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Antony and Cleopatra Companion

By Shakespeare William

  • Window Douglas’s

Shakespeare’s Life

Widely considered the greatest playwright, as well as one of the greatest poets in the English language, William Shakespeare was the third of eight children born to John Shakespeare and Mary Arden in the English town of Stratford-upon-Avon in April of 1564. John Shakespeare, a glover, among other things, was a well-to-do businessman who later ran into financial difficulties. William’s mother, Mary Arden, was the daughter of an old aristocratic family from Warwickshire.

Although there are quite a few concrete records of William Shakespeare’s life, a number of details are unknown and must be left to conjecture. His writings imply by their subject matter and elegant yet profound style that he was familiar with the major classic religious, literary, and historic writings. Exactly where and when he went to school, however, is unknown, but it is currently assumed from the circumstances of his life, as well as his writings, that he attended grammar school, probably in his hometown.

When he was eighteen, Shakespeare married Anne Hathaway, who bore him three children—a girl and a pair of fraternal twins—all within a few years after their wedding in 1582. Within a decade or so, he was already well known on London’s stages as an actor and a playwright, and his first published poems appeared in 1593. By the end of 1594, Shakespeare was thoroughly involved with the theatrical company known as the Lord Chamberlain’s Men (afterwards, the King’s Men) as a shareholder, actor, and playwright. From 1599, when the company built itself the Globe theater in London, the site functioned as their primary performance venues, in addition to such places as the royal court, various touring venues, and the Blackfriars theatre, an indoor theater the company acquired in 1608. In 1613, the Globe caught fire and burned down but was rebuilt again in 1614.

Some time around 1613, Shakespeare, who by this time had acquired noticeable wealth through his earnings and investments, retired in Stratford-upon-Avon with his remaining family. He died three years later in 1616.


Dates and Sources

It is not specifically known when Shakespeare wrote Antony and Cleopatra, since its first printing, called the First Folio, did not actually occur until 1623, after his death. The name of the play appears in the Stationer’s Register, equivalent to our modern copyright, in 1608, but it is believed to have been written several years earlier, between 1603 and 1607. The original play also did not have officially marked acts and scenes, which were added by later editors.

Most of the information, as well as the rich descriptions and some of the language, are taken from Plutarch’s historical biography “Life of Antony” from the comparative biographies of famous Greeks and Romans called Lives of the Noble Grecians and Romans, as translated by Thomas North in the 1500s. Shakespeare did not stick exactly to the material in Plutarch but built upon it, sometimes adding and sometimes subtracting from the original characters, scene descriptions, and historical facts. The result is a complex mix of tragedy, history, and even a surprising amount of comedy, with the characters of Antony, Cleopatra, and Enobarbus being especially well developed.

Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra revolves around the declining fortunes of Cleopatra, queen of Egypt, and Mark Antony, originally one of the more powerful of the three rulers who formed the Second Triumvirate, which lasted roughly from the end of the Roman Republic in 43 B.C. to a few years before the founding of the Roman Empire by Octavius Caesar in 27 B.C. Antony, who was known for his dignity, magnanimity, honor, strength, and military skill, has come under the spell of the manipulative and unpredictable but also passionate and bewitching Cleopatra VII, last of the Ptolemaic line of Egyptian royalty. Both Antony and Cleopatra are large, magnetic personalities, and the extravagance of their lifestyle is juxtaposed against Caesar’s discipline and rationality. In the end, despite their immense vitality (or perhaps because of it), Antony and Cleopatra’s passion becomes their undoing, and the cooler, more controlled powers of reason and disciplined ambition prevail.


The Story 

The story takes place in various ancient Mediterranean countries, with most of the action concentrated in Rome and Alexandria. It begins in Alexandria at Cleopatra’s palace, where Antony, who has been leading an extravagant, irresponsible lifestyle with his lover, Cleopatra, discovers via messenger that his brother and his wife Fulvia tried to wage war against Octavius Caesar. Moreover, his enemy, Labienus, is triumphing in the Middle East, and to make matters worse, Fulvia has died. Furthermore, Pompey’s naval forces have grown strong and are threatening the coast of Italy, and Pompey is capitalizing on the Roman people’s discontent with the current government. The news awakens Antony, who feels ashamed of his behavior and resolves to go to Rome at once. As his close friend, supporter, and soldier Enobarbus informs the officers of their upcoming voyage, Antony, after much resistance, manages to obtain Cleopatra’s blessing for their departure.

Back in Rome, we meet Caesar and Lepidus, the other two triumvirs, who are discussing the problematic nature of Antony’s recent behavior, his past greatness, and the increasing danger of Pompey’s powerful fleet. Meanwhile, in Sicily, Pompey and his pirate allies, Menas and Menecrates, are discussing the same issues from their own angle. In Alexandria, Cleopatra is busying herself with writing daily letters to Antony.

Antony finally arrives in Rome, where he meets with Lepidus and Caesar to discuss his differences with the latter. In an attempt to reconcile them and seal their alliance, Caesar’s friend, general, and supporter, Agrippa, suggests marrying Antony to Octavia, Caesar’s beloved sister. They agree and, having settled the issue, turn to the matter of Pompey’s increasing threat, though without reaching any conclusions.

In an important minor scene, Antony informs Octavia that he needs to leave for Parthia in the Middle East. As he is preparing to go with his general, Ventidius, he is warned by a soothsayer to stay away from Caesar, who is predicted as triumphing over Antony in every situation. Antony, though he knows the soothsayer is right, chooses not to listen.

Back in Alexandria, Cleopatra is furious over the news of Antony’s marriage to Octavia. Meanwhile, in Italy, the triumvirs have met with Pompey at Misenum, near Naples, where they have signed a truce. In honor of their alliance, Pompey suggests that they feast each other, and Act II ends with a drinking and feasting celebration held on board his ship.

The opening of Act III shows Ventidius on the battlefield in Syria, having just won a significant battle. He is cautious, however, not to do too much in Antony’s absence for fear of offending his superior. The scene ends as he marches his troops to meet Antony in Greece.

Antony, for his part, is preparing to leave for Greece with Octavia. He and Octavia bid Caesar farewell and assure him of Octavia’s well-being. Back in Alexandria, Cleopatra has received word about Octavia’s various physical and personal characteristics from the same messenger who (at his peril) informed her of the marriage.

Next, Antony, now in Athens with Octavia, has heard that Caesar has both spoken ill of him and broken his truce with Pompey. Eager to patch things up, Octavia offers to return to Rome to help reconcile the relationship between Antony and Caesar. Antony is less optimistic: he urges her to determine the cause of the problems and to express her disapproval at it, but he also encourages her to side with whomever is most willing to nurture her love. In the following scene, news has reached Athens that both Lepidus and Caesar have made war against Pompey and killed him and that Caesar afterwards deposed Lepidus, stripped him of his rights, and threw him in jail. Antony, who has already heard the news, is furious at both Lepidus’ foolishness and the murder of Pompey.

With Octavia on her way to Rome, Antony returns to Alexandria, where he and Cleopatra are publicly crowned as Egypt’s rulers. In Rome, news of his exploits has already reached and infuriated Caesar, and Antony has moreover submitted a list of accusations concerning Caesar’s unjust treatment of Lepidus, his spoiling of Pompey, and the fact that he has retained Antony’s ships and neglected to give him his share of Sicily, which Caesar and Lepidus won from Pompey. At this point, Octavia arrives with the intention of encouraging Caesar to make peace with Antony. Caesar informs her that she is misguided—Antony is no longer in Athens but has returned to Egypt to be with Cleopatra.

From Rome, the action moves to Actium in Greece, site of the fateful battle where Caesar defeated Antony and Cleopatra. Antony’s close friend and supporter, the soldier Enobarbus, tries to dissuade Cleopatra from taking part in the battle, since her presence will distract Antony; but his efforts fail. She feels that her material support has given her the right to be there and that she will equal the part of any man. Meanwhile, all of Antony’s officers are attempting to convince him to do battle by land instead of sea, since his land forces and expertise are much stronger. He is adamant, though, his foolish reason being that Caesar has dared him to do it. The fact that Caesar has refused Antony’s dares seems to be irrelevant. The sad outcome of all this was that Cleopatra’s flagship, followed by her sixty ships, fled at the height of the battle when the two sides were close to equal, with their own side possibly having the advantage. To make matters worse, Antony followed, in spite of his military experience and ability. It was at this point that many of his followers began to seriously doubt his sanity and competency, since his actions clearly showed that he was entirely under Cleopatra’s spell. According to his lieutenant, Canidius, six of Antony’s allies, all kings, have deserted him, the troops have fled, and Canidius has implied that he is next.

The events at Actium were both a military and a personal turning point for Antony, who was unable to reconcile the shame of his recent military actions with the man he once was. It is at this time that he begins to have thoughts of death because he feels defeated as a human being and a man of achievement. With Caesar now having the upper hand, Antony and Cleopatra send a messenger to him with their requests, but Antony’s request to live either in Egypt or as a private citizen in Athens is denied, and Cleopatra will be indulged only if she either banishes or kills her lover. Angered by Caesar’s response, Antony decides to challenge him to single combat, which prompts Enobarbus to secretly wonder whether Antony has lost his mind.

As Antony leaves to prepare the letter, an envoy from Caesar named Thidias arrives to try to influence Cleopatra on Caesar’s behalf. When Antony returns, he catches the messenger kissing Cleopatra’s hand, and furious at both him and Cleopatra, he has Thidias whipped and sent back to Caesar. Once Thidias is gone, Antony accuses Cleopatra of unfaithfulness and doubts whether she has ever been trustworthy. She finally convinces him of her fidelity, and satisfied, he turns to the subject of war. He has decided to wage another battle against Caesar. With his courage renewed, he begins to feel better and vows to defy death and seal their place in history. Recognizing in him the valiant lover she knew before, Cleopatra encourages him. They decide to celebrate that night, and Cleopatra mentions that it is her birthday, giving them added incentive to make it a night of extravagant feasting. Enobarbus, who has heard the conversation, has renewed doubts about Antony’s wisdom and sanity; and though he has remained loyal longer than many others, he now begins to plan his desertion.

Predictably, Caesar refuses the challenge to single combat, which leaves the option of full-fledged battle. That night, Antony seems sorrowful, though he intends to fight to win. The servants and Cleopatra are mystified by his mood and speech, and even Enobarbus is almost moved to tears. Antony insists that his mournful speeches were intended to comfort, and he invites them to drink and feast.

The scene switches to the night watch as the sentinels take their posts. When they hear mysterious music coming from below ground, one soldier concludes that Hercules, Antony’s guardian spirit, is leaving him.

The next day, Antony dons his armor to go to battle and sets off in high spirits. On his way, he meets a soldier who informs him that Enobarbus has deserted him for Caesar’s side. Shocked at first, Antony is dismayed that his foolishness has led even good men to desert him, and he gives orders to have Enobarbus’ goods and valuables sent to him with a letter wishing him well and hoping that he should never again have to make such a choice.

Meanwhile, at Caesar’s camp, we discover that Alexas, one of Cleopatra’s attendants, has betrayed Antony by going to Judea to convince Herod to join Caesar, for which Caesar (ironically) had him hanged. Enobarbus, now at Caesar’s camp, is already suffering remorse for his desertion when the news arrives of Antony’s letter and the shipment of valuables and goods. His regret now compounded, Enobarbus realizes with sorrow that he has betrayed a good and great man. Finding himself incapable of facing Antony in battle, he seeks out a ditch to die in.

Later that day on the field, Antony’s side has waged a fiercer battle than expected, leading Caesar’s friend and general, Agrippa, to sound the retreat. Antony’s remaining soldiers have fought with all their might, and the day’s victory has done wonders for their morale. Antony himself is reassured to see signs of his former brave and competent self, and his confidence in himself and the war against Caesar has skyrocketed.

That night, a company of guards witnesses Enobarbus as he mournfully prays to the moon for forgiveness from Antony, though he firmly believes that he should go down in history’s public records as a prime deserter. Following his prayer, he lies down and dies. The sentinels, who are unsure as to whether he is dead or asleep, carry him to the court of guard (the guards’ meeting place).

In a field near Alexandria, Antony and his troops are trying to determine Caesar’s next move, which Antony is convinced will be by sea, despite his soldier Scarus’ assertion that they are preparing for both land and sea. Meanwhile, in another area, Caesar has also been watching and is aware of Antony’s movements, so he has ordered his men to remain positioned on land—the opposite of what Antony expects. The scene shifts back to Antony, who moves to a higher position to get a better look. Hearing an alarm in the distance, he sees his naval fleet celebrating with Caesar’s and concludes that they have surrendered and that Cleopatra has betrayed him to Caesar. When she arrives on the scene, he shouts at her, threatening her in his rage. Confused and not knowing what to do, she leaves, while Antony, convinced of her guilt, vows to kill her.

In dismay, Cleopatra consults her ladies, who counsel her to go to her tomb and send Antony word that she is dead. She agrees enthusiastically, and they set off for the monument. Antony and Eros, Antony’s attendant, return to the palace, where they receive word through the eunuch Mardian that Cleopatra loved Antony that she was faithful, and that she is now dead. For Antony, this signifies the end, and he instructs Eros to draw his sword and kill him as he is sworn to do. Eros, being young and tender, cannot bring himself to do it, so he kills himself instead. Awed by his nobility and bravery, Antony falls on his own sword. However, the wound is not enough to kill him immediately, so he asks his guards who have since entered to finish him off, but they all refuse. Word arrives that Cleopatra is not dead after all, but it has come too late, and Antony’s guards carry him to Cleopatra to die in her arms.

When Cleopatra sees that Antony is dying, she no longer has any desire to live. This is intensified by Caesar’s plan to use her as a trophy in his victory parade, an idea that Cleopatra cannot endure. Caesar sends envoys to Cleopatra to attempt to influence her, but without success. By the final time he and his guards arrive at her tomb, she and her women are dead, killed by poisonous snakes that Cleopatra had ordered to be smuggled into the tomb in a basket of figs. The play ends as Caesar, now sad and philosophical at the news of both their deaths, arranges for the funeral and acknowledges that there will never again be a couple as famous as Antony and Cleopatra.

Fate and Character

One of the main themes of Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra is the notion that our characters determine our fate. The archetypal nature of the main characters, who stand in stark juxtaposition to each other, serves as an ongoing illustration of this throughout the play. Caesar’s ambitious rationality and self-discipline are dramatically contrasted against Antony’s passion and lack of self-control, and the difference between Cleopatra and Octavia is even more striking. The role of the soothsayer highlights the theme by implying that his ability to read the future indicates a direct relationship between fate and character—our future ends and our present choices.

Somewhat tied to this is the role of the gods in people’s lives. The gods are mentioned or invoked numerous times throughout the play, and Cleopatra rails against Fortune’s unstoppable wheel in the hope of breaking it. But one of the play’s most mysterious scenes brings home the idea that men’s lives and actions are not only influenced by the gods but that they influence them. In this scene, the nighttime guards hear music coming from beneath the ground, and they conclude that Hercules, Antony’s protector until now, is leaving him—probably because of his recent irrational behavior and degenerate lifestyle.


Reason Versus Passion

One of the play’s strongest contrasts is between reason and passion. It is exemplified in the differences between Caesar’s actions, on the one hand, which tend to be governed by rational, calculated planning, and by Antony’s on the other, which seem guided by his momentary passions and whims, regardless of whether they make sense. This makes Antony an easy target. If Caesar dares him to make an ill-advised move, Antony responds emotionally instead of rationally. But if Antony dares Caesar in the same way, Caesar responds coolly, doing what is best from a practical point of view and never reacting on a whim.

The theme is also exemplified in Antony’s struggles and remorse over the difference between his past self—a man in command of himself and others—and his present state. There are numerous references by different characters to his loss of reason, and this trend in him is responsible not only for his strained or warring relationship with Caesar but also for the multiple desertions of him by his followers.


Honesty Versus Manipulation and Treachery

On a more moral level is the contrast throughout the play between honesty and manipulation, which are closely related to loyalty and treachery. Cleopatra and Caesar vie with each other in this respect, though their styles are totally different: she is dramatic, extravagant, and cunning; he is cautious, self-controlled, and calculating. Both, however, are motivated by a love of power and will use whatever means they have at their disposal to seduce, manipulate, or trick their targets. Cleopatra is also convinced (mistakenly, as we see with the play’s unfoldment) that manipulation is the way to manage a romantic relationship.

In sharp contrast to them is Enobarbus, who is honest to the point of being blunt. Although he ruminates to himself at times, he is also apt to speak his mind directly, making his desertion of Antony later in the play all the more shocking.


Loyalty and Desertion

The theme of loyalty and desertion is another of the strong currents that run throughout the play, and it again operates on many levels and with surprising twists. For example, in an attempt to ensure Antony’s loyalty, Caesar arranges for him to marry his sister Octavia. She, being immensely virtuous and loyal to her brother, willingly agrees. When the arrangement doesn’t work because Antony returns to Cleopatra, the pain it causes Octavia arouses the indignation of Caesar because of his love and loyalty toward her.

Additional examples include:

  • Menas, who views his assassination plot as a sign of loyalty to Pompey; but when Pompey rejects the idea, Menas begins to turn against him
  • Agrippa and Maecenas, who are Caesar’s constant companions and advisors
  • Eros, Mark Antony’s slave attendant, who loves his master so much that he breaks his oath to kill him when called upon to do so and kills himself instead
  • Charmian, who follows her mistress in death

The other side of the coin is illustrated by the plays’ many desertions and betrayals, in particular of Antony, who is viewed as having lost his reason. Just a few examples are:

  • Alexas, who deserts Antony, then convinces Herod to join with Caesar and is finally executed by Caesar in an ironic twist of fate
  • Canidius, Antony’s lieutenant, who defects with his troops to Caesar
  • Caesar himself, who turns on Lepidus, Antony, and Pompey, and accuses the former two of doing the same to him
  • Antony, who left Octavia and his previous wife, Fulvia, for Cleopatra
  • Cleopatra, who turned tail and deserted her own navy in the Battle of Actium

Possibly the most moving and troubling of all of these is the story of Enobarbus, whose sudden desertion of Antony came as a shock. When Antony reacted with generosity and understanding, Enobarbus was struck with such remorse and shame that he found himself a ditch to die in just a few days after his desertion.


Suicide and Honor

The theme of suicide is another unmistakable thread that runs throughout the play. There is much mention of honor, and it was thought that the loss of honor could be redeemed through the Roman “custom” of suicide. But in looking closely at the different suicides throughout the play, the actual motives seem more complex and varied, even in those who professed honor as their reason. Enobarbus, though not strictly a suicide, felt a deep sense of shame but also grief and remorse for having betrayed a grand and noble soul. Eros killed himself because he loved his master too much to kill him, despite his oath. His motives included both love and the desire to escape from a responsibility he couldn’t bear. Cleopatra, similarly, could not stand the idea of submitting herself to Caesar, and the world seemed moreover a dismal place now that Antony was gone. Charmian followed her mistress partly out of love and loyalty and partly out of the conviction that it was the right thing to do. Mark Antony would have contented himself with private citizenship and a life with Cleopatra, had Caesar allowed it. Honor was necessary, but it was only when he discovered that Cleopatra was supposedly dead that he fell on his sword and killed himself. It seems that though he struggled deeply with his loss of honor, his love of life and especially of Cleopatra had at least as powerful a hold.


Freedom and Power

One of Cleopatra’s strongest motives for killing herself was that she could not reconcile herself to a lesser life than the one she had been living. She was used to a life of freedom and power, and the idea of being someone’s puppet, to be pawed at by the masses of common folk, was unacceptable to her. It is clear from the beginning by her manipulative tactics that power was a primary issue with her. She used her power to gain love, for example, just as she used her love to gain power.

Power was, of course, also an issue with Caesar, who did not like having his plans thwarted by others and took immediate and decisive measures to make sure that they weren’t. In Antony’s case, power was his natural state. Several people, including Cleopatra, speak of him as having been a large or great soul. Even Caesar thought that his death should have been marked by some significant event. That natural sense of power on Antony’s part must have made his loss of control all the more painful, especially since the reason for it was the power that a woman wielded over his thoughts and emotions, a condition which in those days would have been wholly unacceptable.


Temperance Versus Extravagance

Both Antony and Cleopatra lived life to the fullest. Their feasts were extravagant affairs that were so legendary that news of them traveled across the sea to Rome. The same was true for Cleopatra’s other ventures, such as the barge trip described by Enobarbus. In fact, Shakespeare’s descriptions are tame compared to the historian Plutarch’s more detailed accounts in his “Life of Antony.”

In Shakespeare’s play, Cleopatra’s dramatic displays of emotion and temperament were more the rule than the exception; and Antony’s unrestrained jealousy and anger was simply the reverse side of his passion for love and life. The largeness of his generosity was matched by the severity with which he punished himself for losing control. In short, Antony and Cleopatra did nothing in moderation, and it only makes sense that their fortunes should crash as sharply as they rose to the highest worldly heights.

By contrast, both Octavius Caesar and his sister, Octavia, demonstrated considerable restraint. Caesar is portrayed as self-disciplined, while Octavia is genuinely modest and selfless, willing to sacrifice her own needs for the good of others. In actual history, whatever Caesar’s faults may have been, they both survived, Caesar to become the first Roman Emperor and Octavia to be a revered member of Roman society and to raise the children from her own and Mark Antony’s marriages and his relationship with Cleopatra.


Vice Versus Virtue

Related to the theme of temperance versus extravagance is the theme of vice versus virtue. The play’s dominant symbol of vice is Cleopatra. In general, as portrayed by Shakespeare, she is bewitching, manipulative, self-serving, moody, irresponsible, ambitious, and even abusive. Coupled with her seductiveness, intelligence, charm, wit, wealth, power, and extravagant displays, as well as certain supposed magical abilities, she was apparently too much for Antony to resist. News of their extravagant lifestyle reached Rome and was in large part a cause of the rift between Caesar and Antony.

Much of the play is taken up with the struggle between vice and virtue within Antony himself as well as in such characters as Enobarbus, who was close to him and, therefore, affected by the changes in him. Antony’s good qualities—his generosity, nobility, humanity, skill, power, and sense of responsibility—are in constant conflict with his love and fascination for Cleopatra, which eventually lead to his undoing. Similarly, as mentioned above, Enobarbus, who was essentially honest, loyal, and courageous, experienced such shame and remorse on deserting Antony that it resulted in his self-inflicted death in order to put an end to his bad thoughts.


Soul and Body

Part of the recklessness exhibited in Antony and Cleopatra with regard to life and death has to do with the view that death does not result in oblivion but in a continued afterlife. Before they die, both Antony and Cleopatra speak of meeting each other in the next life, where they dream of continuing their amorous relationship. Other passages, too, indicate that they believed that the soul outlived the body. At one point, Antony asks Eros if he can still see him, as though he is not sure whether he is alive or dead. Another example is of Cleopatra, who, as she is dying, says that she is fire and air, having left the other elements of her being to return to dust.


Light and Darkness

One of the more subtle themes that pervades the play is the theme of light and darkness. The symbols of light and darkness, sun and moon, day and night refer to such things as greatness, life and death, glory and shame, guidance or the losing of one’s way, and perhaps most significantly, fortune and doom. Thus, Cleopatra speaks of how Antony’s face, which shone with the light of both sun and moon, illumined the earth; Iras, towards the end of the play, talks of how “the bright day is done, and we are for the dark;” Enobarbus, caught between love, honor, and shame as well as life and death, prays at night by the light of the moon for forgiveness from Antony; Lepidus sends Antony and Octavia on their way with the light of the stars to guide them; and Antony himself speaks of how, like a wanderer late at night, he has lost his way and, later in the play, how their earthly “moon Is now eclipsed,” foretelling his fall.

Shakespeare’s Life

Widely considered the greatest playwright, as well as one of the greatest poets in the English language, William Shakespeare was the third of eight children born to John Shakespeare and Mary Arden in the English town of Stratford-upon-Avon in April of 1564. John Shakespeare, a glover, among other things, was a well-to-do businessman who later ran into financial difficulties. William’s mother, Mary Arden, was the daughter of an old aristocratic family from Warwickshire.

Although there are quite a few concrete records of William Shakespeare’s life, a number of details are unknown and must be left to conjecture. His writings imply by their subject matter and elegant yet profound style that he was familiar with the major classic religious, literary, and historic writings. Exactly where and when he went to school, however, is unknown, but it is currently assumed from the circumstances of his life, as well as his writings, that he attended grammar school, probably in his hometown.

When he was eighteen, Shakespeare married Anne Hathaway, who bore him three children—a girl and a pair of fraternal twins—all within a few years after their wedding in 1582. Within a decade or so, he was already well known on London’s stages as an actor and a playwright, and his first published poems appeared in 1593. By the end of 1594, Shakespeare was thoroughly involved with the theatrical company known as the Lord Chamberlain’s Men (afterwards, the King’s Men) as a shareholder, actor, and playwright. From 1599, when the company built itself the Globe theater in London, the site functioned as their primary performance venues, in addition to such places as the royal court, various touring venues, and the Blackfriars theatre, an indoor theater the company acquired in 1608. In 1613, the Globe caught fire and burned down but was rebuilt again in 1614.

Some time around 1613, Shakespeare, who by this time had acquired noticeable wealth through his earnings and investments, retired in Stratford-upon-Avon with his remaining family. He died three years later in 1616.


Dates and Sources

It is not specifically known when Shakespeare wrote Antony and Cleopatra, since its first printing, called the First Folio, did not actually occur until 1623, after his death. The name of the play appears in the Stationer’s Register, equivalent to our modern copyright, in 1608, but it is believed to have been written several years earlier, between 1603 and 1607. The original play also did not have officially marked acts and scenes, which were added by later editors.

Most of the information, as well as the rich descriptions and some of the language, are taken from Plutarch’s historical biography “Life of Antony” from the comparative biographies of famous Greeks and Romans called Lives of the Noble Grecians and Romans, as translated by Thomas North in the 1500s. Shakespeare did not stick exactly to the material in Plutarch but built upon it, sometimes adding and sometimes subtracting from the original characters, scene descriptions, and historical facts. The result is a complex mix of tragedy, history, and even a surprising amount of comedy, with the characters of Antony, Cleopatra, and Enobarbus being especially well developed.

The following list of character descriptions is provided in order by main characters first, followed by lesser characters, most of whose roles are nevertheless vital to the story as a whole. Most of them have specific historical precedents that function as a basis (though not the limit) for Shakespeare’s ideas. Depending on the character, they are mentioned in more or less detail in the Roman historian Plutarch’s “Life of Antony,” from his larger text of famous Greek and Roman biographies, Lives of the Noble Greeks and Romans, also known as The Parallel Lives.


Mark Antony

Based on the historical Roman political and military leader who was one of the three rulers who formed the Second Triumvirate, Mark Antony, also referred to as Antony, is portrayed by Shakespeare as powerful, magnanimous, vital, passionate, skilled, and at times out of control. Like many of the world’s movers and shakers, he worked hard and played hard, and his playing sometimes aided and sometimes interfered with his working. By the time the play opens, his fortunes are already waning: his adulterous love affair with Cleopatra and his generally dissolute lifestyle have strained his relationship with Caesar and are feeding the gossip mills in Rome. Though he tries at first to patch things up, his passion for Cleopatra and her unhealthy influence on him, coupled with his Roman sense of honor (or perhaps, more accurately, his pride and desperation), ultimately result in his total undoing.


Cleopatra (Klee-o-PA-truh)

The character Cleopatra is based on Cleopatra VII, last of the Ptolemaic dynasty and of the entire line of Egyptian pharaohs. Known for her charm and extravagant displays, Cleopatra made political and sexual alliances, first with Julius Caesar and later with Mark Antony after Julius Caesar’s death. As with Antony, Shakespeare portrays her as possessing extraordinary vitality and a large personality. In addition, she is enchanting, passionate, ambitious, willful, and manipulative. It is clear from the start that she has captivated Mark Antony with her allure, but by the time their fates unwind utterly at the end of the play, it is also obvious that she was utterly taken by him. Like him, she kills herself in the end, the victim of her own extravagance, willfulness, ambition, and pride; but perhaps the most potent motivation for her death, as portrayed by Shakespeare, was her passionate love for Antony.


Octavius Caesar (Oc-TEY-vee-us SEE-zer)

Octavius Caesar, also known as Octavian and, later, Augustus, was Julius Caesar’s legal adopted heir and the founder of the Roman Empire in 27 B.C. Shakespeare portrays him as being both rational and seemingly merciful (at least, on the surface) as well as cold, callous, and calculating, depending on the situation. Underlying all of this actions, however, was the welfare of his rule, including his rejection of Antony’s request to live as a private citizen; his execution of Caesarion, Cleopatra’s young son, after her death; his merciful approach to Cleopatra if she was willing to comply with his wishes (although historically, his real motives were money and power); and his placement of Antony’s former soldiers in the front lines to be shot at and killed by their former leader. Caesar’s survival as the sole ruler of the Empire, along with the fact that Shakespeare gives him the play’s final speech, seems to suggest that reason, calculation, and self-control are victorious over passion and lack of moderation, no matter how much they are backed by power and skill.


Lepidus (LE-pi-dus)

Based on the historic Marcus Aemilius Lepidus, a Roman statesman and, like Mark Antony, a former ally of Julius Caesar, Lepidus was the third member of the Second Triumvirate. His portrayal in the play, which mirrors history to some extent, shows him to be the most diplomatic of the three rulers, as demonstrated by his constant attempts to balance his relationships with both Octavian and Antony, who were often at odds. However, he was also considered the weakest of the three, and towards the end of the play, he is deposed (as in life) and thrown in jail by Caesar, which is the last we hear of him. In real life, he spent the remainder of his days in relative political retirement.


Pompey (Sextus Pompeius) (Pawm-PEY or Pahm-PEY) (SEX-tus Pawm-PEY-us)

Sextus Pompeius, or simply Pompey, was the son of Pompey the Great (Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus), a member of the First Triumvirate and thus an ally of Julius Caesar until their later competition for rulership led to war between them. The youngest of Pompeius Magnus’ sons, Sextus Pompeius saw his father murdered upon their arrival in Egypt as refugees from Julius Caesar after he defeated Pompeius Magnus at Pharsala. In Antony and Cleopatra, Sextus Pompeius is portrayed as the leader of a great sea power that begins as the enemy of the Second Triumvirate but then makes peace with them, though the treaty is broken again later.


Octavia (Oc-TEY-vee-a)

The sister of Octavius Caesar, Octavia was modeled after her historical precedent as being the opposite of Cleopatra—modest, virtuous, quiet, noble, and moderate in her actions. Octavius Caesar arranged for her to marry Mark Antony in order to improve their difficult relationship and seal their alliance, but Antony’s passion for Cleopatra and the strain of his untrusting relationship with Caesar ultimately led him back to Egypt. Because of Caesar’s love for Octavia, this made things even worse between them than before. In real life, Octavia bore two daughters by Antony and after his death also raised the children he had sired through Fulvia (his previous wife) and Cleopatra.


Domitius Enobarbus (Do-MI-shus Ee-nuh-BAR-bus, or Do-MI-tee-us E-nuh-BAR-bus) 

The character Domitius Enobarbus bears some resemblance to the historical figure Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus, a Roman general and consul. In Shakespeare, Enobarbus is a valued soldier, friend, and supporter of Mark Antony. He is honest to the point of being blunt, and the combination of that with his comic streak gives his role many of the qualities associated with the courtly “fool” characters, whose job it was to tell the king the truth, no matter how uncomfortable. Like the historical person, Shakespeare’s Enobarbus, who has been one of Antony’s bravest and most loyal supporters, deserts Antony for Caesar and dies only a few days later.


Agrippa and Maecenas (uh-GRI-puh) (May-SEE-nus or Mee-SEE-nus)

Agrippa and Maecenas are Octavius Caesar’s two main companions and advisors in Antony and Cleopatra, and both played significant historical roles in relation to the real Octavius Caesar. Their speaking roles in the play are not large, but they are a constant presence on stage with Octavius. Being Roman military men in the play, like Caesar, they both have a strong pragmatic streak. Historically, Agrippa was a general and statesman, and a long-time friend of Octavius. In the play, though diplomatic, he seems more direct and down to earth than Maecenas, and he is the one who suggests Antony’s marriage to Octavia to potentially seal the alliance with Caesar. Maecenas, on the other hand, is portrayed as consistently diplomatic and somewhat philosophical, which may have been in keeping with his historical role as a patron of the arts and a prudent statesman and administrator.


Menas, Menecrates, and Varrius (MEE-nus) (me-NE-cruh-teez) (VA-ree-us)

Of Pompey’s three friends and supporters, Menas has the most important role. His primary distinction, which is also historical according to Plutarch’s “Life of Antony,” is that he offered to assassinate the three triumvirs when they were conveniently on board Pompey’s ship as guests, the occasion being a feast in honor of their recent truce with Pompey. Pompey’s reply was that Menas should have simply done it and not asked but that now it was too late since he (Pompey) was bound by his honor. Disgruntled, Menas’ loyalty for Pompey weakened, and in real life he switched sides several times between Pompey and Caesar. According to Plutarch, Menas was a pirate, and Menecrates, who has only a bit part, is mentioned in conjunction with Menas. Varrius, also a bit part, appears to mainly be a messenger.


Ventidius and Canidius (Ven-TI-dee-us) (Kuh-NI-dee-us)

Ventidius, one of Mark Antony’s generals, has a small but significant role in the play. His character represents the historical figure by the same name who effected several decisive and impressive victories against the Parthians (Persia or, currently, Iran). He is in only one scene in Antony and Cleopatra, and his role serves mainly to narrate the historical action that ties the scenes together as well as to provide a little more insight into Antony’s character.

Canidius, also an historical figure, is Mark Antony’s lieutenant. He lost faith in Antony after his flight at the Battle of Actium, in particular because he had advised Antony to fight by land, which was his greatest strength. When Antony chose to do battle by sea and then followed Cleopatra’s lead in fleeing the battle site, Canidius defected to Caesar. This is the last we hear of him in the play; in real life, he was executed—ironically, on Caesar’s orders.


Charmian, Iras, Alexas, and Mardian 

(CHAHR-mee-uhn or SHAHR-mee-uhn) (AY-rus) (Uh-LE-ksus) (MAHR-dee-uhn)

Charmian, Iras, Alexas, and Mardian the eunuch are Cleopatra’s primary attendants. Except for Charmian, their speaking roles are relatively small but significant, and the women in particular accompany her in virtually every scene. Charmian seems to play a close, advisory role that goes beyond the part of an ordinary servant and might be better expressed as “lady-in-waiting.” Their general high spirits, directness (even with the queen), humor, and flippancy are in many ways a reflection of Cleopatra’s own style—emotional, vital, and high-spirited. Like most of the other characters in the play, all of them have historical precedents that provided a starting point for Shakespeare’s imagination.


Eros and Scarus (EE-raws) (SKA-rus)

In both history and in the play, Eros was Antony’s faithful slave attendant who had sworn an oath that, should the time ever come, he would kill this master. When the time did come, however, Eros found himself incapable of performing the deed and instead killed himself. Scarus, the valiant soldier who fought impressively in one of Antony’s final battles, is Plutarch’s unnamed soldier, who was commended by Antony to Cleopatra. More generally, he represents the archetypal soldier, as he questions his leader’s declining judgment yet fights with all his strength to the bitter end.


Thidias, Proculeius, and Dolabella (THI-dee-us) (Proh-koo-Lee-us) (Daw-lah-BE-la)

Thidias, Proculeius, and Dolabella were all messengers sent from Caesar to Cleopatra in an attempt to convince her to side with him. The first, Thidias, is significant from a dramatic point of view because of the mistake he made in kissing Cleopatra’s hand just as Antony walked in the room. Enraged at both Thidias and Cleopatra, who would stoop so low as to flirt with a servant, Antony had Thidias whipped and sent back to Caesar. The scene serves to demonstrate how Antony’s passions have gotten the better of his reason.

Proculeius is the second messenger sent from Caesar to Cleopatra when the queen is already at her tomb. Although Antony advised Cleopatra that Proculeius was trustworthy, she did not believe him, and her suspicions were proved when she found herself suddenly captured by Caesar’s guards in spite of Proculeius’ reassuring words.

The last of Caesar’s messengers, Dolabella, who subsequently took Cleopatra into his benign custody, did prove trustworthy when, at her request, he informed the queen of Caesar’s true intentions to use her as a trophy in his victory parade. That knowledge clinched her decision to kill herself, which she did between the time that Dolabella left, and Caesar and his men arrived.



A small but important role, the soothsayer (literally, “truth teller,” also known as a “fortune teller”) appears twice toward the beginning of the play. Soothsayers were common throughout the ancient world, and this one, who happens to be Egyptian, is portrayed as being authentic. He is able to see not only the future but other dimensions as well, as when he speaks of the relationship between Antony’s and Caesar’s guardian spirits. In Antony’s case, he is more direct and urgent with his message, but with Cleopatra’s attendants, he relates only as much as they can hear.


Countryman (Clown)

The countryman, or clown, as he is called in some versions, was the person who brought Cleopatra the asps in a basket of figs. He is not a clown in the sense that we normally use that term. Rather, his character is more like a country bumpkin, and along with his obviously noteworthy job of transporting the asps, his role provides some comic relief before the play’s final tragedy. He does this by bumbling about and repeating himself endlessly until Cleopatra finally manages to shoo him out. It is just one of many instances in the play that show Shakespeare’s deft ability to mix comedy and tragedy.



The messengers, who include a soldier and the schoolmaster of Antony’s children, act out one of the most prominent functions in the play. Their role is similar to that of a narrator: they bring us news of events occurring throughout the realm, thus linking one scene to the next. Because their function is relatively neutral, they also act as a backdrop for the larger, more varied and sometimes unpredictable personalities of the major characters, thus giving us a glimpse into their idiosyncrasies and the differences that drive their fates and lead to the play’s final outcome.

The setting is Cleopatra’s palace in Alexandria, Egypt, during the transition period between the end of the Roman Republic and the founding of the Roman Empire by Augustus Caesar, also known as Octavius or Octavian. Mark Antony, Lepidus, and Octavius are the triumvirs, or three chief rulers, of the Roman world.

The scene opens on Philo and Demetrius, two of Antony’s friends, as Philo laments that their esteemed general, Antony, has turned from his military duties to lavish his attention on his lover, Cleopatra. Their conversation is interrupted by musical fanfare as Antony and Cleopatra enter, followed by the queen’s attendants.

