Cover

‘I am instructed to communicate to him,’ said Mr Jaggers, throwing his finger at me sideways, ‘that he will come into a handsome property. Further, that it is the desire of the present possessor of that property, that he be immediately removed from his present sphere of life and from this place, and be brought up as a gentleman – in a word, as a young fellow of great expectations.’

GREAT EXPECTATIONS

CHARLES DICKENS

INTRODUCED BY

RODDY DOYLE

PUFFIN BOOKS

Published by the Penguin Group

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First published 1861

Published in Puffin Books 1991

This abridgement first published in Puffin Books 1995

Reissued in this edition 2011

Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978–0–141–94896–6

INTRODUCTION BY

RODDY DOYLE

Charles Dickens died in 1870, and I’m glad. Dickens is my favourite writer, so it probably seems a bit strange, even nasty, for me to state that I’m glad he died. It might be more accurate to say that I’m glad he was born in 1812 – nearly a century before the first feature films were made. If he’d been born in 1912, I think he would have become a film director. We might have had some good films by Charles Dickens, but we wouldn’t have the great novels. We wouldn’t have Great Expectations. (There is, by the way, a brilliant film version of Great Expectations. It was directed by David Lean, who was born in 1908. If If he’d been born in 1808, he would probably have been a novelist. If he’d been born in 2008, If he’d be watching Bob the Builder now, and eating a rusk.)

When Charles Dickens wrote Bob the Builder – I mean, when Charles Dickens wrote Great Expectations in 1861 there were, of course, no cinemas or televisions. But there are good reasons why I think he would have been a natural film director. The book is divided into chapters, like most books, but there are scenes – or just images – that we see as we read them. I know no other writer who does this as well as Dickens, makes us visualize, or see. I don’t want to give away too much of the story, but there’s a wedding cake. ‘Boring,’ I hear you say – I see you say. But this is the most incredible, frightening, sad, disgusting and fascinating cake you will ever see. And it’s a vital part of the story. But the less vital parts are just as visual. The main character, a boy called Pip, is walking home at night, to the house where he lives with his sister and her husband, Joe, who is a blacksmith: ‘Joe’s furnace was flinging a path of fire across the road.’ We see Pip, the road, the furnace, and we see them because, most of all, we see ‘the path of fire’ that lights the road ahead of Pip. It’s only four very simple words – ‘the path of fire’ – but, probably because it’s so simple, we can see it. Throughout the book, we see faces and hands revealed by candlelight or firelight. Much of the action takes place at night or in dark rooms, in a world before electricity, where one step brought you from safe light into black darkness – frightening, but brilliant.

Good films have great beginnings, to grab our attention, to make us care, or worry, to frighten us or make us laugh. Great Expectations has – I keep reminding myself, it’s a book, not a film – the best start to a story I’ve ever read. There’s a small boy in a graveyard just as it’s getting dark – that’s good. He’s looking at the grave where his parents and five brothers are buried – very sad, but even better. When an escaped convict jumps out from behind a grave and grabs him – the absolute best. As he’s running home, he passes a gibbet, ‘with some chains hanging to it which had once held a pirate’. Can you imagine passing a hanging pirate every day on your way home from school? (By the way, later in the film – sorry, book – there’s a scene in a court, where thirty-two people are condemned to be hanged in public. All we have these days is The X Factor.)

The book is packed with coincidences, chance meetings, chases, sinister people disappearing into the dark. Dickens wrote Great Expectations in weekly instalments, a bit like a television series. Thousands of people waited anxiously for the next episode. They cared, because the writing was so great, the characters so huge and believable, horrible or lovely – so cinematic. Dickens was a film director waiting for the invention of the camera. Luckily, he was too early. We have his books and, almost always, a great book is better than the film of the book. David Lean’s film of Great Expectations is excellent but only the book is Great.

When Dickens was writing Great Expectations, he reached back to his childhood, to his dreams and terrors, to things he saw and did. When he was a little boy he visited a shipyard with his father and saw nine blacksmiths hammering a huge anchor into shape, and shouting out what sounded like a nursery rhyme, about ‘Old Clem’, to keep their rhythm as they worked. More than forty years later, he put the rhyme into the book. Again, when he was a boy, he saw a mad woman on a street in London, wearing an ancient wedding dress. The dress is in this book, and so is the woman. Just think: things you see today might end up in the book you write or the film you make many years from now. So, when you’re walking home and you hear a little bird twittering while perched on the rotting head of the pirate who’s been hanging from a gibbet on the corner of your street for the last six months, stop and look at it properly. Your book might need a little twittering bird.

My father’s family name being Pirrip, and my christian name Philip, I called myself Pip, and came to be called Pip.

I give Pirrip as my father’s family name, on the authority of his tombstone and my sister – Mrs Joe Gargery, who married the blacksmith.

