Great Expectations is a book about a boy who is never allowed to finish a meal in peace, and a woman who stays in wedding-dress shape for her entire life. It’s pretty good. Here are all of the upsetting meals that are served in it.
Forgotten Beer
“The cold wind seemed to blow colder there than outside the gate; and it made a shrill noise in howling in and out at the open sides of the brewery, like the noise of wind in the rigging of a ship at sea.
She saw me looking at it, and she said, ‘You could drink without hurt all the strong beer that’s brewed there now, boy.
‘I should think I could, miss,’ said I, in a shy way.
‘Better not try to brew beer there now, or it would turn out sour, boy; don’t you think so?’
‘It looks like it, miss.’”
Chair Butter
This again was heightened by a certain gypsy character that set the banquet off; for while the table was, as Mr. Pumblechook might have said, the lap of luxury, — being entirely furnished forth from the coffee-house,—the circumjacent region of sitting-room was of a comparatively pastureless and shifty character; imposing on the waiter the wandering habits of putting the covers on the floor (where he fell over them), the melted butter in the arm-chair, the bread on the bookshelves, the cheese in the coal-scuttle, and the boiled fowl into my bed in the next room, — where I found much of its parsley and butter in a state of congelation when I retired for the night.”
Acceptable Meat And Some Light Looking
“The bread and meat were acceptable, and the beer was warming and tingling, and I was soon in spirits to look about me.”
Greasy Yet Happy
“We ate the whole of the toast, and drank tea in proportion, and it was delightful to see how warm and greasy we all got after it.”
Almost-Not Stolen Pie
I stole some bread, some rind of cheese, about half a jar of mincemeat (which I tied up in my pocket-handkerchief with my last night’s slice), some brandy from a stone bottle (which I decanted into a glass bottle I had secretly used for making that intoxicating fluid, Spanish-liquorice-water, up in my room: diluting the stone bottle from a jug in the kitchen cupboard), a meat bone with very little on it, and a beautiful round compact pork pie. I was nearly going away without the pie, but I was tempted to mount upon a shelf, to look what it was that was put away so carefully in a covered earthenware dish in a corner, and I found it was the pie, and I took it in the hope that it was not intended for early use, and would not be missed for some time.
Suspicion Collation
He was gobbling mincemeat, meatbone, bread, cheese, and pork pie, all at once: staring distrustfully while he did so at the mist all round us, and often stopping—even stopping his jaws—to listen.
Disgrace Meat
“She came back, with some bread and meat and a little mug of beer. She put the mug down on the stones of the yard, and gave me the bread and meat without looking at me, as insolently as if I were a dog in disgrace. I was so humiliated, hurt, spurned, offended, angry, sorry, — I cannot hit upon the right name for the smart — God knows what its name was, — that tears started to my eyes.”
Apology Milk
“So, we had our slices served out, as if we were two thousand troops on a forced march instead of a man and boy at home; and we took gulps of milk and water, with apologetic countenances, from a jug on the dresser.”
Math and Crumbs
“Besides being possessed by my sister’s idea that a mortifying and penitential character ought to be imparted to my diet, — besides giving me as much crumb as possible in combination with as little butter, and putting such a quantity of warm water into my milk that it would have been more candid to have left the milk out altogether, — his conversation consisted of nothing but arithmetic.”
I’m Not Angry Bread
“Biddy was waiting for me at the kitchen door, with a mug of new milk and a crust of bread. ‘Biddy,’ said I, when I gave her my hand at parting, ‘I am not angry, but I am hurt.’”
I Spilled It
“To-night, Joe several times invited me, by the display of his fast diminishing slice, to enter upon our usual friendly competition; but he found me, each time, with my yellow mug of tea on one knee, and my untouched bread and butter on the other. At last, I desperately considered that the thing I contemplated must be done, and that it had best be done in the least improbable manner consistent with the circumstances. I took advantage of a moment when Joe had just looked at me, and got my bread and butter down my leg.”
Abuse Sandwich
“My guardian then took me into his own room, and while he lunched, standing, from a sandwich-box and a pocket-flask of sherry (he seemed to bully his very sandwich as he ate it), informed me what arrangements he had made for me.”
Fruit and Bullying Followed By A Beating
“The pupils ate apples and put straws down one another’s backs, until Mr. Wopsle’s great-aunt collected her energies, and made an indiscriminate totter at them with a birch-rod.”
Don’t-Eat-It Spider Cake
“What do you think that is?” she asked me, again pointing with her stick; “that, where those cobwebs are?”
“I can’t guess what it is, ma’am.”
“It’s a great cake. A bride-cake. Mine!”
She looked all round the room in a glaring manner, and then said, leaning on me while her hand twitched my shoulder, “Come, come, come! Walk me, walk me!”