At this point, Antony and Cleopatra’s conversation about their love for each other takes center stage as Philo and Demetrius blend into the background. A messenger arrives with news from Rome, but Antony, annoyed and unwilling to be distracted, tells the messenger to be brief. Cleopatra, who seems to be less smitten by love than Antony, insists that he listen more thoroughly. She is concerned that the message may be from Antony’s wife Fulvia, or perhaps from Caesar himself, with military orders for Antony. In true lover’s fashion, Antony ignores her, desiring to talk of nothing but love. In an aside to herself, though, it’s clear that Cleopatra does not believe him. She does not understand why he married Fulvia if he does not love her, but she decides to play the part of a foolish lover, leaving Antony to act out the real thing. Still, when Antony asks her about the evening’s entertainment, she repeats her suggestion to listen to the messenger from Rome. Again, he objects, calling her a quarrelsome queen and returning the conversation to the subject of love. He decides that they will spend the evening outside in the streets people watching, and he reminds her that that was what she wanted to do the night before. As they exit the palace with their attendants, he tells the messenger to be gone.

Once everyone has left, Demetrius wonders that Antony is so disrespectful to the young Octavius Caesar. Philo responds that Antony seems to have lost sight of his dignity. The scene ends with Demetrius expressing remorse that Antony’s behavior confirms what the lying gossips are saying in Rome, but he hopes that the next day will bring better things as he bids Philo good night.

Still in Cleopatra’s palace, the scene opens on Cleopatra’s attendants, Charmian, Iras, Alexas, and the eunuch Mardian, who are joined by a soothsayer (or fortune teller), several background characters, and Enobarbus, one of Antony’s most important supporters and companions.


Charmian, one of the queen’s close female attendants, is in a playful, flippant mood as she asks the soothsayer to tell her fortune. There is continuous bantering back and forth between the attendants and Enobarbus, who orders the dessert (fruit and wine, among other things) to be served. Through it all, the soothsayer (an older form of “truth sayer”) quietly tells the truth about their fortunes, without revealing the tragic nature of what is to come. He informs Charmian that she will outlive her mistress and that she has already seen better days than those that await her. She and the rest of the group are not in a serious mood, though, nor do they appear to actually believe the soothsayer’s reports.

Next, Cleopatra enters briefly, asking for Antony. As she sends Enobarbus to fetch him, she is aware that he is in a more somber mood than the previous night. She herself appears to be in a fickle, manipulative mood, for just after Enobarbus leaves, Alexas informs her that Antony is on his way. However, as he enters the room, Cleopatra decides that she doesn’t want to see him after all and leaves, her attendants and all others following.

Antony is now alone with a messenger, who tells him the latest news from abroad—that Fulvia, his wife, at first fought against his brother, Lucius, but that they were reconciled and joined forces against Caesar (Octavius), who immediately drove them out of Italy. Antony then urges the reluctant messenger to tell him the even worse news that his enemy, Labienus, who joined with the Parthians against Rome, has been busy making military conquests in the Near East while—and here the messenger breaks off. Antony quickly recognizes the error of his own ways and that he needs to change them at once, and he urges the messenger to be straightforward with him. With that, the messenger leaves and is followed by two more, the last of whom gives Antony a letter and the news that his wife Fulvia is dead.

Antony, now alone, laments the death of Fulvia, whom he calls a “great spirit” and “good,” and he reaffirms his need to break Cleopatra’s destructive hold on him. At this point, Enobarbus enters, and Antony informs him that he (Antony) needs to leave immediately. Enobarbus, who appears to not take Antony seriously, comments on how women suffer from the absence of their men. Referring to Cleopatra, he notes how often and easily she has “died” on losing a lover. His lighthearted speeches extol her virtues while Antony protests that she is cunning and that he wishes he had never seen her. Finally, he interrupts Enobarbus to tell him that Fulvia is dead, to which Enobarbus—still lightly—replies that that would only be a tragedy if there were no other women in the world but that another “petticoat” stands ready to take her place. Antony finally drums home the seriousness of the situation, which embraces potentially dangerous political changes: Fulvia’s exploits prior to her death now require Antony’s involvement; Sextus Pompeius, son of Pompey the Great, has taken to piracy and challenged Octavius; and Antony’s friends and allies in Rome have requested his presence. The scene ends as he instructs Enobarbus to inform the officers of their approaching departure, while he takes it upon himself to speak to Cleopatra.

As Scene 3 opens, we find Cleopatra with her attendants Charmian and Alexas.


Cleopatra is wondering where Antony has gone and is devising ways to manipulate his emotions. Finally, she sends Alexas to look for him and bring him back quickly. Once alone, Charmian expresses her doubts about how the queen is dealing with her lover. Charmian advises her to be agreeable, but Cleopatra calls her a fool and says that her method is a sure way to lose a man.

When Antony enters the room, the queen begins to manipulate him by pretending to be faint and ill. Unaware of Fulvia’s death, she plays on Antony’s emotions by pretending to feel jealous, betrayed, and powerless to control him. How can she possibly trust him, she wonders, if he is unfaithful to Fulvia? Antony keeps trying to speak, but Cleopatra continually interrupts him. She then tells him to just go and not to bother speaking, saying that the time for that should have been when he was professing his eternal love but that now, he—the world’s greatest soldier—had become the world’s greatest liar.

After several attempts, Antony finally breaks through Cleopatra’s drama to inform her of the latest developments overseas and to assure her that, though he needs to leave, his heart will still be with her. He tells her how Pompeius is nearing the port of Rome, how he is gaining power with the current government’s detractors, and how political unrest could lead to desperate moves. Finally, he informs her of Fulvia’s death. At first, Cleopatra is unsure whether to believe him; but when Antony assures her that it’s true and gives her the letter, she becomes indignant, calling him false and claiming to see now how he will react when she dies.

Antony finally tries to convince Cleopatra by swearing on the sun that his actions will be in accordance with her orders. Cleopatra does not believe him (her statement that she is well again because Antony loves her is tongue in cheek). He insists, however, that he is a faithful and honorable lover. She replies, again sarcastically, that Fulvia said the same thing about him, and then she mockingly asks him to turn and weep for Fulvia and to pretend as he says goodbye that his tears are for her. When she accuses him of putting on a false appearance of honor, Antony starts to become angry; but Cleopatra continues egg him on, so he decides to leave.

In their final exchange, Cleopatra gropes around for a last word, and her statement about “her oblivion” has been interpreted as either forgetfulness or her fear of being forgotten by Antony. Antony’s answer that she is the epitome of “idleness” (a term with multiple meanings) implies that she is toying with him. Her answer, which indicates that she is softening, is that to be “idle” in this way is hard work. She then says that she realizes that his honor calls him and that her folly is no reason to stay, and she sends him away with her blessings. As Antony departs, he pledges that though they are apart, they will be with each other in spirit.

Scene 4 takes place in Rome, and it opens upon Lepidus, Caesar (Octavius), and their attendants, who all enter the room together. Octavius is reading a letter.


Caesar begins the conversation by saying that it is not natural for him to hate Antony, whose greatness he acknowledges; but Antony’s recent drunken and wasteful behavior is so shameful and unmanly that Caesar views him as the epitome of vice. Lepidus defends him by saying that he cannot believe that he is so bad that his goodness is no longer obvious, and he guesses that Antony’s faults are inherited, so that he cannot help himself. Caesar’s answer is tongue in cheek at first as he essentially says: “Of course, it’s all right to give up the kingdom for a love affair, to drink with a slave, to stagger drunken through the streets in broad daylight and trade blows with sweaty scoundrels …” But he adds that Antony’s behavior is endangering both them and himself and that he should know better.

At this point, a messenger enters with news, in accordance with Caesar’s request for hourly reports on the latest events. He tells them that Pompey’s naval forces are strong and that he has gained favor among the discontented among the current regime’s people. Caesar replies that he is not surprised by the fickleness of the people, since leaders are often loved until they gain power and that afterwards the people change their minds. Another messenger enters to announce that two infamous pirates, Menecrates and Menas, have taken control of the sea and are attacking and frightening Italy’s coasts. Between them and Pompey, much damage is being done.

The news prompts Caesar to plead rhetorically with Antony (since Antony isn’t actually present) to stop his drunken behavior. He then recalls Antony’s former greatness: how, after killing the consuls Hirsius and Pansa in battle following Julius Caesar’s assassination, they lost the battle anyway, and Antony was forced to leave Italy; how he endured difficulties and sufferings that would have vanquished other men—drinking urine, eating wild berries and flesh that others could not stand to look at. Yet he bore it all like the noble soldier that he was and never lost his health.

When Lepidus responds by saying what a shame it is that Antony’s behavior has declined so much, Octavius replies that Antony’s shame should impel him to return to Rome. He is eager to summon the council so that they can return to the battlefield, since Pompey grows stronger through their inaction. Lepidus and Caesar part with promises to keep each other informed of any news, either on land or at sea.

Back in Alexandria, we find Cleopatra in her quarters with her attendants, Charmian, Iras, and Mardian, the eunuch. Unlike in previous scenes, where she seemed more aloof, this scene begins to reveal Cleopatra’s real feelings about Antony.


As the scene opens, Cleopatra is asking Charmian to bring her mandragora, a sleeping potion. When Charmian asks why, the queen tells her that it is so that she can sleep away the time that Antony is gone, to which Charmian replies that Cleopatra thinks about him too much.

Cleopatra then calls over the eunuch Mardian, and in a bantering exchange that includes witty remarks about the advantages and disadvantages of being castrated, she asks him whether he has any desires. He answers that, yes, he has strong desires and often thinks about making love but can do nothing (other than honest, upright labor).

Easily distracted, Cleopatra turns again to Charmian as she launches into a daydreaming monologue about Antony. Where is he now, the queen wonders—and what is he doing? We see in this speech how smitten Cleopatra is—yet not entirely because she also reminisces about her former affairs with Julius Caesar and Sextus Pompeius’ older brother, also named Pompey; and the overall impression is that she is in love with power as much as with love.

Alexas now enters the room and greets Cleopatra, having just come from Antony before his departure from Egypt. He presents her with a pearl (which he says Antony kissed many times) and a memorized speech from Antony, in which he promises to conquer many kingdoms in Cleopatra’s name.

Cleopatra asks Alexas about Antony’s mood as he was leaving, and he answers that he was neither happy nor sad. Again, Cleopatra launches into a monologue about Antony’s excellent sense of balance: she notes that he is careful to not seem too sad, knowing that others emulate him; yet at the same time, he is not too happy, which suggests that he misses Cleopatra. But, she says, if he were to express either extreme, there would still be no one who could match his appearance.

Cleopatra then turns to Alexas and asks whether he happened to meet any of her messengers. He answers, yes, that he saw more than twenty and wonders why she sent so many. The queen replies emphatically that there will not be one day when she forgets to write to Antony. She then orders Charmian to bring her ink and paper, asking her opinion about whether she ever loved Caesar as much as Antony. Charmian, playful and flippant as ever, exclaims how delightful Caesar was, as Cleopatra threatens to choke and bloody her; to which Charmian replies that she is just imitating Cleopatra. Cleopatra explains that she was young and naïve at the time, then demands ink and paper again, with the determination to write to Antony daily.

Act II, Scene 1 opens in Messina, Sicily, with Sextus Pompeius, also known as Pompey, discussing political and military affairs with his friends Menecrates and Menas. Their manner is described as being “warlike,” and it is clear that they mean business.


The conversation begins with a discussion of whether or not the gods are on their side. Pompey then assesses the situation from a practical, human point of view. He is convinced that he will do well; he is popular with the people, he is the dominant power at sea, and his strength is constantly growing. He also believes that Mark Antony is still whiling away the time in Egypt, with no interest in war. Octavius Caesar seems to be losing favor with the people, while Lepidus appears to have no great love for either Caesar or Antony, though he flatters both of them; nor do they seem, in Pompey’s judgment, to like Lepidus overly much.

Menas informs him that Caesar and Lepidus have gone to the battlefield with considerable forces. Pompey demands to know where he got this information, claiming that it’s false. Menas replies that Silvius told him, to which Pompey answers that he is dreaming. He is convinced that Caesar and Lepidus are in Rome waiting for Antony, who still remains bewitched by Cleopatra’s spell of lust, wine, food, and sleep.

Varrius, another of Pompey’s friends, now enters and delivers the news that Mark Antony is expected to arrive in Rome at any time. This, of course, is not what Pompey wants to hear, and he is surprised that Antony, whom he considers twice as good a soldier as the other two triumvirs, has roused himself from his stupor for such a minor battle; but he also realizes that this latest move by Antony indicates that he understands their growing strength. Menas does not believe that Antony and Caesar will get along, especially since Antony’s brother and his now dead wife, Fulvia, went to war against Caesar. But Pompey recognizes that, though Caesar and Antony have reason to quarrel among themselves, Pompey and his forces represent a greater threat and may be cause enough for them to patch up their differences. Right before departing with his friends, Pompey again invokes the will of the gods and at the same time confirms the need to use all their own strength against their foe.

In the second scene of Act II, we find ourselves back in Rome.

As the scene opens, Lepidus is requesting that Enobarbus convince Antony to approach Caesar in a civil manner. There is evidently still some bad feelings between Caesar and Antony because Enobarbus is not particularly cooperative, saying that he will encourage Antony to speak as he would anyway and that if he (Enobarbus) were Antony, he would not even bother shaving for Caesar. Lepidus reminds him that this is not a time for bitterness and that small matters should give way to larger ones, but Enobarbus insists that sometimes small (personal) matters come first.

As Antony enters with Ventidius, another of his supporters, Lepidus asks Enobarbus to avoid stirring up trouble. Enobarbus points out that Caesar and two of his group, Maecenas and Agrippa, have also just arrived from a different direction. Both Antony and Caesar are conversing with their friends when Lepidus greets them.

Lepidus now repeats to them what he was saying earlier to Enobarbus: that they have come together to take care of weighty matters and that smaller matters should, therefore, be handled in a courteous and diplomatic manner. Antony and Caesar both agree. There is a musical fanfare, and Caesar welcomes Antony to Rome. After exchanging courtesies, they both sit.

Antony begins the discussion by mentioning hearsay that Caesar has a poor opinion of him in things that either are not true or not his concern. Caesar answers that the idea is laughable and that he did not speak ill of Antony and had no interest in talking about him. Antony asks him how he felt about his being in Egypt, to which Caesar replies that it meant no more to him than his being in Rome means to Antony, unless Antony’s presence in Egypt meant that he was plotting against him. When Antony asks him to explain what he means, Caesar brings up the issue of Antony’s brother and wife having gone to war against him in Antony’s name.  Antony replies that the information is untrue and that his brother’s warring was as much against him as against Caesar. He adds that Caesar will have to do better than that if he wants to choose something to fight over and that he (Antony) also did not approve of his brother’s war. Referring to his wife, he further adds that Caesar could manage his empire (a third of the world) more easily than he could handle such an unmanageable wife.

Caesar then asks Antony why he neglected to read his letters and why he mistreated his messenger. Antony replies that he had been feasting with company (which implies that he had also done a lot of drinking) and was not himself, but he states that he tried to ask the messenger’s pardon the following day and that, again, this issue was not worth quarreling over.

Next Caesar asks Antony why he broke his oath. When Lepidus begins to intervene to keep things civil, Antony says to let Caesar speak because of the importance of the subject. Caesar continues with the assertion that Antony denied him military support when he needed it. Antony replies that it was more a case of neglect—that he was in a poisonous state in which he barely knew himself. He is willing to ask for forgiveness, but he will not deny his inherent honor or greatness. He then explains that the real reason for the war started by his brother and wife was Fulvia’s jealousy and that that was her way of getting Antony to leave Egypt. Again, he humbles himself and asks for pardon.

Lepidus, always the diplomat, periodically voices his encouragement of anything that will help to establish rationality and peace between the triumvirs. Maecenas then speaks up and reminds Antony and Caesar that they have more serious things to take care of than their mutual quarrels. Enobarbus adds in agreement that there will be time enough for their quarrels when they have nothing better to do and that they can take them up again once they have dealt with Pompey. Antony notices his flippant tone and instructs him to be quiet since he’s just a soldier. Enobarbus makes a few more quips, prompting Antony to inform him that his behavior is inappropriate in the presence of the current company (meaning Caesar). Caesar says that he is not bothered so much by what Enobarbus says but by how he says it. He is further concerned that he and Antony will not be able to sustain their friendship when their characters are so different as their actions show. But he adds that if there were a way to bind them together, he would travel the world to find it.

Agrippa then asks Caesar for permission to speak. He mentions that Caesar has a sister, Octavia, and that Antony is now a widower. Caesar protests that Cleopatra would not appreciate that statement, but Antony affirms that he is not married and asks to hear what Agrippa has to say. Agrippa’s point, which he considered for a long time before speaking, is that if Antony were to marry Octavia, then her love would bind him and Caesar together in brotherly love and thus seal their alliance. Both Antony and Caesar wholeheartedly agree to the plan and clasp their hands in a profession of permanent friendship.

The conversation next turns to war. Pompey, their enemy, has shown surprising courtesy toward Antony lately, putting him in somewhat of a diplomatic bind. Antony’s plan is, therefore, to thank Pompey first and attack him afterwards. Caesar reminds them of the urgency of the situation—that if they don’t seek him out soon, he will certainly seek them out. They discuss his whereabouts near Mount Misena and the fact that his land forces are large and keep growing stronger and that he is unsurpassed at sea. But they decide that they need to complete the marriage arrangements before dealing with Pompey, and with that, the triumvirs make their exit, leaving their followers behind to talk among themselves.

Maecenas now takes a moment to welcome Enobarbus, who also greets him and Agrippa in turn. They ask him whether the stories they have heard about Egypt are true, and he confirms them, describing their lifestyle of carousing and feasting. But most of all, he describes Cleopatra and her barge in great detail—its gold and purple colors, the perfumed sails and silver oars, the flute music, and Cleopatra herself, dressed in gold and surrounded by boy attendants with fans of various colors. He goes on to describe Antony and Cleopatra’s first meeting, Cleopatra’s hold on Julius Caesar, her magnetic beauty and ability to arouse when other women grow tiresome. Maecenas hopes that Octavia’s more modest beauty and wisdom can satisfy Antony and bring him good fortune. Finally, Agrippa invites Enobarbus to stay as his guest while in Rome.

Act II, Scene 3 takes place in the home of Octavius Caesar. As the scene opens, Caesar, Antony, and Octavia enter, with Octavia in the middle.

The conversation begins with Antony telling Octavia that his duties will take him away from her for while. She responds by saying that she will spend the time praying for him. Antony then asks her to not judge him by what she hears of him. He admits that he has not led an entirely upright life, but he now promises to mend his ways. Caesar and Octavia bid Antony good night and leave the room.

The soothsayer enters the room, and Antony calls him over, asking him whether he would rather be in Egypt. The soothsayer says that he wishes that neither he nor Antony had ever left. Antony asks him his reason for saying so, and the soothsayer replies that he senses that Antony will return to Egypt. Antony then asks him whose fortunes will be greater—his or Caesar’s. Without hesitating, the soothsayer answers: Caesar’s; and he urges Antony to stay away from him. He says that his daemon is brave, strong, and noble when Caesar is not around but that it becomes weak and afraid in his presence. He continues that if Antony competes with Caesar in anything, he will certainly lose. Caesar’s natural luck will even let him win against the odds. As he finishes his premonition, he warns Antony again to stay away from Caesar. Antony tells the soothsayer to be gone but also to tell Ventidius that he would like to speak to him.

The soothsayer leaves, and Antony, now alone, first mentions that he will be sending Ventidius to Parthia. Speaking of the soothsayer, he then adds that, whether by skill or by luck, he has spoken the truth. He then muses about Caesar’s extraordinary luck, how even Antony’s greater skill is no match for it. Whatever they do together, whether they are drawing lots or cockfighting, if they compete, Caesar will always win. Even when all the odds are against Caesar, for example, when his quails are fenced in, they still beat Antony’s. He decides to return to Egypt, for though he intends to marry Octavia to keep the peace, his passion lies in Egypt (what he calls “th’ East”).

Ventidius enters at this point, and Antony informs him that he (Ventidius) needs to go to Parthia and that his commission is ready. He tells him to follow him, and they both leave.

Act II, Scene 4 takes place at Lepidus’ house, where Lepidus, Maecenas, and Agrippa have met as they prepare to go to war.

The scene begins with Lepidus dismissing Agrippa and Maecenas as he tells them to quickly follow their generals, Caesar and Antony. Agrippa assures him that all Antony has to do is kiss Octavia goodbye, and they will follow. Lepidus bids them farewell and looks forward to seeing them in soldiers’ attire, which he says will suit both of them well. Maecenas guesses that they will reach Mount Mesina before Lepidus, and Lepidus confirms this, saying that their way is shorter and that he has things to do that will take him off course. He believes that they will gain two days on him. Maecenus and Agrippa both wish Lepidus success as Lepidus bids them a final farewell.

Act II, Scene 5 takes us back to Alexandria, where we find Cleopatra with her attendants, Charmian, Iras, and Alexas.

Cleopatra is in one of her fickle moods again. She calls for music, so her attendants shout for the musician. When Mardian the eunuch appears, she suddenly changes her mind and decides that she wants to play billiards instead. Charmian complains that her arm is sore and recommends that Cleopatra play with Mardian, to which Cleopatra replies that she might as well, since for a woman, playing with a eunuch is just as good as playing with a woman. She asks Mardian if he’ll play with her, and he answers that he’ll do his best. At that point, Cleopatra changes her mind again and decides that she’d rather go fishing. She fantasizes about catching slimy fish and pretending that they’re Antony. Charmian and Cleopatra reminisce about the time she played a joke on Antony, when her diver attached a fish to his hook—how much she laughed, how they drank the night away, and then, how she dressed him in her clothes while she wore his sword.

At this point, a messenger enters from Italy. Cleopatra is eager for good news, but then senses from his manner that something is amiss. She becomes dramatic, jumping to the conclusion that the messenger will tell her that Antony is dead but then resolves to hear the actual message. The messenger begins to tell her that Antony is well, when she interrupts in her dramatic manner, interjecting both threats and promises of wealth. The messenger keeps trying to get her to listen, and she keeps interrupting until she finally begins to settle down and he is able to deliver his message bit by bit.

He informs her (again) that Antony is well and that he is committed friends with Caesar, but yet … At this point, Cleopatra abruptly informs him that she does not like the sound of “But yet.” After she rants a bit, he finally tells her that Antony is now married to Octavia. Cleopatra goes momentarily pale and then reacts by cursing and hitting him. The messenger protests that he didn’t make the match. Cleopatra promises him lands and riches if he will deny the truth. Instead, being an honest messenger, he repeats it. When she pulls a knife on him, he decides to run for his life. Charmian pleads with her mistress to contain herself—that the man is innocent. Cleopatra asserts that some innocents don’t escape the wrath of heaven. She then instructs Charmian to call the messenger back. When Charmian says that he is afraid, Cleopatra promises to not hit him.

When the messenger comes back in, Cleopatra informs him that bad news is never welcome even when it’s honest. The messenger replies that he has done duty. Cleopatra then repeatedly asks him, as though looking for a different answer, to tell her whether Antony is married. The messenger answers honestly each time, between her threats, insults, curses, and rantings. Cleopatra finally tells him to leave, throwing curses at him as he goes.

Charmian again pleads with her to be patient. Cleopatra feels that she has insulted Caesar by praising Antony and that she is now paying for it. Feeling faint, she asks to be led away. But first she tells Alexas to pursue the messenger in order to ask for all relevant details about Octavia—her age, temperament, hair color, and so on. After Alexas leaves, she continues a bit with her delirious rantings and then asks Charmian to lead her to her room.

Act II, Scene 6 takes place in the port of Misenum, west of Naples. There is a musical fanfare as Pompey enters with Menas on one side and the triumvirs with their followers and lesser soldiers on the other. They are all in military mode.

The triumvirs have offered Pompey written terms of a possible truce, and they are now meeting to hear his judgment and hopefully avoid having to go to battle with each other. Pompey, though himself powerful at sea, acknowledges them as the new Roman power, now that the previous triumvirate of the Roman Republic has come to an end with the death of Julius Caesar. Pompey’s father, Pompey the Great, was originally Caesar’s ally but later opposed him. Pompey seems to be saying that Caesar’s excessive ambition and Rome’s cruelty toward his father led him to amass a navy in order to take revenge. Caesar tells Pompey to take his time, apparently referring to Pompey’s response to the written message they sent him. Antony then informs Pompey that though they may be equal at sea, he is no match for them on land.

At this point, Lepidus prompts Pompey to inform them of his opinion regarding the terms they have offered. Pompey agrees to the offer, which gives him the islands of Sicily and Sardinia and also requires that he clear the sea of pirates and send bushels of wheat to Rome. Pompey informs them that he came prepared to take their offer, but he also clarifies to Antony that he welcomed his mother when she came to Sicily during the war between Mark Antony’s brother and Octavius Caesar. Antony tells him that he is aware of his hospitality and thanks him for it. They clasp hands in friendship as Pompey tells Antony that he had not expected to see him there. Antony replies that although Egpyt’s beds are soft (and therefore enticing), he left earlier than originally planned because matters abroad had become urgent.

Caesar mentions how Pompey has changed since they last met. Pompey replies that he does not know how his face has changed but that his heart will never be the slave of fortune. Lepidus says that their meeting has been good, to which Pompey replies that he hopes so, as well. He adds that he is eager to have their agreement formalized, and Caesar agrees that that will be the next step.

The conversation turns to lighter matters as Pompey suggests that they feast each other before they part ways. He recommends that they draw lots to see who will go first. Antony volunteers, but Pompey insists on drawing lots, even though he is sure that Antony’s Egyptian cooking will outdo the rest. He adds that he even heard that Julius Caesar grew fat on Egypt’s delicious food. He starts to say that he also heard that Apollodorus carried—but at this point, Enobarbus interrupts him to confirm the story that Cleopatra was carried in to Caesar wrapped up in a mattress.

Recognizing Enobarbus, Pompey asks him how he is doing. Enobarbus replies that he is fine, especially with four feasts coming up. Pompey offers to shake his hand, claiming that he never hated him and that he admires what he has seen of his fighting. In his usual blunt manner, Enobarbus replies that he never loved Pompey and that his praises of him have deserved ten times the credit that Enobarbus gave him. Pompey responds graciously by telling Enobarbus not to worry—that his bluntness suits him. Pompey then invites everyone aboard his ship and exits with the triumvirs, leaving only Menas and Enobarbus behind.

Menas mumbles to himself in an aside that Pompey’s father would never have made such a treaty. He then turns to Enobarbus to say that he believes they have met before. Enobarbus thinks it was at sea. They exchange a few compliments, then—somewhat jokingly—mutually accuse each other of thievery. Enobarbus then offers to shake Menas’ hand in friendship.

After exchanging a few more jokes about thievery and trustworthiness, Enobarbus says that they originally came there to fight with them. Convinced that Pompey has made a bad move, Menas replies that he regrets that they will be drinking instead. He mentions that they had not expected to see Mark Antony and wonders whether he is married to Cleopatra. Enobarbus replies that he is married to Caesar’s sister, Octavia. Surprised at first, Menas then concludes that the marriage should seal a permanent bond between Caesar and Antony. Enobarbus replies that he sees things turning out differently, and Menas guesses that the marriage was made for political reasons and not for love, to which Enobarbus agrees. He then expresses his belief that Octavia’s saintly, cool, and quiet temperament will be the undoing of Caesar and Antony’s friendship. Menas wonders whether all men would not want that sort of temperament in their wives, and Enobarbus answers not those who do not share the same sort of character. He adds that Antony will return to his Egyptian love and that Octavia’s sighs will ignite Caesar’s anger toward him, so that what was meant to strengthen their relationship will be its undoing. He adds that Antony may be married, but his heart is in Egypt.

As the conversation comes to an end, Menas invites Enobarbus to board the ship with him and offers to drink a toast to him. Enobarbus accepts, and they go on board.

Act II, Scene 7 takes place on board Pompey’s ship in the port of Misenum. There is music playing as we see several servants carrying in the wine.

The party is well under way, and we find out from the servants’ conversation that the guests have been drinking so much that they can hardly stand and that Lepidus, who has been tricked into drinking too much, is in the worst shape. The servants speak of him as the weakest of the triumvirs, a man who bears the name without the power; and they compare him to a planet that does not move or a face with sunken cheeks and no eyes.

A trumpet announces the arrival of the group as Pompey and the triumvirs enter, followed by their friends, additional captains, and a boy. Antony is explaining to Lepidus the ebbing and flooding patterns of the Nile River and how it feeds the harvest. Lepidus is asking Antony about Egypt’s serpents and crocodiles when Pompey offers him a toast. As Lepidus rambles on about the pyramids, Menas draws Pompey aside to speak to him in private. While this is going on, Lepidus continues rambling on about Egypt’s serpents and crocodiles, with Antony giving him tongue-in-cheek answers that are actually no answers at all, a fact that Caesar picks up on.

In the meantime, Pompey appears shocked by what Menas has been whispering in his ear and tells him to get away from him, but Menas is undaunted. Pompey tells him that he is insane, but Menas answers by insisting that he has served Pompey faithfully. He then asks Pompey whether he wants to be the ruler of the whole world. Pompey again reacts with shock, so Menas repeats the question and asserts that he (Menas) is the one who will make it possible for him. When Pompey asks him if he is drunk, Menas denies it and then proceeds to tell him of his plot to assassinate the triumvirs while they have them conveniently on board the ship. Pompey tells him that it might have been a good idea if he had just done it, and Pompey had found out later, but Pompey himself is bound to honor first and profit second and cannot now approve such an act. Disgruntled, Menas says in an aside to himself that he no longer cares to follow Pompey now that he has declined his offer even though (in Menas’ belief) it was what Pompey wanted.

With the conversation now over, Pompey and Menas return to the party. Pompey raises a toast to Lepidus, who is so drunk that he needs to be carried off the ship. Pompey mentions to Antony that the feast still does not match the Egyptian parties, but Antony replies that it’s getting close. Antony proposes a toast to Caesar, who says he would rather refrain since he doesn’t like the effects of too much drinking. Enobarbus calls for them all to join hands as they drink and dance to loud music, and Antony seconds the motion, suggesting that they drink themselves into a state of forgetfulness. A young boy musician sings a song to Bacchus, the god of drinking, music, and wild revelings.

Caesar decides that they have all had enough and bids Pompey good night. Turning to Antony, he suggests that it is time for them to go. He notices that Enobarbus, who is strong, is overcome by drink and that he himself is slurring his words. Besides, they have serious business to attend to that is more important than feasting.

Caesar, Antony, and Pompey exit to go down into the ship’s rowboat, leaving only Menas and Enobarbus, who has decided to stay behind. Menas offers to let Enobarbus stay in his cabin for the night and then orders music to send off the rulers.

Act III opens on a battlefield in Syria. Ventidius, one of Antony’s followers, marches in a triumphal procession that bears the dead body of the vanquished Pacorus, son of the Parthian king, Orodes. Ventidius is accompanied by Silius, another of Antony’s followers, as well as other Romans.

Ventidius opens the scene with a rhetorical speech directed at Orodes (who is not present), telling him how the death of his son, Pacorus, has paid for his killing of Marcus Crassus, one the triumvirs of the Roman Republic along with Julius Caesar and Pompey the Great. Silius warns him that while his sword is still warm with blood from the death of Pacorus, the rest of the Parthians are fleeing. He urges him to follow after them quickly through Media and Mesopotamia, so that Antony may crown him with triumphal victories. Ventidius replies that he has already done enough and that to do too much in Antony’s absence would be to risk outdoing and thus offending his captain. Silius compliments Ventidius for his discretion, a necessary quality for a soldier who wants to gain distinction. He then asks Ventidius if he plans to write to Antony. Ventidius replies that he will humbly relate what they have done in Antony’s name—how under his banner they chased Parthia’s cavalry, which had never before been beaten, off the field. Silius asks where Antony is now. Ventidius answers that Antony is planning to go to Athens, where they, too, must meet him, and that they, therefore, must rush there as quickly as their load permits. The scene ends with Ventidius urging the troops onward.

Scene 2 of Act III takes place back at Caesar’s house in Rome. Enobarbus and Agrippa enter the room from different doors.

Agrippa, referring to Caesar and Antony as brothers (brothers-in-law), asks Enobarbus if they have left. Enobarbus tells him that they have completed their business with Pompey, who has left, and that the triumvirs are now finalizing the agreement. He adds that Octavia is crying over having to leave Rome, that Caesar has grown serious and that Lepidus is suffering from anemia after his drinking bout. Agrippa then praises Lepidus’ noble nature, and Enobarbus and Agrippa get into a spirited debate over whether Lepidus loves Caesar or Antony more since he praises both of them exceedingly. The scene gives the impression that they are somewhat jokingly imitating Lepidus’ praises. Agrippa exalts Antony while Enobarbus votes for Caesar as the greatest of men (presumably in Lepidus’ eyes). In the end, they conclude that no one can match Lepidus’ love for Antony but that his love for Caesar is practically equal to religious devotion.

A trumpet sounds, alerting Enobarbus that the time has come to mount his horse for their departure. Enobarbus bids Agrippa goodbye, and Agrippa in turn wishes him good luck.

Next, Caesar, Antony, Lepidus, and Octavia enter. They are in the process of saying goodbye. Caesar encourages Antony to take good care of his beloved sister, and he urges Octavia to be a good wife to Antony, as he is convinced she will be. Turning again to Antony, he exhorts him to not let this chance at sealing their brotherhood be ruined; for if that happens, if Octavia is not loved equally by both of them, their friendship would stand a better chance if they didn’t use her as an intermediary. Antony assures Caesar that there is no reason for his lack of trust, and he wishes the blessings of the gods upon Caesar as he tells him that it is time for them to depart.

Caesar and Octavia then bid each other farewell as Caesar wishes his sister a good and comfortable voyage. Antony likens the tears in her eyes to April showers, which bring the spring. Octavia then whispers something in Caesar’s ear. Observing a change on his face, Enobarbus wonders to Agrippa whether Caesar is going to cry. Agrippa also notices the change, and Enobarbus expresses his opinion that this is not a good thing. Agrippa, however, reminds him how Antony wailed loudly at both Julius Caesar’s and Brutus’ deaths, but Enobarbus makes the excuse that Antony was suffering from a cold that year.

Caesar assures Octavia that she will hear from him and that he will be thinking of her. Antony likewise assures Caesar that his love is strong, and after embracing him, bids him goodbye again. They all say goodbye to each other a few more times, with Lepidus calling on the stars to give them light along the way. As the trumpets sound, they finally exit.

The scene takes place in Alexandria. Cleopatra enters with her attendants, Charmian, Iras, and Alexas.

The scene begins with Cleopatra asking Charmian where the messenger is. He is the same messenger that Cleopatra harassed earlier in the play, which explains Charmian’s response that he is half afraid to enter the room. Cleopatra responds with the equivalent of “Come on!” and when the messenger enters the room, she tells him to approach. He does so reluctantly, saying that King Herod would not even dare to come near her unless she was in a good mood. In her usual manner, she responds that she would have Herod’s head, though she quickly adds that she wonders how as long as Antony is away. Again, she tells the messenger to come nearer. He does so, and we see that since his last visit to the Egyptian court, he has learned speak in a more cautious and flattering manner to Cleopatra, which he does throughout the scene.

Cleopatra finally gets to the point: Did he see Octavia? Yes. Where? In Rome, with Caesar and Antony on each side. Is Octavia as tall as Cleopatra? No. Is her voice shrill or soft? The messenger replies that she speaks softly, which Cleopatra guesses cannot please Antony for long. Charmian exclaims that Antony cannot possibly like her, to which Cleopatra, of course, agrees as she lists Octavia’s supposed faults. Next she wants to know whether her bearing is majestic. How does she walk? The messenger says that she is more like a statue than a living, breathing person. When Cleopatra asks whether this is certain, the messenger places his observational powers on the line. This elicits a round of praises from Charmian and Cleopatra for his keen ability to observe. Next the queen asks how old Octavia is. The messenger first says that she is a widow, which gets Cleopatra’s attention, and then he guesses that she is thirty. Cleopatra then asks whether her face is long or round. The messenger answers that it is round to a fault, to which Cleopatra adds that people with round faces are usually foolish. Then she asks about her hair color. Brown, he says, and then adds that her forehead is low. Cleopatra gives him some gold and tells him that he shouldn’t feel too bad about her previous mean behavior toward him. She tells him that she will hire him again and that she finds him highly suitable for business. She then orders him to prepare to go, as the letters are ready.

After the messenger leaves, Charmian and Cleopatra praise his qualities, and Cleopatra expresses her remorse for having abused him the last time. She is content that his description of Octavia indicates that she is no match for her own majesty. Cleopatra then remembers that she has something else to ask him but seems to imply that there is no rush, that Charmian will bring him to her where she (Cleopatra) can write and that everything should turn out well enough. The scene ends with Charmian’s assurance of cooperation.

Scene 4, which takes place in Athens, is a conversation between Antony and Octavia.

As the scene opens, we find Antony informing Octavia of what appears to be treacherous behavior on Caesar’s part. The first line is vague, but it seems to be saying that Caesar has either said or done a number of inexcusable things. On top of that, he has started a war against Pompey; he has read his will in public (another unclear phrase, but in general, it appears to mean that he is informing his people of the benefits they will receive from him); and he has spoken ill of Antony. Antony adds that when Caesar has had the chance to speak well of him, he has not taken it; and in those instances when he did honor him because he had to, his praise was artificial and forced.

Octavia urges Antony to not believe everything he hears, or if he believes it, to not resent it. She is deeply unhappy that she is caught in the middle, praying for both her husband and her brother. She is convinced that the gods will laugh at her as she first prays for her husband and then cancels out that prayer by beseeching them to bless her brother. She says that one prayer will destroy the other and that there is no middle ground between the two extremes.

Antony urges Octavia to let her love guide her to the person who will most seek to preserve it. He says that if he loses his honor, he loses himself and that it would be better to not belong to her than to be hers “so branchless,” which seems to mean that he would be shorn of his fruitfulness. But he agrees to her request to act as a mediator between him and Caesar. In the meantime,  Antony will make preparations for a war that he says will eclipse Caesar. Then he adds that she should move quickly so that she can fulfill her desires.

Octavia thanks him, exclaiming moreover how the god of power has made her, the weakest of all, their reconciler. She says that war between them both would be as though the world should split in two and the rift be patched up with the bodies of slain men.

