¶ 1 Leave a comment on paragraph 1 0 After well considering the matter while I was dressing at the Blue Boar in the morning, I resolved to tell my guardian that I doubted Orlick’s being the right sort of man to fill a post of trust at Miss Havisham’s. “Why of course he is not the right sort of man, Pip,” said my guardian, comfortably satisfied beforehand on the general head, “because the man who fills the post of trust never is the right sort of man.” It seemed quite to put him into spirits to find that this particular post was not exceptionally held by the right sort of man, and he listened in a satisfied manner while I told him what knowledge I had of Orlick. “Very good, Pip,” he observed, when I had concluded, “I’ll go round presently, and pay our friend off.” Rather alarmed by this summary action, I was for a little delay, and even hinted that our friend himself might be difficult to deal with. “Oh no he won’t,” said my guardian, making his pocket-handkerchief-point, with perfect confidence; “I should like to see him argue the question with me.”
¶ 2 Leave a comment on paragraph 2 0 As we were going back together to London by the midday coach, and as I breakfasted under such terrors of Pumblechook that I could scarcely hold my cup, this gave me an opportunity of saying that I wanted a walk, and that I would go on along the London road while Mr. Jaggers was occupied, if he would let the coachman know that I would get into my place when overtaken. I was thus enabled to fly from the Blue Boar immediately after breakfast. By then making a loop of about a couple of miles into the open country at the back of Pumblechook’s premises, I got round into the High Street again, a little beyond that pitfall, and felt myself in comparative security.
¶ 3 Leave a comment on paragraph 3 0 It was interesting to be in the quiet old town once more, and it was not disagreeable to be here and there suddenly recognized and stared after. One or two of the tradespeople even darted out of their shops and went a little way down the street before me, that they might turn, as if they had forgotten something, and pass me face to face,—on which occasions I don’t know whether they or I made the worse pretence; they of not doing it, or I of not seeing it. Still my position was a distinguished one, and I was not at all dissatisfied with it, until Fate threw me in the way of that unlimited miscreant, Trabb’s boy.
¶ 4 Leave a comment on paragraph 4 0 Casting my eyes along the street at a certain point of my progress, I beheld Trabb’s boy approaching, lashing himself with an empty blue bag. Deeming that a serene and unconscious contemplation of him would best beseem me, and would be most likely to quell his evil mind, I advanced with that expression of countenance, and was rather congratulating myself on my success, when suddenly the knees of Trabb’s boy smote together, his hair uprose, his cap fell off, he trembled violently in every limb, staggered out into the road, and crying to the populace, “Hold me! I’m so frightened!” feigned to be in a paroxysm of terror and contrition, occasioned by the dignity of my appearance. As I passed him, his teeth loudly chattered in his head, and with every mark of extreme humiliation, he prostrated himself in the dust.
¶ 5 Leave a comment on paragraph 5 0 This was a hard thing to bear, but this was nothing. I had not advanced another two hundred yards when, to my inexpressible terror, amazement, and indignation, I again beheld Trabb’s boy approaching. He was coming round a narrow corner. His blue bag was slung over his shoulder, honest industry beamed in his eyes, a determination to proceed to Trabb’s with cheerful briskness was indicated in his gait. With a shock he became aware of me, and was severely visited as before; but this time his motion was rotatory, and he staggered round and round me with knees more afflicted, and with uplifted hands as if beseeching for mercy. His sufferings were hailed with the greatest joy by a knot of spectators, and I felt utterly confounded.
¶ 6 Leave a comment on paragraph 6 0 I had not got as much further down the street as the post-office, when I again beheld Trabb’s boy shooting round by a back way. This time, he was entirely changed. He wore the blue bag in the manner of my great-coat, and was strutting along the pavement towards me on the opposite side of the street, attended by a company of delighted young friends to whom he from time to time exclaimed, with a wave of his hand, “Don’t know yah!” Words cannot state the amount of aggravation and injury wreaked upon me by Trabb’s boy, when passing abreast of me, he pulled up his shirt-collar, twined his side-hair, stuck an arm akimbo, and smirked extravagantly by, wriggling his elbows and body, and drawling to his attendants, “Don’t know yah, don’t know yah, ‘pon my soul don’t know yah!” The disgrace attendant on his immediately afterwards taking to crowing and pursuing me across the bridge with crows, as from an exceedingly dejected fowl who had known me when I was a blacksmith, culminated the disgrace with which I left the town, and was, so to speak, ejected by it into the open country.
