Chapter: The brothers William and Frederick Dorrit, walking up and down the
College-yard--of course on the aristocratic or Pump side, for the Father
made it a point of his state to be chary of going among his children
on the Poor side, except on Sunday mornings, Christmas Days, and other
occasions of ceremony, in the observance whereof he was very punctual,
          and at which times he laid his hand upon the heads of their infants,
          and blessed those young insolvents with a benignity that was highly
          edifying--the brothers, walking up and down the College-yard together,
          were a memorable sight. Frederick the free, was so humbled, bowed,
          withered, and faded; William the bond, was so courtly, condescending,
          and benevolently conscious of a position; that in this regard only, if
          in no other, the brothers were a spectacle to wonder at.

          They walked up and down the yard on the evening of Little Dorrit's
          Sunday interview with her lover on the Iron Bridge. The cares of state
          were over for that day, the Drawing Room had been well attended, several
          new presentations had taken place, the three-and-sixpence accidentally
          left on the table had accidentally increased to twelve shillings, and
          the Father of the Marshalsea refreshed himself with a whiff of cigar. As
          he walked up and down, affably accommodating his step to the shuffle of
          his brother, not proud in his superiority, but considerate of that poor
          creature, bearing with him, and breathing toleration of his infirmities
          in every little puff of smoke that issued from his lips and aspired to
          get over the spiked wall, he was a sight to wonder at.

          His brother Frederick of the dim eye, palsied hand, bent form, and
          groping mind, submissively shuffled at his side, accepting his patronage
          as he accepted every incident of the labyrinthian world in which he had
          got lost. He held the usual screwed bit of whitey-brown paper in his
          hand, from which he ever and again unscrewed a spare pinch of snuff.
          That falteringly taken, he would glance at his brother not unadmiringly,
          put his hands behind him, and shuffle on so at his side until he took
          another pinch, or stood still to look about him--perchance suddenly
          missing his clarionet.

          The College visitors were melting away as the shades of night drew on,
          but the yard was still pretty full, the Collegians being mostly out,
          seeing their friends to the Lodge. As the brothers paced the yard,
          William the bond looked about him to receive salutes, returned them by
          graciously lifting off his hat, and, with an engaging air, prevented
          Frederick the free from running against the company, or being jostled
          against the wall. The Collegians as a body were not easily impressible,
          but even they, according to their various ways of wondering, appeared to
          find in the two brothers a sight to wonder at.

          'You are a little low this evening, Frederick,' said the Father of the
          Marshalsea. 'Anything the matter?'

          'The matter?' He stared for a moment, and then dropped his head and eyes
          again. 'No, William, no. Nothing is the matter.'

          'If you could be persuaded to smarten yourself up a little, Frederick--'

          'Aye, aye!' said the old man hurriedly. 'But I can't be. I can't be.
          Don't talk so. That's all over.'

          The Father of the Marshalsea glanced at a passing Collegian with whom he
          was on friendly terms, as who should say, 'An enfeebled old man, this;
          but he is my brother, sir, my brother, and the voice of Nature is
          potent!' and steered his brother clear of the handle of the pump by the
          threadbare sleeve. Nothing would have been wanting to the perfection of
          his character as a fraternal guide, philosopher and friend, if he had
          only steered his brother clear of ruin, instead of bringing it upon him.

          'I think, William,' said the object of his affectionate consideration,
          'that I am tired, and will go home to bed.'

          'My dear Frederick,' returned the other, 'don't let me detain you; don't
          sacrifice your inclination to me.'

          'Late hours, and a heated atmosphere, and years, I suppose,' said
          Frederick, 'weaken me.'

          'My dear Frederick,' returned the Father of the Marshalsea, 'do you
          think you are sufficiently careful of yourself? Do you think your habits
          are as precise and methodical as--shall I say as mine are? Not to revert
          again to that little eccentricity which I mentioned just now, I doubt if
          you take air and exercise enough, Frederick. Here is the parade, always
          at your service. Why not use it more regularly than you do?'

          'Hah!' sighed the other. 'Yes, yes, yes, yes.'