Antony tells her that once she has determined how this thing started, she should demonstrate her disapproval in that direction. He seems to be saying that his own and Caesar’s faults cannot be so equal to each other that she could choose to love each equally, and he adds that she should choose between them according to the dictates of her heart and the price it (her heart) is willing to pay.

Scene 5 is still in Athens, where Enobarbus and Eros, Antony’s attendant, discuss the state of events.

The scene begins with Eros telling Enobarbus that Caesar and Lepidus have made war against Pompey. Enobarbus replies that this is old news and asks about the outcome. Eros tells him that Caesar, having used Lepidus to his advantage in the war, denied him both equal partnership and a share in the triumph. He then accused him of writing letters to Pompey at an earlier point, and following that, he seized him and put him in jail, where Lepidus now sadly waits till death releases him from his imprisonment.

Enobarbus gives a rhetorical reply, as though speaking to the world in general. He tells it that it no longer possesses a set of jaws (apparently referring to the triumvirs), adding that even if the world threw all the food it had between them (the jaws), they (the triumvirs) would grind one another, presumably to death. Enobarbus then asks where Antony is.

Eros replies that he is walking in the garden, and as he speaks, he imitates Antony walking angrily. He adds that Antony kicks the reed mat before him, crying “Fool Lepidus!” And he threatens to cut the throat of the officer who killed Pompey.

Enobarbus mentions that their immense navy is prepared to depart. Eros adds that it will be bound for Italy and Caesar. He then informs Enobarbus that Antony wants to see him immediately, adding that he could have, in fact, told him the news later. Enobarbus says that it probably doesn’t matter, and they both exit as he brings him to Antony.

Back at Caesar’s house in Rome, Caesar, Agrippa, and Maecenas are discussing Antony’s latest activities in Egypt. Caesar’s tone is shocked and angered as he speaks to Maecenas and Agrippa of Antony and Cleopatra’s public coronation in Alexandria. He starts by saying that Antony has scorned Rome as he establishes himself in Alexandria. He continues to describe their coronation, which took place on a silver-covered platform in the marketplace, with Antony and Cleopatra sitting on golden chairs. At their feet were their children, including Caesarion, whom Cleopatra bore to Julius Caesar—a thought that disgusts Octavius (Caesar), since he is Julius Caesar’s adopted son. Caesar also expresses his disdain for the rest of Antony and Cleopatra’s children, since they are illegitimate. He continues, saying that Antony has given Cleopatra the absolute rule of Egypt, the Near Eastern area of lower Syria, Lydia (in what is now Turkey), and the island of Cyprus.

Amazed apparently to the point of disbelief, Maecenas asks if this was all done in public. Caesar replies that it was in the public arena (where the people participate in various shows and games). He continues to say that Antony crowned his sons, Alexander and Ptolemy, kings of various Eastern areas while Cleopatra appeared dressed as the goddess Isis.

Maecenas says that Rome should be informed of this, and Agrippa adds that Antony will now thoroughly lose the goodwill of the Roman people, who are already sickened by his disrespect toward their city. Caesar tells them that the people already know about it and that they have heard Antony’s accusations. Agrippa asks Caesar whom Antony accuses, to which he replies that Antony accuses Caesar himself who, after spoiling Pompey, neglected to give Antony his share of Sicily. Antony also has complained that Caesar has not returned some ships that he loaned him. Finally, he is vexed that Lepidus has been deposed and that Caesar has retained all his income.

Agrippa states that these accusations should be addressed, to which Caesar answers that it has been done and that the messenger has already left. Caesar says that he told Antony that Lepidus had become too cruel, that he had abused his high standing and that he deserved what happened to him. Caesar adds that he is willing to divide with Antony the lands he has conquered but that in return he, too, wants a part of the kingdoms Antony has conquered. Maecenas says that Antony will never agree to that, and Caesar replies that, in that case, Antony will also receive nothing.

At this point, Octavia, who is newly arrived in Rome, enters with her attendants. She greets Caesar formally but enthusiastically. Caesar, in turn, laments that he should have to receive her as one who has been rejected. Octavia replies that he has no cause to call her so. Caesar then demands to know why she has come so stealthily. He adds that, as Caesar’s sister, she should have been accompanied by an army and horses long before she herself arrived. Instead, he says, she came to Rome like a market maid—meaning, without pomp or fanfare, but simply and unnoticed. He regrets that, not knowing of her journey, he was unable to demonstrate his love for her by meeting her at every stage of the voyage, by land and sea, with bigger and better greetings.

Octavia replies that she came in this manner of her own free will; that on hearing from Mark Antony that Caesar was preparing for war, she begged permission from him to return to Rome. Caesar replies that the reason Antony granted it so promptly was that her presence drew him away from the object of his lust. Octavia protests, saying that Caesar should not speak that way, but he tells her that he is watching Antony and that news of his doings comes to him “on the wind” (with great speed).

He then asks Octavia where Antony is now. She replies that he is in Athens. Caesar corrects her, informing her that Antony has joined Cleopatra—that he has sacrificed his empire, in Caesar’s words, for a whore. He adds that Antony and Cleopatra are gathering the kings of the earth together to prepare for war, and he then cites a long list of countries from the Middle East, Arabia, and North Africa.

Octavia laments her fate as the mediator between two warring friends. Caesar tells her that her letters to him delayed any action on his part until he realized that she had been misled and that further negligence from him would be dangerous. He then encourages her to take comfort and to not allow the events of the times trouble her, though they threaten to disrupt her happiness. Instead, she should allow destiny to unfold without mourning over it. He then welcomes her to Rome, saying that nothing is more dear to him; and he comforts her with the thought that the gods have seen the injustice of the poor treatment she has received and that they have assigned Caesar and those who love her to care for her.

Following that, Caesar, Agrippa, and Maecenas all welcome Octavia again, with Maecenas assuring her that all hearts in Rome are with her. He adds that the only one who rejects her is Antony, an adulterer who has given his rule to a harlot who cries out against Rome. Octavia asks (apparently in disbelief, since she has asked before) whether this is so, to which Caesar replies that it certainly is. He then welcomes her again, encouraging her to remain calm. The scene ends as he expresses his love for her.

Back at Caesar’s house in Rome, Caesar, Agrippa, and Maecenas are discussing Antony’s latest activities in Egypt. Caesar’s tone is shocked and angered as he speaks to Maecenas and Agrippa of Antony and Cleopatra’s public coronation in Alexandria. He starts by saying that Antony has scorned Rome as he establishes himself in Alexandria. He continues to describe their coronation, which took place on a silver-covered platform in the marketplace, with Antony and Cleopatra sitting on golden chairs. At their feet were their children, including Caesarion, whom Cleopatra bore to Julius Caesar—a thought that disgusts Octavius (Caesar), since he is Julius Caesar’s adopted son. Caesar also expresses his disdain for the rest of Antony and Cleopatra’s children, since they are illegitimate. He continues, saying that Antony has given Cleopatra the absolute rule of Egypt, the Near Eastern area of lower Syria, Lydia (in what is now Turkey), and the island of Cyprus.

Amazed apparently to the point of disbelief, Maecenas asks if this was all done in public. Caesar replies that it was in the public arena (where the people participate in various shows and games). He continues to say that Antony crowned his sons, Alexander and Ptolemy, kings of various Eastern areas while Cleopatra appeared dressed as the goddess Isis.

Maecenas says that Rome should be informed of this, and Agrippa adds that Antony will now thoroughly lose the goodwill of the Roman people, who are already sickened by his disrespect toward their city. Caesar tells them that the people already know about it and that they have heard Antony’s accusations. Agrippa asks Caesar whom Antony accuses, to which he replies that Antony accuses Caesar himself who, after spoiling Pompey, neglected to give Antony his share of Sicily. Antony also has complained that Caesar has not returned some ships that he loaned him. Finally, he is vexed that Lepidus has been deposed and that Caesar has retained all his income.

Agrippa states that these accusations should be addressed, to which Caesar answers that it has been done and that the messenger has already left. Caesar says that he told Antony that Lepidus had become too cruel, that he had abused his high standing and that he deserved what happened to him. Caesar adds that he is willing to divide with Antony the lands he has conquered but that in return he, too, wants a part of the kingdoms Antony has conquered. Maecenas says that Antony will never agree to that, and Caesar replies that, in that case, Antony will also receive nothing.

At this point, Octavia, who is newly arrived in Rome, enters with her attendants. She greets Caesar formally but enthusiastically. Caesar, in turn, laments that he should have to receive her as one who has been rejected. Octavia replies that he has no cause to call her so. Caesar then demands to know why she has come so stealthily. He adds that, as Caesar’s sister, she should have been accompanied by an army and horses long before she herself arrived. Instead, he says, she came to Rome like a market maid—meaning, without pomp or fanfare, but simply and unnoticed. He regrets that, not knowing of her journey, he was unable to demonstrate his love for her by meeting her at every stage of the voyage, by land and sea, with bigger and better greetings.

Octavia replies that she came in this manner of her own free will; that on hearing from Mark Antony that Caesar was preparing for war, she begged permission from him to return to Rome. Caesar replies that the reason Antony granted it so promptly was that her presence drew him away from the object of his lust. Octavia protests, saying that Caesar should not speak that way, but he tells her that he is watching Antony and that news of his doings comes to him “on the wind” (with great speed).

He then asks Octavia where Antony is now. She replies that he is in Athens. Caesar corrects her, informing her that Antony has joined Cleopatra—that he has sacrificed his empire, in Caesar’s words, for a whore. He adds that Antony and Cleopatra are gathering the kings of the earth together to prepare for war, and he then cites a long list of countries from the Middle East, Arabia, and North Africa.

Octavia laments her fate as the mediator between two warring friends. Caesar tells her that her letters to him delayed any action on his part until he realized that she had been misled and that further negligence from him would be dangerous. He then encourages her to take comfort and to not allow the events of the times trouble her, though they threaten to disrupt her happiness. Instead, she should allow destiny to unfold without mourning over it. He then welcomes her to Rome, saying that nothing is more dear to him; and he comforts her with the thought that the gods have seen the injustice of the poor treatment she has received and that they have assigned Caesar and those who love her to care for her.

Following that, Caesar, Agrippa, and Maecenas all welcome Octavia again, with Maecenas assuring her that all hearts in Rome are with her. He adds that the only one who rejects her is Antony, an adulterer who has given his rule to a harlot who cries out against Rome. Octavia asks (apparently in disbelief, since she has asked before) whether this is so, to which Caesar replies that it certainly is. He then welcomes her again, encouraging her to remain calm. The scene ends as he expresses his love for her.

Scene 8 takes place on a battlefield near Actium. Caesar, Taurus (his lieutenant), and the Roman Army enter marching.

Caesar orders Taurus to keep the army intact and to avoid striking by land until their business at sea is done. Handing him a scroll, he commands him to not digress from the rule laid down in it. He tells him that their fate depends on the success of this venture. Following that, they all exit.

Scene 9 takes place on the same battlefield. Antony and Enobarbus enter.

Antony informs Enobarbus that they are to set up their squadrons on the side of the hill in order to clearly view Caesar’s naval forces and then adjust their plan accordingly. They both exit.

Scene 10 continues on the same battlefield. Canidius first enters with his land troops as they march in one direction, while Taurus and his troops march in the other direction. Following this, the noise of a sea battle is heard. An alarm sounds as Enobarbus enters.

Enobarbus laments that the Egyptians are ruined and says that he cannot watch the battle any longer. The Egyptian flagship, the Antoniad, has fled the battle scene, followed by the other sixty ships, leaving Enobarbus in dismay.

Scarus, another of Antony’s followers, enters, invoking the whole pantheon of gods and goddesses. Enobarbus asks him what’s wrong. Scarus bemoans the fact that whole kingdoms—in fact, most of the world—have been lost through foolishness. Enobarbus asks him how the battle is going. Scarus replies that their side resembles the last stages of the plague, which end in certain death. He then rails on Cleopatra, calling her the obscene nag of Egypt and cursing her with leprosy because she fled in the midst of the battle, just as the advantage appeared equal on both sides—maybe even a little better on the Egyptian side. Enobarbus answers that he saw that and that the sight of it made him so sick that he was unable to continue watching. Scarus continues that once Cleopatra’s ships had caught a good wind, Antony—now destroyed by the magic hold she had on him—followed like a lovesick mallard, also leaving at the height of the battle. Scarus is appalled, saying that he has never witnessed such a shameful action, that never before had anyone ever violated his own experience, honor, and manhood like that.

Canidius enters as Enobarbus responds to Scarus’ news with a woeful exclamation. Canidius, too, laments that their luck at sea has run out and that their fortunes are sinking. He adds that if Antony, their general, had only acted within the bounds of reason and self-knowledge, things would have gone well for them. Instead, his own cowardly behavior in fleeing has set an example for his followers. Enobarbus understands by this that Canidius intends to desert Antony, and he asks him if this is so. Canidius says that the troops have fled toward Peloponnesus. Scarus says that getting there is easy and that he, too, will go there to await further developments. Canidius says that he will surrender himself and his army to Caesar and that six of the kings who fought with them have already done so. Enobarbus, on the other hand, chooses to follow Antony’s desperate chances, even though his reason advises him against it.

Scene 11 takes place back in Alexandria. Antony enters with his attendants.

Antony is so ashamed of his recent actions that he projects his feelings onto the land, saying that it is ashamed to let him walk upon it. Turning to his followers, he bids them approach. He tells them that he feels like someone who, traveling late at night, has forever lost his way in the dark. He further informs them that he has a ship full of gold, which they should take, and afterwards, that they should flee and make peace with Caesar.

His followers are surprised that Antony would even suggest such a thing, and they all protest, refusing to flee. Antony answers that he himself has fled and ordered cowards to turn their backs and run. But now he tells his friends to leave. He has decided on a course of action that will not require their help. Again, he urges them to take his treasure, the ship full of gold, which is in the harbor, and be gone. He laments that he followed what he is now ashamed to look upon (Cleopatra). Even the hairs on his head quarrel with each other: the white hairs scold the brown hairs for being reckless while the brown hairs reproach the white hairs for being fearful and foolish. Once again, he tells his friends to leave, promising to write letters to help them gain admittance to Caesar. He then asks them to not look sad or to hesitate but to take the opportunity that he is offering them in his moment of despair. He urges them to leave behind what has deserted itself (apparently referring to himself) since he feels that he has lost his ability to command.

As Antony sits, Cleopatra enters with Eros, one of Antony’s followers, and her attendants. Eros, Iras, and Charmian urge Cleopatra to go to Antony and comfort him. Antony, meanwhile, seems lost in reminiscences of past acts of bravery as he tries to deal with his mistake. Eros, Charmian, and Iras again encourage her to approach him, and they finally get Antony’s attention. Distraught, he asks her where she has led him. He tells her that to hide his shame from her, his only recourse is to look back to what has been destroyed—his past honor and courage. Moved by his sorrow, Cleopatra begs him to forgive her, adding that it hadn’t occurred to her that he would follow her lead. He replies that she knew full well how much power she had over him and that he would surely follow her. Again, Cleopatra begs for pardon. Antony continues, saying that he, who once commanded the world as he pleased, now has to humble himself before Caesar, who is much younger. And again he turns to Cleopatra to tell her that she knew the extent of her power over him and how his sword, weak with love, would obey that power under all circumstances.

As she begs for pardon again, he tells her that one of her tears or kisses will repay everything that has been lost and won. He seems distracted as he calls for the schoolmaster, whom he sent as a messenger to Caesar; and his line about being full of lead shows the intense heaviness of this heart.

The scene ends as he orders the servants to bring wine and food. The final rhyming couplet, which speaks of scorning fate most when times are worst, suggests that Antony is looking to cover his sorrows with temporary merriment.

Scene 12 takes place at Caesar’s camp in Egypt. Caesar appears with his supporters, Agrippa, Dolabella, Thidias, and others. Antony has sent the Egyptian schoolmaster as a messenger to Caesar, who is in the process of receiving him.

Caesar instructs Dolabella to allow Antony’s messenger to come forward, at the same time asking Dolabella whether he knows him. Dolabella says that he recognizes him as Antony’s schoolmaster and interprets Antony’s choice of messenger as a sign that things are not going well for him since not too long ago he had even kings at his beck and call.

The messenger enters and, on Caesar’s prompting, humbly introduces himself. Caesar instructs him to deliver his message. The messenger now pleads on Antony’s behalf, requesting that Caesar allow Antony to stay in Egypt; and if not, to live in Athens as a private citizen. He then transmits a message from Cleopatra, who submits herself to Caesar’s power and begs of him the Egyptian crown for her heirs, who are now at his mercy.

Unmoved, Caesar answers that he denies Antony’s request. Cleopatra will receive both an audience with him and her wishes if she either banishes or kills Antony. Having finished, Caesar sends the messenger on his way, ordering his men to escort him through the troops.

Next, he decides to put Thidias to the test by sending him to woo Cleopatra away from Antony with promises of whatever she asks for. He is to use his imagination while counting on the fickleness of women. In return for his efforts, Caesar will give Thidias whatever he wants. As Thidias is leaving, Caesar tells him to carefully observe Antony’s behavior and what it reveals about his state of mind. Thidias promises to do so and leaves.

Scene 13 takes place in Alexandria at Cleopatra’s palace. The queen enters, followed by Enobarbus and her attendants, Charmian and Iras.

Cleopatra asks Enobarbus whether he thinks that Antony’s recent actions in battle are her fault or his own. Enobarbus answers that they are fully Antony’s fault, since he should not have allowed his will and passion to govern his reason. As an experienced captain, he should have known better than to follow Cleopatra as she fled.

Cleopatra silences Enobarbus as Antony enters with the schoolmaster, his emissary. Antony finds out from him that Caesar will give Cleopatra what she wants if she delivers Antony’s head to him. Angered, Antony decides to send the envoy back to Caesar with the message that were it, not for Caesar’s youth and the trappings of power, people would not mistake him for a hero. His ministers would do as well under the command of a child. Antony, therefore, will dare Caesar to lay aside his trappings and fight him in single combat. He and the emissary leave to write the letter.

Speaking in an aside to himself, Enobarbus is skeptical of Antony’s plan. The idea that Caesar would lay aside his considerable military power to fight hand to hand in a gladiatorial duel is ridiculous. He sees that a person’s judgment and his fate are tightly bound and that outward events draw out inner qualities so that all of the person’s different aspects suffer to the same extent. He concludes that Antony is delusive and that Caesar has even conquered his judgment.

A servant enters to inform Cleopatra that an envoy from Caesar has arrived. Surprised at the lack of formality from Caesar, she realizes that she has gone down in his estimate. She compares herself to a rose, now in full bloom, that no longer receives the honor that was given the rosebud.

Enobarbus, again in an aside to himself, begins to doubt the value of remaining loyal, though he realizes that the person who persists in his faithfulness to a defeated lord gains merit in the eyes of the conqueror.

Thidias enters, prompting Cleopatra to ask about Caesar’s demands. Thidias asks to speak to her in private, but she insists that he speak openly, since privacy is reserved for friends. He begins by telling Cleopatra that he understands that her relationship with Antony was born of fear, not love, and that, therefore, whatever has stained her honor is undeserved and demands pity. Cleopatra, agreeing with Thidias, says that Caesar is a god who knows most what is right.

In an aside to himself, Enobarbus likens Antony to a sinking ship whose nearest and dearest even desert him. He then leaves the room.

Thidias informs Cleopatra that Caesar wants to know her desires, and he hopes that, in her need, she will be willing to receive the benefit of the good fortune he is willing to bestow upon her. However, he adds, it would please Caesar a fantastic deal if she left Antony.

Cleopatra asks Thidias his name. She then tells him to relate to Caesar that she acknowledges him as the conqueror and that she lays her crown and her empire at his feet. Thidias approves of her decision and asks to kiss her hand, which she allows. Cleopatra then reminisces about how Julius Caesar used to kiss her hand many times when he would think about conquering new kingdoms.

At this point, Antony enters with Enobarbus. Enraged at the sight of Cleopatra having her hand kissed, he demands to know who Thidias is. Thidias replies that he is but the servant of the great Caesar, who is worthy to be obeyed. Enobarbus murmurs to himself that Thidias will be whipped. Antony immediately confirms his saying when he orders Thidias to be taken out and beaten. He is offended that Thidias would dare to kiss Cleopatra’s hand. No matter how much he himself has sunk in the world’s esteem, and no matter how much power Caesar wields, he is appalled at this lack of decorum and respect.

Once Thidias and the servants are gone, Antony turns to Cleopatra. He is angry that he should have missed his chance to beget legitimate children with one of the age’s most valued and respected women (Octavia); that instead he is the recipient of Cleopatra’s fickleness, which stoops so low that she even caters to servants. He accuses Cleopatra of having always been untrustworthy, and he doubts that she has ever experienced the meaning of self-restraint. He knows that she was Julius Caesar’s lover and thinks that she may have had relations with Pompey—and who knows what other hidden affairs she has had.

Cleopatra, who has tried to interrupt his jealous tirade several times, finally asks him what this is all about, and in reply, Antony spills his fury over finding her in the midst of having her hand kissed by a servant. He feels that he has been cuckolded (sexually betrayed by his wife), and he wants to join the roaring bulls (horns being the symbol of a cuckold) on the hill of Bashan.

As he is venting his fury, a servant enters with Thidias. Antony asks if Thidias has been whipped, and the servant answers yes. Antony launches into another long, passionate speech, this time directed at Thidias, saying that from now on he should regret following Caesar and that he should tremble and feel feverish at the sight of a lady’s hand. Antony tells Thidias to get himself back to Caesar and tell him what kind of reception he has been given. He adds that Thidias should tell Caesar that his pride and disdain toward Antony have made him angry—angry that he treats Antony according to what he has become without consideration for what he was. And if Caesar doesn’t like what he is hearing or what has happened, he can take out his displeasure on Hipparchus, one of Antony’s former loved servants, who deserted to Caesar. With that, he sends Thidias away.

Cleopatra asks Antony if he has finished yet. Distracted, he says that the eclipse of the earth’s moon foretells his downfall. Then, still fixated on her flirtation with Thidias, he asks again in disbelief how she could trade glances with a servant, even if the motive was to gain Caesar’s approval. She asks him how it is that he still doesn’t know her. He interprets this as being coldhearted, but Cleopatra denies it with a passionate response, calling down the fury of heaven upon herself if his accusation is indeed true.

Finally convinced of her fidelity, Antony changes the subject to his plans for a renewed war against Caesar. He says that their land forces are still intact and that their sea forces have come together again to be a power to be reckoned with. His courage and hope returning, he tells Cleopatra that if he returns again to her, it will be covered in blood, his sword having earned them their place in history’s chronicles.

Cleopatra, recognizing her former brave Antony, encourages him. Recalling his days when men would willingly risk their lives for him, and knowing that things have changed, Antony nevertheless vows to fight with all he has. His spirit returning, he suggests to Cleopatra that they have one more extravagant night to defy the sense of sadness and defeat. Cleopatra says that it is her birthday and that, though she had not expected to celebrate, now that Antony is himself again, she will be Cleopatra. Heartened, Antony believes that they will recover. As they go to gather the captains together for the celebration, Antony vows that the next time he fights, he will wield his power against death itself.

Alone in the room, Enobarbus has grown particularly skeptical. Somewhat mockingly, he says that Antony now plans to outstare the lightning. He notes that when fury chases away fear, the dove will attack the hawk. In Enobarbus view, Antony’s growth in courage results from the loss of his reason, and when that happens, it is the path to self-destruction. The scene ends with Enobarbus deciding to find a way to leave Antony.

The scene takes place at Octavius’ camp. Caesar, Agrippa, and Maecenas are gathered together as Caesar reads Antony’s letter.

Caesar is irked that Antony calls him “boy” and acts as though he has the strength to vanquish him at war. Furthermore, he has beaten his messenger and challenged him to single combat. Caesar thinks this laughable, calling Antony an “old ruffian” and clearly not at all impressed with his threats.

Like Enobarbus, Maecenas sees Antony’s fury as foretelling his doom. He advises Caesar to take advantage of Antony’s state of mind, saying that anger never functioned as a good mode for self-protection—meaning that Antony was likely to slip because he wasn’t guarding himself.

Caesar orders them to inform their best leaders that they will be fighting the final battle of the war the following day. He says that their ranks contain a number of recent deserters from Antony’s army, so that capturing him should not be a problem. He adds that the army should eat well tonight. They have enough extra food to afford it, and the men deserve it. As they leave, Caesar exclaims, “Poor Antony!”

The scene takes place back at Cleopatra’s palace. Antony, Cleopatra, and Enobarbus enter with Cleopatra’s various attendants.

Antony begins by confirming with some surprise that Caesar has refused his challenge to single combat. When Antony questions Enobarbus about his refusal, he tells Antony that Caesar sees the odds as being twenty to one because of his superior luck. Antony repeats his will to fight again the next day, so that he may either to live or, fighting, die with honor.

Antony then calls his servants. Taking their hands, he tells each of them in turn that they have been honorable and served him well and that they have been the equals of kings. Cleopatra is somewhat mystified by Antony’s behavior and asks Enobarbus what it means. He replies that it is one of the tricks that sorrow plays on the mind.

Antony bids his servants to wait on him tonight—to be generous with the wine and to serve as they did when his empire was under his command. Cleopatra is still mystified and wonders what he intends by this. Enobarbus says that he is trying to make his followers cry.

Antony continues, saying that they may not see him again, or if they do, perhaps he will be nothing more than an unrecognizable ghost. Maybe, he says, by tomorrow they will be serving another master. He is approaching them as someone who is saying goodbye, but he does not want them to think that he is sending them away and says that he is faithful until death. Again, he asks them to wait on him and blesses them for it.

Enobarbus now asks point blank why Antony is making his servants so uncomfortable with his speeches. He points out that they are weeping and that he, too, who is more hard-nosed (he calls himself “an ass”) is teary-eyed. He says that Antony should be ashamed of himself to turn them into women.

Surprised, Antony responds that he did not mean it in such a mournful way and that his aim was to comfort them. His hope is that the next day’s battle will turn out well and that he desires to lead them to life and victory instead of to an honorable death. Having made himself clear, he invites them all to supper and to drink away serious thoughts.

One of the play’s more mysterious scenes, this one takes place in Alexandria, where a company of Antony’s soldiers stands guard during the night.

The scene opens on what appears to be the changing of Antony’s guard. Two soldiers are talking between themselves about their expectations for the next day’s battle as they bid each other good night. Before leaving for their respective stations, one of them asks if the other had heard of anything strange that night, and when the other soldier says no, he guesses that it might have just been a rumor. When two more soldiers enter, he tells them to watchful carefully; they wish him the same, and they say good night to each other and go to their different posts.

The fourth soldier expresses his confidence that if their navy does well, their infantry will also have an outstanding chance. The third soldier agrees that it is an excellent and determined army.

All of sudden, the music of hautboys, a shawm-like woodwind instrument (like the modern oboe), is heard from below ground. The soldiers listen attentively, wondering what it means. The soldier who spoke earlier of strange rumors says that it is the sign that Hercules, Antony’s beloved god and protector, is leaving him. Encountering other watchmen, they discover that they, too, can hear the strange music. They decide to follow it as far as they can to see if and where it will end.

Back at Cleopatra’s palace, Antony has risen early to make himself ready for battle.

As Antony calls to Eros to bring his armor, Cleopatra urges him to sleep a little more, but he declines, pushing Eros to move faster. He says that if luck is not on their side today, it is because they defy her (luck).

Cleopatra decides to help but has no real idea of what she is doing and needs to ask. Antony, correcting her, tells her to let it be—her job is to arm his heart. Cleopatra insists on helping and manages to correct some of Eros’ oversights, prompting Antony to tell him that the queen is a better attendant than he is. He tells Eros to finish quickly. Then, turning to Cleopatra, he says that he wishes that she understood the royal profession of warfare and could be there today to witness the battle, and then she would see a master craftsman in action.

An armed soldier enters the room. Antony bids him good morning and welcome. He says that the soldier looks like someone who understands the responsibilities of combat, adding that those who love their occupation will rise early and attend to their responsibilities with pleasure. The soldier informs him that, as early as it is, a thousand armored men await him at the gate.

There is a shout and the sound of trumpets as more captains and soldiers arrive. A captain informs Antony that the weather this morning is good and bids him good morning. The other captains and soldiers also bid the general good morning.

Antony complements them on their trumpet blowing and adds that the morning, like an ambitious youth with high energy, has gotten off to an early start. As Cleopatra makes some final adjustments, he thanks her for a job well done. Turning to her, he bids her farewell, adding that whatever happens to him, the kiss he now gives her is a soldier’s kiss. Anything more vulgar than that would deserve a shameful rebuke. He finishes by saying that he’ll depart from her like a man of steel. Addressing the soldiers, he commands them to follow his lead closely. They all leave.

Charmian asks Cleopatra if she wants to retire to her quarters. Cleopatra indicates that she does and then muses at Antony’s valiant exit as he goes to determine the conclusion of the war by going face to face with Caesar. Her final sentence is vague, and she seems to doubt the outcome but then quickly dismisses the thought, knowing that they must move forward.

The scene takes place in Alexandria. Trumpets sound as Antony, attended by Eros, meets a soldier.

The soldier greets Antony, bidding him a fortunate day blessed by the gods. Antony replies that he wishes that the soldier, with his combat experience, had previously convinced him to do battle by land. The soldier replies that had he done so, the kings who rebelled against him and the soldier who deserted him this morning would still be with him. Antony asks him who deserted this morning. The soldier seems surprised at the question, answering that it was someone near and dear to him. He tells him to try calling Enobarbus, who will not be able to hear him; or if he goes to Caesar’s camp, he will find him saying that he is no longer on Antony’s side. Antony, who has not quite grasped the situation, asks the soldier what he means, whereupon the soldier bluntly tells him that Enobarbus has deserted him to join Caesar’s forces. Eros informs Antony that Enobarbus did not take any of his belongings or valuables. Antony, still in a state of shock, asks if he is gone, to which the soldier replies that he is most certainly so. Antony orders Eros to send Enobarbus his valuables, retaining nothing. He tells him to write him a letter, which Antony will sign, sending him kind greetings and farewells, and that he hopes he never finds any reason to change masters again. Unhappy, he laments that his fate has corrupted even the ways of honorable men. He tells Eros to fulfill his assignment quickly, and the scene ends as he sadly exclaims Enobarbus’ name.

The scene takes place in Caesar’s camp. There is the sound of trumpets as Caesar enters with Agrippa, Enobarbus, and Dolabella.

Caesar commands Agrippa to go forth and begin the battle. His orders are to take Antony alive, which he wants Agrippa to tell the rest of the troops. Agrippa confirms the order and leaves.

Caesar proclaims that universal peace—the outcome of Roman world domination—is at hand. He says that if this day proves prosperous—that is, should it result in victory for their side—then the world (the known world at the time, which included Europe, Asia, and Africa) will carry the olive branch, the symbol of peace, without fear of attack.

A messenger enters to announce that Antony has arrived on the battlefield. Caesar orders the messenger to tell Agrippa to place Antony’s deserters (his former soldiers) in the front lines, so that it will seem to him that he is attacking his own army. All leave except Enobarbus.

Alone, Enobarbus muses how Alexas deserted Antony, going to Judea under the guise of taking care of Antony’s affairs. There, he convinced Herod the Great to side with Caesar, and for Alexas’ trouble, Caesar had him hanged. Canidius and the others who deserted Antony are employed but without what Enobarbus calls “honorable trust,” which seems to mean that they have not been entrusted with roles of importance. For his own part, Enobarbus acknowledges that he has wronged Antony, and his lack of self-forgiveness extends to the refusal of all enjoyment.

One of Caesar’s soldiers enters to tell him that Antony has sent a messenger who is delivering his valuables, along with an extra gift. The goods are now being unloaded at Enobarbus’ tent. Enobarbus tells the soldier that he can have them. The soldier tells him not to ridicule him and that Enobarbus should escort the messenger safely through Caesar’s army. He says that he would have done it himself if he didn’t have to attend to his responsibilities. Before leaving, he adds that Antony, whom he calls Enobarbus’ emperor, still possesses a greatness like that of Jove, the king of the gods.

Again alone, Enobarbus now chides himself for being the worst villain in all the world. If Antony, in his infinite generosity, repays Enobarbus’ wickedness with gold, how would he have repaid his honorable service? Enobarbus’ heart is swollen to such a degree that he feels that one quick thought alone will break it, or something even faster will strike down the thought, but he feels that thought alone will be enough. Will he fight Antony now? No, he will find a ditch to die in, since at this point in his life he deserves no better than the worst. With that thought, Enobarbus leaves.

Scene 7 takes place on a battlefield near Alexandria. Drums and trumpets sound.

The scene begins with an urgent call from Agrippa to retreat. The battle has been more difficult than expected, and even Caesar is experiencing trouble. Agrippa and his soldiers exit.

Next, Antony enters followed by Scarus, who is wounded. Scarus exclaims that their side has been fighting heroically and that if they had fought like this earlier in the war, they would have driven the enemy off with bandages on their heads. Antony notices that Scarus is bleeding profusely. Scarus replies that his wound was originally in the shape of a T but that now it is like an H.

The sound of a call to retreat is heard in the distance. Antony confirms that Caesar’s troops are retreating. Scarus exclaims that they will beat the other side into privy holes (toilet or outhouse holes) and that he still has room for six more wounds.

Eros enters to inform them that the other side is indeed beaten and that their own troops have had a clear win. Scarus has the idea of marking their backs and taking them from behind, like hares. He thinks it is fun to attack someone who is fleeing. Antony tells him that he will give him a reward for his lively encouragement and ten times that for his bravery. He then orders them to follow him. Scarus says that he will limp after them, and they all exit.

Scene 8 takes place before the gates of Alexandria. There is the sound of an alarum (which usually refers to a call to arms). Antony enters marching, with Scarus and other soldiers.

Antony declares that they have beaten back the enemy and that they have retreated to their camp. He orders one of the soldiers to run ahead and tell Cleopatra of their deeds. Tomorrow before sunrise, they will kill those who have escaped today. He thanks all the soldiers for their bravery, acknowledging that they fought as though the cause was their own. He tells them that they have all shown themselves equal to Hector, the greatest of the Trojan warriors. Antony then urges the soldiers to enter the city, embrace their wives and friends, and tell them about their brave acts while with reverence and tears of joy, their friends and relatives cleanse the soldiers’ wounds and heal them with their kisses.

Cleopatra enters. Taking Scarus’ hand, Antony commends him to the queen, whom he calls a great enchantress and whose gratitude will bless the soldier. Rejoicing in their triumph, Antony then seems to be addressing Cleopatra, calling her the light (“day”) of the world and urging her (metaphorically) to embrace him—to leap through his impenetrable armor to his heart.

Delighted to see him, Cleopatra too rejoices that he has escaped the great trap set by Caesar. Antony exclaims that they have beaten them back. He is thrilled that, despite his age, he showed the force of youth and manhood that enabled him to attain his goals. Turning again to Scarus, he asks Cleopatra to give the soldier her hand to kiss in return for his extraordinary service in battle, which Antony likens to the acts of a god.

Cleopatra promises Scarus a gift of gold armor that belonged to a king. Antony says that Scarus would deserve it even if it were decorated with gemstones, like the chariot of the sun god Phoebus. Taking Cleopatra’s hand, Antony says that they will march through Alexandria carrying their hacked shields like the men that own them. He adds that if their magnificent palace had room for the whole army, they would all eat together and drink to the following day’s destiny, which promises immense danger. Antony then orders the trumpeters to play their brassy tones as loudly as possible, which, mixed with the sound of rattling drums, will make the sounds of heaven and earth themselves strike together in celebration of their arrival.

Scene 9 takes place at Caesar’s camp. A sentry enters, followed by his company of watch guards. Enobarbus comes in after them. It is nighttime.

The sentry discusses how they will need to be relieved of duty soon, or they will have to return to the court of guard, which is where they gather. He notes the brightness of the night and that they are expected to get ready for battle early in the morning. The first watchman mentions that this last day has been hard on them.

Off by himself, Enobarbus asks the night to bear him witness. The guards, who were unaware of him before, first wonder who he is and then decide to stay hidden and listen. Enobarbus prays that when history records the shameful acts of deserters, the moon will be his witness that he kneeled down before her in repentance.

Recognizing him, the sentry questioningly speaks his name, but one of the watchmen tells him to be silent and listen. Enobarbus continues in prayer to the moon to release the damp poisons of the night upon him so that the life that clings to him, which he no longer wants, will ebb away. He asks that his heart, which is dried up with grief, be thrown against the hardness of his mistake to once and for all do away with all evil thoughts. He then cries out to Antony for forgiveness—Antony, whose nobleness exceeds the infamy of his own desertion. Enobarbus’ desire is to receive Antony’s individual forgiveness but to go on public record as a master deserter. After crying out Antony’s name twice more, Enobarbus dies.

One of the watchmen suggests that they speak to him. The sentry thinks it would be better to keep listening since some of what he said might relate to Caesar. Another watchman agrees but notices that Enobarbus seems to be sleeping. The sentry believes that he must have fainted instead since prayers as troubled as his don’t allow for sleep.

They go over to him and try to wake him, but the sentry realizes that he is dead. The sound of drums is heard in the distance. The sentry comments that the drums are gently trying to awaken the sleeping man. He suggests that they carry him to the court of guard since he is an important person and their watch hour is over. The second watchman agrees, hoping that he might still recover. They leave, carrying the body.

Antony, Scarus, and the Egyptian army have met in a field near Alexandria.

Antony is informing Scarus that Caesar’s military forces have focused their preparations on battle by sea and that they are reluctant to take on Antony’s forces on land. Scarus’ reply is a little vague, but he seems to be saying that they are preparing for both land and sea. Antony replies that he wishes they would fight in the fire and air as well—that his forces would take them on under all circumstances. But he tells Scarus to keep their own infantry on the hills next to Alexandria. It seems clear to Antony that Caesar’s orders for battle by sea are in place and that his ships have already set forth toward the harbor. From the Egyptian army’s vantage point on the hills, Antony’s forces will best be able to determine Caesar’s plans.

Meanwhile, in a similar location outside Alexandria, Caesar is giving opposite orders to his forces. He is commanding them to remain quiet and motionless on land unless ordered to do otherwise. He is anticipating that, since Antony’s best forces have taken to their ships, Caesar’s forces won’t need to fight after all and can stay where they are. He orders his troops to go to the valleys and to hold an advantageous position.

