I WAS THREE-and-twenty years of age. Not another word had I heard to enlighten me on the subject of my expectations, and my twenty-third birthday was a week gone. We had left Barnard's Inn more than a year, and lived in the Temple. Our chambers were in Garden-court, down by the river.
Mr. Pocket and I had for some time parted company as to our original relations, though we continued on the best terms. Notwithstanding my inability to settle to anything—which I hope arose out of the restless and incomplete tenure on which I held my means—I had a taste for reading, and read regularly so many hours a day. That matter of Herbert's was still progressing, and everything with me was as I have brought it down to the close of the last preceding chapter.
Business had taken Herbert on a journey to Marseilles. I was alone, and had a dull sense of being alone. Dispirited and anxious, long hoping that tomorrow or next week would clear my way, and long disappointed, I sadly missed the cheerful face and ready response of my friend.
It was wretched weather; stormy and wet, stormy and wet; mud, mud, mud, deep in all the streets. Day after day, a vast heavy veil had been driving over London from the East, and it drove still, as if in the East there were an eternity of cloud and wind. So furious had been the gusts, that high buildings in town had had the lead stripped off their roofs; and in the country, trees had been torn up, and sails of windmills carried away; and gloomy accounts had come in from the coast, of shipwreck and death. Violent blasts of rain had accompanied these rages of wind, and the day just closed as I sat down to read had been the worst of all.
Alterations have been made in that part of the Temple since that time, and it has not now so lonely a character as it had then, nor is it so exposed to the river. We lived at the top of the last house, and the wind rushing up the river shook the house that night, like discharges of cannon, or breakings of a sea. When the rain came with it and dashed against the windows, I thought, raising my eyes to them as they rocked, that I might have fancied myself in a storm-beaten lighthouse. Occasionally, the smoke came rolling down the chimney as though it could not bear to go out into such a night; and when I set the doors open and looked down the staircase, the staircase lamps were blown out; and when I shaded my face with my hands and looked through the black windows (opening them ever so little, was out of the question in the teeth of such wind and rain), I saw that the lamps in the court were blown out, and that the lamps on the bridges and the shore were shuddering, and that the coal fires in barges on the river were being carried away before the wind like red-hot splashes in the rain.
I read with my watch upon the table, purposing to close my book at eleven o'clock. As I shut it, Saint Paul's, and all the many church-clocks in the City—some leading, some accompanying, some following—struck that hour. The sound was curiously flawed by the wind; and I was listening, and thinking how the wind assailed and tore it, when I heard a footstep on the stair.
What nervous folly made me start, and awfully connect it with the footstep of my dead sister, matters not. It was past in a moment, and I listened again, and heard the footstep stumble in coming on. Remembering then, that the staircase-lights were blown out, I took up my reading-lamp and went out to the stair-head. Whoever was below had stopped on seeing my lamp, for all was quiet.
“There is some one down there, is there not?” I called out, looking down.
“Yes,” said a voice from the darkness beneath.
“What floor do you want?”
“The top. Mr. Pip.”
“That is my name.—There is nothing the matter?”
“Nothing the matter,” returned the voice. And the man came on.
I stood with my lamp held out over the stair-rail, and he came slowly within its light. It was a shaded lamp, to shine upon a book, and its circle of light was very contracted; so that he was in it for a mere instant, and then out of it. In the instant I had seen a face that was strange to me, looking up with an incomprehensible air of being touched and pleased by the sight of me.
Moving the lamp as the man moved, I made out that he was substantially dressed, but roughly; like a voyager by sea. That he had long iron-gray hair. That his age was about sixty. That he was a muscular man, strong on his legs, and that he was browned and hardened by exposure to weather. As he ascended the last stair or two, and the light of my lamp included us both, I saw, with a stupid kind of amazement, that he was holding out both his hands to me.
“Pray what is your business?” I asked him.
“My business?” he repeated, pausing. “Ah! Yes. I will explain my business, by your leave.”
“Do you wish to come in?”
“Yes,” he replied; “I wish to come in, Master.”
I had asked him the question inhospitably enough, for I resented the sort of bright and gratified recognition that still shone in his face. I resented it, because it seemed to imply that he expected me to respond to it. But, I took him into the room I had just left, and, having set the lamp on the table, asked him as civilly as I could to explain himself.
