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    Bleak House
    Bleak House
    Bleak House
    Ebook1,226 pages38 hours

    Bleak House

    By Charles Dickens

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    With an Introduction and Notes by Doreen Roberts, University of Kent at Canterbury Bleak House is one of Dickens' finest achievements, establishing his reputation as a serious and mature novelist, as well as a brilliant comic writer. It is at once a complex mystery story that fully engages the reader in the work of detection, and an unforgettable indictment of an indifferent society. Its representations of a great city's underworld, and of the law's corruption and delay, draw upon the author's personal knowledge and experience. But it is his symbolic art that projects these things in a vision that embraces black comedy, cosmic farce, and tragic ruin. In a unique creative experiment, Dickens divides the narrative between his heroine, Esther Summerson, who is psychologically interesting in her own right, and an unnamed narrator whose perspective both complements and challenges hers.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherStart Classics
    Release dateOct 23, 2013
    ISBN9781627933834
    Author

    Charles Dickens

    Charles Dickens was born in 1812 and grew up in poverty. This experience influenced ‘Oliver Twist’, the second of his fourteen major novels, which first appeared in 1837. When he died in 1870, he was buried in Poets’ Corner in Westminster Abbey as an indication of his huge popularity as a novelist, which endures to this day.

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    Reviews for Bleak House

    4/5

    2,505 ratings124 reviews

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    • 3/5
      A good winter read, but I feel like it must have worked better as originally published in monthly installments. As a novel, it feels bloated and overstuffed, with far too many characters and subplots gumming up the works. The satire on the legal machinations is excellent, however.
    • 5/5
      I knocked off a half star because of that absurdity concerning spontaneous combustion.
    • 5/5
      Picked this up in London - had been promising myself to spend a bit of time on Dickens over the next few months.
    • 5/5
      Dickens' 17th important work, his 9th novel, his 1st utter masterpiece. Bleak House is gorgeous, powerful, and diffuse in a way that signals we're on to the author's third act, in which the vibrant characters and internal examination he had been trialling begin to come together. Apparently, as he got to the end of this novel, Dickens was finding his life and its burdensome pile of commitments to be a little much, but perhaps it was because he was giving more than ever to his work. Lady Dedlock and Esther both provide dimensional (well, at least bordering on two-dimensions, which is something for this guy) portraits into this maudlin world. The social satire of the Jarndyce case is barbed in a different way to Dickens' anger on the treatment of the poor: it is a more tongue-in-cheek satire about the inanities of humankind. Richard and Ada aren't exactly fountains of great depth, but their actions still contribute their detail to the many facets that make up this unified whole. While I think that Dorrit and Great Expectations are also masterpieces (and I haven't yet read Our Mutual Friend), Bleak House is absolutely the most Dickensian of CD's achievements.
    • 5/5
      I had to read this one as part of my required reading for a history of publishing class that I took in college. The history of this book itself and how it was published was incredibly interesting, aside from the fact that the book is great. It's crazy to think that Dickens wrote the majority of his well known works in increments and adapted his writing according to the reactions of the audiences. Bleak House was beautifully atmospheric and, in classic Dickensian style, has all sorts of characters that are intertwined in ways that they don't realize until all loose ends gets tied. Highly recommend (even though the page count is incredibly intimidating).
    • 4/5
      The needless suffering caused by the bureaucracy of the Chancery Court in London permeates this book with its multitude of eccentric characters. Bleak House requires a generous time commitment and much patience in the beginning as the characters and their circumstances are introduced. However, after the stage is set, the action picks up and moves along quickly. As always with Dickens, there is a mixture of humor and satire along with the darker side of social conditions in Victorian England.
    • 4/5
      Very good, but very long and sad. Not sure if I would read again
    • 5/5
      My favourite Dickens book, I could read this over and over. It has so much depth, and fantastic memorable characters. It's both fun and dark all at the same time. Pure genius.
    • 4/5
      This is of course one of Dickens's most famous and esteemed books, a huge novel with a galaxy of fascinating characters. For me, this is not quite up there with my personal favourites, Great Expectations, David Copperfield, Nicholas Nickleby and Pickwick Papers, but is still a very good novel. The basic narrative is quite simple, drawn out across 67 chapters, but it is that galaxy of characters that really make this one. In some Dickens novels (Our Mutual Friend, Little Dorrit), I have found significant numbers of characters rather dull and the chapters in which they featured very skimable, but there were almost none such here. Some of the most memorable/interesting were the tragic Lady Dedlock; the vagabond trooper George; Mrs Jellyby, who is dedicated to public causes but abandons her husband and children; the Bagnets, where the wife articulates all her husband's opinions for him at his request; Boythorn, the Dedlocks' neighbour in dispute with them over a right of way; Miss Flite, the poor little lady whose mind has become unhinged by the interminable legal case Jarndyce and Jarndyce, which also breaks the health of Richard Carstone. No one describes grinding poverty and degradation like Dickens and his descriptions of the unfortunate Jo, the crossing sweeper and Jenny, grieving over her dead baby and brutalised by her husband, are also striking and tragic. The novel is almost a microcosm of early 19th century society, both the lows and highs.
    • 4/5
      This is a lengthy tome, a sort of extended rant about the complications of the Victorian legal system which served only the lawyers and not the litigants. There were welcome moments of light relief - Old Mr Turveydrop, in particular, whose deportment is quite overwhelming my dear. Brilliant.
    • 5/5
      I would love to write a review about this book, but after traipsing and trundling and tumbling through a book so complex and so wonderful and so crazy-making as this, I don't think I am up to the task! I will then just say, as I said of "Persuasion," that classics are classics for a reason. And so it is with this.
    • 5/5
      Another classic Dickens - great characterization and brings to light a great inequity.
    • 4/5
      1053 Bleak House, by Charles Dickens (read 27 May 1970) On June 9, 1970, Dickens will have been dead 100 years. I thought it only fitting that I note the upcoming anniversary by reading something of his. So I have just finished Bleak House. I am impressed. Long, I at times merely plodded along, not liking it. But in probably the second half of the book it became much more enjoyable. One came to see the much-vaunted array of Dickensian characters, some of whom one liked, others of whom irritated. I enjoyed Smallwood, the crippled mean man, but was repelled by Mrs. Jellyby, who concerned herself with Africa and ignored her family. Turveydrop I thought an ass--an example of Deportment. His son, the self-effacing dancing master, likewise. These are all minor characters, but so much point was spent developing them! Esther Summerson, the partial narrator, was so saccharine good as to repel. And the switch by which her guardian, John Jarndyce, hands her from himself to Allan Woodcourt is illustrative of her impossible submissiveness. Leicester Dedlock is the husband of Esther's mother and the principal story is woven around this. Jarndyce v. Jarndyce is an impossible case, and as a lawyer I resent the anti-lawyer talk, although old procedures certainly left much to be desired. Dickens is great, but others can write better stories. This is the fifth Dickens book I have read, having read A Tale of Two Cities on Dec 12, 1946; Great Expectations on Mar 18, 1948; Pickwick on May 13, 1959, and David Copperfield on June 14, 1959. I don't know but what I may read more Dickens--some day. {I did.]
    • 5/5
      Bleak House is a book that has it all: murder, adultery, romance, blackmail, and a touch of the gothic. I have to admit to a bit of a tear at the end, to which my husband says "what? Crying over a book?" My response: you've got no soul. I think it would be difficult not to be moved by this book even a little. My edition also had reproductions of the original artist illustrations. I very highly recommend this one!I can't even begin to summarize because of the complexities of the plot and many subplots, but there are a number of very good analyses available on the internet should you be so inclined. The barebones outline is this: the books starts and ends with the case of Jarndyce & Jarndyce, a lawsuit which has been going on for so long that most of the principals involved have long since passed on. It has become somewhat of a joke in the court of Chancery, an institution that Dickens strongly criticizes by painting a vivid picture of the court's ineptitude, of lawyers whose sole job is to create business for themselves, and of those who find their interests tied up completely in the hands of lawyers & of the courts. Because of this lawsuit, two cousins are taken under the care of one John Jarndyce, who also brings along Esther Summerson as his ward. The story focuses on the fortunes and misfortunes of this group of people, along with several supporting characters and their stories. To go beyond this would be to give the show away, but I can say that this book's strong suit is (as is usual in a Dickens novel) the characterizations. The imagery in this novel is also a part of the story as is the commentary on existing social conditions and his critique of such things as the chancery courts, lawyers, old institutions that should have long passed out of existence, the missionary & do-gooder zeal, and the various types of dandies, fops and leeches that lived off of others.I very highly recommend this book to anyone who may be interested; it is long and it can get complicated, but it is a sterling example of the work of Charles Dickens, and should not be missed.
    • 4/5
      Not the strongest of his plots, but still a very good book. A good condemnation of the civil justice system. I absolutely saw the ending coming though. The spontaneous combustion was a little weird -- what it had to with anything, I'm not sure. What it boils down to, though, is that I really liked Esther and her scenes carried the book. Richard should have been slapped around and Ada needed a mega dose of reality, but many of the other characters were pure Dickensian classics, whether you loved them, hated them or cried with them.
    • 5/5
      Probably my favorite Dickens novel I've read to date. A friend of mine was surprised because there's "a WHOLE CHAPTER ON MUD." But I think Dickens makes some astute and far-reaching social commentary in this, something he was really starting to hone with Hard Times.
    • 4/5
      The dicken's Bleak house though seemed voluminous in the mid way through, didn't appeared so towards it's end. The wide array of characters, their coincidence and links makes it more interesting. The story is told alternately by Esther Summerson, the leading protagonist, and an omniscient narrator.The confrontation between Lady dedlock and Mr.Tulkinghorn is so vividly depicted by the author and it's becoming a real deadlock situation to the Lady dedlock (as her name suggests) quite amuses the reader.The same is true of the characters who cling to the protracted law suit of Jarndyce and Jarndyce forlornly. The story grips you with mystery deaths,amusing parallel stories and gets your imagination going.
    • 5/5
      One of the best books I've ever read, and my favorite Dickens. With his gift for detail and small characters that would never even make it into other novels, this sprawling tale is perfectly suited to his talents.
    • 5/5
      Difficult to get into at first due to switching narrators/verb tenses and a slow start to the plot, "Bleak House" ultimately proves rewarding to those who are willing to search out and examine the novel's underlying structure of analogy, comparison, and linkage. This is an extremely complex work, both in technique and in its conceptual underpinnings. For the reader who is willing to put work into deciphering the text, and who loves Dickens' minor characters, this will be a beloved book. The reader looking for a light, superficial read will most likely be frustrated and irritated.
    • 2/5
      OK, let's be honest. As much as I love Dickens, I have to admit he wrote a lot of maudlin junk. This book is probably one of his worst. The heroine, Esther, is the most obnoxious, mealy-mouthed grateful little orphan since Jane Austen's Fanny Price. Dickens can't seem to write realistic, compelling young women -- they are always tragic waifs, or legless angels. This is a shame, because he writes older women so well. The book's satirical look at the world of lawsuits is fantastic, and almost, but not quite, makes up for Esther's cloying sweetness.
    • 5/5
      Critics say this is Dickens' best and most complicated work. I would agree! There are so many sub plots and so many characters that one needs to be on their toes while reading this book. Was it worth it? YES! This Dickens novel tells of the injustices of the 19th century legal system in England. It has the makings of a great soap opera: drug use, affairs, illegitimate children, stalking, murder, and spontaneous combustion! [Bleak House] is told both by an unidentified, third-person narrator and a first-person narrator. The third person narrator tells the story in the present and Esther Summerson tells the story in the past, which may be confusing. [Bleak House] is a not an easy read, but well worth the effort.
    • 4/5
      Robert Whitfield is a good reader, but some of the women's and children's voices sound a bit unnatural (particularly Caddy and Charley). The novel Bleak House of course gets 5 stars.
    • 3/5
      I could easily write many negative things about this novel. For starters it is LONG. It is more a social and political commentary than a novel. The story follows many interconnected subplots told from the point of view of a third person narrator - or from the first person viewpoint of Esther Summerson, whose voice is not the least bit believable. (Biting the inside of my cheek to refrain from making snarky Mary Sue comments) The subplots are all tied up too neatly at the end.

