Dombey and Son
DOMBEY sat in the corner of the darkened room in the great arm-chair by the
bedside, and Son lay tucked up warm in a little basket bedstead, carefully
disposed on a low settee immediately in front of the fire and close to it, as if
his constitution were analogous to that of a muffin, and it was essential to
toast him brown while he was very new.
Dombey was about eight-and-forty years of age. Son about eight-and-forty
minutes. Dombey was rather bald, rather red, and though a handsome well-made
man, too stern and pompous in appearance, to be prepossessing. Son was very
bald, and very red, and though (of course) an undeniably fine infant, somewhat
crushed and spotty in his general effect, as yet. On the brow of Dombey, Time
and his brother Care had set some marks, as on a tree that was to come down in
good time--remorseless twins they are for striding through their human forests,
notching as they go--while the countenance of Son was crossed and recrossed with
a thousand little creases, which the same deceitful Time would take delight in
smoothing out and wearing away with the flat part of his scythe, as a
preparation of the surface for his deeper operations.
Dombey, exulting in the long-looked-for event, jingled and jingled the heavy
gold watch-chain that depended from below his trim blue coat, whereof the
buttons sparkled phosphorescently in the feeble rays of the distant fire. Son,
with his little fists curled up and clenched, seemed, in his feeble way, to be
squaring at existence for having come upon him so unexpectedly.
`The house will once again, Mrs. Dombey,' said Mr. Dombey, `be not only in
name but in fact Dombey and Son; Dom-bey and Son!'
The words had such a softening influence, that he appended a term of
endearment to Mrs. Dombey's name (though not without some hesitation, as being a
man but little used to that form of address): and said, `Mrs. Dombey, my--my
dear.'
A transient flush of faint surprise overspread the sick lady's face as she
raised her eyes towards him.
`He will be christened Paul, my--Mrs. Dombey--of course.'
She feebly echoed, `Of course,' or rather expressed it by the motion of her
lips, and closed her eyes again.
`His father's name, Mrs. Dombey, and his grandfather's! I wish his
grandfather were alive this day!' And again he said `Dom-bey and Son,' in
exactly the same tone as before.
Those three words conveyed the one idea of Mr. Dombey's life. The earth was
made for Dombey and Son to trade in, and the sun and moon were made to give them
light. Rivers and seas were formed to float their ships; rainbows gave them
promise of fair weather; winds blew for or against their enterprises; stars and
planets circled in their orbits, to preserve inviolate a system of which they
were the centre. Common abbreviations took new meanings in his eyes, and had
sole reference to them: A.D. had no concern with anno Domini, but stood for anno
Dombei--and Son.
He had risen, as his father had before him, in the course of life and death,
from Son to Dombey, and for nearly twenty years had been the sole representative
of the firm. Of those years he had been married, ten--married, as some said, to
a lady with no heart to give him; whose happiness was in the past, and who was
content to bind her broken spirit to the dutiful and meek endurance of the
present. Such idle talk was little likely to reach the ears of Mr. Dombey, whom
it nearly concerned; and probably no one in the world would have received it
with such utter incredulity as he, if it had reached him. Dombey and Son had
often dealt in hides, but never in hearts. They left that fancy ware to boys and
girls, and boarding-schools and books. Mr. Dombey would have reasoned: That a
matrimonial alliance with himself must, in the nature of things, be gratifying
and honourable to any woman of common sense. That the hope of giving birth to a
new partner in such a house, could not fail to awaken a glorious and stirring
ambition in the breast of the least ambitious of her sex. That Mrs. Dombey had
entered on that social contract of matrimony: almost necessarily part of a
genteel and wealthy station, even without reference to the perpetuation of
family firms: with her eyes fully open to these advantages. That Mrs. Dombey had
had daily practical knowledge of his position in society. That Mrs. Dombey had
always sat at the head of his table, and done the honours of his house in a
remarkably lady-like and becoming manner. That Mrs. Dombey must have been happy.
That she couldn't help it.
Or, at all events, with one drawback. Yes. That he would have allowed. With
only one; but that one certainly involving much. They had been married ten
years, and until this present day on which Mr. Dombey sat jingling and jingling
his heavy gold watch-chain in the great arm-chair by the side of the bed, had
had no issue.
