Dombey and Sons: Clothes Stealing Scene by Dickens

[esercito sconfitto]

Clothes Stealing Scene in Dickens--sorta, Part I
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Dombey and Sons: Clothes Stealing Scene

by Charles Dickens and Autolycus_7

There is a clothes stealing scene in Dickens, in Chapter 6 of Dombey and Sons. Actually, it’s a forced to strip and wear someone else’s clothes scene. I have used the beginning of Dickens’ chapter but elaborated on the execution of Good Mrs. Brown’s theft, adding a young woman. This version and Dickens’ both leave Florence alone on a London side street, wearing someone else’s dress, her hair cut off.

“Susan! Susan!” cried Florence, clapping her hands in the very ecstasy of her alarm. “Oh, where are they? Where are they?”
Florence Dombey, just turned 18, with long, thick, red hair the color of wheat gently dancing in a summer morning breeze, and dressed in her best frock--pink with matching bonnet and shoes and black buttons running from neck to hem--for her trip to London, had lost her companions.
"Oh, where are they?"
“Where are they?” said an old woman, coming hobbling across as fast as she could from the opposite side of the way. “Why did you run away from ’em?”
“I was frightened,” answered Florence. “I didn’t know what I did. I thought they were with me. Where are they?”
The old woman took her by the wrist, and said, “I’ll show you.”
She was a very ugly old woman, with red rims round her eyes, and a mouth that mumbled and chattered of itself when she was not speaking. She was miserably dressed and carried some skins over her arm. She seemed to have followed Florence some little way at all events for she had lost her breath; and this made her uglier still, as she stood trying to regain it: working her shriveled yellow face and throat into all sorts of contortions.
Florence was afraid of her and looked, hesitating, up the street, of which she had almost reached the bottom. It was a solitary place—more a back road than a street—and there was no one in it but her–self and the old woman.
“You needn’t be frightened now,” said the old woman, still holding her tight. “Come along with me.”
“I—I don’t know you. What’s your name?” asked Florence.
“Mrs. Brown,” said the old woman. “Good Mrs. Brown. So your name’s Dombey, eh?” asked Good Mrs. Brown.
“Yes, Mrs. Brown. Florence Dombey. Are they near here?” she asked, beginning to be led away.
“Susan ain’t far off,” said Good Mrs Brown; “and the others are close to her.”
“Is anybody hurt?” cried Florence.
“Not a bit of it,” said Good Mrs. Brown.
Florence shed tears of delight on hearing this and accompanied the old woman willingly; though she could not help glancing at her face as they went along--particularly at that industrious mouth--and wondering whether Bad Mrs. Brown, if there were such a person, was at all like her.
They had not gone far but had gone by some very uncomfortable places, such as brick–fields and tile–yards, when the old woman turned down a dirty lane, where the mud lay in deep black ruts in the middle of the road. She stopped before a shabby little house, as closely shut up as a house that was full of cracks and crevices could be. Opening the door with a key she took out of her bonnet, she pushed the young woman before her into a back room where there was a great heap of rags of different colors lying on the floor; a heap of bones, and a heap of sifted dust or cinders; but there was no furniture at all, and the walls and ceiling were quite black. The only light came from the broken window. It was filtered through soot and smoke and would only last an hour or so more.
The young woman became so terrified the she was stricken speechless and looked as though about to swoon. The Good Mrs. Brown took advantage of the moment, reaching into the pocket of her coat and producing a rag and a small bottle. Tipping the bottle onto the cloth so that its liquid spread, Mrs. Brown crept up behind Florence and pressed the cloth onto her mouth.
Startled, Susan started to cry out but by opening her mouth she only caused the liquid to fill her lungs. She tried to pull away, but the old woman’s hold was tight. She was unused to protecting herself and so slowly Florence’s eyes closed, and she sank down and down onto the dirty floor and lay still asleep. Her mouth popped open and spittle slid sideways and formed a pattern on the dirt on the floor.