      Did I mention how long it is?

      Nevertheless, it kept me interested enough to finish reading it. (Well, almost. After a certain character died, I read the remaining 8% out of sheer stubbornness) Despite the lack of character development, I found myself sympathizing with many of the characters and caring what happened to them.
    • 5/5
      I have to admit that I read this after I saw the series starring Gillian Anderson. This helped me follow the plotline a little better. It is true that there is an amazingly large cast of characters and many twists and turns throughout this complex story. But the heavy detail made everyone so real and alive. I wanted to live at Bleak House! As usual, the book is much better than the T.V. series as good as that was.
    • 5/5
      Masterpiece!
    • 3/5
      I won't write a formal review for this book, because IMO it was just way tooooooo longggg and I don't want to spend anymore of my time on it then necessary. I will say that the story was over populated with characters and need some serious editing. But since Dickens probably had it published as a serial, the longer it was the more money he got. I guess I'm still having problems with CLASSICS.
    • 4/5
      I can certainly see how this critique of the legal system in existence at the time is worthy of the 'classic' label, unfortunately I found this a very challenging read until the murder- mystery section of the novel (approximately the second half). Glad I kept with this novel and am looking forward to reading further Dickens.
    • 5/5
      This is one of my favorite stories--of Dickens' and ever. I never fail to get absorbed by these characters even though this might be the biggest load of sentimental goo ever to grace the English language. It's still fun to read. And, if you haven't seen it, the BBC film that came out last year is pretty good, too.
    • 5/5
      A must read for Dickens lovers. In this story of Pip, Dickens makes yet another scathing social commentary on English life and "proper" behavior. Also excoriates the legal system, the Church, and the childcare welfare system of 19th Century England.
    • 5/5
      fiction, 1800's life, classic, Dickens, London, 19th century literature, Charles Dickens, Bleak House, work house, river pollution, industrial revolution, intrigue

    Book preview

    Bleak House - Charles Dickens

    CHAPTER I

    In Chancery

    London. Michaelmas term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln's Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snowflakes—gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses, scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers, jostling one another's umbrellas in a general infection of ill temper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke (if this day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest.

    Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little 'prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the misty clouds.

    Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as the sun may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom by husbandman and ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hours before their time—as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling look.

