Chapter: Mr Dorrit, on being informed by his elder daughter that she had accepted
matrimonial overtures from Mr Sparkler, to whom she had plighted her
troth, received the communication at once with great dignity and with a
large display of parental pride; his dignity dilating with the widened
prospect of advantageous ground from which to make acquaintances, and
his parental pride being developed by Miss Fanny's ready sympathy with
that great object of his existence. He gave her to understand that her
noble ambition found harmonious echoes in his heart; and bestowed
his blessing on her, as a child brimful of duty and good principle,
    self-devoted to the aggrandisement of the family name.

    To Mr Sparkler, when Miss Fanny permitted him to appear, Mr Dorrit said,
    he would not disguise that the alliance Mr Sparkler did him the honour
    to propose was highly congenial to his feelings; both as being in unison
    with the spontaneous affections of his daughter Fanny, and as opening
    a family connection of a gratifying nature with Mr Merdle, the
    master spirit of the age. Mrs Merdle also, as a leading lady rich in
    distinction, elegance, grace, and beauty, he mentioned in very laudatory
    terms. He felt it his duty to remark (he was sure a gentleman of Mr
            Sparkler's fine sense would interpret him with all delicacy), that he
    could not consider this proposal definitely determined on, until he
    should have had the privilege of holding some correspondence with Mr
    Merdle; and of ascertaining it to be so far accordant with the views
    of that eminent gentleman as that his (Mr Dorrit's) daughter would be
    received on that footing which her station in life and her dowry and
    expectations warranted him in requiring that she should maintain in
    what he trusted he might be allowed, without the appearance of being
    mercenary, to call the Eye of the Great World. While saying this, which
    his character as a gentleman of some little station, and his character
    as a father, equally demanded of him, he would not be so diplomatic
    as to conceal that the proposal remained in hopeful abeyance and
    under conditional acceptance, and that he thanked Mr Sparkler for the
    compliment rendered to himself and to his family. He concluded with
    some further and more general observations on the--ha--character of an
    independent gentleman, and the--hum--character of a possibly too
    partial and admiring parent. To sum the whole up shortly, he received
    Mr Sparkler's offer very much as he would have received three or four
    half-crowns from him in the days that were gone.

    Mr Sparkler, finding himself stunned by the words thus heaped upon his
    inoffensive head, made a brief though pertinent rejoinder; the same
    being neither more nor less than that he had long perceived Miss Fanny
    to have no nonsense about her, and that he had no doubt of its being all
    right with his Governor. At that point the object of his affections shut
    him up like a box with a spring lid, and sent him away.

    Proceeding shortly afterwards to pay his respects to the Bosom, Mr
    Dorrit was received by it with great consideration. Mrs Merdle had heard
    of this affair from Edmund. She had been surprised at first, because she
    had not thought Edmund a marrying man. Society had not thought Edmund
    a marrying man. Still, of course she had seen, as a woman (we women
            did instinctively see these things, Mr Dorrit!), that Edmund had been
    immensely captivated by Miss Dorrit, and she had openly said that Mr
    Dorrit had much to answer for in bringing so charming a girl abroad to
    turn the heads of his countrymen.

    'Have I the honour to conclude, madam,' said Mr Dorrit, 'that the
    direction which Mr Sparkler's affections have taken, is--ha-approved of
    by you?'

    'I assure you, Mr Dorrit,' returned the lady, 'that, personally, I am
    charmed.'

    That was very gratifying to Mr Dorrit.

    'Personally,' repeated Mrs Merdle, 'charmed.'

    This casual repetition of the word 'personally,' moved Mr Dorrit to
    express his hope that Mr Merdle's approval, too, would not be wanting?

    'I cannot,' said Mrs Merdle, 'take upon myself to answer positively for
    Mr Merdle; gentlemen, especially gentlemen who are what Society calls
    capitalists, having their own ideas of these matters. But I should
    think--merely giving an opinion, Mr Dorrit--I should think Mr Merdle
    would be upon the whole,' here she held a review of herself before
    adding at her leisure, 'quite charmed.'

    At the mention of gentlemen whom Society called capitalists, Mr Dorrit
    had coughed, as if some internal demur were breaking out of him. Mrs
    Merdle had observed it, and went on to take up the cue.

    'Though, indeed, Mr Dorrit, it is scarcely necessary for me to make that
    remark, except in the mere openness of saying what is uppermost to one
    whom I so highly regard, and with whom I hope I may have the pleasure
    of being brought into still more agreeable relations. For one cannot
    but see the great probability of your considering such things from Mr
    Merdle's own point of view, except indeed that circumstances have made
    it Mr Merdle's accidental fortune, or misfortune, to be engaged in
    business transactions, and that they, however vast, may a little cramp
    his horizons. I am a very child as to having any notion of business,'
    said Mrs Merdle; 'but I am afraid, Mr Dorrit, it may have that
    tendency.'