The scene opens with Antony and Scarus, still outside Alexandria where they are surveying the area for Caesar’s next move.

Antony begins by observing that Caesar’s forces have not yet joined together. He tells Scarus that he is moving to a higher vantage point to get a better look and that he will bring word when he has a clearer idea of the likely outcome.

Once alone, Scarus muses that the swallows have built their nests in the sails of Cleopatra’s ships—apparently a bad omen. The fortune tellers claim that they cannot see the future, and they look grim and are afraid to say what they do know. Antony is alternately courageous and depressed, and with his fortunes wearing thin, he focuses by turns on what he has and what he lacks.

An alarm sounds in the distance, evidently at sea. Antony enters in despair, crying that all is lost. Convinced that Cleopatra has betrayed him to Caesar, he curses her. His naval fleet has surrendered to the enemy forces and is now celebrating with them as though they were long-lost friends. Now determined to make war on Cleopatra alone, he commands Scarus to tell his army to flee, for when he has avenged himself of Cleopatra’s magic, he will have done all that there is to do. Scarus leaves.

Alone now, Antony bemoans his fate. He laments that he will no longer see the sun rise, that Fortune and he must now shake hands and part. Is everything come to this? he cries. The hearts that followed him whose wishes he fulfilled, now dissolve their good (he uses the metaphor of sweetness and melting candy) onto Caesar’s growing fortunes; while he, who was once like a pine that was taller than the rest, now sheds his bark. Again, he cries out that he has been betrayed by Cleopatra, whom he now sees as a false Egyptian enchantress who beckoned him to war and back again. She, who had been the crown and main goal of his life, has cheated him at the game of fast and loose, in which knots that appear tight are actually loose. He has now lost everything.

As Antony calls for Eros, Cleopatra enters, and Antony immediately shouts at her to leave. She asks him why he is so furious at the one he loves, but he rails against her, telling her to disappear or he will mar Caesar’s victory parade, showing her to be the monster that she is by hoisting her up where the crowds of common folk can watch Octavia rake her face with her fingernails.

Not sure what is going on, Cleopatra leaves. Still convinced that she has betrayed him, Antony says that it’s good that she’s gone if she wants to live but that it would be even better if he killed her in his rage, since her death might have prevented many others (in his mind, she was the reason he had gone to war). He adds that he now wears the shirt of Nessus, a reference to Hercules (originally Antony’s protector), who was driven mad by the centaur’s poisoned blood. The blood had been smeared on a shirt given to him by his wife who, deceived by Nessus, was trying to bind Hercules’ love for her. Hercules was in such agony that he went mad, throwing Lichas, the servant who brought him the shirt, up to the sky and then trying to kill himself.

The scene ends as Antony vows to kill Cleopatra.

Back at Cleopatra’s palace, the queen is at a loss as to what is going on with Antony. She likens his rage and madness to that of the warrior Telamon (Ajax), who was so furious when Achilles’ shield was given to Ulysses instead of to him that he committed suicide. Even the mad rage of the boar of Thessaly was not as extreme as Antony’s. As Cleopatra pleads with her attendants to help her, Charmian has the bright idea—which she presents with absolute confidence and enthusiasm—that Cleopatra should pretend to be dead and lock herself in her personal tomb. The idea sits perfectly with Cleopatra, who instructs Mardian the eunuch to tell Antony that she has killed herself and that the last word that she breathed was his name. She adds that Mardian should present it in a sorrowful manner and that she wants to know Antony’s reaction. With great enthusiasm, they set off for the tomb.

Scene 14 takes place near Cleopatra’s palace. Antony and Eros enter.

Antony asks Eros whether he can still see him, to which Eros replies yes. Sensing the end, Antony speaks of how the clouds and shadows at dusk form illusive shapes that disappear as easily as they were made. In the same way, Antony sees his fortunes as having been made and unmade by what he thought was his mutual love for Cleopatra, the inspiration for all the wars he fought. But now she has cheated and betrayed him by making arrangements with Caesar behind his back. Seeing Eros weeping, he tells him not to; but the comfort that he offers him is the ironic assurance that there is enough left of him to end himself.

Mardian the eunuch enters. On seeing him, Antony exclaims that his contemptible mistress has stolen his strength (his sword, or power) from him. Mardian denies the accusation, saying that Cleopatra loved him and that their fortunes were perfectly intertwined. Antony tells him to get out—that Cleopatra has betrayed him and shall die for it. Mardian, as instructed, tells him that she has already killed herself and that the last word that came out of her mouth was Antony’s name.

On hearing this, Antony tells Eros to disarm—that all is now over and it is time to die (he uses the word “sleep”). Mardian leaves, and Antony continues to speak about the intense pain that he feels. His heart is breaking, and he feels that he can hardly sustain it. He asks Eros to leave him for a while.

Having heard that Cleopatra is dead, Antony decides to kill himself and join her. He vows to overtake her and win her forgiveness. Life seems too long now, and effort expended in any direction seems frustrated and wasted. He dreams of their being together in heaven—how they will walk together by the Elysian flowerbeds and steal the hearts and attention of the heavenly souls with their youthful majesty, and that no other couple will match them.

Having called Eros back, he informs him that he is ready to die. He cannot live in disgrace any longer—he who conquered the world should possess courage at least equal to a woman’s, meaning Cleopatra, who preferred to kill herself rather than submit to Caesar. He reminds Eros that he has sworn an oath to kill Antony on his command, should the time ever come—and that it has now come. He tries to encourage him by telling him that it is Caesar that he is striking down, not Antony.

Eros resists, asking Antony how he expects him to do what the Parthian army could not. Antony asks him in turn whether he wants to see his master shamed and paraded before Caesar in Rome. Eros says he does not. Antony then urges him to do what he asks, presenting it as an honorable deed done in the service of his country and one that will heal a wounded situation. Eros, still resisting, begs for forgiveness, upon which Antony reminds him of his oath and that if he fails to see it through, all his former service will have been a waste. Eros asks Antony to turn away from him and then informs him that his sword is drawn. Antony tells him to at once do what he intended to do by drawing his sword. Eros, who obviously loves Antony, calling him his dear master, captain, and emperor, desires to first say farewell to him. Antony says that it’s done and to now get it over with. Eros, still stalling, bids farewell again and then asks him if he should strike, to which Antony answers to do it now. Unable to kill his beloved master, Eros kills himself instead. As he does it, he says that it is his way of escaping the need to perform such a sorrowful deed as killing Antony.

Antony, who now sees Eros as three times nobler than himself, takes it as a lesson from his valet and his queen. He vows to run toward death as a bridegroom and a lover. Expressing his respect toward Eros for teaching him the necessary courage, he falls on his sword. Finding himself still alive, he calls for his guards to help finish him. The guards, dismayed at what they see, refuse to obey his orders to finish him off. They all leave.

One of his followers, Dercetus, who came in with the guards, tells Antony that his death and the turn of events in his fortunes have caused his supporters to flee. But he promises Antony that after delivering the news of his death to Caesar, Dercetus will use his sword to kill both Caesar and himself.

Diomedes, one of Cleopatra’s attendants, enters looking for Antony. He asks Dercetus whether he is alive, but Dercetus refuses to answer and leaves. Antony, perceiving Diomedes’ presence, asks him to finish the job of killing him. Diomedes tells him that Cleopatra has just sent him and that she is still alive, locked in her tomb. He explains to Antony that the news of Cleopatra’s death was originally intended only to shake him out of his unjustified rage, but later Cleopatra had an ominous foreboding. She, therefore, sent Diomedes to deliver the news that she was still alive, but he is afraid that he has come too late.

Antony asks Diomedes to call his guards, which he does, and four or five of them respond. Calling them his good friends, Antony then orders them to carry him to Cleopatra and that this will be the last service that they perform for him. On hearing this, his guards express their sorrow, but Antony tells them to welcome the fate of punishment when it is due, and to punish fate in return by taking it lightly. In a moving sentence, he tells them that he has led them often; now it is their turn to carry him. Again calling them his good friends, he thanks them for all they have done. They all leave, carrying Antony and Eros.

Scene 15 takes place before Cleopatra’s tomb, with Cleopatra, Charmian, and Iras standing on a higher section of the monument.

Cleopatra, distraught, tells Charmian that she will never leave the tomb. When Charmian tries to comfort her, she refuses it, saying that her sorrow must match its cause.

Seeing Diomedes arrive, Cleopatra asks him if Antony is dead. He informs her that Antony is on his deathbed, but not dead yet, and that if she looks toward the other side of her monument, she will see his guards carrying him. On seeing her beloved Antony near death, Cleopatra in her distress invokes the sun to burn the sphere on which it moves (as was believed) so as to leave the world in darkness. Calling out Antony’s name, she asks her attendants and the guards to help bring him up.

Antony, intent on dying with honor, makes it clear that his death did not result from Caesar’s triumph but from his own victory over himself. Cleopatra, though miserable, agrees that he alone should have the honor of conquering himself. In one of the most moving lines of the play, he tells Cleopatra that he is dying but that he asks death to wait until he kisses his beloved Cleopatra once more. Begging his pardon, Cleopatra resists coming down to him for fear of being taken. She adds that she will never be an ornament for Caesar’s victory as long as knives, drugs, and serpents retain their power (presumably to kill). Nor will she allow herself to be dishonored by Octavia’s silent judgment of her.

Again, she calls for help to bring Antony up, which they all finally manage to do, even though he has become heavy since he is fading fast. As she holds Antony in her arms, Cleopatra wishes that she could bring him back to life with her kisses. Antony asks for some wine so that he can speak, but Cleopatra protests that she will speak instead—that she will complain so loudly against Fortune (here compared to an unfaithful housewife because the wheel on which she spins people’s fortunes is unpredictable) that Fortune will break her wheel because she is so offended. Antony urges Cleopatra to seek assurance from Caesar for both her honor and safety. Cleopatra replies without hesitation that those two things do not go together. Antony pleads with her to trust none of Caesar’s men except Proculeius, but the queen is determined to trust only her own resolve and hands (to carry out her resolve), and not one of Caesar’s supporters.

As Antony speaks his dying words, he tells Cleopatra not to mourn his ending but to think of his former days, when he was the greatest and noblest ruler of the world, who now takes comfort that his death is just as noble—that he has not chosen to submit himself to another, like a coward. He has been able to die like a Roman, conquered only by himself. On saying this, he realizes that his spirit is leaving and that he cannot go on.

Knowing that it is the end, Cleopatra becomes desperate, asking him whether he must die, whether he cares about her at all. She has no desire to stay in a world that without him is nothing more than a pigsty. As he dies, she cries out to her maidens that the crown of the world is melting, the royal wreath of the war is withered, the soldier’s guiding star has fallen. All things are equal now that the world no longer holds anything of greatness—the sense being that there is no longer any point in remaining in the world.

As Cleopatra collapses, Iras and Charmian gather around her in distress, trying to bring her back. At last, Cleopatra speaks, saying that she is now no more than an ordinary woman, whose passion is no better than the milkmaid’s who does the lowest type of chores. She continues, saying that once she could have told the gods that this world equaled theirs, but now that they have taken the crown jewel of the world, nothing is worthwhile anymore. Patience is foolish, and impatience is only suitable for a rabid dog. She asks whether it is, therefore, wrong to hasten death before its time. Turning to her attendants, she tries to comfort them, realizing that they have been affected by her speech. But her time is up; her light has gone out. She tells them that they will bury Antony and then do the brave and noble thing according to Roman custom—to die with honor. Antony’s body, that once housed an enormous spirit, has grown cold. The scene ends as Cleopatra exclaims to her women that she now has no friend but her own resolve and a quick ending. They all leave, carrying Antony’s body.

Scene 1 of Act V takes place at Caesar’s camp, where Caesar is meeting with his Council of War and his close advisors and supporters.

The scene begins with Caesar giving orders to Dolabella to tell Antony to surrender since it makes no sense for him to do otherwise in his hopeless condition. As Dolabella leaves, Dercetus arrives holding Antony’s bloodstained sword. Indignant and surprised at his sudden appearance, Caesar asks him who he is and why he has appeared in this manner. Dercetus introduces himself, saying that he was Mark Antony’s servant and that there was no better master to serve. Dercetus adds that while Antony was alive, his own life was dedicated to fighting those who hated him. If Caesar is interested, he will offer him the same service that he gave Antony; and if he is not interested, he will submit his life to him.

Confused, Caesar asks him what he means, to which Dercetus bluntly replies that Antony is dead. On hearing this, Caesar grows philosophical, saying that such monumental news should have a greater effect (he compares it to the sound produced by the destruction of something large). Antony’s death is not like the death of a single ordinary person: it is the death of one who ruled half the world.

Dercetus goes on to explain that Antony was not killed by someone else but by his own hand. The same hand that performed all those acts of honor split his own heart in two with the courage given to it by that selfsame heart. Dercetus then presents Caesar with Antony’s sword, which he took from his wound.

Noticing the sad faces of his friends, Caesar acknowledges that the news is enough to bring tears to the eyes of a king. Agrippa notes how strange it is that they should mourn for what they worked so hard to achieve, and Maecenas adds that Antony’s faults and virtues vied for an equal place in his character.

Agrippa and Maecenas both notice how much Caesar has been affected by the news of Antony’s death, and Maecenas guesses the reason as being that when one great soul is faced with another, they act as mirrors for each other. Caesar laments Antony’s fate and the fact that their destinies, though they shared much that was good, could not ultimately support each other. He is about to go on when they are interrupted by the arrival of an emissary from Cleopatra, who has come to find out Caesar’s intentions for her. Caesar instructs the messenger to tell Cleopatra to take comfort and that he will soon send envoys to convey his intentions. The Egyptian messenger bids him farewell and leaves.

Caesar next calls Proculeius, instructing him to tell Cleopatra of the Emperor’s goodwill toward her and to give her whatever will comfort her in her grief. Caesar’s concern, at least in part, is that Cleopatra will thwart his desire to have her in his victory parade in Rome, since her presence there would assure its place as an unforgettable historic event. Proculeius leaves, accompanied by Gallus. Caesar also considers sending Dolabella but then remembers that he sent him on a prior mission (to see Antony, before he knew of his death). He recalls how reluctantly he entered this war and how calm and controlled he kept his responses to Antony. The scene ends as he takes his friends to his tent to show them the proof in his letters.

The last scene of the play again takes place before Cleopatra’s monument (her tomb). Cleopatra is alone with Charmian and Iras.

The queen muses on how her desolate state has given her a better understanding of what is truly worthwhile in life. Compared to destiny, Caesar is nothing, since he is also destiny’s servant; and to take your own life is to handle destiny through death, which ends and equalizes all things—in which beggar and king are alike.

Proculeius enters with greetings and then informs Cleopatra of Caesar’s instructions to her to decide on her demands. She answers that if Caesar will give her Egypt to be ruled by her son, Caesarion, she will submit to him. Proculeius promises her that Caesar is merciful to those who submit themselves to his rule.

As Proculeius is assuring Cleopatra of Caesar’s graciousness, a group of Roman soldiers arrives to seize the queen. Proculeius, showing his true colors, observes how easily she is taken and instructs them to guard her until Caesar’s arrival.

Cleopatra wastes no time in drawing a dagger to kill herself, but Proculeius intervenes and takes it away from her. Cleopatra, who has no desire to be an ornament for Caesar, cries out for death. She tells Proculeius that she will neither eat, drink, nor sleep but instead do whatever is necessary to destroy her body (which she sees as the mortal house of her soul) and that Caesar can do nothing about it. She tells him that, rather than be paraded through Rome or subjected to Octavia’s looks, she would prefer to die in a ditch, let the Nile’s water flies lay their eggs in her naked body, or hang in chains from a pyramid.

Dolabella enters and instructs Proculeius to go to Caesar while he takes charge of Cleopatra. As Proculeius leaves, he urges the queen to tell him what she would like from Caesar. She replies that she wants to die.

With Proculeius and the other soldiers gone, Dolabella now asks the queen whether she recognizes him, but she either cannot or will not commit to a definite answer. Instead, she changes the subject to her “dream” of Antony, whom she describes in strikingly poetic, godlike terms in one of the most beautiful speeches in the play.

Dolabella, who has been trying to interrupt, finally just listens and then tells her, once she has finished, that he feels the depth and greatness of her loss. Cleopatra presses him to tell her whether Caesar intends to parade her through Rome in his victory procession, and Dolabella reluctantly confirms that he does.

There is the sound of trumpets, and Caesar enters with his entourage. Cleopatra kneels on being introduced to him, but Caesar insists that she stand, adding that he forgives her for her past behavior. He informs her that he intends to be extremely gentle in his demands on her and that if she complies, she will reap the benefits. But if she goes against his wishes, she will receive nothing and her children will be destroyed.

He moves to leave, but before he does, Cleopatra hands him a scroll informing him of the value of the possessions she has handed over to him. Calling for Seleucus, her treasurer, she tells Caesar that she has held nothing back, and she then asks Seleucus to confirm her statement with the truth. Seleucus, knowing the real truth, tells her that he would rather say nothing. In front of Caesar, she asks him what she has held back, and Seleucus answers honestly that it was enough to buy back everything that she declared. While Cleopatra tries to restrain herself from taking her anger out on Seleucus for telling Caesar the truth, Caesar replies that he agrees with the wisdom of her actions and that he has no desire to take any of her property. After assuring her of his compassion, friendship, and respect, he takes his leave of her.

Cleopatra, however, does not trust his words and has other plans in mind than the ones suggested by Caesar. She whispers something to Charmian and tells her to hurry. In a short but significant line, Iras foretells their impending doom when she says that the day is over and darkness has come. Dolabella enters to quickly inform the queen of Caesar’s forthcoming travel plans for her and her children. Cleopatra thanks him for his loyal service, and he leaves to attend to his duties for Caesar.

Alone with Iras, Cleopatra now describes to her in detail the horrors she sees them having to endure as puppets of the Roman emperor. Appalled, Iras says she would rather scratch out her own eyes with her fingernails. At this point, Charmian returns and Cleopatra asks her to bring her best clothing, including her crown so that she can prepare herself to see Antony once more.

A guard arrives to tell Cleopatra that there is a rural fellow outside with a basket of figs. Cleopatra, knowing that he is bringing the asps, tells him to let the man in. While she waits, she observes how she no longer has the fickle feelings of a woman but that her resolve is solid like marble. The countryman enters, and after the guard leaves, Cleopatra asks the fellow if he has the asp. He says that he does, and he warns her that its bite is fatal.

A bit of a simpleton, he keeps talking and warning Cleopatra of the asp’s dangers, even though she continues to shoo him off. Finally, he leaves, and shortly afterwards, Iras enters with Cleopatra’s robe, crown, and other royal clothing. Cleopatra now settles down to prepare for the final deed that will take her away from Caesar and back to Antony.

As Charmian and Iras prepare Cleopatra, the queen begins to shed her mortal self, relating only to the more ethereal elements of fire and air. When Iras and Charmian have finished dressing her, she kisses them both, whereupon Iras falls down dead, apparently from the poison on Cleopatra’s lips. Cleopatra marvels that Iras has died so easily but then suddenly realizes that she needs to hurry in case Antony sees Iras first and gives her maiden the kiss that was reserved for her. She quickly applies the asp to her breast, and as she begins to fade, she places the other one on her arm. As she is dying, she exclaims Antony’s name.

Charmian, the last remaining of the three, pays tribute to Cleopatra as a rare woman without equal. She then notices that the queen’s crown is off center, and as she stoops down to fix it, the guards enter asking for the Cleopatra. Charmian informs them that they are too late, as she applies the third asp to her own arm; and having answered the guards’ questions and praised Cleopatra one last time, she too falls down dead.

Dolabella enters and asks how everything is, to which the guard replies that Cleopatra and her women are all dead. Caesar arrives with his followers, and Dolabella informs him that his fears have come true. Caesar understands, however, that Cleopatra wanted to take her own path rather than submit to someone else. Unable at first to tell how they died, he determines that they poisoned themselves with asps. Cleopatra, with none of the marks of a violent death, looks like she is asleep and, as Caesar observes, poised to cast her spell on another Antony.

In the final monologue, Caesar instructs his men to carry Cleopatra and her women from her tomb to Antony’s burial place, where they will lie together. He gives orders to have the army attend the funeral in all solemnity, afterwards to return to Rome. And he adds that no grave in all the world will ever hold within it a pair so famous as Antony and Cleopatra.

Summary: Chapter 43

Pip realizes that if Compeyson is alive and anywhere near London, he wouldn’t hesitate to turn Magwitch over to the authorities. He and Herbert agree that he must be whisked out of the country by sea. Pip has also given some thought to Estella. He shivers to think what the lady would think of him now, with a former convict as the founder of his fortunes. He resolves that she must never know.

Pip decides he must visit Estella before leaving England. He goes to her residence in Richmond, but the family she stays with says she has returned to Miss Havisham at Satis House. Pip thinks this is mysterious because she’s never gone there before without him accompanying her. He tells Magwitch a falsehood about needing to see Joe one more time and takes the next day’s coach to the marsh country.

Stepping off at the Blue Boar, Pip is disgusted to see Bentley Drummle. At first, they pretend not to know each other. Later, as they both stand near the fire, they get into a testy exchange. Drummle tells the waiter that “the lady” won’t be riding today, meaning Estella. Pip is in a blind rage. They come very near a brawl, but then some other guests come in and Drummle leaves. As he’s mounting his horse, Pip thinks he sees Orlick helping him with his coat. As he prepares to visit Miss Havisham and Estella, he couldn’t be in a worse state of mind.

Analysis: Chapter XLIII

Why should I pause to ask how much of my shrinking from Provis might be traced to Estella? Why should I loiter on my road, to compare the state of mind in which I had tried to rid myself of the stain of the prison before meeting her at the coach-office, with the state of mind in which I now reflected on the abyss between Estella in her pride and beauty, and the returned transport whom I harbored? The road would be none the smoother for it, the end would be none the better for it, he would not be helped, nor I extenuated.

A new fear had been engendered in my mind by his narrative; or rather, his narrative had given form and purpose to the fear that was already there. If Compeyson were alive and should discover his return, I could hardly doubt the consequence. That, Compeyson stood in mortal fear of him, neither of the two could know much better than I; and that any such man as that man had been described to be would hesitate to release himself for good from a dreaded enemy by the safe means of becoming an informer was scarcely to be imagined.

Never had I breathed, and never would I breathe–or so I resolved –a word of Estella to Provis. But, I said to Herbert that, before I could go abroad, I must see both Estella and Miss Havisham. This was when we were left alone on the night of the day when Provis told us his story. I resolved to go out to Richmond next day, and I went.

On my presenting myself at Mrs. Brandley’s, Estella’s maid was called to tell that Estella had gone into the country. Where? To Satis House, as usual. Not as usual, I said, for she had never yet gone there without me; when was she coming back? There was an air of reservation in the answer which increased my perplexity, and the answer was, that her maid believed she was only coming back at all for a little while. I could make nothing of this, except that it was meant that I should make nothing of it, and I went home again in complete discomfiture.

Another night consultation with Herbert after Provis was gone home (I always took him home, and always looked well about me), led us to the conclusion that nothing should be said about going abroad until I came back from Miss Havisham’s. In the mean time, Herbert and I were to consider separately what it would be best to say; whether we should devise any pretence of being afraid that he was under suspicious observation; or whether I, who had never yet been abroad, should propose an expedition. We both knew that I had but to propose anything, and he would consent. We agreed that his remaining many days in his present hazard was not to be thought of.

Next day I had the meanness to feign that I was under a binding promise to go down to Joe; but I was capable of almost any meanness towards Joe or his name. Provis was to be strictly careful while I was gone, and Herbert was to take the charge of him that I had taken. I was to be absent only one night, and, on my return, the gratification of his impatience for my starting as a gentleman on a greater scale was to be begun. It occurred to me then, and as I afterwards found to Herbert also, that he might be best got away across the water, on that pretence,–as, to make purchases, or the like.

Having thus cleared the way for my expedition to Miss Havisham’s, I set off by the early morning coach before it was yet light, and was out on the open country road when the day came creeping on, halting and whimpering and shivering, and wrapped in patches of cloud and rags of mist, like a beggar. When we drove up to the Blue Boar after a drizzly ride, whom should I see come out under the gateway, toothpick in hand, to look at the coach, but Bentley Drummle!

As he pretended not to see me, I pretended not to see him. It was a very lame pretence on both sides; the lamer, because we both went into the coffee-room, where he had just finished his breakfast, and where I ordered mine. It was poisonous to me to see him in the town, for I very well knew why he had come there.

Pretending to read a smeary newspaper long out of date, which had nothing half so legible in its local news, as the foreign matter of coffee, pickles, fish sauces, gravy, melted butter, and wine with which it was sprinkled all over, as if it had taken the measles in a highly irregular form, I sat at my table while he stood before the fire. By degrees it became an enormous injury to me that he stood before the fire. And I got up, determined to have my share of it. I had to put my hand behind his legs for the poker when I went up to the fireplace to stir the fire, but still pretended not to know him.

“Is this a cut?” said Mr. Drummle.

“Oh!” said I, poker in hand; “it’s you, is it? How do you do? I was wondering who it was, who kept the fire off.”

With that, I poked tremendously, and having done so, planted myself side by side with Mr. Drummle, my shoulders squared and my back to the fire.

“You have just come down?” said Mr. Drummle, edging me a little away with his shoulder.

“Yes,” said I, edging him a little away with my shoulder.

“Beastly place,” said Drummle. “Your part of the country, I think?”

“Yes,” I assented. “I am told it’s very like your Shropshire.”

“Not in the least like it,” said Drummle.

Here Mr. Drummle looked at his boots and I looked at mine, and then Mr. Drummle looked at my boots, and I looked at his.

“Have you been here long?” I asked, determined not to yield an inch of the fire.

“Long enough to be tired of it,” returned Drummle, pretending to yawn, but equally determined.

“Do you stay here long?”

“Can’t say,” answered Mr. Drummle. “Do you?”

“Can’t say,” said I.

I felt here, through a tingling in my blood, that if Mr. Drummle’s shoulder had claimed another hair’s breadth of room, I should have jerked him into the window; equally, that if my own shoulder had urged a similar claim, Mr. Drummle would have jerked me into the nearest box. He whistled a little. So did I.

“Large tract of marshes about here, I believe?” said Drummle.

“Yes. What of that?” said I.

Mr. Drummle looked at me, and then at my boots, and then said, “Oh!” and laughed.

“Are you amused, Mr. Drummle?”

“No,” said he, “not particularly. I am going out for a ride in the saddle. I mean to explore those marshes for amusement. Out-of-the-way villages there, they tell me. Curious little public-houses–and smithies–and that. Waiter!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is that horse of mine ready?”

“Brought round to the door, sir.”

“I say. Look here, you sir. The lady won’t ride to-day; the weather won’t do.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And I don’t dine, because I’m going to dine at the lady’s.”

“Very good, sir.”

Then, Drummle glanced at me, with an insolent triumph on his great-jowled face that cut me to the heart, dull as he was, and so exasperated me, that I felt inclined to take him in my arms (as the robber in the story-book is said to have taken the old lady) and seat him on the fire.

One thing was manifest to both of us, and that was, that until relief came, neither of us could relinquish the fire. There we stood, well squared up before it, shoulder to shoulder and foot to foot, with our hands behind us, not budging an inch. The horse was visible outside in the drizzle at the door, my breakfast was put on the table, Drummle’s was cleared away, the waiter invited me to begin, I nodded, we both stood our ground.

“Have you been to the Grove since?” said Drummle.

“No,” said I, “I had quite enough of the Finches the last time I was there.”

“Was that when we had a difference of opinion?”

“Yes,” I replied, very shortly.

“Come, come! They let you off easily enough,” sneered Drummle. “You shouldn’t have lost your temper.”

“Mr. Drummle,” said I, “you are not competent to give advice on that subject. When I lose my temper (not that I admit having done so on that occasion), I don’t throw glasses.”

“I do,” said Drummle.

After glancing at him once or twice, in an increased state of smouldering ferocity, I said,–

“Mr. Drummle, I did not seek this conversation, and I don’t think it an agreeable one.”

“I am sure it’s not,” said he, superciliously over his shoulder; “I don’t think anything about it.”

“And therefore,” I went on, “with your leave, I will suggest that we hold no kind of communication in future.”

“Quite my opinion,” said Drummle, “and what I should have suggested myself, or done–more likely–without suggesting. But don’t lose your temper. Haven’t you lost enough without that?”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Waiter!,” said Drummle, by way of answering me.

The waiter reappeared.

“Look here, you sir. You quite understand that the young lady don’t ride to-day, and that I dine at the young lady’s?”

“Quite so, sir!”

When the waiter had felt my fast-cooling teapot with the palm of his hand, and had looked imploringly at me, and had gone out, Drummle, careful not to move the shoulder next me, took a cigar from his pocket and bit the end off, but showed no sign of stirring. Choking and boiling as I was, I felt that we could not go a word further, without introducing Estella’s name, which I could not endure to hear him utter; and therefore I looked stonily at the opposite wall, as if there were no one present, and forced myself to silence. How long we might have remained in this ridiculous position it is impossible to say, but for the incursion of three thriving farmers–laid on by the waiter, I think–who came into the coffee-room unbuttoning their great-coats and rubbing their hands, and before whom, as they charged at the fire, we were obliged to give way.

I saw him through the window, seizing his horse’s mane, and mounting in his blundering brutal manner, and sidling and backing away. I thought he was gone, when he came back, calling for a light for the cigar in his mouth, which he had forgotten. A man in a dust-colored dress appeared with what was wanted,–I could not have said from where: whether from the inn yard, or the street, or where not,–and as Drummle leaned down from the saddle and lighted his cigar and laughed, with a jerk of his head towards the coffee-room windows, the slouching shoulders and ragged hair of this man whose back was towards me reminded me of Orlick.

Too heavily out of sorts to care much at the time whether it were he or no, or after all to touch the breakfast, I washed the weather and the journey from my face and hands, and went out to the memorable old house that it would have been so much the better for me never to have entered, never to have seen.

Summary: Chapter 44

Pip surprises Estella and Miss Havisham with his unexpected visit. Estella is knitting by the fire. Pip explains to Miss Havisham that Matthew and Herbert Pocket are very different than the other pockets. He asks if Miss Havisham can continue his good deed of investing in his future. She agrees to the idea and agrees to remain a secret donor.

Miss Havisham realizes that Pip has discovered his true benefactor. She doesn’t deny that she allowed him to continue in the illusion that it was her all along. She remarks that it was merely a coincidence that she and Pip’s benefactor had the same lawyer. For his part, Pip understands that the trickery was undertaken to exact punishment on the greedy Pockets. But he says that Miss Havisham never considered what effect that might have on him. She becomes angry and wonders why Pip would think she could possibly be kind or considerate.

The conversation turns to Estella. She reveals that she is indeed going to be married to Bentley Drummle. She’s choses the dullest of all her admirers as punishment to the rest, she says. She guarantees he won’t be happy. Pip is horrified and almost glad to be leaving the country. He wishes her well but is ashamed for her to choose such a brute as a husband.

Returning home, Pip is greeted by the guardsman with a note from Wemmick. It says “Do not go home.”

Analysis: Chapter XLIV

In the room where the dressing-table stood, and where the wax- candles burnt on the wall, I found Miss Havisham and Estella; Miss Havisham seated on a settee near the fire, and Estella on a cushion at her feet. Estella was knitting, and Miss Havisham was looking on. They both raised their eyes as I went in, and both saw an alteration in me. I derived that, from the look they interchanged.

“And what wind,” said Miss Havisham, “blows you here, Pip?”

Though she looked steadily at me, I saw that she was rather confused. Estella, pausing a moment in her knitting with her eyes upon me, and then going on, I fancied that I read in the action of her fingers, as plainly as if she had told me in the dumb alphabet, that she perceived I had discovered my real benefactor.

“Miss Havisham,” said I, “I went to Richmond yesterday, to speak to Estella; and finding that some wind had blown her here, I followed.”

Miss Havisham motioning to me for the third or fourth time to sit down, I took the chair by the dressing-table, which I had often seen her occupy. With all that ruin at my feet and about me, it seemed a natural place for me, that day.

“What I had to say to Estella, Miss Havisham, I will say before you, presently–in a few moments. It will not surprise you, it will not displease you. I am as unhappy as you can ever have meant me to be.”

Miss Havisham continued to look steadily at me. I could see in the action of Estella’s fingers as they worked that she attended to what I said; but she did not look up.

“I have found out who my patron is. It is not a fortunate discovery, and is not likely ever to enrich me in reputation, station, fortune, anything. There are reasons why I must say no more of that. It is not my secret, but another’s.”

As I was silent for a while, looking at Estella and considering how to go on, Miss Havisham repeated, “It is not your secret, but another’s. Well?”

“When you first caused me to be brought here, Miss Havisham, when I belonged to the village over yonder, that I wish I had never left, I suppose I did really come here, as any other chance boy might have come,–as a kind of servant, to gratify a want or a whim, and to be paid for it?”

“Ay, Pip,” replied Miss Havisham, steadily nodding her head; “you did.”

“And that Mr. Jaggers–”

“Mr. Jaggers,” said Miss Havisham, taking me up in a firm tone, “had nothing to do with it, and knew nothing of it. His being my lawyer, and his being the lawyer of your patron is a coincidence. He holds the same relation towards numbers of people, and it might easily arise. Be that as it may, it did arise, and was not brought about by any one.”

Any one might have seen in her haggard face that there was no suppression or evasion so far.

“But when I fell into the mistake I have so long remained in, at least you led me on?” said I.

“Yes,” she returned, again nodding steadily, “I let you go on.”

“Was that kind?”

“Who am I,” cried Miss Havisham, striking her stick upon the floor and flashing into wrath so suddenly that Estella glanced up at her in surprise,–”who am I, for God’s sake, that I should be kind?”

It was a weak complaint to have made, and I had not meant to make it. I told her so, as she sat brooding after this outburst.

“Well, well, well!” she said. “What else?”

“I was liberally paid for my old attendance here,” I said, to soothe her, “in being apprenticed, and I have asked these questions only for my own information. What follows has another (and I hope more disinterested) purpose. In humoring my mistake, Miss Havisham, you punished–practised on–perhaps you will supply whatever term expresses your intention, without offence–your self-seeking relations?”

“I did. Why, they would have it so! So would you. What has been my history, that I should be at the pains of entreating either them or you not to have it so! You made your own snares. I never made them.”

Waiting until she was quiet again,–for this, too, flashed out of her in a wild and sudden way,–I went on.

“I have been thrown among one family of your relations, Miss Havisham, and have been constantly among them since I went to London. I know them to have been as honestly under my delusion as I myself. And I should be false and base if I did not tell you, whether it is acceptable to you or no, and whether you are inclined to give credence to it or no, that you deeply wrong both Mr. Matthew Pocket and his son Herbert, if you suppose them to be otherwise than generous, upright, open, and incapable of anything designing or mean.”

“They are your friends,” said Miss Havisham.

“They made themselves my friends,” said I, “when they supposed me to have superseded them; and when Sarah Pocket, Miss Georgiana, and Mistress Camilla were not my friends, I think.”

This contrasting of them with the rest seemed, I was glad to see, to do them good with her. She looked at me keenly for a little while, and then said quietly,–

“What do you want for them?”

“Only,” said I, “that you would not confound them with the others. They may be of the same blood, but, believe me, they are not of the same nature.”

Still looking at me keenly, Miss Havisham repeated,–

“What do you want for them?”

“I am not so cunning, you see,” I said, in answer, conscious that I reddened a little, “as that I could hide from you, even if I desired, that I do want something. Miss Havisham, if you would spare the money to do my friend Herbert a lasting service in life, but which from the nature of the case must be done without his knowledge, I could show you how.”

“Why must it be done without his knowledge?” she asked, settling her hands upon her stick, that she might regard me the more attentively.

“Because,” said I, “I began the service myself, more than two years ago, without his knowledge, and I don’t want to be betrayed. Why I fail in my ability to finish it, I cannot explain. It is a part of the secret which is another person’s and not mine.”

She gradually withdrew her eyes from me, and turned them on the fire. After watching it for what appeared in the silence and by the light of the slowly wasting candles to be a long time, she was roused by the collapse of some of the red coals, and looked towards me again–at first, vacantly–then, with a gradually concentrating attention. All this time Estella knitted on. When Miss Havisham had fixed her attention on me, she said, speaking as if there had been no lapse in our dialogue,–

“What else?”

“Estella,” said I, turning to her now, and trying to command my trembling voice, “you know I love you. You know that I have loved you long and dearly.”

She raised her eyes to my face, on being thus addressed, and her fingers plied their work, and she looked at me with an unmoved countenance. I saw that Miss Havisham glanced from me to her, and from her to me.

“I should have said this sooner, but for my long mistake. It induced me to hope that Miss Havisham meant us for one another. While I thought you could not help yourself, as it were, I refrained from saying it. But I must say it now.”

Preserving her unmoved countenance, and with her fingers still going, Estella shook her head.

“I know,” said I, in answer to that action,–”I know. I have no hope that I shall ever call you mine, Estella. I am ignorant what may become of me very soon, how poor I may be, or where I may go. Still, I love you. I have loved you ever since I first saw you in this house.”

Looking at me perfectly unmoved and with her fingers busy, she shook her head again.

“It would have been cruel in Miss Havisham, horribly cruel, to practise on the susceptibility of a poor boy, and to torture me through all these years with a vain hope and an idle pursuit, if she had reflected on the gravity of what she did. But I think she did not. I think that, in the endurance of her own trial, she forgot mine, Estella.”

I saw Miss Havisham put her hand to her heart and hold it there, as she sat looking by turns at Estella and at me.

“It seems,” said Estella, very calmly, “that there are sentiments, fancies,–I don’t know how to call them,–which I am not able to comprehend. When you say you love me, I know what you mean, as a form of words; but nothing more. You address nothing in my breast, you touch nothing there. I don’t care for what you say at all. I have tried to warn you of this; now, have I not?”

I said in a miserable manner, “Yes.”

“Yes. But you would not be warned, for you thought I did not mean it. Now, did you not think so?”

“I thought and hoped you could not mean it. You, so young, untried, and beautiful, Estella! Surely it is not in Nature.”

“It is in my nature,” she returned. And then she added, with a stress upon the words, “It is in the nature formed within me. I make a great difference between you and all other people when I say so much. I can do no more.”