My first most vivid and broad impression of the identity of things, seems to me to have been gained on a memorable raw afternoon towards evening. At such a time I found out for certain, that this bleak place overgrown with nettles was the churchyard; and that Philip Pirrip and also Georgiana wife of the above, were dead and buried; and that Alexander, Bartholomew, Abraham, Tobias, and Roger, infant children of the aforesaid, were also dead and buried; and that the dark flat wilderness beyond the churchyard, intersected with dykes and mounds and gates, was the marshes; and that the small bundle of shivers growing afraid of it all and beginning to cry, was Pip.

‘Hold your noise!’ cried a terrible voice, as a man started up from among the graves at the side of the church porch. ‘Keep still, you little devil, or I’ll cut your throat!’

A fearful man, all in coarse grey, with a great iron on his leg. A man with no hat, and with broken shoes, and with an old rag tied round his head. A man who limped, and shivered, and glared and growled; and whose teeth chattered in his head as he seized me by the chin.

I pointed to where our village lay, on the flat inshore among the alder-trees and pollards, a mile or more from the church.

The man, after looking at me for a moment, turned me upside-down, and emptied my pockets. There was nothing in them but a piece of bread. When the church came to itself – for he was so sudden and strong that he made it go head over heels before me, and I saw the steeple under my feet – I was seated on a high tombstone, trembling, while he ate the bread ravenously.

‘You young dog,’ said the man, licking his lips, ‘what fat cheeks you ha’ got.’

I believe they were fat, though I was at that time undersized for my years, and not strong.

‘Darn Me if I couldn’t eat em,’ said the man, with a threatening shake of his head, ‘and if I han’t half a mind to’t!’

I earnestly expressed my hope that he wouldn’t, and held tighter to the tombstone on which he had put me; partly, to keep myself upon it; partly, to keep myself from crying.

‘There, sir!’ I timidly explained. ‘Also Georgiana. That’s my mother.’

‘Oh!’ said he, coming back. ‘And is that your father alonger your mother?’

‘My sister, sir – Mrs Joe Gargery – wife of Joe Gargery, the blacksmith, sir.’

After darkly looking at his leg and me several times, he came closer to my tombstone, took me by both arms, and tilted me back as far as he could hold me; so that his eyes looked most powerfully down into mine, and mine looked most helplessly up into his.

‘Now lookee here,’ he said, ‘the question being whether you’re to be let to live. You know what a file is?’

‘You get me a file.’ He tilted me again. ‘And you get me wittles.’ He tilted me again. ‘You bring ’em both to me.’ He tilted me again. ‘Or I’ll have your heart and liver out.’

He gave me a most tremendous dip and roll, then, he held me by the arms, in an upright position on the top of the stone, and went on in these fearful terms:

‘You bring me, tomorrow morning early, that file and them wittles. You bring the lot to me, at that old Battery over yonder. You do it, and you never dare to say a word or dare to make a sign concerning your having seen such a person as me and you shall be let to live. You fail, or you go from my words in any partickler, and your heart and your liver shall be tore out, roasted and ate. Now, I ain’t alone, as you may think I am. There’s a young man hid with me, who has a secret way pecooliar to himself, of getting at a boy, and at his heart, and at his liver. It is in wain for a boy to attempt to hide himself from that young man. A boy may lock his door, may be warm in bed, may tuck himself up, may think himself comfortable and safe, but that young man will softly creep and creep his way to him and tear him open. I am a keeping that young man from harming of you at the present moment, with great difficulty. I find it very hard to hold that young man off of your inside. Now, what do you say?’

I said that I would get him the file, and I would get him what broken bits of food I could, and I would come to him at the Battery, early in the morning.

‘Now,’ he pursued, ‘you remember what you’ve undertook, and you remember that young man, and you get home!’

‘Much of that!’ said he, glancing about him over the cold wet flat. ‘I wish I was a frog. Or a eel!’

At the same time, he hugged his shuddering body in both his arms – clasping himself, as if to hold himself together – and limped towards the low church wall. As I saw him go, picking his way among the nettles, and among the brambles that bound the green mounds, he looked in my young eyes as if he were eluding the hands of the dead people, stretching up cautiously out of their graves, to get a twist upon his ankle and pull him in.

When he came to the low church wall, he got over it, like a man whose legs were numbed and stiff, and then turned round to look for me. When I saw him turning, I set my face towards home, and made the best use of my legs. But presently I looked over my shoulder, and saw him going on again towards the river, still hugging himself in both arms.