¶ 7 Leave a comment on paragraph 7 1 But unless I had taken the life of Trabb’s boy on that occasion, I really do not even now see what I could have done save endure. To have struggled with him in the street, or to have exacted any lower recompense from him than his heart’s best blood, would have been futile and degrading. Moreover, he was a boy whom no man could hurt; an invulnerable and dodging serpent who, when chased into a corner, flew out again between his captor’s legs, scornfully yelping. I wrote, however, to Mr. Trabb by next day’s post, to say that Mr. Pip must decline to deal further with one who could so far forget what he owed to the best interests of society, as to employ a boy who excited Loathing in every respectable mind.
¶ 8 Leave a comment on paragraph 8 0 The coach, with Mr. Jaggers inside, came up in due time, and I took my box-seat again, and arrived in London safe,—but not sound, for my heart was gone. As soon as I arrived, I sent a penitential codfish and barrel of oysters to Joe (as reparation for not having gone myself), and then went on to Barnard’s Inn.
¶ 9 Leave a comment on paragraph 9 0 I found Herbert dining on cold meat, and delighted to welcome me back. Having despatched The Avenger to the coffee-house for an addition to the dinner, I felt that I must open my breast that very evening to my friend and chum. As confidence was out of the question with The Avenger in the hall, which could merely be regarded in the light of an antechamber to the keyhole, I sent him to the Play. A better proof of the severity of my bondage to that taskmaster could scarcely be afforded, than the degrading shifts to which I was constantly driven to find him employment. So mean is extremity, that I sometimes sent him to Hyde Park corner to see what o’clock it was.
¶ 10 Leave a comment on paragraph 10 0 Dinner done and we sitting with our feet upon the fender, I said to Herbert, “My dear Herbert, I have something very particular to tell you.”
¶ 11 Leave a comment on paragraph 11 0 “My dear Handel,” he returned, “I shall esteem and respect your confidence.”
¶ 12 Leave a comment on paragraph 12 0 “It concerns myself, Herbert,” said I, “and one other person.”
¶ 13 Leave a comment on paragraph 13 0 Herbert crossed his feet, looked at the fire with his head on one side, and having looked at it in vain for some time, looked at me because I didn’t go on.
¶ 14 Leave a comment on paragraph 14 0 “Herbert,” said I, laying my hand upon his knee, “I love—I adore—Estella.”
¶ 15 Leave a comment on paragraph 15 0 Instead of being transfixed, Herbert replied in an easy matter-of-course way, “Exactly. Well?”
¶ 16 Leave a comment on paragraph 16 0 “Well, Herbert? Is that all you say? Well?”
¶ 17 Leave a comment on paragraph 17 0 “What next, I mean?” said Herbert. “Of course I know that.”
¶ 18 Leave a comment on paragraph 18 0 “How do you know it?” said I.
¶ 19 Leave a comment on paragraph 19 0 “How do I know it, Handel? Why, from you.”
¶ 20 Leave a comment on paragraph 20 0 “I never told you.”
¶ 21 Leave a comment on paragraph 21 0 “Told me! You have never told me when you have got your hair cut, but I have had senses to perceive it. You have always adored her, ever since I have known you. You brought your adoration and your portmanteau here together. Told me! Why, you have always told me all day long. When you told me your own story, you told me plainly that you began adoring her the first time you saw her, when you were very young indeed.”
¶ 22 Leave a comment on paragraph 22 0 “Very well, then,” said I, to whom this was a new and not unwelcome light, “I have never left off adoring her. And she has come back, a most beautiful and most elegant creature. And I saw her yesterday. And if I adored her before, I now doubly adore her.”
