Chapter I.

My father’s family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, myrninfant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicitrnthan Pip. So, I called myself Pip, and came to be called Pip.rnrnI give Pirrip as my father’s family name, on the authority of hisrntombstone and my sister,—Mrs. Joe Gargery, who married the blacksmith.rnAs I never saw my father or my mother, and never saw any likeness ofrneither of them (for their days were long before the days ofrnphotographs), my first fancies regarding what they were like werernunreasonably derived from their tombstones. The shape of the letters onrnmy father’s, gave me an odd idea that he was a square, stout, dark man,rnwith curly black hair. From the character and turn of the inscription,“_Also Georgiana Wife of the Above_,” I drew a childish conclusion thatrnmy mother was freckled and sickly. To five little stone lozenges, eachrnabout a foot and a half long, which were arranged in a neat row besiderntheir grave, and were sacred to the memory of five little brothers ofrnmine,—who gave up trying to get a living, exceedingly early in thatrnuniversal struggle,—I am indebted for a belief I religiouslyrnentertained that they had all been born on their backs with their handsrnin their trousers-pockets, and had never taken them out in this staternof existence.rnrnOurs was the marsh country, down by the river, within, as the riverrnwound, twenty miles of the sea. My first most vivid and broadrnimpression of the identity of things seems to me to have been gained onrna memorable raw afternoon towards evening. At such a time I found outrnfor certain that this bleak place overgrown with nettles was thernchurchyard; and that Philip Pirrip, late of this parish, and alsornGeorgiana wife of the above, were dead and buried; and that Alexander,rnBartholomew, Abraham, Tobias, and Roger, infant children of thernaforesaid, were also dead and buried; and that the dark flat wildernessrnbeyond the churchyard, intersected with dikes and mounds and gates,rnwith scattered cattle feeding on it, was the marshes; and that the lowrnleaden line beyond was the river; and that the distant savage lair fromrnwhich the wind was rushing was the sea; and that the small bundle ofrnshivers growing afraid of it all and beginning to cry, was Pip.rnrn“Hold your noise!” cried a terrible voice, as a man started up fromrnamong the graves at the side of the church porch. “Keep still, yournlittle devil, or I’ll cut your throat!”rnrnA fearful man, all in coarse grey, with a great iron on his leg. A manrnwith no hat, and with broken shoes, and with an old rag tied round hisrnhead. A man who had been soaked in water, and smothered in mud, andrnlamed by stones, and cut by flints, and stung by nettles, and torn byrnbriars; who limped, and shivered, and glared, and growled; and whosernteeth chattered in his head as he seized me by the chin.rnrn“Oh! Don’t cut my throat, sir,” I pleaded in terror. “Pray don’t do it,rnsir.”rnrn“Tell us your name!” said the man. “Quick!”rnrn“Pip, sir.”rnrn“Once more,” said the man, staring at me. “Give it mouth!”rnrn“Pip. Pip, sir.”rnrn“Show us where you live,” said the man. “Pint out the place!”rnrnI pointed to where our village lay, on the flat in-shore among thernalder-trees and pollards, a mile or more from the church.rnrnThe man, after looking at me for a moment, turned me upside down, andrnemptied my pockets. There was nothing in them but a piece of bread.rnWhen the church came to itself,—for he was so sudden and strong that hernmade it go head over heels before me, and I saw the steeple under myrnfeet,—when the church came to itself, I say, I was seated on a highrntombstone, trembling while he ate the bread ravenously.rnrn[Illustration]rnrn“You young dog,” said the man, licking his lips, “what fat cheeks yournha’ got.”rnrnI believe they were fat, though I was at that time undersized for myrnyears, and not strong.rnrn“Darn me if I couldn’t eat ’em,” said the man, with a threatening shakernof his head, “and if I han’t half a mind to’t!”rnrnI earnestly expressed my hope that he wouldn’t, and held tighter to therntombstone on which he had put me; partly, to keep myself upon it;rnpartly, to keep myself from crying.rnrn“Now lookee here!” said the man. “Where’s your mother?”rnrn“There, sir!” said I.rnrnHe started, made a short run, and stopped and looked over his shoulder.rnrn“There, sir!” I timidly explained. “Also Georgiana. That’s my mother.”rnrn“Oh!” said he, coming back. “And is that your father alonger yourrnmother?”rnrn“Yes, sir,” said I; “him too; late of this parish.”rnrn“Ha!” he muttered then, considering. “Who d’ye live with,—supposin’rnyou’re kindly let to live, which I han’t made up my mind about?”rnrn“My sister, sir,—Mrs. Joe Gargery,—wife of Joe Gargery, the blacksmith,rnsir.”rnrn“Blacksmith, eh?” said he. And looked down at his leg.rnrnAfter darkly