Chapter: When it became known to the Britons on the shore of the yellow Tiber
that their intelligent compatriot, Mr Sparkler, was made one of the
Lords of their Circumlocution Office, they took it as a piece of news
with which they had no nearer concern than with any other piece of
news--any other Accident or Offence--in the English papers. Some
laughed; some said, by way of complete excuse, that the post was
virtually a sinecure, and any fool who could spell his name was good
enough for it; some, and these the more solemn political oracles,
       said that Decimus did wisely to strengthen himself, and that the sole
       constitutional purpose of all places within the gift of Decimus, was,
       that Decimus _should_ strengthen himself. A few bilious Britons there were
       who would not subscribe to this article of faith; but their objection
       was purely theoretical. In a practical point of view, they listlessly
       abandoned the matter, as being the business of some other Britons
       unknown, somewhere, or nowhere. In like manner, at home, great numbers
       of Britons maintained, for as long as four-and-twenty consecutive hours,
       that those invisible and anonymous Britons 'ought to take it up;' and
       that if they quietly acquiesced in it, they deserved it. But of what
       class the remiss Britons were composed, and where the unlucky creatures
       hid themselves, and why they hid themselves, and how it constantly
       happened that they neglected their interests, when so many other Britons
       were quite at a loss to account for their not looking after those
       interests, was not, either upon the shore of the yellow Tiber or the
       shore of the black Thames, made apparent to men.

       Mrs Merdle circulated the news, as she received congratulations on it,
       with a careless grace that displayed it to advantage, as the setting
       displays the jewel. Yes, she said, Edmund had taken the place. Mr Merdle
       wished him to take it, and he had taken it. She hoped Edmund might like
       it, but really she didn't know. It would keep him in town a good
       deal, and he preferred the country. Still, it was not a disagreeable
       position--and it was a position. There was no denying that the thing
       was a compliment to Mr Merdle, and was not a bad thing for Edmund if he
       liked it. It was just as well that he should have something to do, and
       it was just as well that he should have something for doing it. Whether
       it would be more agreeable to Edmund than the army, remained to be seen.

       Thus the Bosom; accomplished in the art of seeming to make things of
       small account, and really enhancing them in the process. While Henry
       Gowan, whom Decimus had thrown away, went through the whole round of
       his acquaintance between the Gate of the People and the town of Albano,
       vowing, almost (but not quite) with tears in his eyes, that Sparkler was
       the sweetest-tempered, simplest-hearted, altogether most lovable jackass
       that ever grazed on the public common; and that only one circumstance
       could have delighted him (Gowan) more, than his (the beloved jackass's)
       getting this post, and that would have been his (Gowan's) getting it
       himself. He said it was the very thing for Sparkler. There was nothing
       to do, and he would do it charmingly; there was a handsome salary to
       draw, and he would draw it charmingly; it was a delightful, appropriate,
       capital appointment; and he almost forgave the donor his slight of
       himself, in his joy that the dear donkey for whom he had so great an
       affection was so admirably stabled. Nor did his benevolence stop here.
       He took pains, on all social occasions, to draw Mr Sparkler out, and
       make him conspicuous before the company; and, although the considerate
       action always resulted in that young gentleman's making a dreary and
       forlorn mental spectacle of himself, the friendly intention was not to
       be doubted.

       Unless, indeed, it chanced to be doubted by the object of Mr Sparkler's
       affections. Miss Fanny was now in the difficult situation of being
       universally known in that light, and of not having dismissed Mr
       Sparkler, however capriciously she used him. Hence, she was sufficiently
       identified with the gentleman to feel compromised by his being more than
       usually ridiculous; and hence, being by no means deficient in quickness,
       she sometimes came to his rescue against Gowan, and did him very good
       service. But, while doing this, she was ashamed of him, undetermined
       whether to get rid of him or more decidedly encourage him, distracted
       with apprehensions that she was every day becoming more and more
       immeshed in her uncertainties, and tortured by misgivings that Mrs
       Merdle triumphed in her distress. With this tumult in her mind, it is no
       subject for surprise that Miss Fanny came home one night in a state
       of agitation from a concert and ball at Mrs Merdle's house, and on her
       sister affectionately trying to soothe her, pushed that sister away from
       the toilette-table at which she sat angrily trying to cry, and declared
       with a heaving bosom that she detested everybody, and she wished she was
       dead.