    The raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and the muddy streets are muddiest near that leaden-headed old obstruction, appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden-headed old corporation, Temple Bar. And hard by Temple Bar, in Lincoln's Inn Hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery.

    Never can there come fog too thick, never can there come mud and mire too deep, to assort with the groping and floundering condition which this High Court of Chancery, most pestilent of hoary sinners, holds this day in the sight of heaven and earth.

    On such an afternoon, if ever, the Lord High Chancellor ought to be sitting here—as here he is—with a foggy glory round his head, softly fenced in with crimson cloth and curtains, addressed by a large advocate with great whiskers, a little voice, and an interminable brief, and outwardly directing his contemplation to the lantern in the roof, where he can see nothing but fog. On such an afternoon some score of members of the High Court of Chancery bar ought to be—as here they are—mistily engaged in one of the ten thousand stages of an endless cause, tripping one another up on slippery precedents, groping knee-deep in technicalities, running their goat-hair and horsehair warded heads against walls of words and making a pretence of equity with serious faces, as players might. On such an afternoon the various solicitors in the cause, some two or three of whom have inherited it from their fathers, who made a fortune by it, ought to be—as are they not?—ranged in a line, in a long matted well (but you might look in vain for truth at the bottom of it) between the registrar's red table and the silk gowns, with bills, cross-bills, answers, rejoinders, injunctions, affidavits, issues, references to masters, masters' reports, mountains of costly nonsense, piled before them. Well may the court be dim, with wasting candles here and there; well may the fog hang heavy in it, as if it would never get out; well may the stained-glass windows lose their colour and admit no light of day into the place; well may the uninitiated from the streets, who peep in through the glass panes in the door, be deterred from entrance by its owlish aspect and by the drawl, languidly echoing to the roof from the padded dais where the Lord High Chancellor looks into the lantern that has no light in it and where the attendant wigs are all stuck in a fog-bank! This is the Court of Chancery, which has its decaying houses and its blighted lands in every shire, which has its worn-out lunatic in every madhouse and its dead in every churchyard, which has its ruined suitor with his slipshod heels and threadbare dress borrowing and begging through the round of every man's acquaintance, which gives to monied might the means abundantly of wearying out the right, which so exhausts finances, patience, courage, hope, so overthrows the brain and breaks the heart, that there is not an honourable man among its practitioners who would not give—who does not often give—the warning, Suffer any wrong that can be done you rather than come here!

    Who happen to be in the Lord Chancellor's court this murky afternoon besides the Lord Chancellor, the counsel in the cause, two or three counsel who are never in any cause, and the well of solicitors before mentioned? There is the registrar below the judge, in wig and gown; and there are two or three maces, or petty-bags, or privy purses, or whatever they may be, in legal court suits. These are all yawning, for no crumb of amusement ever falls from Jarndyce and Jarndyce (the cause in hand), which was squeezed dry years upon years ago. The short-hand writers, the reporters of the court, and the reporters of the newspapers invariably decamp with the rest of the regulars when Jarndyce and Jarndyce comes on. Their places are a blank. Standing on a seat at the side of the hall, the better to peer into the curtained sanctuary, is a little mad old woman in a squeezed bonnet who is always in court, from its sitting to its rising, and always expecting some incomprehensible judgment to be given in her favour. Some say she really is, or was, a party to a suit, but no one knows for certain because no one cares. She carries some small litter in a reticule which she calls her documents, principally consisting of paper matches and dry lavender. A sallow prisoner has come up, in custody, for the half-dozenth time to make a personal application to purge himself of his contempt, which, being a solitary surviving executor who has fallen into a state of conglomeration about accounts of which it is not pretended that he had ever any knowledge, he is not at all likely ever to do. In the meantime his prospects in life are ended. Another ruined suitor, who periodically appears from Shropshire and breaks out into efforts to address the Chancellor at the close of the day's business and who can by no means be made to understand that the Chancellor is legally ignorant of his existence after making it desolate for a quarter of a century, plants himself in a good place and keeps an eye on the judge, ready to call out My Lord! in a voice of sonorous complaint on the instant of his rising. A few lawyers' clerks and others who know this suitor by sight linger on the chance of his furnishing some fun and enlivening the dismal weather a little.

    Jarndyce and Jarndyce drones on. This scarecrow of a suit has, in course of time, become so complicated that no man alive knows what it means. The parties to it understand it least, but it has been observed that no two Chancery lawyers can talk about it for five minutes without coming to a total disagreement as to all the premises. Innumerable children have been born into the cause; innumerable young people have married into it; innumerable old people have died out of it. Scores of persons have deliriously found themselves made parties in Jarndyce and Jarndyce without knowing how or why; whole families have inherited legendary hatreds with the suit. The little plaintiff or defendant who was promised a new rocking-horse when Jarndyce and Jarndyce should be settled has grown up, possessed himself of a real horse, and trotted away into the other world. Fair wards of court have faded into mothers and grandmothers; a long procession of Chancellors has come in and gone out; the legion of bills in the suit have been transformed into mere bills of mortality; there are not three Jarndyces left upon the earth perhaps since old Tom Jarndyce in despair blew his brains out at a coffee-house in Chancery Lane; but Jarndyce and Jarndyce still drags its dreary length before the court, perennially hopeless.

    Jarndyce and Jarndyce has passed into a joke. That is the only good that has ever come of it. It has been death to many, but it is a joke in the profession. Every master in Chancery has had a reference out of it. Every Chancellor was in it, for somebody or other, when he was counsel at the bar. Good things have been said about it by blue-nosed, bulbous-shoed old benchers in select port-wine committee after dinner in hall. Articled clerks have been in the habit of fleshing their legal wit upon it. The last Lord Chancellor handled it neatly, when, correcting Mr. Blowers, the eminent silk gown who said that such a thing might happen when the sky rained potatoes, he observed, or when we get through Jarndyce and Jarndyce, Mr. Blowers—a pleasantry that particularly tickled the maces, bags, and purses.

    How many people out of the suit Jarndyce and Jarndyce has stretched forth its unwholesome hand to spoil and corrupt would be a very wide question. From the master upon whose impaling files reams of dusty warrants in Jarndyce and Jarndyce have grimly writhed into many shapes, down to the copying-clerk in the Six Clerks' Office who has copied his tens of thousands of Chancery folio-pages under that eternal heading, no man's nature has been made better by it. In trickery, evasion, procrastination, spoliation, botheration, under false pretences of all sorts, there are influences that can never come to good. The very solicitors' boys who have kept the wretched suitors at bay, by protesting time out of mind that Mr. Chizzle, Mizzle, or otherwise was particularly engaged and had appointments until dinner, may have got an extra moral twist and shuffle into themselves out of Jarndyce and Jarndyce. The receiver in the cause has acquired a goodly sum of money by it but has acquired too a distrust of his own mother and a contempt for his own kind. Chizzle, Mizzle, and otherwise have lapsed into a habit of vaguely promising themselves that they will look into that outstanding little matter and see what can be done for Drizzle—who was not well used—when Jarndyce and Jarndyce shall be got out of the office. Shirking and sharking in all their many varieties have been sown broadcast by the ill-fated cause; and even those who have contemplated its history from the outermost circle of such evil have been insensibly tempted into a loose way of letting bad things alone to take their own bad course, and a loose belief that if the world go wrong it was in some off-hand manner never meant to go right.

    Thus, in the midst of the mud and at the heart of the fog, sits the Lord High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery.

