Chapter 34

As I had grown accustomed to my expectations, I had insensibly begun to
notice their effect upon myself and those around me. Their influence on my own
character I disguised from my recognition as much as possible, but I knew very
well that it was not all good. I lived in a state of chronic uneasiness
respecting my behavior to Joe. My conscience was not by any means comfortable
about Biddy. When I woke up in the night,—like Camilla,—I used to think, with a
weariness on my spirits, that I should have been happier and better if I had
never seen Miss Havisham’s face, and had risen to manhood content to be partners
with Joe in the honest old forge. Many a time of an evening, when I sat alone
looking at the fire, I thought, after all there was no fire like the forge fire
and the kitchen fire at home.

Yet Estella was so inseparable from all my restlessness and disquiet of mind,
that I really fell into confusion as to the limits of my own part in its
production. That is to say, supposing I had had no expectations, and yet had had
Estella to think of, I could not make out to my satisfaction that I should have
done much better. Now, concerning the influence of my position on others, I was
in no such difficulty, and so I perceived—though dimly enough perhaps—that it
was not beneficial to anybody, and, above all, that it was not beneficial to
Herbert. My lavish habits led his easy nature into expenses that he could not
afford, corrupted the simplicity of his life, and disturbed his peace with
anxieties and regrets. I was not at all remorseful for having unwittingly set
those other branches of the Pocket family to the poor arts they practised;
because such littlenesses were their natural bent, and would have been evoked by
anybody else, if I had left them slumbering. But Herbert’s was a very different
case, and it often caused me a twinge to think that I had done him evil service
in crowding his sparely furnished chambers with incongruous upholstery work, and
placing the Canary-breasted Avenger at his disposal.

So now, as an infallible way of making little ease great ease, I began to
contract a quantity of debt. I could hardly begin but Herbert must begin too, so
he soon followed. At Startop’s suggestion, we put ourselves down for election
into a club called The Finches of the Grove: the object of which institution I
have never divined, if it were not that the members should dine expensively once
a fortnight, to quarrel among themselves as much as possible after dinner, and
to cause six waiters to get drunk on the stairs. I know that these gratifying
social ends were so invariably accomplished, that Herbert and I understood
nothing else to be referred to in the first standing toast of the society: which
ran "Gentlemen, may the present promotion of good feeling ever reign predominant
among the Finches of the Grove."

The Finches spent their money foolishly (the Hotel we dined at was in Covent
Garden), and the first Finch I saw when I had the honor of joining the Grove was
Bentley Drummle, at that time floundering about town in a cab of his own, and
doing a great deal of damage to the posts at the street corners. Occasionally,
he shot himself out of his equipage headforemost over the apron; and I saw him
on one occasion deliver himself at the door of the Grove in this unintentional
way—like coals. But here I anticipate a little, for I was not a Finch, and could
not be, according to the sacred laws of the society, until I came of age.

In my confidence in my own resources, I would willingly have taken Herbert’s
expenses on myself; but Herbert was proud, and I could make no such proposal to
him. So he got into difficulties in every direction, and continued to look about
him. When we gradually fell into keeping late hours and late company, I noticed
that he looked about him with a desponding eye at breakfast-time; that he began
to look about him more hopefully about mid-day; that he drooped when he came
into dinner; that he seemed to descry Capital in the distance, rather clearly,
after dinner; that he all but realized Capital towards midnight; and that at
about two o’clock in the morning, he became so deeply despondent again as to
talk of buying a rifle and going to America, with a general purpose of
compelling buffaloes to make his fortune.

I was usually at Hammersmith about half the week, and when I was at Hammersmith
I haunted Richmond, whereof separately by and by. Herbert would often come to
Hammersmith when I was there, and I think at those seasons his father would
occasionally have some passing perception that the opening he was looking for,
had not appeared yet. But in the general tumbling up of the family, his tumbling
out in life somewhere, was a thing to transact itself somehow. In the meantime
Mr. Pocket grew grayer, and tried oftener to lift himself out of his
perplexities by the hair. While Mrs. Pocket tripped up the family with her
footstool, read her book of dignities, lost her pocket-handkerchief, told us
about her grandpapa, and taught the young idea how to shoot, by shooting it into
bed whenever it attracted her notice.

As I am now generalizing a period of my life with the object of clearing my way
before me, I can scarcely do so better than by at once completing the
description of our usual manners and customs at Barnard’s Inn.

We spent as much money as we could, and got as little for it as people could
make up their minds to give us. We were always more or less miserable, and most
of our acquaintance were in the same condition. There was a gay fiction among us
that we were constantly enjoying ourselves, and a skeleton truth that we never
did. To the best of my belief, our case was in the last aspect a rather common
one.

Every morning, with an air ever new, Herbert went into the City to look about
him. I often paid him a visit in the dark back-room in which he consorted with
an ink-jar, a hat-peg, a coal-box, a string-box, an almanac, a desk and stool,
and a ruler; and I do not remember that I ever saw him do anything else but look
about him. If we all did what we undertake to do, as faithfully as Herbert did,
we might live in a Republic of the Virtues. He had nothing else to do, poor
fellow, except at a certain hour of every afternoon to "go to Lloyd’s"—in
observance of a ceremony of seeing his principal, I think. He never did anything
else in connection with Lloyd’s that I could find out, except come back again.
When he felt his case unusually serious, and that he positively must find an
opening, he would go on ’Change at a busy time, and walk in and out, in a kind
of gloomy country dance figure, among the assembled magnates. "For," says
Herbert to me, coming home to dinner on one of those special occasions, "I find
the truth to be, Handel, that an opening won’t come to one, but one must go to
it,—so I have been."