--To speak of; none worth mentioning. There had been a girl some six years
before, and the child, who had stolen into the chamber unobserved, was now
crouching timidly, in a corner whence she could see her mother's face. But what
was a girl to Dombey and Son! In the capital of the House's name and dignity,
such a child was merely a piece of base coin that couldn't be invested--a bad
Boy--nothing more.
Mr. Dombey's cup of satisfaction was so full at this moment, however, that he
felt he could afford a drop or two of its contents, even to sprinkle on the dust
in the by-path of his little daughter.
So he said, `Florence, you may go and look at your pretty brother, if you
like, I dare say. Don't touch him!'
The child glanced keenly at the blue coat and stiff white cravat, which, with
a pair of creaking boots and a very loud ticking watch, embodied her idea of a
father; but her eyes returned to her mother's face immediately, and she neither
moved nor answered.
Next moment, the lady had opened her eyes and seen the child; and the child
had run towards her; and, standing on tip-toe, the better to hide her face in
her embrace, had clung about her with a desperate affection very much at
variance with her years.
`Oh Lord bless me!' said Mr. Dombey, rising testily. `A very ill-advised and
feverish proceeding this, I am sure. I had better ask Doctor Peps if he'll have
the goodness to step up stairs again perhaps. I'll go down. I'll go down. I
needn't beg you,' he added, pausing for a moment at the settee before the fire,
`to take particular care of this young gentleman, Mrs.---'
`Blockitt, Sir?' suggested the nurse, a simpering piece of faded gentility,
who did not presume to state her name as a fact, but merely offered it as a mild
suggestion.
`Of this young gentleman, Mrs. Blockitt.'
`No, Sir, indeed. I remember when Miss Florence was born--'
`Ay, ay, ay,' said Mr. Dombey, bending over the basket bedstead, and slightly
bending his brows at the same time. `Miss Florence was all very well, but this
is another matter. This young gentleman has to accomplish a destiny. A destiny,
little fellow!' As he thus apostrophised the infant he raised one of his hands
to his lips, and kissed it; then, seeming to fear that the action involved some
compromise of his dignity, went, awkwardly enough, away.
Doctor Parker Peps, one of the Court Physicians, and a man of immense
reputation for assisting at the increase of great families, was walking up and
down the drawing-room with his hands behind him, to the unspeakable admiration
of the family Surgeon, who had regularly puffed the case for the last six weeks,
among all his patients, friends, and acquaintances, as one to which he was in
hourly expectation day and night of being summoned, in conjunction with Doctor
Parker Peps.
`Well, Sir,' said Doctor Parker Peps in a round, deep, sonorous voice,
muffled for the occasion, like the knocker; `do you find that your dear lady is
at all roused by your visit?'
`Stimulated as it were?' said the family practitioner faintly: bowing at the
same time to the Doctor, as much as to say, `Excuse my putting in a word, but
this is a valuable connexion.'
Mr. Dombey was quite discomfited by the question. He had thought so little of
the patient, that he was not in a condition to answer it. He said that it would
be a satisfaction to him, if Doctor Parker Peps would walk up stairs again.
`Good! We must not disguise from you, Sir,' said Doctor Parker Peps, `that
there is a want of power in Her Grace the Duchess--I beg your pardon; I confound
names; I should say, in your amiable lady. That there is a certain degree of
languor, and a general absence of elasticity, which we would rather--not--'
`See,' interposed the family practitioner with another inclination of the
head.
`Quite so,' said Doctor Parker Peps, `which we would rather not see. It would
appear that the system of Lady Cankaby--excuse me: I should say of Mrs. Dombey:
I confuse the names of cases--'
`So very numerous,' murmured the family practitioner--`can't be expected I'm
sure--quite wonderful if otherwise--Doctor Parker Peps's West-End practice--'
`Thank you,' said the Doctor, `quite so. It would appear, I was observing,
that the system of our patient has sustained a shock, from which it can only
hope to rally by a great and strong--'
`And vigorous,' murmured the family practitioner.