       'Dear Fanny, what is the matter? Tell me.'

       'Matter, you little Mole,' said Fanny. 'If you were not the blindest of
       the blind, you would have no occasion to ask me. The idea of daring to
       pretend to assert that you have eyes in your head, and yet ask me what's
       the matter!'

       'Is it Mr Sparkler, dear?'

       'Mis-ter Spark-ler!' repeated Fanny, with unbounded scorn, as if he were
       the last subject in the Solar system that could possibly be near her
       mind. 'No, Miss Bat, it is not.'

       Immediately afterwards, she became remorseful for having called her
       sister names; declaring with sobs that she knew she made herself
       hateful, but that everybody drove her to it.

       'I don't think you are well to-night, dear Fanny.'

       'Stuff and nonsense!' replied the young lady, turning angry again; 'I am
       as well as you are. Perhaps I might say better, and yet make no boast of
       it.'

       Poor Little Dorrit, not seeing her way to the offering of any soothing
       words that would escape repudiation, deemed it best to remain quiet. At
       first, Fanny took this ill, too; protesting to her looking-glass, that
       of all the trying sisters a girl could have, she did think the most
       trying sister was a flat sister. That she knew she was at times a
       wretched temper; that she knew she made herself hateful; that when she
       made herself hateful, nothing would do her half the good as being told
       so; but that, being afflicted with a flat sister, she never _was_ told so,
       and the consequence resulted that she was absolutely tempted and
       goaded into making herself disagreeable. Besides (she angrily told
               her looking-glass), she didn't want to be forgiven. It was not a right
       example, that she should be constantly stooping to be forgiven by a
       younger sister. And this was the Art of it--that she was always being
       placed in the position of being forgiven, whether she liked it or not.
       Finally she burst into violent weeping, and, when her sister came and
       sat close at her side to comfort her, said, 'Amy, you're an Angel!'

       'But, I tell you what, my Pet,' said Fanny, when her sister's gentleness
       had calmed her, 'it now comes to this; that things cannot and shall not
       go on as they are at present going on, and that there must be an end of
       this, one way or another.'

       As the announcement was vague, though very peremptory, Little Dorrit
       returned, 'Let us talk about it.'

       'Quite so, my dear,' assented Fanny, as she dried her eyes. 'Let us talk
       about it. I am rational again now, and you shall advise me. _Will_ you
       advise me, my sweet child?'

       Even Amy smiled at this notion, but she said, 'I will, Fanny, as well as
       I can.'

       'Thank you, dearest Amy,' returned Fanny, kissing her. 'You are my
       anchor.'

       Having embraced her Anchor with great affection, Fanny took a bottle of
       sweet toilette water from the table, and called to her maid for a fine
       handkerchief. She then dismissed that attendant for the night, and went
       on to be advised; dabbing her eyes and forehead from time to time to
       cool them.

       'My love,' Fanny began, 'our characters and points of view are
       sufficiently different (kiss me again, my darling), to make it very
       probable that I shall surprise you by what I am going to say. What I am
       going to say, my dear, is, that notwithstanding our property, we labour,
       socially speaking, under disadvantages. You don't quite understand what
       I mean, Amy?'

       'I have no doubt I shall,' said Amy, mildly, 'after a few words more.'

       'Well, my dear, what I mean is, that we are, after all, newcomers into
       fashionable life.'

       'I am sure, Fanny,' Little Dorrit interposed in her zealous admiration,
       'no one need find that out in you.'

       'Well, my dear child, perhaps not,' said Fanny, 'though it's most kind
       and most affectionate in you, you precious girl, to say so.' Here she
       dabbed her sister's forehead, and blew upon it a little. 'But you are,'
       resumed Fanny, 'as is well known, the dearest little thing that ever
       was! To resume, my child. Pa is extremely gentlemanly and extremely well
       informed, but he is, in some trifling respects, a little different from
       other gentlemen of his fortune: partly on account of what he has gone
       through, poor dear: partly, I fancy, on account of its often running in
       his mind that other people are thinking about that, while he is talking
       to them. Uncle, my love, is altogether unpresentable. Though a dear
       creature to whom I am tenderly attached, he is, socially speaking,
       shocking. Edward is frightfully expensive and dissipated. I don't mean
       that there is anything ungenteel in that itself--far from it--but I
       do mean that he doesn't do it well, and that he doesn't, if I may
       so express myself, get the money's-worth in the sort of dissipated
       reputation that attaches to him.'