    This skilful see-saw of Mr Dorrit and Mrs Merdle, so that each of them
    sent the other up, and each of them sent the other down, and neither
    had the advantage, acted as a sedative on Mr Dorrit's cough. He remarked
    with his utmost politeness, that he must beg to protest against its
    being supposed, even by Mrs Merdle, the accomplished and graceful
    (to which compliment she bent herself), that such enterprises as Mr
    Merdle's, apart as they were from the puny undertakings of the rest of
    men, had any lower tendency than to enlarge and expand the genius in
    which they were conceived. 'You are generosity itself,' said Mrs Merdle
    in return, smiling her best smile; 'let us hope so. But I confess I am
    almost superstitious in my ideas about business.'

    Mr Dorrit threw in another compliment here, to the effect that business,
    like the time which was precious in it, was made for slaves; and that it
    was not for Mrs Merdle, who ruled all hearts at her supreme pleasure,
    to have anything to do with it. Mrs Merdle laughed, and conveyed to
    Mr Dorrit an idea that the Bosom flushed--which was one of her best
    effects.

    'I say so much,' she then explained, 'merely because Mr Merdle has
    always taken the greatest interest in Edmund, and has always expressed
    the strongest desire to advance his prospects. Edmund's public position,
    I think you know. His private position rests solely with Mr Merdle. In
    my foolish incapacity for business, I assure you I know no more.'

    Mr Dorrit again expressed, in his own way, the sentiment that business
    was below the ken of enslavers and enchantresses. He then mentioned his
    intention, as a gentleman and a parent, of writing to Mr Merdle. Mrs
    Merdle concurred with all her heart--or with all her art, which was
    exactly the same thing--and herself despatched a preparatory letter by
    the next post to the eighth wonder of the world.

    In his epistolary communication, as in his dialogues and discourses on
    the great question to which it related, Mr Dorrit surrounded the
    subject with flourishes, as writing-masters embellish copy-books and
    ciphering-books: where the titles of the elementary rules of
    arithmetic diverge into swans, eagles, griffins, and other calligraphic
    recreations, and where the capital letters go out of their minds and
    bodies into ecstasies of pen and ink. Nevertheless, he did render the
    purport of his letter sufficiently clear, to enable Mr Merdle to make a
    decent pretence of having learnt it from that source. Mr Merdle replied
    to it accordingly. Mr Dorrit replied to Mr Merdle; Mr Merdle replied to
    Mr Dorrit; and it was soon announced that the corresponding powers had
    come to a satisfactory understanding.

    Now, and not before, Miss Fanny burst upon the scene, completely arrayed
    for her new part. Now and not before, she wholly absorbed Mr Sparkler in
    her light, and shone for both, and twenty more. No longer feeling that
    want of a defined place and character which had caused her so much
    trouble, this fair ship began to steer steadily on a shaped course, and
    to swim with a weight and balance that developed her sailing qualities.

    'The preliminaries being so satisfactorily arranged, I think I will now,
    my dear,' said Mr Dorrit, 'announce--ha--formally, to Mrs General--'

    'Papa,' returned Fanny, taking him up short upon that name, 'I don't see
    what Mrs General has got to do with it.'

    'My dear,' said Mr Dorrit, 'it will be an act of courtesy to--hum--a
    lady, well bred and refined--'

    'Oh! I am sick of Mrs General's good breeding and refinement, papa,'
    said Fanny. 'I am tired of Mrs General.'

    'Tired,' repeated Mr Dorrit in reproachful astonishment, 'of--ha--Mrs
    General.'

    'Quite disgusted with her, papa,' said Fanny. 'I really don't see what
    she has to do with my marriage. Let her keep to her own matrimonial
    projects--if she has any.'

    'Fanny,' returned Mr Dorrit, with a grave and weighty slowness upon him,
    contrasting strongly with his daughter's levity: 'I beg the favour of
    your explaining--ha--what it is you mean.'

    'I mean, papa,' said Fanny, 'that if Mrs General should happen to have
    any matrimonial projects of her own, I dare say they are quite enough to
    occupy her spare time. And that if she has not, so much the better; but
    still I don't wish to have the honour of making announcements to her.'

    'Permit me to ask you, Fanny,' said Mr Dorrit, 'why not?'

    'Because she can find my engagement out for herself, papa,' retorted
    Fanny. 'She is watchful enough, I dare say. I think I have seen her
    so. Let her find it out for herself. If she should not find it out for
    herself, she will know it when I am married. And I hope you will not
    consider me wanting in affection for you, papa, if I say it strikes me
    that will be quite enough for Mrs General.'

