الفصل الفصل 38 · If that staid old house near the Green at Richmond should ever come to

. If that staid old house near the Green at Richmond should ever come to

be haunted when I am dead, it will be haunted, surely, by my ghost. O

the many, many nights and days through which the unquiet spirit within

me haunted that house when Estella lived there! Let my body be where it

would, my spirit was always wandering, wandering, wandering, about that

house.

The lady with whom Estella was placed, Mrs. Brandley by name, was a

widow, with one daughter several years older than Estella. The mother

looked young, and the daughter looked old; the mother’s complexion was

pink, and the daughter’s was yellow; the mother set up for frivolity,

and the daughter for theology. They were in what is called a good

position, and visited, and were visited by, numbers of people. Little,

if any, community of feeling subsisted between them and Estella, but

the understanding was established that they were necessary to her, and

that she was necessary to them. Mrs. Brandley had been a friend of Miss

Havisham’s before the time of her seclusion.

In Mrs. Brandley’s house and out of Mrs. Brandley’s house, I suffered

every kind and degree of torture that Estella could cause me. The

nature of my relations with her, which placed me on terms of

familiarity without placing me on terms of favour, conduced to my

distraction. She made use of me to tease other admirers, and she turned

the very familiarity between herself and me to the account of putting a

constant slight on my devotion to her. If I had been her secretary,

steward, half-brother, poor relation,—if I had been a younger brother

of her appointed husband,—I could not have seemed to myself further

from my hopes when I was nearest to her. The privilege of calling her

by her name and hearing her call me by mine became, under the

circumstances an aggravation of my trials; and while I think it likely

that it almost maddened her other lovers, I know too certainly that it

almost maddened me.

She had admirers without end. No doubt my jealousy made an admirer of

every one who went near her; but there were more than enough of them

without that.

I saw her often at Richmond, I heard of her often in town, and I used

often to take her and the Brandleys on the water; there were picnics,

fête days, plays, operas, concerts, parties, all sorts of pleasures,

through which I pursued her,—and they were all miseries to me. I never

had one hour’s happiness in her society, and yet my mind all round the

four-and-twenty hours was harping on the happiness of having her with

me unto death.

Throughout this part of our intercourse,—and it lasted, as will

presently be seen, for what I then thought a long time,—she habitually

reverted to that tone which expressed that our association was forced

upon us. There were other times when she would come to a sudden check

in this tone and in all her many tones, and would seem to pity me.

“Pip, Pip,” she said one evening, coming to such a check, when we sat

apart at a darkening window of the house in Richmond; “will you never

take warning?”

“Of what?”

“Of me.”

“Warning not to be attracted by you, do you mean, Estella?”

“Do I mean! If you don’t know what I mean, you are blind.”

I should have replied that Love was commonly reputed blind, but for the

reason that I always was restrained—and this was not the least of my

miseries—by a feeling that it was ungenerous to press myself upon her,

when she knew that she could not choose but obey Miss Havisham. My

dread always was, that this knowledge on her part laid me under a heavy

disadvantage with her pride, and made me the subject of a rebellious

struggle in her bosom.

“At any rate,” said I, “I have no warning given me just now, for you

wrote to me to come to you, this time.”

“That’s true,” said Estella, with a cold careless smile that always

chilled me.

After looking at the twilight without, for a little while, she went on

to say:—

“The time has come round when Miss Havisham wishes to have me for a day

at Satis. You are to take me there, and bring me back, if you will. She

would rather I did not travel alone, and objects to receiving my maid,

for she has a sensitive horror of being talked of by such people. Can

you take me?”

“Can I take you, Estella!”

“You can then? The day after to-morrow, if you please. You are to pay

all charges out of my purse. You hear the condition of your going?”

“And must obey,” said I.

This was all the preparation I received for that visit, or for others

like it; Miss Havisham never wrote to me, nor had I ever so much as

seen her handwriting. We went down on the next day but one, and we

found her in the room where I had first beheld her, and it is needless

to add that there was no change in Satis House.

She was even more dreadfully fond of Estella than she had been when I

last saw them together; I repeat the word advisedly, for there was

something positively dreadful in the energy of her looks and embraces.

She hung upon Estella’s beauty, hung upon her words, hung upon her

gestures, and sat mumbling her own trembling fingers while she looked

at her, as though she were devouring the beautiful creature she had

reared.