    Mr. Tangle, says the Lord High Chancellor, latterly something restless under the eloquence of that learned gentleman.

    Mlud, says Mr. Tangle. Mr. Tangle knows more of Jarndyce and Jarndyce than anybody. He is famous for it—supposed never to have read anything else since he left school.

    Have you nearly concluded your argument?

    Mlud, no—variety of points—feel it my duty tsubmit—ludship, is the reply that slides out of Mr. Tangle.

    Several members of the bar are still to be heard, I believe? says the Chancellor with a slight smile.

    Eighteen of Mr. Tangle's learned friends, each armed with a little summary of eighteen hundred sheets, bob up like eighteen hammers in a pianoforte, make eighteen bows, and drop into their eighteen places of obscurity.

    We will proceed with the hearing on Wednesday fortnight, says the Chancellor. For the question at issue is only a question of costs, a mere bud on the forest tree of the parent suit, and really will come to a settlement one of these days.

    The Chancellor rises; the bar rises; the prisoner is brought forward in a hurry; the man from Shropshire cries, My lord! Maces, bags, and purses indignantly proclaim silence and frown at the man from Shropshire.

    In reference, proceeds the Chancellor, still on Jarndyce and Jarndyce, to the young girl—

    Begludship's pardon—boy, says Mr. Tangle prematurely. In reference, proceeds the Chancellor with extra distinctness, to the young girl and boy, the two young people—Mr. Tangle crushed—whom I directed to be in attendance to-day and who are now in my private room, I will see them and satisfy myself as to the expediency of making the order for their residing with their uncle.

    Mr. Tangle on his legs again. Begludship's pardon—dead.

    With their—Chancellor looking through his double eye-glass at the papers on his desk—grandfather.

    Begludship's pardon—victim of rash action—brains.

    Suddenly a very little counsel with a terrific bass voice arises, fully inflated, in the back settlements of the fog, and says, Will your lordship allow me? I appear for him. He is a cousin, several times removed. I am not at the moment prepared to inform the court in what exact remove he is a cousin, but he IS a cousin.

    Leaving this address (delivered like a sepulchral message) ringing in the rafters of the roof, the very little counsel drops, and the fog knows him no more. Everybody looks for him. Nobody can see him.

    I will speak with both the young people, says the Chancellor anew, and satisfy myself on the subject of their residing with their cousin. I will mention the matter to-morrow morning when I take my seat.

    The Chancellor is about to bow to the bar when the prisoner is presented. Nothing can possibly come of the prisoner's conglomeration but his being sent back to prison, which is soon done. The man from Shropshire ventures another remonstrative My lord! but the Chancellor, being aware of him, has dexterously vanished. Everybody else quickly vanishes too. A battery of blue bags is loaded with heavy charges of papers and carried off by clerks; the little mad old woman marches off with her documents; the empty court is locked up. If all the injustice it has committed and all the misery it has caused could only be locked up with it, and the whole burnt away in a great funeral pyre—why so much the better for other parties than the parties in Jarndyce and Jarndyce!

    CHAPTER II

    In Fashion

    It is but a glimpse of the world of fashion that we want on this same miry afternoon. It is not so unlike the Court of Chancery but that we may pass from the one scene to the other, as the crow flies. Both the world of fashion and the Court of Chancery are things of precedent and usage: oversleeping Rip Van Winkles who have played at strange games through a deal of thundery weather; sleeping beauties whom the knight will wake one day, when all the stopped spits in the kitchen shall begin to turn prodigiously!

    It is not a large world. Relatively even to this world of ours, which has its limits too (as your Highness shall find when you have made the tour of it and are come to the brink of the void beyond), it is a very little speck. There is much good in it; there are many good and true people in it; it has its appointed place. But the evil of it is that it is a world wrapped up in too much jeweller's cotton and fine wool, and cannot hear the rushing of the larger worlds, and cannot see them as they circle round the sun. It is a deadened world, and its growth is sometimes unhealthy for want of air.

    My Lady Dedlock has returned to her house in town for a few days previous to her departure for Paris, where her ladyship intends to stay some weeks, after which her movements are uncertain. The fashionable intelligence says so for the comfort of the Parisians, and it knows all fashionable things. To know things otherwise were to be unfashionable. My Lady Dedlock has been down at what she calls, in familiar conversation, her place in Lincolnshire. The waters are out in Lincolnshire. An arch of the bridge in the park has been sapped and sopped away. The adjacent low-lying ground for half a mile in breadth is a stagnant river with melancholy trees for islands in it and a surface punctured all over, all day long, with falling rain. My Lady Dedlock's place has been extremely dreary. The weather for many a day and night has been so wet that the trees seem wet through, and the soft loppings and prunings of the woodman's axe can make no crash or crackle as they fall. The deer, looking soaked, leave quagmires where they pass. The shot of a rifle loses its sharpness in the moist air, and its smoke moves in a tardy little cloud towards the green rise, coppice-topped, that makes a background for the falling rain. The view from my Lady Dedlock's own windows is alternately a lead-coloured view and a view in Indian ink. The vases on the stone terrace in the foreground catch the rain all day; and the heavy drops fall—drip, drip, drip—upon the broad flagged pavement, called from old time the Ghost's Walk, all night. On Sundays the little church in the park is mouldy; the oaken pulpit breaks out into a cold sweat; and there is a general smell and taste as of the ancient Dedlocks in their graves. My Lady Dedlock (who is childless), looking out in the early twilight from her boudoir at a keeper's lodge and seeing the light of a fire upon the latticed panes, and smoke rising from the chimney, and a child, chased by a woman, running out into the rain to meet the shining figure of a wrapped-up man coming through the gate, has been put quite out of temper. My Lady Dedlock says she has been bored to death.

    Therefore my Lady Dedlock has come away from the place in Lincolnshire and has left it to the rain, and the crows, and the rabbits, and the deer, and the partridges and pheasants. The pictures of the Dedlocks past and gone have seemed to vanish into the damp walls in mere lowness of spirits, as the housekeeper has passed along the old rooms shutting up the shutters. And when they will next come forth again, the fashionable intelligence—which, like the fiend, is omniscient of the past and present, but not the future—cannot yet undertake to say.

    Sir Leicester Dedlock is only a baronet, but there is no mightier baronet than he. His family is as old as the hills, and infinitely more respectable. He has a general opinion that the world might get on without hills but would be done up without Dedlocks. He would on the whole admit nature to be a good idea (a little low, perhaps, when not enclosed with a park-fence), but an idea dependent for its execution on your great county families. He is a gentleman of strict conscience, disdainful of all littleness and meanness and ready on the shortest notice to die any death you may please to mention rather than give occasion for the least impeachment of his integrity. He is an honourable, obstinate, truthful, high-spirited, intensely prejudiced, perfectly unreasonable man.

    Sir Leicester is twenty years, full measure, older than my Lady. He will never see sixty-five again, nor perhaps sixty-six, nor yet sixty-seven. He has a twist of the gout now and then and walks a little stiffly. He is of a worthy presence, with his light-grey hair and whiskers, his fine shirt-frill, his pure-white waistcoat, and his blue coat with bright buttons always buttoned. He is ceremonious, stately, most polite on every occasion to my Lady, and holds her personal attractions in the highest estimation. His gallantry to my Lady, which has never changed since he courted her, is the one little touch of romantic fancy in him.