On the edge of the river I could faintly make out the only two black things in all the prospect that seemed to be standing upright; one of these was the beacon by which the sailors steered – an ugly thing when you were near it; the other a gibbet, with some chains hanging to it which had once held a pirate. The man was limping on towards this latter, as if he were the pirate come to life, and come down, and going back to hook himself up again. It gave me a terrible turn when I thought so; and as I saw the cattle lifting their heads to gaze after him, I wondered whether they thought so too. I looked all round for the horrible young man, and could see no signs of him. But, now I was frightened again, and ran home without stopping.

My sister, Mrs Joe Gargery, was more than twenty years older than I, and had established a great reputation with herself and the neighbours because she had brought me up ‘by hand’. Having at that time to find out for myself what the expression meant, and knowing her to have a hard and heavy hand, and to be much in the habit of laying it upon her husband as well as upon me, I supposed that Joe Gargery and I were both brought up by hand.

She was not a good-looking woman, my sister; and I had a general impression that she must have made Joe Gargery marry her by hand. Joe was a fair man, with eyes of such a very undecided blue that they seemed to have somehow got mixed with their own whites. He was a mild, good-natured, sweet-tempered, easy-going, foolish, dear fellow – a sort of Hercules in strength, and also in weakness.

My sister, Mrs Joe, was tall and bony, and almost always wore a coarse apron, fastened over her figure behind with two loops, and having a square impregnable bib in front, that was stuck full of pins and needles. She made it a powerful merit in herself, and a strong reproach against Joe, that she wore this apron so much.

Joe’s forge adjoined our house, and when I ran home from the churchyard, the forge was shut up, and Joe was sitting alone in the kitchen. Joe and I being fellow-suffers, and having confidences as such, Joe imparted a confidence to me, the moment I raised the latch of the door and peeped in at him opposite to it, sitting in the chimney corner.

‘Mrs Joe has been out a dozen times, looking for you, Pip. And she’s out now, making it a baker’s dozen; and what’s worse, she’s got Tickler with her.’

At this dismal intelligence, I twisted the only button on my waistcoat round and round, and looked in great depression at the fire. Tickler was a wax-ended piece of cane, worn smooth by collision with my tickled frame.

‘She sat down,’ said Joe, ‘and she got up, and she made a grab at Tickler, and she rampaged out,’ said Joe.

‘Well,’ said Joe, glancing up at the Dutch clock, ‘she’s been on the rampage, this last spell, about five minutes, Pip. She’s a coming! Get behind the door, old chap, and have the jack-towel betwixt you.’

I took the advice. My sister, Mrs Joe, throwing the door wide open, and finding an obstruction behind it, immediately divined the cause, and applied Tickler to its further investigation. She concluded by throwing me at Joe, who, glad to get hold of me on any terms, passed me on into the chimney and quietly fenced me up there with his great leg.

‘I have only been to the churchyard,’ said I, from my stool, crying and rubbing myself.

‘Churchyard!’ repeated my sister. ‘If it warn’t for me you’d have been to the churchyard long ago, and stayed there. Who brought you up by hand?’

‘I don’t!’ said my sister. ‘I’d never do it again! I know that. It’s bad enough to be a blacksmith’s wife without being your mother.’

My thoughts strayed from that question as I looked disconsolately at the fire. For, the fugitive out on the marshes with the ironed leg, the mysterious young man, the file, the food, and the dreadful pledge I was under to commit a larceny on those sheltering premises, rose before me in the avenging coals.

‘Hah!’ said Mrs Joe, restoring Tickler to his station. ‘Churchyard, indeed! You’ll drive me to the churchyard betwixt you, one of these days, and oh, a pr-r-recious pair you’d be without me!’

As she applied herself to set the tea-things, Joe peeped down at me over his leg, as if he were mentally casting me and himself up, and calculating what kind of pair we practically should make, under the grievous circumstances foreshadowed. After that, he sat feeling his right-side flaxen curls and whisker, and following Mrs Joe about with his blue eyes, as his manner always was at squally times.

On the present occasion, though I was hungry, I dared not eat my slice of bread and butter. I felt that I must have something in reserve for my dreadful acquaintance, and his ally the still more dreadful young man. I knew Mrs Joe’s housekeeping to be of the strictest kind, and that my larcenous researches might find nothing available in the safe. Therefore I resolved to put my hunk of bread-and-butter down the leg of my trousers.

The effort of resolution necessary to the achievement of this purpose was made the more difficult by the unconscious Joe. It was our evening habit to compare the way we bit through our slices, by silently holding them up to each other’s admiration now and then – which stimulated us to new exertions. Tonight, Joe several times invited me, by the display of his fast-diminishing slice, to enter upon our usual friendly competition; but he found me, each time, with my yellow mug of tea on one knee, and my untouched bread-and-butter on the other. At last I took advantage of a moment when Joe had just looked at me, and got my bread-and-butter down my leg.

Joe was evidently made uncomfortable by what he supposed to be my loss of appetite, and took a thoughtful bite out of his slice, which he didn’t seem to enjoy. He was about to take another bite, when his eye fell on me, and he saw that my bread-and-butter was gone.

