Little Dorrit Charles Dickens (e reader for manga TXT) 📖

the appearance of a jail for criminal rats. Above the Bank was Mrs. Gowan’s residence.

Notwithstanding that its walls were blotched, as if missionary maps were bursting out of them to impart geographical knowledge; notwithstanding that its weird furniture was forlornly faded and musty, and that the prevailing Venetian odour of bilge water and an ebb tide on a weedy shore was very strong; the place was better within, than it promised. The door was opened by a smiling man like a reformed assassin⁠—a temporary servant⁠—who ushered them into the room where Mrs. Gowan sat, with the announcement that two beautiful English ladies were come to see the mistress.

Mrs. Gowan, who was engaged in needlework, put her work aside in a covered basket, and rose, a little hurriedly. Miss Fanny was excessively courteous to her, and said the usual nothings with the skill of a veteran.

“Papa was extremely sorry,” proceeded Fanny, “to be engaged today (he is so much engaged here, our acquaintance being so wretchedly large!); and particularly requested me to bring his card for Mr. Gowan. That I may be sure to acquit myself of a commission which he impressed upon me at least a dozen times, allow me to relieve my conscience by placing it on the table at once.”

Which she did with veteran ease.

“We have been,” said Fanny, “charmed to understand that you know the Merdles. We hope it may be another means of bringing us together.”

“They are friends,” said Mrs. Gowan, “of Mr. Gowan’s family. I have not yet had the pleasure of a personal introduction to Mrs. Merdle, but I suppose I shall be presented to her at Rome.”

“Indeed?” returned Fanny, with an appearance of amiably quenching her own superiority. “I think you’ll like her.”

“You know her very well?”

“Why, you see,” said Fanny, with a frank action of her pretty shoulders, “in London one knows everyone. We met her on our way here, and, to say the truth, papa was at first rather cross with her for taking one of the rooms that our people had ordered for us. However, of course, that soon blew over, and we were all good friends again.”

Although the visit had as yet given Little Dorrit no opportunity of conversing with Mrs. Gowan, there was a silent understanding between them, which did as well. She looked at Mrs. Gowan with keen and unabated interest; the sound of her voice was thrilling to her; nothing that was near her, or about her, or at all concerned her, escaped Little Dorrit. She was quicker to perceive the slightest matter here, than in any other case⁠—but one.

“You have been quite well,” she now said, “since that night?”

“Quite, my dear. And you?”

“Oh! I am always well,” said Little Dorrit, timidly. “I⁠—yes, thank you.”

There was no reason for her faltering and breaking off, other than that Mrs. Gowan had touched her hand in speaking to her, and their looks had met. Something thoughtfully apprehensive in the large, soft eyes, had checked Little Dorrit in an instant.

“You don’t know that you are a favourite of my husband’s, and that I am almost bound to be jealous of you?” said Mrs. Gowan.

Little Dorrit, blushing, shook her head.

“He will tell you, if he tells you what he tells me, that you are quieter and quicker of resource than anyone he ever saw.”

“He speaks far too well of me,” said Little Dorrit.

“I doubt that; but I don’t at all doubt that I must tell him you are here. I should never be forgiven, if I were to let you⁠—and Miss Dorrit⁠—go, without doing so. May I? You can excuse the disorder and discomfort of a painter’s studio?”

The inquiries were addressed to Miss Fanny, who graciously replied that she would be beyond anything interested and enchanted. Mrs. Gowan went to a door, looked in beyond it, and came back. “Do Henry the favour to come in,” said she, “I knew he would be pleased!”

The first object that confronted Little Dorrit, entering first, was Blandois of Paris in a great cloak and a furtive slouched hat, standing on a throne platform in a corner, as he had stood on the Great Saint Bernard, when the warning arms seemed to be all pointing up at him. She recoiled from this figure, as it smiled at her.

“Don’t be alarmed,” said Gowan, coming from his easel behind the door. “It’s only Blandois. He is doing duty as a model today. I am making a study of him. It saves me money to turn him to some use. We poor painters have none to spare.”

Blandois of Paris pulled off his slouched hat, and saluted the ladies without coming out of his corner.

“A thousand pardons!” said he. “But the Professore here is so inexorable with me, that I am afraid to stir.”

“Don’t stir, then,” said Gowan coolly, as the sisters approached the easel. “Let the ladies at least see the original of the daub, that they may know what it’s meant for. There he stands, you see. A bravo waiting for his prey, a distinguished noble waiting to save his country, the common enemy waiting to do somebody a bad turn, an angelic messenger waiting to do somebody a good turn⁠—whatever you think he looks most like!”

“Say, Professore Mio, a poor gentleman waiting to do homage to elegance and beauty,” remarked Blandois.

“Or say, Cattivo Soggetto Mio,” returned Gowan, touching the painted face with his brush in the part where the real face had moved, “a murderer after the fact. Show that white hand of yours, Blandois. Put it outside the cloak. Keep it still.”

Blandois’ hand was unsteady; but he laughed, and that would naturally shake it.

“He was formerly in some scuffle with another murderer, or with a victim, you observe,” said Gowan, putting in the markings of the hand with a quick, impatient, unskilful touch, “and these are the tokens of it. Outside the cloak, man!⁠—Corpo di San Marco, what are you thinking of?”

Blandois of Paris shook with a laugh again, so that his hand shook more; now he raised