          'But it is of no use saying yes, yes, my dear Frederick,' the Father
          of the Marshalsea in his mild wisdom persisted, 'unless you act on that
          assent. Consider my case, Frederick. I am a kind of example. Necessity
          and time have taught me what to do. At certain stated hours of the day,
          you will find me on the parade, in my room, in the Lodge, reading the
          paper, receiving company, eating and drinking. I have impressed upon Amy
          during many years, that I must have my meals (for instance) punctually.
          Amy has grown up in a sense of the importance of these arrangements, and
          you know what a good girl she is.'

          The brother only sighed again, as he plodded dreamily along, 'Hah! Yes,
          yes, yes, yes.'

          'My dear fellow,' said the Father of the Marshalsea, laying his hand
          upon his shoulder, and mildly rallying him--mildly, because of his
          weakness, poor dear soul; 'you said that before, and it does not express
          much, Frederick, even if it means much. I wish I could rouse you, my
          good Frederick; you want to be roused.'

          'Yes, William, yes. No doubt,' returned the other, lifting his dim eyes
          to his face. 'But I am not like you.'

          The Father of the Marshalsea said, with a shrug of modest
          self-depreciation, 'Oh! You might be like me, my dear Frederick;
          you might be, if you chose!' and forbore, in the magnanimity of his
          strength, to press his fallen brother further.

          There was a great deal of leave-taking going on in corners, as was usual
          on Sunday nights; and here and there in the dark, some poor woman, wife
          or mother, was weeping with a new Collegian. The time had been when the
          Father himself had wept, in the shades of that yard, as his own
          poor wife had wept. But it was many years ago; and now he was like
          a passenger aboard ship in a long voyage, who has recovered from
          sea-sickness, and is impatient of that weakness in the fresher
          passengers taken aboard at the last port. He was inclined to
          remonstrate, and to express his opinion that people who couldn't get on
          without crying, had no business there. In manner, if not in words, he
          always testified his displeasure at these interruptions of the general
          harmony; and it was so well understood, that delinquents usually
          withdrew if they were aware of him.

          On this Sunday evening, he accompanied his brother to the gate with an
          air of endurance and clemency; being in a bland temper and graciously
          disposed to overlook the tears. In the flaring gaslight of the Lodge,
          several Collegians were basking; some taking leave of visitors, and
          some who had no visitors, watching the frequent turning of the key, and
          conversing with one another and with Mr Chivery. The paternal entrance
          made a sensation of course; and Mr Chivery, touching his hat (in a short
                  manner though) with his key, hoped he found himself tolerable.

          'Thank you, Chivery, quite well. And you?'

          Mr Chivery said in a low growl, 'Oh! _he_ was all right.' Which was his
          general way of acknowledging inquiries after his health when a little
          sullen.

          'I had a visit from Young John to-day, Chivery. And very smart he
          looked, I assure you.'

          So Mr Chivery had heard. Mr Chivery must confess, however, that his wish
          was that the boy didn't lay out so much money upon it. For what did it
          bring him in? It only brought him in wexation. And he could get that
          anywhere for nothing.

          'How vexation, Chivery?' asked the benignant father.

          'No odds,' returned Mr Chivery. 'Never mind. Mr Frederick going out?'

          'Yes, Chivery, my brother is going home to bed. He is tired, and
          not quite well. Take care, Frederick, take care. Good night, my dear
          Frederick!'

          Shaking hands with his brother, and touching his greasy hat to the
          company in the Lodge, Frederick slowly shuffled out of the door which
          Mr Chivery unlocked for him. The Father of the Marshalsea showed the
          amiable solicitude of a superior being that he should come to no harm.

          'Be so kind as to keep the door open a moment, Chivery, that I may see
          him go along the passage and down the steps. Take care, Frederick! (He
                  is very infirm.) Mind the steps! (He is so very absent.) Be careful
          how you cross, Frederick. (I really don't like the notion of his going
                  wandering at large, he is so extremely liable to be run over.)'

          With these words, and with a face expressive of many uneasy doubts and
          much anxious guardianship, he turned his regards upon the assembled
          company in the Lodge: so plainly indicating that his brother was to be
          pitied for not being under lock and key, that an opinion to that effect
          went round among the Collegians assembled.