    'Fanny,' returned Mr Dorrit, 'I am amazed, I am displeased by
    this--hum--this capricious and unintelligible display of animosity
    towards--ha--Mrs General.'

    'Do not, if you please, papa,' urged Fanny, 'call it animosity, because
    I assure you I do not consider Mrs General worth my animosity.'

    At this, Mr Dorrit rose from his chair with a fixed look of severe
    reproof, and remained standing in his dignity before his daughter. His
    daughter, turning the bracelet on her arm, and now looking at him, and
    now looking from him, said, 'Very well, papa. I am truly sorry if you
    don't like it; but I can't help it. I am not a child, and I am not Amy,
    and I must speak.'

    'Fanny,' gasped Mr Dorrit, after a majestic silence, 'if I request
    you to remain here, while I formally announce to Mrs General, as
    an exemplary lady, who is--hum--a trusted member of this family,
    the--ha--the change that is contemplated among us; if I--ha--not only
    request it, but--hum--insist upon it--'

    'Oh, papa,' Fanny broke in with pointed significance, 'if you make so
    much of it as that, I have in duty nothing to do but comply. I hope I
    may have my thoughts upon the subject, however, for I really cannot help
    it under the circumstances.' So, Fanny sat down with a meekness which,
    in the junction of extremes, became defiance; and her father, either not
    deigning to answer, or not knowing what to answer, summoned Mr Tinkler
    into his presence.

    'Mrs General.'

    Mr Tinkler, unused to receive such short orders in connection with the
    fair varnisher, paused. Mr Dorrit, seeing the whole Marshalsea and all
    its testimonials in the pause, instantly flew at him with, 'How dare
    you, sir? What do you mean?'

    'I beg your pardon, sir,' pleaded Mr Tinkler, 'I was wishful to know--'

    'You wished to know nothing, sir,' cried Mr Dorrit, highly flushed.
    'Don't tell me you did. Ha. You didn't. You are guilty of mockery, sir.'

    'I assure you, sir--' Mr Tinkler began.

    'Don't assure me!' said Mr Dorrit. 'I will not be assured by a
    domestic. You are guilty of mockery. You shall leave me--hum--the whole
    establishment shall leave me. What are you waiting for?'

    'Only for my orders, sir.'

    'It's false,' said Mr Dorrit, 'you have your orders. Ha--hum. My
    compliments to Mrs General, and I beg the favour of her coming to me, if
    quite convenient, for a few minutes. Those are your orders.'

    In his execution of this mission, Mr Tinkler perhaps expressed that Mr
    Dorrit was in a raging fume. However that was, Mrs General's skirts were
    very speedily heard outside, coming along--one might almost have said
    bouncing along--with unusual expedition. Albeit, they settled down at
    the door and swept into the room with their customary coolness.

    'Mrs General,' said Mr Dorrit, 'take a chair.'

    Mrs General, with a graceful curve of acknowledgment, descended into the
    chair which Mr Dorrit offered.

    'Madam,' pursued that gentleman, 'as you have had the kindness to
    undertake the--hum--formation of my daughters, and as I am persuaded
    that nothing nearly affecting them can--ha--be indifferent to you--'

    'Wholly impossible,' said Mrs General in the calmest of ways.

    '--I therefore wish to announce to you, madam, that my daughter now
    present--'

    Mrs General made a slight inclination of her head to Fanny, who made
    a very low inclination of her head to Mrs General, and came loftily
    upright again.

    '--That my daughter Fanny is--ha--contracted to be married to Mr
    Sparkler, with whom you are acquainted. Hence, madam, you will be
    relieved of half your difficult charge--ha--difficult charge.' Mr
    Dorrit repeated it with his angry eye on Fanny. 'But not, I hope, to
    the--hum--diminution of any other portion, direct or indirect, of the
    footing you have at present the kindness to occupy in my family.'

    'Mr Dorrit,' returned Mrs General, with her gloved hands resting on
    one another in exemplary repose, 'is ever considerate, and ever but too
    appreciative of my friendly services.'

    (Miss Fanny coughed, as much as to say, 'You are right.')

    'Miss Dorrit has no doubt exercised the soundest discretion of which
    the circumstances admitted, and I trust will allow me to offer her my
    sincere congratulations. When free from the trammels of passion,' Mrs
    General closed her eyes at the word, as if she could not utter it, and
    see anybody; 'when occurring with the approbation of near relatives;
    and when cementing the proud structure of a family edifice; these are
    usually auspicious events. I trust Miss Dorrit will allow me to offer
    her my best congratulations.'

