My first thought was one of great thankfulness that I had never breathed this last baffled hope to Joe. How often, while he was with me in my illness, had it risen to my lips. How irrevocable would have been his knowledge of it, if he had remained with me but another hour!
“Dear Biddy,” said I, “you have the best husband in the whole world, and if you could have seen him by my bed you would have—But no, you couldn’t love him better than you do.”
“No, I couldn’t indeed,” said Biddy.
“And, dear Joe, you have the best wife in the whole world, and she will make you as happy as even you deserve to be, you dear, good, noble Joe!”
Joe looked at me with a quivering lip, and fairly put his sleeve before his eyes.
“And Joe and Biddy both, as you have been to church to-day, and are in charity and love with all mankind, receive my humble thanks for all you have done for me, and all I have so ill repaid! And when I say that I am going away within the hour, for I am soon going abroad, and that I shall never rest until I have worked for the money with which you have kept me out of prison, and have sent it to you, don’t think, dear Joe and Biddy, that if I could repay it a thousand times over, I suppose I could cancel a farthing of the debt I owe you, or that I would do so if I could!”
They were both melted by these words, and both entreated me to say no more.
“But I must say more. Dear Joe, I hope you will have children to love, and that some little fellow will sit in this chimney corner of a winter night, who may remind you of another little fellow gone out of it for ever. Don’t tell him, Joe, that I was thankless; don’t tell him, Biddy, that I was ungenerous and unjust; only tell him that I honoured you both, because you were both so good and true, and that, as your child, I said it would be natural to him to grow up a much better man than I did.”
“I ain’t a going,” said Joe, from behind his sleeve, “to tell him nothink o’ that natur, Pip. Nor Biddy ain’t. Nor yet no one ain’t.”
“And now, though I know you have already done it in your own kind hearts, pray tell me, both, that you forgive me! Pray let me hear you say the words, that I may carry the sound of them away with me, and then I shall be able to believe that you can trust me, and think better of me, in the time to come!”
“O dear old Pip, old chap,” said Joe. “God knows as I forgive you, if I have anythink to forgive!”
“Amen! And God knows I do!” echoed Biddy.
“Now let me go up and look at my old little room, and rest there a few minutes by myself, and then when I have eaten and drunk with you, go with me as far as the finger-post, dear Joe and Biddy, before we say good-by!”
I sold all I had, and put aside as much as I could, for a composition with my creditors—who gave me ample time to pay them in full—and I went out and joined Herbert. Within a month I had quitted England, and within two months I was clerk to Clarriker and Co., and within four months I assumed my first undivided responsibility. For, the beam across the parlour ceiling at Mill Pond Bank, had then ceased to tremble under old Bill Barley’s growls and was at peace, and Herbert had gone away to marry Clara, and I was left in sole charge of the Eastern Branch until he brought her back.
Many a year went round, before I was a partner in the House; but, I lived happily with Herbert and his wife, and lived frugally, and paid my debts, and maintained a constant correspondence with Biddy and Joe. It was not until I became third in the Firm, that Clarriker betrayed me to Herbert; but, he then declared that the secret of Herbert’s partnership had been long enough upon his conscience, and he must tell it. So, he told it, and Herbert was as much moved as amazed, and the dear fellow and I were not the worse friends for the long concealment. I must not leave it to be supposed that we were ever a great House, or that we made mints of money. We were not in a grand way of business, but we had a good name, and worked for our profits, and did very well. We owed so much to Herbert’s ever cheerful industry and readiness, that I often wondered how I had conceived that old idea of his inaptitude, until I was one day enlightened by the reflection, that perhaps the inaptitude had never been in him at all, but had been in me.
CHAPTER XX
For eleven years, I had not seen Joe nor Biddy with my bodily eyes—though they had both been often before my fancy in the East—when, upon an evening in December, an hour or two after dark, I laid my hand softly on the latch of the old kitchen door. I touched it so softly that I was not heard, and looked in unseen. There, smoking his pipe in the old place by the kitchen firelight, as hale and as strong as ever though a little grey, sat Joe; and there, fenced into the corner with Joe’s leg, and sitting on my own little stool looking at the fire, was—I again!
“We giv’ him the name of Pip for your sake, dear old chap,” said Joe, delighted when I took another stool by the child’s side (but I did
not
rumple his hair), “and we hoped he might grow a little bit like you, and we think he do.”