    Indeed, he married her for love. A whisper still goes about that she had not even family; howbeit, Sir Leicester had so much family that perhaps he had enough and could dispense with any more. But she had beauty, pride, ambition, insolent resolve, and sense enough to portion out a legion of fine ladies. Wealth and station, added to these, soon floated her upward, and for years now my Lady Dedlock has been at the centre of the fashionable intelligence and at the top of the fashionable tree.

    How Alexander wept when he had no more worlds to conquer, everybody knows—or has some reason to know by this time, the matter having been rather frequently mentioned. My Lady Dedlock, having conquered HER world, fell not into the melting, but rather into the freezing, mood. An exhausted composure, a worn-out placidity, an equanimity of fatigue not to be ruffled by interest or satisfaction, are the trophies of her victory. She is perfectly well-bred. If she could be translated to heaven to-morrow, she might be expected to ascend without any rapture.

    She has beauty still, and if it be not in its heyday, it is not yet in its autumn. She has a fine face—originally of a character that would be rather called very pretty than handsome, but improved into classicality by the acquired expression of her fashionable state. Her figure is elegant and has the effect of being tall. Not that she is so, but that the most is made, as the Honourable Bob Stables has frequently asserted upon oath, of all her points. The same authority observes that she is perfectly got up and remarks in commendation of her hair especially that she is the best-groomed woman in the whole stud.

    With all her perfections on her head, my Lady Dedlock has come up from her place in Lincolnshire (hotly pursued by the fashionable intelligence) to pass a few days at her house in town previous to her departure for Paris, where her ladyship intends to stay some weeks, after which her movements are uncertain. And at her house in town, upon this muddy, murky afternoon, presents himself an old-fashioned old gentleman, attorney-at-law and eke solicitor of the High Court of Chancery, who has the honour of acting as legal adviser of the Dedlocks and has as many cast-iron boxes in his office with that name outside as if the present baronet were the coin of the conjuror's trick and were constantly being juggled through the whole set. Across the hall, and up the stairs, and along the passages, and through the rooms, which are very brilliant in the season and very dismal out of it—fairy-land to visit, but a desert to live in—the old gentleman is conducted by a Mercury in powder to my Lady's presence.

    The old gentleman is rusty to look at, but is reputed to have made good thrift out of aristocratic marriage settlements and aristocratic wills, and to be very rich. He is surrounded by a mysterious halo of family confidences, of which he is known to be the silent depository. There are noble mausoleums rooted for centuries in retired glades of parks among the growing timber and the fern, which perhaps hold fewer noble secrets than walk abroad among men, shut up in the breast of Mr. Tulkinghorn. He is of what is called the old school—a phrase generally meaning any school that seems never to have been young—and wears knee-breeches tied with ribbons, and gaiters or stockings. One peculiarity of his black clothes and of his black stockings, be they silk or worsted, is that they never shine. Mute, close, irresponsive to any glancing light, his dress is like himself. He never converses when not professionally consulted. He is found sometimes, speechless but quite at home, at corners of dinner-tables in great country houses and near doors of drawing-rooms, concerning which the fashionable intelligence is eloquent, where everybody knows him and where half the Peerage stops to say How do you do, Mr. Tulkinghorn? He receives these salutations with gravity and buries them along with the rest of his knowledge.

    Sir Leicester Dedlock is with my Lady and is happy to see Mr. Tulkinghorn. There is an air of prescription about him which is always agreeable to Sir Leicester; he receives it as a kind of tribute. He likes Mr. Tulkinghorn's dress; there is a kind of tribute in that too. It is eminently respectable, and likewise, in a general way, retainer-like. It expresses, as it were, the steward of the legal mysteries, the butler of the legal cellar, of the Dedlocks.

    Has Mr. Tulkinghorn any idea of this himself? It may be so, or it may not, but there is this remarkable circumstance to be noted in everything associated with my Lady Dedlock as one of a class—as one of the leaders and representatives of her little world. She supposes herself to be an inscrutable Being, quite out of the reach and ken of ordinary mortals—seeing herself in her glass, where indeed she looks so. Yet every dim little star revolving about her, from her maid to the manager of the Italian Opera, knows her weaknesses, prejudices, follies, haughtinesses, and caprices and lives upon as accurate a calculation and as nice a measure of her moral nature as her dressmaker takes of her physical proportions. Is a new dress, a new custom, a new singer, a new dancer, a new form of jewellery, a new dwarf or giant, a new chapel, a new anything, to be set up? There are deferential people in a dozen callings whom my Lady Dedlock suspects of nothing but prostration before her, who can tell you how to manage her as if she were a baby, who do nothing but nurse her all their lives, who, humbly affecting to follow with profound subservience, lead her and her whole troop after them; who, in hooking one, hook all and bear them off as Lemuel Gulliver bore away the stately fleet of the majestic Lilliput. If you want to address our people, sir, say Blaze and Sparkle, the jewellers—meaning by our people Lady Dedlock and the rest—you must remember that you are not dealing with the general public; you must hit our people in their weakest place, and their weakest place is such a place. To make this article go down, gentlemen, say Sheen and Gloss, the mercers, to their friends the manufacturers, you must come to us, because we know where to have the fashionable people, and we can make it fashionable. If you want to get this print upon the tables of my high connexion, sir, says Mr. Sladdery, the librarian, or if you want to get this dwarf or giant into the houses of my high connexion, sir, or if you want to secure to this entertainment the patronage of my high connexion, sir, you must leave it, if you please, to me, for I have been accustomed to study the leaders of my high connexion, sir, and I may tell you without vanity that I can turn them round my finger—in which Mr. Sladdery, who is an honest man, does not exaggerate at all.

    Therefore, while Mr. Tulkinghorn may not know what is passing in the Dedlock mind at present, it is very possible that he may.

    My Lady's cause has been again before the Chancellor, has it, Mr. Tulkinghorn? says Sir Leicester, giving him his hand.

    Yes. It has been on again to-day, Mr. Tulkinghorn replies, making one of his quiet bows to my Lady, who is on a sofa near the fire, shading her face with a hand-screen.

    It would be useless to ask, says my Lady with the dreariness of the place in Lincolnshire still upon her, whether anything has been done.

    Nothing that YOU would call anything has been done to-day, replies Mr. Tulkinghorn.

    Nor ever will be, says my Lady.

    Sir Leicester has no objection to an interminable Chancery suit. It is a slow, expensive, British, constitutional kind of thing. To be sure, he has not a vital interest in the suit in question, her part in which was the only property my Lady brought him; and he has a shadowy impression that for his name—the name of Dedlock—to be in a cause, and not in the title of that cause, is a most ridiculous accident. But he regards the Court of Chancery, even if it should involve an occasional delay of justice and a trifling amount of confusion, as a something devised in conjunction with a variety of other somethings by the perfection of human wisdom for the eternal settlement (humanly speaking) of everything. And he is upon the whole of a fixed opinion that to give the sanction of his countenance to any complaints respecting it would be to encourage some person in the lower classes to rise up somewhere—like Wat Tyler.

    As a few fresh affidavits have been put upon the file, says Mr. Tulkinghorn, and as they are short, and as I proceed upon the troublesome principle of begging leave to possess my clients with any new proceedings in a cause—cautious man Mr. Tulkinghorn, taking no more responsibility than necessary—and further, as I see you are going to Paris, I have brought them in my pocket.

