DOMBEY & SON (Illustrated). Charles Dickens
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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. With the drawback of hope deferred. That hope deferred, which, (as the Scripture very correctly tells us, Mr Dombey would have added in a patronising way; for his highest distinct idea even of Scripture, if examined, would have been found to be; that as forming part of a general whole, of which Dombey and Son formed another part, it was therefore to be commended and upheld) maketh the heart sick. 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 daresay. 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.
‘Her insensibility is as proof against a brother as against every thing else,’ said Mr Dombey to himself He seemed so confirmed in a previous opinion by the discovery, as to be quite glad of it.’
Next moment, the lady had opened her eyes and seen the child; and the child had run towards her; and, standing on tiptoe, 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. Please to ring there for Miss Florence’s nurse. Really the person should be more care-’
‘Wait! I—had better ask Doctor Peps if he’ll have the goodness to step upstairs 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 Pep.
‘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 upstairs 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 in 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,’ said Doctor Parker Peps.
‘That effort,’ said the family practitioner.
‘Successfully,’ said they both together.
‘Then,’ added Doctor Parker Peps, alone and very gravely, ‘a crisis might arise, which we should both sincerely deplore.’
With that, they stood for a few seconds looking at the