I thought so too, and I took him out for a walk next morning, and we talked immensely, understanding one another to perfection. And I took him down to the churchyard, and set him on a certain tombstone there, and he showed me from that elevation which stone was sacred to the memory of Philip Pirrip, late of this Parish, and Also Georgiana, Wife of the Above.
“Biddy,” said I, when I talked with her after dinner, as her little girl lay sleeping in her lap, “you must give Pip to me, one of these days; or lend him, at all events.”
“No, no,” said Biddy, gently. “You must marry.”
“So Herbert and Clara say, but I don’t think I shall, Biddy. I have so settled down in their home, that it’s not at all likely. I am already quite an old bachelor.”
Biddy looked down at her child, and put its little hand to her lips, and then put the good matronly hand with which she had touched it, into mine. There was something in the action and in the light pressure of Biddy’s wedding-ring, that had a very pretty eloquence in it.
“Dear Pip,” said Biddy, “you are sure you don’t fret for her?”
“O no—I think not, Biddy.”
“Tell me as an old friend. Have you quite forgotten her?”
“My dear Biddy, I have forgotten nothing in my life that ever had a foremost place there, and little that ever had any place there. But that poor dream, as I once used to call it, has all gone by, Biddy, all gone by!”
Nevertheless, I knew while I said those words, that I secretly intended to revisit the site of the old house that evening, alone, for her sake. Yes even so. For Estella’s sake.
I had heard of her as leading a most unhappy life, and as being separated from her husband, who had used her with great cruelty, and who had become quite renowned as a compound of pride, avarice, brutality, and meanness. And I had heard of the death of her husband, from an accident consequent on his ill-treatment of a horse. This release had befallen her some two years before; for anything I knew, she was married again.
The early dinner-hour at Joe’s, left me abundance of time, without hurrying my talk with Biddy, to walk over to the old spot before dark. But, what with loitering on the way, to look at old objects and to think of old times, the day had quite declined when I came to the place.
There was no house now, no brewery, no building whatever left, but the wall of the old garden. The cleared space had been enclosed with a rough fence, and, looking over it, I saw that some of the old ivy had struck root anew, and was growing green on low quiet mounds of ruin. A gate in the fence standing ajar, I pushed it open, and went in.
A cold shivery mist had veiled the afternoon, and the moon was not yet up to scatter it. But, the stars were shining beyond the mist, and the moon was coming, and the evening was not dark. I could trace out where every part of the old house had been, and where the brewery had been, and where the gates, and where the casks. I had done so, and was looking along the desolate garden-walk, when I beheld a solitary figure in it.
The figure showed itself aware of me, as I advanced. It had been moving towards me, but it stood still. As I drew nearer, I saw it to be the figure of a woman. As I drew nearer yet, it was about to turn away, when it stopped, and let me come up with it. Then, it faltered as if much surprised, and uttered my name, and I cried out:
“Estella!”
“I am greatly changed. I wonder you know me.”
The freshness of her beauty was indeed gone, but its indescribable majesty and its indescribable charm remained. Those attractions in it, I had seen before; what I had never seen before, was the saddened softened light of the once proud eyes; what I had never felt before, was the friendly touch of the once insensible hand.
We sat down on a bench that was near, and I said, “After so many years, it is strange that we should thus meet again, Estella, here where our first meeting was! Do you often come back?”
“I have never been here since.”
“Nor I.”
The moon began to rise, and I thought of the placid look at the white ceiling, which had passed away. The moon began to rise, and I thought of the pressure on my hand when I had spoken the last words he had heard on earth.
Estella was next to break the silence that ensued between us.
“I have very often hoped and intended to come back, but have been prevented by many circumstances. Poor, poor old place!”
The silvery mist was touched with the first rays of the moonlight, and the same rays touched the tears that dropped from her eyes. Not knowing that I saw them, and setting herself to get the better of them, she said quietly:
“Were you wondering, as you walked along, how it came to be left in this condition?”
“Yes, Estella.”
“The ground belongs to me. It is the only possession I have not relinquished. Everything else has gone from me, little by little, but I have kept this. It was the subject of the only determined resistance I made in all the wretched years.”
“Is it to be built on?”
“At last it is. I came here to take leave of it before its change. And you,” she said, in a voice of touching interest to a wanderer, “you live abroad still?”