    (Sir Leicester was going to Paris too, by the by, but the delight of the fashionable intelligence was in his Lady.)

    Mr. Tulkinghorn takes out his papers, asks permission to place them on a golden talisman of a table at my Lady's elbow, puts on his spectacles, and begins to read by the light of a shaded lamp.

    'In Chancery. Between John Jarndyce—'

    My Lady interrupts, requesting him to miss as many of the formal horrors as he can.

    Mr. Tulkinghorn glances over his spectacles and begins again lower down. My Lady carelessly and scornfully abstracts her attention. Sir Leicester in a great chair looks at the file and appears to have a stately liking for the legal repetitions and prolixities as ranging among the national bulwarks. It happens that the fire is hot where my Lady sits and that the hand-screen is more beautiful than useful, being priceless but small. My Lady, changing her position, sees the papers on the table—looks at them nearer—looks at them nearer still—asks impulsively, Who copied that?

    Mr. Tulkinghorn stops short, surprised by my Lady's animation and her unusual tone.

    Is it what you people call law-hand? she asks, looking full at him in her careless way again and toying with her screen.

    Not quite. Probably—Mr. Tulkinghorn examines it as he speaks—the legal character which it has was acquired after the original hand was formed. Why do you ask?

    Anything to vary this detestable monotony. Oh, go on, do!

    Mr. Tulkinghorn reads again. The heat is greater; my Lady screens her face. Sir Leicester dozes, starts up suddenly, and cries, Eh? What do you say?

    I say I am afraid, says Mr. Tulkinghorn, who had risen hastily, that Lady Dedlock is ill.

    Faint, my Lady murmurs with white lips, only that; but it is like the faintness of death. Don't speak to me. Ring, and take me to my room!

    Mr. Tulkinghorn retires into another chamber; bells ring, feet shuffle and patter, silence ensues. Mercury at last begs Mr. Tulkinghorn to return.

    Better now, quoth Sir Leicester, motioning the lawyer to sit down and read to him alone. I have been quite alarmed. I never knew my Lady swoon before. But the weather is extremely trying, and she really has been bored to death down at our place in Lincolnshire.

    CHAPTER III

    A Progress

    I have a great deal of difficulty in beginning to write my portion of these pages, for I know I am not clever. I always knew that. I can remember, when I was a very little girl indeed, I used to say to my doll when we were alone together, Now, Dolly, I am not clever, you know very well, and you must be patient with me, like a dear! And so she used to sit propped up in a great arm-chair, with her beautiful complexion and rosy lips, staring at me—or not so much at me, I think, as at nothing—while I busily stitched away and told her every one of my secrets.

    My dear old doll! I was such a shy little thing that I seldom dared to open my lips, and never dared to open my heart, to anybody else. It almost makes me cry to think what a relief it used to be to me when I came home from school of a day to run upstairs to my room and say, Oh, you dear faithful Dolly, I knew you would be expecting me! and then to sit down on the floor, leaning on the elbow of her great chair, and tell her all I had noticed since we parted. I had always rather a noticing way—not a quick way, oh, no!—a silent way of noticing what passed before me and thinking I should like to understand it better. I have not by any means a quick understanding. When I love a person very tenderly indeed, it seems to brighten. But even that may be my vanity.

    I was brought up, from my earliest remembrance—like some of the princesses in the fairy stories, only I was not charming—by my godmother. At least, I only knew her as such. She was a good, good woman! She went to church three times every Sunday, and to morning prayers on Wednesdays and Fridays, and to lectures whenever there were lectures; and never missed. She was handsome; and if she had ever smiled, would have been (I used to think) like an angel—but she never smiled. She was always grave and strict. She was so very good herself, I thought, that the badness of other people made her frown all her life. I felt so different from her, even making every allowance for the differences between a child and a woman; I felt so poor, so trifling, and so far off that I never could be unrestrained with her—no, could never even love her as I wished. It made me very sorry to consider how good she was and how unworthy of her I was, and I used ardently to hope that I might have a better heart; and I talked it over very often with the dear old doll, but I never loved my godmother as I ought to have loved her and as I felt I must have loved her if I had been a better girl.

    This made me, I dare say, more timid and retiring than I naturally was and cast me upon Dolly as the only friend with whom I felt at ease. But something happened when I was still quite a little thing that helped it very much.

    I had never heard my mama spoken of. I had never heard of my papa either, but I felt more interested about my mama. I had never worn a black frock, that I could recollect. I had never been shown my mama's grave. I had never been told where it was. Yet I had never been taught to pray for any relation but my godmother. I had more than once approached this subject of my thoughts with Mrs. Rachael, our only servant, who took my light away when I was in bed (another very good woman, but austere to me), and she had only said, Esther, good night! and gone away and left me.

    Although there were seven girls at the neighbouring school where I was a day boarder, and although they called me little Esther Summerson, I knew none of them at home. All of them were older than I, to be sure (I was the youngest there by a good deal), but there seemed to be some other separation between us besides that, and besides their being far more clever than I was and knowing much more than I did. One of them in the first week of my going to the school (I remember it very well) invited me home to a little party, to my great joy. But my godmother wrote a stiff letter declining for me, and I never went. I never went out at all.

    It was my birthday. There were holidays at school on other birthdays—none on mine. There were rejoicings at home on other birthdays, as I knew from what I heard the girls relate to one another—there were none on mine. My birthday was the most melancholy day at home in the whole year.

    I have mentioned that unless my vanity should deceive me (as I know it may, for I may be very vain without suspecting it, though indeed I don't), my comprehension is quickened when my affection is. My disposition is very affectionate, and perhaps I might still feel such a wound if such a wound could be received more than once with the quickness of that birthday.

    Dinner was over, and my godmother and I were sitting at the table before the fire. The clock ticked, the fire clicked; not another sound had been heard in the room or in the house for I don't know how long. I happened to look timidly up from my stitching, across the table at my godmother, and I saw in her face, looking gloomily at me, It would have been far better, little Esther, that you had had no birthday, that you had never been born!

    I broke out crying and sobbing, and I said, Oh, dear godmother, tell me, pray do tell me, did Mama die on my birthday?

    No, she returned. Ask me no more, child!

    Oh, do pray tell me something of her. Do now, at last, dear godmother, if you please! What did I do to her? How did I lose her? Why am I so different from other children, and why is it my fault, dear godmother? No, no, no, don't go away. Oh, speak to me!

    I was in a kind of fright beyond my grief, and I caught hold of her dress and was kneeling to her. She had been saying all the while, Let me go! But now she stood still.

    Her darkened face had such power over me that it stopped me in the midst of my vehemence. I put up my trembling little hand to clasp hers or to beg her pardon with what earnestness I might, but withdrew it as she looked at me, and laid it on my fluttering heart. She raised me, sat in her chair, and standing me before her, said slowly in a cold, low voice—I see her knitted brow and pointed finger—Your mother, Esther, is your disgrace, and you were hers. The time will come—and soon enough—when you will understand this better and will feel it too, as no one save a woman can. I have forgiven her—but her face did not relent—the wrong she did to me, and I say no more of it, though it was greater than you will ever know—than any one will ever know but I, the sufferer. For yourself, unfortunate girl, orphaned and degraded from the first of these evil anniversaries, pray daily that the sins of others be not visited upon your head, according to what is written. Forget your mother and leave all other people to forget her who will do her unhappy child that greatest kindness. Now, go!

