The Old Curiosity Club discussion

Dear Curiosities,

This week will reunite us with some people you have been asking about in the last few days, although there is some foreshadowing that these very people will not let the grass grow under their feet; it will tell us how the Vardens are faring, what Mr. Haredale is doing, and it will also witness a violent clash between Mr. Haredale and a Protestant crowd, as a kind of foretaste of the Gordon riots.

Let us start with the Vardens, whom we are invited to visit in Chapter 41: While we are approaching, it’s already from afar that we can hear the merry din(g) of Gabriel’s hammer as the locksmith is working in his shop, and our narrator dwells on this cheerful sound and the positive, heartening, grumpiness-dispelling effect it has on neighbours and passers-by, quite a lot. When he gives us a first glimpse of Gabriel at the anvil, in the midst of his equipment, the narrator also remarks with regard to the keys produced by the locksmith, ”It seemed impossible that any one of the innumerable keys could fit a churlish strong-box or a prison-door. […] Places of distrust and cruelty, and restraint, they would have left quadruple-locked for ever.”

Hmmm, what have keys so far been used for in this novel?

Although, at first sight, Gabriel looks as healthy and cheerful as of old, there is a change in him, namely that his nether half is clad in a uniform, and this is because Gabriel has joined the Royal East London Volunteers in order to protect his city against the storm that is gathering. Gabriel soliloquizes on how he has always wished to wear a soldier’s coat and how foolish these yearnings were, when he is interrupted by Mrs. Varden, who says that they are foolish indeed. She does not wait long before she tells him that it is un-Christian to take up arms, but she is finally won over (at least so it seems) when her husband paints a picture of how he would want to be able to defend his daughter and his wife if they were about to be kidnapped by foreign soldiers:

”’I was going to say, what on earth do you call it unchristian for? Which would be more unchristian, Martha – to sit quietly down and let our houses be sacked by a foreign army, or to turn out like men and drive ‘em off? Shouldn’t I be a nice sort of a Christian, if I crept into a corner of my own chimney and looked on while a parcel of whiskered savages bore off Dolly – or you?’”

The addition of “or you” is quite ingenious, as is probably the reference to whiskered foreign soldiers instead of a Gordon rabble because the latter picture would have aroused Mrs. Varden’s indignation. I think that Mr. Varden knows exactly, whom he is preparing himself for, but is wise enough to keep his own counsel. Don’t you?

Mr. Varden cannot help giving in to the temptation of fantasizing about how Miggs is going to be carried of by a Saracen warrior, without himself interfering too vehemently, and this is going to cause further problems for him because not only Sim but also Miggs has the habit of eavesdropping on their employers. In the course of this conversation, Dolly appears – she has apparently just arrived at home, from the Warren – and the narrator spends some time praising and raving on her beauty and her bewitchingness, and how she must wreak havoc in the hearts of all the young men in the neighbourhood. He says, for instance, ”How had she recruited the king’s service, both by sea and land, through rendering desperate his loving subjects between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five!”, and this made me think of poor Joe, in whose case this is not just an hyperbole. From Dolly, we learn that since the night of John Willet’s visit and report on the “ghost” Solomon claims to have seen Mr. Haredale has become more gruff and finally left home and started travelling about without telling them the reason for his conduct. Dolly also says that nobody at the Warren is to tell the ghost story to Miss Emma, who is to be left completely in the dark.

When Mr. Varden recommends his daughter to read the tale of Blue Beard as a warning against curiosity, this is the moment for his wife to intervene: Mrs. Varden makes mention of “The Thunderer” as the most apt form of literature for a Protestant young lady, and goes on about the soothing effect this newspaper has on her. Miggs chimes in, saying ”that indeed the peace of mind she had derived from the perusal of that paper generally, but especially of one article of the very last week as ever was, entitled ‘Great Britain drenched in gore,’ extended all belief”. These remarks lead to Mrs. Varden’s complaining about how little attention and money her husband and her daughter bestow on the Protestant Association and its collection of money – the collection box has the form of a house and graces the Vardens’ mantelpiece. Indeed, as she says, Dolly prefers to lay out her money on ribbons and other trappings, instead of investing in eternity. Miggs uses this state of affairs to have her own little revenge on her master by turning the wife against him in a very clever way, and soon Mr. Varden has to sort of apologize to Miggs, exposing his philosophy of life in a few words: ”’[…] What are you talking about hatred for? I don’t hate you; I don’t hate anybody. Dry your eyes and make yourself agreeable, in Heaven’s name, and let us all be happy while we can.’”

They finally bury the hatchet, and the family starts to complete Mr. Varden’s apparel for a manoeuvre he has to attend. In the course of these preparations, Mrs. Varden shows clear signs of how proud she is of her handsome husband, for all her ways of making herself disagreeable. Unfortunately, Mr. Varden advises his daughter never to marry a soldier, and then he starts talking of and even extolling Joe, saying how much he always was a favourite of his – Mrs. Varden, meanwhile, labelling him a runaway and a vagabond – and asking himself what might have become of that brave young man. He says that if Joe had come to him, he might have made matters up between the father and the young man, and that it was a great mistake of Joe’s to have run away like that. All these words have a very depressing effect on Dolly, who finally starts crying and rushes out of the room. Mr. Varden is clueless as to how he brought this about, but his bewilderment and the damp cast on his good mood don’t last long because soon he is in the street and among his neighbours, which brings back his good spirits.

THOUGHTS AND QUESTIONS
What is there behind that strange ghost story that it can make Mr. Haredale feel so restless and drive him away from home? Has he reason for having a bad conscience, or does he smell a rat somewhere?

Mrs. Varden and the Protestant Association, will this lead to any good? Is it just irony that Miggs, who clearly leads her mistress on, feels peace of mind at the thought of ‘Great Britain drenched in gore’, or is there some more evil meaning behind her words? While Mrs. Varden and the servants are members of the Protestant Association, and also collect money for this enterprise, Mr. Varden and his daughter seem either indifferent or hostile to that cause, as their lack of financial support shows. Mr. Varden, being a member of the Royal East London Volunteers, now has joined an organization that might one day come into open conflict with the Prostestant Association. Husband and wife on different sides – does this mirror their domestic constellation?

What do you think of Miggs? She spitefully turns the wife’s mood against her husband to have her revenge on him for a remark she takes ill. She also makes a great show of donating money to the Proestant Association, knowing too well that she will be more than recompensed materially and in terms of personal credit by Mrs. Varden, thus striking a very good bargain, as a bottom line. Is Miggs’s adherence to the Protestant cause exemplary of other people’s motives to support it? And if so, in what ways? – And what else might we expect from such a one as Miggs?

What do you think of Dolly’s behaviour? Her bad conscience seems to come back when Joe’s name is mentioned, doesn’t it? This clearly shows that she is not as thoughtless and superficial as some of her critics make her out, doesn’t it? In short, she’s wonderful, isn’t she? I also wonder what she might have told to her parents, especially her father, about Joe’s last visit at the workshop.

Chapter 42 sees us home with Gabriel Varden after the public display of military prowess by the Royal East London Volunteers. It is around 9 o’ clock, when Gabriel makes his way towards his house and finds Mr. Haredale waiting in a coach in front of it. Hearing that nobody is at home, Gabriel immediately knows that Sim has borne the other inhabitants away with him to a meeting of the Protestant Association. When Mr. Haredale tells Gabriel that he has come on a strange errand, the locksmith at first supposes that the other man might bring news of Barnaby and his mother, but at another sight of Haredale abandons that hope. Nevertheless, Haredale speaks of his desire of finding the two, mother and son, saying,

”’I have a deeper meaning in my present anxiety to find them out, than you can fathom. It is not a mere whim; it is not the casual revival of my old wishes and desires; but an earnest, solemn purpose. My thoughts and dreams all tend to it, and fix it in my mind. I have no rest by day or night; I have no peace or quiet; I am haunted.’”