    Here Mrs General stopped, and added internally, for the setting of her
    face, 'Papa, potatoes, poultry, Prunes, and prism.'

    'Mr Dorrit,' she superadded aloud, 'is ever most obliging; and for
    the attention, and I will add distinction, of having this confidence
    imparted to me by himself and Miss Dorrit at this early time, I beg to
    offer the tribute of my thanks. My thanks, and my congratulations, are
    equally the meed of Mr Dorrit and of Miss Dorrit.'

    'To me,' observed Miss Fanny, 'they are excessively
    gratifying--inexpressibly so. The relief of finding that you have no
    objection to make, Mrs General, quite takes a load off my mind, I am
    sure. I hardly know what I should have done,' said Fanny, 'if you had
    interposed any objection, Mrs General.'

    Mrs General changed her gloves, as to the right glove being uppermost
    and the left undermost, with a Prunes and Prism smile.

    'To preserve your approbation, Mrs General,' said Fanny, returning the
    smile with one in which there was no trace of those ingredients, 'will
    of course be the highest object of my married life; to lose it, would of
    course be perfect wretchedness. I am sure your great kindness will
    not object, and I hope papa will not object, to my correcting a
    small mistake you have made, however. The best of us are so liable to
    mistakes, that even you, Mrs General, have fallen into a little error.
    The attention and distinction you have so impressively mentioned, Mrs
    General, as attaching to this confidence, are, I have no doubt, of the
    most complimentary and gratifying description; but they don't at all
    proceed from me. The merit of having consulted you on the subject would
    have been so great in me, that I feel I must not lay claim to it when it
    really is not mine. It is wholly papa's. I am deeply obliged to you for
    your encouragement and patronage, but it was papa who asked for it.
    I have to thank you, Mrs General, for relieving my breast of a great
    weight by so handsomely giving your consent to my engagement, but you
    have really nothing to thank me for. I hope you will always approve of
    my proceedings after I have left home and that my sister also may long
    remain the favoured object of your condescension, Mrs General.'

    With this address, which was delivered in her politest manner, Fanny
    left the room with an elegant and cheerful air--to tear up-stairs with
    a flushed face as soon as she was out of hearing, pounce in upon her
    sister, call her a little Dormouse, shake her for the better opening of
    her eyes, tell her what had passed below, and ask her what she thought
    of Pa now?

    Towards Mrs Merdle, the young lady comported herself with great
    independence and self-possession; but not as yet with any more decided
    opening of hostilities. Occasionally they had a slight skirmish, as when
    Fanny considered herself patted on the back by that lady, or as when Mrs
    Merdle looked particularly young and well; but Mrs Merdle always soon
    terminated those passages of arms by sinking among her cushions with the
    gracefullest indifference, and finding her attention otherwise engaged.
Society (for that mysterious creature sat upon the Seven Hills too)
    found Miss Fanny vastly improved by her engagement. She was much more
    accessible, much more free and engaging, much less exacting; insomuch
    that she now entertained a host of followers and admirers, to the bitter
    indignation of ladies with daughters to marry, who were to be regarded
    as Having revolted from Society on the Miss Dorrit grievance, and
    erected a rebellious standard. Enjoying the flutter she caused. Miss
    Dorrit not only haughtily moved through it in her own proper person, but
    haughtily, even Ostentatiously, led Mr Sparkler through it too: seeming
    to say to them all, 'If I think proper to march among you in triumphal
    procession attended by this weak captive in bonds, rather than a
    stronger one, that is my business. Enough that I choose to do it!' Mr
    Sparkler for his part, questioned nothing; but went wherever he was
    taken, did whatever he was told, felt that for his bride-elect to be
    distinguished was for him to be distinguished on the easiest terms, and
    was truly grateful for being so openly acknowledged.

    The winter passing on towards the spring while this condition of affairs
    prevailed, it became necessary for Mr Sparkler to repair to England, and
    take his appointed part in the expression and direction of its genius,
    learning, commerce, spirit, and sense. The land of Shakespeare, Milton,
    Bacon, Newton, Watt, the land of a host of past and present abstract
    philosophers, natural philosophers, and subduers of Nature and Art in
    their myriad forms, called to Mr Sparkler to come and take care of it,
    lest it should perish. Mr Sparkler, unable to resist the agonised cry
    from the depths of his country's soul, declared that he must go.

    It followed that the question was rendered pressing when, where, and
    how Mr Sparkler should be married to the foremost girl in all this world
    with no nonsense about her. Its solution, after some little mystery and
    secrecy, Miss Fanny herself announced to her sister.