From Estella she looked at me, with a searching glance that seemed to

pry into my heart and probe its wounds. “How does she use you, Pip; how

does she use you?” she asked me again, with her witch-like eagerness,

even in Estella’s hearing. But, when we sat by her flickering fire at

night, she was most weird; for then, keeping Estella’s hand drawn

through her arm and clutched in her own hand, she extorted from her, by

dint of referring back to what Estella had told her in her regular

letters, the names and conditions of the men whom she had fascinated;

and as Miss Havisham dwelt upon this roll, with the intensity of a mind

mortally hurt and diseased, she sat with her other hand on her crutch

stick, and her chin on that, and her wan bright eyes glaring at me, a

very spectre.

I saw in this, wretched though it made me, and bitter the sense of

dependence and even of degradation that it awakened,—I saw in this that

Estella was set to wreak Miss Havisham’s revenge on men, and that she

was not to be given to me until she had gratified it for a term. I saw

in this, a reason for her being beforehand assigned to me. Sending her

out to attract and torment and do mischief, Miss Havisham sent her with

the malicious assurance that she was beyond the reach of all admirers,

and that all who staked upon that cast were secured to lose. I saw in

this that I, too, was tormented by a perversion of ingenuity, even

while the prize was reserved for me. I saw in this the reason for my

being staved off so long and the reason for my late guardian’s

declining to commit himself to the formal knowledge of such a scheme.

In a word, I saw in this Miss Havisham as I had her then and there

before my eyes, and always had had her before my eyes; and I saw in

this, the distinct shadow of the darkened and unhealthy house in which

her life was hidden from the sun.

The candles that lighted that room of hers were placed in sconces on

the wall. They were high from the ground, and they burnt with the

steady dulness of artificial light in air that is seldom renewed. As I

looked round at them, and at the pale gloom they made, and at the

stopped clock, and at the withered articles of bridal dress upon the

table and the ground, and at her own awful figure with its ghostly

reflection thrown large by the fire upon the ceiling and the wall, I

saw in everything the construction that my mind had come to, repeated

and thrown back to me. My thoughts passed into the great room across

the landing where the table was spread, and I saw it written, as it

were, in the falls of the cobwebs from the centre-piece, in the

crawlings of the spiders on the cloth, in the tracks of the mice as

they betook their little quickened hearts behind the panels, and in the

gropings and pausings of the beetles on the floor.

It happened on the occasion of this visit that some sharp words arose

between Estella and Miss Havisham. It was the first time I had ever

seen them opposed.

We were seated by the fire, as just now described, and Miss Havisham

still had Estella’s arm drawn through her own, and still clutched

Estella’s hand in hers, when Estella gradually began to detach herself.

She had shown a proud impatience more than once before, and had rather

endured that fierce affection than accepted or returned it.

“What!” said Miss Havisham, flashing her eyes upon her, “are you tired

of me?”

“Only a little tired of myself,” replied Estella, disengaging her arm,

and moving to the great chimney-piece, where she stood looking down at

the fire.

“Speak the truth, you ingrate!” cried Miss Havisham, passionately

striking her stick upon the floor; “you are tired of me.”

Estella looked at her with perfect composure, and again looked down at

the fire. Her graceful figure and her beautiful face expressed a

self-possessed indifference to the wild heat of the other, that was

almost cruel.

“You stock and stone!” exclaimed Miss Havisham. “You cold, cold heart!”

“What?” said Estella, preserving her attitude of indifference as she

leaned against the great chimney-piece and only moving her eyes; “do

you reproach me for being cold? You?”

“Are you not?” was the fierce retort.

“You should know,” said Estella. “I am what you have made me. Take all

the praise, take all the blame; take all the success, take all the

failure; in short, take me.”

“O, look at her, look at her!” cried Miss Havisham, bitterly; “Look at

her so hard and thankless, on the hearth where she was reared! Where I

took her into this wretched breast when it was first bleeding from its

stabs, and where I have lavished years of tenderness upon her!”

[Illustration]

“At least I was no party to the compact,” said Estella, “for if I could

walk and speak, when it was made, it was as much as I could do. But

what would you have? You have been very good to me, and I owe

everything to you. What would you have?”

“Love,” replied the other.

“You have it.”

“I have not,” said Miss Havisham.

“Mother by adoption,” retorted Estella, never departing from the easy

grace of her attitude, never raising her voice as the other did, never

yielding either to anger or tenderness,—“mother by adoption, I have

said that I owe everything to you. All I possess is freely yours. All

that you have given me, is at your command to have again. Beyond that,

I have nothing. And if you ask me to give you, what you never gave me,

my gratitude and duty cannot do impossibilities.”

“Did I never give her love!” cried Miss Havisham, turning wildly to me.

