has she nobody to care for her but you? Has she no
other companion or advisor?'

'No,' he returned, looking anxiously in my face, 'no, and she
wants no other.'

'But are you not fearful,' said I, 'that you may misunderstand a
charge so tender? I am sure you mean well, but are you quite certain
that you know how to execute such a trust as this? I am an old man,
like you, and I am actuated by an old man's concern in all that is
young and promising. Do you not think that what I have seen of you
and this little creature to-night must have an interest not wholly
free from pain?'

'Sir,' rejoined the old man after a moment's silence.' I have no
right to feel hurt at what you say. It is true that in many respects
I am the child, and she the grown person--that you have seen already.
But waking or sleeping, by night or day, in sickness or health, she
is the one object of my care, and if you knew of how much care, you
would look on me with different eyes, you would indeed. Ah! It's a
weary life for an old man--a weary, weary life--but there is a great
end to gain and that I keep before me.'

Seeing that he was in a state of excitement and impatience, I
turned to put on an outer coat which I had thrown off on entering the
room, purposing to say no more. I was surprised to see the child
standing patiently by with a cloak upon her arm, and in her hand a
hat, and stick.

'Those are not mine, my dear,' said I.

'No,' returned the child, 'they are grandfather's.'

'But he is not going out to-night.'

'Oh, yes, he is,' said the child, with a smile.

'And what becomes of you, my pretty one?'

'Me! I stay here of course. I always do.'

I looked in astonishment towards the old man, but he was, or
feigned to be, busied in the arrangement of his dress. From him I
looked back to the slight gentle figure of the child. Alone! In that
gloomy place all the long, dreary night.

She evinced no consciousness of my surprise, but cheerfully
helped the old man with his cloak, and when he was ready took a
candle to light us out. Finding that we did not follow as she
expected, she looked back with a smile and waited for us. The old
man showed by his face that he plainly understood the cause of my
hesitation, but he merely signed to me with an inclination of the
head to pass out of the room before him, and remained silent. I had
no resource but to comply.

When we reached the door, the child setting down the candle,
turned to say good night and raised her face to kiss me. Then she ran
to the old man, who folded her in his arms and bade God bless her.

'Sleep soundly, Nell,' he said in a low voice, 'and angels guard
thy bed! Do not forget thy prayers, my sweet.'

'No, indeed,' answered the child fervently, 'they make me feel
so happy!'

'That's well; I know they do; they should,' said the old man.
'Bless thee a hundred times! Early in the morning I shall be
home.'

'You'll not ring twice,' returned the child. 'The bell wakes me,
even in the middle of a dream.'

With this, they separated. The child opened the door (now
guarded by a shutter which I had heard the boy put up before he left
the house) and with another farewell whose clear and tender note I
have recalled a thousand times, held it until we had passed out. The
old man paused a moment while it was gently closed and fastened on
the inside, and satisfied that this was done, walked on at a slow
pace. At the street-corner he stopped, and regarding me with a
troubled countenance said that our ways were widely different and
that he must take his leave. I would have spoken, but summoning up
more alacrity than might have been expected in one of his appearance,
he hurried away. I could see that twice or thrice he looked back as
if to ascertain if I were still watching him, or perhaps to assure
himself that I was not following at a distance. The obscurity of the
night favoured his disappearance, and his figure was soon beyond my
sight.

I remained standing on the spot where he had left me, unwilling
to depart, and yet unknowing why I should loiter there. I looked
wistfully into the street we had lately quitted, and after a time
directed my steps that way. I passed and repassed the house, and
stopped and listened at the door; all was dark, and silent as the
grave.

Yet I lingered about, and could not tear myself away, thinking
of all possible harm that might happen to the child--of fires and
robberies and even murder--and feeling as if some evil must ensure if
I turned my back upon the place. The closing of a door or window in
the street brought me before the curiosity-dealer's once more; I
crossed the road and looked up at the house to assure myself that the
noise had not come from there. No, it was black, cold, and lifeless
as before.

There were few passengers astir; the street was sad and dismal,
and pretty well my own. A few stragglers from the theatres hurried
by, and now and then I turned aside to avoid some noisy drunkard as
he reeled homewards, but these interruptions were not frequent and
soon ceased. The clocks struck one. Still I paced up and down,
promising myself that every time should be the last, and breaking
faith with myself on some new plea as often as I did so.

The more I thought of what the old man had said, and of his
looks and bearing, the less I could account for what I had seen and
heard. I had a strong misgiving that his nightly absence was for no
good purpose. I had only come to know the fact through the innocence
of the child, and though the old man was by at the time, and saw my
undisguised surprise, he had preserved a strange mystery upon the
subject and offered no word of explanation. These reflections
naturally recalled again more strongly than before his haggard face,
his wandering manner, his restless anxious looks. His affection for
the child might not be inconsistent with villany of the worst kind;
even that very affection was in itself an extraordinary
contradiction, or how could he leave her thus? Disposed as I was to
think badly of him, I never doubted that his love for her was real. I
could not admit the thought, remembering what had passed between us,
and the tone of voice in which he had called her by her name.

'Stay here of course,' the child had said in answer to my
question, 'I always do!' What could take him from home by night, and
every night! I called up all the strange tales I had ever heard of
dark and secret deeds committed in great towns and escaping detection
for a long series of years; wild as many of these stories were, I
could not find one adapted to this mystery, which only became the
more impenetrable, in proportion as I sought to solve it.

Occupied with such thoughts as these, and a crowd of others all
tending to the same point, I continued to pace the street for two
long hours; at length the rain began to descend heavily, and then
over-powered by fatigue though no less interested than I had been at
first, I engaged the nearest coach and so got home. A cheerful fire
was blazing on the hearth, the lamp burnt brightly, my clock received
me with its old familiar welcome; everything was quiet, warm and
cheering, and in happy contrast to the gloom and darkness I had
quitted.

But all that night, waking or in my sleep, the same thoughts
recurred and the same images retained possession of my brain. I had
ever before me the old dark murky rooms--the gaunt suits of mail with
their ghostly silent air--the faces all awry, grinning from wood and
stone--the dust and rust and worm that lives in wood--and alone in
the midst of all this lumber and decay and ugly age, the beautiful
child in her gentle slumber, smiling through her light and sunny
dreams.