`Quite so,' assented the Doctor--`and vigorous effort. Mr. Pilkins here, who
from his position of medical adviser in this family--no one better qualified to
fill that position, I am sure.'
`Oh!' murmured the family practitioner. `"Praise from Sir Hubert Stanley!"'
`You are good enough,' returned Doctor Parker Peps, `to say so. Mr. Pilkins
who, from his position, is best acquainted with the patient's constitution in
its normal state (an acquaintance very valuable to us in forming our opinions on
these occasions), is of opinion, with me, that Nature must be called upon to
make a vigorous effort in this instance; and that if our interesting friend the
Countess of Dombey--I beg your pardon; Mrs. Dombey--should not be--'
`Able,' said the family practitioner.
`To make that effort successfully,' said Doctor Parker Peps, `then a crisis
might arise, which we should both sincerely deplore.'
With that, they stood for a few seconds looking at the ground. Then, on the
motion--made in dumb show--of Doctor Parker Peps, they went up stairs; the
family practitioner opening the room door for that distinguished professional,
and following him out, with most obsequious politeness.
To record of Mr. Dombey that he was not in his way affected by this
intelligence, would be to do him an injustice. He was not a man of whom it could
properly be said that he was ever startled or shocked; but he certainly had a
sense within him, that if his wife should sicken and decay, he would be very
sorry, and that he would find a something gone from among his plate and
furniture, and other household possessions, which was well worth the having, and
could not be lost without sincere regret. Though it would be a cool,
business-like, gentlemanly, self-possessed regret, no doubt.
His meditations on the subject were soon interrupted, first by the rustling
of garments on the staircase, and then by the sudden whisking into the room of a
lady rather past the middle age than otherwise, but dressed in a very juvenile
manner, particularly as to the tightness of her bodice, who, running up to him
with a kind of screw in her face and carriage, expressive of suppressed emotion,
flung her arms round his neck, and said in a choking voice,
`My dear Paul! He's quite a Dombey!'
`Well, well!' returned her brother--for Mr. Dombey was her brother--`I think
he is like the family. Don't agitate yourself, Louisa.'
`It's very foolish of me,' said Louisa, sitting down, and taking out her
pocket-handkerchief, `but he's--he's such a perfect Dombey! I never saw anything
like it in my life!'
`But what is this about Fanny, herself?' said Mr. Dombey. `How is Fanny?'
`My dear Paul,' returned Louisa, `it's nothing whatever. Take my word, it's
nothing whatever. There is exhaustion, certainly, but nothing like what I
underwent myself, either with George or Frederick. An effort is necessary.
That's all. If dear Fanny were a Dombey!--But I dare say she'll make it; I have
no doubt she'll make it. Knowing it to be required of her, as a duty, of course
she'll make it. My dear Paul, it's very weak and silly of me, I know, to be so
trembly and shaky from head to foot; but I am so very queer that I must ask you
for a glass of wine and a morsel of that cake. I thought I should have fallen
out of the staircase window as I came down from seeing dear Fanny, and that
tiddy ickle sing.' These last words originated in a sudden vivid reminiscence of
the baby.
They were succeeded by a gentle tap at the door.
`Mrs. Chick,' said a very bland female voice outside, `how are you now, my
dear friend?'
`My dear Paul,' said Louisa in a low voice, as she rose from her seat, `it's
Miss Tox. The kindest creature! I never could have got here without her! Miss
Tox, my brother Mr. Dombey. Paul, my dear, my very particular friend Miss Tox.'
The lady thus specially presented, was a long lean figure, wearing such a
faded air that she seemed not to have been made in what linen-drapers call `fast
colours' originally, and to have, by little and little, washed out. But for this
she might have been described as the very pink of general propitiation and
politeness. From a long habit of listening admirably to everything that was said
in her presence, and looking at the speakers as if she were mentally engaged in
taking off impressions of their images upon her soul, never to part with the
same but with life, her head had quite settled on one side. Her hands had
contracted a spasmodic habit of raising themselves of their own accord as in
involuntary admiration. Her eyes were liable to a similar affection. She had the
softest voice that ever was heard; and her nose, stupendously aquiline, had a
little knob in the very centre or key-stone of the bridge, whence it tended
downwards towards her face, as in an invincible determination never to turn up
at anything.