He looked about him with the strangest air—an air of wondering pleasure, as if he had some part in the things he admired—and he pulled off a rough outer coat, and his hat. Then, I saw that his head was furrowed and bald, and that the long iron-gray hair grew only on its sides. But, I saw nothing that in the least explained him. On the contrary, I saw him next moment, once more holding out both his hands to me.
“What do you mean?” said I, half suspecting him to be mad.
He stopped in his looking at me, and slowly rubbed his right hand over his head. “It's disappointing to a man,” he said, in a coarse broken voice, “arter having looked for'ard so distant, and come so fur; but you're not to blame for that—neither on us is to blame for that. I'll speak in half a minute. Give me half a minute, please.”
He sat down on a chair that stood before the fire, and covered his forehead with his large brown veinous hands. I looked at him attentively then, and recoiled a little from him; but I did not know him.
“There's no one nigh,” said he, looking over his shoulder; “is there?”
“Why do you, a stranger coming into my rooms at this time of the night, ask that question?” said I.
“You're a game one,” he returned, shaking his head at me with a deliberate affection, at once most unintelligible and most exasperating; “I'm glad you've grow'd up, a game one! But don't catch hold of me. You'd be sorry arterwards to have done it.”
I relinquished the intention he had detected, for I knew him! Even yet I could not recall a single feature, but I knew him! If the wind and the rain had driven away the intervening years, had scattered all the intervening objects, had swept us to the church-yard where we first stood face to face on such different levels, I could not have known my convict more distinctly than I knew him now, as he sat in the chair before the fire. No need to take a file from his pocket and show it to me; no need to take the handkerchief from his neck and twist it round his head; no need to hug himself with both his arms, and take a shivering turn across the room, looking back at me for recognition. I knew him before he gave me one of those aids, though, a moment before, I had not been conscious of remotely suspecting his identity.
He came back to where I stood, and again held out both his hands. Not knowing what to do—for, in my astonishment I had lost my self-possession—I reluctantly gave him my hands. He grasped them heartily, raised them to his lips, kissed them, and still held them.
“You acted nobly, my boy,” said he. “Noble Pip! And I have never forgot it!”
At a change in his manner as if he were even going to embrace me, I laid a hand upon his breast and put him away.
“Stay!” said I. “Keep off! If you are grateful to me for what I did when I was a little child, I hope you have shown your gratitude by mending your way of life. If you have come here to thank me, it was not necessary. Still, however, you have found me out, there must be something good in the feeling that has brought you here, and I will not repulse you; but surely you must understand—I—”
My attention was so attracted by the singularity of his fixed look at me, that the words died away on my tongue.
“You was a saying,” he observed, when we had confronted one another in silence, “that surely I must understand. What, surely must I understand?”
“That I cannot wish to renew that chance intercourse with you of long ago, under these different circumstances. I am glad to believe you have repented and recovered yourself. I am glad to tell you so. I am glad that, thinking I deserve to be thanked, you have come to thank me. But our ways are different ways, none the less. You are wet, and you look weary. Will you drink something before you go?”
He had replaced his neckerchief loosely, and had stood, keenly observant of me, biting a long end of it. “I think,” he answered, still with the end at his mouth and still observant of me, “that I will drink (I thank you) afore I go.”
There was a tray ready on a side-table. I brought it to the table near the fire, and asked him what he would have? He touched one of the bottles without looking at it or speaking, and I made him some hot rum-and-water. I tried to keep my hand steady while I did so, but his look at me as he leaned back in his chair with the long draggled end of his neckerchief between his teeth—evidently forgotten—made my hand very difficult to master. When at last I put the glass to him, I saw with amazement that his eyes were full of tears.
Up to this time I had remained standing, not to disguise that I wished him gone. But I was softened by the softened aspect of the man, and felt a touch of reproach. “I hope,” said I, hurriedly putting something into a glass for myself, and drawing a chair to the table, “that you will not think I spoke harshly to you just now. I had no intention of doing it, and I am sorry for it if I did. I wish you well, and happy!”
As I put my glass to my lips, he glanced with surprise at the end of his neckerchief, dropping from his mouth when he opened it, and stretched out his hand. I gave him mine, and then he drank, and drew his sleeve across his eyes and forehead.