“Is it not true,” said I, “that Bentley Drummle is in town here, and pursuing you?”

“It is quite true,” she replied, referring to him with the indifference of utter contempt.

“That you encourage him, and ride out with him, and that he dines with you this very day?”

She seemed a little surprised that I should know it, but again replied, “Quite true.”

“You cannot love him, Estella!”

Her fingers stopped for the first time, as she retorted rather angrily, “What have I told you? Do you still think, in spite of it, that I do not mean what I say?”

“You would never marry him, Estella?”

She looked towards Miss Havisham, and considered for a moment with her work in her hands. Then she said, “Why not tell you the truth? I am going to be married to him.”

I dropped my face into my hands, but was able to control myself better than I could have expected, considering what agony it gave me to hear her say those words. When I raised my face again, there was such a ghastly look upon Miss Havisham’s, that it impressed me, even in my passionate hurry and grief.

“Estella, dearest Estella, do not let Miss Havisham lead you into this fatal step. Put me aside for ever,–you have done so, I well know,–but bestow yourself on some worthier person than Drummle. Miss Havisham gives you to him, as the greatest slight and injury that could be done to the many far better men who admire you, and to the few who truly love you. Among those few there may be one who loves you even as dearly, though he has not loved you as long, as I. Take him, and I can bear it better, for your sake!”

My earnestness awoke a wonder in her that seemed as if it would have been touched with compassion, if she could have rendered me at all intelligible to her own mind.

“I am going,” she said again, in a gentler voice, “to be married to him. The preparations for my marriage are making, and I shall be married soon. Why do you injuriously introduce the name of my mother by adoption? It is my own act.”

“Your own act, Estella, to fling yourself away upon a brute?”

“On whom should I fling myself away?” she retorted, with a smile. “Should I fling myself away upon the man who would the soonest feel (if people do feel such things) that I took nothing to him? There! It is done. I shall do well enough, and so will my husband. As to leading me into what you call this fatal step, Miss Havisham would have had me wait, and not marry yet; but I am tired of the life I have led, which has very few charms for me, and I am willing enough to change it. Say no more. We shall never understand each other.”

“Such a mean brute, such a stupid brute!” I urged, in despair.

“Don’t be afraid of my being a blessing to him,” said Estella; “I shall not be that. Come! Here is my hand. Do we part on this, you visionary boy–or man?”

“O Estella!” I answered, as my bitter tears fell fast on her hand, do what I would to restrain them; “even if I remained in England and could hold my head up with the rest, how could I see you Drummle’s wife?”

“Nonsense,” she returned,–”nonsense. This will pass in no time.”

“Never, Estella!”

“You will get me out of your thoughts in a week.”

“Out of my thoughts! You are part of my existence, part of myself. You have been in every line I have ever read since I first came here, the rough common boy whose poor heart you wounded even then. You have been in every prospect I have ever seen since,–on the river, on the sails of the ships, on the marshes, in the clouds, in the light, in the darkness, in the wind, in the woods, in the sea, in the streets. You have been the embodiment of every graceful fancy that my mind has ever become acquainted with. The stones of which the strongest London buildings are made are not more real, or more impossible to be displaced by your hands, than your presence and influence have been to me, there and everywhere, and will be. Estella, to the last hour of my life, you cannot choose but remain part of my character, part of the little good in me, part of the evil. But, in this separation, I associate you only with the good; and I will faithfully hold you to that always, for you must have done me far more good than harm, let me feel now what sharp distress I may. O God bless you, God forgive you!”

In what ecstasy of unhappiness I got these broken words out of myself, I don’t know. The rhapsody welled up within me, like blood from an inward wound, and gushed out. I held her hand to my lips some lingering moments, and so I left her. But ever afterwards, I remembered,–and soon afterwards with stronger reason,–that while Estella looked at me merely with incredulous wonder, the spectral figure of Miss Havisham, her hand still covering her heart, seemed all resolved into a ghastly stare of pity and remorse.

All done, all gone! So much was done and gone, that when I went out at the gate, the light of the day seemed of a darker color than when I went in. For a while, I hid myself among some lanes and by-paths, and then struck off to walk all the way to London. For, I had by that time come to myself so far as to consider that I could not go back to the inn and see Drummle there; that I could not bear to sit upon the coach and be spoken to; that I could do nothing half so good for myself as tire myself out.

It was past midnight when I crossed London Bridge. Pursuing the narrow intricacies of the streets which at that time tended westward near the Middlesex shore of the river, my readiest access to the Temple was close by the river-side, through Whitefriars. I was not expected till to-morrow; but I had my keys, and, if Herbert were gone to bed, could get to bed myself without disturbing him.

As it seldom happened that I came in at that Whitefriars gate after the Temple was closed, and as I was very muddy and weary, I did not take it ill that the night-porter examined me with much attention as he held the gate a little way open for me to pass in. To help his memory I mentioned my name.

“I was not quite sure, sir, but I thought so. Here’s a note, sir. The messenger that brought it, said would you be so good as read it by my lantern?”

Much surprised by the request, I took the note. It was directed to Philip Pip, Esquire, and on the top of the superscription were the words, “PLEASE READ THIS, HERE.” I opened it, the watchman holding up his light, and read inside, in Wemmick’s writing,–


Summary: Chapter 45

Pip takes the note from Wemmick seriously and takes lodgings in another part of London. He has a terrible night’s sleep, between imagining bugs falling on his face and his worries about what’s possibly gone wrong. As soon as it’s light, he heads straight for Walworth, where Wemmick lives with the Aged.

Wemmick isn’t too surprised to see him and is glad that Pip didn’t go home. He explains in a roundabout way that someone suspects Magwitch of being back in London. He can’t say too much because the situation is complicated. Likewise, he doesn’t want to know more than he has to, so that he may later have plausible deniability. His employer – Jaggers – is involved somehow. Wemmick gives Pip advice on how to cover his tracks. He explains that the city is probably the best place to hide during a pursuit.

Wemmick explains that Pip’s recent guest has been moved to a better, safer location – a room above the home of Herbert’s fiancée. The place is convenient for several reasons. For one, it’s out of Pip’s usual path. He’s never actually visited Herbert’s secret bride to be, Clara. Second, it’s on the river. When the time is right, it will be easy to move whoever it is that needs to be moved.

Analysis: Chapter XLV

Turning from the Temple gate as soon as I had read the warning, I made the best of my way to Fleet Street, and there got a late hackney chariot and drove to the Hummums in Covent Garden. In those times a bed was always to be got there at any hour of the night, and the chamberlain, letting me in at his ready wicket, lighted the candle next in order on his shelf, and showed me straight into the bedroom next in order on his list. It was a sort of vault on the ground floor at the back, with a despotic monster of a four-post bedstead in it, straddling over the whole place, putting one of his arbitrary legs into the fireplace and another into the doorway, and squeezing the wretched little washing-stand in quite a Divinely Righteous manner.

As I had asked for a night-light, the chamberlain had brought me in, before he left me, the good old constitutional rushlight of those virtuous days.–an object like the ghost of a walking-cane, which instantly broke its back if it were touched, which nothing could ever be lighted at, and which was placed in solitary confinement at the bottom of a high tin tower, perforated with round holes that made a staringly wide-awake pattern on the walls. When I had got into bed, and lay there footsore, weary, and wretched, I found that I could no more close my own eyes than I could close the eyes of this foolish Argus. And thus, in the gloom and death of the night, we stared at one another.

What a doleful night! How anxious, how dismal, how long! There was an inhospitable smell in the room, of cold soot and hot dust; and, as I looked up into the corners of the tester over my head, I thought what a number of blue-bottle flies from the butchers’, and earwigs from the market, and grubs from the country, must be holding on up there, lying by for next summer. This led me to speculate whether any of them ever tumbled down, and then I fancied that I felt light falls on my face,–a disagreeable turn of thought, suggesting other and more objectionable approaches up my back. When I had lain awake a little while, those extraordinary voices with which silence teems began to make themselves audible. The closet whispered, the fireplace sighed, the little washing-stand ticked, and one guitar-string played occasionally in the chest of drawers. At about the same time, the eyes on the wall acquired a new expression, and in every one of those staring rounds I saw written, DON’T GO HOME.

Whatever night-fancies and night-noises crowded on me, they never warded off this DON’T GO HOME. It plaited itself into whatever I thought of, as a bodily pain would have done. Not long before, I had read in the newspapers, how a gentleman unknown had come to the Hummums in the night, and had gone to bed, and had destroyed himself, and had been found in the morning weltering in blood. It came into my head that he must have occupied this very vault of mine, and I got out of bed to assure myself that there were no red marks about; then opened the door to look out into the passages, and cheer myself with the companionship of a distant light, near which I knew the chamberlain to be dozing. But all this time, why I was not to go home, and what had happened at home, and when I should go home, and whether Provis was safe at home, were questions occupying my mind so busily, that one might have supposed there could be no more room in it for any other theme. Even when I thought of Estella, and how we had parted that day forever, and when I recalled all the circumstances of our parting, and all her looks and tones, and the action of her fingers while she knitted,– even then I was pursuing, here and there and everywhere, the caution, Don’t go home. When at last I dozed, in sheer exhaustion of mind and body, it became a vast shadowy verb which I had to conjugate. Imperative mood, present tense: Do not thou go home, let him not go home, let us not go home, do not ye or you go home, let not them go home. Then potentially: I may not and I cannot go home; and I might not, could not, would not, and should not go home; until I felt that I was going distracted, and rolled over on the pillow, and looked at the staring rounds upon the wall again.

I had left directions that I was to be called at seven; for it was plain that I must see Wemmick before seeing any one else, and equally plain that this was a case in which his Walworth sentiments only could be taken. It was a relief to get out of the room where the night had been so miserable, and I needed no second knocking at the door to startle me from my uneasy bed.

The Castle battlements arose upon my view at eight o’clock. The little servant happening to be entering the fortress with two hot rolls, I passed through the postern and crossed the drawbridge in her company, and so came without announcement into the presence of Wemmick as he was making tea for himself and the Aged. An open door afforded a perspective view of the Aged in bed.

“Halloa, Mr. Pip!” said Wemmick. “You did come home, then?”

“Yes,” I returned; “but I didn’t go home.”

“That’s all right,” said he, rubbing his hands. “I left a note for you at each of the Temple gates, on the chance. Which gate did you come to?”

I told him.

“I’ll go round to the others in the course of the day and destroy the notes,” said Wemmick; “it’s a good rule never to leave documentary evidence if you can help it, because you don’t know when it may be put in. I’m going to take a liberty with you. Would you mind toasting this sausage for the Aged P.?”

I said I should be delighted to do it.

“Then you can go about your work, Mary Anne,” said Wemmick to the little servant; “which leaves us to ourselves, don’t you see, Mr. Pip?” he added, winking, as she disappeared.

I thanked him for his friendship and caution, and our discourse proceeded in a low tone, while I toasted the Aged’s sausage and he buttered the crumb of the Aged’s roll.

“Now, Mr. Pip, you know,” said Wemmick, “you and I understand one another. We are in our private and personal capacities, and we have been engaged in a confidential transaction before to-day. Official sentiments are one thing. We are extra official.”

I cordially assented. I was so very nervous, that I had already lighted the Aged’s sausage like a torch, and been obliged to blow it out.

“I accidentally heard, yesterday morning,” said Wemmick, “being in a certain place where I once took you,–even between you and me, it’s as well not to mention names when avoidable–”

“Much better not,” said I. “I understand you.”

“I heard there by chance, yesterday morning,” said Wemmick, “that a certain person not altogether of uncolonial pursuits, and not unpossessed of portable property,–I don’t know who it may really be,–we won’t name this person–”

“Not necessary,” said I.

“–Had made some little stir in a certain part of the world where a good many people go, not always in gratification of their own inclinations, and not quite irrespective of the government expense–”

In watching his face, I made quite a firework of the Aged’s sausage, and greatly discomposed both my own attention and Wemmick’s; for which I apologized.

“–By disappearing from such place, and being no more heard of thereabouts. From which,” said Wemmick, “conjectures had been raised and theories formed. I also heard that you at your chambers in Garden Court, Temple, had been watched, and might be watched again.”

“By whom?” said I.

“I wouldn’t go into that,” said Wemmick, evasively, “it might clash with official responsibilities. I heard it, as I have in my time heard other curious things in the same place. I don’t tell it you on information received. I heard it.”

He took the toasting-fork and sausage from me as he spoke, and set forth the Aged’s breakfast neatly on a little tray. Previous to placing it before him, he went into the Aged’s room with a clean white cloth, and tied the same under the old gentleman’s chin, and propped him up, and put his nightcap on one side, and gave him quite a rakish air. Then he placed his breakfast before him with great care, and said, “All right, ain’t you, Aged P.?” To which the cheerful Aged replied, “All right, John, my boy, all right!” As there seemed to be a tacit understanding that the Aged was not in a presentable state, and was therefore to be considered invisible, I made a pretence of being in complete ignorance of these proceedings.

“This watching of me at my chambers (which I have once had reason to suspect),” I said to Wemmick when he came back, “is inseparable from the person to whom you have adverted; is it?”

Wemmick looked very serious. “I couldn’t undertake to say that, of my own knowledge. I mean, I couldn’t undertake to say it was at first. But it either is, or it will be, or it’s in great danger of being.”

As I saw that he was restrained by fealty to Little Britain from saying as much as he could, and as I knew with thankfulness to him how far out of his way he went to say what he did, I could not press him. But I told him, after a little meditation over the fire, that I would like to ask him a question, subject to his answering or not answering, as he deemed right, and sure that his course would be right. He paused in his breakfast, and crossing his arms, and pinching his shirt-sleeves (his notion of in-door comfort was to sit without any coat), he nodded to me once, to put my question.

“You have heard of a man of bad character, whose true name is Compeyson?”

He answered with one other nod.

“Is he living?”

One other nod.

“Is he in London?”

He gave me one other nod, compressed the post-office exceedingly, gave me one last nod, and went on with his breakfast.

“Now,” said Wemmick, “questioning being over,” which he emphasized and repeated for my guidance, “I come to what I did, after hearing what I heard. I went to Garden Court to find you; not finding you, I went to Clarriker’s to find Mr. Herbert.”

“And him you found?” said I, with great anxiety.

“And him I found. Without mentioning any names or going into any details, I gave him to understand that if he was aware of anybody– Tom, Jack, or Richard–being about the chambers, or about the immediate neighborhood, he had better get Tom, Jack, or Richard out of the way while you were out of the way.”

“He would be greatly puzzled what to do?”

“He was puzzled what to do; not the less, because I gave him my opinion that it was not safe to try to get Tom, Jack, or Richard too far out of the way at present. Mr. Pip, I’ll tell you something. Under existing circumstances, there is no place like a great city when you are once in it. Don’t break cover too soon. Lie close. Wait till things slacken, before you try the open, even for foreign air.”

I thanked him for his valuable advice, and asked him what Herbert had done?

“Mr. Herbert,” said Wemmick, “after being all of a heap for half an hour, struck out a plan. He mentioned to me as a secret, that he is courting a young lady who has, as no doubt you are aware, a bedridden Pa. Which Pa, having been in the Purser line of life, lies a-bed in a bow-window where he can see the ships sail up and down the river. You are acquainted with the young lady, most probably?”

“Not personally,” said I.

The truth was, that she had objected to me as an expensive companion who did Herbert no good, and that, when Herbert had first proposed to present me to her, she had received the proposal with such very moderate warmth, that Herbert had felt himself obliged to confide the state of the case to me, with a view to the lapse of a little time before I made her acquaintance. When I had begun to advance Herbert’s prospects by stealth, I had been able to bear this with cheerful philosophy: he and his affianced, for their part, had naturally not been very anxious to introduce a third person into their interviews; and thus, although I was assured that I had risen in Clara’s esteem, and although the young lady and I had long regularly interchanged messages and remembrances by Herbert, I had never seen her. However, I did not trouble Wemmick with these particulars.

“The house with the bow-window,” said Wemmick, “being by the river-side, down the Pool there between Limehouse and Greenwich, and being kept, it seems, by a very respectable widow who has a furnished upper floor to let, Mr. Herbert put it to me, what did I think of that as a temporary tenement for Tom, Jack, or Richard? Now, I thought very well of it, for three reasons I’ll give you. That is to say: Firstly. It’s altogether out of all your beats, and is well away from the usual heap of streets great and small. Secondly. Without going near it yourself, you could always hear of the safety of Tom, Jack, or Richard, through Mr. Herbert. Thirdly. After a while and when it might be prudent, if you should want to slip Tom, Jack, or Richard on board a foreign packet-boat, there he is–ready.”

Much comforted by these considerations, I thanked Wemmick again and again, and begged him to proceed.

“Well, sir! Mr. Herbert threw himself into the business with a will, and by nine o’clock last night he housed Tom, Jack, or Richard,– whichever it may be,–you and I don’t want to know,–quite successfully. At the old lodgings it was understood that he was summoned to Dover, and, in fact, he was taken down the Dover road and cornered out of it. Now, another great advantage of all this is, that it was done without you, and when, if any one was concerning himself about your movements, you must be known to be ever so many miles off and quite otherwise engaged. This diverts suspicion and confuses it; and for the same reason I recommended that, even if you came back last night, you should not go home. It brings in more confusion, and you want confusion.”

Wemmick, having finished his breakfast, here looked at his watch, and began to get his coat on.

“And now, Mr. Pip,” said he, with his hands still in the sleeves, “I have probably done the most I can do; but if I can ever do more,– from a Walworth point of view, and in a strictly private and personal capacity,–I shall be glad to do it. Here’s the address. There can be no harm in your going here to-night, and seeing for yourself that all is well with Tom, Jack, or Richard, before you go home,–which is another reason for your not going home last night. But, after you have gone home, don’t go back here. You are very welcome, I am sure, Mr. Pip”; his hands were now out of his sleeves, and I was shaking them; “and let me finally impress one important point upon you.” He laid his hands upon my shoulders, and added in a solemn whisper: “Avail yourself of this evening to lay hold of his portable property. You don’t know what may happen to him. Don’t let anything happen to the portable property.”

Quite despairing of making my mind clear to Wemmick on this point, I forbore to try.

“Time’s up,” said Wemmick, “and I must be off. If you had nothing more pressing to do than to keep here till dark, that’s what I should advise. You look very much worried, and it would do you good to have a perfectly quiet day with the Aged,–he’ll be up presently, –and a little bit of–you remember the pig?”

“Of course,” said I.

“Well; and a little bit of him. That sausage you toasted was his, and he was in all respects a first-rater. Do try him, if it is only for old acquaintance sake. Good by, Aged Parent!” in a cheery shout.

“All right, John; all right, my boy!” piped the old man from within.

I soon fell asleep before Wemmick’s fire, and the Aged and I enjoyed one another’s society by falling asleep before it more or less all day. We had loin of pork for dinner, and greens grown on the estate; and I nodded at the Aged with a good intention whenever I failed to do it drowsily. When it was quite dark, I left the Aged preparing the fire for toast; and I inferred from the number of teacups, as well as from his glances at the two little doors in the wall, that Miss Skiffins was expected.

Summary: Chapter 46

Pip travels to Mill Pond Bank, downstream from his residence at the Temple, where Herbert’s fiancée lives. He meets Herbert there, who explains that Magwitch has taken the rooms on the third floor under the name “Mr. Campbell.” Herbert’s fiancée is Clara, and her father lives on the second floor. He never leaves his rooms and stays drunk on rum. Her father would not approve of any marriage, so Herbert must remain a secret for the time being.

After a few introductions, Pip and Herbert go upstairs to talk with their secret friend. Pip has decided not to tell him anything about Compeyson. He worries that Magwitch may go into a blind rage and seek him out. Instead, they explain that there’s some unknown risk – Wemmick has heard that Magwitch may have been spotted.

Herbert devises a plan for getting Magwitch safely out of the city. He suggests that Pip keep a boat at the Temple and get into the habit of rowing up and down the river. After a while, no one will pay any attention to him. At a point in the future, Pip and Herbert will take Magwitch downstream. For now, Magwitch will signal that all is well from his window by slowly drawing the blinds.

Analysis: Chapter XLVI

Eight o’clock had struck before I got into the air, that was scented, not disagreeably, by the chips and shavings of the long-shore boat-builders, and mast, oar, and block makers. All that water-side region of the upper and lower Pool below Bridge was unknown ground to me; and when I struck down by the river, I found that the spot I wanted was not where I had supposed it to be, and was anything but easy to find. It was called Mill Pond Bank, Chinks’s Basin; and I had no other guide to Chinks’s Basin than the Old Green Copper Rope-walk.

It matters not what stranded ships repairing in dry docks I lost myself among, what old hulls of ships in course of being knocked to pieces, what ooze and slime and other dregs of tide, what yards of ship-builders and ship-breakers, what rusty anchors blindly biting into the ground, though for years off duty, what mountainous country of accumulated casks and timber, how many ropewalks that were not the Old Green Copper. After several times falling short of my destination and as often overshooting it, I came unexpectedly round a corner, upon Mill Pond Bank. It was a fresh kind of place, all circumstances considered, where the wind from the river had room to turn itself round; and there were two or three trees in it, and there was the stump of a ruined windmill, and there was the Old Green Copper Ropewalk,–whose long and narrow vista I could trace in the moonlight, along a series of wooden frames set in the ground, that looked like superannuated haymaking-rakes which had grown old and lost most of their teeth.

Selecting from the few queer houses upon Mill Pond Bank a house with a wooden front and three stories of bow-window (not bay-window, which is another thing), I looked at the plate upon the door, and read there, Mrs. Whimple. That being the name I wanted, I knocked, and an elderly woman of a pleasant and thriving appearance responded. She was immediately deposed, however, by Herbert, who silently led me into the parlor and shut the door. It was an odd sensation to see his very familiar face established quite at home in that very unfamiliar room and region; and I found myself looking at him, much as I looked at the corner-cupboard with the glass and china, the shells upon the chimney-piece, and the colored engravings on the wall, representing the death of Captain Cook, a ship-launch, and his Majesty King George the Third in a state coachman’s wig, leather-breeches, and top-boots, on the terrace at Windsor.

“All is well, Handel,” said Herbert, “and he is quite satisfied, though eager to see you. My dear girl is with her father; and if you’ll wait till she comes down, I’ll make you known to her, and then we’ll go up stairs. That’s her father.”

I had become aware of an alarming growling overhead, and had probably expressed the fact in my countenance.

“I am afraid he is a sad old rascal,” said Herbert, smiling, “but I have never seen him. Don’t you smell rum? He is always at it.”

“At rum?” said I.

“Yes,” returned Herbert, “and you may suppose how mild it makes his gout. He persists, too, in keeping all the provisions up stairs in his room, and serving them out. He keeps them on shelves over his head, and will weigh them all. His room must be like a chandler’s shop.”

While he thus spoke, the growling noise became a prolonged roar, and then died away.

“What else can be the consequence,” said Herbert, in explanation, “if he will cut the cheese? A man with the gout in his right hand– and everywhere else–can’t expect to get through a Double Gloucester without hurting himself.”

He seemed to have hurt himself very much, for he gave another furious roar.

“To have Provis for an upper lodger is quite a godsend to Mrs. Whimple,” said Herbert, “for of course people in general won’t stand that noise. A curious place, Handel; isn’t it?”

It was a curious place, indeed; but remarkably well kept and clean.

“Mrs. Whimple,” said Herbert, when I told him so, “is the best of housewives, and I really do not know what my Clara would do without her motherly help. For, Clara has no mother of her own, Handel, and no relation in the world but old Gruffandgrim.”

“Surely that’s not his name, Herbert?”

“No, no,” said Herbert, “that’s my name for him. His name is Mr. Barley. But what a blessing it is for the son of my father and mother to love a girl who has no relations, and who can never bother herself or anybody else about her family!”

Herbert had told me on former occasions, and now reminded me, that he first knew Miss Clara Barley when she was completing her education at an establishment at Hammersmith, and that on her being recalled home to nurse her father, he and she had confided their affection to the motherly Mrs. Whimple, by whom it had been fostered and regulated with equal kindness and discretion, ever since. It was understood that nothing of a tender nature could possibly be confided to old Barley, by reason of his being totally unequal to the consideration of any subject more psychological than Gout, Rum, and Purser’s stores.

As we were thus conversing in a low tone while Old Barley’s sustained growl vibrated in the beam that crossed the ceiling, the room door opened, and a very pretty, slight, dark-eyed girl of twenty or so came in with a basket in her hand: whom Herbert tenderly relieved of the basket, and presented, blushing, as “Clara.” She really was a most charming girl, and might have passed for a captive fairy, whom that truculent Ogre, Old Barley, had pressed into his service.

“Look here,” said Herbert, showing me the basket, with a compassionate and tender smile, after we had talked a little; “here’s poor Clara’s supper, served out every night. Here’s her allowance of bread, and here’s her slice of cheese, and here’s her rum,–which I drink. This is Mr. Barley’s breakfast for to-morrow, served out to be cooked. Two mutton-chops, three potatoes, some split peas, a little flour, two ounces of butter, a pinch of salt, and all this black pepper. It’s stewed up together, and taken hot, and it’s a nice thing for the gout, I should think!”

There was something so natural and winning in Clara’s resigned way of looking at these stores in detail, as Herbert pointed them out; and something so confiding, loving, and innocent in her modest manner of yielding herself to Herbert’s embracing arm; and something so gentle in her, so much needing protection on Mill Pond Bank, by Chinks’s Basin, and the Old Green Copper Ropewalk, with Old Barley growling in the beam,–that I would not have undone the engagement between her and Herbert for all the money in the pocket-book I had never opened.

I was looking at her with pleasure and admiration, when suddenly the growl swelled into a roar again, and a frightful bumping noise was heard above, as if a giant with a wooden leg were trying to bore it through the ceiling to come at us. Upon this Clara said to Herbert, “Papa wants me, darling!” and ran away.

“There is an unconscionable old shark for you!” said Herbert. “What do you suppose he wants now, Handel?”

“I don’t know,” said I. “Something to drink?”

“That’s it!” cried Herbert, as if I had made a guess of extraordinary merit. “He keeps his grog ready mixed in a little tub on the table. Wait a moment, and you’ll hear Clara lift him up to take some. There he goes!” Another roar, with a prolonged shake at the end. “Now,” said Herbert, as it was succeeded by silence, “he’s drinking. Now,” said Herbert, as the growl resounded in the beam once more, “he’s down again on his back!”

Clara returned soon afterwards, and Herbert accompanied me up stairs to see our charge. As we passed Mr. Barley’s door, he was heard hoarsely muttering within, in a strain that rose and fell like wind, the following Refrain, in which I substitute good wishes for something quite the reverse:–

“Ahoy! Bless your eyes, here’s old Bill Barley. Here’s old Bill Barley, bless your eyes. Here’s old Bill Barley on the flat of his back, by the Lord. Lying on the flat of his back like a drifting old dead flounder, here’s your old Bill Barley, bless your eyes. Ahoy! Bless you.”

In this strain of consolation, Herbert informed me the invisible Barley would commune with himself by the day and night together; Often, while it was light, having, at the same time, one eye at a telescope which was fitted on his bed for the convenience of sweeping the river.

In his two cabin rooms at the top of the house, which were fresh and airy, and in which Mr. Barley was less audible than below, I found Provis comfortably settled. He expressed no alarm, and seemed to feel none that was worth mentioning; but it struck me that he was softened,–indefinably, for I could not have said how, and could never afterwards recall how when I tried, but certainly.

The opportunity that the day’s rest had given me for reflection had resulted in my fully determining to say nothing to him respecting Compeyson. For anything I knew, his animosity towards the man might otherwise lead to his seeking him out and rushing on his own destruction. Therefore, when Herbert and I sat down with him by his fire, I asked him first of all whether he relied on Wemmick’s judgment and sources of information?

“Ay, ay, dear boy!” he answered, with a grave nod, “Jaggers knows.”

“Then, I have talked with Wemmick,” said I, “and have come to tell you what caution he gave me and what advice.”

This I did accurately, with the reservation just mentioned; and I told him how Wemmick had heard, in Newgate prison (whether from officers or prisoners I could not say), that he was under some suspicion, and that my chambers had been watched; how Wemmick had recommended his keeping close for a time, and my keeping away from him; and what Wemmick had said about getting him abroad. I added, that of course, when the time came, I should go with him, or should follow close upon him, as might be safest in Wemmick’s judgment. What was to follow that I did not touch upon; neither, indeed, was I at all clear or comfortable about it in my own mind, now that I saw him in that softer condition, and in declared peril for my sake. As to altering my way of living by enlarging my expenses, I put it to him whether in our present unsettled and difficult circumstances, it would not be simply ridiculous, if it were no worse?

He could not deny this, and indeed was very reasonable throughout. His coming back was a venture, he said, and he had always known it to be a venture. He would do nothing to make it a desperate venture, and he had very little fear of his safety with such good help.

Herbert, who had been looking at the fire and pondering, here said that something had come into his thoughts arising out of Wemmick’s suggestion, which it might be worth while to pursue. “We are both good watermen, Handel, and could take him down the river ourselves when the right time comes. No boat would then be hired for the purpose, and no boatmen; that would save at least a chance of suspicion, and any chance is worth saving. Never mind the season; don’t you think it might be a good thing if you began at once to keep a boat at the Temple stairs, and were in the habit of rowing up and down the river? You fall into that habit, and then who notices or minds? Do it twenty or fifty times, and there is nothing special in your doing it the twenty-first or fifty-first.”

I liked this scheme, and Provis was quite elated by it. We agreed that it should be carried into execution, and that Provis should never recognize us if we came below Bridge, and rowed past Mill Pond Bank. But we further agreed that he should pull down the blind in that part of his window which gave upon the east, whenever he saw us and all was right.

Our conference being now ended, and everything arranged, I rose to go; remarking to Herbert that he and I had better not go home together, and that I would take half an hour’s start of him. “I don’t like to leave you here,” I said to Provis, “though I cannot doubt your being safer here than near me. Good by!”

“Dear boy,” he answered, clasping my hands, “I don’t know when we may meet again, and I don’t like good by. Say good night!”

“Good night! Herbert will go regularly between us, and when the time comes you may be certain I shall be ready. Good night, good night!”

We thought it best that he should stay in his own rooms; and we left him on the landing outside his door, holding a light over the stair-rail to light us down stairs. Looking back at him, I thought of the first night of his return, when our positions were reversed, and when I little supposed my heart could ever be as heavy and anxious at parting from him as it was now.

Old Barley was growling and swearing when we repassed his door, with no appearance of having ceased or of meaning to cease. When we got to the foot of the stairs, I asked Herbert whether he had preserved the name of Provis. He replied, certainly not, and that the lodger was Mr. Campbell. He also explained that the utmost known of Mr. Campbell there was, that he (Herbert) had Mr. Campbell consigned to him, and felt a strong personal interest in his being well cared for, and living a secluded life. So, when we went into the parlor where Mrs. Whimple and Clara were seated at work, I said nothing of my own interest in Mr. Campbell, but kept it to myself.

When I had taken leave of the pretty, gentle, dark-eyed girl, and of the motherly woman who had not outlived her honest sympathy with a little affair of true love, I felt as if the Old Green Copper Ropewalk had grown quite a different place. Old Barley might be as old as the hills, and might swear like a whole field of troopers, but there were redeeming youth and trust and hope enough in Chinks’s Basin to fill it to overflowing. And then I thought of Estella, and of our parting, and went home very sadly.

All things were as quiet in the Temple as ever I had seen them. The windows of the rooms on that side, lately occupied by Provis, were dark and still, and there was no lounger in Garden Court. I walked past the fountain twice or thrice before I descended the steps that were between me and my rooms, but I was quite alone. Herbert, coming to my bedside when he came in,–for I went straight to bed, dispirited and fatigued,–made the same report. Opening one of the windows after that, he looked out into the moonlight, and told me that the pavement was a solemnly empty as the pavement of any cathedral at that same hour.

Next day I set myself to get the boat. It was soon done, and the boat was brought round to the Temple stairs, and lay where I could reach her within a minute or two. Then, I began to go out as for training and practice: sometimes alone, sometimes with Herbert. I was often out in cold, rain, and sleet, but nobody took much note of me after I had been out a few times. At first, I kept above Blackfriars Bridge; but as the hours of the tide changed, I took towards London Bridge. It was Old London Bridge in those days, and at certain states of the tide there was a race and fall of water there which gave it a bad reputation. But I knew well enough how to “shoot’ the bridge after seeing it done, and so began to row about among the shipping in the Pool, and down to Erith. The first time I passed Mill Pond Bank, Herbert and I were pulling a pair of oars; and, both in going and returning, we saw the blind towards the east come down. Herbert was rarely there less frequently than three times in a week, and he never brought me a single word of intelligence that was at all alarming. Still, I knew that there was cause for alarm, and I could not get rid of the notion of being watched. Once received, it is a haunting idea; how many undesigning persons I suspected of watching me, it would be hard to calculate.

In short, I was always full of fears for the rash man who was in hiding. Herbert had sometimes said to me that he found it pleasant to stand at one of our windows after dark, when the tide was running down, and to think that it was flowing, with everything it bore, towards Clara. But I thought with dread that it was flowing towards Magwitch, and that any black mark on its surface might be his pursuers, going swiftly, silently, and surely, to take him.

Summary: Chapter 47

Time passes slowly. Pip continues rowing up and down the river several times a week. One evening, he happens to catch a play with Mr. Wopsle as one of the lead actors. The performance is equally ridiculous as before, but Pip enjoys himself. It’s one of the few moments in which he isn’t worrying about Magwitch, the people hunting him, or his money woes. Mr. Wopsle has not been as successful in drama as he had hoped. However, his spirits are still high. The man sees that his young friend Pip is in the audience.

After the play concludes, Pip and Mr. Wopsle meet outside the theater and walk together. Mr. Wopsle says he saw something very unusual during the performance – sitting behind Pip was the “other” convict from the marshes, the one that Pip knows as Compeyson. He remembers the day out on the marshes very clearly and is quite sure of the man’s identity. Pip has to pretend that this news doesn’t affect him. For Mr. Woplse, it’s simply a bizarre coincidence. For Pip, however, it’s proof that bad people are watching him closely. He sends a letter to Wemmick informing him of this new discovery. He decides again that it’s best for Magwitch not to know too many details.

Analysis: Chapter XLVII

Some weeks passed without bringing any change. We waited for Wemmick, and he made no sign. If I had never known him out of Little Britain, and had never enjoyed the privilege of being on a familiar footing at the Castle, I might have doubted him; not so for a moment, knowing him as I did.

My worldly affairs began to wear a gloomy appearance, and I was pressed for money by more than one creditor. Even I myself began to know the want of money (I mean of ready money in my own pocket), and to relieve it by converting some easily spared articles of jewelery into cash. But I had quite determined that it would be a heartless fraud to take more money from my patron in the existing state of my uncertain thoughts and plans. Therefore, I had sent him the unopened pocket-book by Herbert, to hold in his own keeping, and I felt a kind of satisfaction–whether it was a false kind or a true, I hardly know–in not having profited by his generosity since his revelation of himself.

As the time wore on, an impression settled heavily upon me that Estella was married. Fearful of having it confirmed, though it was all but a conviction, I avoided the newspapers, and begged Herbert (to whom I had confided the circumstances of our last interview) never to speak of her to me. Why I hoarded up this last wretched little rag of the robe of hope that was rent and given to the winds, how do I know? Why did you who read this, commit that not dissimilar inconsistency of your own last year, last month, last week?

It was an unhappy life that I lived; and its one dominant anxiety, towering over all its other anxieties, like a high mountain above a range of mountains, never disappeared from my view. Still, no new cause for fear arose. Let me start from my bed as I would, with the terror fresh upon me that he was discovered; let me sit listening, as I would with dread, for Herbert’s returning step at night, lest it should be fleeter than ordinary, and winged with evil news,–for all that, and much more to like purpose, the round of things went on. Condemned to inaction and a state of constant restlessness and suspense, I rowed about in my boat, and waited, waited, waited, as I best could.

There were states of the tide when, having been down the river, I could not get back through the eddy-chafed arches and starlings of old London Bridge; then, I left my boat at a wharf near the Custom House, to be brought up afterwards to the Temple stairs. I was not averse to doing this, as it served to make me and my boat a commoner incident among the water-side people there. From this slight occasion sprang two meetings that I have now to tell of.

One afternoon, late in the month of February, I came ashore at the wharf at dusk. I had pulled down as far as Greenwich with the ebb tide, and had turned with the tide. It had been a fine bright day, but had become foggy as the sun dropped, and I had had to feel my way back among the shipping, pretty carefully. Both in going and returning, I had seen the signal in his window, All well.

As it was a raw evening, and I was cold, I thought I would comfort myself with dinner at once; and as I had hours of dejection and solitude before me if I went home to the Temple, I thought I would afterwards go to the play. The theatre where Mr. Wopsle had achieved his questionable triumph was in that water-side neighborhood (it is nowhere now), and to that theatre I resolved to go. I was aware that Mr. Wopsle had not succeeded in reviving the Drama, but, on the contrary, had rather partaken of its decline. He had been ominously heard of, through the play-bills, as a faithful Black, in connection with a little girl of noble birth, and a monkey. And Herbert had seen him as a predatory Tartar of comic propensities, with a face like a red brick, and an outrageous hat all over bells.

I dined at what Herbert and I used to call a geographical chop-house, where there were maps of the world in porter-pot rims on every half-yard of the tablecloths, and charts of gravy on every one of the knives,–to this day there is scarcely a single chop-house within the Lord Mayor’s dominions which is not geographical,–and wore out the time in dozing over crumbs, staring at gas, and baking in a hot blast of dinners. By and by, I roused myself, and went to the play.