Now, his choice of words made me pause a second here: “Haunted”? When he says that he has no rest any more, day and night, and that he feels haunted, I was wondering whether he was still speaking of his wish to find out Mrs. Rudge’s whereabouts or whether the expression “haunted” has something to do with the effect Solomon Daisy’s story has made on Mr. Haredale. Is there any connection between the sighting of the “ghost” and Haredale’s renewed wish to find the Rudges? There seems to be something in favour of this interpretion. Just look at this:

”‘Since when, sir,’ said the locksmith after a pause, ‘has this uneasy feeling been upon you?’

Mr Haredale hesitated for some moments, and then replied: ‘Since the night of the storm. In short, since the last nineteenth of March.’”

Mr. Haredale goes on confessing to Gabriel that he is going to spend the night at Mrs. Rudge’s former house, and that he intends to pass many nights in that place. He says that nobody, not even Emma and Dolly, know where he is, and he also places Gabriel under injunction never to seek him out at the Rudges’ house without being summoned. Their conversation has been taking place while they are being driven around in the coach, going, in fact, to the very place Mr. Haredale has been speaking about. Since they have still not arrived there, Mr. Haredale reverts to another topic now, talking about the Maypole highwayman who robbed Edward and asking Gabriel what he looked like, e.g. if he resembled Hugh in any way or not. Finally, the two men arrive at the Mrs. Rudge’s former dwelling, and Mr. Haredale invites the locksmith to go around the house with him, making an inspection of the premises.

The house looks forlorn and sombre, and when they leave the coach in order to go from room to room, Gabriel notices for the first time how haggard and worn out Mr. Haredale looks. The way the house is described once again shows Dickens’s good hand at making a place mirror the character traits or the mood of its owner or dweller. One of my favourite passages in the description of the desolate house is this: ”There was a sense of closeness from the exclusion of fresh air, and a gloom and heaviness around, as though long imprisonment had made the very silence sad.” The house seems so closely woven with its former inhabitants that the two visitors have the impression of seeing Barnaby, his mother and Grip in their usual places and postures. When they have finished their tour, Mr. Haredale chooses a place at a table, sits down and places his pistols and his sword ready beside him. He is adamant, however, in his intention of watching alone, unrelieved by Gabriel’s company, and so Gabriel finally leaves him.

THOUGHTS AND QUESTIONS
What does Mr. Haredale expect to find in Mrs. Rudge’s house? Apparently, it is something, or someone, dangerous because he prepares his weapons for a possible encounter. Although he does not want Gabriel to watch with him, he told the locksmith about his vigils. Why might he have done that?

Chapter 43 is going to offer us a foretaste of the riots and the violence that are going to break out in the second part of the novel. Days are passing by, and Gabriel often wanders to the house after nightfall, knowing from the light gleaming through the window-shutter that Mr. Haredale is there, but not daring dismiss his order by intruding upon the solitary watcher. By the way, I wonder why Mr. Haredale is leaving a light burning because if he is watching for somebody who expects the house to be deserted and empty, surely the light would give away the person inside. So is he waiting for someone to keep an appointment instead of wanting to surprise someone?

Be that as it may, Mr. Haredale goes to his watch day by day, always repeating the survey of the different rooms in the house before sitting down for his vigil, his face all the while expressing the sternest devotion to his purpose and being on the alert for any kind of sound or noise, only to find that nothing comes of it. ”Still, every night he was at his post, the same stern, sleepless sentinel; and still night passed, and morning dawned, and he must watch again.” His days he spends in his lodgings in Vauxhall. One evening, he is on his way to his nightly watch, passing the Houses of Parliament where he notices a crowd of people and hears single cries of No Popery. He makes his way through these people and in Westminster Hall comes across two men, one of whom seems to fawn upon the other who sticks out through his elegant and costly apparel. Since they would almost have run into Mr. Haredale, the elegant man with the cane (!) is about to apologize when he recognizes Mr. Haredale and shows surprise at this rare coincidence. Mr. Haredale is not interested very much in a longer conversation because the two people are nobody else but Mr. Chester and Mr. Gashford, whom Haredale also happens to know. Mr. Chester says that they were right in the act of speaking about Haredale because after all, they are all three old schoolfellows, and with these words he draws Haredale’s attention explicitly on Mr. Gashford.

”The friend, plainly very ill at ease, had made bold to press Sir John’s arm, and to give him other significant hints that he was desirous of avoiding this introduction. As it did not suit Sir John’s purpose, however, that it should be evaded, he appeared quite unconscious of these silent remonstrances, and inclined his hand towards him, as he spoke, to call attention to him more particularly.”

It is very obvious that Sir John seems to follow a certain purpose in confronting Haredale and Gashford with each other, not heeding the clear symptoms of the secretary’s unwillingness to renew this acquaintance. And he seems to fulfil his purpose because Mr. Haredale, always outspoken, does not hide his contempt for Gashford, the religious turncoat, whom he blames for raising public hatred against Catholics. Very soon, Gashford and Haredale bandy high words, and matters come to a head when Lord George finally joins them for Gordon refuses to speak directly to Haredale, once he realizes that he has a Catholic in front of him. When Gordon finally says that he cannot talk to Haredale for they have nothing in common, the other man replies,

”’We have much in common—many things—all that the Almighty gave us, […] and common charity, not to say common sense and common decency, should teach you to refrain from these proceedings. If every one of those men had arms in their hands at this moment, as they have them in their heads, I would not leave this place without telling you that you disgrace your station.’”

What do you think of Lord George’s behaviour, of his refusal to address his speech directly to Mr. Haredale just because he is Catholic? Does this match what we have known so far about Gordon? How did you like Mr. Haredale’s reply?

When passions rise still higher, Haredale tells Lord George what he knows about Gashford to show him what kind of man he trusts, charging Gashford with all sorts of crimes and despicable behaviour, such as theft, the seduction of his benefactor’s daughter, matrimonial cruelty and finally turning his back on the Catholic community for they knew what kind of person he is. Sir John tries to placate Haredale’s temper, but for some reason or other he does not really succeed, and so finally Haredale walks away. The crowd that has gathered, however, follows him, whispering that he is a Catholic, and from out of its members, a stone is thrown at Haredale’s head. Haredale staggers but turns about and confronts his aggressors, asking who threw the stone. When nobody answers, he throws himself on Gashford, whose actions he holds responsible for the anti-Catholic movement, and hurls him to the ground. Before worse can ensue, John Grueby appears and conducts Haredale to his boat before the mob can really figure out that its victim is going to escape.

THOUGHTS AND QUESTIONS
Mr. Chester once again proves a master of manipulation. In this encounter, he clearly saw what might be coming if he made Haredale and Gashford face each other, and so he chooses to ignore Gashford’s reticence about a conversation with Haredale. Everybody in the Protestant cause seems to manipulate everyone else. Gashford plays on Lord George, but also on Hugh and Dennis; Dennis has his little secret about his profession, thus deceiving Hugh and Sim; Chester also manipulates Hugh and Sim. There is a lot of underhandedness in these relations. Who do you think the most cunning manipulator: Gashford or Chester?

In one situation, Sir John makes it clear that he does not belong to the Protestant Association and that he is no member of it although, as he says he has high respect for the whole thing. What might his reason for saying this be? Does he want to avoid putting all his eggs into one basket?

What does Haredale’s behaviour in this chapter show about him? Was he not an easy prey for Mr. Chester’s tricks, allowing himself to be provoked so easily by a despicable man like Gashford? Was it clever to expose Gashford in public?

This chapter also shows that Dickens apparently had some profound knowledge on how crowds work and on how mob violence breaks out. Do you think that how the narrator describes the behaviour of the mob is realistic?

All of our main characters have now left Chapter 44, but Gashford, who, bruised and humiliated, utters ”curses and threats of revenge.” He does not lose a lot of time venting his spleen thus, though, but soon starts tailing two men he sees, even into the very disreputable part of the city to which they wend their way. Advancing into poorer and shabbier and more and more ill-famed streets, Gashford follows the two men until they arrive at their destination, ”one of the meanest houses, which was but a room, and that of small dimensions.” The two men are, of course, Hugh and Dennis, and when Gashford knocks at the door, they open it for him. The two are delighted to see Gashford because they are hungering for more action:

”‘What’s in the wind now, Muster Gashford?’ [Dennis] said, as he resumed his pipe, and looked at him askew. ‘Any orders from head-quarters? Are we going to begin? What is it, Muster Gashford?’