“How are you living?” I asked him.
“I've been a sheep-farmer, stock-breeder, other trades besides, away in the new world,” said he: “many a thousand mile of stormy water off from this.”
“I hope you have done well?”
“I've done wonderful well. There's others went out alonger me as has done well too, but no man has done nigh as well as me. I'm famous for it.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“I hope to hear you say so, my dear boy.”
Without stopping to try to understand those words or the tone in which they were spoken, I turned off to a point that had just come into my mind.
“Have you ever seen a messenger you once sent to me,” I inquired, “since he undertook that trust?”
“Never set eyes upon him. I warn't likely to it.”
“He came faithfully, and he brought me the two one-pound notes. I was a poor boy then, as you know, and to a poor boy they were a little fortune. But, like you, I have done well since, and you must let me pay them back. You can put them to some other poor boy's use.” I took out my purse.
He watched me as I laid my purse upon the table and opened it, and he watched me as I separated two one-pound notes from its contents. They were clean and new, and I spread them out and handed them over to him. Still watching me, he laid them one upon the other, folded them long-wise, gave them a twist, set fire to them at the lamp, and dropped the ashes into the tray.
“May I make so bold,” he said then, with a smile that was like a frown, and with a frown that was like a smile, “as ask you how you have done well, since you and me was out on them lone shivering marshes?”
He emptied his glass, got up, and stood at the side of the fire, with his heavy brown hand on the mantel-shelf. He put a foot up to the bars, to dry and warm it, and the wet boot began to steam; but, he neither looked at it, nor at the fire, but steadily looked at me. It was only now that I began to tremble.
When my lips had parted, and had shaped some words that were without sound, I forced myself to tell him (though I could not do it distinctly), that I had been chosen to succeed to some property.
“Might a mere warmint ask what property?” said he.
I faltered, “I don't know.”
“Might a mere warmint ask whose property?” said he.
I faltered again, “I don't know.”
“Could I make a guess, I wonder,” said the Convict, “at your income since you come of age! As to the first figure, now. Five?”
With my heart beating like a heavy hammer of disordered action, I rose out of my chair, and stood with my hand upon the back of it, looking wildly at him.
“Concerning a guardian,” he went on. “There ought to have been some guardian or such-like, whiles you was a minor. Some lawyer, maybe. As to the first letter of that lawyer's name, now. Would it be J?”
All the truth of my position came flashing on me; and its disappointments, dangers, disgraces, consequences of all kinds, rushed in in such a multitude that I was borne down by them and had to struggle for every breath I drew. “Put it,” he resumed, “as the employer of that lawyer whose name begun with a J, and might be Jaggers—put it as he had come over sea to Portsmouth, and had landed there, and had wanted to come on to you. ‘However, you have found me out,’ you says just now. Well! however did I find you out? Why, I wrote from Portsmouth to a person in London, for particulars of your address. That person's name? Why, Wemmick.”
I could not have spoken one word, though it had been to save my life. I stood, with a hand on the chair-back and a hand on my breast, where I seemed to be suffocating—I stood so, looking wildly at him, until I grasped at the chair, when the room began to surge and turn. He caught me, drew me to the sofa, put me up against the cushions, and bent on one knee before me: bringing the face that I now well remembered, and that I shuddered at, very near to mine.
“Yes, Pip, dear boy, I've made a gentleman on you! It's me wot has done it! I swore that time, sure as ever I earned a guinea, that guinea should go to you. I swore arterwards, sure as ever I spec'lated and got rich, you should get rich. I lived rough, that you should live smooth; I worked hard that you should be above work. What odds, dear boy? Do I tell it fur you to feel a obligation? Not a bit. I tell it, fur you to know as that there hunted dunghill dog wot you kep life in, got his head so high that he could make a gentleman—and, Pip, you're him!”
The abhorrence in which I held the man, the dread I had of him, the repugnance with which I shrank from him, could not have been exceeded if he had been some terrible beast.