          But he did not receive it with unqualified assent; on the contrary, he
          said, No, gentlemen, no; let them not misunderstand him. His brother
          Frederick was much broken, no doubt, and it might be more comfortable to
          himself (the Father of the Marshalsea) to know that he was safe within
          the walls. Still, it must be remembered that to support an existence
          there during many years, required a certain combination of qualities--he
          did not say high qualities, but qualities--moral qualities. Now, had his
          brother Frederick that peculiar union of qualities? Gentlemen, he was a
          most excellent man, a most gentle, tender, and estimable man, with the
          simplicity of a child; but would he, though unsuited for most other
          places, do for that place? No; he said confidently, no! And, he said,
          Heaven forbid that Frederick should be there in any other character
          than in his present voluntary character! Gentlemen, whoever came to
          that College, to remain there a length of time, must have strength of
          character to go through a good deal and to come out of a good deal. Was
          his beloved brother Frederick that man? No. They saw him, even as it
          was, crushed. Misfortune crushed him. He had not power of recoil enough,
          not elasticity enough, to be a long time in such a place, and yet
          preserve his self-respect and feel conscious that he was a gentleman.
          Frederick had not (if he might use the expression) Power enough to see
          in any delicate little attentions and--and--Testimonials that he might
          under such circumstances receive, the goodness of human nature, the fine
          spirit animating the Collegians as a community, and at the same time
          no degradation to himself, and no depreciation of his claims as a
          gentleman. Gentlemen, God bless you!

          Such was the homily with which he improved and pointed the occasion to
          the company in the Lodge before turning into the sallow yard again,
          and going with his own poor shabby dignity past the Collegian in the
          dressing-gown who had no coat, and past the Collegian in the sea-side
          slippers who had no shoes, and past the stout greengrocer Collegian in
          the corduroy knee-breeches who had no cares, and past the lean clerk
          Collegian in buttonless black who had no hopes, up his own poor shabby
          staircase to his own poor shabby room.

          There, the table was laid for his supper, and his old grey gown was
          ready for him on his chair-back at the fire. His daughter put her
          little prayer-book in her pocket--had she been praying for pity on all
          prisoners and captives!--and rose to welcome him.

          Uncle had gone home, then? she asked him, as she changed his coat and
          gave him his black velvet cap. Yes, uncle had gone home. Had her father
          enjoyed his walk? Why, not much, Amy; not much. No! Did he not feel
          quite well?

          As she stood behind him, leaning over his chair so lovingly, he looked
          with downcast eyes at the fire. An uneasiness stole over him that was
          like a touch of shame; and when he spoke, as he presently did, it was in
          an unconnected and embarrassed manner.

          'Something, I--hem!--I don't know what, has gone wrong with Chivery.
          He is not--ha!--not nearly so obliging and attentive as usual to-night.
          It--hem!--it's a little thing, but it puts me out, my love. It's
          impossible to forget,' turning his hands over and over and looking
          closely at them, 'that--hem!--that in such a life as mine, I am
          unfortunately dependent on these men for something every hour in the
          day.'

          Her arm was on his shoulder, but she did not look in his face while he
          spoke. Bending her head she looked another way.

          'I--hem!--I can't think, Amy, what has given Chivery offence. He is
          generally so--so very attentive and respectful. And to-night he was
          quite--quite short with me. Other people there too! Why, good Heaven!
          if I was to lose the support and recognition of Chivery and his brother
          officers, I might starve to death here.' While he spoke, he was opening
          and shutting his hands like valves; so conscious all the time of that
          touch of shame, that he shrunk before his own knowledge of his meaning.

          'I--ha!--I can't think what it's owing to. I am sure I cannot imagine
          what the cause of it is. There was a certain Jackson here once, a
          turnkey of the name of Jackson (I don't think you can remember him,
                  my dear, you were very young), and--hem!--and he had a--brother, and
          this--young brother paid his addresses to--at least, did not go so far
          as to pay his addresses to--but admired--respectfully admired--the--not
          daughter, the sister--of one of us; a rather distinguished Collegian; I
          may say, very much so. His name was Captain Martin; and he
          consulted me on the question whether it was necessary that his
          daughter--sister--should hazard offending the turnkey brother by
          being too--ha!--too plain with the other brother. Captain Martin was
          a gentleman and a man of honour, and I put it to him first to give me
          his--his own opinion. Captain Martin (highly respected in the army) then
          unhesitatingly said that it appeared to him that his--hem!--sister was
          not called upon to understand the young man too distinctly, and that
          she might lead him on--I am doubtful whether "lead him on" was Captain
          Martin's exact expression: indeed I think he said tolerate him--on her
          father's--I should say, brother's--account. I hardly know how I have
          strayed into this story. I suppose it has been through being unable to
          account for Chivery; but as to the connection between the two, I don't
          see--'