‘Oh, nothing, nothing,’ rejoined the secretary, with a friendly nod to Hugh. ‘We have broken the ice, though. We had a little spurt to-day—eh, Dennis?’

‘A very little one,’ growled the hangman. ‘Not half enough for me.’

‘Nor me neither!’ cried Hugh. ‘Give us something to do with life in it—with life in it, master. Ha, ha!’

‘Why, you wouldn’t,’ said the secretary, with his worst expression of face, and in his mildest tones, ‘have anything to do, with—with death in it?’”

Again, one can only bow to Dickens’s ability to understand the conditions in which mob violence can come into existence. Or how else can you understand the expression “breaking the ice”? Gashford here clearly seems to be working his way towards what he has in mind. Gashford first of all ensures himself of the two men’s confidence by asking them who threw the stone, and this question is readily answered by Dennis, who points out Hugh, extolling his readiness to act. Still, Dennis feels it incumbent on himself to make Hugh understand that the right time for large-scale violence and upheaval has not yet arrived because people are not as yet fanatical enough:

”[…] You must get people’s blood up afore you strike, and have ’em in the humour. There wasn’t quite enough to provoke ’em to- day, I tell you. If you’d had your way, you’d have spoilt the fun to come, and ruined us.’”

Gashford concurs with Dennis on this point, saying that he fell down without resistance when Haredale attacked him in order not to provoke an uproar. Dennis compliments him on the naturalness with which he fell down, and starts laughing, something that does not go down too well with Gashford, though, whose countenance at that moment ”might have furnished a study for the devil’s picture.” Finally he tells the two ruffians that Lord George himself consigns on them the pleasant task of punishing Haredale for what he did today, and he says, ”’[…] You may do as you please with him, or his, provided that you show no mercy, and no quarter, and leave no two beams of his house standing where the builder placed them. […]’” He then says that from now on he might come to see them more often in this hiding-place in order to keep in touch with them. When he has left, Mr. Dennis says that Gashford is renowned as a man who never forgives and never forgets, and therefore he proposes to drink his health.


FAVOURITE QUOTATION
”’[…] Dennis has great knowledge of the world.’

‘I ought to have, Muster Gashford, seeing what a many people I’ve helped out of it, eh?’ grinned the hangman, whispering the words behind his hand.”

Chapter 45 hurries us out of London, taking us into the countryside, into a small English town, at the outskirts of which Barnaby and his mother have taken their humble abode, earning their life through hard and honest, and steady work, not thriving and prospering exactly but making ends meet and being content with it. Barnaby has found, despite all his restlessness and his tendency to take long walks with all the dogs in the neighbourhood, leaving them worn out, but returning not very tired himself, some regular work in tending the garden, and at first sight it seems as though the Rudges have finally found the peace they could no longer enjoy in London.

However, the widow is keen on getting any scrap of news from London that comes into her way, and it is not so much with curiosity as with anxiousness and dread that she goes through the news. Is she still afraid of being hunted down by the “spectre man”? Or by Mr. Haredale? Apart from that, her son is more and more occupied by the idea that their life, especially his mother’s, would be much better if they had gold – especially when he looks at the sunset and the colour of the son reminds him of that valuable metal. His mother warns him not to pin his hopes on gold, saying, “’You don not know […] what men have done to win it, and how they have found, too late, that it glitters brightest at a distance, and turns quite dim and dull when handled.’” She also tells him that ”’[n]othing bears so many stains of blood, as gold. Avoid it. None have such cause to hate its name as we have. Do not so much as think of it, dear love. It has brought such misery and suffering on your head and mine as few have known, and God grant few may have to undergo. I would rather we were dead and laid down in our graves, than you should ever come to love it.’”

What do these words mean? Are they intended as a general warning not to pay too much attention vane riches, or was there really an episode in her life when the desire to become rich brought misery and ruin upon her family? Is she speaking from bitter experience or just chewing the cud of all people’s wisdom? – Barnaby, at any rate, seems touched by her words and seems to find an unsettling similarity between the redness in the sky and that of the mark upon his wrist. It is now that they notice they have been overheard by a blind man who has been standing on their doorstep for a while. It seems to be a humble and gentle wayfarer, indeed, who addresses Mrs. Rudge in respectful terms and sends Barnaby off with the little money he has in order to have him buy some bread. As soon as Barnaby has disappeared, however, the blind man, who is no one else but Stagg, shows his true colours, and changes his tone and behaviour immediately. He says that he comes from somebody the widow should know very well, a man whose lot is closely tied to hers, from events that happened in the past, and that this man is in dire need of money. When Mrs. Rudge protests that she is but poor, Stagg says that the man on whose behalf he is speaking knows very well that she has a wealthy friend and that all she has to do is ask him for money, and the money will be sent her. It is obvious that the widow is reluctant about this option, but the blind man knows very well how to put her under pressure: He says that the man for whom he speaks is nearby and can be got immediately, and he also threatens her to continue this conversation in the presence of her son, as soon as he returns. For starters, he demands twenty pounds, and he backs up his demand by saying that the man he speaks for bears her no malice and would readily take charge of her son ”to make a man of him.” This would probably mean making a criminal of Barnaby, and the widow knows this.

Stagg gives the woman twenty minutes’ time to think about what he has said and places himself in the doorway, his feet blocking the passage so that he will notice anyone trying to get in or out, ”as though the cottage were his proper dwelling, and he had held undisputed possession of it all his life”.

THOUGHTS AND QUESTIONS
We learn that the Rudges’ hut ”stood on the outskirts of the town, at a short distance from the high road, but in a secluded place, where few chance passengers strayed at any season of the year.” Now, as places usually say a lot about the people living in them in Dickens’s novels, what do you think this detail might tell about Barnaby and his mother?

Notwithstanding their poverty and the hard life they are living, Mrs. Rudge is happy now. To what extent does Barnaby’s mental condition contribute to her happiness? To what extent might it endanger and detract from it?

”’[…] I have the softest heart in the world, but I can’t live upon it. […]’” – What do you think about Stagg’s behaviour in this situation? We might get some more information on his motives in the following chapter, but from what you know already, what do you think about him?

The most obvious question, however, is, at least to me: How did the “spectre man” and Stagg find out Mrs. Rudge’s hiding-place when a man like Haredale failed in this very enterprise?

Tristram wrote: "Let us start with the Vardens, whom we are invited to visit in Chapter 41..."

Oh, how I wish Mary Rudge had married Gabriel! What a calm, happy, sensible life they could have had together! I love Dickens' description of the happy sounds from the shop, and the passage you quoted about the keys, Tristram. How on Earth does Gabriel keep his sunny disposition when he's married to such a horrible woman? I do wish he'd man-up and occasionally wear the pants in the family. Dismiss Miggs and shut down his wife from time to time. Does it make me a traitor to my sex, or does it just illustrate my extreme ill feelings towards Mrs. Varden and her maid?

I'd like to take a moment to think out loud - or in this case, do a stream of consciousness exploration of the two romantic interests we know of in Gabriel's life, Mary and Martha. Of course, Mary and Martha were sisters in the Bible, and the pairing of the names has come down over the centuries like peanut butter and jelly, or whatever other notable duos you might think of. My own twin aunts were given those names.

Biblically, Martha was practical, efficient, and sweated the small stuff; she was a bit of a worrier. She was all about being a good hostess. While Martha was rushing around, seeing to everyone's needs, Mary was sitting, enjoying the company of her guests. Granted, the guest of honor was Jesus, and she was listening to his teachings. But sisters being sisters, it ticked Martha off that she was slaving away in the kitchen while Mary was lounging around chatting with the son of God. Martha griped to Jesus about it, and he, in essence, told her to chill out, and that while he appreciated all her efforts, it was Mary who had her priorities straight. I'm guessing that didn't go over too well with Martha!
Can any of this be applied to the Mary and Martha in our story?

Mary, Barnaby's mom, seems to have taken on Bible-Martha's role. She is necessarily busy keeping home and hearth together. Her widowed status, lack of money, and Barnaby's care pretty much require her to be a worrier. Despite that, she's still a thoughtful hostess when she gets visitors, both in previous chapters and one yet to come this week.