There, I found a virtuous boatswain in His Majesty’s service,–a most excellent man, though I could have wished his trousers not quite so tight in some places, and not quite so loose in others,– who knocked all the little men’s hats over their eyes, though he was very generous and brave, and who wouldn’t hear of anybody’s paying taxes, though he was very patriotic. He had a bag of money in his pocket, like a pudding in the cloth, and on that property married a young person in bed-furniture, with great rejoicings; the whole population of Portsmouth (nine in number at the last census) turning out on the beach to rub their own hands and shake everybody else’s, and sing “Fill, fill!” A certain dark-complexioned Swab, however, who wouldn’t fill, or do anything else that was proposed to him, and whose heart was openly stated (by the boatswain) to be as black as his figure-head, proposed to two other Swabs to get all mankind into difficulties; which was so effectually done (the Swab family having considerable political influence) that it took half the evening to set things right, and then it was only brought about through an honest little grocer with a white hat, black gaiters, and red nose, getting into a clock, with a gridiron, and listening, and coming out, and knocking everybody down from behind with the gridiron whom he couldn’t confute with what he had overheard. This led to Mr. Wopsle’s (who had never been heard of before) coming in with a star and garter on, as a plenipotentiary of great power direct from the Admiralty, to say that the Swabs were all to go to prison on the spot, and that he had brought the boatswain down the Union Jack, as a slight acknowledgment of his public services. The boatswain, unmanned for the first time, respectfully dried his eyes on the Jack, and then cheering up, and addressing Mr. Wopsle as Your Honor, solicited permission to take him by the fin. Mr. Wopsle, conceding his fin with a gracious dignity, was immediately shoved into a dusty corner, while everybody danced a hornpipe; and from that corner, surveying the public with a discontented eye, became aware of me.

The second piece was the last new grand comic Christmas pantomime, in the first scene of which, it pained me to suspect that I detected Mr. Wopsle with red worsted legs under a highly magnified phosphoric countenance and a shock of red curtain-fringe for his hair, engaged in the manufacture of thunderbolts in a mine, and displaying great cowardice when his gigantic master came home (very hoarse) to dinner. But he presently presented himself under worthier circumstances; for, the Genius of Youthful Love being in want of assistance,–on account of the parental brutality of an ignorant farmer who opposed the choice of his daughter’s heart, by purposely falling upon the object, in a flour-sack, out of the first-floor window,–summoned a sententious Enchanter; and he, coming up from the antipodes rather unsteadily, after an apparently violent journey, proved to be Mr. Wopsle in a high-crowned hat, with a necromantic work in one volume under his arm. The business of this enchanter on earth being principally to be talked at, sung at, butted at, danced at, and flashed at with fires of various colors, he had a good deal of time on his hands. And I observed, with great surprise, that he devoted it to staring in my direction as if he were lost in amazement.

There was something so remarkable in the increasing glare of Mr. Wopsle’s eye, and he seemed to be turning so many things over in his mind and to grow so confused, that I could not make it out. I sat thinking of it long after he had ascended to the clouds in a large watch-case, and still I could not make it out. I was still thinking of it when I came out of the theatre an hour afterwards, and found him waiting for me near the door.

“How do you do?” said I, shaking hands with him as we turned down the street together. “I saw that you saw me.”

“Saw you, Mr. Pip!” he returned. “Yes, of course I saw you. But who else was there?”

“Who else?”

“It is the strangest thing,” said Mr. Wopsle, drifting into his lost look again; “and yet I could swear to him.”

Becoming alarmed, I entreated Mr. Wopsle to explain his meaning.

“Whether I should have noticed him at first but for your being there,” said Mr. Wopsle, going on in the same lost way, “I can’t be positive; yet I think I should.”

Involuntarily I looked round me, as I was accustomed to look round me when I went home; for these mysterious words gave me a chill.

“Oh! He can’t be in sight,” said Mr. Wopsle. “He went out before I went off. I saw him go.”

Having the reason that I had for being suspicious, I even suspected this poor actor. I mistrusted a design to entrap me into some admission. Therefore I glanced at him as we walked on together, but said nothing.

“I had a ridiculous fancy that he must be with you, Mr. Pip, till I saw that you were quite unconscious of him, sitting behind you there like a ghost.”

My former chill crept over me again, but I was resolved not to speak yet, for it was quite consistent with his words that he might be set on to induce me to connect these references with Provis. Of course, I was perfectly sure and safe that Provis had not been there.

“I dare say you wonder at me, Mr. Pip; indeed, I see you do. But it is so very strange! You’ll hardly believe what I am going to tell you. I could hardly believe it myself, if you told me.”

“Indeed?” said I.

“No, indeed. Mr. Pip, you remember in old times a certain Christmas Day, when you were quite a child, and I dined at Gargery’s, and some soldiers came to the door to get a pair of handcuffs mended?”

“I remember it very well.”

“And you remember that there was a chase after two convicts, and that we joined in it, and that Gargery took you on his back, and that I took the lead, and you kept up with me as well as you could?”

“I remember it all very well.” Better than he thought,–except the last clause.

“And you remember that we came up with the two in a ditch, and that there was a scuffle between them, and that one of them had been severely handled and much mauled about the face by the other?”

“I see it all before me.”

“And that the soldiers lighted torches, and put the two in the centre, and that we went on to see the last of them, over the black marshes, with the torchlight shining on their faces,–I am particular about that,–with the torchlight shining on their faces, when there was an outer ring of dark night all about us?”

“Yes,” said I. “I remember all that.”

“Then, Mr. Pip, one of those two prisoners sat behind you tonight. I saw him over your shoulder.”

“Steady!” I thought. I asked him then, “Which of the two do you suppose you saw?”

“The one who had been mauled,” he answered readily, “and I’ll swear I saw him! The more I think of him, the more certain I am of him.”

“This is very curious!” said I, with the best assumption I could put on of its being nothing more to me. “Very curious indeed!”

I cannot exaggerate the enhanced disquiet into which this conversation threw me, or the special and peculiar terror I felt at Compeyson’s having been behind me “like a ghost.” For if he had ever been out of my thoughts for a few moments together since the hiding had begun, it was in those very moments when he was closest to me; and to think that I should be so unconscious and off my guard after all my care was as if I had shut an avenue of a hundred doors to keep him out, and then had found him at my elbow. I could not doubt, either, that he was there, because I was there, and that, however slight an appearance of danger there might be about us, danger was always near and active.

I put such questions to Mr. Wopsle as, When did the man come in? He could not tell me that; he saw me, and over my shoulder he saw the man. It was not until he had seen him for some time that he began to identify him; but he had from the first vaguely associated him with me, and known him as somehow belonging to me in the old village time. How was he dressed? Prosperously, but not noticeably otherwise; he thought, in black. Was his face at all disfigured? No, he believed not. I believed not too, for, although in my brooding state I had taken no especial notice of the people behind me, I thought it likely that a face at all disfigured would have attracted my attention.

When Mr. Wopsle had imparted to me all that he could recall or I extract, and when I had treated him to a little appropriate refreshment, after the fatigues of the evening, we parted. It was between twelve and one o’clock when I reached the Temple, and the gates were shut. No one was near me when I went in and went home.

Herbert had come in, and we held a very serious council by the fire. But there was nothing to be done, saving to communicate to Wemmick what I had that night found out, and to remind him that we waited for his hint. As I thought that I might compromise him if I went too often to the Castle, I made this communication by letter. I wrote it before I went to bed, and went out and posted it; and again no one was near me. Herbert and I agreed that we could do nothing else but be very cautious. And we were very cautious indeed, –more cautious than before, if that were possible,–and I for my part never went near Chinks’s Basin, except when I rowed by, and then I only looked at Mill Pond Bank as I looked at anything else.

Summary: Chapter 48

Pip lands his boat near Cheapside and walks around the streets, considering where he might eat. He’s surprised by Jaggers coming up behind him. The lawyer suggests they eat together. Pip would have refused, until he hears that Wemmick is joining them also. He goes along with Jaggers back to the office, and then the three of them set out for Gerrard Street in a coach.

At Jaggers’ home, the lawyer informs Pip that Miss Havisham has requested his presence concerning a matter of business they had previously discussed. To Pip’s anguish, Jaggers toasts the future Mrs. Bentley Drummle. As they are speaking of Estella, Pip notices something about the hands of Jaggers’ servant, Molly. She has the same hands as Estella. He further notices that her eyes and hair are similar, too. Soon, he can’t deny the obvious – Molly is Estella’s mother.

Wemmick and Pip leave Jaggers’ home together. At Pip’s request, Wemmick tells the story of Molly, or at least as much of it as he knows. Many years ago, Molly was acquitted of murder with the help of Jaggers. She’s been in service to him ever since. Wemmick doesn’t know any details about Molly’s child. During the trial, it was put forward that Molly had killed her child in a rage or jealousy.

Analysis: Chapter XLVIII

The second of the two meetings referred to in the last chapter occurred about a week after the first. I had again left my boat at the wharf below Bridge; the time was an hour earlier in the afternoon; and, undecided where to dine, I had strolled up into Cheapside, and was strolling along it, surely the most unsettled person in all the busy concourse, when a large hand was laid upon my shoulder by some one overtaking me. It was Mr. Jaggers’s hand, and he passed it through my arm.

“As we are going in the same direction, Pip, we may walk together. Where are you bound for?”

“For the Temple, I think,” said I.

“Don’t you know?” said Mr. Jaggers.

“Well,” I returned, glad for once to get the better of him in cross-examination, “I do not know, for I have not made up my mind.”

“You are going to dine?” said Mr. Jaggers. “You don’t mind admitting that, I suppose?”

“No,” I returned, “I don’t mind admitting that.”

“And are not engaged?”

“I don’t mind admitting also that I am not engaged.”

“Then,” said Mr. Jaggers, “come and dine with me.”

I was going to excuse myself, when he added, “Wemmick’s coming.” So I changed my excuse into an acceptance,–the few words I had uttered, serving for the beginning of either,–and we went along Cheapside and slanted off to Little Britain, while the lights were springing up brilliantly in the shop windows, and the street lamp-lighters, scarcely finding ground enough to plant their ladders on in the midst of the afternoon’s bustle, were skipping up and down and running in and out, opening more red eyes in the gathering fog than my rushlight tower at the Hummums had opened white eyes in the ghostly wall.

At the office in Little Britain there was the usual letter-writing, hand-washing, candle-snuffing, and safe-locking, that closed the business of the day. As I stood idle by Mr. Jaggers’s fire, its rising and falling flame made the two casts on the shelf look as if they were playing a diabolical game at bo-peep with me; while the pair of coarse, fat office candles that dimly lighted Mr. Jaggers as he wrote in a corner were decorated with dirty winding-sheets, as if in remembrance of a host of hanged clients.

We went to Gerrard Street, all three together, in a hackney-coach: And, as soon as we got there, dinner was served. Although I should not have thought of making, in that place, the most distant reference by so much as a look to Wemmick’s Walworth sentiments, yet I should have had no objection to catching his eye now and then in a friendly way. But it was not to be done. He turned his eyes on Mr. Jaggers whenever he raised them from the table, and was as dry and distant to me as if there were twin Wemmicks, and this was the wrong one.

“Did you send that note of Miss Havisham’s to Mr. Pip, Wemmick?” Mr. Jaggers asked, soon after we began dinner.

“No, sir,” returned Wemmick; “it was going by post, when you brought Mr. Pip into the office. Here it is.” He handed it to his principal instead of to me.

“It’s a note of two lines, Pip,” said Mr. Jaggers, handing it on, “sent up to me by Miss Havisham on account of her not being sure of your address. She tells me that she wants to see you on a little matter of business you mentioned to her. You’ll go down?”

“Yes,” said I, casting my eyes over the note, which was exactly in those terms.

“When do you think of going down?”

“I have an impending engagement,” said I, glancing at Wemmick, who was putting fish into the post-office, “that renders me rather uncertain of my time. At once, I think.”

“If Mr. Pip has the intention of going at once,” said Wemmick to Mr. Jaggers, “he needn’t write an answer, you know.”

Receiving this as an intimation that it was best not to delay, I settled that I would go to-morrow, and said so. Wemmick drank a glass of wine, and looked with a grimly satisfied air at Mr. Jaggers, but not at me.

“So, Pip! Our friend the Spider,” said Mr. Jaggers, “has played his cards. He has won the pool.”

It was as much as I could do to assent.

“Hah! He is a promising fellow–in his way–but he may not have it all his own way. The stronger will win in the end, but the stronger has to be found out first. If he should turn to, and beat her–”

“Surely,” I interrupted, with a burning face and heart, “you do not seriously think that he is scoundrel enough for that, Mr. Jaggers?”

“I didn’t say so, Pip. I am putting a case. If he should turn to and beat her, he may possibly get the strength on his side; if it should be a question of intellect, he certainly will not. It would be chance work to give an opinion how a fellow of that sort will turn out in such circumstances, because it’s a toss-up between two results.”

“May I ask what they are?”

“A fellow like our friend the Spider,” answered Mr. Jaggers, “either beats or cringes. He may cringe and growl, or cringe and not growl; but he either beats or cringes. Ask Wemmick his opinion.”

“Either beats or cringes,” said Wemmick, not at all addressing himself to me.

“So here’s to Mrs. Bentley Drummle,” said Mr. Jaggers, taking a decanter of choicer wine from his dumb-waiter, and filling for each of us and for himself, “and may the question of supremacy be settled to the lady’s satisfaction! To the satisfaction of the lady and the gentleman, it never will be. Now, Molly, Molly, Molly, Molly, how slow you are to-day!”

She was at his elbow when he addressed her, putting a dish upon the table. As she withdrew her hands from it, she fell back a step or two, nervously muttering some excuse. And a certain action of her fingers, as she spoke, arrested my attention.

“What’s the matter?” said Mr. Jaggers.

“Nothing. Only the subject we were speaking of,” said I, “was rather painful to me.”

The action of her fingers was like the action of knitting. She stood looking at her master, not understanding whether she was free to go, or whether he had more to say to her and would call her back if she did go. Her look was very intent. Surely, I had seen exactly such eyes and such hands on a memorable occasion very lately!

He dismissed her, and she glided out of the room. But she remained before me as plainly as if she were still there. I looked at those hands, I looked at those eyes, I looked at that flowing hair; and I compared them with other hands, other eyes, other hair, that I knew of, and with what those might be after twenty years of a brutal husband and a stormy life. I looked again at those hands and eyes of the housekeeper, and thought of the inexplicable feeling that had come over me when I last walked–not alone–in the ruined garden, and through the deserted brewery. I thought how the same feeling had come back when I saw a face looking at me, and a hand waving to me from a stage-coach window; and how it had come back again and had flashed about me like lightning, when I had passed in a carriage–not alone–through a sudden glare of light in a dark street. I thought how one link of association had helped that identification in the theatre, and how such a link, wanting before, had been riveted for me now, when I had passed by a chance swift from Estella’s name to the fingers with their knitting action, and the attentive eyes. And I felt absolutely certain that this woman was Estella’s mother.

Mr. Jaggers had seen me with Estella, and was not likely to have missed the sentiments I had been at no pains to conceal. He nodded when I said the subject was painful to me, clapped me on the back, put round the wine again, and went on with his dinner.

Only twice more did the housekeeper reappear, and then her stay in the room was very short, and Mr. Jaggers was sharp with her. But her hands were Estella’s hands, and her eyes were Estella’s eyes, and if she had reappeared a hundred times I could have been neither more sure nor less sure that my conviction was the truth.

It was a dull evening, for Wemmick drew his wine, when it came round, quite as a matter of business,–just as he might have drawn his salary when that came round,–and with his eyes on his chief, sat in a state of perpetual readiness for cross-examination. As to the quantity of wine, his post-office was as indifferent and ready as any other post-office for its quantity of letters. From my point of view, he was the wrong twin all the time, and only externally like the Wemmick of Walworth.

We took our leave early, and left together. Even when we were groping among Mr. Jaggers’s stock of boots for our hats, I felt that the right twin was on his way back; and we had not gone half a dozen yards down Gerrard Street in the Walworth direction, before I found that I was walking arm in arm with the right twin, and that the wrong twin had evaporated into the evening air.

“Well!” said Wemmick, “that’s over! He’s a wonderful man, without his living likeness; but I feel that I have to screw myself up when I dine with him,–and I dine more comfortably unscrewed.”

I felt that this was a good statement of the case, and told him so.

“Wouldn’t say it to anybody but yourself,” he answered. “I know that what is said between you and me goes no further.”

I asked him if he had ever seen Miss Havisham’s adopted daughter, Mrs. Bentley Drummle. He said no. To avoid being too abrupt, I then spoke of the Aged and of Miss Skiffins. He looked rather sly when I mentioned Miss Skiffins, and stopped in the street to blow his nose, with a roll of the head, and a flourish not quite free from latent boastfulness.

“Wemmick,” said I, “do you remember telling me, before I first went to Mr. Jaggers’s private house, to notice that housekeeper?”

“Did I?” he replied. “Ah, I dare say I did. Deuce take me,” he added, suddenly, “I know I did. I find I am not quite unscrewed yet.”

“A wild beast tamed, you called her.”

“And what do you call her?”

“The same. How did Mr. Jaggers tame her, Wemmick?”

“That’s his secret. She has been with him many a long year.”

“I wish you would tell me her story. I feel a particular interest in being acquainted with it. You know that what is said between you and me goes no further.”

“Well!” Wemmick replied, “I don’t know her story,–that is, I don’t know all of it. But what I do know I’ll tell you. We are in our private and personal capacities, of course.”

“Of course.”

“A score or so of years ago, that woman was tried at the Old Bailey for murder, and was acquitted. She was a very handsome young woman, and I believe had some gypsy blood in her. Anyhow, it was hot enough when it was up, as you may suppose.”

“But she was acquitted.”

“Mr. Jaggers was for her,” pursued Wemmick, with a look full of meaning, “and worked the case in a way quite astonishing. It was a desperate case, and it was comparatively early days with him then, and he worked it to general admiration; in fact, it may almost be said to have made him. He worked it himself at the police-office, day after day for many days, contending against even a committal; and at the trial where he couldn’t work it himself, sat under counsel, and–every one knew–put in all the salt and pepper. The murdered person was a woman,–a woman a good ten years older, very much larger, and very much stronger. It was a case of jealousy. They both led tramping lives, and this woman in Gerrard Street here had been married very young, over the broomstick (as we say), to a tramping man, and was a perfect fury in point of jealousy. The murdered woman,–more a match for the man, certainly, in point of years–was found dead in a barn near Hounslow Heath. There had been a violent struggle, perhaps a fight. She was bruised and scratched and torn, and had been held by the throat, at last, and choked. Now, there was no reasonable evidence to implicate any person but this woman, and on the improbabilities of her having been able to do it Mr. Jaggers principally rested his case. You may be sure,” said Wemmick, touching me on the sleeve, “that he never dwelt upon the strength of her hands then, though he sometimes does now.”

I had told Wemmick of his showing us her wrists, that day of the dinner party.

“Well, sir!” Wemmick went on; “it happened–happened, don’t you see?–that this woman was so very artfully dressed from the time of her apprehension, that she looked much slighter than she really was; in particular, her sleeves are always remembered to have been so skilfully contrived that her arms had quite a delicate look. She had only a bruise or two about her,–nothing for a tramp,–but the backs of her hands were lacerated, and the question was, Was it with finger-nails? Now, Mr. Jaggers showed that she had struggled through a great lot of brambles which were not as high as her face; but which she could not have got through and kept her hands out of; and bits of those brambles were actually found in her skin and put in evidence, as well as the fact that the brambles in question were found on examination to have been broken through, and to have little shreds of her dress and little spots of blood upon them here and there. But the boldest point he made was this: it was attempted to be set up, in proof of her jealousy, that she was under strong suspicion of having, at about the time of the murder, frantically destroyed her child by this man–some three years old –to revenge herself upon him. Mr. Jaggers worked that in this way: “We say these are not marks of finger-nails, but marks of brambles, and we show you the brambles. You say they are marks of finger-nails, and you set up the hypothesis that she destroyed her child. You must accept all consequences of that hypothesis. For anything we know, she may have destroyed her child, and the child in clinging to her may have scratched her hands. What then? You are not trying her for the murder of her child; why don’t you? As to this case, if you will have scratches, we say that, for anything we know, you may have accounted for them, assuming for the sake of argument that you have not invented them?” To sum up, sir,” said Wemmick, “Mr. Jaggers was altogether too many for the jury, and they gave in.”

“Has she been in his service ever since?”

“Yes; but not only that,” said Wemmick, “she went into his service immediately after her acquittal, tamed as she is now. She has since been taught one thing and another in the way of her duties, but she was tamed from the beginning.”

“Do you remember the sex of the child?”

“Said to have been a girl.”

“You have nothing more to say to me to-night?”

“Nothing. I got your letter and destroyed it. Nothing.”

We exchanged a cordial good-night, and I went home, with new matter for my thoughts, though with no relief from the old.

Summary: Chapter 49

Miss Havisham is remorseful for the unhappiness she has caused to Pip. She regrets turning Estella into a monster and asks for Pip’s forgiveness. Pip says there’s nothing to forgive; that he would have fallen in love with Estella either way. Miss Havisham stares at the fire, only half listening to what Pip says.

Pip begins to fill in the details of the secret business arrangement that has benefited Herbert Pocket. He says that 900 pounds are needed to seal the deal and ensure his future. Miss Havisham writes a formal note for Jaggers to deliver the money to Pip. She then collapses on the floor, saying, “What have I done?” over and over again.

Pip walks around the old property, remembering his younger days. He remembers how terrible Estella made him feel as a boy. As he nears the gate, he decides to walk back up and see Miss Havisham one last time. Standing outside her room, he sees her dress catch fire. She rushes toward him. He does his best to put out the flames, burning his own hands in the process. The injuries are serious, and Miss Havisham is laid upon the table where she prophesied that she would lay when dead. She is in shock, repeating a handful of phrases and unaware of the world.

Analysis: Chapter XLIX

Putting Miss Havisham’s note in my pocket, that it might serve as my credentials for so soon reappearing at Satis House, in case her waywardness should lead her to express any surprise at seeing me, I went down again by the coach next day. But I alighted at the Halfway House, and breakfasted there, and walked the rest of the distance; for I sought to get into the town quietly by the unfrequented ways, and to leave it in the same manner.

The best light of the day was gone when I passed along the quiet echoing courts behind the High Street. The nooks of ruin where the old monks had once had their refectories and gardens, and where the strong walls were now pressed into the service of humble sheds and stables, were almost as silent as the old monks in their graves. The cathedral chimes had at once a sadder and a more remote sound to me, as I hurried on avoiding observation, than they had ever had before; so, the swell of the old organ was borne to my ears like funeral music; and the rooks, as they hovered about the gray tower and swung in the bare high trees of the priory garden, seemed to call to me that the place was changed, and that Estella was gone out of it for ever.

An elderly woman, whom I had seen before as one of the servants who lived in the supplementary house across the back courtyard, opened the gate. The lighted candle stood in the dark passage within, as of old, and I took it up and ascended the staircase alone. Miss Havisham was not in her own room, but was in the larger room across the landing. Looking in at the door, after knocking in vain, I saw her sitting on the hearth in a ragged chair, close before, and lost in the contemplation of, the ashy fire.

Doing as I had often done, I went in, and stood touching the old chimney-piece, where she could see me when she raised her eyes. There was an air or utter loneliness upon her, that would have moved me to pity though she had wilfully done me a deeper injury than I could charge her with. As I stood compassionating her, and thinking how, in the progress of time, I too had come to be a part of the wrecked fortunes of that house, her eyes rested on me. She stared, and said in a low voice, “Is it real?”

“It is I, Pip. Mr. Jaggers gave me your note yesterday, and I have lost no time.”

“Thank you. Thank you.”

As I brought another of the ragged chairs to the hearth and sat down, I remarked a new expression on her face, as if she were afraid of me.

“I want,” she said, “to pursue that subject you mentioned to me when you were last here, and to show you that I am not all stone. But perhaps you can never believe, now, that there is anything human in my heart?”

When I said some reassuring words, she stretched out her tremulous right hand, as though she was going to touch me; but she recalled it again before I understood the action, or knew how to receive it.

“You said, speaking for your friend, that you could tell me how to do something useful and good. Something that you would like done, is it not?”

“Something that I would like done very much.”

“What is it?”

I began explaining to her that secret history of the partnership. I had not got far into it, when I judged from her looks that she was thinking in a discursive way of me, rather than of what I said. It seemed to be so; for, when I stopped speaking, many moments passed before she showed that she was conscious of the fact.

“Do you break off,” she asked then, with her former air of being afraid of me, “because you hate me too much to bear to speak to me?”

“No, no,” I answered, “how can you think so, Miss Havisham! I stopped because I thought you were not following what I said.”

“Perhaps I was not,” she answered, putting a hand to her head. “Begin again, and let me look at something else. Stay! Now tell me.”

She set her hand upon her stick in the resolute way that sometimes was habitual to her, and looked at the fire with a strong expression of forcing herself to attend. I went on with my explanation, and told her how I had hoped to complete the transaction out of my means, but how in this I was disappointed. That part of the subject (I reminded her) involved matters which could form no part of my explanation, for they were the weighty secrets of another.

“So!” said she, assenting with her head, but not looking at me. “And how much money is wanting to complete the purchase?”

I was rather afraid of stating it, for it sounded a large sum. “Nine hundred pounds.”

“If I give you the money for this purpose, will you keep my secret as you have kept your own?”

“Quite as faithfully.”

“And your mind will be more at rest?”

“Much more at rest.”

“Are you very unhappy now?”

She asked this question, still without looking at me, but in an unwonted tone of sympathy. I could not reply at the moment, for my voice failed me. She put her left arm across the head of her stick, and softly laid her forehead on it.

“I am far from happy, Miss Havisham; but I have other causes of disquiet than any you know of. They are the secrets I have mentioned.”

After a little while, she raised her head, and looked at the fire Again.

“It is noble in you to tell me that you have other causes of unhappiness, Is it true?”

“Too true.”

“Can I only serve you, Pip, by serving your friend? Regarding that as done, is there nothing I can do for you yourself?”

“Nothing. I thank you for the question. I thank you even more for the tone of the question. But there is nothing.”

She presently rose from her seat, and looked about the blighted room for the means of writing. There were none there, and she took from her pocket a yellow set of ivory tablets, mounted in tarnished gold, and wrote upon them with a pencil in a case of tarnished gold that hung from her neck.

“You are still on friendly terms with Mr. Jaggers?”

“Quite. I dined with him yesterday.”

“This is an authority to him to pay you that money, to lay out at your irresponsible discretion for your friend. I keep no money here; but if you would rather Mr. Jaggers knew nothing of the matter, I will send it to you.”

“Thank you, Miss Havisham; I have not the least objection to receiving it from him.”

She read me what she had written; and it was direct and clear, and evidently intended to absolve me from any suspicion of profiting by the receipt of the money. I took the tablets from her hand, and it trembled again, and it trembled more as she took off the chain to which the pencil was attached, and put it in mine. All this she did without looking at me.

“My name is on the first leaf. If you can ever write under my name, “I forgive her,” though ever so long after my broken heart is dust pray do it!”

“O Miss Havisham,” said I, “I can do it now. There have been sore mistakes; and my life has been a blind and thankless one; and I want forgiveness and direction far too much, to be bitter with you.”

She turned her face to me for the first time since she had averted it, and, to my amazement, I may even add to my terror, dropped on her knees at my feet; with her folded hands raised to me in the manner in which, when her poor heart was young and fresh and whole, they must often have been raised to heaven from her mother’s side.

To see her with her white hair and her worn face kneeling at my feet gave me a shock through all my frame. I entreated her to rise, and got my arms about her to help her up; but she only pressed that hand of mine which was nearest to her grasp, and hung her head over it and wept. I had never seen her shed a tear before, and, in the hope that the relief might do her good, I bent over her without speaking. She was not kneeling now, but was down upon the ground.

“O!” she cried, despairingly. “What have I done! What have I done!”

“If you mean, Miss Havisham, what have you done to injure me, let me answer. Very little. I should have loved her under any circumstances. Is she married?”


It was a needless question, for a new desolation in the desolate house had told me so.

“What have I done! What have I done!” She wrung her hands, and crushed her white hair, and returned to this cry over and over again. “What have I done!”

I knew not how to answer, or how to comfort her. That she had done a grievous thing in taking an impressionable child to mould into the form that her wild resentment, spurned affection, and wounded pride found vengeance in, I knew full well. But that, in shutting out the light of day, she had shut out infinitely more; that, in seclusion, she had secluded herself from a thousand natural and healing influences; that, her mind, brooding solitary, had grown diseased, as all minds do and must and will that reverse the appointed order of their Maker, I knew equally well. And could I look upon her without compassion, seeing her punishment in the ruin she was, in her profound unfitness for this earth on which she was placed, in the vanity of sorrow which had become a master mania, like the vanity of penitence, the vanity of remorse, the vanity of unworthiness, and other monstrous vanities that have been curses in this world?

“Until you spoke to her the other day, and until I saw in you a looking-glass that showed me what I once felt myself, I did not know what I had done. What have I done! What have I done!” And so again, twenty, fifty times over, What had she done!

“Miss Havisham,” I said, when her cry had died away, “you may dismiss me from your mind and conscience. But Estella is a different case, and if you can ever undo any scrap of what you have done amiss in keeping a part of her right nature away from her, it will be better to do that than to bemoan the past through a hundred years.”

“Yes, yes, I know it. But, Pip–my dear!” There was an earnest womanly compassion for me in her new affection. “My dear! Believe this: when she first came to me, I meant to save her from misery like my own. At first, I meant no more.”

“Well, well!” said I. “I hope so.”

“But as she grew, and promised to be very beautiful, I gradually did worse, and with my praises, and with my jewels, and with my teachings, and with this figure of myself always before her, a warning to back and point my lessons, I stole her heart away, and put ice in its place.”

“Better,” I could not help saying, “to have left her a natural heart, even to be bruised or broken.”

With that, Miss Havisham looked distractedly at me for a while, and then burst out again, What had she done!

“If you knew all my story,” she pleaded, “you would have some compassion for me and a better understanding of me.”

“Miss Havisham,” I answered, as delicately as I could, “I believe I may say that I do know your story, and have known it ever since I first left this neighborhood. It has inspired me with great commiseration, and I hope I understand it and its influences. Does what has passed between us give me any excuse for asking you a question relative to Estella? Not as she is, but as she was when she first came here?”

She was seated on the ground, with her arms on the ragged chair, and her head leaning on them. She looked full at me when I said this, and replied, “Go on.”

“Whose child was Estella?”

She shook her head.

“You don’t know?”

She shook her head again.

“But Mr. Jaggers brought her here, or sent her here?”

“Brought her here.”

“Will you tell me how that came about?”

She answered in a low whisper and with caution: “I had been shut up in these rooms a long time (I don’t know how long; you know what time the clocks keep here), when I told him that I wanted a little girl to rear and love, and save from my fate. I had first seen him when I sent for him to lay this place waste for me; having read of him in the newspapers, before I and the world parted. He told me that he would look about him for such an orphan child. One night he brought her here asleep, and I called her Estella.”

“Might I ask her age then?”

“Two or three. She herself knows nothing, but that she was left an orphan and I adopted her.”

So convinced I was of that woman’s being her mother, that I wanted no evidence to establish the fact in my own mind. But, to any mind, I thought, the connection here was clear and straight.

What more could I hope to do by prolonging the interview? I had succeeded on behalf of Herbert, Miss Havisham had told me all she knew of Estella, I had said and done what I could to ease her mind. No matter with what other words we parted; we parted.

Twilight was closing in when I went down stairs into the natural air. I called to the woman who had opened the gate when I entered, that I would not trouble her just yet, but would walk round the place before leaving. For I had a presentiment that I should never be there again, and I felt that the dying light was suited to my last view of it.

By the wilderness of casks that I had walked on long ago, and on which the rain of years had fallen since, rotting them in many places, and leaving miniature swamps and pools of water upon those that stood on end, I made my way to the ruined garden. I went all round it; round by the corner where Herbert and I had fought our battle; round by the paths where Estella and I had walked. So cold, so lonely, so dreary all!

Taking the brewery on my way back, I raised the rusty latch of a little door at the garden end of it, and walked through. I was going out at the opposite door,–not easy to open now, for the damp wood had started and swelled, and the hinges were yielding, and the threshold was encumbered with a growth of fungus,–when I turned my head to look back. A childish association revived with wonderful force in the moment of the slight action, and I fancied that I saw Miss Havisham hanging to the beam. So strong was the impression, that I stood under the beam shuddering from head to foot before I knew it was a fancy,–though to be sure I was there in an instant.

The mournfulness of the place and time, and the great terror of this illusion, though it was but momentary, caused me to feel an indescribable awe as I came out between the open wooden gates where I had once wrung my hair after Estella had wrung my heart. Passing on into the front courtyard, I hesitated whether to call the woman to let me out at the locked gate of which she had the key, or first to go up stairs and assure myself that Miss Havisham was as safe and well as I had left her. I took the latter course and went up.

I looked into the room where I had left her, and I saw her seated in the ragged chair upon the hearth close to the fire, with her back towards me. In the moment when I was withdrawing my head to go quietly away, I saw a great flaming light spring up. In the same moment I saw her running at me, shrieking, with a whirl of fire blazing all about her, and soaring at least as many feet above her head as she was high.

I had a double-caped great-coat on, and over my arm another thick coat. That I got them off, closed with her, threw her down, and got them over her; that I dragged the great cloth from the table for the same purpose, and with it dragged down the heap of rottenness in the midst, and all the ugly things that sheltered there; that we were on the ground struggling like desperate enemies, and that the closer I covered her, the more wildly she shrieked and tried to free herself,–that this occurred I knew through the result, but not through anything I felt, or thought, or knew I did. I knew nothing until I knew that we were on the floor by the great table, and that patches of tinder yet alight were floating in the smoky air, which, a moment ago, had been her faded bridal dress.

Then, I looked round and saw the disturbed beetles and spiders running away over the floor, and the servants coming in with breathless cries at the door. I still held her forcibly down with all my strength, like a prisoner who might escape; and I doubt if I even knew who she was, or why we had struggled, or that she had been in flames, or that the flames were out, until I saw the patches of tinder that had been her garments no longer alight but falling in a black shower around us.

She was insensible, and I was afraid to have her moved, or even touched. Assistance was sent for, and I held her until it came, as if I unreasonably fancied (I think I did) that, if I let her go, the fire would break out again and consume her. When I got up, on the surgeon’s coming to her with other aid, I was astonished to see that both my hands were burnt; for, I had no knowledge of it through the sense of feeling.

On examination it was pronounced that she had received serious hurts, but that they of themselves were far from hopeless; the danger lay mainly in the nervous shock. By the surgeon’s directions, her bed was carried into that room and laid upon the great table, which happened to be well suited to the dressing of her injuries. When I saw her again, an hour afterwards, she lay, indeed, where I had seen her strike her stick, and had heard her say that she would lie one day.

Though every vestige of her dress was burnt, as they told me, she still had something of her old ghastly bridal appearance; for, they had covered her to the throat with white cotton-wool, and as she lay with a white sheet loosely overlying that, the phantom air of something that had been and was changed was still upon her.

I found, on questioning the servants, that Estella was in Paris, and I got a promise from the surgeon that he would write to her by the next post. Miss Havisham’s family I took upon myself; intending to communicate with Mr. Matthew Pocket only, and leave him to do as he liked about informing the rest. This I did next day, through Herbert, as soon as I returned to town.

There was a stage, that evening, when she spoke collectedly of what had happened, though with a certain terrible vivacity. Towards midnight she began to wander in her speech; and after that it gradually set in that she said innumerable times in a low solemn voice, “What have I done!” And then, “When she first came, I meant to save her from misery like mine.” And then, “Take the pencil and write under my name, ‘I forgive her!’” She never changed the order of these three sentences, but she sometimes left out a word in one or other of them; never putting in another word, but always leaving a blank and going on to the next word.

As I could do no service there, and as I had, nearer home, that pressing reason for anxiety and fear which even her wanderings could not drive out of my mind, I decided, in the course of the night that I would return by the early morning coach, walking on a mile or so, and being taken up clear of the town. At about six o’clock of the morning, therefore, I leaned over her and touched her lips with mine, just as they said, not stopping for being touched, “Take the pencil and write under my name, ‘I forgive her.’”

Summary: Chapter 50

Pip has his left arm immobilized in a sling and his right hand bandaged. Herbert acts as nurse, regularly changing bandages and keeping Pip’s attention off the pain and shock of the event. They both understand that Pip must recover as quickly as possible. The boat trips up and down river must continue. Any day they may have to ferry Magwitch out of the city.

Herbert says that he spoke for a couple of hours with Magwitch, and the rough old colonist is becoming much more civilized. He also learned much more of his backstory, in particular his associations with Compeyson and Molly. Pip is eager to here more. He suspects there’s some as yet hidden connection between Magwitch, Jaggers and Molly, but he’s not certain of anything yet.

Herbert explains that Magwitch and Molly had a child. When the little girl was 2 or 3 years old, Molly threatened to kill the child as punishment for Magwitch. As far as he knows, she went through with the awful act. Pip remembers that Estella came to Miss Havisham when she was only about two. Finally, all the clues come together, and he delivers the news to Herbert – Abel Magwitch is Estella’s father.

Analysis: Chapter L

My hands had been dressed twice or thrice in the night, and again in the morning. My left arm was a good deal burned to the elbow, and, less severely, as high as the shoulder; it was very painful, but the flames had set in that direction, and I felt thankful it was no worse. My right hand was not so badly burnt but that I could move the fingers. It was bandaged, of course, but much less inconveniently than my left hand and arm; those I carried in a sling; and I could only wear my coat like a cloak, loose over my shoulders and fastened at the neck. My hair had been caught by the fire, but not my head or face.

When Herbert had been down to Hammersmith and seen his father, he came back to me at our chambers, and devoted the day to attending on me. He was the kindest of nurses, and at stated times took off the bandages, and steeped them in the cooling liquid that was kept ready, and put them on again, with a patient tenderness that I was deeply grateful for.

At first, as I lay quiet on the sofa, I found it painfully difficult, I might say impossible, to get rid of the impression of the glare of the flames, their hurry and noise, and the fierce burning smell. If I dozed for a minute, I was awakened by Miss Havisham’s cries, and by her running at me with all that height of fire above her head. This pain of the mind was much harder to strive against than any bodily pain I suffered; and Herbert, seeing that, did his utmost to hold my attention engaged.

Neither of us spoke of the boat, but we both thought of it. That was made apparent by our avoidance of the subject, and by our agreeing–without agreement–to make my recovery of the use of my hands a question of so many hours, not of so many weeks.

My first question when I saw Herbert had been of course, whether all was well down the river? As he replied in the affirmative, with perfect confidence and cheerfulness, we did not resume the subject until the day was wearing away. But then, as Herbert changed the bandages, more by the light of the fire than by the outer light, he went back to it spontaneously.

“I sat with Provis last night, Handel, two good hours.”

“Where was Clara?”

“Dear little thing!” said Herbert. “She was up and down with Gruffandgrim all the evening. He was perpetually pegging at the floor the moment she left his sight. I doubt if he can hold out long, though. What with rum and pepper,–and pepper and rum,–I should think his pegging must be nearly over.”

