Charles

Dickens

Great Expectations

Grosse Erwartungen

Übersetzt von Margit Meyer, Lizenz der Aufbau Verlagsgruppe
Synchronisation und Ergänzungen © Doppeltext 2012

TITELBLATT

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

CHAPTER XXXI

CHAPTER XXXII

CHAPTER XXXIII

CHAPTER XXXIV

CHAPTER XXXV

CHAPTER XXXVI

CHAPTER XXXVII

CHAPTER XXXVIII

CHAPTER XXXIX

CHAPTER XL

CHAPTER XLI

CHAPTER XLII

CHAPTER XLIII

CHAPTER XLIV

CHAPTER XLV

CHAPTER XLVI

CHAPTER XLVII

CHAPTER XLVIII

CHAPTER XLIX

CHAPTER L

CHAPTER LI

CHAPTER LII

CHAPTER LIII

CHAPTER LIV

CHAPTER LV

CHAPTER LVI

CHAPTER LVII

CHAPTER LVIII

CHAPTER LIX

IMPRESSUM

CHAPTER I

My fath­er’s fam­ily name be­ing Pir­rip, and my Chris­ti­an name Philip,
my in­fant tongue could make of both names noth­ing longer or more ex­pli­cit than Pip.
So, I called my­self Pip, and came to be called Pip.
I give Pir­rip as my fath­er’s fam­ily name, on the au­thor­ity of his tomb­stone and my sis­ter — Mrs. Joe Gar­gery, who mar­ried the black­smith.
As I nev­er saw my fath­er or my moth­er, and nev­er saw any like­ness of either of them
(for their days were long be­fore the days of pho­to­graphs),
my first fan­cies re­gard­ing what they were like, were un­reas­on­ably de­rived from their tomb­stones.
The shape of the let­ters on my fath­er’s gave me an odd idea
that he was a square, stout, dark man, with curly black hair.
From the char­ac­ter and turn of the in­scrip­tion, “Also Geor­gi­ana Wife of the Above,”
I drew a child­ish con­clu­sion that my moth­er was freckled and sickly.
To five little stone loz­enges, each about a foot and a half long, which were ar­ranged in a neat row be­side their grave,
and were sac­red to the memory of five little broth­ers of mine
— who gave up try­ing to get a liv­ing ex­ceed­ingly early in that uni­ver­sal struggle — I am in­debted for a be­lief I re­li­giously en­ter­tained
that they had all been born on their backs with their hands in their trousers-pock­ets, and had nev­er taken them out in this state of ex­ist­ence.
Ours was the marsh coun­try, down by the river, with­in, as the river wound, twenty miles of the sea.
My first most vivid and broad im­pres­sion of the iden­tity of things, seems to me to have been gained on a mem­or­able raw af­ter­noon to­wards even­ing.
At such a time I found out for cer­tain, that this bleak place over­grown with nettles was the church­yard;
and that Philip Pir­rip, late of this par­ish, and also Geor­gi­ana wife of the above, were dead and bur­ied;
and that Al­ex­an­der, Bartho­lomew, Ab­ra­ham, To­bi­as, and Ro­ger, in­fant chil­dren of the afore­said, were also dead and bur­ied;
and that the dark flat wil­der­ness bey­ond the church­yard, in­ter­sec­ted with dykes and mounds and gates, with scattered cattle feed­ing on it, was the marshes;
and that the low leaden line bey­ond was the river; and that the dis­tant sav­age lair from which the wind was rush­ing, was the sea;
and that the small bundle of shivers grow­ing afraid of it all and be­gin­ning to cry, was Pip.
“Hold your noise!” cried a ter­rible voice, as a man star­ted up from among the graves at the side of the church porch.
“Keep still, you little dev­il, or I’ll cut your throat!”
A fear­ful man, all in coarse grey, with a great iron on his leg.
A man with no hat, and with broken shoes, and with an old rag tied round his head.
A man who had been soaked in wa­ter, and smothered in mud, and lamed by stones, and cut by flints, and stung by nettles, and torn by bri­ars;
who limped, and shivered, and glared and growled; and whose teeth chattered in his head as he seized me by the chin.
“O! Don’t cut my throat, sir,” I pleaded in ter­ror. “Pray don’t do it, sir.”
“Tell us your name!” said the man. “Quick!”
“Pip, sir.”
“Once more,” said the man, star­ing at me. “Give it mouth!”
“Pip. Pip, sir.”
“Show us where you live,” said the man. “Pint out the place!”
I poin­ted to where our vil­lage lay, on the flat in-shore among the alder-trees and pol­lards, a mile or more from the church.
The man, after look­ing at me for a mo­ment, turned me up­side down, and emp­tied my pock­ets.
There was noth­ing in them but a piece of bread.
When the church came to it­self — for he was so sud­den and strong that he made it go head over heels be­fore me, and I saw the steeple un­der my feet
— when the church came to it­self, I say, I was seated on a high tomb­stone, trem­bling, while he ate the bread raven­ously.
“You young dog,” said the man, lick­ing his lips, “what fat cheeks you ha’ got.”
I be­lieve they were fat, though I was at that time un­der­sized, for my years, and not strong.
“Darn Me if I couldn’t eat ’em,” said the man, with a threat­en­ing shake of his head, “and if I han’t half a mind to’t!”
I earn­estly ex­pressed my hope that he wouldn’t, and held tight­er to the tomb­stone
on which he had put me; partly, to keep my­self upon it; partly, to keep my­self from cry­ing.
“Now loo­kee here!” said the man. “Where’s your moth­er?”
“There, sir!” said I.
He star­ted, made a short run, and stopped and looked over his shoulder.
“There, sir!” I tim­idly ex­plained. “Also Geor­gi­ana. That’s my moth­er.”
“Oh!” said he, com­ing back. “And is that your fath­er alonger your moth­er?”
“Yes, sir,” said I; “him too; late of this par­ish.”