The wonder and consternation with which Joe stopped on the threshold of his bite and stared at me, were too evident to escape my sister’s observation.

‘I say, you know!’ muttered Joe, shaking his head at me in very serious remonstrance. ‘Pip, old chap! You’ll do yourself a mischief. It’ll stick somewhere. You can’t have chawed it, Pip.’

‘You know, old chap,’ said Joe, looking at me, and not at Mrs Joe, with his bite still in his cheek, ‘I Bolted, myself, when I was your age, but I never see your Bolting equal yet. Pip, and it’s a mercy you ain’t Bolted dead.’

My sister made a dive at me, and fished me up by the hair: saying nothing more than the awful words, ‘You come along and be dosed.’

Some medical beast had revived Tar-water in those days as a fine medicine, and Mrs Joe always kept a supply of it in the cupboard; having a belief in its virtues correspondent to its nastiness. On this particular evening the urgency of my case demanded a pint of this mixture, which was poured down my throat, for my greater comfort, while Mrs Joe held my head under her arm, as a boot would be held in a boot-jack. Joe got off with half a pint; but was made to swallow that (much to his disturbance, as he sat slowly munching and meditating before the fire), ‘because he had had a turn.’

Conscience is a dreadful thing when it accuses man or boy; but when, in the case of a boy, that secret burden co-operates with another secret burden down the leg of his trousers, it is a great punishment. The guilty knowledge that I was going to rob Mrs Joe united to the necessity of always keeping one hand on my bread-and-butter as I sat, or when I was ordered about the kitchen on any small errand, almost drove me out of my mind. Then, as the marsh winds made the fire glow and flare, I thought I heard the voice outside, of the man with the iron on his leg who had sworn me to secrecy, declaring that he couldn’t and wouldn’t starve until tomorrow, but must be fed now. At other times, I thought, What if the young man should yield to a constitutional impatience, or should mistake the time, and should think himself accredited to my heart and liver tonight, instead of tomorrow! If ever anybody’s hair stood on end with terror, mine must have done so then. But, perhaps, nobody’s ever did?

It was Christmas Eve, and I had to stir the pudding for next day. I tried it with the load upon my leg (and that made me think afresh of the man with the load on his leg), and found the tendency of exercise to bring the bread-and-butter out at my ankle, quite unmanageable. Happily, I slipped away, and deposited that part of my conscience in my garret bedroom.

‘Hark!’ said I, when I had done my stirring, and was taking a final warm in the chimney corner before being sent up to bed; ‘was that great guns, Joe?’

Mrs Joe, who always took explanations upon herself, said, snappishly, ‘Escaped. Escaped.’ Administering the definition like Tar-water.

‘There was a conwict off last night,’ said Joe, aloud, ‘after sunset-gun. And they fired warning of him. And now, it appears they’re firing warning of another.’

‘Drat that boy,’ interposed my sister, frowning at me over her work, ‘what a questioner he is. Ask no questions, and you’ll be told no lies.’

‘Mrs Joe,’ said I, ‘I should like to know – if you wouldn’t much mind – where the firing comes from?’

‘Lord bless the boy!’ exclaimed my sister, as if she didn’t quite mean that, but rather the contrary. ‘From the Hulks!’

‘That’s the way with this boy!’ exclaimed my sister, pointing me out with her needle and thread, and shaking her head at me. ‘Answer him one question, and he’ll ask you a dozen directly. Hulks are prisonships, right ’cross th’ meshes.’

‘I wonder who’s put into prisonships, and why they’re put there?’ said I, in a general way, and with quiet desperation.

It was too much for Mrs Joe, who immediately rose. ‘I tell you what, young fellow,’ said she, ‘I didn’t bring you up by hand to badger people’s lives out. It would be blame to me, and not praise, if I had. People are put in the Hulks because they murder, and because they rob, and forge, and do all sorts of bad; and they always begin by asking questions. Now, you get along to bed!’

I was never allowed a candle to light me to bed, and, as I went upstairs in the dark, I felt fearfully sensible of the great convenience that the Hulks were handy for me. I was clearly on my way there. I had begun by asking questions, and I was going to rob Mrs Joe.

If I slept at all that night, it was only to imagine myself drifting down the river on a strong spring-tide, to the Hulks; a ghostly pirate calling out to me through a speaking-trumpet, as I passed the gibbet-station, that I had better come ashore and be hanged there at once, and not put it off. I was afraid to sleep, for I knew that at the first faint dawn of morning I must rob the pantry.

