Great Expectations

by
Alexandre Dumas
adapted by
Deborah Felder

“Y
ou’re not polite, sir,” said Athos.

“Well,
you’re
not going to give me a lesson in manners,” fumed d’Artagnan.

“No? Then perhaps I can give you a lesson in dueling!” said Athos.

“I’m ready to fight a duel with you! Just tell me where and when,” said d’Artagnan.

“Behind the Carmelite convent at noon,” Athos said. He let go of d’Artagnan’s belt.

“I’ll be there,” said d’Artagnan. He raced down the stairs.

My first memory is of a churchyard. I was only seven years old, and I was frightened of the graves that were all around me. My father and mother were buried there. I began to cry. My sobs filled the churchyard.

“What’s that noise?” cried a terrible voice.

A man was hiding behind one of the gravestones!

“Keep still, you little devil, or I’ll cut your throat!”

The man came toward me. He was wet and muddy. Leg irons bound his ankles. He limped and shivered and glared and growled. He was an escaped prisoner.

All at once, the stranger grabbed me by the chin.

“Don’t cut my throat, sir,” I pleaded.

“Tell me your name! Quick!”

“Pip,” I said. “Pip, sir.”

“Show me where you live,” said the man. “Point out the place.”

I pointed to our village. It was about a mile from the church and twenty miles from the sea.

Suddenly the man picked me up and turned me upside down! My pockets were empty except for one piece of bread, which fell to the ground.

Then the prisoner sat me on a gravestone. He tore into the bread like a starving animal.

“Boy,” he said between bites, “where’s your mother?”

“There, sir!” I said, pointing to the gravestone over the man’s shoulder.

The man was terrified. He thought my mother was standing behind him!

He started to run past me. Then he
stopped and quickly looked over his shoulder.

“There, sir,” I explained, timidly.

I pointed at the gravestone. “That’s my mother. And that’s my father lying beside her.”

“Ha!” he muttered. “Who do you live with, then?”

“My sister, sir—Mrs. Joe Gargery—wife of Joe Gargery, the blacksmith, sir.”

“Blacksmith, eh?” he said. He looked down at his leg irons. Then he limped over to me, grabbed my arms, and tilted me backward. He looked powerfully down into my eyes. I looked helplessly up into his.

“Know what a file is?” he demanded.

“Yes, sir.”

“You know what wittles is?”

“It’s food, sir,” I said.

“You get me a file,” he said, tilting me farther backward. “And you get me wittles. And I’ll let you live.”

I was so weak and scared that I clung
to the prisoner with both hands.

He let me go and glared at me.

“You bring me the file and wittles tonight,” he said. “And don’t say a word to anyone. If you do, I’ll tear your heart and liver out and roast them!”

The convict frightened me. At that moment, I would have done anything he asked. I promised to bring the items and to keep quiet. Then I fled the churchyard.

It was dusk. Over the marsh, the wind and the man’s words howled together in my ears.

I knew I had to help the convict. If I didn’t, he might track me down at Joe’s. The only problem was sneaking the food past my sister. She was more than twenty years older than me, and she often lost her temper. If she caught me hiding food, I’d surely be punished.

My sister’s husband, Joe, was my friend. He stood up for me when he could. But tonight he gave me away
when I tried to hide a piece of bread down my pants leg during supper.

“I say, Pip, old chap,” said Joe. “Stop eating so fast. You couldn’t have chewed that bread all the way through. You’ll make yourself sick.”

“What’s he done now?” asked my sister, looking up from her plate.

“He’s going to choke on his food,” said Joe.

“Pip, if you can cough it up, you should,” he said. “It’s not good manners, but your health’s your health.

“I shoveled my food down when I was a boy. But not as fast as you. It’s a wonder it hasn’t killed you!”

My sister pulled me up by the hair.

“You come and be dosed,” she ordered.

My sister’s favorite punishment was a dose of tar-water. She gave me a large spoonful. It was a thick, dark, foul-smelling liquid. It tasted like mud. I forced it down without a word.

Later that night, while everyone
slept, I tiptoed into the kitchen and snuck into the pantry. I grabbed the first thing I saw. It was a pork pie Joe’s Uncle Pumblechook had brought for tomorrow’s Christmas dinner. Then I took some brandy and a file from Joe’s workshop. I ran to the churchyard. I couldn’t wait to deliver the supplies and be done with the convict.

The convict was happy to see me. I gave him the items he wanted and raced back home. I fell into a fitful sleep, huddled under my blanket. The shrill sound of a file scraping leg irons cut through my dreams.

The next day was Christmas. Mr. Wopsle, the clerk at the church, was dining with us. Joe’s Uncle Pumblechook was also there.

I sat at the table and worried. Soon my sister would find out that the brandy and the pork pie were gone. Then I would really be in trouble!

Dinner went on and on. I began to think I might survive the night. Then my sister said, “I almost forgot! Uncle Pumblechook gave us a pork pie.”

She went to the pantry to get the pie, but she returned with an empty plate.