“Ha!” he muttered then, con­sid­er­ing. “Who d’ye live with — sup­pos­in’ you’re kindly let to live, which I han’t made up my mind about?”
“My sis­ter, sir — Mrs. Joe Gar­gery — wife of Joe Gar­gery, the black­smith, sir.”
“Black­smith, eh?” said he. And looked down at his leg.
After darkly look­ing at his leg and at me sev­er­al times, he came closer to my tomb­stone,
took me by both arms, and tilted me back as far as he could hold me;
so that his eyes looked most power­fully down into mine, and mine looked most help­lessly up into his.
“Now loo­kee here,” he said, “the ques­tion be­ing wheth­er you’re to be let to live. You know what a file is?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you know what wittles is?”
“Yes, sir.”
After each ques­tion he tilted me over a little more, so as to give me a great­er sense of help­less­ness and danger.
“You get me a file.” He tilted me again. “And you get me wittles.” He tilted me again.
“You bring ’em both to me.” He tilted me again. “Or I’ll have your heart and liv­er out.” He tilted me again.
I was dread­fully frightened, and so giddy that I clung to him with both hands, and said,
“If you would kindly please to let me keep up­right, sir, per­haps I shouldn’t be sick, and per­haps I could at­tend more.”
He gave me a most tre­mend­ous dip and roll, so that the church jumped over its own weath­er-cock.
Then, he held me by the arms in an up­right po­s­i­tion on the top of the stone, and went on in these fear­ful terms:
“You bring me, to-mor­row morn­ing early, that file and them wittles. You bring the lot to me, at that old Bat­tery over yon­der.
You do it, and you nev­er dare to say a word or dare to make a sign con­cern­ing your hav­ing seen such a per­son as me, or any per­son sumever,
and you shall be let to live. You fail, or you go from my words in any par­tick­ler, no mat­ter how small it is,
and your heart and your liv­er shall be tore out, roas­ted and ate.
Now, I ain’t alone, as you may think I am.
There’s a young man hid with me, in com­par­is­on with which young man I am a An­gel. That young man hears the words I speak.
That young man has a secret way pecoo­li­ar to him­self, of get­ting at a boy, and at his heart, and at his liv­er.
It is in wain for a boy to at­tempt to hide him­self from that young man.
A boy may lock his door, may be warm in bed, may tuck him­self up, may draw the clothes over his head, may think him­self com­fort­able and safe,
but that young man will softly creep and creep his way to him and tear him open.
I am a keep­ing that young man from harm­ing of you at the present mo­ment, with great dif­fi­culty.
I find it wery hard to hold that young man off of your in­side. Now, what do you say?”
I said that I would get him the file, and I would get him what broken bits of food I could, and I would come to him at the Bat­tery, early in the morn­ing.
“Say, Lord strike you dead if you don’t!” said the man.
I said so, and he took me down.
“Now,” he pur­sued, “you re­mem­ber what you’ve un­der­took, and you re­mem­ber that young man, and you get home!”
“Goo-good night, sir,” I faltered.
“Much of that!” said he, glan­cing about him over the cold wet flat. “I wish I was a frog. Or a eel!”
At the same time, he hugged his shud­der­ing body in both his arms — clasp­ing him­self,
as if to hold him­self to­geth­er — and limped to­wards the low church wall.
As I saw him go, pick­ing his way among the nettles, and among the brambles that bound the green mounds,
he looked in my young eyes as if he were elud­ing the hands of the dead people,
stretch­ing up cau­tiously out of their graves, to get a twist upon his ankle and pull him in.
When he came to the low church wall, he got over it, like a man whose legs were numbed and stiff, and then turned round to look for me.
When I saw him turn­ing, I set my face to­wards home, and made the best use of my legs.
But presently I looked over my shoulder, and saw him go­ing on again to­wards the river, still hug­ging him­self in both arms,
and pick­ing his way with his sore feet among the great stones dropped into the marshes here and there,
for step­ping-places when the rains were heavy, or the tide was in.
The marshes were just a long black ho­ri­zont­al line then, as I stopped to look after him;
and the river was just an­oth­er ho­ri­zont­al line, not nearly so broad nor yet so black;
and the sky was just a row of long angry red lines and dense black lines in­ter­mixed.
On the edge of the river I could faintly make out the only two black things in all the pro­spect that seemed to be stand­ing up­right;
one of these was the beacon by which the sail­ors steered — like an un­hooped cask upon a pole — an ugly thing when you were near it;
the oth­er a gib­bet, with some chains hanging to it which had once held a pir­ate.
The man was limp­ing on to­wards this lat­ter, as if he were the pir­ate come to life, and come down, and go­ing back to hook him­self up again.
It gave me a ter­rible turn when I thought so; and as I saw the cattle lift­ing their heads to gaze after him, I wondered wheth­er they thought so too.
I looked all round for the hor­rible young man, and could see no signs of him.
But now I was frightened again, and ran home without stop­ping.

Charles Dickens
Great Expectations / Große Erwartungen
Zweisprachige Ausgabe
Übersetzt von Margit Meyer

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