Martha - Mrs. Varden - is more like Bible-Mary. She has Miggs to do her bidding, so she, too, can sit and enjoy her guests without the burden of having to prepare meals, or tea, or whatever libation may be called for. She's certainly a follower of the Protestant movement, if not Christ's actual teachings.

Criss-cross.

Did Dickens have the Biblical sisters in mind when he named these characters? Is it possible that Mrs. Rudge and Mrs. Varden will actually turn out to be sisters? Dickens has had more fantastic coincidences than this before. In any case, if Dickens had any of this in mind, why would he flip the names/personalities of the women? And which one, in our story, would find favor with Jesus? And will our story have a Lazarus? He was Mary and Martha's brother, resurrected by Jesus.

I have no answers. But when I realized that Gabriel had been jilted by a Mary, and then married a Martha it seemed like it might be more than a coincidence.

Tristram wrote: "Chapter 42 ... I wonder why Mr. Haredale is leaving a light burning because if he is watching for somebody who expects the house to be deserted and empty, surely the light would give away the person inside..."

I had this same question. The only reasonable conclusion I could come to was that whomever Haredale expects to encounter may only show up if he believes the Rudges have returned. If they had moved back in, the place would be lit.

Chapter 43... Haredale tells Lord George what he knows about Gashford to show him what kind of man he trusts, charging Gashford with all sorts of crimes and despicable behaviour, such as theft, the seduction of his benefactor’s daughter, matrimonial cruelty and finally turning his back on the Catholic community for they knew what kind of person he is.

This was eye-opening, wasn't it? Chester and Gashford seem to be birds of a feather. When I first read it, I thought Haredale was referring to Chester. I had to go over it a second time to recognize that it was Gashford who was being exposed. Who, I wonder, were the benefactor and his daughter?

I can't help but think that we've got all the loose threads hanging in front of us now, and I hope Dickens will start to tie them up gradually, and not wait until the final two chapters. I've enjoyed this book so much so far... I want to savor the revelations and not have them lobbed at me all at once.

Tristram wrote: "Chapter 45 ... As soon as Barnaby has disappeared, however, the blind man, who is no one else but Stagg, shows his true colours, and changes his tone and behaviour immediately."

The passage you refer to here gave me chills when I read it. Dickens has the wonderful ability to bring out every emotion, and this week's chapters have run the gamut.

Observation: I know the Rudges are destitute and must make a living however they can, but I was a bit surprised at what I considered to be a fatal mistake. If I'm a woman living in hiding, already somewhat recognizable because of my "idiot" son, I wouldn't want to draw any additional attention with a performing raven! How difficult would it be to locate a threesome of that description? Grip's mere existence is a dead giveaway, but to have him perform tricks for money surely must be how they were found. I'm afraid Mary and Barnaby only have themselves to blame for this turn of events.

Tristram wrote: "Chapter 43
Before worse can ensue, John Grueby appears and conducts Haredale to his boat before the mob can really figure out that its victim is going to escape...."

I originally thought Grueby was going to be a minor, peripheral sort of character. Now I wonder if there's more to him than meet the eye. I'm going to watch his appearances more closely, I think.

Mary Lou wrote: "Tristram wrote: "Let us start with the Vardens, whom we are invited to visit in Chapter 41..."

Oh, how I wish Mary Rudge had married Gabriel! What a calm, happy, sensible life they could have had ..."

Mary Lou

Thank you for pointing out the Mary - Martha insight and outlining how the criss-cross can be seen playing out in the novel. Your insights are brand new to me and I can certainly see your reasoning and logic. Your added observation that the sisters’ brother was Lazarus creates even more potential possibilities to our plot. We shall see ...

Haredale is becoming a more intriguing character as we move through the novel. There is clearly more to his actions that meet the eye, and his setting up a residence in London raises many questions.

The Haredale - Lord George - Gashford - Chester combination offers as any possibilities as a Rubic’s Cube. I too hope that the novel will not dash to a stuffed conclusion of rabbits being pulled out of hats.

Tristram wrote: "What do you think of Dolly’s behaviour? Her bad conscience seems to come back when Joe’s name is mentioned, doesn’t it? This clearly shows that she is not as thoughtless and superficial as some of her critics make her out, doesn’t it? In short, she’s wonderful, isn’t she?

No.

Mary Lou wrote: "Martha - Mrs. Varden - is more like Bible-Mary"

I'm positive I would have gone through the rest of my life never linking Mrs. Varden to Mary, Martha's sister in the Bible. Poor Lazarus, not only does he die, but he had Mrs. Varden as a sister first. It certainly put a different picture of the lady into my head. :-)

If I understand this correctly Mr. Haredale has been trying to find Mrs. Rudge and Barnaby but has been unable to do so. But along comes a blind man and he does find them. Why Mr. Haredale thinks the best way of finding them is sitting in their old home every night just in case they come back I don't know. I do know that the blind man must have used some other way of finding them since he hasn't been keeping Mr. Haredale company and he has managed to find them, but as Mary Lou said, finding someone going around with a trained raven performing for people isn't the best way of disappearing. Why is Mr. Haredale so set on finding them anyway? Mrs. Rudge made it clear when she left she didn't want to be found so why is he trying to find her? Let the poor woman alone.

If Mr. Haredale isn't waiting for Mrs. Rudge to come back, he must be waiting for someone he thinks can tell him where she and Barnaby have gone. Who could this be? It is five years since they left the house and why now would someone show up expecting them to still be there? Where has this person been that they only show up now (if they do at all) and haven't heard that Mrs. Rudge and Barnaby have been gone for years now? And has the house been standing empty for these five years?

Here is a description of the houses in a poor section of the city:

They went up Parliament Street, past Saint Martin’s church, and away by Saint Giles’s to Tottenham Court Road, at the back of which, upon the western side, was then a place called the Green Lanes. This was a retired spot, not of the choicest kind, leading into the fields. Great heaps of ashes; stagnant pools, overgrown with rank grass and duckweed; broken turnstiles; and the upright posts of palings long since carried off for firewood, which menaced all heedless walkers with their jagged and rusty nails; were the leading features of the landscape: while here and there a donkey, or a ragged horse, tethered to a stake, and cropping off a wretched meal from the coarse stunted turf, were quite in keeping with the scene, and would have suggested (if the houses had not done so, sufficiently, of themselves) how very poor the people were who lived in the crazy huts adjacent, and how foolhardy it might prove for one who carried money, or wore decent clothes, to walk that way alone, unless by daylight.

Poverty has its whims and shows of taste, as wealth has. Some of these cabins were turreted, some had false windows painted on their rotten walls; one had a mimic clock, upon a crazy tower of four feet high, which screened the chimney; each in its little patch of ground had a rude seat or arbour. The population dealt in bones, in rags, in broken glass, in old wheels, in birds, and dogs. These, in their several ways of stowage, filled the gardens; and shedding a perfume, not of the most delicious nature, in the air, filled it besides with yelps, and screams, and howling.

I have an image of a poor family living in a small hut with an outdoor bench sitting against the house right underneath the window. The painted on the side of the house window, not a real one. It's sad. I wonder if it occurred to anyone to paint the window on the inside of the house too, and paint a lovely outdoor scene in it. It would seem as if they were looking out the window at a lovely country scene. Maybe.

Nell - My phone's not allowing me to cut and paste your comment but, as I recall, I think the Plornishes in Little Dorrit had a painting on their interior wall just as you described! I'm tucked in to bed now, but look forward to trying to find its description tomorrow.

I'll be looking forward to it. I'll also be going back to my real name any time now, this trying to remember who I am supposed to be is driving me crazy. :-)

Little Nell wrote: "If I understand this correctly Mr. Haredale has been trying to find Mrs. Rudge and Barnaby but has been unable to do so. But along comes a blind man and he does find them. Why Mr. Haredale thinks t..."

Nell

Yes. A talking and dancing raven would be an obvious giveaway.

:-)

Mary Lou wrote: "Tristram wrote: "Let us start with the Vardens, whom we are invited to visit in Chapter 41..."

