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old mean Marshalsea a reality。 Nay； even the old mean Marshalsea was
shaken to its foundations when she pictured it without her father。 She
could scarcely believe that the prisoners were still lingering in the
close yard； that the mean rooms were still every one tenanted； and that
the turnkey still stood in the Lodge letting people in and out； all just
as she well knew it to be。
With a remembrance of her father's old life in prison hanging about her
like the burden of a sorrowful tune； Little Dorrit would wake from a
dream of her birth…place into a whole day's dream。 The painted room in
which she awoke； often a humbled state…chamber in a dilapidated palace；
would begin it； with its wild red autumnal vine…leaves overhanging the
glass； its orange…trees on the cracked white terrace outside the window；
a group of monks and peasants in the little street below； misery and
magnificence wrestling with each other upon every rood of ground in
the prospect； no matter how widely diversified； and misery throwing
magnificence with the strength of fate。 To this would succeed a
labyrinth of bare passages and pillared galleries； with the family
procession already preparing in the quadrangle below； through the
carriages and luggage being brought together by the servants for the
day's journey。 Then breakfast in another painted chamber； damp…stained
and of desolate proportions； and then the departure； which； to her
timidity and sense of not being grand enough for her place in the
ceremonies； was always an uneasy thing。 For then the courier （who
himself would have been a foreign gentleman of high mark in the
Marshalsea） would present himself to report that all was ready； and then
her father's valet would pompously induct him into his travelling…cloak；
and then Fanny's maid； and her own maid （who was a weight on Little
Dorrit's mind……absolutely made her cry at first； she knew so little
what to do with her）； would be in attendance； and then her brother's man
would plete his master's equipment； and then her father would give
his arm to Mrs General； and her uncle would give his to her； and；
escorted by the landlord and Inn servants； they would swoop down…stairs。
There； a crowd would be collected to see them enter their carriages；
which； amidst much bowing； and begging； and prancing； and lashing； and
clattering； they would do； and so they would be driven madly through
narrow unsavoury streets； and jerked out at the town gate。
Among the day's unrealities would be roads where the bright red vines
were looped and garlanded together on trees for many miles； woods of
olives； white villages and towns on hill…sides； lovely without； but
frightful in their dirt and poverty within； crosses by the way； deep
blue lakes with fairy islands； and clustering boats with awnings of
bright colours and sails of beautiful forms； vast piles of building
mouldering to dust； hanging…gardens where the weeds had grown so strong
that their stems； like wedges driven home； had split the arch and rent
the wall； stone…terraced lanes； with the lizards running into and out
of every chink； beggars of all sorts everywhere： pitiful； picturesque；
hungry； merry； children beggars and aged beggars。 Often at
posting…houses and other halting places； these miserable creatures would
appear to her the only realities of the day； and many a time； when the
money she had brought to give them was all given away； she would sit
with her folded hands； thoughtfully looking after some diminutive girl
leading her grey father； as if the sight reminded her of something in
the days that were gone。
Again； there would be places where they stayed the week together in
splendid rooms； had banquets every day； rode out among heaps of wonders；
walked through miles of palaces； and rested in dark corners of great
churches； where there were winking lamps of gold and silver among
pillars and arches； kneeling figures dotted about at confessionals and
on the pavements； where there was the mist and scent of incense； where
there were pictures； fantastic images； gaudy altars； great heights and
distances； all softly lighted through stained glass； and the massive
curtains that hung in the doorways。 From these cities they would go on
again； by the roads of vines and olives； through squalid villages； where
there was not a hovel without a gap in its filthy walls； not a window
with a whole inch of glass or paper； where there seemed to be nothing to
support life； nothing to eat； nothing to make； nothing to grow； nothing
to hope； nothing to do but die。
Again they would e to whole towns of palaces； whose proper inmates
were all banished； and which were all changed into barracks： troops
of idle soldiers leaning out of the state windows； where their
accoutrements hung drying on the marble architecture； and showing to the
mind like hosts of rats who were （happily） eating away the props of the
edifices that supported them； and must soon； with them； be smashed on
the heads of the other swarms of soldiers and the swarms of priests； and
the swarms of spies； who were all the ill…looking population left to be
ruined； in the streets below。
Through such scenes； the family procession moved on to Venice。 And here
it dispersed for a time； as they were to live in Venice some few months
in a palace （itself six times as big as the whole Marshalsea） on the
Grand Canal。
In this crowning unreality； where all the streets were paved with water；
and where the deathlike stillness of the days and nights was broken by
no sound but the softened ringing of church…bells； the rippling of
the current； and the cry of the gondoliers turning the corners of the
flowing streets； Little Dorrit； quite lost by her task being done； sat
down to muse。 The family began a gay life； went here and there； and
turned night into day； but she was timid of joining in their gaieties；
and only asked leave to be left alone。
Sometimes she would step into one of the gondolas that were always kept
in waiting； moored to painted posts at the door……when she could escape
from the attendance of that oppressive maid； who was her mistress； and
a very hard one……and would be taken all over the strange city。 Social
people in other gondolas began to ask each other who the little solitary
girl was whom they passed； sitting in her boat with folded hands；
looking so pensively and wonderingly about her。 Never thinking that
it would be worth anybody's while to notice her or her doings； Little
Dorrit； in her quiet； scared； lost manner； went about the city none the
less。
But her favourite station was the balcony of her own room； overhanging
the canal； with other balconies below； and none above。 It was of massive
stone darkened by ages； built in a wild fancy which came from the East
to that collection of wild fancies； and Little Dorrit was little indeed；
leaning on the broad…cushioned ledge； and looking over。 As she liked no
place of an evening half so well； she soon began to be watched for； and
many eyes in passing gondolas were raised； and many people said； There
was the little figure of the English girl who was always alone。
Such people were not realities to the little figure of the English girl；
such people were all unknown to her。 She would watch the sunset； in its
long low lines of purple and red； and its burning flush high up into
the sky： so glowing on the buildings； and so lightening their structure；
that it made them look as if their strong walls were transparent； and
they shone from within。 She would watch those glories expire； and then；
after looking at the black gondolas underneath； taking guests to music
and dancing； would raise her eyes to the shining stars。 Was there no
party of her own； in other times； on which the stars had shone？ To think
of that old gate now！ She would think of that old gate； and of herself
sitting at it in the dead of the night； pillowing Maggy's head； and of
other places and of other scenes associated with those different times。
And then she would lean upon her balcony； and look over at the water；
as though they all lay underneath it。 When she got to that； she would
musingly watch its running； as if； in the general vision； it might run
dry； and show her the prison again； and herself； and the old room； and
the old inmates； and the old visitors： all lasting realities that had
never changed。
CHAPTER 4。 A Letter from Little Dorrit
Dear Mr Clennam；
I write to you from my own room at Venice； thinking you will be glad to
hear from me。 But I know you cannot be so glad to hear from me as I am
to write to you； for everything about you is as you have been accustomed
to see it； and you miss nothing……unless it should be me； which can only
be for a very little while together and very seldom……while everything in
my life is so strange； and I miss so much。
When we were in Switzerland； which appears to have been years ago；
though it was only weeks； I met young Mrs Gowan； who was on a mountain
excursion like ourselves。 She told me she was very well and very happy。
She sent you the message； by me； that she thanked you affectionately and
would never forget you。 She e； and I loved her
almost as soon as I spoke to her。 But there is nothing