    'Now, my child,' said she, seeking her out one day, 'I am going to tell
    you something. It is only this moment broached; and naturally I hurry to
    you the moment it _is_ broached.'

    'Your marriage, Fanny?'

    'My precious child,' said Fanny, 'don't anticipate me. Let me impart my
    confidence to you, you flurried little thing, in my own way. As to your
    guess, if I answered it literally, I should answer no. For really it is
    not my marriage that is in question, half as much as it is Edmund's.'

    Little Dorrit looked, and perhaps not altogether without cause, somewhat
    at a loss to understand this fine distinction.

    'I am in no difficulty,' exclaimed Fanny, 'and in no hurry. I am not
    wanted at any public office, or to give any vote anywhere else.
    But Edmund is. And Edmund is deeply dejected at the idea of going away
    by himself, and, indeed, I don't like that he should be trusted by
    himself. For, if it's possible--and it generally is--to do a foolish
    thing, he is sure to do it.'

    As she concluded this impartial summary of the reliance that might be
    safely placed upon her future husband, she took off, with an air of
    business, the bonnet she wore, and dangled it by its strings upon the
    ground.

    'It is far more Edmund's question, therefore, than mine. However, we
    need say no more about that. That is self-evident on the face of it.
    Well, my dearest Amy! The point arising, is he to go by himself, or is
    he not to go by himself, this other point arises, are we to be married
    here and shortly, or are we to be married at home months hence?'

    'I see I am going to lose you, Fanny.'

    'What a little thing you are,' cried Fanny, half tolerant and half
    impatient, 'for anticipating one! Pray, my darling, hear me out. That
    woman,' she spoke of Mrs Merdle, of course, 'remains here until after
    Easter; so, in the case of my being married here and going to London
    with Edmund, I should have the start of her. That is something. Further,
    Amy. That woman being out of the way, I don't know that I greatly object
    to Mr Merdle's proposal to Pa that Edmund and I should take up our abode
    in that house--_you_ know--where you once went with a dancer, my dear,
    until our own house can be chosen and fitted up. Further still, Amy.
    Papa having always intended to go to town himself, in the spring,--you
    see, if Edmund and I were married here, we might go off to Florence,
    where papa might join us, and we might all three travel home together.
    Mr Merdle has entreated Pa to stay with him in that same mansion I have
    mentioned, and I suppose he will. But he is master of his own actions;
    and upon that point (which is not at all material) I can't speak
    positively.'

    The difference between papa's being master of his own actions and Mr
    Sparkler's being nothing of the sort, was forcibly expressed by Fanny in
    her manner of stating the case. Not that her sister noticed it; for she
    was divided between regret at the coming separation, and a lingering
    wish that she had been included in the plans for visiting England.

    'And these are the arrangements, Fanny dear?'

    'Arrangements!' repeated Fanny. 'Now, really, child, you are a little
    trying. You know I particularly guarded myself against laying my words
    open to any such construction. What I said was, that certain questions
    present themselves; and these are the questions.'

    Little Dorrit's thoughtful eyes met hers, tenderly and quietly.

    'Now, my own sweet girl,' said Fanny, weighing her bonnet by the strings
    with considerable impatience, 'it's no use staring. A little owl could
    stare. I look to you for advice, Amy. What do you advise me to do?'

    'Do you think,' asked Little Dorrit, persuasively, after a short
    hesitation, 'do you think, Fanny, that if you were to put it off for a
    few months, it might be, considering all things, best?'

    'No, little Tortoise,' retorted Fanny, with exceeding sharpness. 'I
    don't think anything of the kind.'

    Here, she threw her bonnet from her altogether, and flounced into a
    chair. But, becoming affectionate almost immediately, she flounced out
    of it again, and kneeled down on the floor to take her sister, chair and
    all, in her arms.

    'Don't suppose I am hasty or unkind, darling, because I really am not.
    But you are such a little oddity! You make one bite your head off,
    when one wants to be soothing beyond everything. Didn't I tell you, you
    dearest baby, that Edmund can't be trusted by himself? And don't you
    know that he can't?'

    'Yes, yes, Fanny. You said so, I know.'

    'And you know it, I know,' retorted Fanny. 'Well, my precious child! If
    he is not to be trusted by himself, it follows, I suppose, that I should
    go with him?'

    'It--seems so, love,' said Little Dorrit.

    'Therefore, having heard the arrangements that are feasible to carry
    out that object, am I to understand, dearest Amy, that on the whole you
    advise me to make them?'

    'It--seems so, love,' said Little Dorrit again.

    'Very well,' cried Fanny with an air of resignation, 'then I suppose it
    must be done! I came to you, my sweet, the moment I saw the doubt, and
    the necessity of deciding. I have now decided. So let it be.'