“Look'ee here, Pip. I'm your second father. You're my son—more to me nor any son. I've put away money, only for you to spend. When I was a hired out shepherd in a solitary hut, not seeing no faces but faces of sheep till I half forgot wot men's and women's faces wos like, I see yourn. I drops my knife many a time in that hut when I was a eating my dinner or my supper, and I says, ‘Here's the boy again, a looking at me whiles I eats and drinks!’ I see you there a many times, as plain as ever I see you on them misty marshes. ‘Lord strike me dead!’ I says each time—and I goes out in the open air to say it under the open heavens—'but wot, if I gets liberty and money, I'll make that boy a gentleman!' And I done it. Why, look at you, dear boy! Look at these here lodgings of yourn, fit for a lord! A lord? Ah! You shall show money with lords for wagers, and beat 'em!”
In his heat and triumph, and in his knowledge that I had been nearly fainting, he did not remark on my reception of all this. It was the one grain of relief I had.
“Look'ee here!” he went on, taking my watch out of my pocket and turning towards him a ring on my finger, while I recoiled from his touch as if he had been a snake, “a gold 'un and a beauty: that's a gentleman's, I hope! A diamond all set round with rubies; that's a gentleman's, I hope! Look at your linen; fine and beautiful! Look at your clothes; better ain't to be got! And your books too,” turning his eyes round the room, “mounting up, on their shelves, by hundreds! And you read 'em; don't you? I see you'd been a reading of 'em when I come in. Ha, ha, ha! You shall read 'em to me, dear boy! And if they're in foreign languages wot I don't understand, I shall be just as proud as if I did.”
Again he took both my hands and put them to his lips, while my blood ran cold within me.
“Don't you mind talking, Pip,” said he, after again drawing his sleeve over his eyes and forehead, as the click came in his throat which I well remembered—and he was all the more horrible to me that he was so much in earnest; “you can't do better nor keep quiet, dear boy. You ain't looked slowly forward to this as I have; you wosn't prepared for this as I wos. But didn't you never think it might be me?”
“O no, no, no,” I returned, “Never, never!”
“Well, you see it wos me, and single-handed. Never a soul in it but my own self and Mr. Jaggers.”
“Was there no one else?” I asked.
“No,” said he, with a glance of surprise: “who else should there be? And, dear boy, how good-looking you have growed! There's bright eyes somewheres—eh? Isn't there bright eyes somewheres, wot you love the thoughts on?”
O Estella, Estella!
“They shall be yourn, dear boy, if money can buy 'em. Not that a gentleman like you, so well set up as you, can't win 'em off of his own game; but money shall back you! Let me finish wot I was a telling you, dear boy. From that there hut and that there hiring-out, I got money left me by my master (which died, and had been the same as me), and got my liberty and went for myself. In every single thing I went for, I went for you. ‘Lord strike a blight upon it,’ I says, wotever it was I went for, ‘if it ain't for him!’ It all prospered wonderful. As I give you to understand just now, I'm famous for it. It was the money left me, and the gains of the first few year, wot I sent home to Mr. Jaggers—all for you—when he first come arter you, agreeable to my letter.”
O, that he had never come! That he had left me at the forge—far from contented, yet, by comparison, happy!
“And then, dear boy, it was a recompense to me, look'ee here, to know in secret that I was making a gentleman. The blood horses of them colonists might fling up the dust over me as I was walking; what do I say? I says to myself, ‘I'm making a better gentleman nor ever you'll be!’ When one of 'em says to another, 'He was a convict, a few year ago, and is a ignorant common fellow now, for all he's lucky,' what do I say? I says to myself, 'If I ain't a gentleman, nor yet ain't got no learning, I'm the owner of such. All on you owns stock and land; which on you owns a brought-up London gentleman?' This way I kept myself a going. And this way I held steady afore my mind that I would for certain come one day and see my boy, and make myself known to him, on his own ground.”
He laid his hand on my shoulder. I shuddered at the thought that for anything I knew, his hand might be stained with blood.
“It warn't easy, Pip, for me to leave them parts, nor yet it warn't safe. But I held to it, and the harder it was, the stronger I held, for I was determined, and my mind firm made up. At last I done it. Dear boy, I done it!”
I tried to collect my thoughts, but I was stunned. Throughout, I had seemed to myself to attend more to the wind and the rain than to him; even now, I could not separate his voice from those voices, though those were loud and his was silent.
“Where will you put me?” he asked, presently. “I must be put somewheres, dear boy.”
