Little Dorrit by Charles Dickens (suggested reading .TXT) 📕

Monsieur was right.

“And never without a dog. The dog is very important.”

Again Monsieur was right. The dog was very important. People were justly interested in the dog. As one of the dogs celebrated everywhere, Ma’amselle would observe.

Ma’amselle was a little slow to observe it, as though she were not yet well accustomed to the French tongue. Mrs. General, however, observed it for her.

“Ask him if he has saved many lives?” said, in his native English, the young man who had been put out of countenance.

The host needed no translation of the question. He promptly replied in French, “No. Not this one.”

“Why not?” the same gentleman asked.

“Pardon,” returned the host composedly, “give him the opportunity and he will do it without doubt. For example, I am well convinced,” smiling sedately, as he cut up the dish of veal to be handed round, on the young man who had been put out of countenance, “that if you, Monsieur, would give him the opportunity, he would hasten with great ardour to fulfil his duty.”

The artist traveller laughed. The insinuating traveller (who evinced a provident anxiety to get his full share of the supper), wiping some drops of wine from his moustache with a piece of bread, joined the conversation.

“It is becoming late in the year, my Father,” said he, “for tourist-travellers, is it not?”

“Yes, it is late. Yet two or three weeks, at most, and we shall be left to the winter snows.”

“And then,” said the insinuating traveller, “for the scratching dogs and the buried children, according to the pictures!”

“Pardon,” said the host, not quite understanding the allusion. “How, then the scratching dogs and the buried children according to the pictures?”

The artist traveller struck in again before an answer could be given.

“Don’t you know,” he coldly inquired across the table of his companion, “that none but smugglers come this way in the winter or can have any possible business this way?”

“Holy blue! No; never heard of it.”

“So it is, I believe. And as they know the signs of the weather tolerably well, they don’t give much employment to the dogs⁠—who have consequently died out rather⁠—though this house of entertainment is conveniently situated for themselves. Their young families, I am told, they usually leave at home. But it’s a grand idea!” cried the artist traveller, unexpectedly rising into a tone of enthusiasm. “It’s a sublime idea. It’s the finest idea in the world, and brings tears into a man’s eyes, by Jupiter!” He then went on eating his veal with great composure.

There was enough of mocking inconsistency at the bottom of this speech to make it rather discordant, though the manner was refined and the person well-favoured, and though the depreciatory part of it was so skilfully thrown off as to be very difficult for one not perfectly acquainted with the English language to understand, or, even understanding, to take offence at: so simple and dispassionate was its tone. After finishing his veal in the midst of silence, the speaker again addressed his friend.

“Look,” said he, in his former tone, “at this gentleman our host, not yet in the prime of life, who in so graceful a way and with such courtly urbanity and modesty presides over us! Manners fit for a crown! Dine with the Lord Mayor of London (if you can get an invitation) and observe the contrast. This dear fellow, with the finest cut face I ever saw, a face in perfect drawing, leaves some laborious life and comes up here I don’t know how many feet above the level of the sea, for no other purpose on earth (except enjoying himself, I hope, in a capital refectory) than to keep an hotel for idle poor devils like you and me, and leave the bill to our consciences! Why, isn’t it a beautiful sacrifice? What do we want more to touch us? Because rescued people of interesting appearance are not, for eight or nine months out of every twelve, holding on here round the necks of the most sagacious of dogs carrying wooden bottles, shall we disparage the place? No! Bless the place. It’s a great place, a glorious place!”

The chest of the grey-haired gentleman who was the Chief of the important party, had swelled as if with a protest against his being numbered among poor devils. No sooner had the artist traveller ceased speaking than he himself spoke with great dignity, as having it incumbent on him to take the lead in most places, and having deserted that duty for a little while.

He weightily communicated his opinion to their host, that his life must be a very dreary life here in the winter.

The host allowed to Monsieur that it was a little monotonous. The air was difficult to breathe for a length of time consecutively. The cold was very severe. One needed youth and strength to bear it. However, having them and the blessing of Heaven⁠—

Yes, that was very good. “But the confinement,” said the grey-haired gentleman.

There were many days, even in bad weather, when it was possible to walk about outside. It was the custom to beat a little track, and take exercise there.

“But the space,” urged the grey-haired gentleman. “So small. So⁠—ha⁠—very limited.”

Monsieur would recall to himself that there were the refuges to visit, and that tracks had to be made to them also.

Monsieur still urged, on the other hand, that the space was so⁠—ha⁠—hum⁠—so very contracted. More than that, it was always the same, always the same.

With a deprecating smile, the host gently raised and gently lowered his shoulders. That was true, he remarked, but permit him to say that almost all objects had their various points of view. Monsieur and he did not see this poor life of his from the same point of view. Monsieur was not used to confinement.

“I⁠—ha⁠—yes, very true,” said the grey-haired gentleman. He seemed to receive quite a shock from the force of the argument.

Monsieur, as an English traveller, surrounded by all means of travelling pleasantly; doubtless possessing