          His voice died away, as if she could not bear the pain of hearing him,
          and her hand had gradually crept to his lips. For a little while there
          was a dead silence and stillness; and he remained shrunk in his chair,
          and she remained with her arm round his neck and her head bowed down
          upon his shoulder.

          His supper was cooking in a saucepan on the fire, and, when she moved,
          it was to make it ready for him on the table. He took his usual seat,
          she took hers, and he began his meal. They did not, as yet, look at one
          another. By little and little he began; laying down his knife and fork
          with a noise, taking things up sharply, biting at his bread as if he
          were offended with it, and in other similar ways showing that he was out
          of sorts. At length he pushed his plate from him, and spoke aloud; with
          the strangest inconsistency.

          'What does it matter whether I eat or starve? What does it matter
          whether such a blighted life as mine comes to an end, now, next week, or
          next year? What am I worth to anyone? A poor prisoner, fed on alms and
          broken victuals; a squalid, disgraced wretch!'

          'Father, father!' As he rose she went on her knees to him, and held up
          her hands to him.

          'Amy,' he went on in a suppressed voice, trembling violently, and
          looking at her as wildly as if he had gone mad. 'I tell you, if you
          could see me as your mother saw me, you wouldn't believe it to be the
          creature you have only looked at through the bars of this cage. I was
          young, I was accomplished, I was good-looking, I was independent--by God
          I was, child!--and people sought me out, and envied me. Envied me!'

          'Dear father!' She tried to take down the shaking arm that he flourished
          in the air, but he resisted, and put her hand away.

          'If I had but a picture of myself in those days, though it was ever so
          ill done, you would be proud of it, you would be proud of it. But I have
          no such thing. Now, let me be a warning! Let no man,' he cried, looking
          haggardly about, 'fail to preserve at least that little of the times of
          his prosperity and respect. Let his children have that clue to what he
          was. Unless my face, when I am dead, subsides into the long departed
          look--they say such things happen, I don't know--my children will have
          never seen me.'

          'Father, father!'

          'O despise me, despise me! Look away from me, don't listen to me, stop
          me, blush for me, cry for me--even you, Amy! Do it, do it! I do it to
          myself! I am hardened now, I have sunk too low to care long even for
          that.'

          'Dear father, loved father, darling of my heart!' She was clinging to
          him with her arms, and she got him to drop into his chair again, and
          caught at the raised arm, and tried to put it round her neck.

          'Let it lie there, father. Look at me, father, kiss me, father! Only
          think of me, father, for one little moment!'

          Still he went on in the same wild way, though it was gradually breaking
          down into a miserable whining.

          'And yet I have some respect here. I have made some stand against it. I
          am not quite trodden down. Go out and ask who is the chief person in the
          place. They'll tell you it's your father. Go out and ask who is never
          trifled with, and who is always treated with some delicacy. They'll say,
          your father. Go out and ask what funeral here (it must be here, I know
                  it can be nowhere else) will make more talk, and perhaps more grief,
          than any that has ever gone out at the gate. They'll say your father's.
          Well then. Amy! Amy! Is your father so universally despised? Is there
          nothing to redeem him? Will you have nothing to remember him by but his
          ruin and decay? Will you be able to have no affection for him when he is
          gone, poor castaway, gone?'

          He burst into tears of maudlin pity for himself, and at length suffering
          her to embrace him and take charge of him, let his grey head rest
          against her cheek, and bewailed his wretchedness. Presently he changed
          the subject of his lamentations, and clasping his hands about her as she
          embraced him, cried, O Amy, his motherless, forlorn child! O the days
          that he had seen her careful and laborious for him! Then he reverted to
          himself, and weakly told her how much better she would have loved him
          if she had known him in his vanished character, and how he would have
          married her to a gentleman who should have been proud of her as his
          daughter, and how (at which he cried again) she should first have ridden
          at his fatherly side on her own horse, and how the crowd (by which he
                  meant in effect the people who had given him the twelve shillings
                  he then had in his pocket) should have trudged the dusty roads
          respectfully.