Oh, how I wish Mary Rudge had married Gabriel! What a calm, happy, sensible life they could have had ..."
I also wished those two had married!

And, did the names/sisters really cross? Mary has much to worry about, but she does what she (thinks she) has to, and makes time to talk with/enjoy the company of her guests when she has those. In her conversation with Barnaby she makes clear she prefers a clean conscience and 'slow' lifestyle over material goods. Meanwhile, all Martha does is making religion about material matters (like always watching what everyone does or does not put into her collection box). It might appear that the names are reversed because of the relative wealth one has and one has not, but are they really?

Little Nell wrote: " I wonder if it occurred to anyone to paint the window on the inside of the house too, and paint a lovely outdoor scene in it. It would seem as if they were looking out the window at a lovely country scene. ..."

I actually found the passage in Little Dorrit about the Plornish house. I can't help but think this was somewhere deep in the back of your mind when you made the above statement.

Mrs. Plornish's shop-parlour had been decorated under her own eye, and presented, on the side towards the shop, a little fiction in which Mrs. Plornish unspeakably rejoiced. This poetical heightening of the parlour consisted in the wall being painted to represent the exterior of a thatched cottage; the artist having introduced (in as effective a manner as he found compatible with their highly disproportionate dimensions) the real door and window. The modest sunflower and hollyhock were depicted as flourishing with great luxuriance on this rustic dwelling, while a quantity of dense smoke issuing from the chimney indicated good cheer within, and also, perhaps, that it had not been lately swept. A faithful dog was represented as flying at the legs of the friendly visitor, from the threshold; and a circular pigeon-house, enveloped in a cloud of pigeons, arose from behind the garden-paling. On the door (when it was shut), appeared the semblance of a brass-plate, presenting the inscription, Happy Cottage, T. and M. Plornish; the partnership expressing man and wife. No Poetry and no Art ever charmed the imagination more than the union of the two in this counterfeit cottage charmed Mrs. Plornish. It was nothing to her that Plornish had a habit of leaning against it as he smoked his pipe after work, when his hat blotted out the pigeon-house and all the pigeons, when his back swallowed up the dwelling, when his hands in his pockets uprooted the blooming garden and laid waste the adjacent country. To Mrs. Plornish, it was still a most beautiful cottage, a most wonderful deception.

Jantine wrote: "It might appear that the names are reversed because of the relative wealth one has and one has not, but are they really? ..."

A different way of looking at it. Who knows what Dickens may have had in mind... or if he even was thinking about Lazerus's sisters when he named these two characters? But it's fun to speculate!

Absolutely!
I look forward to the next chapters :-)

Little Nell wrote: "No."

Ah, come on! You must find her wonderful ;-)

Little Nell wrote: "Mary Lou wrote: "Martha - Mrs. Varden - is more like Bible-Mary"

I'm positive I would have gone through the rest of my life never linking Mrs. Varden to Mary, Martha's sister in the Bible. Poor La..."

In the light of having Mrs. Varden for a sister, maybe it was not only with unmitigated joy that Lazarus came back to life? Now, honestly, I am once again astonished at how numerous Biblical allusions are in Dickens (and in other Victorian writers). The Martha - Mary connection would never have occurred to me. Thanks, Mary Lou, for bringing this to the group's attention. Reading Dickens with all of you is always an enriching experience for me!

Little Nell wrote: "If Mr. Haredale isn't waiting for Mrs. Rudge to come back, he must be waiting for someone he thinks can tell him where she and Barnaby have gone. Who could this be? It is five years since they left..."

Yes, the house has been standing empty all those years, Kim. I think that Haredale mentioned to Gabriel that he keeps everything untouched in the house in case the Rudges came back. Interestingly, in some way or other, the story told by Solomon Daisy has rekindled in Haredale the urge to find Mrs. Rudge. Before hearing this story, he seemed to have reconciled himself with the idea of having lost track of the woman and her child. That story must mean a lot more to Haredale than we can guess right now.

Little Nell wrote: "I wonder if it occurred to anyone to paint the window on the inside of the house too, and paint a lovely outdoor scene in it. It would seem as if they were looking out the window at a lovely country scene."

But would it make sense to do this? I mean if the window were only painted, there would be hardly any light in the house to see the painted window inside properly.

Stagg finding the Rudges was an interesting plot twist. Who would have thought the blind man would be the person to find them? This scene made me think back to when Stagg gave the specter man food and shelter and felt his face. That must have been when they teamed up.

Good point that Grip probably gave the Rudges away. I'm so enamored with Grip (because I'm a bird lover) that I didn't even think of this.

The Mary/Martha connection is fascinating. Something tells me, if there's a Lazarus character, it has to be the spectre man. The spectre man is compared to a ghost, therefore he's "dead." So, at some point, he needs to be "resurrected" and brought more fully into the story.

Alissa wrote: "The Mary/Martha connection is fascinating. Something tells me, if there's a Lazarus character, it has to be the spectre man. The spectre man is compared to a ghost, therefore he's "dead." So, at so..."

:-)

The locksmith dressing for parade

Chapter 41

Phiz

Text Illustrated:

As there was to be a grand parade of the Royal East London Volunteers that afternoon, the locksmith did no more work; but sat down comfortably with his pipe in his mouth, and his arm round his pretty daughter’s waist, looking lovingly on Mrs V., from time to time, and exhibiting from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, one smiling surface of good humour. And to be sure, when it was time to dress him in his regimentals, and Dolly, hanging about him in all kinds of graceful winning ways, helped to button and buckle and brush him up and get him into one of the tightest coats that ever was made by mortal tailor, he was the proudest father in all England.

‘What a handy jade it is!’ said the locksmith to Mrs Varden, who stood by with folded hands—rather proud of her husband too—while Miggs held his cap and sword at arm’s length, as if mistrusting that the latter might run some one through the body of its own accord; ‘but never marry a soldier, Doll, my dear.’

Dolly didn’t ask why not, or say a word, indeed, but stooped her head down very low to tie his sash.

‘I never wear this dress,’ said honest Gabriel, ‘but I think of poor Joe Willet. I loved Joe; he was always a favourite of mine. Poor Joe!—Dear heart, my girl, don’t tie me in so tight.’

Dolly laughed—not like herself at all—the strangest little laugh that could be—and held her head down lower still.

‘Poor Joe!’ resumed the locksmith, muttering to himself; ‘I always wish he had come to me. I might have made it up between them, if he had. Ah! old John made a great mistake in his way of acting by that lad—a great mistake.—Have you nearly tied that sash, my dear?’

What an ill-made sash it was! There it was, loose again and trailing on the ground. Dolly was obliged to kneel down, and recommence at the beginning.

‘Never mind young Willet, Varden,’ said his wife frowning; ‘you might find some one more deserving to talk about, I think.’

Miss Miggs gave a great sniff to the same effect.

‘Nay, Martha,’ cried the locksmith, ‘don’t let us bear too hard upon him. If the lad is dead indeed, we’ll deal kindly by his memory.’

‘A runaway and a vagabond!’ said Mrs Varden.

Miss Miggs expressed her concurrence as before.

‘A runaway, my dear, but not a vagabond,’ returned the locksmith in a gentle tone. ‘He behaved himself well, did Joe—always—and was a handsome, manly fellow. Don’t call him a vagabond, Martha.’

Mrs Varden coughed—and so did Miggs.

‘He tried hard to gain your good opinion, Martha, I can tell you,’ said the locksmith smiling, and stroking his chin. ‘Ah! that he did. It seems but yesterday that he followed me out to the Maypole door one night, and begged me not to say how like a boy they used him—say here, at home, he meant, though at the time, I recollect, I didn’t understand. “And how’s Miss Dolly, sir?” says Joe,’ pursued the locksmith, musing sorrowfully, ‘Ah! Poor Joe!’

‘Well, I declare,’ cried Miggs. ‘Oh! Goodness gracious me!’

‘What’s the matter now?’ said Gabriel, turning sharply to her.