“To sleep?” said I.
“Yes. And to sleep long and sound,” he answered; “for I've been sea-tossed and sea-washed, months and months.”
“My friend and companion,” said I, rising from the sofa, “is absent; you must have his room.”
“He won't come back to-morrow; will he?”
“No,” said I, answering almost mechanically, in spite of my utmost efforts; “not to-morrow.”
“Because look'ee here, dear boy,” he said, dropping his voice, and laying a long finger on my breast in an impressive manner, “caution is necessary.”
“How do you mean? Caution?”
“By G—, it's Death!”
“I was sent for life. It's death to come back. There's been overmuch coming back of late years, and I should of a certainty be hanged if took.”
Nothing was needed but this; the wretched man, after loading wretched me with his wretched gold and silver chains for years, had risked his life to come to me, and I held it there in my keeping! If I had loved him instead of abhorring him; if I had been attracted to him by the strongest admiration and affection, instead of shrinking from him with the strongest repugnance; it could have been no worse. On the contrary, it would have been better, for his preservation would then have naturally and tenderly addressed my heart.
My first care was to close the shutters, so that no light might be seen from without, and then to close and make fast the doors. While I did so, he stood at the table drinking rum and eating biscuit; and when I saw him thus engaged, I saw my convict on the marshes at his meal again. It almost seemed to me as if he must stoop down presently, to file at his leg.
When I had gone into Herbert's room, and had shut off any other communication between it and the staircase than through the room in which our conversation had been held, I asked him if he would go to bed? He said yes, but asked me for some of my “gentleman's linen” to put on in the morning. I brought it out, and laid it ready for him, and my blood again ran cold when he again took me by both hands to give me good night.
I got away from him, without knowing how I did it, and mended the fire in the room where we had been together, and sat down by it, afraid to go to bed. For an hour or more, I remained too stunned to think; and it was not until I began to think, that I began fully to know how wrecked I was, and how the ship in which I had sailed was gone to pieces.
Miss Havisham's intentions towards me, all a mere dream; Estella not designed for me; I only suffered in Satis House as a convenience, a sting for the greedy relations, a model with a mechanical heart to practise on when no other practice was at hand; those were the first smarts I had. But, sharpest and deepest pain of all—it was for the convict, guilty of I knew not what crimes, and liable to be taken out of those rooms where I sat thinking, and hanged at the Old Bailey door, that I had deserted Joe.
I would not have gone back to Joe now, I would not have gone back to Biddy now, for any consideration: simply, I suppose, because my sense of my own worthless conduct to them was greater than every consideration. No wisdom on earth could have given me the comfort that I should have derived from their simplicity and fidelity; but I could never, never, undo what I had done.
In every rage of wind and rush of rain, I heard pursuers. Twice, I could have sworn there was a knocking and whispering at the outer door. With these fears upon me, I began either to imagine or recall that I had had mysterious warnings of this man's approach. That, for weeks gone by, I had passed faces in the streets which I had thought like his. That, these likenesses had grown more numerous, as he, coming over the sea, had drawn nearer. That, his wicked spirit had somehow sent these messengers to mine, and that now on this stormy night he was as good as his word, and with me.
Crowding up with these reflections came the reflection that I had seen him with my childish eyes to be a desperately violent man; that I had heard that other convict reiterate that he had tried to murder him; that I had seen him down in the ditch, tearing and fighting like a wild beast. Out of such remembrances I brought into the light of the fire, a half-formed terror that it might not be safe to be shut up there with him in the dead of the wild solitary night. This dilated until it filled the room, and impelled me to take a candle and go in and look at my dreadful burden.
He had rolled a handkerchief round his head, and his face was set and lowering in his sleep. But he was asleep, and quietly too, though he had a pistol lying on the pillow. Assured of this, I softly removed the key to the outside of his door, and turned it on him before I again sat down by the fire. Gradually I slipped from the chair and lay on the floor. When I awoke without having parted in my sleep with the perception of my wretchedness, the clocks of the Eastward churches were striking five, the candles were wasted out, the fire was dead, and the wind and rain intensified the thick black darkness.
THIS IS THE END OF THE SECOND STAGE OF PIP'S EXPECTATIONS.