    After yielding herself up, in this pattern manner, to sisterly advice
    and the force of circumstances, Fanny became quite benignant: as one
    who had laid her own inclinations at the feet of her dearest friend, and
    felt a glow of conscience in having made the sacrifice. 'After all, my
    Amy,' she said to her sister, 'you are the best of small creatures, and
    full of good sense; and I don't know what I shall ever do without you!'

    With which words she folded her in a closer embrace, and a really fond
    one.

    'Not that I contemplate doing without You, Amy, by any means, for I hope
    we shall ever be next to inseparable. And now, my pet, I am going
    to give you a word of advice. When you are left alone here with Mrs
    General--'

    'I am to be left alone here with Mrs General?' said Little Dorrit,
    quietly.

    'Why, of course, my precious, till papa comes back! Unless you call
    Edward company, which he certainly is not, even when he is here, and
    still more certainly is not when he is away at Naples or in Sicily. I
    was going to say--but you are such a beloved little Marplot for putting
    one out--when you are left alone here with Mrs General, Amy, don't you
    let her slide into any sort of artful understanding with you that she is
    looking after Pa, or that Pa is looking after her. She will if she can.
    I know her sly manner of feeling her way with those gloves of hers. But
    don't you comprehend her on any account. And if Pa should tell you when
    he comes back, that he has it in contemplation to make Mrs General your
    mama (which is not the less likely because I am going away), my advice
    to you is, that you say at once, "Papa, I beg to object most strongly.
    Fanny cautioned me about this, and she objected, and I object." I don't
    mean to say that any objection from you, Amy, is likely to be of the
    smallest effect, or that I think you likely to make it with any degree
    of firmness. But there is a principle involved--a filial principle--and
    I implore you not to submit to be mother-in-lawed by Mrs General,
    without asserting it in making every one about you as uncomfortable as
    possible. I don't expect you to stand by it--indeed, I know you won't,
    Pa being concerned--but I wish to rouse you to a sense of duty. As to
    any help from me, or as to any opposition that I can offer to such a
    match, you shall not be left in the lurch, my love. Whatever weight
    I may derive from my position as a married girl not wholly devoid of
    attractions--used, as that position always shall be, to oppose that
    woman--I will bring to bear, you May depend upon it, on the head and
    false hair (for I am confident it's not all real, ugly as it is and
            unlikely as it appears that any One in their Senses would go to the
            expense of buying it) of Mrs General!'

    Little Dorrit received this counsel without venturing to oppose it but
    without giving Fanny any reason to believe that she intended to act upon
    it. Having now, as it were, formally wound up her single life and
    arranged her worldly affairs, Fanny proceeded with characteristic ardour
    to prepare for the serious change in her condition.

    The preparation consisted in the despatch of her maid to Paris under the
    protection of the Courier, for the purchase of that outfit for a bride
    on which it would be extremely low, in the present narrative, to bestow
    an English name, but to which (on a vulgar principle it observes
            of adhering to the language in which it professes to be written) it
    declines to give a French one. The rich and beautiful wardrobe purchased
    by these agents, in the course of a few weeks made its way through the
    intervening country, bristling with custom-houses, garrisoned by an
    immense army of shabby mendicants in uniform who incessantly repeated
    the Beggar's Petition over it, as if every individual warrior among them
    were the ancient Belisarius: and of whom there were so many Legions,
    that unless the Courier had expended just one bushel and a half of
    silver money relieving their distresses, they would have worn the
    wardrobe out before it got to Rome, by turning it over and over. Through
    all such dangers, however, it was triumphantly brought, inch by inch,
    and arrived at its journey's end in fine condition.

    There it was exhibited to select companies of female viewers, in whose
    gentle bosoms it awakened implacable feelings. Concurrently, active
    preparations were made for the day on which some of its treasures were
    to be publicly displayed. Cards of breakfast-invitation were sent out
    to half the English in the city of Romulus; the other half made
    arrangements to be under arms, as criticising volunteers, at various
    outer points of the solemnity. The most high and illustrious English
    Signor Edgardo Dorrit, came post through the deep mud and ruts (from
            forming a surface under the improving Neapolitan nobility), to grace
    the occasion. The best hotel and all its culinary myrmidons, were set to
    work to prepare the feast. The drafts of Mr Dorrit almost constituted a
    run on the Torlonia Bank. The British Consul hadn't had such a marriage
    in the whole of his Consularity.