¶ 23 Leave a comment on paragraph 23 0 “Lucky for you then, Handel,” said Herbert, “that you are picked out for her and allotted to her. Without encroaching on forbidden ground, we may venture to say that there can be no doubt between ourselves of that fact. Have you any idea yet, of Estella’s views on the adoration question?”
¶ 24 Leave a comment on paragraph 24 0 I shook my head gloomily. “Oh! She is thousands of miles away, from me,” said I.
¶ 25 Leave a comment on paragraph 25 0 “Patience, my dear Handel: time enough, time enough. But you have something more to say?”
¶ 26 Leave a comment on paragraph 26 0 “I am ashamed to say it,” I returned, “and yet it’s no worse to say it than to think it. You call me a lucky fellow. Of course, I am. I was a blacksmith’s boy but yesterday; I am—what shall I say I am—to-day?”
¶ 27 Leave a comment on paragraph 27 0 “Say a good fellow, if you want a phrase,” returned Herbert, smiling, and clapping his hand on the back of mine—”a good fellow, with impetuosity and hesitation, boldness and diffidence, action and dreaming, curiously mixed in him.”
¶ 28 Leave a comment on paragraph 28 0 I stopped for a moment to consider whether there really was this mixture in my character. On the whole, I by no means recognized the analysis, but thought it not worth disputing.
¶ 29 Leave a comment on paragraph 29 0 “When I ask what I am to call myself to-day, Herbert,” I went on, “I suggest what I have in my thoughts. You say I am lucky. I know I have done nothing to raise myself in life, and that Fortune alone has raised me; that is being very lucky. And yet, when I think of Estella—”
¶ 30 Leave a comment on paragraph 30 0 (“And when don’t you, you know?” Herbert threw in, with his eyes on the fire; which I thought kind and sympathetic of him.)
¶ 31 Leave a comment on paragraph 31 0 “—Then, my dear Herbert, I cannot tell you how dependent and uncertain I feel, and how exposed to hundreds of chances. Avoiding forbidden ground, as you did just now, I may still say that on the constancy of one person (naming no person) all my expectations depend. And at the best, how indefinite and unsatisfactory, only to know so vaguely what they are!” In saying this, I relieved my mind of what had always been there, more or less, though no doubt most since yesterday.
¶ 32 Leave a comment on paragraph 32 0 “Now, Handel,” Herbert replied, in his gay, hopeful way, “it seems to me that in the despondency of the tender passion, we are looking into our gift-horse’s mouth with a magnifying-glass. Likewise, it seems to me that, concentrating our attention on the examination, we altogether overlook one of the best points of the animal. Didn’t you tell me that your guardian, Mr. Jaggers, told you in the beginning, that you were not endowed with expectations only? And even if he had not told you so,—though that is a very large If, I grant,—could you believe that of all men in London, Mr. Jaggers is the man to hold his present relations towards you unless he were sure of his ground?”
¶ 33 Leave a comment on paragraph 33 0 I said I could not deny that this was a strong point. I said it (people often do so, in such cases) like a rather reluctant concession to truth and justice;—as if I wanted to deny it!
¶ 34 Leave a comment on paragraph 34 0 “I should think it was a strong point,” said Herbert, “and I should think you would be puzzled to imagine a stronger; as to the rest, you must bide your guardian’s time, and he must bide his client’s time. You’ll be one-and-twenty before you know where you are, and then perhaps you’ll get some further enlightenment. At all events, you’ll be nearer getting it, for it must come at last.”
¶ 35 Leave a comment on paragraph 35 0 “What a hopeful disposition you have!” said I, gratefully admiring his cheery ways.
¶ 36 Leave a comment on paragraph 36 0 “I ought to have,” said Herbert, “for I have not much else. I must acknowledge, by the by, that the good sense of what I have just said is not my own, but my father’s. The only remark I ever heard him make on your story, was the final one, “The thing is settled and done, or Mr. Jaggers would not be in it.” And now before I say anything more about my father, or my father’s son, and repay confidence with confidence, I want to make myself seriously disagreeable to you for a moment,—positively repulsive.”