“Did I never give her a burning love, inseparable from jealousy at all

times, and from sharp pain, while she speaks thus to me! Let her call

me mad, let her call me mad!”

“Why should I call you mad,” returned Estella, “I, of all people? Does

any one live, who knows what set purposes you have, half as well as I

do? Does any one live, who knows what a steady memory you have, half as

well as I do? I who have sat on this same hearth on the little stool

that is even now beside you there, learning your lessons and looking up

into your face, when your face was strange and frightened me!”

“Soon forgotten!” moaned Miss Havisham. “Times soon forgotten!”

“No, not forgotten,” retorted Estella,—“not forgotten, but treasured up

in my memory. When have you found me false to your teaching? When have

you found me unmindful of your lessons? When have you found me giving

admission here,” she touched her bosom with her hand, “to anything that

you excluded? Be just to me.”

“So proud, so proud!” moaned Miss Havisham, pushing away her grey hair

with both her hands.

“Who taught me to be proud?” returned Estella. “Who praised me when I

learnt my lesson?”

“So hard, so hard!” moaned Miss Havisham, with her former action.

“Who taught me to be hard?” returned Estella. “Who praised me when I

learnt my lesson?”

“But to be proud and hard to _me_!” Miss Havisham quite shrieked, as

she stretched out her arms. “Estella, Estella, Estella, to be proud and

hard to _me_!”

Estella looked at her for a moment with a kind of calm wonder, but was

not otherwise disturbed; when the moment was past, she looked down at

the fire again.

“I cannot think,” said Estella, raising her eyes after a silence “why

you should be so unreasonable when I come to see you after a

separation. I have never forgotten your wrongs and their causes. I have

never been unfaithful to you or your schooling. I have never shown any

weakness that I can charge myself with.”

“Would it be weakness to return my love?” exclaimed Miss Havisham. “But

yes, yes, she would call it so!”

“I begin to think,” said Estella, in a musing way, after another moment

of calm wonder, “that I almost understand how this comes about. If you

had brought up your adopted daughter wholly in the dark confinement of

these rooms, and had never let her know that there was such a thing as

the daylight by which she had never once seen your face,—if you had

done that, and then, for a purpose had wanted her to understand the

daylight and know all about it, you would have been disappointed and

angry?”

Miss Havisham, with her head in her hands, sat making a low moaning,

and swaying herself on her chair, but gave no answer.

“Or,” said Estella,—“which is a nearer case,—if you had taught her,

from the dawn of her intelligence, with your utmost energy and might,

that there was such a thing as daylight, but that it was made to be her

enemy and destroyer, and she must always turn against it, for it had

blighted you and would else blight her;—if you had done this, and then,

for a purpose, had wanted her to take naturally to the daylight and she

could not do it, you would have been disappointed and angry?”

Miss Havisham sat listening (or it seemed so, for I could not see her

face), but still made no answer.

“So,” said Estella, “I must be taken as I have been made. The success

is not mine, the failure is not mine, but the two together make me.”

Miss Havisham had settled down, I hardly knew how, upon the floor,

among the faded bridal relics with which it was strewn. I took

advantage of the moment—I had sought one from the first—to leave the

room, after beseeching Estella’s attention to her, with a movement of

my hand. When I left, Estella was yet standing by the great

chimney-piece, just as she had stood throughout. Miss Havisham’s grey

hair was all adrift upon the ground, among the other bridal wrecks, and

was a miserable sight to see.

It was with a depressed heart that I walked in the starlight for an

hour and more, about the courtyard, and about the brewery, and about

the ruined garden. When I at last took courage to return to the room, I

found Estella sitting at Miss Havisham’s knee, taking up some stitches

in one of those old articles of dress that were dropping to pieces, and

of which I have often been reminded since by the faded tatters of old

banners that I have seen hanging up in cathedrals. Afterwards, Estella

and I played at cards, as of yore,—only we were skilful now, and played

French games,—and so the evening wore away, and I went to bed.