Miss Tox's dress, though perfectly genteel and good, had a certain character
of angularity and scantiness. She was accustomed to wear odd weedy little
flowers in her bonnets and caps. Strange grasses were sometimes perceived in her
hair; and it was observed by the curious, of all her collars, frills, tuckers,
wristbands, and other gossamer articles--indeed of everything she wore which had
two ends to it intended to unite--that the two ends were never on good terms,
and wouldn't quite meet without a struggle. She had furry articles for winter
wear, as tippets, boas, and muffs, which stood up on end in a rampant manner,
and were not at all sleek. She was much given to the carrying about of small
bags with snaps to them, that went off like little pistols when they were shut
up; and when full-dressed, she wore round her neck the barrenest of lockets,
representing a fishy old eye, with no approach to speculation in it. These and
other appearances of a similar nature, had served to propagate the opinion, that
Miss Tox was a lady of what is called a limited independence, which she turned
to the best account. Possibly her mincing gait encouraged the belief, and
suggested that her clipping a step of ordinary compass into two or three,
originated in her habit of making the most of everything.
`I am sure,' said Miss Tox, with a prodigious curtsey, `that to have the
honour of being presented to Mr. Dombey is a distinction which I have long
sought, but very little expected at the present moment. My dear Mrs. Chick--may
I say Louisa!'
Mrs. Chick took Miss Tox's hand in hers, rested the foot of her wine-glass
upon it, repressed a tear, and said in a low voice `Bless you!'
`My dear Louisa then,' said Miss Tox, `my sweet friend, how are you now?'
`Better,' Mrs. Chick returned. `Take some wine. You have been almost as
anxious as I have been, and must want it, I am sure.'
Mr. Dombey of course officiated.
`Miss Tox, Paul,' pursued Mrs. Chick, still retaining her hand, `knowing how
much I have been interested in the anticipation of the event of to-day, has been
working at a little gift for Fanny, which I promised to present. It is only a
pin-cushion for the toilette table, Paul, but I do say, and will say, and must
say, that Miss Tox has very prettily adapted the sentiment to the occasion. I
call `Welcome little Dombey' Poetry, myself!'
`Is that the device?' inquired her brother.
`That is the device,' returned Louisa.
`But do me the justice to remember, my dear Louisa,' said Miss Tox in a tone
of low and earnest entreaty, `that nothing but the--I have some difficulty in
expressing myself--the dubiousness of the result would have induced me to take
so great a liberty: "Welcome, Master Dombey," would have been much more
congenial to my feelings, as I am sure you know. But the uncertainty attendant
on angelic strangers, will, I hope, excuse what must otherwise appear an
unwarrantable familiarity.' Miss Tox made a graceful bend as she spoke, in
favour of Mr. Dombey, which that gentleman graciously acknowledged. Even the
sort of recognition of Dombey and Son, conveyed in the foregoing conversation,
was so palatable to him, that his sister, Mrs. Chick--though he affected to
consider her a weak good-natured person--had perhaps more influence over him
than anybody else.
`Well' said Mrs. Chick, with a sweet smile, `after this, I forgive Fanny
everything!'
It was a declaration in a Christian spirit, and Mrs. Chick felt that it did
her good. Not that she had anything particular to forgive in her sister-in-law,
nor indeed anything at all, except her having married her brother--in itself a
species of audacity--and her having, in the course of events, given birth to a
girl instead of a boy: which, as Mrs. Chick had frequently observed, was not
quite what she had expected of her, and was not a pleasant return for all the
attention and distinction she had met with.
Mr. Dombey being hastily summoned out of the room at this moment, the two
ladies were left alone together. Miss Tox immediately became spasmodic.
`I knew you would admire my brother. I told you so before-hand, my dear,'
said Louisa.
Miss Tox's hands and eyes expressed how much.
`And as to his property, my dear!'
`Ah!' said Miss Tox, with deep feeling.
`Im--mense!'
