Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Bleak House by Charles Dickens (the top 100 crime novels of all time .txt) 📖
- Author: Charles Dickens
- Performer: 0141439726
Book online «Bleak House by Charles Dickens (the top 100 crime novels of all time .txt) 📖». Author Charles Dickens
Woodcourt. We have to thank you for that.”
I pointed out to my darling how this could scarcely be, because Mr.
Woodcourt had come to her cousin John’s house and had known us all
there, and because he had always liked Richard, and Richard had
always liked him, and—and so forth.
“All true,” said Ada, “but that he is such a devoted friend to us
we owe to you.”
I thought it best to let my dear girl have her way and to say no
more about it. So I said as much. I said it lightly, because I
felt her trembling.
“Esther, my dearest, I want to be a good wife, a very, very good
wife indeed. You shall teach me.”
I teach! I said no more, for I noticed the hand that was
fluttering over the keys, and I knew that it was not I who ought to
speak, that it was she who had something to say to me.
“When I married Richard I was not insensible to what was before
him. I had been perfectly happy for a long time with you, and I
had never known any trouble or anxiety, so loved and cared for, but
I understood the danger he was in, dear Esther.”
“I know, I know, my darling.”
“When we were married I had some little hope that I might be able
to convince him of his mistake, that he might come to regard it in
a new way as my husband and not pursue it all the more desperately
for my sake—as he does. But if I had not had that hope, I would
have married him just the same, Esther. Just the same!”
In the momentary firmness of the hand that was never still—a
firmness inspired by the utterance of these last words, and dying
away with them—I saw the confirmation of her earnest tones.
“You are not to think, my dearest Esther, that I fail to see what
you see and fear what you fear. No one can understand him better
than I do. The greatest wisdom that ever lived in the world could
scarcely know Richard better than my love does.”
She spoke so modestly and softly and her trembling hand expressed
such agitation as it moved to and fro upon the silent notes! My
dear, dear girl!
“I see him at his worst every day. I watch him in his sleep. I
know every change of his face. But when I married Richard I was
quite determined, Esther, if heaven would help me, never to show
him that I grieved for what he did and so to make him more unhappy.
I want him, when he comes home, to find no trouble in my face. I
want him, when he looks at me, to see what he loved in me. I
married him to do this, and this supports me.”
I felt her trembling more. I waited for what was yet to come, and
I now thought I began to know what it was.
“And something else supports me, Esther.”
She stopped a minute. Stopped speaking only; her hand was still in
motion.
“I look forward a little while, and I don’t know what great aid may
come to me. When Richard turns his eyes upon me then, there may be
something lying on my breast more eloquent than I have been, with
greater power than mine to show him his true course and win him
back.”
Her hand stopped now. She clasped me in her arms, and I clasped
her in mine.
“If that little creature should fail too, Esther, I still look
forward. I look forward a long while, through years and years, and
think that then, when I am growing old, or when I am dead perhaps,
a beautiful woman, his daughter, happily married, may be proud of
him and a blessing to him. Or that a generous brave man, as
handsome as he used to be, as hopeful, and far more happy, may walk
in the sunshine with him, honouring his grey head and saying to
himself, ‘I thank God this is my father! Ruined by a fatal
inheritance, and restored through me!’”
Oh, my sweet girl, what a heart was that which beat so fast against
me!
“These hopes uphold me, my dear Esther, and I know they will.
Though sometimes even they depart from me before a dread that
arises when I look at Richard.”
I tried to cheer my darling, and asked her what it was. Sobbing
and weeping, she replied, “That he may not live to see his child.”
A Discovery
The days when I frequented that miserable corner which my dear girl
brightened can never fade in my remembrance. I never see it, and I
never wish to see it now; I have been there only once since, but in
my memory there is a mournful glory shining on the place which will
shine for ever.
Not a day passed without my going there, of course. At first I
found Mr. Skimpole there, on two or three occasions, idly playing
the piano and talking in his usual vivacious strain. Now, besides
my very much mistrusting the probability of his being there without
making Richard poorer, I felt as if there were something in his
careless gaiety too inconsistent with what I knew of the depths of
Ada’s life. I clearly perceived, too, that Ada shared my feelings.
I therefore resolved, after much thinking of it, to make a private
visit to Mr. Skimpole and try delicately to explain myself. My
dear girl was the great consideration that made me bold.
I set off one morning, accompanied by Charley, for Somers Town. As
I approached the house, I was strongly inclined to turn back, for I
felt what a desperate attempt it was to make an impression on Mr.
Skimpole and how extremely likely it was that he would signally
defeat me. However, I thought that being there, I would go through
with it. I knocked with a trembling hand at Mr. Skimpole’s door—
literally with a hand, for the knocker was gone—and after a long
parley gained admission from an Irishwoman, who was in the area
when I knocked, breaking up the lid of a water-butt with a poker to
light the fire with.