    She checked me, however, as I was about to depart from her—so frozen as I was!—and added this, Submission, self-denial, diligent work, are the preparations for a life begun with such a shadow on it. You are different from other children, Esther, because you were not born, like them, in common sinfulness and wrath. You are set apart.

    I went up to my room, and crept to bed, and laid my doll's cheek against mine wet with tears, and holding that solitary friend upon my bosom, cried myself to sleep. Imperfect as my understanding of my sorrow was, I knew that I had brought no joy at any time to anybody's heart and that I was to no one upon earth what Dolly was to me.

    Dear, dear, to think how much time we passed alone together afterwards, and how often I repeated to the doll the story of my birthday and confided to her that I would try as hard as ever I could to repair the fault I had been born with (of which I confessedly felt guilty and yet innocent) and would strive as I grew up to be industrious, contented, and kind-hearted and to do some good to some one, and win some love to myself if I could. I hope it is not self-indulgent to shed these tears as I think of it. I am very thankful, I am very cheerful, but I cannot quite help their coming to my eyes.

    There! I have wiped them away now and can go on again properly.

    I felt the distance between my godmother and myself so much more after the birthday, and felt so sensible of filling a place in her house which ought to have been empty, that I found her more difficult of approach, though I was fervently grateful to her in my heart, than ever. I felt in the same way towards my school companions; I felt in the same way towards Mrs. Rachael, who was a widow; and oh, towards her daughter, of whom she was proud, who came to see her once a fortnight! I was very retired and quiet, and tried to be very diligent.

    One sunny afternoon when I had come home from school with my books and portfolio, watching my long shadow at my side, and as I was gliding upstairs to my room as usual, my godmother looked out of the parlour-door and called me back. Sitting with her, I found—which was very unusual indeed—a stranger. A portly, important-looking gentleman, dressed all in black, with a white cravat, large gold watch seals, a pair of gold eye-glasses, and a large seal-ring upon his little finger.

    This, said my godmother in an undertone, is the child. Then she said in her naturally stern way of speaking, This is Esther, sir.

    The gentleman put up his eye-glasses to look at me and said, Come here, my dear! He shook hands with me and asked me to take off my bonnet, looking at me all the while. When I had complied, he said, Ah! and afterwards Yes! And then, taking off his eye-glasses and folding them in a red case, and leaning back in his arm-chair, turning the case about in his two hands, he gave my godmother a nod. Upon that, my godmother said, You may go upstairs, Esther! And I made him my curtsy and left him.

    It must have been two years afterwards, and I was almost fourteen, when one dreadful night my godmother and I sat at the fireside. I was reading aloud, and she was listening. I had come down at nine o'clock as I always did to read the Bible to her, and was reading from St. John how our Saviour stooped down, writing with his finger in the dust, when they brought the sinful woman to him.

    So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself and said unto them, 'He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her!'

    I was stopped by my godmother's rising, putting her hand to her head, and crying out in an awful voice from quite another part of the book, 'Watch ye, therefore, lest coming suddenly he find you sleeping. And what I say unto you, I say unto all, Watch!'

    In an instant, while she stood before me repeating these words, she fell down on the floor. I had no need to cry out; her voice had sounded through the house and been heard in the street.

    She was laid upon her bed. For more than a week she lay there, little altered outwardly, with her old handsome resolute frown that I so well knew carved upon her face. Many and many a time, in the day and in the night, with my head upon the pillow by her that my whispers might be plainer to her, I kissed her, thanked her, prayed for her, asked her for her blessing and forgiveness, entreated her to give me the least sign that she knew or heard me. No, no, no. Her face was immovable. To the very last, and even afterwards, her frown remained unsoftened.

    On the day after my poor good godmother was buried, the gentleman in black with the white neckcloth reappeared. I was sent for by Mrs. Rachael, and found him in the same place, as if he had never gone away.

    My name is Kenge, he said; you may remember it, my child; Kenge and Carboy, Lincoln's Inn.

    I replied that I remembered to have seen him once before.

    Pray be seated—here near me. Don't distress yourself; it's of no use. Mrs. Rachael, I needn't inform you who were acquainted with the late Miss Barbary's affairs, that her means die with her and that this young lady, now her aunt is dead—

    My aunt, sir!

    It is really of no use carrying on a deception when no object is to be gained by it, said Mr. Kenge smoothly, Aunt in fact, though not in law. Don't distress yourself! Don't weep! Don't tremble! Mrs. Rachael, our young friend has no doubt heard of—the—a—Jarndyce and Jarndyce.

    Never, said Mrs. Rachael.

    Is it possible, pursued Mr. Kenge, putting up his eye-glasses, that our young friend—I BEG you won't distress yourself!—never heard of Jarndyce and Jarndyce!

    I shook my head, wondering even what it was.

    Not of Jarndyce and Jarndyce? said Mr. Kenge, looking over his glasses at me and softly turning the case about and about as if he were petting something. Not of one of the greatest Chancery suits known? Not of Jarndyce and Jarndyce—the—a—in itself a monument of Chancery practice. In which (I would say) every difficulty, every contingency, every masterly fiction, every form of procedure known in that court, is represented over and over again? It is a cause that could not exist out of this free and great country. I should say that the aggregate of costs in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, Mrs. Rachael—I was afraid he addressed himself to her because I appeared inattentive—amounts at the present hour to from SIX-ty to SEVEN-ty THOUSAND POUNDS! said Mr. Kenge, leaning back in his chair.

    I felt very ignorant, but what could I do? I was so entirely unacquainted with the subject that I understood nothing about it even then.

    And she really never heard of the cause! said Mr. Kenge. Surprising!

    Miss Barbary, sir, returned Mrs. Rachael, who is now among the Seraphim—

    I hope so, I am sure, said Mr. Kenge politely.

    —Wished Esther only to know what would be serviceable to her. And she knows, from any teaching she has had here, nothing more.

    Well! said Mr. Kenge. Upon the whole, very proper. Now to the point, addressing me. Miss Barbary, your sole relation (in fact that is, for I am bound to observe that in law you had none) being deceased and it naturally not being to be expected that Mrs. Rachael—

    Oh, dear no! said Mrs. Rachael quickly.

    Quite so, assented Mr. Kenge; —that Mrs. Rachael should charge herself with your maintenance and support (I beg you won't distress yourself), you are in a position to receive the renewal of an offer which I was instructed to make to Miss Barbary some two years ago and which, though rejected then, was understood to be renewable under the lamentable circumstances that have since occurred. Now, if I avow that I represent, in Jarndyce and Jarndyce and otherwise, a highly humane, but at the same time singular, man, shall I compromise myself by any stretch of my professional caution? said Mr. Kenge, leaning back in his chair again and looking calmly at us both.

    He appeared to enjoy beyond everything the sound of his own voice. I couldn't wonder at that, for it was mellow and full and gave great importance to every word he uttered. He listened to himself with obvious satisfaction and sometimes gently beat time to his own music with his head or rounded a sentence with his hand. I was very much impressed by him—even then, before I knew that he formed himself on the model of a great lord who was his client and that he was generally called Conversation Kenge.