— William Delaney
What Pip means is that he does not understand why this convict should be calling him "my dear boy."
— William Delaney
The thing that horrifies Pip the most is that Magwitch believes he owns him. There is a certain truth to this, because Pip has been turned into a fop who has no trade or profession and is entirely dependent on the allowance he receives through Wemmick from Magwitch.
— William Delaney
What Magwitch means is that his master was a rough, uneducated, self-made man like himself, and not one of the arrogant gentlemen-colonists of New South Wales.
— William Delaney
Magwitch knows nothing about Pip's relations with Miss Havisham and Estella. Miss Havisham was needed to mislead Pip and also to mislead the reader, so that Magwitch's appearance in Chapter 39 will come as a complete surprise. Pip has built up a dream world in his own mind. His great expectations are that he will marry Estella and live a life of luxury and bliss without ever having to do any work. The reader is sharing Pip's utter astonishment and his other disturbing emotions. This plot has been handled brilliantly, and Chapter 39 is perhaps the best single chapter Charles Dickens ever wrote in his entire career. Pip is made to understand that fine gentlemen and ladies owe their comforts and pleasures to the men and women who do the hardest labor and get paid the least for their toil. Magwitch is an ignorant man. He admires the upper class without realizing that it is people like himself who support them. We cannot help feeling sorry for the poor man. He had his own great expectations too.
— William Delaney
Pip thought that Estella was as good as his because he believed his patroness Miss Havisham wanted her to marry him and that Estella would obey her wishes. Now Pip realizes that he can't have Estella because Miss Havisham is not the anonymous benefactress he always assumed she was.
— William Delaney
Portsmouth is a major seaport located in Hampshire on the south coast of England.
— William Delaney
Magwitch does not really know very much about Pip except his name. What he does know is that he has been sending money to Jaggers or Wemmick from Australia and that he is now providing Pip with an allowance of five hundred pounds per annum. Neither Jaggers nor Wemmick has been providing Magwitch with information in return because they do not want to get too heavily involved in the matter--especially in written correspondence, which would be the only means of communication between England and Australia in those days.
Five hundred pounds per year is a very good income for a single man, although Pip still keeps running into debt. In Dickens' A Christmas Carol we see that Scrooge's clerk Bob Cratchit is supporting a fairly large family on a salary of slightly less than one pound a week.
— William Delaney
Wemmick is important to the plot because he can interact with Magwitch after the convict returns to England, whereas Wemmick's employer Mr. Jaggers could not. As far as Jaggers is concerned, his client Magwitch is in New South Wales. When Pip goes to see the lawyer in Chapter 40:
“Now, Pip...be careful....Don't commit yourself,” said Mr. Jaggers, “and don't commit any one. You understand—any one. Don't tell me anything: I don't want to know anything: I am not curious.”
Wemmick becomes friendly with Pip and gives him much advice and assistance.
— William Delaney
Dickens' description of the storm in this chapter is masterful. It also symbolizes the contrast between the two characters who appear in it. Pip is not particularly inconvenienced by the violent storm. He is sitting in a comfortable chair in front of a blazing fireplace and reading an interesting book--the picture of a gentleman of leisure. But Abel Magwitch is out in that storm--as he has been figuratively out in a storm all his life--and he materializes out of the darkness, wind and rain completely soaked.
He put a foot up to the bars, to dry and warm it, and the wet boot began to steam...
He has come all the way from Australia at the risk of his life just to see Pip. Magwitch seems completely indifferent to the storm. He has been through much worse things many times throughout his life. He may be uncouth and uneducated, but he is admirable in his strength, courage, resourcefulness, and endurance.
— William Delaney
Magwitch has exaggerated Pip's help in his own mind by dwelling on it over the hard, lonely years in primitive, still largely unexplored Australia. Pip only brought him the food and the file because he was terrified of what would happen to him if he broke his promise. Pip was hardly being noble. He was just a scared kid. He did express a little pity for Magwitch at that time. Most of Pip's kindly feelings are contained in the following excerpt from Chapter 3:
Pitying his desolation, and watching him as he gradually settled down upon the pie, I made bold to say, “I am glad you enjoy it.”
“Did you speak?”
“I said, I was glad you enjoyed it.”
“Thankee, my boy. I do.”