As soon as the great black velvet pall outside my little window was shot with grey, I got up and went downstairs; every board upon the way, and every crack in every board, calling after me, ‘Stop thief!’ and ‘Get up, Mrs Joe!’ In the pantry I stole some bread, some rind of cheese, about half a jar of mincemeat, some brandy from a stone bottle which I decanted into a glass bottle, diluting the stone bottle from a jug in the kitchen cupboard, a meat bone with very little on it, and a beautiful round compact pork pie.

There was a door in the kitchen, communicating with the forge; I unlocked and unbolted that door, and got a file from among Joe’s tools. Then, I put the fastenings as I had found them, opened the door at which I had entered when I ran home last night, shut it, and ran for the misty marshes.

It was a rimy morning, and very damp. The mist was heavier yet when I got out upon the marshes, so that instead of my running at everything, everything seemed to run at me. This was very disagreeable to a guilty mind. The gates and dykes and banks came bursting at me through the mist, as if they cried as plainly as could be, ‘A boy with Somebody-else’s pork pie! Stop him!’ The cattle came upon me with like suddenness, staring out of their eyes, and steaming out of their nostrils, ‘Holloa, young thief!’

All this time, I was getting on towards the river. I knew my way to the Battery, pretty straight, for I had been down there on a Sunday with Joe.

Making my way along here with all despatch, I had just crossed a ditch which I knew to be very near the Battery, and had just scrambled up the mound beyond the ditch, when I saw the man sitting before me. His back was towards me, and he had his arms folded, and was nodding forward, heavy with sleep.

I thought he would be more glad if I came upon him with his breakfast, in that unexpected manner, so I went forward softly and touched him on the shoulder. He instantly jumped up, and it was not the same man, but another man!

And yet this man was dressed in coarse grey, too, and had a great iron on his leg, and was everything that the other man was; except that he had not the same face, and had a flat broad-brimmed low-crowned felt hat on. He swore an oath at me, made a hit at me, and then he ran into the mist, stumbling twice as he went, and I lost him.

‘It’s the young man!’ I thought, feeling my heart shoot as I identified him. I dare say I should have felt a pain in my liver, too, if I had known where it was.

I was soon at the Battery, after that, and there was the right man waiting for me. He was awfully cold, to be sure. His eyes looked so awfully hungry, too, that when I handed him the file and he laid it down on the grass, it occurred to me he would have tried to eat it, if he had not seen my bundle. He did not turn me upside-down, this time, to get at what I had, but left me right side upwards while I opened the bundle and emptied my pockets.

He was already handing mincemeat down his throat in the most curious manner – more like a man who was putting it away somewhere in a violent hurry, than a man who was eating it – but he left off to take some of the liquor. He shivered all the while, so violently, that it was quite as much as he could do to keep the neck of the bottle between his teeth, without biting it off.

‘I think you have got the ague,’ said I. ‘You’ve been lying out on the meshes, and they’re dreadful aguish. Rheumatic too.’

‘I’ll eat my breakfast afore they’re the death of me,’ said he. ‘I’d do that, if I was going to be strung up to that there gallows as there is over there, directly arterwards. I’ll beat the shivers so far, I’ll bet you.’

He was gobbling mincemeat, meatbone, bread, cheese, and pork pie, all at once: starting distrustfully while he did so at the mist all round us, and often stopping to listen. Some real or fancied sound, some clink upon the river or breathing of beast upon the marsh, now gave him a start, and he said, suddenly:

‘Well,’ said he, ‘I believe you. You’d be but a fierce young hound indeed, if at your time of life you could help to hunt a wretched warmint, hunted as near death and dunghill as this poor wretched warmint is!’

Something clicked in his throat, and he smeared his ragged rough sleeve over his eyes.

Pitying his desolation, and watching him as he gradually settled down upon the pie, I made bold to say, ‘I am glad you enjoy it.’

‘Leave any for him? Who’s him?’ said my friend, stopping in his crunching of pie-crust.

‘Oh ah!’ he returned, with something like a gruff laugh. ‘Him? Yes, yes! He don’t want no wittles.’

The man stopped eating, and regarded me with the keenest scrutiny and the greatest surprise.

‘Yonder,’ said I, pointing; ‘over there, where I found him nodding asleep, and thought it was you.’

He held me by the collar and stared at me so, that I began to think his first idea about cutting my throat had revived.

‘Dressed like you, you know, only with a hat,’ I explained, trembling; ‘and – and’ – I was very anxious to put this delicately – ‘and with – the same reason for wanting to borrow a file. Didn’t you hear the cannon last night?’

‘I wonder you shouldn’t have been sure of that,’ I returned, ‘for we heard it up at home.’