¶ 37 Leave a comment on paragraph 37 0 “You won’t succeed,” said I.
¶ 38 Leave a comment on paragraph 38 0 “O yes I shall!” said he. “One, two, three, and now I am in for it. Handel, my good fellow;”—though he spoke in this light tone, he was very much in earnest,—”I have been thinking since we have been talking with our feet on this fender, that Estella surely cannot be a condition of your inheritance, if she was never referred to by your guardian. Am I right in so understanding what you have told me, as that he never referred to her, directly or indirectly, in any way? Never even hinted, for instance, that your patron might have views as to your marriage ultimately?”
¶ 39 Leave a comment on paragraph 39 0 “Never.”
¶ 40 Leave a comment on paragraph 40 0 “Now, Handel, I am quite free from the flavor of sour grapes, upon my soul and honor! Not being bound to her, can you not detach yourself from her?—I told you I should be disagreeable.”
¶ 41 Leave a comment on paragraph 41 0 I turned my head aside, for, with a rush and a sweep, like the old marsh winds coming up from the sea, a feeling like that which had subdued me on the morning when I left the forge, when the mists were solemnly rising, and when I laid my hand upon the village finger-post, smote upon my heart again. There was silence between us for a little while.
¶ 42 Leave a comment on paragraph 42 0 “Yes; but my dear Handel,” Herbert went on, as if we had been talking, instead of silent, “its having been so strongly rooted in the breast of a boy whom nature and circumstances made so romantic, renders it very serious. Think of her bringing-up, and think of Miss Havisham. Think of what she is herself (now I am repulsive and you abominate me). This may lead to miserable things.”
¶ 43 Leave a comment on paragraph 43 0 “I know it, Herbert,” said I, with my head still turned away, “but I can’t help it.”
¶ 44 Leave a comment on paragraph 44 0 “You can’t detach yourself?”
¶ 45 Leave a comment on paragraph 45 0 “No. Impossible!”
¶ 46 Leave a comment on paragraph 46 0 “You can’t try, Handel?”
¶ 47 Leave a comment on paragraph 47 0 “No. Impossible!”
¶ 48 Leave a comment on paragraph 48 0 “Well!” said Herbert, getting up with a lively shake as if he had been asleep, and stirring the fire, “now I’ll endeavor to make myself agreeable again!”
¶ 49 Leave a comment on paragraph 49 0 So he went round the room and shook the curtains out, put the chairs in their places, tidied the books and so forth that were lying about, looked into the hall, peeped into the letter-box, shut the door, and came back to his chair by the fire: where he sat down, nursing his left leg in both arms.
¶ 50 Leave a comment on paragraph 50 0 “I was going to say a word or two, Handel, concerning my father and my father’s son. I am afraid it is scarcely necessary for my father’s son to remark that my father’s establishment is not particularly brilliant in its housekeeping.”
¶ 51 Leave a comment on paragraph 51 0 “There is always plenty, Herbert,” said I, to say something encouraging.
¶ 52 Leave a comment on paragraph 52 0 “O yes! and so the dustman says, I believe, with the strongest approval, and so does the marine-store shop in the back street. Gravely, Handel, for the subject is grave enough, you know how it is as well as I do. I suppose there was a time once when my father had not given matters up; but if ever there was, the time is gone. May I ask you if you have ever had an opportunity of remarking, down in your part of the country, that the children of not exactly suitable marriages are always most particularly anxious to be married?”
¶ 53 Leave a comment on paragraph 53 0 This was such a singular question, that I asked him in return, “Is it so?”
¶ 54 Leave a comment on paragraph 54 0 “I don’t know,” said Herbert, “that’s what I want to know. Because it is decidedly the case with us. My poor sister Charlotte, who was next me and died before she was fourteen, was a striking example. Little Jane is the same. In her desire to be matrimonially established, you might suppose her to have passed her short existence in the perpetual contemplation of domestic bliss. Little Alick in a frock has already made arrangements for his union with a suitable young person at Kew. And indeed, I think we are all engaged, except the baby.”