    Mr. Jarndyce, he pursued, being aware of the—I would say, desolate—position of our young friend, offers to place her at a first-rate establishment where her education shall be completed, where her comfort shall be secured, where her reasonable wants shall be anticipated, where she shall be eminently qualified to discharge her duty in that station of life unto which it has pleased—shall I say Providence?—to call her.

    My heart was filled so full, both by what he said and by his affecting manner of saying it, that I was not able to speak, though I tried.

    Mr. Jarndyce, he went on, makes no condition beyond expressing his expectation that our young friend will not at any time remove herself from the establishment in question without his knowledge and concurrence. That she will faithfully apply herself to the acquisition of those accomplishments, upon the exercise of which she will be ultimately dependent. That she will tread in the paths of virtue and honour, and—the—a—so forth.

    I was still less able to speak than before.

    Now, what does our young friend say? proceeded Mr. Kenge. Take time, take time! I pause for her reply. But take time!

    What the destitute subject of such an offer tried to say, I need not repeat. What she did say, I could more easily tell, if it were worth the telling. What she felt, and will feel to her dying hour, I could never relate.

    This interview took place at Windsor, where I had passed (as far as I knew) my whole life. On that day week, amply provided with all necessaries, I left it, inside the stagecoach, for Reading.

    Mrs. Rachael was too good to feel any emotion at parting, but I was not so good, and wept bitterly. I thought that I ought to have known her better after so many years and ought to have made myself enough of a favourite with her to make her sorry then. When she gave me one cold parting kiss upon my forehead, like a thaw-drop from the stone porch—it was a very frosty day—I felt so miserable and self-reproachful that I clung to her and told her it was my fault, I knew, that she could say good-bye so easily!

    No, Esther! she returned. It is your misfortune!

    The coach was at the little lawn-gate—we had not come out until we heard the wheels—and thus I left her, with a sorrowful heart. She went in before my boxes were lifted to the coach-roof and shut the door. As long as I could see the house, I looked back at it from the window through my tears. My godmother had left Mrs. Rachael all the little property she possessed; and there was to be a sale; and an old hearth-rug with roses on it, which always seemed to me the first thing in the world I had ever seen, was hanging outside in the frost and snow. A day or two before, I had wrapped the dear old doll in her own shawl and quietly laid her—I am half ashamed to tell it—in the garden-earth under the tree that shaded my old window. I had no companion left but my bird, and him I carried with me in his cage.

    When the house was out of sight, I sat, with my bird-cage in the straw at my feet, forward on the low seat to look out of the high window, watching the frosty trees, that were like beautiful pieces of spar, and the fields all smooth and white with last night's snow, and the sun, so red but yielding so little heat, and the ice, dark like metal where the skaters and sliders had brushed the snow away. There was a gentleman in the coach who sat on the opposite seat and looked very large in a quantity of wrappings, but he sat gazing out of the other window and took no notice of me.

    I thought of my dead godmother, of the night when I read to her, of her frowning so fixedly and sternly in her bed, of the strange place I was going to, of the people I should find there, and what they would be like, and what they would say to me, when a voice in the coach gave me a terrible start.

    It said, What the de-vil are you crying for?

    I was so frightened that I lost my voice and could only answer in a whisper, Me, sir? For of course I knew it must have been the gentleman in the quantity of wrappings, though he was still looking out of his window.

    Yes, you, he said, turning round.

    I didn't know I was crying, sir, I faltered.

    But you are! said the gentleman. Look here! He came quite opposite to me from the other corner of the coach, brushed one of his large furry cuffs across my eyes (but without hurting me), and showed me that it was wet.

    There! Now you know you are, he said. Don't you?

    Yes, sir, I said.

    And what are you crying for? said the gentleman, Don't you want to go there?

    Where, sir?

    Where? Why, wherever you are going, said the gentleman.

    I am very glad to go there, sir, I answered.

    Well, then! Look glad! said the gentleman.

    I thought he was very strange, or at least that what I could see of him was very strange, for he was wrapped up to the chin, and his face was almost hidden in a fur cap with broad fur straps at the side of his head fastened under his chin; but I was composed again, and not afraid of him. So I told him that I thought I must have been crying because of my godmother's death and because of Mrs. Rachael's not being sorry to part with me.

    Confound Mrs. Rachael! said the gentleman. Let her fly away in a high wind on a broomstick!

    I began to be really afraid of him now and looked at him with the greatest astonishment. But I thought that he had pleasant eyes, although he kept on muttering to himself in an angry manner and calling Mrs. Rachael names.

    After a little while he opened his outer wrapper, which appeared to me large enough to wrap up the whole coach, and put his arm down into a deep pocket in the side.

    Now, look here! he said. In this paper, which was nicely folded, is a piece of the best plum-cake that can be got for money—sugar on the outside an inch thick, like fat on mutton chops. Here's a little pie (a gem this is, both for size and quality), made in France. And what do you suppose it's made of? Livers of fat geese. There's a pie! Now let's see you eat 'em.

    Thank you, sir, I replied; thank you very much indeed, but I hope you won't be offended—they are too rich for me.

    Floored again! said the gentleman, which I didn't at all understand, and threw them both out of window.

    He did not speak to me any more until he got out of the coach a little way short of Reading, when he advised me to be a good girl and to be studious, and shook hands with me. I must say I was relieved by his departure. We left him at a milestone. I often walked past it afterwards, and never for a long time without thinking of him and half expecting to meet him. But I never did; and so, as time went on, he passed out of my mind.

    When the coach stopped, a very neat lady looked up at the window and said, Miss Donny.

    No, ma'am, Esther Summerson.

    That is quite right, said the lady, Miss Donny.

    I now understood that she introduced herself by that name, and begged Miss Donny's pardon for my mistake, and pointed out my boxes at her request. Under the direction of a very neat maid, they were put outside a very small green carriage; and then Miss Donny, the maid, and I got inside and were driven away.

    Everything is ready for you, Esther, said Miss Donny, and the scheme of your pursuits has been arranged in exact accordance with the wishes of your guardian, Mr. Jarndyce.

    Of—did you say, ma'am?

    Of your guardian, Mr. Jarndyce, said Miss Donny.

    I was so bewildered that Miss Donny thought the cold had been too severe for me and lent me her smelling-bottle.

    Do you know my—guardian, Mr. Jarndyce, ma'am? I asked after a good deal of hesitation.

    Not personally, Esther, said Miss Donny; merely through his solicitors, Messrs. Kenge and Carboy, of London. A very superior gentleman, Mr. Kenge. Truly eloquent indeed. Some of his periods quite majestic!

    I felt this to be very true but was too confused to attend to it. Our speedy arrival at our destination, before I had time to recover myself, increased my confusion, and I never shall forget the uncertain and the unreal air of everything at Greenleaf (Miss Donny's house) that afternoon!

    But I soon became used to it. I was so adapted to the routine of Greenleaf before long that I seemed to have been there a great while and almost to have dreamed rather than really lived my old life at my godmother's. Nothing could be more precise, exact, and orderly than Greenleaf. There was a time for everything all round the dial of the clock, and everything was done at its appointed moment.

    We were twelve boarders, and there were two Miss Donnys, twins. It was understood that I would have to depend, by and by, on my qualifications as a governess, and I was not only instructed in everything that was taught at Greenleaf, but was very soon engaged in helping to instruct others. Although I was treated in every other respect like the rest of the school, this single difference was made in my case from the first.

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