‘Why, if here an’t Miss Dolly,’ said the handmaid, stooping down to look into her face, ‘a-giving way to floods of tears. Oh mim! oh sir. Raly it’s give me such a turn,’ cried the susceptible damsel, pressing her hand upon her side to quell the palpitation of her heart, ‘that you might knock me down with a feather.’

The locksmith, after glancing at Miss Miggs as if he could have wished to have a feather brought straightway, looked on with a broad stare while Dolly hurried away, followed by that sympathising young woman: then turning to his wife, stammered out, ‘Is Dolly ill? Have I done anything? Is it my fault?’

‘Your fault!’ cried Mrs V. reproachfully. ‘There—you had better make haste out.’

‘What have I done?’ said poor Gabriel. ‘It was agreed that Mr Edward’s name was never to be mentioned, and I have not spoken of him, have I?’

Mrs Varden merely replied that she had no patience with him, and bounced off after the other two. The unfortunate locksmith wound his sash about him, girded on his sword, put on his cap, and walked out.

‘I am not much of a dab at my exercise,’ he said under his breath, ‘but I shall get into fewer scrapes at that work than at this. Every man came into the world for something; my department seems to be to make every woman cry without meaning it. It’s rather hard!’

Gabriel Varden

Chapter 41

Frank Reynolds

From The Buchanan Portfolio of Characters from Dickens

Text Illustrated:

As there was to be a grand parade of the Royal East London Volunteers that afternoon, the locksmith did no more work; but sat down comfortably with his pipe in his mouth, and his arm round his pretty daughter’s waist, looking lovingly on Mrs V., from time to time, and exhibiting from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, one smiling surface of good humour. And to be sure, when it was time to dress him in his regimentals, and Dolly, hanging about him in all kinds of graceful winning ways, helped to button and buckle and brush him up and get him into one of the tightest coats that ever was made by mortal tailor, he was the proudest father in all England.

‘What a handy jade it is!’ said the locksmith to Mrs Varden, who stood by with folded hands—rather proud of her husband too—while Miggs held his cap and sword at arm’s length, as if mistrusting that the latter might run some one through the body of its own accord; ‘but never marry a soldier, Doll, my dear.’

Mr. Haredale's lonely watch

Chapter 42

George Cattermole

Text Illustrated:

As they looked about them on the decaying furniture, it was strange to find how vividly it presented those to whom it had belonged, and with whom it was once familiar. Grip seemed to perch again upon his high-backed chair; Barnaby to crouch in his old favourite corner by the fire; the mother to resume her usual seat, and watch him as of old. Even when they could separate these objects from the phantoms of the mind which they invoked, the latter only glided out of sight, but lingered near them still; for then they seemed to lurk in closets and behind the doors, ready to start out and suddenly accost them in well-remembered tones.

They went downstairs, and again into the room they had just now left. Mr Haredale unbuckled his sword and laid it on the table, with a pair of pocket pistols; then told the locksmith he would light him to the door.

‘But this is a dull place, sir,’ said Gabriel lingering; ‘may no one share your watch?’

He shook his head, and so plainly evinced his wish to be alone, that Gabriel could say no more. In another moment the locksmith was standing in the street, whence he could see that the light once more travelled upstairs, and soon returning to the room below, shone brightly through the chinks of the shutters.

If ever man were sorely puzzled and perplexed, the locksmith was, that night. Even when snugly seated by his own fireside, with Mrs Varden opposite in a nightcap and night-jacket, and Dolly beside him (in a most distracting dishabille) curling her hair, and smiling as if she had never cried in all her life and never could—even then, with Toby at his elbow and his pipe in his mouth, and Miggs (but that perhaps was not much) falling asleep in the background, he could not quite discard his wonder and uneasiness. So in his dreams—still there was Mr Haredale, haggard and careworn, listening in the solitary house to every sound that stirred, with the taper shining through the chinks until the day should turn it pale and end his lonely watching.

A chance meeting in Westminster Hall

Chapter 43

George Cattermole

Text Illustrated:

One evening, shortly before twilight, he came his accustomed road upon the river’s bank, intending to pass through Westminster Hall into Palace Yard, and there take boat to London Bridge as usual. There was a pretty large concourse of people assembled round the Houses of Parliament, looking at the members as they entered and departed, and giving vent to rather noisy demonstrations of approval or dislike, according to their known opinions. As he made his way among the throng, he heard once or twice the No-Popery cry, which was then becoming pretty familiar to the ears of most men; but holding it in very slight regard, and observing that the idlers were of the lowest grade, he neither thought nor cared about it, but made his way along, with perfect indifference.

There were many little knots and groups of persons in Westminster Hall: some few looking upward at its noble ceiling, and at the rays of evening light, tinted by the setting sun, which streamed in aslant through its small windows, and growing dimmer by degrees, were quenched in the gathering gloom below; some, noisy passengers, mechanics going home from work, and otherwise, who hurried quickly through, waking the echoes with their voices, and soon darkening the small door in the distance, as they passed into the street beyond; some, in busy conference together on political or private matters, pacing slowly up and down with eyes that sought the ground, and seeming, by their attitudes, to listen earnestly from head to foot. Here, a dozen squabbling urchins made a very Babel in the air; there, a solitary man, half clerk, half mendicant, paced up and down with hungry dejection in his look and gait; at his elbow passed an errand-lad, swinging his basket round and round, and with his shrill whistle riving the very timbers of the roof; while a more observant schoolboy, half-way through, pocketed his ball, and eyed the distant beadle as he came looming on. It was that time of evening when, if you shut your eyes and open them again, the darkness of an hour appears to have gathered in a second. The smooth-worn pavement, dusty with footsteps, still called upon the lofty walls to reiterate the shuffle and the tread of feet unceasingly, save when the closing of some heavy door resounded through the building like a clap of thunder, and drowned all other noises in its rolling sound.

Mr Haredale, glancing only at such of these groups as he passed nearest to, and then in a manner betokening that his thoughts were elsewhere, had nearly traversed the Hall, when two persons before him caught his attention. One of these, a gentleman in elegant attire, carried in his hand a cane, which he twirled in a jaunty manner as he loitered on; the other, an obsequious, crouching, fawning figure, listened to what he said—at times throwing in a humble word himself—and, with his shoulders shrugged up to his ears, rubbed his hands submissively, or answered at intervals by an inclination of the head, half-way between a nod of acquiescence, and a bow of most profound respect.

In the abstract there was nothing very remarkable in this pair, for servility waiting on a handsome suit of clothes and a cane—not to speak of gold and silver sticks, or wands of office—is common enough. But there was that about the well-dressed man, yes, and about the other likewise, which struck Mr Haredale with no pleasant feeling. He hesitated, stopped, and would have stepped aside and turned out of his path, but at the moment, the other two faced about quickly, and stumbled upon him before he could avoid them.

The gentleman with the cane lifted his hat and had begun to tender an apology, which Mr Haredale had begun as hastily to acknowledge and walk away, when he stopped short and cried, ‘Haredale! Gad bless me, this is strange indeed!’

‘It is,’ he returned impatiently; ‘yes—a—’

‘My dear friend,’ cried the other, detaining him, ‘why such great speed? One minute, Haredale, for the sake of old acquaintance.’

‘I am in haste,’ he said. ‘Neither of us has sought this meeting. Let it be a brief one. Good night!’

‘Fie, fie!’ replied Sir John (for it was he), ‘how very churlish! We were speaking of you. Your name was on my lips—perhaps you heard me mention it? No? I am sorry for that. I am really sorry.—You know our friend here, Haredale? This is really a most remarkable meeting!’

The friend, plainly very ill at ease, had made bold to press Sir John’s arm, and to give him other significant hints that he was desirous of avoiding this introduction. As it did not suit Sir John’s purpose, however, that it should be evaded, he appeared quite unconscious of these silent remonstrances, and inclined his hand towards him, as he spoke, to call attention to him more particularly.

The friend, therefore, had nothing for it, but to muster up the pleasantest smile he could, and to make a conciliatory bow, as Mr Haredale turned his eyes upon him. Seeing that he was recognised, he put out his hand in an awkward and embarrassed manner, which was not mended by its contemptuous rejection.

