The children of Dickens

WHEN Dickens wrote Little Dorrit, he must often have thought of the times when as a boy he went to see his father in the debtors’ prison. As a shy little boy he had to do all sorts of errands which took him over the prison and through the narrow streets that were near it.

Amy Dorrit, or little Dorrit, as she was called, was born in the great rambling prison called the Marshalsea. It was the only home she knew. Her father had got into debt and was sent to prison until the debt was paid. Of course he couldn’t pay it so long as he was locked up and not given a chance to earn anything. So there he stayed year after year till he had become the oldest inhabitant, and rather enjoyed the honor. But it was hard on little Dorrit.

She had one good friend, the officer who was called the turnkey, because he had the keys of the prison and was the one who locked the prisoners in. When she began to walk and talk, he bought her a little armchair, and gave her toys. She became very fond of the turnkey, and was delighted when he dressed and undressed her dolls.

After a while, little Dorrit began to wonder what the world outside the prison walls was like. She saw the turnkey turn his great key in the door and thought, how wonderful it would be to go out through it!

She sat by the barred window, looking out. “Thinking of the fields?” the turnkey said, one day.

“Where are they?” she asked.

“Why, they are over there, my dear,” said the turnkey with a flourish of the keys. “Just about there.”

“Does anybody open them, or shut them? Are they locked?”

“Well,” he said, “not in general.”

“Are they pretty, Bob?” She called him Bob because he asked her to.

“Lovely. Full of flowers. There’s buttercups and there’s daisies, and there’s—dandelions and all manner of games.”

“Is it pleasant to be there, Bob?”

“Prime,” said the turnkey.

“Was father ever there?”

“Oh, yes. He was there sometimes.”

“Is he sorry not to be there now?”

“N—not particular,” said the turnkey.

“Nor any of the people? Oh, are you quite sure and certain, Bob?”

Bob changed the subject, but this was the beginning of little Sunday excursions which these two curious companions took. Every other Sunday afternoon the turnkey would open the prison doors with his big key and would go off with little Dorrit into the green fields. He would pick out some meadow or green lane and light his pipe, while the little girl would gather grasses and wild flowers to bring home to her father.

After some years had passed, Mr. Dorrit was released from prison and his fortune was restored, but little Dorrit always remembered the kind turnkey who had given her the first happy hours in the green fields.