“And then you will be married, Herbert?”

“How can I take care of the dear child otherwise?–Lay your arm out upon the back of the sofa, my dear boy, and I’ll sit down here, and get the bandage off so gradually that you shall not know when it comes. I was speaking of Provis. Do you know, Handel, he improves?”

“I said to you I thought he was softened when I last saw him.”

“So you did. And so he is. He was very communicative last night, and told me more of his life. You remember his breaking off here about some woman that he had had great trouble with.–Did I hurt you?”

I had started, but not under his touch. His words had given me a start.

“I had forgotten that, Herbert, but I remember it now you speak of it.”

“Well! He went into that part of his life, and a dark wild part it is. Shall I tell you? Or would it worry you just now?”

“Tell me by all means. Every word.”

Herbert bent forward to look at me more nearly, as if my reply had been rather more hurried or more eager than he could quite account for. “Your head is cool?” he said, touching it.

“Quite,” said I. “Tell me what Provis said, my dear Herbert.”

“It seems,” said Herbert, “–there’s a bandage off most charmingly, and now comes the cool one,–makes you shrink at first, my poor dear fellow, don’t it? but it will be comfortable presently, –it seems that the woman was a young woman, and a jealous woman, and a revengeful woman; revengeful, Handel, to the last degree.”

“To what last degree?”

“Murder.–Does it strike too cold on that sensitive place?”

“I don’t feel it. How did she murder? Whom did she murder?” “Why, the deed may not have merited quite so terrible a name,” said Herbert, “but, she was tried for it, and Mr. Jaggers defended her, and the reputation of that defence first made his name known to Provis. It was another and a stronger woman who was the victim, and there had been a struggle–in a barn. Who began it, or how fair it was, or how unfair, may be doubtful; but how it ended is certainly not doubtful, for the victim was found throttled.”

“Was the woman brought in guilty?”

“No; she was acquitted.–My poor Handel, I hurt you!”

“It is impossible to be gentler, Herbert. Yes? What else?”

“This acquitted young woman and Provis had a little child; a little child of whom Provis was exceedingly fond. On the evening of the very night when the object of her jealousy was strangled as I tell you, the young woman presented herself before Provis for one moment, and swore that she would destroy the child (which was in her possession), and he should never see it again; then she vanished.–There’s the worst arm comfortably in the sling once more, and now there remains but the right hand, which is a far easier job. I can do it better by this light than by a stronger, for my hand is steadiest when I don’t see the poor blistered patches too distinctly.–You don’t think your breathing is affected, my dear boy? You seem to breathe quickly.”

“Perhaps I do, Herbert. Did the woman keep her oath?”

“There comes the darkest part of Provis’s life. She did.”

“That is, he says she did.”

“Why, of course, my dear boy,” returned Herbert, in a tone of surprise, and again bending forward to get a nearer look at me. “He says it all. I have no other information.”

“No, to be sure.”

“Now, whether,” pursued Herbert, “he had used the child’s mother ill, or whether he had used the child’s mother well, Provis doesn’t say; but she had shared some four or five years of the wretched life he described to us at this fireside, and he seems to have felt pity for her, and forbearance towards her. Therefore, fearing he should be called upon to depose about this destroyed child, and so be the cause of her death, he hid himself (much as he grieved for the child), kept himself dark, as he says, out of the way and out of the trial, and was only vaguely talked of as a certain man called Abel, out of whom the jealousy arose. After the acquittal she disappeared, and thus he lost the child and the child’s mother.”

“I want to ask–”

“A moment, my dear boy, and I have done. That evil genius, Compeyson, the worst of scoundrels among many scoundrels, knowing of his keeping out of the way at that time and of his reasons for doing so, of course afterwards held the knowledge over his head as a means of keeping him poorer and working him harder. It was clear last night that this barbed the point of Provis’s animosity.”

“I want to know,” said I, “and particularly, Herbert, whether he told you when this happened?”

“Particularly? Let me remember, then, what he said as to that. His expression was, ‘a round score o’ year ago, and a’most directly after I took up wi’ Compeyson.’ How old were you when you came upon him in the little churchyard?”

“I think in my seventh year.”

“Ay. It had happened some three or four years then, he said, and you brought into his mind the little girl so tragically lost, who would have been about your age.”

“Herbert,” said I, after a short silence, in a hurried way, “can you see me best by the light of the window, or the light of the fire?”

“By the firelight,” answered Herbert, coming close again.

“Look at me.”

“I do look at you, my dear boy.”

“Touch me.”

“I do touch you, my dear boy.”

“You are not afraid that I am in any fever, or that my head is much disordered by the accident of last night?”

“N-no, my dear boy,” said Herbert, after taking time to examine me. “You are rather excited, but you are quite yourself.”

“I know I am quite myself. And the man we have in hiding down the river, is Estella’s Father.”

Summary: Chapter 51

The next day, Pip goes to visit Jaggers and Wemmick at the office. Jaggers authorizes the check for 900 pounds that will enrich Herbert’s business venture. Pip unfolds the story of Estella’s true parentage. Jaggers knows about the mother, but that the father is “Provis” is news to him. Pip would like for Estella to be reunited with her parents. Jaggers sees things differently.

Jaggers explains how the situation between he and Molly came about. As part of the deal in securing her acquittal, Estella was to be raised in a more suitable environment, and so avoid the life of poverty and crime. Jaggers says that he regularly sees children brought before the courts. He saw an opportunity to prevent that for Estella. When Molly was unable to suppress her violent tendencies, Jaggers brought her under his service.

The lawyer points out to Pip that revealing the parents to their child would benefit no one, at least not as he saw it. Wemmick seems to agree. Pip begs Jaggers to have some human feelings, and then asks Wemmick to remember that he has a castle and an Aged Parent at home. Wemmick is annoyed that Pip would bring his home life into the open while at the office. Jaggers is surprised, and lovingly calls Wemmick an impostor.

Analysis: Chapter LI

What purpose I had in view when I was hot on tracing out and proving Estella’s parentage, I cannot say. It will presently be seen that the question was not before me in a distinct shape until it was put before me by a wiser head than my own.

But when Herbert and I had held our momentous conversation, I was seized with a feverish conviction that I ought to hunt the matter down,–that I ought not to let it rest, but that I ought to see Mr. Jaggers, and come at the bare truth. I really do not know whether I felt that I did this for Estella’s sake, or whether I was glad to transfer to the man in whose preservation I was so much concerned some rays of the romantic interest that had so long surrounded me. Perhaps the latter possibility may be the nearer to the truth.

Any way, I could scarcely be withheld from going out to Gerrard Street that night. Herbert’s representations that, if I did, I should probably be laid up and stricken useless, when our fugitive’s safety would depend upon me, alone restrained my impatience. On the understanding, again and again reiterated, that, come what would, I was to go to Mr. Jaggers to-morrow, I at length submitted to keep quiet, and to have my hurts looked after, and to stay at home. Early next morning we went out together, and at the corner of Giltspur Street by Smithfield, I left Herbert to go his way into the City, and took my way to Little Britain.

There were periodical occasions when Mr. Jaggers and Wemmick went over the office accounts, and checked off the vouchers, and put all things straight. On these occasions, Wemmick took his books and papers into Mr. Jaggers’s room, and one of the up-stairs clerks came down into the outer office. Finding such clerk on Wemmick’s post that morning, I knew what was going on; but I was not sorry to have Mr. Jaggers and Wemmick together, as Wemmick would then hear for himself that I said nothing to compromise him.

My appearance, with my arm bandaged and my coat loose over my shoulders, favored my object. Although I had sent Mr. Jaggers a brief account of the accident as soon as I had arrived in town, yet I had to give him all the details now; and the speciality of the occasion caused our talk to be less dry and hard, and less strictly regulated by the rules of evidence, than it had been before. While I described the disaster, Mr. Jaggers stood, according to his wont, before the fire. Wemmick leaned back in his chair, staring at me, with his hands in the pockets of his trousers, and his pen put horizontally into the post. The two brutal casts, always inseparable in my mind from the official proceedings, seemed to be congestively considering whether they didn’t smell fire at the present moment.

My narrative finished, and their questions exhausted, I then produced Miss Havisham’s authority to receive the nine hundred pounds for Herbert. Mr. Jaggers’s eyes retired a little deeper into his head when I handed him the tablets, but he presently handed them over to Wemmick, with instructions to draw the check for his signature. While that was in course of being done, I looked on at Wemmick as he wrote, and Mr. Jaggers, poising and swaying himself on his well-polished boots, looked on at me. “I am sorry, Pip,” said he, as I put the check in my pocket, when he had signed it, “that we do nothing for you.”

“Miss Havisham was good enough to ask me,” I returned, “whether she could do nothing for me, and I told her No.”

“Everybody should know his own business,” said Mr. Jaggers. And I saw Wemmick’s lips form the words “portable property.”

“I should not have told her No, if I had been you,” said Mr Jaggers; “but every man ought to know his own business best.”

“Every man’s business,” said Wemmick, rather reproachfully towards me, “is portable property.”

As I thought the time was now come for pursuing the theme I had at heart, I said, turning on Mr. Jaggers:–

“I did ask something of Miss Havisham, however, sir. I asked her to give me some information relative to her adopted daughter, and she gave me all she possessed.”

“Did she?” said Mr. Jaggers, bending forward to look at his boots and then straightening himself. “Hah! I don’t think I should have done so, if I had been Miss Havisham. But she ought to know her own business best.”

“I know more of the history of Miss Havisham’s adopted child than Miss Havisham herself does, sir. I know her mother.”

Mr. Jaggers looked at me inquiringly, and repeated “Mother?”

“I have seen her mother within these three days.”

“Yes?” said Mr. Jaggers.

“And so have you, sir. And you have seen her still more recently.”

“Yes?” said Mr. Jaggers.

“Perhaps I know more of Estella’s history than even you do,” said I. “I know her father too.”

A certain stop that Mr. Jaggers came to in his manner–he was too self-possessed to change his manner, but he could not help its being brought to an indefinably attentive stop–assured me that he did not know who her father was. This I had strongly suspected from Provis’s account (as Herbert had repeated it) of his having kept himself dark; which I pieced on to the fact that he himself was not Mr. Jaggers’s client until some four years later, and when he could have no reason for claiming his identity. But, I could not be sure of this unconsciousness on Mr. Jaggers’s part before, though I was quite sure of it now.

“So! You know the young lady’s father, Pip?” said Mr. Jaggers.

“Yes,” I replied, “and his name is Provis–from New South Wales.”

Even Mr. Jaggers started when I said those words. It was the slightest start that could escape a man, the most carefully repressed and the sooner checked, but he did start, though he made it a part of the action of taking out his pocket-handkerchief. How Wemmick received the announcement I am unable to say; for I was afraid to look at him just then, lest Mr. Jaggers’s sharpness should detect that there had been some communication unknown to him between us.

“And on what evidence, Pip,” asked Mr. Jaggers, very coolly, as he paused with his handkerchief half way to his nose, “does Provis make this claim?”

“He does not make it,” said I, “and has never made it, and has no knowledge or belief that his daughter is in existence.”

For once, the powerful pocket-handkerchief failed. My reply was so Unexpected, that Mr. Jaggers put the handkerchief back into his pocket without completing the usual performance, folded his arms, and looked with stern attention at me, though with an immovable face.

Then I told him all I knew, and how I knew it; with the one reservation that I left him to infer that I knew from Miss Havisham what I in fact knew from Wemmick. I was very careful indeed as to that. Nor did I look towards Wemmick until I had finished all I had to tell, and had been for some time silently meeting Mr. Jaggers’s look. When I did at last turn my eyes in Wemmick’s direction, I found that he had unposted his pen, and was intent upon the table before him.

“Hah!” said Mr. Jaggers at last, as he moved towards the papers on the table. “What item was it you were at, Wemmick, when Mr. Pip came in?”

But I could not submit to be thrown off in that way, and I made a passionate, almost an indignant appeal, to him to be more frank and manly with me. I reminded him of the false hopes into which I had lapsed, the length of time they had lasted, and the discovery I had made: and I hinted at the danger that weighed upon my spirits. I represented myself as being surely worthy of some little confidence from him, in return for the confidence I had just now imparted. I said that I did not blame him, or suspect him, or mistrust him, but I wanted assurance of the truth from him. And if he asked me why I wanted it, and why I thought I had any right to it, I would tell him, little as he cared for such poor dreams, that I had loved Estella dearly and long, and that although I had lost her, and must live a bereaved life, whatever concerned her was still nearer and dearer to me than anything else in the world. And seeing that Mr. Jaggers stood quite still and silent, and apparently quite obdurate, under this appeal, I turned to Wemmick, and said, “Wemmick, I know you to be a man with a gentle heart. I have seen your pleasant home, and your old father, and all the innocent, cheerful playful ways with which you refresh your business life. And I entreat you to say a word for me to Mr. Jaggers, and to represent to him that, all circumstances considered, he ought to be more open with me!”

I have never seen two men look more oddly at one another than Mr. Jaggers and Wemmick did after this apostrophe. At first, a misgiving crossed me that Wemmick would be instantly dismissed from his employment; but it melted as I saw Mr. Jaggers relax into something like a smile, and Wemmick become bolder.

“What’s all this?” said Mr. Jaggers. “You with an old father, and you with pleasant and playful ways?”

“Well!” returned Wemmick. “If I don’t bring ‘em here, what does it matter?”

“Pip,” said Mr. Jaggers, laying his hand upon my arm, and smiling openly, “this man must be the most cunning impostor in all London.”

“Not a bit of it,” returned Wemmick, growing bolder and bolder. “I think you’re another.”

Again they exchanged their former odd looks, each apparently still distrustful that the other was taking him in.

“You with a pleasant home?” said Mr. Jaggers.

“Since it don’t interfere with business,” returned Wemmick, “let it be so. Now, I look at you, sir, I shouldn’t wonder if you might be planning and contriving to have a pleasant home of your own one of these days, when you’re tired of all this work.”

Mr. Jaggers nodded his head retrospectively two or three times, and actually drew a sigh. “Pip,” said he, “we won’t talk about ‘poor dreams;’ you know more about such things than I, having much fresher experience of that kind. But now about this other matter. I’ll put a case to you. Mind! I admit nothing.”

He waited for me to declare that I quite understood that he expressly said that he admitted nothing.

“Now, Pip,” said Mr. Jaggers, “put this case. Put the case that a woman, under such circumstances as you have mentioned, held her child concealed, and was obliged to communicate the fact to her legal adviser, on his representing to her that he must know, with an eye to the latitude of his defence, how the fact stood about that child. Put the case that, at the same time he held a trust to find a child for an eccentric rich lady to adopt and bring up.”

“I follow you, sir.”

“Put the case that he lived in an atmosphere of evil, and that all he saw of children was their being generated in great numbers for certain destruction. Put the case that he often saw children solemnly tried at a criminal bar, where they were held up to be seen; put the case that he habitually knew of their being imprisoned, whipped, transported, neglected, cast out, qualified in all ways for the hangman, and growing up to be hanged. Put the case that pretty nigh all the children he saw in his daily business life he had reason to look upon as so much spawn, to develop into the fish that were to come to his net,–to be prosecuted, defended, forsworn, made orphans, bedevilled somehow.”

“I follow you, sir.”

“Put the case, Pip, that here was one pretty little child out of the heap who could be saved; whom the father believed dead, and dared make no stir about; as to whom, over the mother, the legal adviser had this power: “I know what you did, and how you did it. You came so and so, you did such and such things to divert suspicion. I have tracked you through it all, andI tell it you all. Part with the child, unless it should benecessary to produce it to clear you, and then it shall be produced. Give the child into my hands, and I will do my best to bring you off. If you are saved, your child is saved too; if you are lost, your child is still saved.” Put the case that this was done, and that the woman was cleared.”

“I understand you perfectly.”

“But that I make no admissions?”

“That you make no admissions.” And Wemmick repeated, “No admissions.”

“Put the case, Pip, that passion and the terror of death had a little shaken the woman’s intellects, and that when she was set at liberty, she was scared out of the ways of the world, and went to him to be sheltered. Put the case that he took her in, and that he kept down the old, wild, violent nature whenever he saw an inkling of its breaking out, by asserting his power over her in the old way. Do you comprehend the imaginary case?”


“Put the case that the child grew up, and was married for money. That the mother was still living. That the father was still living. That the mother and father, unknown to one another, were dwelling within so many miles, furlongs, yards if you like, of one another. That the secret was still a secret, except that you had got wind of it. Put that last case to yourself very carefully.”

“I do.”

“I ask Wemmick to put it to himself very carefully.”

And Wemmick said, “I do.”

“For whose sake would you reveal the secret? For the father’s? I think he would not be much the better for the mother. For the mother’s? I think if she had done such a deed she would be safer where she was. For the daughter’s? I think it would hardly serve her to establish her parentage for the information of her husband, and to drag her back to disgrace, after an escape of twenty years, pretty secure to last for life. But add the case that you had loved her, Pip, and had made her the subject of those ‘poor dreams’ which have, at one time or another, been in the heads of more men than you think likely, then I tell you that you had better–and would much sooner when you had thought well of it–chop off that bandaged left hand of yours with your bandaged right hand, and then pass the chopper on to Wemmick there, to cut that off too.”

I looked at Wemmick, whose face was very grave. He gravely touched his lips with his forefinger. I did the same. Mr. Jaggers did the same. “Now, Wemmick,” said the latter then, resuming his usual manner, “what item was it you were at when Mr. Pip came in?”

Standing by for a little, while they were at work, I observed that the odd looks they had cast at one another were repeated several times: with this difference now, that each of them seemed suspicious, not to say conscious, of having shown himself in a weak and unprofessional light to the other. For this reason, I suppose, they were now inflexible with one another; Mr. Jaggers being highly dictatorial, and Wemmick obstinately justifying himself whenever there was the smallest point in abeyance for a moment. I had never seen them on such ill terms; for generally they got on very well indeed together.

But they were both happily relieved by the opportune appearance of Mike, the client with the fur cap and the habit of wiping his nose on his sleeve, whom I had seen on the very first day of my appearance within those walls. This individual, who, either in his own person or in that of some member of his family, seemed to be always in trouble (which in that place meant Newgate), called to announce that his eldest daughter was taken up on suspicion of shoplifting. As he imparted this melancholy circumstance to Wemmick, Mr. Jaggers standing magisterially before the fire and taking no share in the proceedings, Mike’s eye happened to twinkle with a tear.

“What are you about?” demanded Wemmick, with the utmost indignation. “What do you come snivelling here for?”

“I didn’t go to do it, Mr. Wemmick.”

“You did,” said Wemmick. “How dare you? You’re not in a fit state to come here, if you can’t come here without spluttering like a bad pen. What do you mean by it?”

“A man can’t help his feelings, Mr. Wemmick,” pleaded Mike.

“His what?” demanded Wemmick, quite savagely. “Say that again!”

“Now look here my man,” said Mr. Jaggers, advancing a step, and pointing to the door. “Get out of this office. I’ll have no feelings here. Get out.”

“It serves you right,” said Wemmick, “Get out.”

So, the unfortunate Mike very humbly withdrew, and Mr. Jaggers and Wemmick appeared to have re-established their good understanding, and went to work again with an air of refreshment upon them as if they had just had lunch.

Summary: Chapter 52

Pip receives word from Wemmick that they should carry out their plans of escape early in the week, or Wednesday at the latest. Pip’s injuries have been slow to heal. He’s not capable of rowing, only steering. He and Herbert consider what they might do; they decide that Startop is both a good boatman and trustworthy. They agree to tell him as little as possible. The escape is planned for Wednesday morning.

Before Wednesday arrives, Pip receives another note in his door. This time, the note is anonymous. The sender requests that he come to the marshes at 9 p.m. to learn something important pertaining to his “Uncle Provis.” Without giving it too much thought, he sets out for the marsh country. Later, in the coach, he questions the wisdom of following the guidance of an anonymous note.

Pip avoids the Blue Boar and stays at a smaller inn. The landlord tells Pip’s story, without knowing that he’s talking to Pip himself. He says that Mr. Pumblechook is the founder of the boy’s fortunes, and that Pip is certainly an ungrateful gentleman. Pip loses his appetite. When the time comes, he strikes out for the limekiln near the marshes.

Analysis: Chapter LII

From Little Britain I went, with my check in my pocket, to Miss Skiffins’s brother, the accountant; and Miss Skiffins’s brother, the accountant, going straight to Clarriker’s and bringing Clarriker to me, I had the great satisfaction of concluding that arrangement. It was the only good thing I had done, and the only completed thing I had done, since I was first apprised of my great expectations.

Clarriker informing me on that occasion that the affairs of the House were steadily progressing, that he would now be able to establish a small branch-house in the East which was much wanted for the extension of the business, and that Herbert in his new partnership capacity would go out and take charge of it, I found that I must have prepared for a separation from my friend, even though my own affairs had been more settled. And now, indeed, I felt as if my last anchor were loosening its hold, and I should soon be driving with the winds and waves.

But there was recompense in the joy with which Herbert would come home of a night and tell me of these changes, little imagining that he told me no news, and would sketch airy pictures of himself conducting Clara Barley to the land of the Arabian Nights, and of me going out to join them (with a caravan of camels, I believe), and of our all going up the Nile and seeing wonders. Without being sanguine as to my own part in those bright plans, I felt that Herbert’s way was clearing fast, and that old Bill Barley had but to stick to his pepper and rum, and his daughter would soon be happily provided for.

We had now got into the month of March. My left arm, though it presented no bad symptoms, took, in the natural course, so long to heal that I was still unable to get a coat on. My right arm was tolerably restored; disfigured, but fairly serviceable.

On a Monday morning, when Herbert and I were at breakfast, I received the following letter from Wemmick by the post.

“Walworth. Burn this as soon as read. Early in the week, or say Wednesday, you might do what you know of, if you felt disposed to try it. Now burn.”

When I had shown this to Herbert and had put it in the fire–but not before we had both got it by heart–we considered what to do. For, of course my being disabled could now be no longer kept out of view.

“I have thought it over again and again,” said Herbert, “and I think I know a better course than taking a Thames waterman. Take Startop. A good fellow, a skilled hand, fond of us, and enthusiastic and honorable.”

I had thought of him more than once.

“But how much would you tell him, Herbert?”

“It is necessary to tell him very little. Let him suppose it a mere freak, but a secret one, until the morning comes: then let him know that there is urgent reason for your getting Provis aboard and away. You go with him?”

“No doubt.”


It had seemed to me, in the many anxious considerations I had given the point, almost indifferent what port we made for,–Hamburg, Rotterdam, Antwerp,–the place signified little, so that he was out of England. Any foreign steamer that fell in our way and would take us up would do. I had always proposed to myself to get him well down the river in the boat; certainly well beyond Gravesend, which was a critical place for search or inquiry if suspicion were afoot. As foreign steamers would leave London at about the time of high-water, our plan would be to get down the river by a previous ebb-tide, and lie by in some quiet spot until we could pull off to one. The time when one would be due where we lay, wherever that might be, could be calculated pretty nearly, if we made inquiries beforehand.

Herbert assented to all this, and we went out immediately after breakfast to pursue our investigations. We found that a steamer for Hamburg was likely to suit our purpose best, and we directed our thoughts chiefly to that vessel. But we noted down what other foreign steamers would leave London with the same tide, and we satisfied ourselves that we knew the build and color of each. We then separated for a few hours: I, to get at once such passports as were necessary; Herbert, to see Startop at his lodgings. We both did what we had to do without any hindrance, and when we met again at one o’clock reported it done. I, for my part, was prepared with passports; Herbert had seen Startop, and he was more than ready to join.

Those two should pull a pair of oars, we settled, and I would steer; our charge would be sitter, and keep quiet; as speed was not our object, we should make way enough. We arranged that Herbert should not come home to dinner before going to Mill Pond Bank that evening; that he should not go there at all to-morrow evening, Tuesday; that he should prepare Provis to come down to some stairs hard by the house, on Wednesday, when he saw us approach, and not sooner; that all the arrangements with him should be concluded that Monday night; and that he should be communicated with no more in any way, until we took him on board.

These precautions well understood by both of us, I went home.

On opening the outer door of our chambers with my key, I found a letter in the box, directed to me; a very dirty letter, though not ill-written. It had been delivered by hand (of course, since I left home), and its contents were these:–

“If you are not afraid to come to the old marshes to-night or tomorrow night at nine, and to come to the little sluice-house by the limekiln, you had better come. If you want information regarding your uncle Provis, you had much better come and tell no one, and lose no time. You must come alone. Bring this with you.”

I had had load enough upon my mind before the receipt of this strange letter. What to do now, I could not tell. And the worst was, that I must decide quickly, or I should miss the afternoon coach, which would take me down in time for to-night. To-morrow night I could not think of going, for it would be too close upon the time of the flight. And again, for anything I knew, the proffered information might have some important bearing on the flight itself.

If I had had ample time for consideration, I believe I should still have gone. Having hardly any time for consideration,–my watch showing me that the coach started within half an hour,–I resolved to go. I should certainly not have gone, but for the reference to my Uncle Provis. That, coming on Wemmick’s letter and the morning’s busy preparation, turned the scale.

It is so difficult to become clearly possessed of the contents of almost any letter, in a violent hurry, that I had to read this mysterious epistle again twice, before its injunction to me to be secret got mechanically into my mind. Yielding to it in the same mechanical kind of way, I left a note in pencil for Herbert, telling him that as I should be so soon going away, I knew not for how long, I had decided to hurry down and back, to ascertain for myself how Miss Havisham was faring. I had then barely time to get my great-coat, lock up the chambers, and make for the coach-office by the short by-ways. If I had taken a hackney-chariot and gone by the streets, I should have missed my aim; going as I did, I caught the coach just as it came out of the yard. I was the only inside passenger, jolting away knee-deep in straw, when I came to myself.

For I really had not been myself since the receipt of the letter; it had so bewildered me, ensuing on the hurry of the morning. The morning hurry and flutter had been great; for, long and anxiously as I had waited for Wemmick, his hint had come like a surprise at last. And now I began to wonder at myself for being in the coach, and to doubt whether I had sufficient reason for being there, and to consider whether I should get out presently and go back, and to argue against ever heeding an anonymous communication, and, in short, to pass through all those phases of contradiction and indecision to which I suppose very few hurried people are strangers. Still, the reference to Provis by name mastered everything. I reasoned as I had reasoned already without knowing it, –if that be reasoning,–in case any harm should befall him through my not going, how could I ever forgive myself!

It was dark before we got down, and the journey seemed long and dreary to me, who could see little of it inside, and who could not go outside in my disabled state. Avoiding the Blue Boar, I put up at an inn of minor reputation down the town, and ordered some dinner. While it was preparing, I went to Satis House and inquired for Miss Havisham; she was still very ill, though considered something better.

My inn had once been a part of an ancient ecclesiastical house, and I dined in a little octagonal common-room, like a font. As I was not able to cut my dinner, the old landlord with a shining bald head did it for me. This bringing us into conversation, he was so good as to entertain me with my own story,–of course with the popular feature that Pumblechook was my earliest benefactor and the founder of my fortunes.

“Do you know the young man?” said I.

“Know him!” repeated the landlord. “Ever since he was–no height at all.”

“Does he ever come back to this neighborhood?”

“Ay, he comes back,” said the landlord, “to his great friends, now and again, and gives the cold shoulder to the man that made him.”

“What man is that?”

“Him that I speak of,” said the landlord. “Mr. Pumblechook.”

“Is he ungrateful to no one else?”

“No doubt he would be, if he could,” returned the landlord, “but he can’t. And why? Because Pumblechook done everything for him.”

“Does Pumblechook say so?”

“Say so!” replied the landlord. “He han’t no call to say so.”

“But does he say so?”

“It would turn a man’s blood to white wine winegar to hear him tell of it, sir,” said the landlord.

I thought, “Yet Joe, dear Joe, you never tell of it. Long-suffering and loving Joe, you never complain. Nor you, sweet-tempered Biddy!”

“Your appetite’s been touched like by your accident,” said the landlord, glancing at the bandaged arm under my coat. “Try a tenderer bit.”

“No, thank you,” I replied, turning from the table to brood over the fire. “I can eat no more. Please take it away.”

I had never been struck at so keenly, for my thanklessness to Joe, as through the brazen impostor Pumblechook. The falser he, the truer Joe; the meaner he, the nobler Joe.

My heart was deeply and most deservedly humbled as I mused over the fire for an hour or more. The striking of the clock aroused me, but not from my dejection or remorse, and I got up and had my coat fastened round my neck, and went out. I had previously sought in my pockets for the letter, that I might refer to it again; but I could not find it, and was uneasy to think that it must have been dropped in the straw of the coach. I knew very well, however, that the appointed place was the little sluice-house by the limekiln on the marshes, and the hour nine. Towards the marshes I now went straight, having no time to spare.

Summary: Chapter 53

Pip finds an empty, weather-beaten shack near the limekiln. Inside, a candle burns. He knocks and waits for an answer. He steps in and examines the surroundings, but no one seems to be there. As he looks at the candles, someone slips a noose on him from behind and ties his arms back, causing extreme pain. Everything has gone dark. Pip has fallen into a trap.

When his captor strikes a flint, he sees that it’s Orlick. The mean-spirited former workman reveals that he’s long held a grudge against Pip. He blames Pip for Biddy’s rejection. He knows that Pip got him dismissed from the post at Miss Havisham’s. He also thinks Pip’s sister targeted him for special abuse, which is why he knocked her out cold in the kitchen.

Orlick goes on to explain that he was watching his movements in London. That’s how he came to know about “Uncle Provis.” He also began working for Compeyson and therefore learned the real identity of Provis. Orlick says he will kill Pip on the spot. Pip’s life flashes before his eyes.

Pip yells out one last time, and a group of people burst into the room. Orlick escapes. Pip sees that Herbert, Startop and Trabb’s boy have come to his rescue. Herbert was suspicious of the visit from the very beginning and decided to follow from London.

Wednesday, the day of escape, approaches, and Pip tries to recover from the pain of his re-injured arm.

Analysis: Chapter LIII

It was a dark night, though the full moon rose as I left the enclosed lands, and passed out upon the marshes. Beyond their dark line there was a ribbon of clear sky, hardly broad enough to hold the red large moon. In a few minutes she had ascended out of that clear field, in among the piled mountains of cloud.

There was a melancholy wind, and the marshes were very dismal. A stranger would have found them insupportable, and even to me they were so oppressive that I hesitated, half inclined to go back. But I knew them well, and could have found my way on a far darker night, and had no excuse for returning, being there. So, having come there against my inclination, I went on against it.

The direction that I took was not that in which my old home lay, nor that in which we had pursued the convicts. My back was turned towards the distant Hulks as I walked on, and, though I could see the old lights away on the spits of sand, I saw them over my shoulder. I knew the limekiln as well as I knew the old Battery, but they were miles apart; so that, if a light had been burning at each point that night, there would have been a long strip of the blank horizon between the two bright specks.

At first, I had to shut some gates after me, and now and then to stand still while the cattle that were lying in the banked-up pathway arose and blundered down among the grass and reeds. But after a little while I seemed to have the whole flats to myself.

It was another half-hour before I drew near to the kiln. The lime was burning with a sluggish stifling smell, but the fires were made up and left, and no workmen were visible. Hard by was a small stone-quarry. It lay directly in my way, and had been worked that day, as I saw by the tools and barrows that were lying about.

Coming up again to the marsh level out of this excavation,–for the rude path lay through it,–I saw a light in the old sluice-house. I quickened my pace, and knocked at the door with my hand. Waiting for some reply, I looked about me, noticing how the sluice was abandoned and broken, and how the house–of wood with a tiled roof –would not be proof against the weather much longer, if it were so even now, and how the mud and ooze were coated with lime, and how the choking vapor of the kiln crept in a ghostly way towards me. Still there was no answer, and I knocked again. No answer still, and I tried the latch.

It rose under my hand, and the door yielded. Looking in, I saw a lighted candle on a table, a bench, and a mattress on a truckle bedstead. As there was a loft above, I called, “Is there any one here?” but no voice answered. Then I looked at my watch, and, finding that it was past nine, called again, “Is there any one here?” There being still no answer, I went out at the door, irresolute what to do.

It was beginning to rain fast. Seeing nothing save what I had seen already, I turned back into the house, and stood just within the shelter of the doorway, looking out into the night. While I was considering that some one must have been there lately and must soon be coming back, or the candle would not be burning, it came into my head to look if the wick were long. I turned round to do so, and had taken up the candle in my hand, when it was extinguished by some violent shock; and the next thing I comprehended was, that I had been caught in a strong running noose, thrown over my head from behind.

“Now,” said a suppressed voice with an oath, “I’ve got you!”

“What is this?” I cried, struggling. “Who is it? Help, help, help!”

Not only were my arms pulled close to my sides, but the pressure on my bad arm caused me exquisite pain. Sometimes, a strong man’s hand, sometimes a strong man’s breast, was set against my mouth to deaden my cries, and with a hot breath always close to me, I struggled ineffectually in the dark, while I was fastened tight to the wall. “And now,” said the suppressed voice with another oath, “call out again, and I’ll make short work of you!”

Faint and sick with the pain of my injured arm, bewildered by the surprise, and yet conscious how easily this threat could be put in execution, I desisted, and tried to ease my arm were it ever so little. But, it was bound too tight for that. I felt as if, having been burnt before, it were now being boiled.

The sudden exclusion of the night, and the substitution of black darkness in its place, warned me that the man had closed a shutter. After groping about for a little, he found the flint and steel he wanted, and began to strike a light. I strained my sight upon the sparks that fell among the tinder, and upon which he breathed and breathed, match in hand, but I could only see his lips, and the blue point of the match; even those but fitfully. The tinder was damp,–no wonder there,–and one after another the sparks died out.

The man was in no hurry, and struck again with the flint and steel. As the sparks fell thick and bright about him, I could see his hands, and touches of his face, and could make out that he was seated and bending over the table; but nothing more. Presently I saw his blue lips again, breathing on the tinder, and then a flare of light flashed up, and showed me Orlick.

Whom I had looked for, I don’t know. I had not looked for him. Seeing him, I felt that I was in a dangerous strait indeed, and I kept my eyes upon him.

He lighted the candle from the flaring match with great deliberation, and dropped the match, and trod it out. Then he put the candle away from him on the table, so that he could see me, and sat with his arms folded on the table and looked at me. I made out that I was fastened to a stout perpendicular ladder a few inches from the wall,–a fixture there,–the means of ascent to the loft above.

“Now,” said he, when we had surveyed one another for some time, “I’ve got you.”

“Unbind me. Let me go!”

“Ah!” he returned, “I’ll let you go. I’ll let you go to the moon, I’ll let you go to the stars. All in good time.”

“Why have you lured me here?”

“Don’t you know?” said he, with a deadly look.

“Why have you set upon me in the dark?”

“Because I mean to do it all myself. One keeps a secret better than two. O you enemy, you enemy!”

His enjoyment of the spectacle I furnished, as he sat with his arms folded on the table, shaking his head at me and hugging himself, had a malignity in it that made me tremble. As I watched him in silence, he put his hand into the corner at his side, and took up a gun with a brass-bound stock.

“Do you know this?” said he, making as if he would take aim at me. “Do you know where you saw it afore? Speak, wolf!”

“Yes,” I answered.

“You cost me that place. You did. Speak!”

“What else could I do?”

“You did that, and that would be enough, without more. How dared you to come betwixt me and a young woman I liked?”

“When did I?”

“When didn’t you? It was you as always give Old Orlick a bad name to her.”

“You gave it to yourself; you gained it for yourself. I could have done you no harm, if you had done yourself none.”

“You’re a liar. And you’ll take any pains, and spend any money, to drive me out of this country, will you?” said he, repeating my words to Biddy in the last interview I had with her. “Now, I’ll tell you a piece of information. It was never so well worth your while to get me out of this country as it is to-night. Ah! If it was all your money twenty times told, to the last brass farden!” As he shook his heavy hand at me, with his mouth snarling like a tiger’s, I felt that it was true.

“What are you going to do to me?”

“I’m a going,” said he, bringing his fist down upon the table with a heavy blow, and rising as the blow fell to give it greater force,– “I’m a going to have your life!”

He leaned forward staring at me, slowly unclenched his hand and drew it across his mouth as if his mouth watered for me, and sat down again.

“You was always in Old Orlick’s way since ever you was a child. You goes out of his way this present night. He’ll have no more on you. You’re dead.”

I felt that I had come to the brink of my grave. For a moment I looked wildly round my trap for any chance of escape; but there was none.

“More than that,” said he, folding his arms on the table again, “I won’t have a rag of you, I won’t have a bone of you, left on earth. I’ll put your body in the kiln,–I’d carry two such to it, on my Shoulders,–and, let people suppose what they may of you, they shall never know nothing.”

My mind, with inconceivable rapidity followed out all the consequences of such a death. Estella’s father would believe I had deserted him, would be taken, would die accusing me; even Herbert would doubt me, when he compared the letter I had left for him with the fact that I had called at Miss Havisham’s gate for only a moment; Joe and Biddy would never know how sorry I had been that night, none would ever know what I had suffered, how true I had meant to be, what an agony I had passed through. The death close before me was terrible, but far more terrible than death was the dread of being misremembered after death. And so quick were my thoughts, that I saw myself despised by unborn generations,– Estella’s children, and their children,–while the wretch’s words were yet on his lips.

“Now, wolf,” said he, “afore I kill you like any other beast,– which is wot I mean to do and wot I have tied you up for,–I’ll have a good look at you and a good goad at you. O you enemy!”

It had passed through my thoughts to cry out for help again; though few could know better than I, the solitary nature of the spot, and the hopelessness of aid. But as he sat gloating over me, I was supported by a scornful detestation of him that sealed my lips. Above all things, I resolved that I would not entreat him, and that I would die making some last poor resistance to him. Softened as my thoughts of all the rest of men were in that dire extremity; humbly beseeching pardon, as I did, of Heaven; melted at heart, as I was, by the thought that I had taken no farewell, and never now could take farewell of those who were dear to me, or could explain myself to them, or ask for their compassion on my miserable errors,– still, if I could have killed him, even in dying, I would have done it.

He had been drinking, and his eyes were red and bloodshot. Around his neck was slung a tin bottle, as I had often seen his meat and drink slung about him in other days. He brought the bottle to his lips, and took a fiery drink from it; and I smelt the strong spirits that I saw flash into his face.