       'Poor Edward!' sighed Little Dorrit, with the whole family history in
       the sigh.

       'Yes. And poor you and me, too,' returned Fanny, rather sharply.
       'Very true! Then, my dear, we have no mother, and we have a Mrs General.
       And I tell you again, darling, that Mrs General, if I may reverse a
       common proverb and adapt it to her, is a cat in gloves who _will_
       catch mice. That woman, I am quite sure and confident, will be our
       mother-in-law.'

       'I can hardly think, Fanny--' Fanny stopped her.

       'Now, don't argue with me about it, Amy,' said she, 'because I know
       better.' Feeling that she had been sharp again, she dabbed her sister's
       forehead again, and blew upon it again. 'To resume once more, my dear.
       It then becomes a question with me (I am proud and spirited, Amy, as you
               very well know: too much so, I dare say) whether I shall make up my mind
       to take it upon myself to carry the family through.'

       'How?' asked her sister, anxiously.

       'I will not,' said Fanny, without answering the question, 'submit to
       be mother-in-lawed by Mrs General; and I will not submit to be, in any
       respect whatever, either patronised or tormented by Mrs Merdle.'

       Little Dorrit laid her hand upon the hand that held the bottle of sweet
       water, with a still more anxious look. Fanny, quite punishing her own
       forehead with the vehement dabs she now began to give it, fitfully went
       on.

       'That he has somehow or other, and how is of no consequence, attained a
       very good position, no one can deny. That it is a very good connection,
       no one can deny. And as to the question of clever or not clever, I doubt
       very much whether a clever husband would be suitable to me. I cannot
       submit. I should not be able to defer to him enough.'

       'O, my dear Fanny!' expostulated Little Dorrit, upon whom a kind of
       terror had been stealing as she perceived what her sister meant. 'If you
       loved any one, all this feeling would change. If you loved any one, you
       would no more be yourself, but you would quite lose and forget yourself
       in your devotion to him. If you loved him, Fanny--' Fanny had stopped
       the dabbing hand, and was looking at her fixedly.

       'O, indeed!' cried Fanny. 'Really? Bless me, how much some people know
       of some subjects! They say every one has a subject, and I certainly
       seem to have hit upon yours, Amy. There, you little thing, I was only in
       fun,' dabbing her sister's forehead; 'but don't you be a silly puss,
       and don't you think flightily and eloquently about degenerate
       impossibilities. There! Now, I'll go back to myself.'

       'Dear Fanny, let me say first, that I would far rather we worked for
       a scanty living again than I would see you rich and married to Mr
       Sparkler.'

       '_Let_ you say, my dear?' retorted Fanny. 'Why, of course, I will _let_
       you say anything. There is no constraint upon you, I hope. We are
       together to talk it over. And as to marrying Mr Sparkler, I have not the
       slightest intention of doing so to-night, my dear, or to-morrow morning
       either.'

       'But at some time?'

       'At no time, for anything I know at present,' answered Fanny, with
       indifference. Then, suddenly changing her indifference into a burning
       restlessness, she added, 'You talk about the clever men, you little
       thing! It's all very fine and easy to talk about the clever men; but
       where are they? _I_ don't see them anywhere near _me_!'

       'My dear Fanny, so short a time--'

       'Short time or long time,' interrupted Fanny. 'I am impatient of our
       situation. I don't like our situation, and very little would induce
       me to change it. Other girls, differently reared and differently
       circumstanced altogether, might wonder at what I say or may do. Let
       them. They are driven by their lives and characters; I am driven by
       mine.'

       'Fanny, my dear Fanny, you know that you have qualities to make you the
       wife of one very superior to Mr Sparkler.'

       'Amy, my dear Amy,' retorted Fanny, parodying her words, 'I know that I
       wish to have a more defined and distinct position, in which I can assert
       myself with greater effect against that insolent woman.'

