At breakfast, Mr Frederick Dorrit likewise appeared. As the old
gentleman inhabited the highest story of the palace, where he might have
practised pistol-shooting without much chance of discovery by the other
inmates, his younger niece had taken courage to propose the restoration
to him of his clarionet, which Mr Dorrit had ordered to be confiscated,
but which she had ventured to preserve. Notwithstanding some objections
from Miss Fanny, that it was a low instrument, and that she detested the
sound of it, the concession had been made. But it was then discovered
that he had had enough of it, and never played it, now that it was no
longer his means of getting bread. He had insensibly acquired a new
habit of shuffling into the picture-galleries, always with his twisted
paper of snuff in his hand (much to the indignation of Miss Fanny, who
had proposed the purchase of a gold box for him that the family might
not be discredited, which he had absolutely refused to carry when it was
bought); and of passing hours and hours before the portraits of renowned
Venetians.
It was never made out what his dazed eyes saw in them;
whether he had an interest in them merely as pictures, or whether he
confusedly identified them with a glory that was departed, like the
strength of his own mind. But he paid his court to them with great
exactness, and clearly derived pleasure from the pursuit. After the
first few days, Little Dorrit happened one morning to assist at these
attentions. It so evidently heightened his gratification that she often
accompanied him afterwards, and the greatest delight of which the old
man had shown himself susceptible since his ruin, arose out of these
excursions, when he would carry a chair about for her from picture
to picture, and stand behind it, in spite of all her remonstrances,
silently presenting her to the noble Venetians.
It fell out that, at this family breakfast, he referred to their having
seen in a gallery, on the previous day, the lady and gentleman whom they
had encountered on the Great Saint Bernard, 'I forget the name,' said
he. 'I dare say you remember them, William? I dare say you do, Edward?' 'I remember 'em well enough,' said the latter. 'I should think so,' observed Miss Fanny, with a toss of her head and
a glance at her sister. 'But they would not have been recalled to our
remembrance, I suspect, if Uncle hadn't tumbled over the subject.'
'My dear, what a curious phrase,' said Mrs General. 'Would not
inadvertently lighted upon, or accidentally referred to, be better?'