‘Why, see now!’ said he. ‘When a man’s alone on these flats, with a light head and a light stomach, perishing of cold and want, he hears nothin’ all night, but guns firing, and voices calling. He sees the soldiers, with their red coats lighted up by the torches carried afore, closing in round him. Hears himself challenged, hears the rattle of the muskets, hears the orders “Make ready! Present! Cover him steady, men!” and is laid hands on – and there’s nothin’! And as to firing! Why, I see the mist shake with the cannon, arter it was broad day – But this man;’ he had said all the rest, as if he had forgotten my being there; ‘did you notice anything in him?’

‘Where is he?’ He crammed what little food was left, into the breast of his grey jacket. ‘Show me the way he went. I’ll pull him down, like a bloodhound. Curse this iron on my sore leg! Give us hold of the file, boy.’

I indicated in what direction the mist had shrouded the other man, and he looked up at it for an instant. But he was down on the rank wet grass, filing at his iron like a madman, and I told him I must go, but he took no notice, so I thought the best thing I could do was to slip off. The last I saw of him, his head was bent over his knee and he was working hard at his fetter, muttering impatient imprecautions at it and at his leg. The last I heard of him, I stopped in the mist to listen, and the file was still going.

I fully expected to find a Constable in the kitchen, waiting to take me up. But not only was there no Constable there, but no discovery had yet been made of the robbery. Mrs Joe was prodigiously busy in getting the house ready for the festivities of the day, and Joe had been put upon the kitchen door-step to keep him out of the dust-pan.

‘And where the deuce ha’ you been?’ was Mrs Joe’s Christmas salutation, when I and my conscience showed ourselves.

I said I had been down to hear the Carols. ‘Ah! well!’ observed Mrs Joe. ‘You might ha’ done worse. Perhaps if I warn’t a blacksmith’s wife, and a slave with her apron never off, I should have been to hear the Carols. I’m rather partial to Carols, myself, and that’s the best of reasons for my never hearing any.’

Joe, who had ventured into the kitchen after me as the dust-pan had retired before us, drew the back of his hand across his nose with a conciliatory air and secretly crossed his two forefingers, and exhibited them to me, as our token that Mrs Joe was in a cross temper.

We were to have a superb dinner, consisting of a leg of pickled pork and greens, and a pair of roast stuffed fowls. A handsome mince-pie had been made yesterday morning (which accounted for the mincemeat not being missed), and the pudding was already on the boil.

My sister having so much to do, was going to church vicariously; that is to say, Joe and I were going. In his working clothes, Joe was a well-knit characteristic-looking blacksmith; in his holiday clothes, he was more like a scarecrow in good circumstances, than anything else. On the present festive occasion he emerged from his room, when the blithe bells were going, the picture of misery, in a full suit of Sunday penitentials. As to me, when I was taken to have a new suit of clothes, the tailor had orders to make them like a kind of Reformatory, and on no account to let me have the free use of my limbs.

Joe and I going to church, therefore, must have been a moving spectacle for compassionate minds. Yet, what I suffered outside, was nothing to what I underwent within. The terrors that had assailed me whenever Mrs Joe had gone near the pantry, or out of the room, were only to be equalled by the remorse with which my mind dwelt on what my hands had done. Under the weight of my wicked secret, I pondered whether the Church would be powerful enough to shield me from the vengeance of the terrible young man, if I divulged to that establishment. I conceived the idea that the time when the banns were read and when the clergyman said, ‘Ye are now to declare it!’ would be the time for me to rise and propose a private conference in the vestry. I am far from being sure that I might not have astonished our small congregation by resorting to this extreme measure, but for its being Christmas Day and no Sunday.

Mr Wopsle, the clerk at church, was to dine with us; and Mr Hubble the wheelwright and Mrs Hubble; and Uncle Pumblechook (Joe’s uncle, but Mrs Joe appropriated him), who was a well-to-do corn-chandler in the nearest town, and drove his own chaise-cart. When Joe and I got home, we found the table laid, and Mrs Joe dressed, and the dinner dressing, and the front door unlocked for the company to enter by, and everything most splendid. And still, not a word of the robbery.

The time came, without bringing with it any relief to my feelings, and the company arrived. And I opened the door first to Mr Wopsle, next to Mr and Mrs Hubble, and last of all to Uncle Pumblechook.

‘Mrs Joe,’ said Uncle Pumblechook: a large hard- breathing middle-aged slow man, with a mouth like a fish, dull staring eyes, and sandy hair standing upright on his head, ‘I have brought you, Mum, a bottle of sherry wine – and I have brought you, Mum, a bottle of port wine.’

Every Christmas Day he presented himself, as a profound novelty, with exactly the same words, and carrying the two bottles like dumb-bells. Every Christmas Day, Mrs Joe replied, as she now replied, ‘Oh, Un – cle Pum – ble – chook! This is kind!’