    The day came, and the She-Wolf in the Capitol might have snarled with
    envy to see how the Island Savages contrived these things now-a-days.
    The murderous-headed statues of the wicked Emperors of the Soldiery,
    whom sculptors had not been able to flatter out of their villainous
    hideousness, might have come off their pedestals to run away with the
    Bride. The choked old fountain, where erst the gladiators washed, might
    have leaped into life again to honour the ceremony. The Temple of
    Vesta might have sprung up anew from its ruins, expressly to lend its
    countenance to the occasion. Might have done; but did not. Like sentient
    things--even like the lords and ladies of creation sometimes--might
    have done much, but did nothing. The celebration went off with admirable
    pomp; monks in black robes, white robes, and russet robes stopped to
    look after the carriages; wandering peasants in fleeces of sheep, begged
    and piped under the house-windows; the English volunteers defiled; the
    day wore on to the hour of vespers; the festival wore away; the thousand
    churches rang their bells without any reference to it; and St Peter
    denied that he had anything to do with it.

    But by that time the Bride was near the end of the first day's journey
    towards Florence. It was the peculiarity of the nuptials that they
    were all Bride. Nobody noticed the Bridegroom. Nobody noticed the first
    Bridesmaid. Few could have seen Little Dorrit (who held that post) for
    the glare, even supposing many to have sought her. So, the Bride had
    mounted into her handsome chariot, incidentally accompanied by the
    Bridegroom; and after rolling for a few minutes smoothly over a fair
    pavement, had begun to jolt through a Slough of Despond, and through a
    long, long avenue of wrack and ruin. Other nuptial carriages are said to
    have gone the same road, before and since.

    If Little Dorrit found herself left a little lonely and a little low
    that night, nothing would have done so much against her feeling of
    depression as the being able to sit at work by her father, as in the old
    time, and help him to his supper and his rest. But that was not to be
    thought of now, when they sat in the state-equipage with Mrs General on
    the coach-box. And as to supper! If Mr Dorrit had wanted supper, there
    was an Italian cook and there was a Swiss confectioner, who must
    have put on caps as high as the Pope's Mitre, and have performed the
    mysteries of Alchemists in a copper-saucepaned laboratory below, before
    he could have got it.

    He was sententious and didactic that night. If he had been simply
    loving, he would have done Little Dorrit more good; but she accepted him
    as he was--when had she not accepted him as he was!--and made the most
    and best of him. Mrs General at length retired. Her retirement for the
    night was always her frostiest ceremony, as if she felt it necessary
    that the human imagination should be chilled into stone to prevent
    its following her. When she had gone through her rigid preliminaries,
    amounting to a sort of genteel platoon-exercise, she withdrew. Little
    Dorrit then put her arm round her father's neck, to bid him good night.

    'Amy, my dear,' said Mr Dorrit, taking her by the hand, 'this is the
    close of a day, that has--ha--greatly impressed and gratified me.'

    'A little tired you, dear, too?'

    'No,' said Mr Dorrit, 'no: I am not sensible of fatigue when it arises
    from an occasion so--hum--replete with gratification of the purest
    kind.'

    Little Dorrit was glad to find him in such heart, and smiled from her
    own heart.

    'My dear,' he continued, 'this is an occasion--ha--teeming with a good
    example. With a good example, my favourite and attached child--hum--to
    you.'

    Little Dorrit, fluttered by his words, did not know what to say, though
    he stopped as if he expected her to say something.

    'Amy,' he resumed; 'your dear sister, our Fanny, has contracted
    ha hum--a marriage, eminently calculated to extend the basis of
    our--ha--connection, and to--hum--consolidate our social relations. My
    love, I trust that the time is not far distant when some--ha--eligible
    partner may be found for you.'

    'Oh no! Let me stay with you. I beg and pray that I may stay with you! I
    want nothing but to stay and take care of you!'

    She said it like one in sudden alarm.

    'Nay, Amy, Amy,' said Mr Dorrit. 'This is weak and foolish, weak
    and foolish. You have a--ha--responsibility imposed upon you by your
    position. It is to develop that position, and be--hum--worthy of that
    position. As to taking care of me; I can--ha--take care of myself.
    Or,' he added after a moment, 'if I should need to be taken care of,
    I--hum--can, with the--ha--blessing of Providence, be taken care of,
    I--ha hum--I cannot, my dear child, think of engrossing, and--ha--as it
    were, sacrificing you.'

    O what a time of day at which to begin that profession of self-denial;
    at which to make it, with an air of taking credit for it; at which to
    believe it, if such a thing could be!

    'Don't speak, Amy. I positively say I cannot do it. I--ha--must not do
    it. My--hum--conscience would not allow it. I therefore, my love, take
    the opportunity afforded by this gratifying and impressive occasion
    of--ha--solemnly remarking, that it is now a cherished wish and purpose
    of mine to see you--ha--eligibly (I repeat eligibly) married.'