Mr. Skimpole, lying on the sofa in his room, playing the flute a
little, was enchanted to see me. Now, who should receive me, he
asked. Who would I prefer for mistress of the ceremonies? Would I
have his Comedy daughter, his Beauty daughter, or his Sentiment
daughter? Or would I have all the daughters at once in a perfect
nosegay?
I replied, half defeated already, that I wished to speak to himself
only if he would give me leave.
“My dear Miss Summerson, most joyfully! Of course,” he said,
bringing his chair nearer mine and breaking into his fascinating
smile, “of course it’s not business. Then it’s pleasure!”
I said it certainly was not business that I came upon, but it was
not quite a pleasant matter.
“Then, my dear Miss Summerson,” said he with the frankest gaiety,
“don’t allude to it. Why should you allude to anything that is NOT
a pleasant matter? I never do. And you are a much pleasanter
creature, in every point of view, than I. You are perfectly
pleasant; I am imperfectly pleasant; then, if I never allude to an
unpleasant matter, how much less should you! So that’s disposed
of, and we will talk of something else.”
Although I was embarrassed, I took courage to intimate that I still
wished to pursue the subject.
“I should think it a mistake,” said Mr. Skimpole with his airy
laugh, “if I thought Miss Summerson capable of making one. But I
don’t!”
“Mr. Skimpole,” said I, raising my eyes to his, “I have so often
heard you say that you are unacquainted with the common affairs of
life—”
“Meaning our three banking-house friends, L, S, and who’s the
junior partner? D?” said Mr. Skimpole, brightly. “Not an idea of
them!”
“—That perhaps,” I went on, “you will excuse my boldness on that
account. I think you ought most seriously to know that Richard is
poorer than he was.”
“Dear me!” said Mr. Skimpole. “So am I, they tell me.”
“And in very embarrassed circumstances.”
“Parallel case, exactly!” said Mr. Skimpole with a delighted
countenance.
“This at present naturally causes Ada much secret anxiety, and as I
think she is less anxious when no claims are made upon her by
visitors, and as Richard has one uneasiness always heavy on his
mind, it has occurred to me to take the liberty of saying that—if
you would—not—”
I was coming to the point with great difficulty when he took me by
both hands and with a radiant face and in the liveliest way
anticipated it.
“Not go there? Certainly not, my dear Miss Summerson, most
assuredly not. Why SHOULD I go there? When I go anywhere, I go
for pleasure. I don’t go anywhere for pain, because I was made for
pleasure. Pain comes to ME when it wants me. Now, I have had very
little pleasure at our dear Richard’s lately, and your practical
sagacity demonstrates why. Our young friends, losing the youthful
poetry which was once so captivating in them, begin to think, ‘This
is a man who wants pounds.’ So I am; I always want pounds; not for
myself, but because tradespeople always want them of me. Next, our
young friends begin to think, becoming mercenary, ‘This is the man
who HAD pounds, who borrowed them,’ which I did. I always borrow
pounds. So our young friends, reduced to prose (which is much to
be regretted), degenerate in their power of imparting pleasure to
me. Why should I go to see them, therefore? Absurd!”
Through the beaming smile with which he regarded me as he reasoned
thus, there now broke forth a look of disinterested benevolence
quite astonishing.
“Besides,” he said, pursuing his argument in his tone of light-hearted conviction, “if I don’t go anywhere for pain—which would
be a perversion of the intention of my being, and a monstrous thing
to do—why should I go anywhere to be the cause of pain? If I went
to see our young friends in their present ill-regulated state of
mind, I should give them pain. The associations with me would be
disagreeable. They might say, ‘This is the man who had pounds and
who can’t pay pounds,’ which I can’t, of course; nothing could be
more out of the question! Then kindness requires that I shouldn’t
go near them—and I won’t.”
He finished by genially kissing my hand and thanking me. Nothing
but Miss Summerson’s fine tact, he said, would have found this out
for him.
I was much disconcerted, but I reflected that if the main point
were gained, it mattered little how strangely he perverted
everything leading to it. I had determined to mention something
else, however, and I thought I was not to be put off in that.
“Mr. Skimpole,” said I, “I must take the liberty of saying before I
conclude my visit that I was much surprised to learn, on the best
authority, some little time ago, that you knew with whom that poor
boy left Bleak House and that you accepted a present on that
occasion. I have not mentioned it to my guardian, for I fear it
would hurt him unnecessarily; but I may say to you that I was much
surprised.”
“No? Really surprised, my dear Miss Summerson?” he returned
inquiringly, raising his pleasant eyebrows.
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