If we had been less attached to one another, I think we must have hated one
another regularly every morning. I detested the chambers beyond expression at
that period of repentance, and could not endure the sight of the Avenger’s
livery; which had a more expensive and a less remunerative appearance then than
at any other time in the four-and-twenty hours. As we got more and more into
debt, breakfast became a hollower and hollower form, and, being on one occasion
at breakfast-time threatened (by letter) with legal proceedings, "not unwholly
unconnected," as my local paper might put it, "with jewelery," I went so far as
to seize the Avenger by his blue collar and shake him off his feet,—so that he
was actually in the air, like a booted Cupid,—for presuming to suppose that we
wanted a roll.

At certain times—meaning at uncertain times, for they depended on our humor—I
would say to Herbert, as if it were a remarkable discovery,—

"My dear Herbert, we are getting on badly."

"My dear Handel," Herbert would say to me, in all sincerity, "if you will
believe me, those very words were on my lips, by a strange coincidence."

"Then, Herbert," I would respond, "let us look into our affairs."

We always derived profound satisfaction from making an appointment for this
purpose. I always thought this was business, this was the way to confront the
thing, this was the way to take the foe by the throat. And I know Herbert
thought so too.

We ordered something rather special for dinner, with a bottle of something
similarly out of the common way, in order that our minds might be fortified for
the occasion, and we might come well up to the mark. Dinner over, we produced a
bundle of pens, a copious supply of ink, and a goodly show of writing and
blotting paper. For there was something very comfortable in having plenty of
stationery.

I would then take a sheet of paper, and write across the top of it, in a neat
hand, the heading, "Memorandum of Pip’s debts"; with Barnard’s Inn and the date
very carefully added. Herbert would also take a sheet of paper, and write across
it with similar formalities, "Memorandum of Herbert’s debts."

Each of us would then refer to a confused heap of papers at his side, which had
been thrown into drawers, worn into holes in pockets, half burnt in lighting
candles, stuck for weeks into the looking-glass, and otherwise damaged. The
sound of our pens going refreshed us exceedingly, insomuch that I sometimes
found it difficult to distinguish between this edifying business proceeding and
actually paying the money. In point of meritorious character, the two things
seemed about equal.

When we had written a little while, I would ask Herbert how he got on? Herbert
probably would have been scratching his head in a most rueful manner at the
sight of his accumulating figures.

"They are mounting up, Handel," Herbert would say; "upon my life, they are
mounting up."

"Be firm, Herbert," I would retort, plying my own pen with great assiduity.
"Look the thing in the face. Look into your affairs. Stare them out of
countenance."

"So I would, Handel, only they are staring me out
of countenance."

However, my determined manner would have its effect, and Herbert would fall to
work again. After a time he would give up once more, on the plea that he had not
got Cobbs’s bill, or Lobbs’s, or Nobbs’s, as the case might be.

"Then, Herbert, estimate; estimate it in round numbers, and put it down."

"What a fellow of resource you are!" my friend would reply, with admiration.
"Really your business powers are very remarkable."

I thought so too. I established with myself, on these occasions, the reputation
of a first-rate man of business,—prompt, decisive, energetic, clear,
cool-headed. When I had got all my responsibilities down upon my list, I
compared each with the bill, and ticked it off. My self-approval when I ticked
an entry was quite a luxurious sensation. When I had no more ticks to make, I
folded all my bills up uniformly, docketed each on the back, and tied the whole
into a symmetrical bundle. Then I did the same for Herbert (who modestly said he
had not my administrative genius), and felt that I had brought his affairs into
a focus for him.

My business habits had one other bright feature, which I called "leaving a
Margin." For example; supposing Herbert’s debts to be one hundred and sixty-four
pounds four-and-twopence, I would say, "Leave a margin, and put them down at two
hundred." Or, supposing my own to be four times as much, I would leave a margin,
and put them down at seven hundred. I had the highest opinion of the wisdom of
this same Margin, but I am bound to acknowledge that on looking back, I deem it
to have been an expensive device. For, we always ran into new debt immediately,
to the full extent of the margin, and sometimes, in the sense of freedom and
solvency it imparted, got pretty far on into another margin.

But there was a calm, a rest, a virtuous hush, consequent on these examinations
of our affairs that gave me, for the time, an admirable opinion of myself.
Soothed by my exertions, my method, and Herbert’s compliments, I would sit with
his symmetrical bundle and my own on the table before me among the stationary,
and feel like a Bank of some sort, rather than a private individual.

We shut our outer door on these solemn occasions, in order that we might not be
interrupted. I had fallen into my serene state one evening, when we heard a
letter dropped through the slit in the said door, and fall on the ground. "It’s
for you, Handel," said Herbert, going out and coming back with it, "and I hope
there is nothing the matter." This was in allusion to its heavy black seal and
border.

The letter was signed Trabb & Co., and its contents were simply, that I was an
honored sir, and that they begged to inform me that Mrs. J. Gargery had departed
this life on Monday last at twenty minutes past six in the evening, and that my
attendance was requested at the interment on Monday next at three o’clock in the
afternoon.