I lay in that separate building across the courtyard. It was the first

time I had ever lain down to rest in Satis House, and sleep refused to

come near me. A thousand Miss Havishams haunted me. She was on this

side of my pillow, on that, at the head of the bed, at the foot, behind

the half-opened door of the dressing-room, in the dressing-room, in the

room overhead, in the room beneath,—everywhere. At last, when the night

was slow to creep on towards two o’clock, I felt that I absolutely

could no longer bear the place as a place to lie down in, and that I

must get up. I therefore got up and put on my clothes, and went out

across the yard into the long stone passage, designing to gain the

outer courtyard and walk there for the relief of my mind. But I was no

sooner in the passage than I extinguished my candle; for I saw Miss

Havisham going along it in a ghostly manner, making a low cry. I

followed her at a distance, and saw her go up the staircase. She

carried a bare candle in her hand, which she had probably taken from

one of the sconces in her own room, and was a most unearthly object by

its light. Standing at the bottom of the staircase, I felt the mildewed

air of the feast-chamber, without seeing her open the door, and I heard

her walking there, and so across into her own room, and so across again

into that, never ceasing the low cry. After a time, I tried in the dark

both to get out, and to go back, but I could do neither until some

streaks of day strayed in and showed me where to lay my hands. During

the whole interval, whenever I went to the bottom of the staircase, I

heard her footstep, saw her light pass above, and heard her ceaseless

low cry.

Before we left next day, there was no revival of the difference between

her and Estella, nor was it ever revived on any similar occasion; and

there were four similar occasions, to the best of my remembrance. Nor,

did Miss Havisham’s manner towards Estella in anywise change, except

that I believed it to have something like fear infused among its former

characteristics.

It is impossible to turn this leaf of my life, without putting Bentley

Drummle’s name upon it; or I would, very gladly.

On a certain occasion when the Finches were assembled in force, and

when good feeling was being promoted in the usual manner by nobody’s

agreeing with anybody else, the presiding Finch called the Grove to

order, forasmuch as Mr. Drummle had not yet toasted a lady; which,

according to the solemn constitution of the society, it was the brute’s

turn to do that day. I thought I saw him leer in an ugly way at me

while the decanters were going round, but as there was no love lost

between us, that might easily be. What was my indignant surprise when

he called upon the company to pledge him to “Estella!”

“Estella who?” said I.

“Never you mind,” retorted Drummle.

“Estella of where?” said I. “You are bound to say of where.” Which he

was, as a Finch.

“Of Richmond, gentlemen,” said Drummle, putting me out of the question,

“and a peerless beauty.”

Much he knew about peerless beauties, a mean, miserable idiot! I

whispered Herbert.

“I know that lady,” said Herbert, across the table, when the toast had

been honoured.

“_Do_ you?” said Drummle.

“And so do I,” I added, with a scarlet face.

“_Do_ you?” said Drummle. “_O_, Lord!”

This was the only retort—except glass or crockery—that the heavy

creature was capable of making; but, I became as highly incensed by it

as if it had been barbed with wit, and I immediately rose in my place

and said that I could not but regard it as being like the honourable

Finch’s impudence to come down to that Grove,—we always talked about

coming down to that Grove, as a neat Parliamentary turn of

expression,—down to that Grove, proposing a lady of whom he knew

nothing. Mr. Drummle, upon this, starting up, demanded what I meant by

that? Whereupon I made him the extreme reply that I believed he knew

where I was to be found.

Whether it was possible in a Christian country to get on without blood,

after this, was a question on which the Finches were divided. The

debate upon it grew so lively, indeed, that at least six more

honourable members told six more, during the discussion, that they

believed _they_ knew where _they_ were to be found. However, it was

decided at last (the Grove being a Court of Honour) that if Mr. Drummle

would bring never so slight a certificate from the lady, importing that

he had the honour of her acquaintance, Mr. Pip must express his regret,

as a gentleman and a Finch, for “having been betrayed into a warmth

which.” Next day was appointed for the production (lest our honour

should take cold from delay), and next day Drummle appeared with a

polite little avowal in Estella’s hand, that she had had the honour of

dancing with him several times. This left me no course but to regret

that I had been “betrayed into a warmth which,” and on the whole to

repudiate, as untenable, the idea that I was to be found anywhere.

Drummle and I then sat snorting at one another for an hour, while the

Grove engaged in indiscriminate contradiction, and finally the

promotion of good feeling was declared to have gone ahead at an amazing

rate.

I tell this lightly, but it was no light thing to me. For, I cannot

adequately express what pain it gave me to think that Estella should

show any favour to a contemptible, clumsy, sulky booby, so very far

below the average. To the present moment, I believe it to have been

referable to some pure fire of generosity and disinterestedness in my

love for her, that I could not endure the thought of her stooping to

that hound. No doubt I should have been miserable whomsoever she had

favoured; but a worthier object would have caused me a different kind

and degree of distress.

It was easy for me to find out, and I did soon find out, that Drummle

had begun to follow her closely, and that she allowed him to do it. A

little while, and he was always in pursuit of her, and he and I crossed

one another every day. He held on, in a dull persistent way, and

Estella held him on; now with encouragement, now with discouragement,

now almost flattering him, now openly despising him, now knowing him

very well, now scarcely remembering who he was.