My sister was uncommonly lively on the present occasion, and indeed was generally more gracious in the society of Mrs Hubble than in other company. I remember Mrs Hubble as a little curly sharp-edged person in sky-blue, who held a conventionally juvenile position, because she had married Mr Hubble when she was much younger than he. I remember Mr Hubble as a tough high-shouldered stooping old man, of a sawdusty fragrance, with his legs extraordinarily wide apart: so that in my short days I always saw some miles of open country between them when I met him coming up the lane.

Among this good company I should have felt myself, even if I hadn’t robbed the pantry, in a false position. Not because I was squeezed in at an acute angle of the table-cloth, with the table in my chest, and the Pumblechookian elbow in my eye, nor because I was not allowed to speak (I didn’t want to speak), no; I should not have minded that, if they would only have left me alone. But they wouldn’t leave me alone.

It began the moment we sat down to dinner. Mr Wopsle said grace with theatrical declamation – as it now appears to me, something like a religious cross of the Ghost in Hamlet with Richard the Third – and ended with the very proper aspiration that we might be truly grateful.

‘Especially,’ said Mr Pumblechook, ‘be grateful, boy, to them which brought you up by hand.’

Mrs Hubble shook her head, and contemplating me with a mournful presentiment that I should come to no good, asked, ‘Why is it that the young are never grateful?’ This moral mystery seemed too much for the company until Mr Hubble tersely solved it by saying, ‘Naterally wicious.’ Everybody then murmured ‘True!’ and looked at me in a particularly unpleasant and personal manner.

Joe always aided and comforted me when he could, in some way of his own, and he always did so at dinner-time by giving me gravy, if there were any. There being plenty of gravy today, Joe spooned into my plate, at this point, about half a pint.

A little later on in the dinner, Mr Wopsle reviewed the sermon with some severity, and he remarked that he considered the subject of the day’s homily, ill-chosen; which was the less excusable, he added, when there were so many subjects ‘going about’.

‘True again,’ said Uncle Pumblechook. ‘A man needn’t go far to find a subject. Look at Pork alone. If you want a subject, look at Pork!’

‘True, sir. Many a moral for the young,’ returned Mr Wopsle; and I knew he was going to lug me in, before he said it; ‘might be deduced from that text.’

‘Swine,’ pursued Mr Wopsle, in his deepest voice, ‘Swine were the companions of the prodigal. The gluttony of Swine is put before us, as an example to the young.’ (I thought this pretty well in him who had been praising up the pork for being so plump and juicy.) ‘What is detestable in a pig, is more detestable in a boy.’

‘Of course, or girl, Mr Hubble,’ assented Mr Wopsle, rather irritably, ‘but there is no girl present.’

‘Besides,’ said Mr Pumblechook, turning sharp on me, ‘think what you’ve got to be grateful for. If you’d been born a Squeaker, would you have been here now? Not you –’

‘But I don’t mean in that form, sir,’ returned Mr Pumblechook, ‘I mean, enjoying himself with his elders and betters, and rolling in the lap of luxury. Would he have been doing that? No, he wouldn’t. And what would have been your destination?’ turning on me again, ‘Dunstable the butcher would have come up to you as you lay in your straw, and he would have shed your blood and had your life.’

‘He was a world of trouble to you, ma’am,’ said Mrs Hubble, commiserating my sister.

‘Trouble?’ echoed my sister; ‘trouble?’ And then entered on a fearful catalogue of all the illnesses I had been guilty of, and all the times she had wished me in my grave, and I had contumaciously refused to go there.

‘Yet,’ said Mr Pumblechook, leading the company gently back to the theme from which they had strayed, ‘Pork – regarded as biled – is rich, too; ain’t it?’

O Heavens, it had come at last! He would find it was weak, and I was lost! I held tight to the leg of the table under the cloth, with both hands, and awaited my fate.

I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. Holding tight by the leg of the table with my hands and feet, I saw the miserable creature finger his glass playfully, take it up, smile, throw his head back, and drink the brandy off. Instantly afterwards, the company were seized with unspeakable consternation, owing to his springing to his feet, turning round several times in an appalling spasmodic whooping-cough dance, and rushing out at the door; he then became visible through the window, violently plunging and expectorating, making the most hideous faces, and apparently out of his mind.

I held on tight, while Mrs Joe and Joe ran to him. I didn’t know how I had done it, but I had no doubt I had murdered him somehow. In my dreadful situation, it was a relief when he was brought back, and, surveying the company all round as if they had disagreed with him, sank down into his chair with the one significant gasp, ‘Tar!’

I had filled up the bottle from the tar-water jug. I knew he would be worse by-and-by.

‘Tar!’ cried my sister, in amazement. ‘Why, how ever could Tar come there?’

But, Uncle Pumblechook, who was omnipotent in that kitchen, wouldn’t hear the word, wouldn’t hear of the subject, imperiously waved it all away with his hand, and asked for hot gin-and-water. For the time at least, I was saved.