‘Mr Gashford!’ said Haredale, coldly. ‘It is as I have heard then. You have left the darkness for the light, sir, and hate those whose opinions you formerly held, with all the bitterness of a renegade. You are an honour, sir, to any cause. I wish the one you espouse at present, much joy of the acquisition it has made.’

The secretary rubbed his hands and bowed, as though he would disarm his adversary by humbling himself before him. Sir John Chester again exclaimed, with an air of great gaiety, ‘Now, really, this is a most remarkable meeting!’ and took a pinch of snuff with his usual self-possession.

‘Mr Haredale,’ said Gashford, stealthily raising his eyes, and letting them drop again when they met the other’s steady gaze, ‘is too conscientious, too honourable, too manly, I am sure, to attach unworthy motives to an honest change of opinions, even though it implies a doubt of those he holds himself. Mr Haredale is too just, too generous, too clear-sighted in his moral vision, to—’

‘Yes, sir?’ he rejoined with a sarcastic smile, finding the secretary stopped. ‘You were saying’—

Gashford meekly shrugged his shoulders, and looking on the ground again, was silent.

‘No, but let us really,’ interposed Sir John at this juncture, ‘let us really, for a moment, contemplate the very remarkable character of this meeting. Haredale, my dear friend, pardon me if I think you are not sufficiently impressed with its singularity. Here we stand, by no previous appointment or arrangement, three old schoolfellows, in Westminster Hall; three old boarders in a remarkably dull and shady seminary at Saint Omer’s, where you, being Catholics and of necessity educated out of England, were brought up; and where I, being a promising young Protestant at that time, was sent to learn the French tongue from a native of Paris!’

Mr. Haredale defies the mob

Chapter 43

Phiz

Text Illustrated:

But the throng of people—the foremost of whom had heard every word that Lord George Gordon said, and among all of whom the rumour had been rapidly dispersed that the stranger was a Papist who was bearding him for his advocacy of the popular cause—came pouring out pell-mell, and, forcing the nobleman, his secretary, and Sir John Chester on before them, so that they appeared to be at their head, crowded to the top of the stairs where Mr Haredale waited until the boat was ready, and there stood still, leaving him on a little clear space by himself.

They were not silent, however, though inactive. At first some indistinct mutterings arose among them, which were followed by a hiss or two, and these swelled by degrees into a perfect storm. Then one voice said, ‘Down with the Papists!’ and there was a pretty general cheer, but nothing more. After a lull of a few moments, one man cried out, ‘Stone him;’ another, ‘Duck him;’ another, in a stentorian voice, ‘No Popery!’ This favourite cry the rest re-echoed, and the mob, which might have been two hundred strong, joined in a general shout.

Mr Haredale had stood calmly on the brink of the steps, until they made this demonstration, when he looked round contemptuously, and walked at a slow pace down the stairs. He was pretty near the boat, when Gashford, as if without intention, turned about, and directly afterwards a great stone was thrown by some hand, in the crowd, which struck him on the head, and made him stagger like a drunken man.

The blood sprung freely from the wound, and trickled down his coat. He turned directly, and rushing up the steps with a boldness and passion which made them all fall back, demanded:

‘Who did that? Show me the man who hit me.’

Not a soul moved; except some in the rear who slunk off, and, escaping to the other side of the way, looked on like indifferent spectators.

‘Who did that?’ he repeated. ‘Show me the man who did it. Dog, was it you? It was your deed, if not your hand—I know you.’

He threw himself on Gashford as he said the words, and hurled him to the ground. There was a sudden motion in the crowd, and some laid hands upon him, but his sword was out, and they fell off again.

‘My lord—Sir John,’—he cried, ‘draw, one of you—you are responsible for this outrage, and I look to you. Draw, if you are gentlemen.’ With that he struck Sir John upon the breast with the flat of his weapon, and with a burning face and flashing eyes stood upon his guard; alone, before them all.

For an instant, for the briefest space of time the mind can readily conceive, there was a change in Sir John’s smooth face, such as no man ever saw there. The next moment, he stepped forward, and laid one hand on Mr Haredale’s arm, while with the other he endeavoured to appease the crowd.

‘My dear friend, my good Haredale, you are blinded with passion—it’s very natural, extremely natural—but you don’t know friends from foes.’

‘I know them all, sir, I can distinguish well—’ he retorted, almost mad with rage. ‘Sir John, Lord George—do you hear me? Are you cowards?’

‘Never mind, sir,’ said a man, forcing his way between and pushing him towards the stairs with friendly violence, ‘never mind asking that. For God’s sake, get away. What CAN you do against this number? And there are as many more in the next street, who’ll be round directly,’—indeed they began to pour in as he said the words—‘you’d be giddy from that cut, in the first heat of a scuffle. Now do retire, sir, or take my word for it you’ll be worse used than you would be if every man in the crowd was a woman, and that woman Bloody Mary. Come, sir, make haste—as quick as you can.’

Mr Haredale, who began to turn faint and sick, felt how sensible this advice was, and descended the steps with his unknown friend’s assistance. John Grueby (for John it was) helped him into the boat, and giving her a shove off, which sent her thirty feet into the tide, bade the waterman pull away like a Briton; and walked up again as composedly as if he had just landed.

There was at first a slight disposition on the part of the mob to resent this interference; but John looking particularly strong and cool, and wearing besides Lord George’s livery, they thought better of it, and contented themselves with sending a shower of small missiles after the boat, which plashed harmlessly in the water; for she had by this time cleared the bridge, and was darting swiftly down the centre of the stream.

From this amusement, they proceeded to giving Protestant knocks at the doors of private houses, breaking a few lamps, and assaulting some stray constables. But, it being whispered that a detachment of Life Guards had been sent for, they took to their heels with great expedition, and left the street quite clear.

The Rudges' Peaceful Home

Chapter 45

Phiz

Text Illustrated:

In a small English country town, the inhabitants of which supported themselves by the labour of their hands in plaiting and preparing straw for those who made bonnets and other articles of dress and ornament from that material,—concealed under an assumed name, and living in a quiet poverty which knew no change, no pleasures, and few cares but that of struggling on from day to day in one great toil for bread,—dwelt Barnaby and his mother. Their poor cottage had known no stranger’s foot since they sought the shelter of its roof five years before; nor had they in all that time held any commerce or communication with the old world from which they had fled. To labour in peace, and devote her labour and her life to her poor son, was all the widow sought. If happiness can be said at any time to be the lot of one on whom a secret sorrow preys, she was happy now. Tranquillity, resignation, and her strong love of him who needed it so much, formed the small circle of her quiet joys; and while that remained unbroken, she was contented.

For Barnaby himself, the time which had flown by, had passed him like the wind. The daily suns of years had shed no brighter gleam of reason on his mind; no dawn had broken on his long, dark night. He would sit sometimes—often for days together on a low seat by the fire or by the cottage door, busy at work (for he had learnt the art his mother plied), and listening, God help him, to the tales she would repeat, as a lure to keep him in her sight. He had no recollection of these little narratives; the tale of yesterday was new to him upon the morrow; but he liked them at the moment; and when the humour held him, would remain patiently within doors, hearing her stories like a little child, and working cheerfully from sunrise until it was too dark to see.

Their hut—for it was little more—stood on the outskirts of the town, at a short distance from the high road, but in a secluded place, where few chance passengers strayed at any season of the year. It had a plot of garden-ground attached, which Barnaby, in fits and starts of working, trimmed, and kept in order. Within doors and without, his mother laboured for their common good; and hail, rain, snow, or sunshine, found no difference in her.

Stagg's demand

Chapter 45

Phiz

Text Illustrated:

‘Madam, my name is Stagg. A friend of mine who has desired the honour of meeting with you any time these five years past, has commissioned me to call upon you. I should be glad to whisper that gentleman’s name in your ear.—Zounds, ma’am, are you deaf? Do you hear me say that I should be glad to whisper my friend’s name in your ear?’

‘You need not repeat it,’ said the widow, with a stifled groan; ‘I see too well from whom you come.’