          Thus, now boasting, now despairing, in either fit a captive with the
          jail-rot upon him, and the impurity of his prison worn into the grain of
          his soul, he revealed his degenerate state to his affectionate child.
          No one else ever beheld him in the details of his humiliation. Little
          recked the Collegians who were laughing in their rooms over his late
          address in the Lodge, what a serious picture they had in their obscure
          gallery of the Marshalsea that Sunday night.

          There was a classical daughter once--perhaps--who ministered to her
          father in his prison as her mother had ministered to her. Little Dorrit,
          though of the unheroic modern stock and mere English, did much more,
          in comforting her father's wasted heart upon her innocent breast, and
          turning to it a fountain of love and fidelity that never ran dry or
          waned through all his years of famine.

          She soothed him; asked him for his forgiveness if she had been, or
          seemed to have been, undutiful; told him, Heaven knows truly, that she
          could not honour him more if he were the favourite of Fortune and the
          whole world acknowledged him. When his tears were dried, and he sobbed
          in his weakness no longer, and was free from that touch of shame, and
          had recovered his usual bearing, she prepared the remains of his supper
          afresh, and, sitting by his side, rejoiced to see him eat and drink. For
          now he sat in his black velvet cap and old grey gown, magnanimous again;
          and would have comported himself towards any Collegian who might have
          looked in to ask his advice, like a great moral Lord Chesterfield, or
          Master of the ethical ceremonies of the Marshalsea.

          To keep his attention engaged, she talked with him about his wardrobe;
          when he was pleased to say, that Yes, indeed, those shirts she proposed
          would be exceedingly acceptable, for those he had were worn out, and,
          being ready-made, had never fitted him. Being conversational, and in a
          reasonable flow of spirits, he then invited her attention to his coat
          as it hung behind the door: remarking that the Father of the place
          would set an indifferent example to his children, already disposed to be
          slovenly, if he went among them out at elbows. He was jocular, too,
          as to the heeling of his shoes; but became grave on the subject of his
          cravat, and promised her that, when she could afford it, she should buy
          him a new one.

          While he smoked out his cigar in peace, she made his bed, and put the
          small room in order for his repose. Being weary then, owing to the
          advanced hour and his emotions, he came out of his chair to bless her
          and wish her Good night. All this time he had never once thought of _her_
          dress, her shoes, her need of anything. No other person upon earth, save
          herself, could have been so unmindful of her wants.

          He kissed her many times with 'Bless you, my love. Good night, my dear!'

          But her gentle breast had been so deeply wounded by what she had seen of
          him that she was unwilling to leave him alone, lest he should lament
          and despair again. 'Father, dear, I am not tired; let me come back
          presently, when you are in bed, and sit by you.'

          He asked her, with an air of protection, if she felt solitary?

          'Yes, father.'

          'Then come back by all means, my love.'

          'I shall be very quiet, father.'

          'Don't think of me, my dear,' he said, giving her his kind permission
          fully. 'Come back by all means.'

          He seemed to be dozing when she returned, and she put the low fire
          together very softly lest she should awake him. But he overheard her,
          and called out who was that?

          'Only Amy, father.'

          'Amy, my child, come here. I want to say a word to you.'

          He raised himself a little in his low bed, as she kneeled beside it to
          bring her face near him; and put his hand between hers. O! Both the
          private father and the Father of the Marshalsea were strong within him
          then.

          'My love, you have had a life of hardship here. No companions, no
          recreations, many cares I am afraid?'

          'Don't think of that, dear. I never do.'

          'You know my position, Amy. I have not been able to do much for you; but
          all I have been able to do, I have done.'

          'Yes, my dear father,' she rejoined, kissing him. 'I know, I know.'

          'I am in the twenty-third year of my life here,' he said, with a catch
          in his breath that was not so much a sob as an irrepressible sound of
          self-approval, the momentary outburst of a noble consciousness. 'It is
          all I could do for my children--I have done it. Amy, my love, you are
          by far the best loved of the three; I have had you principally in my
          mind--whatever I have done for your sake, my dear child, I have done
          freely and without murmuring.'