looking at his leg and me several times, he came closer tornmy tombstone, took me by both arms, and tilted me back as far as herncould hold me; so that his eyes looked most powerfully down into mine,rnand mine looked most helplessly up into his.rnrn“Now lookee here,” he said, “the question being whether you’re to bernlet to live. You know what a file is?”rnrn“Yes, sir.”rnrn“And you know what wittles is?”rnrn“Yes, sir.”rnrnAfter each question he tilted me over a little more, so as to give me arngreater sense of helplessness and danger.rnrn“You get me a file.” He tilted me again. “And you get me wittles.” Herntilted me again. “You bring ’em both to me.” He tilted me again. “OrrnI’ll have your heart and liver out.” He tilted me again.rnrnI was dreadfully frightened, and so giddy that I clung to him with bothrnhands, and said, “If you would kindly please to let me keep upright,rnsir, perhaps I shouldn’t be sick, and perhaps I could attend more.”rnrnHe gave me a most tremendous dip and roll, so that the church jumpedrnover its own weathercock. Then, he held me by the arms, in an uprightrnposition on the top of the stone, and went on in these fearful terms:—rnrn“You bring me, to-morrow morning early, that file and them wittles. Yournbring the lot to me, at that old Battery over yonder. You do it, andrnyou never dare to say a word or dare to make a sign concerning yourrnhaving seen such a person as me, or any person sumever, and you shallrnbe let to live. You fail, or you go from my words in any partickler, nornmatter how small it is, and your heart and your liver shall be torernout, roasted, and ate. Now, I ain’t alone, as you may think I am.rnThere’s a young man hid with me, in comparison with which young man Irnam a Angel. That young man hears the words I speak. That young man hasrna secret way pecooliar to himself, of getting at a boy, and at hisrnheart, and at his liver. It is in wain for a boy to attempt to hidernhimself from that young man. A boy may lock his door, may be warm inrnbed, may tuck himself up, may draw the clothes over his head, may thinkrnhimself comfortable and safe, but that young man will softly creep andrncreep his way to him and tear him open. I am a keeping that young manrnfrom harming of you at the present moment, with great difficulty. Irnfind it wery hard to hold that young man off of your inside. Now, whatrndo you say?”rnrnI said that I would get him the file, and I would get him what brokenrnbits of food I could, and I would come to him at the Battery, early inrnthe morning.rnrn“Say Lord strike you dead if you don’t!” said the man.rnrnI said so, and he took me down.rnrn“Now,” he pursued, “you remember what you’ve undertook, and yournremember that young man, and you get home!”rnrn“Goo-good night, sir,” I faltered.rnrn“Much of that!” said he, glancing about him over the cold wet flat. “Irnwish I was a frog. Or a eel!”rnrnAt the same time, he hugged his shuddering body in both hisrnarms,—clasping himself, as if to hold himself together,—and limpedrntowards the low church wall. As I saw him go, picking his way among thernnettles, and among the brambles that bound the green mounds, he lookedrnin my young eyes as if he were eluding the hands of the dead people,rnstretching up cautiously out of their graves, to get a twist upon hisrnankle and pull him in.rnrnWhen he came to the low church wall, he got over it, like a man whosernlegs were numbed and stiff, and then turned round to look for me. WhenrnI saw him turning, I set my face towards home, and made the best use ofrnmy legs. But presently I looked over my shoulder, and saw him going onrnagain towards the river, still hugging himself in both arms, andrnpicking his way with his sore feet among the great stones dropped intornthe marshes here and there, for stepping-places when the rains werernheavy or the tide was in.rnrnThe marshes were just a long black horizontal line then, as I stoppedrnto look after him; and the river was just another horizontal line, notrnnearly so broad nor yet so black; and the sky was just a row of longrnangry red lines and dense black lines intermixed. On the edge of thernriver I could faintly make out the only two black things in all thernprospect that seemed to be standing upright; one of these was thernbeacon by which the sailors steered,—like an unhooped cask upon arnpole,—an ugly thing when you were near it; the other, a gibbet, withrnsome chains hanging to it which had once held a pirate. The man wasrnlimping on towards this latter, as if he were the pirate come to life,rnand come down, and going back to hook himself up again. It gave me arnterrible turn when I thought so; and as I saw the cattle lifting theirrnheads to gaze after him, I wondered whether they thought so too. Irnlooked all round for the horrible young man, and could see no signs ofrnhim. But now I was frightened again, and ran home without stopping.