       'Would you therefore--forgive my asking, Fanny--therefore marry her
       son?'

       'Why, perhaps,' said Fanny, with a triumphant smile. 'There may be many
       less promising ways of arriving at an end than that, my dear. That piece
       of insolence may think, now, that it would be a great success to get her
       son off upon me, and shelve me. But, perhaps, she little thinks how I
       would retort upon her if I married her son. I would oppose her in
       everything, and compete with her. I would make it the business of my
       life.'

       Fanny set down the bottle when she came to this, and walked about the
       room; always stopping and standing still while she spoke.

       'One thing I could certainly do, my child: I could make her older. And I
       would!'

       This was followed by another walk.

       'I would talk of her as an old woman. I would pretend to know--if I
       didn't, but I should from her son--all about her age. And she should
       hear me say, Amy: affectionately, quite dutifully and affectionately:
       how well she looked, considering her time of life. I could make her seem
       older at once, by being myself so much younger. I may not be as handsome
       as she is; I am not a fair judge of that question, I suppose; but I know
       I am handsome enough to be a thorn in her side. And I would be!'

       'My dear sister, would you condemn yourself to an unhappy life for
       this?'

       'It wouldn't be an unhappy life, Amy. It would be the life I am fitted
       for. Whether by disposition, or whether by circumstances, is no matter;
       I am better fitted for such a life than for almost any other.'

       There was something of a desolate tone in those words; but, with a
       short proud laugh she took another walk, and after passing a great
       looking-glass came to another stop.

       'Figure! Figure, Amy! Well. The woman has a good figure. I will give her
       her due, and not deny it. But is it so far beyond all others that it is
       altogether unapproachable? Upon my word, I am not so sure of it. Give
       some much younger woman the latitude as to dress that she has, being
       married; and we would see about that, my dear!'

       Something in the thought that was agreeable and flattering, brought her
       back to her seat in a gayer temper. She took her sister's hands in hers,
       and clapped all four hands above her head as she looked in her sister's
       face laughing:

       'And the dancer, Amy, that she has quite forgotten--the dancer who bore
       no sort of resemblance to me, and of whom I never remind her, oh dear
       no!--should dance through her life, and dance in her way, to such a tune
       as would disturb her insolent placidity a little. Just a little, my dear
       Amy, just a little!'

       Meeting an earnest and imploring look in Amy's face, she brought the
       four hands down, and laid only one on Amy's lips.

       'Now, don't argue with me, child,' she said in a sterner way, 'because
       it is of no use. I understand these subjects much better than you do. I
       have not nearly made up my mind, but it may be. Now we have talked this
       over comfortably, and may go to bed. You best and dearest little mouse,
       Good night!' With those words Fanny weighed her Anchor, and--having
       taken so much advice--left off being advised for that occasion.

       Thenceforward, Amy observed Mr Sparkler's treatment by his enslaver,
       with new reasons for attaching importance to all that passed between
       them. There were times when Fanny appeared quite unable to endure his
       mental feebleness, and when she became so sharply impatient of it that
       she would all but dismiss him for good. There were other times when she
       got on much better with him; when he amused her, and when her sense of
       superiority seemed to counterbalance that opposite side of the scale. If
       Mr Sparkler had been other than the faithfullest and most submissive of
       swains, he was sufficiently hard pressed to have fled from the scene of
       his trials, and have set at least the whole distance from Rome to London
       between himself and his enchantress. But he had no greater will of his
       own than a boat has when it is towed by a steam-ship; and he followed
       his cruel mistress through rough and smooth, on equally strong
       compulsion.

       Mrs Merdle, during these passages, said little to Fanny, but said
       more about her. She was, as it were, forced to look at her through her
       eye-glass, and in general conversation to allow commendations of her
       beauty to be wrung from her by its irresistible demands. The defiant
       character it assumed when Fanny heard these extollings (as it generally
               happened that she did), was not expressive of concessions to the
       impartial bosom; but the utmost revenge the bosom took was, to say
       audibly, 'A spoilt beauty--but with that face and shape, who could
       wonder?'