Night Groping
He complied, and we groped our way down the dark stairs together. While we were still on our way to those detached apartments across the paved yard at the back, he asked me how often I had seen Miss Havisham eat and drink; offering me a breadth of choice, as usual, between a hundred times and once.
I considered, and said, “Never.”
“And never will, Pip,” he retorted, with a frowning smile. “She has never allowed herself to be seen doing either, since she lived this present life of hers. She wanders about in the night, and then lays hands on such food as she takes.”
Some Dogs Fighting
“Was anybody else there?” asked Mr. Pumblechook.
“Four dogs,” said I.
“Large or small?”
“Immense,” said I. “And they fought for veal-cutlets out of a silver basket.”
It literally never occurred to me that Miss Havisham must not have gained any weight after she got stood up. Although I guess for some of it she could have just loosened her corset and the back ties of the dress? I am now very interested in the fashion-related logistics of Great Expectations, which I don’t think is something Dickens ever thought about.
Well, duh – we all know that women do not actually eat (so unfeminine, eating!). They just sip the nectar of flowers while dancing barefoot beneath the twinkling stars. Or, if they be spinsters, they subsist solely on a concoction of broken dreams and crushed hopes, with a generous splash of bile.
I thought *everyone* knew this.
I know that I would have eaten the cake right away then had a series of random hookups. I think we are to assume that as she did neither she was a virgin and as we all know from literature only married women gain weight.
I always assumed her general skeletal asceticism would keep her gaunt. I mean, I can’t really imagine Miss Havisham ordering pizza and cheesy bread twice weekly.
The Royal Society of Chemists researched Miss Havisham’s wedding cake back in 2011, and it’s a doozy: http://www.rsc.org/AboutUs/News/PressReleases/201…
“Today we are much more health-minded, therefore we tend not to lavish on the cakes some of the ingredients we regard as unhealthy, like sugar and the saturated animal fats that are in butter. ”
I… what? Maybe we don’t eat greasy toast for every meal anymore, but I’d really like to know what joyless weddings this chemist has been attending.
‘It could provide enough food to feed one person for around two weeks, or a family of mice for several months.’ <33333
FWIW- It has been the custom in my family (and perhaps more widely) to save the top layer of the wedding cake for use as a christening cake for the first child.
We are talking about fruit cakes here. Heavy in sugar, preserved fruits and brandy.
Of course, most children would arrive within months ore even weeks of the wedding.
My own child did not arrive for 11 years, and the cake, being topped up with brandy when I made my Christmas fruit cakes, was just fine.
“he asked me how often I had seen Miss Havisham eat and drink;”
Rare/y eating, always in secret is how she keeps her wedding day figure, probably
Bread and butter down the leg is good, but the whole scene is just so ever-green.
tl;dr: “It’s a mercy you ain’t bolted dead!”
“Joe was evidently made uncomfortable by what he supposed to be my loss of appetite, and took a thoughtful bite out of his slice, which he didn’t seem to enjoy. He turned it about in his mouth much longer than usual, pondering over it a good deal, and after all gulped it down like a pill. He was about to take another bite, and had just got his head on one side for a good purchase on it, when his eye fell on me, and he saw that my bread-and-butter was gone.
The wonder and consternation with which Joe stopped on the threshold of his bite and stared at me, were too evident to escape my sister’s observation.
“What’s the matter now?” said she, smartly, as she put down her cup.
“I say, you know!” muttered Joe, shaking his head at me in very serious remonstrance. “Pip, old chap! You’ll do yourself a mischief. It’ll stick somewhere. You can’t have chawed it, Pip.”
“What’s the matter now?” repeated my sister, more sharply than before.
“If you can cough any trifle on it up, Pip, I’d recommend you to do it,” said Joe, all aghast. “Manners is manners, but still your elth’s your elth.”
By this time, my sister was quite desperate, so she pounced on Joe, and, taking him by the two whiskers, knocked his head for a little while against the wall behind him: while I sat in the corner, looking guiltily on.
“Now, perhaps you’ll mention what’s the matter,” said my sister, out of breath, “you staring great stuck pig.”
Joe looked at her in a helpless way; then took a helpless bite, and looked at me again.
“You know, Pip,” said Joe, solemnly, with his last bite in his cheek and speaking in a confidential voice, as if we two were quite alone, “you and me is always friends, and I’d be the last to tell upon you, any time. But such a — ” he moved his chair and looked about the floor between us, and then again at me – “such a most oncommon Bolt as that!”
“Been bolting his food, has he?” cried my sister.
“You know, old chap,” said Joe, looking at me, and not at Mrs. Joe, with his bite still in his cheek, “I Bolted, myself, when I was your age – frequent – and as a boy I’ve been among a many Bolters; but I never see your Bolting equal yet, Pip, and it’s a mercy you ain’t Bolted dead.””