‘But as a man of honour, ma’am,’ said the blind man, striking himself on the breast, ‘whose credentials must not be disputed, I take leave to say that I WILL mention that gentleman’s name. Ay, ay,’ he added, seeming to catch with his quick ear the very motion of her hand, ‘but not aloud. With your leave, ma’am, I desire the favour of a whisper.’

She moved towards him, and stooped down. He muttered a word in her ear; and, wringing her hands, she paced up and down the room like one distracted. The blind man, with perfect composure, produced his bottle again, mixed another glassful; put it up as before; and, drinking from time to time, followed her with his face in silence.

‘You are slow in conversation, widow,’ he said after a time, pausing in his draught. ‘We shall have to talk before your son.’

‘What would you have me do?’ she answered. ‘What do you want?’

‘We are poor, widow, we are poor,’ he retorted, stretching out his right hand, and rubbing his thumb upon its palm.

‘Poor!’ she cried. ‘And what am I?’

‘Comparisons are odious,’ said the blind man. ‘I don’t know, I don’t care. I say that we are poor. My friend’s circumstances are indifferent, and so are mine. We must have our rights, widow, or we must be bought off. But you know that, as well as I, so where is the use of talking?’

She still walked wildly to and fro. At length, stopping abruptly before him, she said:

‘Is he near here?’

‘He is. Close at hand.’

‘Then I am lost!’

‘Not lost, widow,’ said the blind man, calmly; ‘only found. Shall I call him?’

‘Not for the world,’ she answered, with a shudder.

‘Very good,’ he replied, crossing his legs again, for he had made as though he would rise and walk to the door. ‘As you please, widow. His presence is not necessary that I know of. But both he and I must live; to live, we must eat and drink; to eat and drink, we must have money:—I say no more.’

‘Do you know how pinched and destitute I am?’ she retorted. ‘I do not think you do, or can. If you had eyes, and could look around you on this poor place, you would have pity on me. Oh! let your heart be softened by your own affliction, friend, and have some sympathy with mine.’

The blind man snapped his fingers as he answered:

‘—Beside the question, ma’am, beside the question. I have the softest heart in the world, but I can’t live upon it. Many a gentleman lives well upon a soft head, who would find a heart of the same quality a very great drawback. Listen to me. This is a matter of business, with which sympathies and sentiments have nothing to do. As a mutual friend, I wish to arrange it in a satisfactory manner, if possible; and thus the case stands.—If you are very poor now, it’s your own choice. You have friends who, in case of need, are always ready to help you. My friend is in a more destitute and desolate situation than most men, and, you and he being linked together in a common cause, he naturally looks to you to assist him. He has boarded and lodged with me a long time (for as I said just now, I am very soft-hearted), and I quite approve of his entertaining this opinion. You have always had a roof over your head; he has always been an outcast. You have your son to comfort and assist you; he has nobody at all. The advantages must not be all one side. You are in the same boat, and we must divide the ballast a little more equally.’

She was about to speak, but he checked her, and went on.

‘The only way of doing this, is by making up a little purse now and then for my friend; and that’s what I advise. He bears you no malice that I know of, ma’am: so little, that although you have treated him harshly more than once, and driven him, I may say, out of doors, he has that regard for you that I believe even if you disappointed him now, he would consent to take charge of your son, and to make a man of him.’

He laid a great stress on these latter words, and paused as if to find out what effect they had produced. She only answered by her tears.

‘He is a likely lad,’ said the blind man, thoughtfully, ‘for many purposes, and not ill-disposed to try his fortune in a little change and bustle, if I may judge from what I heard of his talk with you to-night.—Come. In a word, my friend has pressing necessity for twenty pounds. You, who can give up an annuity, can get that sum for him. It’s a pity you should be troubled. You seem very comfortable here, and it’s worth that much to remain so. Twenty pounds, widow, is a moderate demand. You know where to apply for it; a post will bring it you.—Twenty pounds!’

She was about to answer him again, but again he stopped her.

‘Don’t say anything hastily; you might be sorry for it. Think of it a little while. Twenty pounds—of other people’s money—how easy! Turn it over in your mind. I’m in no hurry. Night’s coming on, and if I don’t sleep here, I shall not go far. Twenty pounds! Consider of it, ma’am, for twenty minutes; give each pound a minute; that’s a fair allowance. I’ll enjoy the air the while, which is very mild and pleasant in these parts.’

I thought I would show you different artists ideas on just what Barnaby looked like:




Barnaby Rudge

by Thomas Sibson

Barnaby Rudge

Illustration by Max Cowper

Gresham Publishing Company

1902

Fred Barnard



Also Fred Barnard (supposedly)

There is no artist listed, it only says Barnary Rudge 1945.

This isn't even close to what I have in my mind of Barnaby Rudge looking like. The artist is John Doyle. Here it is in color with this unusual title:



Daniel O'Connell in the character of Charles Dickens' Barnaby Rudge carries on his back a raven with the head of Lord Melbourne. Coloured lithograph by H.B. (John Doyle), 1841.

This is one of my favorite Barnaby illustrations, but I can't find who the artist is.

Another Barnaby illustration I can't find the artist for.

Tristram wrote: "But would it make sense to do this? I mean if the window were only painted, there would be hardly any light in the house to see the painted window inside properly."

I don't know if it makes sense, I find it rather strange, but people do it, light or not. I would think if you were going to go to all that trouble you would at least make it a Christmas scene.

Mary Lou wrote: "I've enjoyed this book so much so far... I want to savor the revelations and not have them lobbed at me all at once."

Well put. We keep commenting on how much Dickens has learned by this book. I guess the ending will be the proof. Will he give us time to absorb the conclusion, or Oliver Twist it?

I'm going to add to the Mary-Martha allusion a Rumplestiltskin allusion:

In a small English country town, the inhabitants of which supported themselves by the labour of their hands in plaiting and preparing straw for those who made bonnets and other articles of dress and ornament from that material,—concealed under an assumed name, and living in a quiet poverty which knew no change, no pleasures, and few cares but that of struggling on from day to day in one great toil for bread,—dwelt Barnaby and his mother.

So we've got straw, and then a page or so later Barnaby's soliloquy-ing about how much he'd like some gold. It does feel like a Rumplestiltskin riff. I'm not sure why it's there, though, other than to set off a general meditation on material wealth and happiness and how they're not so connected as people seem to think?

Little Nell wrote: "I'll be looking forward to it. I'll also be going back to my real name any time now, this trying to remember who I am supposed to be is driving me crazy. :-)"

Your real name is lovely, but I have to admit I've been enjoying watching everyone call you Nell.

Tristram wrote: "Mr. Chester once again proves a master of manipulation. In this encounter, he clearly saw what might be coming if he made Haredale and Gashford face each other, and so he chooses to ignore Gashford’s reticence about a conversation with Haredale..."


My read on this book is that Chester improves every single scene he turns up in. I especially like it when he just barely loses his composure, as with Edward earlier, and here it is again:

‘My lord—Sir John,’—[Haredale] cried, ‘draw, one of you—you are responsible for this outrage, and I look to you. Draw, if you are gentlemen.’ With that he struck Sir John upon the breast with the flat of his weapon, and with a burning face and flashing eyes stood upon his guard; alone, before them all.

For an instant, for the briefest space of time the mind can readily conceive, there was a change in Sir John’s smooth face, such as no man ever saw there. The next moment, he stepped forward, and laid one hand on Mr Haredale’s arm, while with the other he endeavoured to appease the crowd.

‘My dear friend, my good Haredale, you are blinded with passion—it’s very natural, extremely natural—but you don’t know friends from foes.’

The balance between the hints of extreme feeling under the surface and the unflappably congenial surface are so very eerie. When Chester explodes, it's going to be big. But then again, he may never explode at all. He may go down with his mask on. I'm repeatedly intrigued.

Little Nell wrote: "
Daniel O'Connell in the character of Charles Dickens' Barnaby Rudge carries on his back a raven with the head of Lord Melbourne. Coloured lithograph by H.B. (John Doyle), 1841...."


This is amazing, especially since O'Connell's most famous cause was Catholic Emancipation. Kind of demonstrates that this book was more topical for its times than its historical setting would seem to indicate. I wonder if that's another reason why it's been relatively under-read in our own times, where it isn't as topical maybe?