       It might have been about a month or six weeks after the night of the
       new advice, when Little Dorrit began to think she detected some new
       understanding between Mr Sparkler and Fanny. Mr Sparkler, as if in
       attendance to some compact, scarcely ever spoke without first looking
       towards Fanny for leave. That young lady was too discreet ever to look
       back again; but, if Mr Sparkler had permission to speak, she remained
       silent; if he had not, she herself spoke. Moreover, it became plain
       whenever Henry Gowan attempted to perform the friendly office of drawing
       him out, that he was not to be drawn. And not only that, but Fanny would
       presently, without any pointed application in the world, chance to say
       something with such a sting in it that Gowan would draw back as if he
       had put his hand into a bee-hive.

       There was yet another circumstance which went a long way to confirm
       Little Dorrit in her fears, though it was not a great circumstance
       in itself. Mr Sparkler's demeanour towards herself changed. It became
       fraternal. Sometimes, when she was in the outer circle of assemblies--at
       their own residence, at Mrs Merdle's, or elsewhere--she would find
       herself stealthily supported round the waist by Mr Sparkler's arm. Mr
       Sparkler never offered the slightest explanation of this attention;
       but merely smiled with an air of blundering, contented, good-natured
       proprietorship, which, in so heavy a gentleman, was ominously
       expressive.

       Little Dorrit was at home one day, thinking about Fanny with a heavy
       heart. They had a room at one end of their drawing-room suite, nearly
       all irregular bay-window, projecting over the street, and commanding
       all the picturesque life and variety of the Corso, both up and down. At
       three or four o'clock in the afternoon, English time, the view from this
       window was very bright and peculiar; and Little Dorrit used to sit
       and muse here, much as she had been used to while away the time in her
       balcony at Venice. Seated thus one day, she was softly touched on the
       shoulder, and Fanny said, 'Well, Amy dear,' and took her seat at her
       side. Their seat was a part of the window; when there was anything in
       the way of a procession going on, they used to have bright draperies
       hung out of the window, and used to kneel or sit on this seat, and look
       out at it, leaning on the brilliant colour. But there was no procession
       that day, and Little Dorrit was rather surprised by Fanny's being at
       home at that hour, as she was generally out on horseback then.

       'Well, Amy,' said Fanny, 'what are you thinking of, little one?'

       'I was thinking of you, Fanny.'

       'No? What a coincidence! I declare here's some one else. You were not
       thinking of this some one else too; were you, Amy?'

       Amy _had_ been thinking of this some one else too; for it was Mr Sparkler.
       She did not say so, however, as she gave him her hand. Mr Sparkler
       came and sat down on the other side of her, and she felt the fraternal
       railing come behind her, and apparently stretch on to include Fanny.

       'Well, my little sister,' said Fanny with a sigh, 'I suppose you know
       what this means?'

       'She's as beautiful as she's doated on,' stammered Mr Sparkler--'and
       there's no nonsense about her--it's arranged--'

       'You needn't explain, Edmund,' said Fanny.

       'No, my love,' said Mr Sparkler.

       'In short, pet,' proceeded Fanny, 'on the whole, we are engaged. We
       must tell papa about it either to-night or to-morrow, according to the
       opportunities. Then it's done, and very little more need be said.'

       'My dear Fanny,' said Mr Sparkler, with deference, 'I should like to say
       a word to Amy.'

       'Well, well! Say it for goodness' sake,' returned the young lady.

       'I am convinced, my dear Amy,' said Mr Sparkler, 'that if ever there
       was a girl, next to your highly endowed and beautiful sister, who had no
       nonsense about her--'

       'We know all about that, Edmund,' interposed Miss Fanny. 'Never mind
       that. Pray go on to something else besides our having no nonsense about
       us.'

       'Yes, my love,' said Mr Sparkler. 'And I assure you, Amy, that nothing
       can be a greater happiness to myself, myself--next to the happiness of
       being so highly honoured with the choice of a glorious girl who hasn't
       an atom of--'

       'Pray, Edmund, pray!' interrupted Fanny, with a slight pat of her pretty
       foot upon the floor.