“Wolf!” said he, folding his arms again, “Old Orlick’s a going to tell you somethink. It was you as did for your shrew sister.”

Again my mind, with its former inconceivable rapidity, had exhausted the whole subject of the attack upon my sister, her illness, and her death, before his slow and hesitating speech had formed these words.

“It was you, villain,” said I.

“I tell you it was your doing,–I tell you it was done through you,” he retorted, catching up the gun, and making a blow with the stock at the vacant air between us. “I come upon her from behind, as I come upon you to-night. I giv’ it her! I left her for dead, and if there had been a limekiln as nigh her as there is now nigh you, she shouldn’t have come to life again. But it warn’t Old Orlick as did it; it was you. You was favored, and he was bullied and beat. Old Orlick bullied and beat, eh? Now you pays for it. You done it; now you pays for it.”

He drank again, and became more ferocious. I saw by his tilting of the bottle that there was no great quantity left in it. I distinctly understood that he was working himself up with its contents to make an end of me. I knew that every drop it held was a drop of my life. I knew that when I was changed into a part of the vapor that had crept towards me but a little while before, like my own warning ghost, he would do as he had done in my sister’s case,–make all haste to the town, and be seen slouching about there drinking at the alehouses. My rapid mind pursued him to the town, made a picture of the street with him in it, and contrasted its lights and life with the lonely marsh and the white vapor creeping over it, into which I should have dissolved.

It was not only that I could have summed up years and years and years while he said a dozen words, but that what he did say presented pictures to me, and not mere words. In the excited and exalted state of my brain, I could not think of a place without seeing it, or of persons without seeing them. It is impossible to overstate the vividness of these images, and yet I was so intent, all the time, upon him himself,–who would not be intent on the tiger crouching to spring!–that I knew of the slightest action of his fingers.

When he had drunk this second time, he rose from the bench on which he sat, and pushed the table aside. Then, he took up the candle, and, shading it with his murderous hand so as to throw its light on me, stood before me, looking at me and enjoying the sight.

“Wolf, I’ll tell you something more. It was Old Orlick as you tumbled over on your stairs that night.”

I saw the staircase with its extinguished lamps. I saw the shadows of the heavy stair-rails, thrown by the watchman’s lantern on the wall. I saw the rooms that I was never to see again; here, a door half open; there, a door closed; all the articles of furniture around.

“And why was Old Orlick there? I’ll tell you something more, wolf. You and her have pretty well hunted me out of this country, so far as getting a easy living in it goes, and I’ve took up with new companions, and new masters. Some of ‘em writes my letters when I wants ‘em wrote,–do you mind?–writes my letters, wolf! They writes fifty hands; they’re not like sneaking you, as writes but one. I’ve had a firm mind and a firm will to have your life, since you was down here at your sister’s burying. I han’t seen a way to get you safe, and I’ve looked arter you to know your ins and outs. For, says Old Orlick to himself, ‘Somehow or another I’ll have him!’ What! When I looks for you, I finds your uncle Provis, eh?”

Mill Pond Bank, and Chinks’s Basin, and the Old Green Copper Ropewalk, all so clear and plain! Provis in his rooms, the signal whose use was over, pretty Clara, the good motherly woman, old Bill Barley on his back, all drifting by, as on the swift stream of my life fast running out to sea!

“You with a uncle too! Why, I know’d you at Gargery’s when you was so small a wolf that I could have took your weazen betwixt this finger and thumb and chucked you away dead (as I’d thoughts o’ doing, odd times, when I see you loitering amongst the pollards on a Sunday), and you hadn’t found no uncles then. No, not you! But when Old Orlick come for to hear that your uncle Provis had most like wore the leg-iron wot Old Orlick had picked up, filed asunder, on these meshes ever so many year ago, and wot he kep by him till he dropped your sister with it, like a bullock, as he means to drop you–hey?–when he come for to hear that–hey?”

In his savage taunting, he flared the candle so close at me that I turned my face aside to save it from the flame.

“Ah!” he cried, laughing, after doing it again, “the burnt child dreads the fire! Old Orlick knowed you was burnt, Old Orlick knowed you was smuggling your uncle Provis away, Old Orlick’s a match for you and know’d you’d come to-night! Now I’ll tell you something more, wolf, and this ends it. There’s them that’s as good a match for your uncle Provis as Old Orlick has been for you. Let him ‘ware them, when he’s lost his nevvy! Let him ‘ware them, when no man can’t find a rag of his dear relation’s clothes, nor yet a bone of his body. There’s them that can’t and that won’t have Magwitch,– yes, I know the name!–alive in the same land with them, and that’s had such sure information of him when he was alive in another land, as that he couldn’t and shouldn’t leave it unbeknown and put them in danger. P’raps it’s them that writes fifty hands, and that’s not like sneaking you as writes but one. ‘Ware Compeyson, Magwitch, and the gallows!”

He flared the candle at me again, smoking my face and hair, and for an instant blinding me, and turned his powerful back as he replaced the light on the table. I had thought a prayer, and had been with Joe and Biddy and Herbert, before he turned towards me again.

There was a clear space of a few feet between the table and the opposite wall. Within this space, he now slouched backwards and forwards. His great strength seemed to sit stronger upon him than ever before, as he did this with his hands hanging loose and heavy at his sides, and with his eyes scowling at me. I had no grain of hope left. Wild as my inward hurry was, and wonderful the force of the pictures that rushed by me instead of thoughts, I could yet clearly understand that, unless he had resolved that I was within a few moments of surely perishing out of all human knowledge, he would never have told me what he had told.

Of a sudden, he stopped, took the cork out of his bottle, and tossed it away. Light as it was, I heard it fall like a plummet. He swallowed slowly, tilting up the bottle by little and little, and now he looked at me no more. The last few drops of liquor he poured into the palm of his hand, and licked up. Then, with a sudden hurry of violence and swearing horribly, he threw the bottle from him, and stooped; and I saw in his hand a stone-hammer with a long heavy handle.

The resolution I had made did not desert me, for, without uttering one vain word of appeal to him, I shouted out with all my might, and struggled with all my might. It was only my head and my legs that I could move, but to that extent I struggled with all the force, until then unknown, that was within me. In the same instant I heard responsive shouts, saw figures and a gleam of light dash in at the door, heard voices and tumult, and saw Orlick emerge from a struggle of men, as if it were tumbling water, clear the table at a leap, and fly out into the night.

After a blank, I found that I was lying unbound, on the floor, in the same place, with my head on some one’s knee. My eyes were fixed on the ladder against the wall, when I came to myself,–had opened on it before my mind saw it,–and thus as I recovered consciousness, I knew that I was in the place where I had lost it.

Too indifferent at first, even to look round and ascertain who supported me, I was lying looking at the ladder, when there came between me and it a face. The face of Trabb’s boy!

“I think he’s all right!” said Trabb’s boy, in a sober voice; “but ain’t he just pale though!”

At these words, the face of him who supported me looked over into mine, and I saw my supporter to be–

“Herbert! Great Heaven!”

“Softly,” said Herbert. “Gently, Handel. Don’t be too eager.”

“And our old comrade, Startop!” I cried, as he too bent over me.

“Remember what he is going to assist us in,” said Herbert, “and be calm.”

The allusion made me spring up; though I dropped again from the pain in my arm. “The time has not gone by, Herbert, has it? What night is to-night? How long have I been here?” For, I had a strange and strong misgiving that I had been lying there a long time – a day and a night,–two days and nights,–more.

“The time has not gone by. It is still Monday night.”

“Thank God!”

“And you have all to-morrow, Tuesday, to rest in,” said Herbert. “But you can’t help groaning, my dear Handel. What hurt have you got? Can you stand?”

“Yes, yes,” said I, “I can walk. I have no hurt but in this throbbing arm.”

They laid it bare, and did what they could. It was violently swollen and inflamed, and I could scarcely endure to have it touched. But, they tore up their handkerchiefs to make fresh bandages, and carefully replaced it in the sling, until we could get to the town and obtain some cooling lotion to put upon it. In a little while we had shut the door of the dark and empty sluice-house, and were passing through the quarry on our way back. Trabb’s boy–Trabb’s overgrown young man now–went before us with a lantern, which was the light I had seen come in at the door. But, the moon was a good two hours higher than when I had last seen the sky, and the night, though rainy, was much lighter. The white vapor of the kiln was passing from us as we went by, and as I had thought a prayer before, I thought a thanksgiving now.

Entreating Herbert to tell me how he had come to my rescue,–which at first he had flatly refused to do, but had insisted on my remaining quiet,–I learnt that I had in my hurry dropped the letter, open, in our chambers, where he, coming home to bring with him Startop whom he had met in the street on his way to me, found it, very soon after I was gone. Its tone made him uneasy, and the more so because of the inconsistency between it and the hasty letter I had left for him. His uneasiness increasing instead of subsiding, after a quarter of an hour’s consideration, he set off for the coach-office with Startop, who volunteered his company, to make inquiry when the next coach went down. Finding that the afternoon coach was gone, and finding that his uneasiness grew into positive alarm, as obstacles came in his way, he resolved to follow in a post-chaise. So he and Startop arrived at the Blue Boar, fully expecting there to find me, or tidings of me; but, finding neither, went on to Miss Havisham’s, where they lost me. Hereupon they went back to the hotel (doubtless at about the time when I was hearing the popular local version of my own story) to refresh themselves and to get some one to guide them out upon the marshes. Among the loungers under the Boar’s archway happened to be Trabb’s Boy,–true to his ancient habit of happening to be everywhere where he had no business,–and Trabb’s boy had seen me passing from Miss Havisham’s in the direction of my dining-place. Thus Trabb’s boy became their guide, and with him they went out to the sluice-house, though by the town way to the marshes, which I had avoided. Now, as they went along, Herbert reflected, that I might, after all, have been brought there on some genuine and serviceable errand tending to Provis’s safety, and, bethinking himself that in that case interruption must be mischievous, left his guide and Startop on the edge of the quarry, and went on by himself, and stole round the house two or three times, endeavouring to ascertain whether all was right within. As he could hear nothing but indistinct sounds of one deep rough voice (this was while my mind was so busy), he even at last began to doubt whether I was there, when suddenly I cried out loudly, and he answered the cries, and rushed in, closely followed by the other two.

When I told Herbert what had passed within the house, he was for our immediately going before a magistrate in the town, late at night as it was, and getting out a warrant. But, I had already considered that such a course, by detaining us there, or binding us to come back, might be fatal to Provis. There was no gainsaying this difficulty, and we relinquished all thoughts of pursuing Orlick at that time. For the present, under the circumstances, we deemed it prudent to make rather light of the matter to Trabb’s boy; who, I am convinced, would have been much affected by disappointment, if he had known that his intervention saved me from the limekiln. Not that Trabb’s boy was of a malignant nature, but that he had too much spare vivacity, and that it was in his constitution to want variety and excitement at anybody’s expense. When we parted, I presented him with two guineas (which seemed to meet his views), and told him that I was sorry ever to have had an ill opinion of him (which made no impression on him at all).

Wednesday being so close upon us, we determined to go back to London that night, three in the post-chaise; the rather, as we should then be clear away before the night’s adventure began to be talked of. Herbert got a large bottle of stuff for my arm; and by dint of having this stuff dropped over it all the night through, I was just able to bear its pain on the journey. It was daylight when we reached the Temple, and I went at once to bed, and lay in bed all day.

My terror, as I lay there, of falling ill, and being unfitted for tomorrow, was so besetting, that I wonder it did not disable me of itself. It would have done so, pretty surely, in conjunction with the mental wear and tear I had suffered, but for the unnatural strain upon me that to-morrow was. So anxiously looked forward to, charged with such consequences, its results so impenetrably hidden, though so near.

No precaution could have been more obvious than our refraining from communication with him that day; yet this again increased my restlessness. I started at every footstep and every sound, believing that he was discovered and taken, and this was the messenger to tell me so. I persuaded myself that I knew he was taken; that there was something more upon my mind than a fear or a presentiment; that the fact had occurred, and I had a mysterious knowledge of it. As the days wore on, and no ill news came, as the day closed in and darkness fell, my overshadowing dread of being disabled by illness before to-morrow morning altogether mastered me. My burning arm throbbed, and my burning head throbbed, and I fancied I was beginning to wander. I counted up to high numbers, to make sure of myself, and repeated passages that I knew in prose and verse. It happened sometimes that in the mere escape of a fatigued mind, I dozed for some moments or forgot; then I would say to myself with a start, “Now it has come, and I am turning delirious!”

They kept me very quiet all day, and kept my arm constantly dressed, and gave me cooling drinks. Whenever I fell asleep, I awoke with the notion I had had in the sluice-house, that a long time had elapsed and the opportunity to save him was gone. About midnight I got out of bed and went to Herbert, with the conviction that I had been asleep for four-and-twenty hours, and that Wednesday was past. It was the last self-exhausting effort of my fretfulness, for after that I slept soundly.

Wednesday morning was dawning when I looked out of window. The winking lights upon the bridges were already pale, the coming sun was like a marsh of fire on the horizon. The river, still dark and mysterious, was spanned by bridges that were turning coldly gray, with here and there at top a warm touch from the burning in the sky. As I looked along the clustered roofs, with church-towers and spires shooting into the unusually clear air, the sun rose up, and a veil seemed to be drawn from the river, and millions of sparkles burst out upon its waters. From me too, a veil seemed to be drawn, and I felt strong and well.

Herbert lay asleep in his bed, and our old fellow-student lay asleep on the sofa. I could not dress myself without help; but I made up the fire, which was still burning, and got some coffee ready for them. In good time they too started up strong and well, and we admitted the sharp morning air at the windows, and looked at the tide that was still flowing towards us.

“When it turns at nine o’clock,” said Herbert, cheerfully, “look out for us, and stand ready, you over there at Mill Pond Bank!”

Summary: Chapter 54

They set out in the morning. Their plan is to be far downstream by nightfall and put in at the first public house they see. Everything goes smoothly during the day. The weather is agreeable and no one seems to have followed them.

Outside of London, the riverbanks are desolate. There doesn’t seem to be anyone living nearby. Traffic on the river is light. It’s dark when they find a run-down establishment that will take them in for the night. One of the people there mentions a four-oared galley that has traveled up and down the river all day. Pip is instantly suspicious. He stays up late and sees a couple of people look into their boat. Magwitch is less concerned, but Herbert and Pip agree that they need to be extra cautious.

Next morning, they wait quietly for a steamer that’s expected to pass by at 1 p.m. They put in the river about noon. They row toward the steamer when it appears, but suddenly the four-oared galley comes into view also. Compeyson is sitting inside. There’s a struggle and both men fall into the water.

Only Magwitch resurfaces. He’s badly hurt on the head and in his chest. The authorities take him into custody. Pip is allowed to accompany him to London.

Analysis: Chapter LIV

It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade. We had out pea-coats with us, and I took a bag. Of all my worldly possessions I took no more than the few necessaries that filled the bag. Where I might go, what I might do, or when I might return, were questions utterly unknown to me; nor did I vex my mind with them, for it was wholly set on Provis’s safety. I only wondered for the passing moment, as I stopped at the door and looked back, under what altered circumstances I should next see those rooms, if ever.

We loitered down to the Temple stairs, and stood loitering there, as if we were not quite decided to go upon the water at all. Of course, I had taken care that the boat should be ready and everything in order. After a little show of indecision, which there were none to see but the two or three amphibious creatures belonging to our Temple stairs, we went on board and cast off; Herbert in the bow, I steering. It was then about high-water,– half-past eight.

Our plan was this. The tide, beginning to run down at nine, and being with us until three, we intended still to creep on after it had turned, and row against it until dark. We should then be well in those long reaches below Gravesend, between Kent and Essex, where the river is broad and solitary, where the water-side inhabitants are very few, and where lone public-houses are scattered here and there, of which we could choose one for a resting-place. There, we meant to lie by all night. The steamer for Hamburg and the steamer for Rotterdam would start from London at about nine on Thursday morning. We should know at what time to expect them, according to where we were, and would hail the first; so that, if by any accident we were not taken abroad, we should have another chance. We knew the distinguishing marks of each vessel.

The relief of being at last engaged in the execution of the purpose was so great to me that I felt it difficult to realize the condition in which I had been a few hours before. The crisp air, the sunlight, the movement on the river, and the moving river itself,–the road that ran with us, seeming to sympathize with us, animate us, and encourage us on,–freshened me with new hope. I felt mortified to be of so little use in the boat; but, there were few better oarsmen than my two friends, and they rowed with a steady stroke that was to last all day.

At that time, the steam-traffic on the Thames was far below its present extent, and watermen’s boats were far more numerous. Of barges, sailing colliers, and coasting-traders, there were perhaps, as many as now; but of steam-ships, great and small, not a tithe or a twentieth part so many. Early as it was, there were plenty of scullers going here and there that morning, and plenty of barges dropping down with the tide; the navigation of the river between bridges, in an open boat, was a much easier and commoner matter in those days than it is in these; and we went ahead among many skiffs and wherries briskly.

Old London Bridge was soon passed, and old Billingsgate Market with its oyster-boats and Dutchmen, and the White Tower and Traitor’s Gate, and we were in among the tiers of shipping. Here were the Leith, Aberdeen, and Glasgow steamers, loading and unloading goods, and looking immensely high out of the water as we passed alongside; here, were colliers by the score and score, with the coal-whippers plunging off stages on deck, as counterweights to measures of coal swinging up, which were then rattled over the side into barges; here, at her moorings was to-morrow’s steamer for Rotterdam, of which we took good notice; and here to-morrow’s for Hamburg, under whose bowsprit we crossed. And now I, sitting in the stern, could see, with a faster beating heart, Mill Pond Bank and Mill Pond stairs.

“Is he there?” said Herbert.

“Not yet.”

“Right! He was not to come down till he saw us. Can you see his signal?”

“Not well from here; but I think I see it.–Now I see him! Pull both. Easy, Herbert. Oars!”

We touched the stairs lightly for a single moment, and he was on board, and we were off again. He had a boat-cloak with him, and a black canvas bag; and he looked as like a river-pilot as my heart could have wished.

“Dear boy!” he said, putting his arm on my shoulder, as he took his seat. “Faithful dear boy, well done. Thankye, thankye!”

Again among the tiers of shipping, in and out, avoiding rusty chain-cables frayed hempen hawsers and bobbing buoys, sinking for the moment floating broken baskets, scattering floating chips of wood and shaving, cleaving floating scum of coal, in and out, under the figure-head of the John of Sunderland making a speech to the winds (as is done by many Johns), and the Betsy of Yarmouth with a firm formality of bosom and her knobby eyes starting two inches out of her head; in and out, hammers going in ship-builders’ yards, saws going at timber, clashing engines going at things unknown, pumps going in leaky ships, capstans going, ships going out to sea, and unintelligible sea-creatures roaring curses over the bulwarks at respondent lightermen, in and out,–out at last upon the clearer river, where the ships’ boys might take their fenders in, no longer fishing in troubled waters with them over the side, and where the festooned sails might fly out to the wind.

At the Stairs where we had taken him abroad, and ever since, I had looked warily for any token of our being suspected. I had seen none. We certainly had not been, and at that time as certainly we were not either attended or followed by any boat. If we had been waited on by any boat, I should have run in to shore, and have obliged her to go on, or to make her purpose evident. But we held our own without any appearance of molestation.

He had his boat-cloak on him, and looked, as I have said, a natural part of the scene. It was remarkable (but perhaps the wretched life he had led accounted for it) that he was the least anxious of any of us. He was not indifferent, for he told me that he hoped to live to see his gentleman one of the best of gentlemen in a foreign country; he was not disposed to be passive or resigned, as I understood it; but he had no notion of meeting danger half way. When it came upon him, he confronted it, but it must come before he troubled himself.

“If you knowed, dear boy,” he said to me, “what it is to sit here alonger my dear boy and have my smoke, arter having been day by day betwixt four walls, you’d envy me. But you don’t know what it is.”

“I think I know the delights of freedom,” I answered.

“Ah,” said he, shaking his head gravely. “But you don’t know it equal to me. You must have been under lock and key, dear boy, to know it equal to me,–but I ain’t a going to be low.”

It occurred to me as inconsistent, that, for any mastering idea, he should have endangered his freedom, and even his life. But I reflected that perhaps freedom without danger was too much apart from all the habit of his existence to be to him what it would be to another man. I was not far out, since he said, after smoking a little:–

“You see, dear boy, when I was over yonder, t’other side the world, I was always a looking to this side; and it come flat to be there, for all I was a growing rich. Everybody knowed Magwitch, and Magwitch could come, and Magwitch could go, and nobody’s head would be troubled about him. They ain’t so easy concerning me here, dear boy,–wouldn’t be, leastwise, if they knowed where I was.”

“If all goes well,” said I, “you will be perfectly free and safe again within a few hours.”

“Well,” he returned, drawing a long breath, “I hope so.”

“And think so?”

He dipped his hand in the water over the boat’s gunwale, and said, smiling with that softened air upon him which was not new to me:–

“Ay, I s’pose I think so, dear boy. We’d be puzzled to be more quiet and easy-going than we are at present. But–it’s a flowing so soft and pleasant through the water, p’raps, as makes me think it–I was a thinking through my smoke just then, that we can no more see to the bottom of the next few hours than we can see to the bottom of this river what I catches hold of. Nor yet we can’t no more hold their tide than I can hold this. And it’s run through my fingers and gone, you see!” holding up his dripping hand.

“But for your face I should think you were a little despondent,” said I.

“Not a bit on it, dear boy! It comes of flowing on so quiet, and of that there rippling at the boat’s head making a sort of a Sunday tune. Maybe I’m a growing a trifle old besides.”

He put his pipe back in his mouth with an undisturbed expression of face, and sat as composed and contented as if we were already out of England. Yet he was as submissive to a word of advice as if he had been in constant terror; for, when we ran ashore to get some bottles of beer into the boat, and he was stepping out, I hinted that I thought he would be safest where he was, and he said. “Do you, dear boy?” and quietly sat down again.

The air felt cold upon the river, but it was a bright day, and the sunshine was very cheering. The tide ran strong, I took care to lose none of it, and our steady stroke carried us on thoroughly well. By imperceptible degrees, as the tide ran out, we lost more and more of the nearer woods and hills, and dropped lower and lower between the muddy banks, but the tide was yet with us when we were off Gravesend. As our charge was wrapped in his cloak, I purposely passed within a boat or two’s length of the floating Custom House, and so out to catch the stream, alongside of two emigrant ships, and under the bows of a large transport with troops on the forecastle looking down at us. And soon the tide began to slacken, and the craft lying at anchor to swing, and presently they had all swung round, and the ships that were taking advantage of the new tide to get up to the Pool began to crowd upon us in a fleet, and we kept under the shore, as much out of the strength of the tide now as we could, standing carefully off from low shallows and mudbanks.

Our oarsmen were so fresh, by dint of having occasionally let her drive with the tide for a minute or two, that a quarter of an hour’s rest proved full as much as they wanted. We got ashore among some slippery stones while we ate and drank what we had with us, and looked about. It was like my own marsh country, flat and monotonous, and with a dim horizon; while the winding river turned and turned, and the great floating buoys upon it turned and turned, and everything else seemed stranded and still. For now the last of the fleet of ships was round the last low point we had headed; and the last green barge, straw-laden, with a brown sail, had followed; and some ballast-lighters, shaped like a child’s first rude imitation of a boat, lay low in the mud; and a little squat shoal-lighthouse on open piles stood crippled in the mud on stilts and crutches; and slimy stakes stuck out of the mud, and slimy stones stuck out of the mud, and red landmarks and tidemarks stuck out of the mud, and an old landing-stage and an old roofless building slipped into the mud, and all about us was stagnation and mud.

We pushed off again, and made what way we could. It was much harder work now, but Herbert and Startop persevered, and rowed and rowed and rowed until the sun went down. By that time the river had lifted us a little, so that we could see above the bank. There was the red sun, on the low level of the shore, in a purple haze, fast deepening into black; and there was the solitary flat marsh; and far away there were the rising grounds, between which and us there seemed to be no life, save here and there in the foreground a melancholy gull.

As the night was fast falling, and as the moon, being past the full, would not rise early, we held a little council; a short one, for clearly our course was to lie by at the first lonely tavern we could find. So, they plied their oars once more, and I looked out for anything like a house. Thus we held on, speaking little, for four or five dull miles. It was very cold, and, a collier coming by us, with her galley-fire smoking and flaring, looked like a comfortable home. The night was as dark by this time as it would be until morning; and what light we had, seemed to come more from the river than the sky, as the oars in their dipping struck at a few reflected stars.

At this dismal time we were evidently all possessed by the idea that we were followed. As the tide made, it flapped heavily at irregular intervals against the shore; and whenever such a sound came, one or other of us was sure to start, and look in that direction. Here and there, the set of the current had worn down the bank into a little creek, and we were all suspicious of such places, and eyed them nervously. Sometimes, “What was that ripple?” one of us would say in a low voice. Or another, “Is that a boat yonder?” And afterwards we would fall into a dead silence, and I would sit impatiently thinking with what an unusual amount of noise the oars worked in the thowels.

At length we descried a light and a roof, and presently afterwards ran alongside a little causeway made of stones that had been picked up hard by. Leaving the rest in the boat, I stepped ashore, and found the light to be in a window of a public-house. It was a dirty place enough, and I dare say not unknown to smuggling adventurers; but there was a good fire in the kitchen, and there were eggs and bacon to eat, and various liquors to drink. Also, there were two double-bedded rooms,–”such as they were,” the landlord said. No other company was in the house than the landlord, his wife, and a grizzled male creature, the “Jack” of the little causeway, who was as slimy and smeary as if he had been low-water mark too.

With this assistant, I went down to the boat again, and we all came ashore, and brought out the oars, and rudder and boat-hook, and all else, and hauled her up for the night. We made a very good meal by the kitchen fire, and then apportioned the bedrooms: Herbert and Startop were to occupy one; I and our charge the other. We found the air as carefully excluded from both, as if air were fatal to life; and there were more dirty clothes and bandboxes under the beds than I should have thought the family possessed. But we considered ourselves well off, notwithstanding, for a more solitary place we could not have found.

While we were comforting ourselves by the fire after our meal, the Jack–who was sitting in a corner, and who had a bloated pair of shoes on, which he had exhibited while we were eating our eggs and bacon, as interesting relics that he had taken a few days ago from the feet of a drowned seaman washed ashore–asked me if we had seen a four-oared galley going up with the tide? When I told him No, he said she must have gone down then, and yet she “took up too,” when she left there.

“They must ha’ thought better on’t for some reason or another,” said the Jack, “and gone down.”

“A four-oared galley, did you say?” said I.

“A four,” said the Jack, “and two sitters.”

“Did they come ashore here?”

“They put in with a stone two-gallon jar for some beer. I’d ha’ been glad to pison the beer myself,” said the Jack, “or put some rattling physic in it.”


“I know why,” said the Jack. He spoke in a slushy voice, as if much mud had washed into his throat.

“He thinks,” said the landlord, a weakly meditative man with a pale eye, who seemed to rely greatly on his Jack,–”he thinks they was, what they wasn’t.”

“I knows what I thinks,” observed the Jack.

“You thinks Custum ‘Us, Jack?” said the landlord.

“I do,” said the Jack.

“Then you’re wrong, Jack.”

“AM I!”

In the infinite meaning of his reply and his boundless confidence in his views, the Jack took one of his bloated shoes off, looked into it, knocked a few stones out of it on the kitchen floor, and put it on again. He did this with the air of a Jack who was so right that he could afford to do anything.

“Why, what do you make out that they done with their buttons then, Jack?” asked the landlord, vacillating weakly.

“Done with their buttons?” returned the Jack. “Chucked ‘em overboard. Swallered ‘em. Sowed ‘em, to come up small salad. Done with their buttons!”

“Don’t be cheeky, Jack,” remonstrated the landlord, in a melancholy and pathetic way.

“A Custum ‘Us officer knows what to do with his Buttons,” said the Jack, repeating the obnoxious word with the greatest contempt, “when they comes betwixt him and his own light. A four and two sitters don’t go hanging and hovering, up with one tide and down with another, and both with and against another, without there being Custum ‘Us at the bottom of it.” Saying which he went out in disdain; and the landlord, having no one to reply upon, found it impracticable to pursue the subject.

This dialogue made us all uneasy, and me very uneasy. The dismal wind was muttering round the house, the tide was flapping at the shore, and I had a feeling that we were caged and threatened. A four-oared galley hovering about in so unusual a way as to attract this notice was an ugly circumstance that I could not get rid of. When I had induced Provis to go up to bed, I went outside with my two companions (Startop by this time knew the state of the case), and held another council. Whether we should remain at the house until near the steamer’s time, which would be about one in the afternoon, or whether we should put off early in the morning, was the question we discussed. On the whole we deemed it the better course to lie where we were, until within an hour or so of the steamer’s time, and then to get out in her track, and drift easily with the tide. Having settled to do this, we returned into the house and went to bed.

I lay down with the greater part of my clothes on, and slept well for a few hours. When I awoke, the wind had risen, and the sign of the house (the Ship) was creaking and banging about, with noises that startled me. Rising softly, for my charge lay fast asleep, I looked out of the window. It commanded the causeway where we had hauled up our boat, and, as my eyes adapted themselves to the light of the clouded moon, I saw two men looking into her. They passed by under the window, looking at nothing else, and they did not go down to the landing-place which I could discern to be empty, but struck across the marsh in the direction of the Nore.

My first impulse was to call up Herbert, and show him the two men going away. But reflecting, before I got into his room, which was at the back of the house and adjoined mine, that he and Startop had had a harder day than I, and were fatigued, I forbore. Going back to my window, I could see the two men moving over the marsh. In that light, however, I soon lost them, and, feeling very cold, lay down to think of the matter, and fell asleep again.

We were up early. As we walked to and fro, all four together, before breakfast, I deemed it right to recount what I had seen. Again our charge was the least anxious of the party. It was very likely that the men belonged to the Custom House, he said quietly, and that they had no thought of us. I tried to persuade myself that it was so,–as, indeed, it might easily be. However, I proposed that he and I should walk away together to a distant point we could see, and that the boat should take us aboard there, or as near there as might prove feasible, at about noon. This being considered a good precaution, soon after breakfast he and I set forth, without saying anything at the tavern.

He smoked his pipe as we went along, and sometimes stopped to clap me on the shoulder. One would have supposed that it was I who was in danger, not he, and that he was reassuring me. We spoke very little. As we approached the point, I begged him to remain in a sheltered place, while I went on to reconnoitre; for it was towards it that the men had passed in the night. He complied, and I went on alone. There was no boat off the point, nor any boat drawn up anywhere near it, nor were there any signs of the men having embarked there. But, to be sure, the tide was high, and there might have been some footpints under water.

When he looked out from his shelter in the distance, and saw that I waved my hat to him to come up, he rejoined me, and there we waited; sometimes lying on the bank, wrapped in our coats, and sometimes moving about to warm ourselves, until we saw our boat coming round. We got aboard easily, and rowed out into the track of the steamer. By that time it wanted but ten minutes of one o’clock, and we began to look out for her smoke.

But, it was half-past one before we saw her smoke, and soon afterwards we saw behind it the smoke of another steamer. As they were coming on at full speed, we got the two bags ready, and took that opportunity of saying good by to Herbert and Startop. We had all shaken hands cordially, and neither Herbert’s eyes nor mine were quite dry, when I saw a four-oared galley shoot out from under the bank but a little way ahead of us, and row out into the same track.

A stretch of shore had been as yet between us and the steamer’s smoke, by reason of the bend and wind of the river; but now she was visible, coming head on. I called to Herbert and Startop to keep before the tide, that she might see us lying by for her, and I adjured Provis to sit quite still, wrapped in his cloak. He answered cheerily, “Trust to me, dear boy,” and sat like a statue. Meantime the galley, which was very skilfully handled, had crossed us, let us come up with her, and fallen alongside. Leaving just room enough for the play of the oars, she kept alongside, drifting when we drifted, and pulling a stroke or two when we pulled. Of the two sitters one held the rudder-lines, and looked at us attentively, –as did all the rowers; the other sitter was wrapped up, much as Provis was, and seemed to shrink, and whisper some instruction to the steerer as he looked at us. Not a word was spoken in either boat.

Startop could make out, after a few minutes, which steamer was first, and gave me the word “Hamburg,” in a low voice, as we sat face to face. She was nearing us very fast, and the beating of her peddles grew louder and louder. I felt as if her shadow were absolutely upon us, when the galley hailed us. I answered.

“You have a returned Transport there,” said the man who held the lines. “That’s the man, wrapped in the cloak. His name is Abel Magwitch, otherwise Provis. I apprehend that man, and call upon him to surrender, and you to assist.”

At the same moment, without giving any audible direction to his crew, he ran the galley abroad of us. They had pulled one sudden stroke ahead, had got their oars in, had run athwart us, and were holding on to our gunwale, before we knew what they were doing. This caused great confusion on board the steamer, and I heard them calling to us, and heard the order given to stop the paddles, and heard them stop, but felt her driving down upon us irresistibly. In the same moment, I saw the steersman of the galley lay his hand on his prisoner’s shoulder, and saw that both boats were swinging round with the force of the tide, and saw that all hands on board the steamer were running forward quite frantically. Still, in the same moment, I saw the prisoner start up, lean across his captor, and pull the cloak from the neck of the shrinking sitter in the galley. Still in the same moment, I saw that the face disclosed, was the face of the other convict of long ago. Still, in the same moment, I saw the face tilt backward with a white terror on it that I shall never forget, and heard a great cry on board the steamer, and a loud splash in the water, and felt the boat sink from under me.

It was but for an instant that I seemed to struggle with a thousand mill-weirs and a thousand flashes of light; that instant past, I was taken on board the galley. Herbert was there, and Startop was there; but our boat was gone, and the two convicts were gone.

What with the cries aboard the steamer, and the furious blowing off of her steam, and her driving on, and our driving on, I could not at first distinguish sky from water or shore from shore; but the crew of the galley righted her with great speed, and, pulling certain swift strong strokes ahead, lay upon their oars, every man looking silently and eagerly at the water astern. Presently a dark object was seen in it, bearing towards us on the tide. No man spoke, but the steersman held up his hand, and all softly backed water, and kept the boat straight and true before it. As it came nearer, I saw it to be Magwitch, swimming, but not swimming freely. He was taken on board, and instantly manacled at the wrists and ankles.

The galley was kept steady, and the silent, eager look-out at the water was resumed. But, the Rotterdam steamer now came up, and apparently not understanding what had happened, came on at speed. By the time she had been hailed and stopped, both steamers were drifting away from us, and we were rising and falling in a troubled wake of water. The look-out was kept, long after all was still again and the two steamers were gone; but everybody knew that it was hopeless now.

At length we gave it up, and pulled under the shore towards the tavern we had lately left, where we were received with no little surprise. Here I was able to get some comforts for Magwitch,– Provis no longer,–who had received some very severe injury in the Chest, and a deep cut in the head.

He told me that he believed himself to have gone under the keel of the steamer, and to have been struck on the head in rising. The injury to his chest (which rendered his breathing extremely painful) he thought he had received against the side of the galley. He added that he did not pretend to say what he might or might not have done to Compeyson, but that, in the moment of his laying his hand on his cloak to identify him, that villain had staggered up and staggered back, and they had both gone overboard together, when the sudden wrenching of him (Magwitch) out of our boat, and the endeavor of his captor to keep him in it, had capsized us. He told me in a whisper that they had gone down fiercely locked in each other’s arms, and that there had been a struggle under water, and that he had disengaged himself, struck out, and swum away.

I never had any reason to doubt the exact truth of what he thus told me. The officer who steered the galley gave the same account of their going overboard.

When I asked this officer’s permission to change the prisoner’s wet clothes by purchasing any spare garments I could get at the public-house, he gave it readily: merely observing that he must take charge of everything his prisoner had about him. So the pocket-book which had once been in my hands passed into the officer’s. He further gave me leave to accompany the prisoner to London; but declined to accord that grace to my two friends.

The Jack at the Ship was instructed where the drowned man had gone down, and undertook to search for the body in the places where it was likeliest to come ashore. His interest in its recovery seemed to me to be much heightened when he heard that it had stockings on. Probably, it took about a dozen drowned men to fit him out completely; and that may have been the reason why the different articles of his dress were in various stages of decay.

We remained at the public-house until the tide turned, and then Magwitch was carried down to the galley and put on board. Herbert and Startop were to get to London by land, as soon as they could. We had a doleful parting, and when I took my place by Magwitch’s side, I felt that that was my place henceforth while he lived.

For now, my repugnance to him had all melted away; and in the Hunted, wounded, shackled creature who held my hand in his, I only saw a man who had meant to be my benefactor, and who had felt affectionately, gratefully, and generously, towards me with great constancy through a series of years. I only saw in him a much better man than I had been to Joe.

His breathing became more difficult and painful as the night drew on, and often he could not repress a groan. I tried to rest him on the arm I could use, in any easy position; but it was dreadful to think that I could not be sorry at heart for his being badly hurt, since it was unquestionably best that he should die. That there were, still living, people enough who were able and willing to identify him, I could not doubt. That he would be leniently treated, I could not hope. He who had been presented in the worst light at his trial, who had since broken prison and had been tried again, who had returned from transportation under a life sentence, and who had occasioned the death of the man who was the cause of his arrest.

As we returned towards the setting sun we had yesterday left behind us, and as the stream of our hopes seemed all running back, I told him how grieved I was to think that he had come home for my sake.

“Dear boy,” he answered, “I’m quite content to take my chance. I’ve seen my boy, and he can be a gentleman without me.”

No. I had thought about that, while we had been there side by side. No. Apart from any inclinations of my own, I understood Wemmick’s hint now. I foresaw that, being convicted, his possessions would be forfeited to the Crown.

“Lookee here, dear boy,” said he “It’s best as a gentleman should not be knowed to belong to me now. Only come to see me as if you come by chance alonger Wemmick. Sit where I can see you when I am swore to, for the last o’ many times, and I don’t ask no more.”

“I will never stir from your side,” said I, “when I am suffered to be near you. Please God, I will be as true to you as you have been to me!”

I felt his hand tremble as it held mine, and he turned his face away as he lay in the bottom of the boat, and I heard that old sound in his throat,–softened now, like all the rest of him. It was a good thing that he had touched this point, for it put into my mind what I might not otherwise have thought of until too late,– that he need never know how his hopes of enriching me had perished.

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