DOMBEY & SON (Illustrated). Charles Dickens
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thing can’t be cruel.’
‘If it’s a good thing, and can do anything,’ said the little fellow, thoughtfully, as he looked back at the fire, ‘I wonder why it didn’t save me my Mama.’
He didn’t ask the question of his father this time. Perhaps he had seen, with a child’s quickness, that it had already made his father uncomfortable. But he repeated the thought aloud, as if it were quite an old one to him, and had troubled him very much; and sat with his chin resting on his hand, still cogitating and looking for an explanation in the fire.
Mr Dombey having recovered from his surprise, not to say his alarm (for it was the very first occasion on which the child had ever broached the subject of his mother to him, though he had had him sitting by his side, in this same manner, evening after evening), expounded to him how that money, though a very potent spirit, never to be disparaged on any account whatever, could not keep people alive whose time was come to die; and how that we must all die, unfortunately, even in the City, though we were never so rich. But how that money caused us to be honoured, feared, respected, courted, and admired, and made us powerful and glorious in the eyes of all men; and how that it could, very often, even keep off death, for a long time together. How, for example, it had secured to his Mama the services of Mr Pilkins, by which he, Paul, had often profited himself; likewise of the great Doctor Parker Peps, whom he had never known. And how it could do all, that could be done. This, with more to the same purpose, Mr Dombey instilled into the mind of his son, who listened attentively, and seemed to understand the greater part of what was said to him.
‘It can’t make me strong and quite well, either, Papa; can it?’ asked Paul, after a short silence; rubbing his tiny hands.
‘Why, you are strong and quite well,’ returned Mr Dombey. ‘Are you not?’
Oh! the age of the face that was turned up again, with an expression, half of melancholy, half of slyness, on it!
‘You are as strong and well as such little people usually are? Eh?’ said Mr Dombey.
‘Florence is older than I am, but I’m not as strong and well as Florence, ‘I know,’ returned the child; ‘and I believe that when Florence was as little as me, she could play a great deal longer at a time without tiring herself. I am so tired sometimes,’ said little Paul, warming his hands, and looking in between the bars of the grate, as if some ghostly puppet-show were performing there, ‘and my bones ache so (Wickam says it’s my bones), that I don’t know what to do.’
‘Ay! But that’s at night,’ said Mr Dombey, drawing his own chair closer to his son’s, and laying his hand gently on his back; ‘little people should be tired at night, for then they sleep well.’
‘Oh, it’s not at night, Papa,’ returned the child, ‘it’s in the day; and I lie down in Florence’s lap, and she sings to me. At night I dream about such cu-ri-ous things!’
And he went on, warming his hands again, and thinking about them, like an old man or a young goblin.
Mr Dombey was so astonished, and so uncomfortable, and so perfectly at a loss how to pursue the conversation, that he could only sit looking at his son by the light of the fire, with his hand resting on his back, as if it were detained there by some magnetic attraction. Once he advanced his other hand, and turned the contemplative face towards his own for a moment. But it sought the fire again as soon as he released it; and remained, addressed towards the flickering blaze, until the nurse appeared, to summon him to bed.
‘I want Florence to come for me,’ said Paul.
‘Won’t you come with your poor Nurse Wickam, Master Paul?’ inquired that attendant, with great pathos.
‘No, I won’t,’ replied Paul, composing himself in his arm-chair again, like the master of the house.
Invoking a blessing upon his innocence, Mrs Wickam withdrew, and presently Florence appeared in her stead. The child immediately started up with sudden readiness and animation, and raised towards his father in bidding him good-night, a countenance so much brighter, so much younger, and so much more child-like altogether, that Mr Dombey, while he felt greatly reassured by the change, was quite amazed at it.
After they had left the room together, he thought he heard a soft voice singing; and remembering that Paul had said his sister sung to him, he had the curiosity to open the door and listen, and look after them. She was toiling up the great, wide, vacant staircase, with him in her arms; his head was lying on her shoulder, one of his arms thrown negligently round her neck. So they went, toiling up; she singing all the way, and Paul sometimes crooning out a feeble accompaniment. Mr Dombey looked after them until they reached the top of the staircase—not without halting to rest by the way—and passed out of his sight; and then he still stood gazing upwards, until the dull rays of the moon, glimmering in a melancholy manner through the dim skylight, sent him back to his room.
Mrs Chick and Miss Tox were convoked in council at dinner next day; and when the cloth was removed, Mr Dombey opened the proceedings by requiring to be informed, without any gloss or reservation, whether there was anything the matter with Paul, and what Mr Pilkins said about him.
‘For the child is hardly,’ said Mr Dombey, ‘as stout as I could wish.’
‘My dear Paul,’ returned Mrs Chick, ‘with your usual happy discrimination, which I am weak enough to envy you, every time I am in your company; and so I think is Miss Tox.’
‘Oh my dear!’ said Miss Tox, softly, ‘how could it be otherwise? Presumptuous as it is to aspire to such a level; still, if the bird of night may—but I’ll not trouble Mr Dombey with the sentiment. It merely relates to the Bulbul.’
Mr Dombey bent his head in stately recognition of the Bulbuls as an old-established body.
‘With your usual happy discrimination, my dear Paul,’ resumed Mrs Chick, ‘you have hit the point at once. Our darling is altogether as stout as we could wish. The fact is, that his mind is too much for him. His soul is a great deal too large for his frame. I am sure the way in which that dear child talks!’ said Mrs Chick, shaking her head; ‘no one would believe. His expressions, Lucretia, only yesterday upon the subject of Funerals!’
‘I am afraid,’ said Mr Dombey, interrupting her testily, ‘that some of those persons upstairs suggest improper subjects to the child. He was speaking to me last night about his—about his Bones,’ said Mr Dombey, laying an irritated stress upon the word. ‘What on earth has anybody to do with the—with the—Bones of my son? He is not a living skeleton, I suppose.’
‘Very far from it,’ said Mrs Chick, with unspeakable expression.
‘I hope so,’ returned her brother. ‘Funerals again! who talks to the child of funerals? We are not undertakers, or mutes, or grave-diggers, I believe.’
‘Very far from it,’ interposed Mrs Chick, with the same profound expression as before.
‘Then who puts such things into his head?’ said Mr Dombey. ‘Really I was quite dismayed and shocked last night. Who puts such things into his head, Louisa?’
‘My dear Paul,’ said Mrs Chick, after a moment’s silence, ‘it is of no use inquiring. I do not think, I will tell you candidly that Wickam is a person of very cheerful spirit, or what one would call a—’
‘A daughter of Momus,’ Miss Tox softly suggested.
‘Exactly so,’ said Mrs Chick; ‘but she is exceedingly attentive and useful, and not at all presumptuous; indeed I never saw a more biddable woman. I would say that for her, if I was put upon my trial before a Court of Justice.’
‘Well! you are not put upon your trial before a Court of Justice, at present, Louisa,’ returned Mr Dombey, chafing, ‘and therefore it don’t matter.’
‘My dear Paul,’ said Mrs Chick, in a warning voice, ‘I must be spoken to kindly, or there is an end of me,’ at the same time a premonitory redness developed itself in Mrs Chick’s eyelids which was an invariable sign of rain, unless the weather