Good Mrs. Brown looked down at the unconscious young girl and smiled with her wicked mouth. She reached down and picked up the ladies purse that Florence had dropped. Opening it, she took out £10 in coin, traveling money for Florence but a year's wages for many in the area. Then she surveyed the young woman's clothes.
“I want that pretty frock, Miss Dombey,” said Good Mrs Brown to the unconscious girl, “and that little bonnet, and a petticoat or two, and anything else you can spare," she laughed. She knew they were easily worth £10 themselves, if not more, but she had other plans for them. “Alice,” she called.
A young woman entered hesitantly. She was Florence’s height and build, although her clothes were little better than the rags on the floor. She was wearing only a brown dress that barely touched her knees and that felt like the burlap it originally was without its heft. Alice was barefoot and thin with hunger. Three years without her parents and in this woman's care, she said softly and weakly, “Yes, Good Mrs. Brown.”
“Miss Dombey here has fallen asleep. But before she did so she said that she had taken a fancy to your attire. I am going to arrange for her supper for when she awakes. While I am gone, please remove her clothing, dress her in yours, and put yours on her. You won’t mind that, will you, dear, wearing her pretty clothes.”
“No, Good Mrs. Brown,” Alice said, thinking that she would indeed enough enjoy wearing those fine clothes, even if, as it was likely to be, for only a little time.
"I think her clothes will fit you, except for perhaps the shoes. If they do not fit, never mind. I think I have some in the back. But take off everything else. Strip her like a jay bird."
Mrs. Brown left and closed the door and the only light was from the window with the broken glass. Since Good Mrs. Brown had mentioned the shoes, Alice sat on the floor on her bare bottom and gently pulled the shoes off the young woman’s feet. They were soft and pink and were dressed with a ribbon. Alice put the right shoe on and, even though her foot was bare, it seemed to fit perfectly, like Cinderella in the story her late mother had told her years ago.
Taking the shoe off, Alice crawled over to Florence and removed the next logical thing—her socks. She then looked up the woman’s body to see what she should remove next and decided to take off Florence’s gloves and reached up and pull of her bonnet, letting loose her long and full red hair. Swallowing hard, Alice unbuttoned the front of Florence’s dress from neck to hem, revealing a white linen shift with embroidered designs of flowers and angels. Alice hesitantly touched this beautiful thing and found that it was as soft and warm as it was beautiful.
She leaned Florence over, this way and then that, and removed the dress and then slowly drew down the shift, exposing the young woman’s naked breasts and belly, down and down passed the petticoats to the toes. Alice held the shift against her cheek as if it were a loved one, carefully set it down on a less dusty spot, and then pulled down the ruffled petticoats and drawers. Florence was now naked on the damp, dirty floor.
Alice leaned forward and placed her finger against Florence’s right breast. Like the shift, it was so soft, softer than anything that Alice had ever felt. She brought her hand down and stroked the sleeping woman’s belly and reveled in it warmth. But here she saw that her own hand was so rough and cracked against Florence’s soft skin that she was scraping it, drawing blood. This ended her revelry. She stopped and, knowing that Good Mrs. Brown would be back in any moment, stood up and loosened her own dirty garment at the shoulders, letting it fall in a heap.
She was Florence’s height and build but scrawny. As she dressed in Florence’s wonderful undergarments, so beautiful and gentle, they hung loosely about her hips and neck but fit well enough for her to cover them with the dress. She hid her dirty hair under the bonnet and stepped into her pretty pink shoes.
Alice looked down at the naked, unconscious girl. If Alice had ever known any good, she would have known that was she was doing was wrong.