          Only the wisdom that holds the clue to all hearts and all mysteries, can
          surely know to what extent a man, especially a man brought down as this
          man had been, can impose upon himself. Enough, for the present place,
          that he lay down with wet eyelashes, serene, in a manner majestic, after
          bestowing his life of degradation as a sort of portion on the devoted
          child upon whom its miseries had fallen so heavily, and whose love alone
          had saved him to be even what he was.

          That child had no doubts, asked herself no question, for she was but too
          content to see him with a lustre round his head. Poor dear, good dear,
          truest, kindest, dearest, were the only words she had for him, as she
          hushed him to rest.

          She never left him all that night. As if she had done him a wrong which
          her tenderness could hardly repair, she sat by him in his sleep, at
          times softly kissing him with suspended breath, and calling him in a
          whisper by some endearing name. At times she stood aside so as not to
          intercept the low fire-light, and, watching him when it fell upon his
          sleeping face, wondered did he look now at all as he had looked when he
          was prosperous and happy; as he had so touched her by imagining that he
          might look once more in that awful time. At the thought of that time,
          she kneeled beside his bed again, and prayed, 'O spare his life! O
          save him to me! O look down upon my dear, long-suffering, unfortunate,
          much-changed, dear dear father!'

          Not until the morning came to protect him and encourage him, did she
          give him a last kiss and leave the small room. When she had stolen
          down-stairs, and along the empty yard, and had crept up to her own
          high garret, the smokeless housetops and the distant country hills were
          discernible over the wall in the clear morning. As she gently opened the
          window, and looked eastward down the prison yard, the spikes upon the
          wall were tipped with red, then made a sullen purple pattern on the sun
          as it came flaming up into the heavens. The spikes had never looked so
          sharp and cruel, nor the bars so heavy, nor the prison space so gloomy
          and contracted. She thought of the sunrise on rolling rivers, of the
          sunrise on wide seas, of the sunrise on rich landscapes, of the
          sunrise on great forests where the birds were waking and the trees were
          rustling; and she looked down into the living grave on which the sun
          had risen, with her father in it three-and-twenty years, and said, in
          a burst of sorrow and compassion, 'No, no, I have never seen him in my
          life!'

 Dorrit and his brother Frederick are walking up and down the prison yard. As usual, Dorrit is acting like he owns the place. Also, like he owns his brother. Patronizingly, he starts telling Frederick to clean himself up. On top of that, Dorrit tries to set himself up as some kind of lifestyle example. He's really got some brass ones, doesn't he? Finally, Dorrit walks Frederick to the prison gate and watches him leave, all the while acting concerned about how he's going to get home. Chivery, the turnkey, makes a snide little remark about how much money his son John is spending on the Dorrit family. Dorrit turns around and makes a little speech about how it's worrisome to have his brother out there, but at the same time, a man like Frederick doesn't have what it takes to survive in prison - unlike Dorrit, who happily accepts "donations" without feeling any less a gentleman. With that, he goes back to his room. Amy is there, as always, and she's made him dinner. And now we get a real kicker of a scene. It's pretty crazy, especially considering the general squeamishness of Victorians about sex. Dorrit starts telling his daughter a story about another turnkey, whose brother was into the sister of another long-time prisoner of the Marshalsea... none of whose names he can remember. The upshot is that it was fine for the sister to lead the dude on so the prisoner would get some extra privileges from the turnkey. Hint, hint. OK, in case you're not getting it, Dorrit is basically pimping out his daughter to John Chivery so he'll keep getting cigars and other little perks. Oh yeah - stay classy, Dorrit. Amy is speechless and puts her hand over her father's mouth in shock. He kind of feels bad for a second and then immediately starts feeling way sorry for himself and crying about how terrible life in prison is and how much it's ruined his life, and blah, blah, blah. Not a word of concern or care about his daughter, though. And she plays right into this game, which is totally up her masochistic alley. She's feeling all bad for daddy and not thinking about herself. Somehow she ends up apologizing to Dorrit. Denial ain't just a river in Egypt, folks.