       'My love, you're quite right,' said Mr Sparkler, 'and I know I have a
       habit of it. What I wished to declare was, that nothing can be a greater
       happiness to myself, myself-next to the happiness of being united to
       pre-eminently the most glorious of girls--than to have the happiness
       of cultivating the affectionate acquaintance of Amy. I may not myself,'
       said Mr Sparkler manfully, 'be up to the mark on some other subjects
       at a short notice, and I am aware that if you were to poll Society the
       general opinion would be that I am not; but on the subject of Amy I AM
       up to the mark!'

       Mr Sparkler kissed her, in witness thereof.

       'A knife and fork and an apartment,' proceeded Mr Sparkler, growing, in
       comparison with his oratorical antecedents, quite diffuse, 'will ever
       be at Amy's disposal. My Governor, I am sure, will always be proud to
       entertain one whom I so much esteem. And regarding my mother,' said Mr
       Sparkler, 'who is a remarkably fine woman, with--'

       'Edmund, Edmund!' cried Miss Fanny, as before.

       'With submission, my soul,' pleaded Mr Sparkler. 'I know I have a habit
       of it, and I thank you very much, my adorable girl, for taking the
       trouble to correct it; but my mother is admitted on all sides to be a
       remarkably fine woman, and she really hasn't any.'

       'That may be, or may not be,' returned Fanny, 'but pray don't mention it
       any more.'

       'I will not, my love,' said Mr Sparkler.

       'Then, in fact, you have nothing more to say, Edmund; have you?'
       inquired Fanny.

       'So far from it, my adorable girl,' answered Mr Sparkler, 'I apologise
       for having said so much.'

       Mr Sparkler perceived, by a kind of inspiration, that the question
       implied had he not better go? He therefore withdrew the fraternal
       railing, and neatly said that he thought he would, with submission, take
       his leave. He did not go without being congratulated by Amy, as well
       as she could discharge that office in the flutter and distress of her
       spirits.

       When he was gone, she said, 'O Fanny, Fanny!' and turned to her sister
       in the bright window, and fell upon her bosom and cried there. Fanny
       laughed at first; but soon laid her face against her sister's and cried
       too--a little. It was the last time Fanny ever showed that there was any
       hidden, suppressed, or conquered feeling in her on the matter. From that
       hour the way she had chosen lay before her, and she trod it with her own
       imperious self-willed step.

 So, lots of congratulations all around for Sparkler getting this awesome job. And by awesome job, we mean a fat paycheck for twiddling his thumbs all day. Mrs. Merdle makes it out to be like Sparkler is doing everyone a favor by working in the city, when he'd much rather be in the country. Gowan is totally furious that he didn't get appointed to anything and makes it his business to praise Sparkler and draw him out at parties so that by talking he will demonstrate his idiocy. It works really well. Fanny is kind of screwed, since everyone knows that Sparkler has the hots for her - and now that he's got this job for life, it seems like it's time to put her ring finger where her mouth is. She decides to have a confab with Amy. Fanny's points are: 1) Life with the Dorrits sucks because, despite all the money, Dorrit and Tip are still pretty vulgar. 2) She doesn't want to have Mrs. General for a stepmom. And mostly 3) if she marries Sparkler she can spend her life getting back at Mrs. Merdle. Amy is totally horrified and says that true love means total submission to the person you love. OK, masochist, not everyone is into that. Fanny is all, um, that's not for me. Then Fanny gets carried away by fantasies of how awesomely she could stick it to Mrs. Merdle. For one thing, she would make her mother-in-law immediately seem old just by being nearby and younger. Amy is sad to hear all of this and kind of argues that maybe marrying someone out of spite isn't the best way to live. But Fanny doesn't really listen to her. Amy then notices that Fanny seems nicer to Sparkler all of a sudden. And Mrs. Merdle keeps having to begrudgingly admit that Fanny is beautiful. Finally Sparkler stops speaking in public without first looking at Fanny for permission. Whenever Gowan tries to draw him out now, Fanny instead makes some insulting comeback and nips that whole thing in the bud. One day, the deal is done - Fanny and Sparkler are engaged. He gives Amy a mangled little speech about how nice it will be to have her for a sister. It's actually very sweet. After he leaves, Amy starts to cry, and Fanny does too a little. But that's the last time she ever cries about her path in life.