`But his deportment, my dear Louisa!' said Miss Tox. `His presence! His
dignity! No portrait that I have ever seen of any one has been half so replete
with those qualities. Something so stately, you know: so uncompromising: so very
wide across the chest: so upright! A pecuniary Duke of York, my love, and
nothing short of it!' said Miss Tox. `That's what I should designate him.'
`Why, my dear Paul!' exclaimed his sister, as he returned, `you look quite
pale! There's nothing the matter?'
`I am sorry to say, Louisa, that they tell me that Fanny--'
`Now, my dear Paul,' returned his sister rising, `don't believe it. If you
have any reliance on my experience, Paul, you may rest assured that there is
nothing wanting but an effort on Fanny's part. And that effort,' she continued,
taking off her bonnet, and adjusting her cap and gloves, in a business-like
manner, `she must be encouraged, and really, if necessary, urged to make. Now,
my dear Paul, come up stairs with me.'
Mr. Dombey, who, besides being generally influenced by his sister for the
reason already mentioned, had really faith in her as an experienced and bustling
matron, acquiesced: and followed her, at once, to the sick chamber.
The lady lay upon her bed as he had left her, clasping her little daughter to
her breast. The child clung close about her, with the same intensity as before,
and never raised her head, or moved her soft cheek from her mother's face, or
looked on those who stood around, or spoke, or moved, or shed a tear.
`Restless without the little girl,' the Doctor whispered Mr. Dombey. `We
found it best to have her in again.'
There was such a solemn stillness round the bed; and the two medical
attendants seemed to look on the impassive form with so much compassion and so
little hope, that Mrs. Chick was for the moment diverted from her purpose. But
presently summoning courage, and what she called presence of mind, she sat down
by the bedside, and said in the low precise tone of one who endeavours to awaken
a sleeper:
`Fanny! Fanny!'
There was no sound in answer but the loud ticking of Mr. Dombey's watch and
Doctor Parker Peps's watch, which seemed in the silence to be running a race.
`Fanny, my dear,' said Mrs. Chick, with assumed lightness, `here's Mr. Dombey
come to see you. Won't you speak to him? They want to lay your little boy--the
baby, Fanny, you know; you have hardly seen him yet, I think--in bed; but they
can't till you rouse yourself a little. Don't you think it's time you roused
yourself a little? Eh?'
She bent her ear to the bed, and listened: at the same time looking round at
the bystanders, and holding up her finger.
`Eh?' she repeated, `what was it you said, Fanny? I didn't hear you.'
No word or sound in answer. Mr. Dombey's watch and Dr. Parker Peps's watch
seemed to be racing faster.
`Now, really, Fanny my dear,' said the sister-in-law, altering her position,
and speaking less confidently, and more earnestly, in spite of herself, `I shall
have to be quite cross with you, if you don't rouse yourself. It's necessary for
you to make an effort, and perhaps a very great and painful effort which you are
not disposed to make; but this is a world of effort you know, Fanny, and we must
never yield, when so much depends upon us. Come! Try! I must really scold you if
you don't!'
The race in the ensuing pause was fierce and furious. The watches seemed to
jostle, and to trip each other up.
`Fanny!' said Louisa, glancing round, with a gathering alarm. `Only look at
me. Only open your eyes to show me that you hear and understand me; will you?
Good Heaven, gentlemen, what is to be done!'
The two medical attendants exchanged a look across the bed; and the
Physician, stooping down, whispered in the child's ear. Not having understood
the purport of his whisper, the little creature turned her perfectly colourless
face, and deep dark eyes towards him; but without loosening her hold in the
least.
The whisper was repeated.
`Mama!' said the child.
The little voice, familiar and dearly loved, awakened some show of
consciousness, even at that ebb. For a moment, the closed eye-lids trembled, and
the nostril quivered, and the faintest shadow of a smile was seen.
`Mama!' cried the child sobbing aloud. `Oh dear Mama! oh dear Mama!'
The Doctor gently brushed the scattered ringlets of the child, aside from the
face and mouth of the mother. Alas how calm they lay there; how little breath
there was to stir them!
Thus, clinging fast to that slight spar within her arms, the mother drifted
out upon the dark and unknown sea that rolls round all the world.
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