Clothes Stealing Scene in Dickens--sorta Part II
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Good Mrs. Brown suddenly opened the door. “Here we are. Let’s have a look at you.” She surveyed Alice up and down. “Not bad. Good enough for a hotel clerk and coachman at least. I’ve asked around and Dombey’s credit is good all over London.”
Alice was looking about Good Mrs. Brown. “Where is her supper?”
“What?” Good Mrs. Brown snapped, and then remembering said, “Oh, yes, well, I decided she needed to sleep some more, so tired she is, and I remembered something else.” She drew from her pocket a large butcher’s scissors.
Alice’s eyes widened with fear at the thought of what Good Mrs. Brown was going to do. For a brief moment, she thought of pulling the scissors away, whatever it might cost her, but then the old woman said, “Turn her over. I recall she also said I could take her hair while she slept. Oh, she was so happy to rid herself of all finery, leave her expensive life, and settle in our small dwelling here for a time.”
Alice was so relieve find that it was only her hair and not her head which Mrs. Brown coveted that she obediently turned Florence over so that she lay on her belly. “Watch your clothes, now,” Good Mrs. Brown warned. Then she handed Alice a bag, leaned down, expertly gathered Florence’s red hair in a bunch and snipped it as close to the scalp as anyone could.
Florence began to moan, aroused by the snipping. “She’s waking up,” Alice said.
“Yes,” Good Mrs. Brown agreed, taking the bag from Alice and placing the mound of hair in it. “Alice, now, go behind and wash you face and hands from the rain bucket, pour some on your hair, wipe it dry, and then come back to me.” As the young girl left, Good Mrs. Brown shouted after her, “Take off the bonnet first.”
With difficulty, the old woman knelt on both knees next to Florence and again removed the bottle and cloth. “You’re privileged,” she said. “I only use this on sailors when they wander here on leave and I steal their clothes and whistles.” She spread some more of the terrible liquid on the napkin and as Florence stirred pressed it against her mouth and nose. This time Florence struggled, thrashing around with her hands and trying to pull her neck up. Good Mrs. Brown pressed hard and talked all the while. “Don’t struggle, dearie. Don’t make it hard. I don’t want to kill you. But you have to sleep through the night and into the morning while we catch the carriage to Dover and the boat to Paris, France, where they speak of liberty and equality and not of classes. I will hold it down 10 extra seconds after you fall asleep just to make sure. I sent a message to your friend Susan to the house where they went that you had been met by an aunt, would stay there tonight, and meet them in the morning, so no one will be looking for you.”
It is uncertain whether Florence heard or at least understood any of this. She fought so mightily, and if she had had an extra ounce or two or muscle may have broken away. But she did not and finally let her arm fall limp and slipped back into sleep. Good Mrs. Brown kept her promise, counting, “One-two-three” to ten before she took the odious cloth away.
Placing her finger under Florence’s chin, Good Mrs. Brown closed her gaping mouth. Putting both hands on the floor, she took up dirt and dust and spread it on Florence’s cheeks and rubbed it onto Florence’s bare legs and feet, hiding the softness that had so impressed Alice.
Good Mrs. Brown struggled up to stand and stared down at the sleeping girl. “I would feel sorry for you ,but poverty won’t allow it.” She called out, “Nancy! Sarah!” Two young women, looking and dressed much like their sister Alice except that they were two and three years younger, came in. “This young lady was visiting us and has fallen asleep. And we are leaving this house tonight. So we have to take her outside until her friends can come for her. Nancy, you’re the oldest. You take her arms and back, Sarah, her legs.”
The two young girls, like their sister, had learned not to question the old woman and did as they were told. Following Good Mrs. Brown, they carried Florence into the street and sat her down against a brick wall where Good Mrs. Brown was pointing, to the right of the street lamp, in the shadows. As they put her down, Florence’s dress bunched up at her hips. “That’s fine. Now stand over there and wait for your sister,” Good Mrs. Brown said. As the sisters walked away, Good Mrs. Brown looked for one last time at the sleeping Florence. “Depending on which constable comes by, you’ll either be left to sleep it off, with him assuming you are drunk, or you’ll be taken to jail for selling your wares,” she said, looking at Florence’s exposed woman’s part. “If it’s Tommy, he’ll leave you be, but Billy will take you in. Not sure which is the best for you.” She leaned forward as if confiding a secret to Florence, who, of course, could not hear her. “I could have done you worse. You look something like a boy with your hair cut. I could have dressed you in one of those sailors’ suits, left you here, they’d have gathered you up, taken you to sea, and you’d be one woman among a thousand men. So, ya see, you really should thank me.”
With that, Good Mrs. Brown walked back, finding Alice, her face, hair, and hands, washed, with her sisters. “All right, now,” she said to Alice. “From now on your name is Florence Dombey and your sisters are your servants. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Good Mrs. Brown,” Alice said.
“Don’t call me that—wait a minute. Why not, it’s not my really name and it will make it easier. Come on now, a carriage is waiting for us down the bend to take us to the carriage house.”
A minute later, the carriage roared off. None of the passengers looked back and so they did not see Susan talking to a constable. “But I tell you, something is wrong. A boy came with a message that she was staying with an aunt. But she has no relatives in London. Something has happened to her.”
The constable, whose name was Tommy and who had already seen Florence propped against the wall and decided to let her sleep it off, waved his hands dismissively. “If you have evidence of a crime, young lady, then take it to the station,” he said, walking away.
Angrily, Susan called after him in the waning light of dusk. “You wait. I’ll get word to her father Mr. Dombey. And he will not rest until she is found!”
At the name “Dombey” the few people around turned, impressed by the name. Susan had shouted loud enough for Florence, just 30 yards away, to have heard her if she had not been dead to the world.