By degrees, I became calm enough to release my grasp of the table leg and partake of pudding. Mr Pumblechook partook of pudding. All partook of pudding. The course terminated, and Mr Pumblechook had begun to beam under the genial influence of gin-and-water. I began to think I should get over the day, when my sister said to Joe, ‘Clean plates – cold.’

I clutched the leg of the table again. I foresaw what was coming, and I felt that this time I really was gone.

‘You must taste,’ said my sister, addressing the guests with her best grace, ‘You must taste, to finish with, such a delightful and delicious present of Uncle Pumblechook’s!’

‘You must know,’ said my sister, rising, ‘it’s a pie; a savoury pork pie.’ She went out to get it. I heard her steps proceed to the pantry. I saw Mr Pumblechook balance his knife. I saw re-awakening appetite in the Roman nostrils of Mr Wopsle. I heard Mr Hubble remark that ‘a bit of savoury pork pie would lay atop of anything you could mention, and do no harm,’ and I heard Joe say, ‘You shall have some, Pip.’ I felt that I could bear no more, and that I must run away. I released the leg of the table, and ran for my life.

But, I ran no further than the house door, for there I ran head foremost into a party of soldiers with their muskets: one of whom held out a pair of handcuffs to me, saying, ‘Here you are, look sharp, come on!’

The apparition of a file of soldiers ringing down the buttends of their loaded muskets on our door-step, caused the dinner-party to rise from table in confusion, and caused Mrs Joe re-entering the kitchen empty-handed, to stop short and stare, in her wondering lament of ‘Gracious goodness gracious me, what’s gone – with the – pie!’

It was the sergeant who had spoken to me, and he was now looking round at the company, with his handcuffs invitingly extended towards them in his right hand, and his left on my shoulder.

‘Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,’ said the sergeant, ‘I am on a chase in the name of the king, and I want the blacksmith.’

‘Missis,’ returned the gallant sergeant, ‘speaking for myself, I should reply, the honour and pleasure of his fine wife’s acquaintance; speaking for the king, I answer, a little job done. You see, blacksmith, we have had an accident with these, and I find the lock of one of ’em goes wrong, and the coupling don’t act pretty. As they are wanted for immediate service, will you throw your eye over them?’

Joe pronounced that the job would necessitate the lighting of his forge fire, and would take nearer two hours than one, ‘Then will you set about it at once, blacksmith?’ said the off-hand sergeant, ‘And if my men can bear a hand anywhere, they’ll make themselves useful.’ With that, he called to his men, who came trooping into the kitchen one after another, and piled their arms in a corner.

All these things I saw without then knowing that I saw them, for I was in an agony of apprehension. But, beginning to perceive that the handcuffs were not for me, and that the military had so far got the better of the pie as to put it in the background, I collected a little more of my scattered wits.

‘Would you give me the Time?’ said the sergeant, addressing himself to Mr Pumblechook.

‘That’s not so bad,’ said the sergeant, reflecting; ‘even if I was forced to halt here nigh two hours, that’ll do. How far might you call yourselves from the marshes, hereabouts?

‘That’ll do. We begin to close in upon ’em about dusk. A little before dusk, my orders are. That’ll do.’

‘Ay!’ returned the sergeant, ‘two. They’re pretty well known to be out on the marshes still, and they won’t try to get clear of ’em before dusk. Anybody here seen anything of any such game?’

‘Well!’ said the sergeant, ‘they’ll find themselves trapped in a circle, I expect, sooner than they count on. Now, blacksmith! If you’re ready, his Majesty the King is.’

Joe had got his coat and waistcoat and cravat off, and his leather apron on, and passed into the forge. Then he began to hammer and clink, hammer and clink, and we all looked on.

The interest of the impending pursuit not only absorbed the general attention, but even made my sister liberal. She drew a pitcher of beer from the cask, for the soldiers, and invited the sergeant to take a glass of brandy. But Mr Pumblechook said, sharply, ‘Give him wine, Mum. I’ll engage there’s no Tar in that:’ so, the sergeant thanked him and said that as he preferred his drink without tar, he would take wine, if it was equally convenient. When it was given him, he took it all at a mouthful and smacked his lips.

‘I’ll tell you something,’ returned the sergeant; ‘I suspect that stuff’s of your providing.’

‘Because,’ returned the sergeant, clapping him on the shoulder, ‘you’re a man that knows what’s what.’

‘D’ye think so?’ said Mr Pumblechook, with his former laugh. ‘Have another glass!’

‘With you. Hob and nob,’ returned the sergeant and tossed off his glass again and seemed quite ready for another glass.

GREAT EXPECTATIONS

CHARLES DICKENS

INTRODUCED BY

RODDY DOYLE

Table of Contents

INTRODUCTION BY

RODDY DOYLE

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