“Still.”
“And do well, I am sure?”
“I work pretty hard for a sufficient living, and therefore—Yes, I do well.”
“I have often thought of you,” said Estella.
“Have you?”
“Of late, very often. There was a long hard time when I kept far from me, the remembrance of what I had thrown away when I was quite ignorant of its worth. But, since my duty has not been incompatible with the admission of that remembrance, I have given it a place in my heart.”
“You have always held your place in my heart,” I answered. And we were silent again, until she spoke.
“I little thought,” said Estella, “that I should take leave of you in taking leave of this spot. I am very glad to do so.”
“Glad to part again, Estella? To me, parting is a painful thing. To me, remembrance of our last parting has been ever mournful and painful.”
“But you said to me,” returned Estella, very earnestly, “‘God bless you, God forgive you!’ And if you could say that to me then, you will not hesitate to say that to me now—now, when suffering has been stronger than all other teaching, and has taught me to understand what your heart used to be. I have been bent and broken, but—I hope—into a better shape. Be as considerate and good to me as you were, and tell me we are friends.”
“We are friends,” said I, rising and bending over her, as she rose from the bench.
“And will continue friends apart,” said Estella.
I took her hand in mine, and we went out of the ruined place; and, as the morning mists had risen long ago when I first left the forge, so, the evening mists were rising now, and in all the broad expanse of tranquil light they showed to me, I saw the shadow of no parting from her.
THE END
Appendix:
The Ending as Originally Conceived
“Dear Pip,” said Biddy, “you are sure you don’t fret for her?”
“I am sure and certain, Biddy.”
“Tell me as an old, old friend. Have you quite forgotten her?”
“My dear Biddy, I have forgotten nothing in my life that ever had a foremost place there. But that poor dream, as I once used to call it, has all gone by, Biddy, all gone by!”
It was two years more, before I saw herself. I had heard of her as leading a most unhappy life, and as being separated from her husband who had used her with great cruelty, and who had become quite renowned as a compound of pride, brutality, and meanness. I had heard of the death of her husband (from an accident consequent on ill-treating a horse), and of her being married again to a Shropshire doctor, who, against his interest, had once very manfully interposed, on an occasion when he was in professional attendance on Mr. Drummle, and had witnessed some outrageous treatment of her. I had heard that the Shropshire doctor was not rich, and that they lived on her own personal fortune.
I was in England again—in London, and walking along Piccadilly with little Pip—when a servant came running after me to ask would I step back to a lady in a carriage who wished to speak to me. It was a little pony carriage, which the lady was driving; and the lady and I looked sadly enough on one another.
“I am greatly changed, I know; but I thought you would like to shake hands with Estella too, Pip. Lift up that pretty child and let me kiss it!” (She supposed the child, I think, to be my child.)
I was very glad afterwards to have had the interview; for, in her face and in her voice, and in her touch, she gave me the assurance, that suffering had been stronger than Miss Havisham’s teaching, and had given her a heart to understand what my heart used to be.
PENGUIN ENRICHED EBOOK FEATURES
Early Reception of
Great Expectations
“ . . . he gives to you humanity in all its little details.” —
Eclectic Review
(Oct. 1861)
By the time
Great Expectations
was running in its serial form, Dickens’s readers—and the critics—had “great expectations” of the author. A survey of early criticism of the novel reveals reiterations of long-established views of Dickens’s stylistic weaknesses as well as genuine appreciations of the novel’s tight construction, exhilarating pacing, and suspenseful plotting.
If you’ve read
Bleak House
or
David Copperfield
, you already know that
Great Expectations
is a rather compact novel by Dickens’s standards. Critics were divided about this condensation; some applauded it, others felt dissatisfied. The review in
Blackwood’s Magazine
, by Margaret Oliphant (May 1862), has little to recommend. She finds the novel “feeble, fatigued and colourless.” Oliphant interprets the brevity of the novel in this way: “One feels that [Dickens] must have got tired of it as the work went on, and that the creatures he had called into being but who are no longer the lively men and women they used to be, must have bored him unspeakably before it was time to cut short their career, and throw a hasty and impatient hint of their future to stop the tiresome public appetite.” Her assessment, however, is contradicted by other critics—in addition to posterity.