Pip is well aware that he was not acting nobly but mostly selfishly and is a little ashamed of himself for having received such material bounty for such a small act of enforced charity. Magwitch has made Pip into a prosperous gentleman, but now that Pip has become a gentleman he is far more repelled by this rough convict than he would have been if he had remained a simple blacksmith's apprentice. There is an irony in the contrast between Magwitch's description of Pip's "noble" actions and Pip's actual memory of his feelings during that harrowing episode on the marshes when the little boy thought he was in imminent danger of having his heart and liver "tore out, roasted and ate."
— William Delaney
Pip is not the only character in the novel who has great expectations. Abel Magwitch had great expectations of Pip, but these were illusions the poor, friendless convict created in his own mind. Pip did not really do very much for him when he was hiding on the marshes, and Pip was mainly motivated by fear when he brought Magwitch the food and the file. Pip did express a bit of sympathy, and Magwitch magnified that in his own mind because he needed a little human kindness so badly. Now Magwitch is forced to realize that Pip is a complete stranger who is afraid of him and would like to get rid of him. Great expectations of other people in this world are doomed to be disappointed. Modest expectations of others are more appropriate.
— William Delaney
This is intended to explain why Pip, who is ostensibly the author of this book, is able to write so well. He did not learn a great deal from Matthew Pocket and appears to be largely self-educated. The same can be said of the fictional character Holden Caulfield, who is represented as the author of The Catcher in the Rye. Holden flunked out of three schools but was a talented and proficient writer because he did a lot of reading and evidently had good taste in literature.
— William Delaney
This whole paragraph contains a marvelous description of a really heavy storm. It calls to mind Anton Chekhov's description of a storm in his short story "On the Road."
Outside a storm was raging. Something frantic and wrathful, but profoundly unhappy, seemed to be flinging itself about the tavern with the ferocity of a wild beast and trying to break in. Banging at the doors, knocking at the windows and on the roof, scratching at the walls, it alternately threatened and besought, then subsided for an interval, and then with a gleeful, treacherous howl burst into the chimney, but the wood flared up, and the fire, like a chained dog, flew wrathfully to meet its foe, a battle began, and after it--sobs, shrieks, howls of wrath. In all of this there was the sound of angry misery and unsatisfied hate, and the mortified impatience of something accustomed to triumph.
There is personification in both cases. In Dickens' description:
Occasionally, the smoke came rolling down the chimney as though it could not bear to go out into such a night...
Chekhov (1860-1904) may have been inspired by Dickens' description of the storm in Chapter 39 of Great Expectations. Dickens (1812-1870) was a much older writer, and he was greatly admired in Russia.* *
— William Delaney
This chapter (probably the best in the whole book) brings to a close the second stage of Pip's expectations. Dickens, up till now, has succeeded in keeping the reader as completely beguiled as Pip himself. We share Pip's astonishment when he realizes that he has been living in a fantasy world, thinking that Miss Havisham loves him and wants him to marry Estella and enjoy a life of leisure and luxury.
— William Delaney
This is a subtle touch. It conjures a picture of Magwitch eating his solitary meals with only one utensil, a sharp, all-purpose knife like a hunting knife, or like the jack-knife he presently carries with him.
— William Delaney
Magwitch sees gentlemen and ladies as Pip used to see them before he became one of them himself. Pip's education has made him see the truth which Magwitch does not see. The plain, sobering truth is that ladies and gentlemen of leisure, with all their fine clothes and fine manners, are useless parasites living off the toil and privations of people like Magwitch. Magwitch admires these parasites because he is ignorant and illiterate. Magwitch thinks he can create a gentleman and even own a gentleman because he knows that such specimens of humanity have to be reared and cared for by others, since they are incapable of doing anything for themselves. What horrifies Pip the most about this whole encounter is the realization that he has been "made" into what he is.
— William Delaney
This is really marvelous writing and illustrates what intelligent readers have always admired in the great Charles Dickens. In a single sentence the wind and rain metaphorically drive away the intervening years, both Pip and his visitor are swept back to the church-yard where, in the opening chapter, Pip was first confronted and terrified by the escaped convict, and then they are both whirled through the same wind and rain back to the present, where Magwitch "sat in the chair before the fire" in Pip's Garden-court chamber.