The Complete Short Stories of Charles Dickens: 190+ Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). Чарльз Диккенс
is frequently the case); and there are not in the unseen world, voices more gentle and more true, that may be so implicitly relied on, or that are so certain to give none but tenderest counsel, as the Voices in which the Spirits of the Fireside and the Hearth address themselves to human kind.
Caleb and his daughter were at work together in their usual working-room, which served them for their ordinary living-room as well; and a strange place it was. There were houses in it, finished and unfinished, for Dolls of all stations in life. Suburban tenements for Dolls of moderate means; kitchens and single apartments for Dolls of the lower classes; capital town residences for Dolls of high estate. Some of these establishments were already furnished according to estimate, with a view to the convenience of Dolls of limited income; others could be fitted on the most expensive scale, at a moment’s notice, from whole shelves of chairs and tables, sofas, bedsteads, and upholstery. The nobility and gentry, and public in general, for whose accommodation these tenements were designed, lay, here and there, in baskets, staring straight up at the ceiling; but, in denoting their degrees in society, and confining them to their respective stations (which experience shows to be lamentably difficult in real life), the makers of these Dolls had far improved on Nature, who is often froward and perverse; for, they, not resting on such arbitrary marks as satin, cotton-print, and bits of rag, had superadded striking personal differences which allowed of no mistake. Thus, the Doll-lady of distinction had wax limbs of perfect symmetry; but only she and her compeers. The next grade in the social scale being made of leather, and the next of coarse linen stuff. As to the common-people, they had just so many matches out of tinder-boxes, for their arms and legs, and there they were—established in their sphere at once, beyond the possibility of getting out of it.
There were various other samples of his handicraft, besides Dolls, in Caleb Plummer’s room. There were Noah’s Arks, in which the Birds and Beasts were an uncommonly tight fit, I assure you; though they could be crammed in, anyhow, at the roof, and rattled and shaken into the smallest compass. By a bold poetical licence, most of these Noah’s Arks had knockers on the doors; inconsistent appendages, perhaps, as suggestive of morning callers and a Postman, yet a pleasant finish to the outside of the building. There were scores of melancholy little carts, which, when the wheels went round, performed most doleful music. Many small fiddles, drums, and other instruments of torture; no end of cannon, shields, swords, spears, and guns. There were little tumblers in red breeches, incessantly swarming up high obstacles of red-tape, and coming down, head first, on the other side; and there were innumerable old gentlemen of respectable, not to say venerable, appearance, insanely flying over horizontal pegs, inserted, for the purpose, in their own street doors. There were beasts of all sorts; horses, in particular, of every breed, from the spotted barrel on four pegs, with a small tippet for a mane, to the thoroughbred rocker on his highest mettle. As it would have been hard to count the dozens upon dozens of grotesque figures that were ever ready to commit all sorts of absurdities on the turning of a handle, so it would have been no easy task to mention any human folly, vice, or weakness, that had not its type, immediate or remote, in Caleb Plummer’s room. And not in an exaggerated form, for very little handles will move men and women to as strange performances, as any Toy was ever made to undertake.
In the midst of all these objects, Caleb and his daughter sat at work. The Blind Girl busy as a Doll’s dressmaker; Caleb painting and glazing the four-pair front of a desirable family mansion.
The care imprinted in the lines of Caleb’s face, and his absorbed and dreamy manner, which would have sat well on some alchemist or abstruse student, were at first sight an odd contrast to his occupation, and the trivialities about him. But, trivial things, invented and pursued for bread, become very serious matters of fact; and, apart from this consideration, I am not at all prepared to say, myself, that if Caleb had been a Lord Chamberlain, or a Member of Parliament, or a lawyer, or even a great speculator, he would have dealt in toys one whit less whimsical, while I have a very great doubt whether they would have been as harmless.
‘So you were out in the rain last night, father, in your beautiful new great-coat,’ said Caleb’s daughter.
‘In my beautiful new great-coat,’ answered Caleb, glancing towards a clothes-line in the room, on which the sack-cloth garment previously described, was carefully hung up to dry.
‘How glad I am you bought it, father!’
‘And of such a tailor, too,’ said Caleb. ‘Quite a fashionable tailor. It’s too good for me.’
The Blind Girl rested from her work, and laughed with delight. ‘Too good, father! What can be too good for you?’
‘I’m half-ashamed to wear it though,’ said Caleb, watching the effect of what he said, upon her brightening face; ‘upon my word! When I hear the boys and people say behind me, “Hal-loa! Here’s a swell!” I don’t know which way to look. And when the beggar wouldn’t go away last night; and when I said I was a very common man, said “No, your Honour! Bless your Honour, don’t say that!” I was quite ashamed. I really felt as if I hadn’t a right to wear it.’
Happy Blind Girl! How merry she was, in her exultation!
‘I see you, father,’ she said, clasping her hands, ‘as plainly, as if I had the eyes I never want when you are with me. A blue coat—’
‘Bright blue,’ said Caleb.
‘Yes, yes! Bright blue!’ exclaimed the girl, turning up her radiant face; ‘the colour I can just remember in the blessed sky! You told me it was blue before! A bright blue coat—’
‘Made loose to the figure,’ suggested Caleb.
‘Made loose to the figure!’ cried the Blind Girl, laughing heartily; ‘and in it, you, dear father, with your merry eye, your smiling face, your free step, and your dark hair—looking so young and handsome!’
‘Halloa! Halloa!’ said Caleb. ‘I shall be vain, presently!’
‘I think you are, already,’ cried the Blind Girl, pointing at him, in her glee. ‘I know you, father! Ha, ha, ha! I’ve found you out, you see!’
How different the picture in her mind, from Caleb, as he sat observing her! She had spoken of his free step. She was right in that. For years and years, he had never once crossed that threshold at his own slow pace, but with a footfall counterfeited for her ear; and never had he, when his heart was heaviest, forgotten the light tread that was to render hers so cheerful and courageous!
Heaven knows! But I think Caleb’s vague bewilderment of manner may have half originated in his having confused himself about himself and everything around him, for the love of his Blind Daughter. How could the little man be otherwise than bewildered, after labouring for so many years to destroy his own identity, and that of all the objects that had any bearing on it!
‘There we are,’ said Caleb, falling back a pace or two to form the better judgment of his work; ‘as near the real thing as sixpenn’orth of halfpence is to sixpence. What a pity that the whole front of the house opens at once! If there was only a staircase in it, now, and regular doors to the rooms to go in at! But that’s the worst of my calling, I’m always deluding myself, and swindling myself.’
‘You are speaking quite softly. You are not tired, father?’
‘Tired!’ echoed Caleb, with a great burst of animation, ‘what should tire me, Bertha? I was never tired. What does it mean?’
To give the greater force to his words, he checked himself in an involuntary imitation of two half-length stretching and yawning figures on the mantel-shelf, who were represented as in one eternal state of weariness from the waist upwards; and hummed a fragment of a song. It was a Bacchanalian song, something about a Sparkling Bowl. He sang it with an assumption of a Devil-may-care voice, that made his face a thousand times more meagre and more thoughtful than ever.
‘What! You’re singing, are you?’ said Tackleton, putting his head in at the door. ‘Go it! I can’t sing.’
Nobody would have suspected him of it.