The Spider, as Mr. Jaggers had called him, was used to lying in wait,

however, and had the patience of his tribe. Added to that, he had a

blockhead confidence in his money and in his family greatness, which

sometimes did him good service,—almost taking the place of

concentration and determined purpose. So, the Spider, doggedly watching

Estella, outwatched many brighter insects, and would often uncoil

himself and drop at the right nick of time.

At a certain Assembly Ball at Richmond (there used to be Assembly Balls

at most places then), where Estella had outshone all other beauties,

this blundering Drummle so hung about her, and with so much toleration

on her part, that I resolved to speak to her concerning him. I took the

next opportunity; which was when she was waiting for Mrs. Blandley to

take her home, and was sitting apart among some flowers, ready to go. I

was with her, for I almost always accompanied them to and from such

places.

“Are you tired, Estella?”

“Rather, Pip.”

“You should be.”

“Say rather, I should not be; for I have my letter to Satis House to

write, before I go to sleep.”

“Recounting to-night’s triumph?” said I. “Surely a very poor one,

Estella.”

“What do you mean? I didn’t know there had been any.”

“Estella,” said I, “do look at that fellow in the corner yonder, who is

looking over here at us.”

“Why should I look at him?” returned Estella, with her eyes on me

instead. “What is there in that fellow in the corner yonder,—to use

your words,—that I need look at?”

“Indeed, that is the very question I want to ask you,” said I. “For he

has been hovering about you all night.”

“Moths, and all sorts of ugly creatures,” replied Estella, with a

glance towards him, “hover about a lighted candle. Can the candle help

it?”

“No,” I returned; “but cannot the Estella help it?”

“Well!” said she, laughing, after a moment, “perhaps. Yes. Anything you

like.”

“But, Estella, do hear me speak. It makes me wretched that you should

encourage a man so generally despised as Drummle. You know he is

despised.”

“Well?” said she.

“You know he is as ungainly within as without. A deficient,

ill-tempered, lowering, stupid fellow.”

“Well?” said she.

“You know he has nothing to recommend him but money and a ridiculous

roll of addle-headed predecessors; now, don’t you?”

“Well?” said she again; and each time she said it, she opened her

lovely eyes the wider.

To overcome the difficulty of getting past that monosyllable, I took it

from her, and said, repeating it with emphasis, “Well! Then, that is

why it makes me wretched.”

Now, if I could have believed that she favoured Drummle with any idea

of making me—me—wretched, I should have been in better heart about it;

but in that habitual way of hers, she put me so entirely out of the

question, that I could believe nothing of the kind.

“Pip,” said Estella, casting her glance over the room, “don’t be

foolish about its effect on you. It may have its effect on others, and

may be meant to have. It’s not worth discussing.”

“Yes it is,” said I, “because I cannot bear that people should say,

‘she throws away her graces and attractions on a mere boor, the lowest

in the crowd.’”

“I can bear it,” said Estella.

“Oh! don’t be so proud, Estella, and so inflexible.”

“Calls me proud and inflexible in this breath!” said Estella, opening

her hands. “And in his last breath reproached me for stooping to a

boor!”

“There is no doubt you do,” said I, something hurriedly, “for I have

seen you give him looks and smiles this very night, such as you never

give to—me.”

“Do you want me then,” said Estella, turning suddenly with a fixed and

serious, if not angry, look, “to deceive and entrap you?”

“Do you deceive and entrap him, Estella?”

“Yes, and many others,—all of them but you. Here is Mrs. Brandley. I’ll

say no more.”

And now that I have given the one chapter to the theme that so filled

my heart, and so often made it ache and ache again, I pass on

unhindered, to the event that had impended over me longer yet; the

event that had begun to be prepared for, before I knew that the world

held Estella, and in the days when her baby intelligence was receiving

its first distortions from Miss Havisham’s wasting hands.

In the Eastern story, the heavy slab that was to fall on the bed of

state in the flush of conquest was slowly wrought out of the quarry,

the tunnel for the rope to hold it in its place was slowly carried

through the leagues of rock, the slab was slowly raised and fitted in

the roof, the rope was rove to it and slowly taken through the miles of

hollow to the great iron ring. All being made ready with much labour,

and the hour come, the sultan was aroused in the dead of the night, and

the sharpened axe that was to sever the rope from the great iron ring

was put into his hand, and he struck with it, and the rope parted and

rushed away, and the ceiling fell. So, in my case; all the work, near

and afar, that tended to the end, had been accomplished; and in an

instant the blow was struck, and the roof of my stronghold dropped upon

me.