is considered。 Still； although they differed in every other
particular； conceivable and inconceivable （especially
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Hard Times 68
inconceivable）； they were pretty well united on the point that
these unlucky infants were never to wonder。 Body number one；
said they must take everything on trust。 Body number two； said
they must take everything on political economy。 Body number
three； wrote leaden little books for them； showing how the good
grown…up baby invariably got to the Savings…bank； and the bad
grown…up baby invariably got transported。 Body number four；
under dreary pretences of being droll （when it was very
melancholy indeed）； made the shallowest pretences of concealing
pitfalls of knowledge； into which it was the duty of these babies to
be smuggled and inveigled。 But； all the bodies agreed that they
were never to wonder。
There was a library in Coketown； to which general access was
easy。 Mr Gradgrind greatly tormented his mind about what the
people read in this library： a point whereon little rivers of tabular
statements periodically flowed into the howling ocean of tabular
statements； which no diver ever got to any depth in and came up
sane。 It was a disheartening circumstance； but a melancholy fact；
that even these readers persisted in wondering。 They wondered
about human nature； human passions； human hopes and fears； the
struggles； triumphs and defeats； the cares and joys and sorrows；
the lives and deaths； of common men and women！ They
sometimes； after fifteen hours’ work； sat down to read mere fables
about men and women； more or less like themselves； and about
children； more or less like their own。 They took Defoe to their
bosoms； instead of Euclid； and seemed to be on the whole more
comforted by Goldsmith than by Cocker。 Mr Gradgrind was for
ever working； in print and out of print； at this eccentric sum； and
he never could make out how it yielded this unaccountable
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Hard Times 69
product。
“I am sick of my life； Loo。 I hate it altogether； and I hate
everybody except you；” said the unnatural young Thomas
Gradgrind in the hair…cutting chamber at twilight。
“You don’t hate Sissy； Tom？”
“I hate to be obliged to call her Jupe。 And she hates me；” said
Tom moodily。
“No she does not； Tom； I am sure。”
“She must；” said Tom。 “She must just hate and detest the
whole set…out of us。 They’ll bother her head off； I think； before
they have done with her。 Already she’s getting as pale as wax； and
as heavy as—I am。”
Young Thomas expressed these sentiments sitting astride of a
chair before the fire； with his arms on the back； and his sulky face
on his arms。 His sister sat in the darker corner by the fireside； now
looking at him； now looking at the bright sparks as they dropped
upon the hearth。
“As to me；” said Tom； tumbling his hair all manner of ways
with his sulky hands； “I am a Donkey； that’s what I am。 I am as
obstinate as one； I am more stupid than one； I get as much
pleasure as one； and I should like to kick like one。”
“Not me； I hope； Tom？”
“No； Loo； I wouldn’t hurt you。 I made an exception of you at
first。 I don’t know what this—jolly old—Jaundiced Jail；” Tom had
paused to find a sufficiently complimentary and expressive name
for the parental roof； and seemed to relieve his mind for a moment
by the strong alliteration of this one “would be without you。”
“Indeed； Tom？ Do you really and truly say so？”
“Why； of course I do。 What’s the use of talking about it！”
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returned Tom； chafing his face on his coat…sleeve； as if to mortify
his flesh； and have it in unison with his spirit。
“Because； Tom；” said his sister； after silently watching the
sparks a while； “as I get older； and nearer growing up； I often sit
wondering here； and think how unfortunate it is for me that I can’t
reconcile you to home better than I am able to do。 I don’t know
what other girls know。 I can’t play to you； or sing to you。 I can’t
talk to you so as to lighten your mind； for I never see any amusing
sights or read any amusing books that it would be a pleasure or
relief to you to talk about； when you are tired。”
“Well； no more do I。 I am as bad as you in that respect； and I am
a Mule too； which you’re not。 If father was determined to make me
either a Prig or a Mule； and I am not a Prig； why； it stands to
reason； I must be a Mule。 And so I am；” said Tom； desperately。
“It’s a great pity；” said Louisa； after another pause； and speaking
thoughtfully out of her dark corner； it’s a great pity； Tom。 It’s very
unfortunate for both of us。”
“Oh！ You；” said Tom； “you are a girl； Loo； and a girl comes out
of it better than a boy does。 I don’t miss anything in you。 You are
the only pleasure I have—you can brighten even this place—and
you can always lead me as you like。”
“You are a dear brother； Tom； and while you think I can do
such things； I don’t so much mind knowing better。 Though I do
know better； Tom； and am very sorry for it。” She came and kissed
him； and went back into a corner again。
“I wish I could collect all the Facts we hear so much about；”
said Tom； spitefully setting his teeth； “and all the Figures； and all
the people who found them out； and I wish I could put a thousand
barrels of gunpowder under them； and blow them all up together！
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Hard Times 71
However； when I go to live with old Bounderby； I’ll have my
revenge。”
“Your revenge； Tom？”
“I mean； I’ll enjoy myself a little； and go about and see
something and hear something。 I’ll recompense myself for the way
in which I have been brought up。”
“But don’t disappoint yourself beforehand； Tom。 Mr
Bounderby thinks； as father thinks； and is a great deal rougher；
and not half so kind。”
“Oh；” said Tom； laughing； “I don’t mind that。 I shall very well
know how to manage and smooth old Bounderby！”
Their shadows were defined upon the wall； but those of the
high presses in the room were all blended together on the wall and
on the ceiling as if the brother and sister were overhung by a dark
cavern。 Or； a fanciful imagination—if such treason could have
been there—might have made it out to be the shadow of their
subject； of its lowering association with their future。
“What is your great mode of smoothing and managing； Tom？ Is
it a secret？”
“Oh！” said Tom； “if it is a secret； it’s not far off。 It’s you。 You are
his little pet； you are his favourite； he’ll do anything for you。 When
he says to me what I don’t like； I shall say to him； ‘My sister Loo
will be hurt and disappointed； Mr Bounderby。 She always used to
tell me she was sure you would be easier with me than this。’
That’ll bring him about； or nothing will。”
After waiting for some answering remark； and getting none；
Tom wearily relapsed into the present time； and twined himself
yawning round and about the rails of his chair； and rumpled his
head more and more； until he suddenly looked up； and asked：
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Hard Times 72
“Have you gone to sleep； Loo？”
“No； Tom。 I am looking at the fire。”
“You seem to find more to look at in it than ever I could find；”
said Tom。 “Another of the advantages； I suppose； of being a girl。”
“Tom；” enquired his sister； slowly； and in a curious tone； as if
she were reading what she asked in the fire； and it were not quite
plainly written there； “do you look forward with any satisfaction to
this change to Mr Bounderby’s？”
“Why； there’s one thing to be said of it；” returned Tom； pushing
his chair from him； and standing up； “it will be getting away from
home。”
“There’s one thing to be said of it；” Louise repeated in her
former curious tone； “it will be getting away from home。 Yes。”
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