Little Dorrit by Charles Dickens (suggested reading .TXT) 📕
Description
Little Dorrit, like many of Charles Dickens’ novels, was originally published in serial form over a period of about 18 months, before appearing in book form in 1857.
The novel focuses on the experiences of its protagonist Arthur Clenham, who has spent some twenty years in China helping his father run the family business there. After his father dies, Arthur returns home to London. His mother gives him little in the way of welcome. She is a cold, bitter woman who has brought Arthur up under a strict religious regime concentrating on the punitive aspects of the Old Testament. Despite this upbringing, or perhaps in reaction to it, Arthur is a kind, considerate man. He is intrigued by a slight young woman he encounters working as a part-time seamstress for his mother, whom his mother calls simply “Little Dorrit.” Arthur senses some mystery about her mother’s employment of Little Dorrit, and proceeds to investigate.
There are several subplots and a whole host of characters. Compared to some of Dickens’ work, Little Dorrit features a good deal of intrigue and tension. There are also some strong strands of humor, in the form of the fictional “Circumlocution Office,” whose sole remit is “How Not To Do It,” and which stands in the way of any improvement of British life. Also very amusing are the rambling speeches of Flora, a woman with whom Arthur was enamored before he left for China, but whose shallowness he now perceives only too well.
Little Dorrit has been adapted for the screen many times, and by the BBC in 2010 in a limited television series which featured Claire Foy as Little Dorrit, Matthew Macfayden as Arthur Clenham, and Andy Serkis as the villain Rigaud.
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- Author: Charles Dickens
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“I want to know,” said Arthur Clennam, who had made up his mind to persistence in one short form of words, “the precise nature of the claim of the Crown against a prisoner for debt, named Dorrit.”
“I say. Look here. You really are going it at a great pace, you know. Egad, you haven’t got an appointment,” said Barnacle junior, as if the thing were growing serious.
“I want to know,” said Arthur, and repeated his case.
Barnacle junior stared at him until his eyeglass fell out, and then put it in again and stared at him until it fell out again. “You have no right to come this sort of move,” he then observed with the greatest weakness. “Look here. What do you mean? You told me you didn’t know whether it was public business or not.”
“I have now ascertained that it is public business,” returned the suitor, “and I want to know”—and again repeated his monotonous inquiry.
Its effect upon young Barnacle was to make him repeat in a defenceless way, “Look here! Upon my soul you mustn’t come into the place saying you want to know, you know!” The effect of that upon Arthur Clennam was to make him repeat his inquiry in exactly the same words and tone as before. The effect of that upon young Barnacle was to make him a wonderful spectacle of failure and helplessness.
“Well, I tell you what. Look here. You had better try the Secretarial Department,” he said at last, sidling to the bell and ringing it. “Jenkinson,” to the mashed potatoes messenger, “Mr. Wobbler!”
Arthur Clennam, who now felt that he had devoted himself to the storming of the Circumlocution Office, and must go through with it, accompanied the messenger to another floor of the building, where that functionary pointed out Mr. Wobbler’s room. He entered that apartment, and found two gentlemen sitting face to face at a large and easy desk, one of whom was polishing a gun-barrel on his pocket-handkerchief, while the other was spreading marmalade on bread with a paper-knife.
“Mr. Wobbler?” inquired the suitor.
Both gentlemen glanced at him, and seemed surprised at his assurance.
“So he went,” said the gentleman with the gun-barrel, who was an extremely deliberate speaker, “down to his cousin’s place, and took the Dog with him by rail. Inestimable Dog. Flew at the porter fellow when he was put into the dog-box, and flew at the guard when he was taken out. He got half-a-dozen fellows into a Barn, and a good supply of Rats, and timed the Dog. Finding the Dog able to do it immensely, made the match, and heavily backed the Dog. When the match came off, some devil of a fellow was bought over, Sir, Dog was made drunk, Dog’s master was cleaned out.”
“Mr. Wobbler?” inquired the suitor.
The gentleman who was spreading the marmalade returned, without looking up from that occupation, “What did he call the Dog?”
“Called him Lovely,” said the other gentleman. “Said the Dog was the perfect picture of the old aunt from whom he had expectations. Found him particularly like her when hocussed.”
“Mr. Wobbler?” said the suitor.
Both gentlemen laughed for some time. The gentleman with the gun-barrel, considering it, on inspection, in a satisfactory state, referred it to the other; receiving confirmation of his views, he fitted it into its place in the case before him, and took out the stock and polished that, softly whistling.
“Mr. Wobbler?” said the suitor.
“What’s the matter?” then said Mr. Wobbler, with his mouth full.
“I want to know—” and Arthur Clennam again mechanically set forth what he wanted to know.
“Can’t inform you,” observed Mr. Wobbler, apparently to his lunch. “Never heard of it. Nothing at all to do with it. Better try Mr. Clive, second door on the left in the next passage.”
“Perhaps he will give me the same answer.”
“Very likely. Don’t know anything about it,” said Mr. Wobbler.
The suitor turned away and had left the room, when the gentleman with the gun called out “Mister! Hallo!”
He looked in again.
“Shut the door after you. You’re letting in a devil of a draught here!”
A few steps brought him to the second door on the left in the next passage. In that room he found three gentlemen; number one doing nothing particular, number two doing nothing particular, number three doing nothing particular. They seemed, however, to be more directly concerned than the others had been in the effective execution of the great principle of the office, as there was an awful inner apartment with a double door, in which the Circumlocution Sages appeared to be assembled in council, and out of which there was an imposing coming of papers, and into which there was an imposing going of papers, almost constantly; wherein another gentleman, number four, was the active instrument.
“I want to know,” said Arthur Clennam—and again stated his case in the same barrel-organ way. As number one referred him to number two, and as number two referred him to number three, he had occasion to state it three times before they all referred him to number four, to whom he stated it again.
Number four was a vivacious, well-looking, well-dressed, agreeable young fellow—he was a Barnacle, but on the more sprightly side of the family—and he said in an easy way, “Oh! you had better not bother yourself about it, I think.”
“Not bother myself about it?”
“No! I recommend you not to bother yourself about it.”
This was such a new point of view that Arthur Clennam found himself at a loss how to receive it.
“You can if you like. I can give you plenty of forms to fill up. Lots of ’em here. You can have a dozen if you like. But you’ll never go on with it,” said number four.
“Would it be such hopeless work? Excuse me; I am a stranger in England.”
“I don’t say it would be hopeless,” returned number four, with a frank smile. “I don’t express an opinion about
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