“circumjacent”
The genius of Charles Dickens, in one word.
Since I may never have an opportunity to do so on the Toast again, I will recommend a whodunit called “Mystery Villa” by E. R. Punshon which contains a Miss Havisham-like scenario. (Miss Barton, the jilted bride, may even have done Miss Havisham one better.) Friend of the Toast Dorothy L. Sayers praised it in her review as being even better than “Great Expectations” at depicting the slide from desperate respectability into decay and madness.
The whole series is good- it follows a jobless university graduate’s journey from getting hired as a bobby (his name is even Bobby) to becoming a police inspector. It contains lots of smart women who could be played by Gail Patrick.
This sounds like exactly the book I need to read! Thanks!
You’re welcome! The series starts with a short story called “The Study of the Obvious” and continues with “Information Received” and “The Cross-Word Mystery.”
These look very interesting. Should the series be read in order or will it make sense to start with Mystery Villa?
Starting with Mystery Villa would be fine, I think.
Just notified of an Amazon credit for 14.78 from a lawsuit with Apple! Yippee! Perfect timing!
Oh, I do hope you enjoy it! It has an A+ description of a squalid house, nice snapshots of Depression-era Britain and some rather sweet chivalrous Englishmen (along with the usual devious twisters who belong in a whodunit.)
Ooh- here’s a scan of the first story: http://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/1314652…
Very cool! Thanks!
All I really wanted from this was all the scenes where Pip is visiting Wemmick out in his castle house. I think they eat there. Who cares! It’s delightful! *totters off to reread them now and likely be late for work*
Wemmick is my FAVORITE.
“Wemmick was at his desk, lunching – and crunching – on a dry hard biscuit; pieces of which he threw from time to time into his slit of a mouth, as if he were posting them.”
The aged P! 🙂 🙂 🙂
But but but Mrs G and the pins and needles in the bread has surely got to make the cut!
‘My sister had a trenchant way of cutting our bread-and-butter for us that never varied. First, with her left hand she jammed the loaf hard and fast against her bib — where it sometimes got a pin into it, and sometimes a needle, which we afterwards got into our mouths. Then she took some butter (not too much) on a knife and spread it on the loaf, in an apothecary kind of way, as if she were making a plaister — using both sides of the knife with a slapping dexterity, and trimming and moulding the butter off round the crust. Then, she gave the knife a final smart wipe on the edge of the plaister, and then sawed a very thick round off the loaf: which she finally, before separating from the loaf, hewed into two halves, of which Joe got one, and I the other.’
Man, that’s very upsetting indeed.
If and ever that day comes where I find myself in possession of a miniature horse and/or a small, roundish dog, Mr. Pumblechook will be it’s name.
Or even a hamster! It would be an excellent name for a rodent.
HAH! Yes, perfect!
I’m still a little bit hmmmm about a critical essay I read in undergrad that got VERY Freudian about the bread and butter down the leg.
The bread and butter is an erection.
“Mr. Pumblechook”
christ.
The best food in Great Expectations is the Gravy of Human Kindness. I love you, Joe.
Too Many Needles for a Baby
Mrs. Pocket was at home, and was in a little difficulty, on account of the baby’s having been accommodated with a needle-case to keep him quiet during the unaccountable absence (with a relative in the Foot Guards) of Millers. And more needles were missing than it could be regarded as quite wholesome for a patient of such tender years either to apply externally or to take as a tonic.
Understatements like that are the reason I will always love Dickens (and the reason I reread A Christmas Carol every December).
I love this book, and I’m obsessed with Miss Havisham. She’s the goal to miss.
“the bride within the bridal dress had withered like the dress” is maybe one of my favorite lines ever
Reading these makes me think that Charles Dickens was probably one of those assholes who “doesn’t care about food”
I refuse to believe that “circumjacent” and “congelation” were in the original. Those are pure Malloryisms and I will accept no other truth.
The 19th century was a very strange time.
Oh, I do hope you enjoy it! It has an A+ description of a squalid house, nice snapshots of Depression-era Britain and some rather sweet chivalrous Englishmen (along with the usual devious twisters who belong in a whodunit.)
Ooh- here's a scan of the first story: http://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/1314652…
I have a lot of feelings about anything Charles Dicken’s related bc I have a lot of feelings about his wife. Catherine and Charles did not have an especially happy marriage, with Charles complaining about her ability to lead the household and also blaming her for the number of children they had (10). Also, Charles probably had some affairs, maybe with a 20 year old actress, maybe with Catherine’s sister. So, when they get divorced it is news about town. Charles publishes a piece in newspapers telling people what’s up and also negatively comparing his wife to her sister. All in all, a hot, very public mess.
Then, on her deathbed, Catherine gives their letters to her sister and asks her to give them to the British Museum so that “the world may know he loved me once,” which might be the most devastating line ever.