The
Saturday Review
’s anonymous review (20 July 1861) of
Great Expectations
was highly favorable (though considered it “too slight”): Dickens “has written a story that is new, original, powerful, and very entertaining.” The reviewer predicted, “It has characters in it that will become part of common talk, and live even in the mouths of those who do not read novels.”
In another appreciative review in the
Athenaeum
(1861), H. F. Chorley charged
Great Expectations
“with only one fault—that of being too short.” Chorley finds it “a work of Art arranged from the first moment of conception with power, progress, and a minuteness consistent with the widest apparent freedom.” He lauds, “There is nothing in English fiction, not even ‘the print of the man’s foot in the sand’ in
Robinson Crusoe
, fuller of engrossing and legitimate terror than the night scene of convict’s return, dogged from its first moment by Death. From this point to its close, the interest of the romance increases with a resistless and steady power never before attained by Mr. Dickens. [. . .]
Great Expectations
, we are satisfied, will add to Mr. Dickens’s reputation, and is the imaginative book of the year.” Similarly, Edwin Whipple, in The
Atlantic Monthly
(Sept. 1861), could “testify to the felicity with which expectation was excited and prolonged, and to the series of surprises which accompanied the unfolding of the plot of the story. In no other of his romances has the author succeeded so perfectly in at once stimulating and baffling the curiosity of his readers.” Even more creditable, according to Whipple, is the fact that “each surprise was the result of art, and not of trick; [. . .] the dénouement was still hidden, though confidentially foretold.” Upon rereading, the critic discovered all the hints—cleverly planted.
Critics of Dickens often comment on two apparently contradictory impulses in his style: an astute observation of detail and a tendency toward humorous exaggeration. Critics who used the standards of realism to judge Dickens’s writing admitted its humor but tended to denigrate his comic exaggerations—as well as the popular audience’s positive response to them. “[I]n Mr. Dickens’s many volumes how many characters would a fair critic deem wholly true to nature or to any reasonable conception of natural chances?” the
Dublin University Review
(Dec. 1861)
asks. Another common critique is found in an anonymous review in the
Eclectic Review
(Oct. 1861): “[. . . Dickens] piles absurdities in rapid succession upon each other, like the very bricks of his humorous building. He sees in the most out-of-the-way objects grotesque, and queer, and comical analogies [. . .]. Indeed many will be inclined to regard them as one of his chief excellencies; on the contrary they are the vice of his writings.” But
Great Expectations
, the reviewer was pleased to note, had less of this “profusion of absurdity” than earlier Dickens fictions. On the whole, the
Eclectic Review
’s assessment was more positive: “Amid much that charms to laughter, there runs the perpetual feeling of a thoughtful mind, to whom life, and man, and society, present perpetual thoughts of sorrow and of mystery.”
Whipple’s
Atlantic Monthly
appraisal finds the two strains “harmonised” in
Great Expectations
: “Everybody must have discerned in the action of his mind two diverging tendencies, which, in this novel, are harmonised. He possesses a singularly wide, clear, and minute power of acute observation, both of things and of persons; but his observation, keen and true to actualities as it independently is, is not a dominant faculty, and is opposed or controlled by the strong tendency of his disposition to pathetic or humorous idealisation [. . .].” The most humorous idealization, most reviews agreed, was the character of Wemmick. Though the
Saturday Review
criticized Miss Havisham as “one of Mr. Dickens’s regular pieces of melodramatic exaggeration,” like other critics, it found in Wemmick “the great creation of the book, and his marriage as the funniest incident.” Other reviews, such as that in the
Dublin University Review
, estimated Joe Gargery the most “natural” and sympathetic portrayal, and somewhat grudgingly admitted that
Great Expectations
“contains a good many striking passages, a few racy and one or two masterly portraits, a story for the most part cleverly sustained and wrought out to no lame or disjointed issues” and a plot that has “a kind of artistic unity and clear purpose.” The
Times
review, by E. S. Dallas (17 Oct. 1861) ranked
Great Expectations
, if not among Dickens’s best novels, (in an odd choice of adjective given the novel’s dark tone and muted ending), his “happiest”: “There is that flowing humour in it which disarms criticism, and which is all the more enjoyable because it defies criticism.” Certainly, Dickens’s wide readership and enduring popularity has defied those early negative reviews and validated the insight of his most sympathetic critics.