    'Oh no, dear! Pray!'

    'Amy,' said Mr Dorrit, 'I am well persuaded that if the topic were
    referred to any person of superior social knowledge, of superior
    delicacy and sense--let us say, for instance, to--ha--Mrs General--that
    there would not be two opinions as to the--hum--affectionate character
    and propriety of my sentiments. But, as I know your loving and dutiful
    nature from--hum--from experience, I am quite satisfied that it is
    necessary to say no more. I have--hum--no husband to propose at
    present, my dear: I have not even one in view. I merely wish that we
    should--ha--understand each other. Hum. Good night, my dear and sole
    remaining daughter. Good night. God bless you!'

    If the thought ever entered Little Dorrit's head that night, that he
    could give her up lightly now in his prosperity, and when he had it in
    his mind to replace her with a second wife, she drove it away. Faithful
    to him still, as in the worst times through which she had borne him
    single-handed, she drove the thought away; and entertained no harder
    reflection, in her tearful unrest, than that he now saw everything
    through their wealth, and through the care he always had upon him that
    they should continue rich, and grow richer.

    They sat in their equipage of state, with Mrs General on the box, for
    three weeks longer, and then he started for Florence to join Fanny.
    Little Dorrit would have been glad to bear him company so far, only for
    the sake of her own love, and then to have turned back alone, thinking
    of dear England. But, though the Courier had gone on with the Bride, the
    Valet was next in the line; and the succession would not have come to
    her, as long as any one could be got for money.

    Mrs General took life easily--as easily, that is, as she could
    take anything--when the Roman establishment remained in their sole
    occupation; and Little Dorrit would often ride out in a hired carriage
    that was left them, and alight alone and wander among the ruins of old
    Rome. The ruins of the vast old Amphitheatre, of the old Temples, of the
    old commemorative Arches, of the old trodden highways, of the old
    tombs, besides being what they were, to her were ruins of the old
    Marshalsea--ruins of her own old life--ruins of the faces and forms
    that of old peopled it--ruins of its loves, hopes, cares, and joys. Two
    ruined spheres of action and suffering were before the solitary girl
    often sitting on some broken fragment; and in the lonely places, under
    the blue sky, she saw them both together.

    Up, then, would come Mrs General; taking all the colour out of
    everything, as Nature and Art had taken it out of herself; writing
    Prunes and Prism, in Mr Eustace's text, wherever she could lay a hand;
    looking everywhere for Mr Eustace and company, and seeing nothing else;
    scratching up the driest little bones of antiquity, and bolting them
    whole without any human visitings--like a Ghoule in gloves.

 Dorrit accepts the engagement with his usual pompousness. Mostly for him it's a way to secure the family further in society, so it's all to the good. Mrs. Merdle also likes the match. Dorrit and Merdle write a few letters back and forth to settle money questions, and then it's off to the races. Or, you know, to the wedding. Dorrit then wants to announce the engagement to Mrs. General. Fanny has no desire to give her any such preferential treatment, but Dorrit commands it. There is a totally hilarious exchange where Mrs. General says that she highly approves, and Fanny is all, "oh, well, thank goodness, how could I possibly go through life without your approval?" for two paragraphs. Awesome. Fanny's a firecracker. After telling her off, Fanny runs to Amy to complain about Dorrit and his special treatment of Mrs. General. Now Fanny is the queen bee and the belle of the ball in society, and everyone treats her with even more respect and grudging admiration. Finally the vacation season is over and Sparkler has to go back to England to start his job. Fanny has another confab with Amy where she tells her that she needs to marry Sparkler immediately and go to England with him because he's too much of an imbecile to be trusted alone. Fanny also asks Amy to vigorously protest if Dorrit decides to propose to Mrs. General. Amy doesn't make any such promise and is just mostly sad that she won't get to go to England too. So - wedding planning and preparations. And then the big day. It's as fancy and elite as anyone could want. It goes off without a hitch, and it's totally bride-centric. Afterwards, as Fanny and Sparkler drive off in their carriage, the narrator says that "after rolling for a few minutes smoothly over a fair pavement, had begun to jolt through a Slough of Despond, and through a long, long avenue of wrack and ruin" . Oh, snap! That's telling them. That night Dorrit tells Amy that he's super happy about Fanny. Oh, and that all of this should be a lesson to Amy, who also will hopefully be married off soon. Amy flips out in fear and sadness and says she just wants to stay with Dorrit. But he is all faux-generosity and replies that he couldn't possibly ask for such a sacrifice from her. Oh, right, dude, and what do you call her whole life so far? Amy tries not to think about the idea that he's trying to get her out of the way so he can marry Mrs. General.