¶ 55 Leave a comment on paragraph 55 0 “Then you are?” said I.
¶ 56 Leave a comment on paragraph 56 0 “I am,” said Herbert; “but it’s a secret.”
¶ 57 Leave a comment on paragraph 57 0 I assured him of my keeping the secret, and begged to be favored with further particulars. He had spoken so sensibly and feelingly of my weakness that I wanted to know something about his strength.
¶ 58 Leave a comment on paragraph 58 0 “May I ask the name?” I said.
¶ 59 Leave a comment on paragraph 59 0 “Name of Clara,” said Herbert.
¶ 60 Leave a comment on paragraph 60 0 “Live in London?”
¶ 61 Leave a comment on paragraph 61 0 “Yes, perhaps I ought to mention,” said Herbert, who had become curiously crestfallen and meek, since we entered on the interesting theme, “that she is rather below my mother’s nonsensical family notions. Her father had to do with the victualling of passenger-ships. I think he was a species of purser.”
¶ 62 Leave a comment on paragraph 62 0 “What is he now?” said I.
¶ 63 Leave a comment on paragraph 63 0 “He’s an invalid now,” replied Herbert.
¶ 64 Leave a comment on paragraph 64 0 “Living on—?”
¶ 65 Leave a comment on paragraph 65 0 “On the first floor,” said Herbert. Which was not at all what I meant, for I had intended my question to apply to his means. “I have never seen him, for he has always kept his room overhead, since I have known Clara. But I have heard him constantly. He makes tremendous rows,—roars, and pegs at the floor with some frightful instrument.” In looking at me and then laughing heartily, Herbert for the time recovered his usual lively manner.
¶ 66 Leave a comment on paragraph 66 0 “Don’t you expect to see him?” said I.
¶ 67 Leave a comment on paragraph 67 0 “O yes, I constantly expect to see him,” returned Herbert, “because I never hear him, without expecting him to come tumbling through the ceiling. But I don’t know how long the rafters may hold.”
¶ 68 Leave a comment on paragraph 68 0 When he had once more laughed heartily, he became meek again, and told me that the moment he began to realize Capital, it was his intention to marry this young lady. He added as a self-evident proposition, engendering low spirits, “But you can’t marry, you know, while you’re looking about you.”
¶ 69 Leave a comment on paragraph 69 0 As we contemplated the fire, and as I thought what a difficult vision to realize this same Capital sometimes was, I put my hands in my pockets. A folded piece of paper in one of them attracting my attention, I opened it and found it to be the play-bill I had received from Joe, relative to the celebrated provincial amateur of Roscian renown. “And bless my heart,” I involuntarily added aloud, “it’s to-night!”
¶ 70 Leave a comment on paragraph 70 0 This changed the subject in an instant, and made us hurriedly resolve to go to the play. So, when I had pledged myself to comfort and abet Herbert in the affair of his heart by all practicable and impracticable means, and when Herbert had told me that his affianced already knew me by reputation and that I should be presented to her, and when we had warmly shaken hands upon our mutual confidence, we blew out our candles, made up our fire, locked our door, and issued forth in quest of Mr. Wopsle and Denmark.
This scene where Pip is being openly mocked by the tailor’s assistant grabbed my attention because Pip does nothing about it in the moment. He makes it sound like he narrowly escaped from his tormentor and then once in the safety of his own home, he write an angry letter to Mr. Trabb. It seems like Pip has a certain way of dealing with conflicts and events, a sort of removal from the moment. This happens not only with the letter, but also with his sending Joe a barrel of oysters because he didn’t go to visit him and also when he complains about Orlick to get him fired but doesn’t actually do anything himself. Is this a way that Pip has learned to cope with things? Does the way he reacts/copes with things reveal something about an indifference he has with people now that he has achieved gentlemanly status? Does Pip think he is better than others? In a nutshell, what sort of inferences do you draw about Pip from his “long distance” dealing with things?