DAVID
COPPERFIELD
PART 43
CHAPTER 43. ANOTHER RETROSPECT
Once
again, let me pause upon a memorable period of my life. Let me stand aside, to
see the phantoms of those days go by me, accompanying the shadow of myself, in
dim procession.
Weeks,
months, seasons, pass along. They seem little more than a summer day and a
winter evening. Now, the Common where I walk with Dora is all in bloom, a field
of bright gold; and now the unseen heather lies in mounds and bunches
underneath a covering of snow. In a breath, the river that flows through our
Sunday walks is sparkling in the summer sun, is ruffled by the winter wind, or
thickened with drifting heaps of ice. Faster than ever river ran towards the
sea, it flashes, darkens, and rolls away.
Not a
thread changes, in the house of the two little bird-like ladies. The clock
ticks over the fireplace, the weather-glass hangs in the hall. Neither clock
nor weather-glass is ever right; but we believe in both, devoutly.
I have
come legally to man's estate. I have attained the dignity of twenty-one. But
this is a sort of dignity that may be thrust upon one. Let me think what I have
achieved.
I have
tamed that savage stenographic mystery. I make a respectable income by it. I am
in high repute for my accomplishment in all pertaining to the art, and am
joined with eleven others in reporting the debates in Parliament for a Morning
Newspaper. Night after night, I record predictions that never come to pass,
professions that are never fulfilled, explanations that are only meant to
mystify. I wallow in words. Britannia, that unfortunate female, is always
before me, like a trussed fowl: skewered through and through with office-pens,
and bound hand and foot with red tape. I am sufficiently behind the scenes to know
the worth of political life. I am quite an Infidel about it, and shall never be
converted.
My dear
old Traddles has tried his hand at the same pursuit, but it is not in
Traddles's way. He is perfectly good-humoured respecting his failure, and
reminds me that he always did consider himself slow. He has occasional
employment on the same newspaper, in getting up the facts of dry subjects, to
be written about and embellished by more fertile minds. He is called to the
bar; and with admirable industry and self-denial has scraped another hundred
pounds together, to fee a Conveyancer whose chambers he attends. A great deal
of very hot port wine was consumed at his call; and, considering the figure, I
should think the Inner Temple must have made a profit by it.
I have
come out in another way. I have taken with fear and trembling to authorship. I
wrote a little something, in secret, and sent it to a magazine, and it was
published in the magazine. Since then, I have taken heart to write a good many
trifling pieces. Now, I am regularly paid for them. Altogether, I am well off,
when I tell my income on the fingers of my left hand, I pass the third finger
and take in the fourth to the middle joint.
We have
removed, from Buckingham Street, to a pleasant little cottage very near the one
I looked at, when my enthusiasm first came on. My aunt, however (who has sold
the house at Dover, to good advantage), is not going to remain here, but
intends removing herself to a still more tiny cottage close at hand. What does
this portend? My marriage? Yes!
Yes! I am
going to be married to Dora! Miss Lavinia and Miss Clarissa have given their
consent; and if ever canary birds were in a flutter, they are. Miss Lavinia,
self-charged with the superintendence of my darling's wardrobe, is constantly
cutting out brown-paper cuirasses, and differing in opinion from a highly
respectable young man, with a long bundle, and a yard measure under his arm. A
dressmaker, always stabbed in the breast with a needle and thread, boards and
lodges in the house; and seems to me, eating, drinking, or sleeping, never to
take her thimble off. They make a lay-figure of my dear. They are always
sending for her to come and try something on. We can't be happy together for
five minutes in the evening, but some intrusive female knocks at the door, and
says, 'Oh, if you please, Miss Dora, would you step upstairs!'
Miss
Clarissa and my aunt roam all over London, to find out articles of furniture
for Dora and me to look at. It would be better for them to buy the goods at
once, without this ceremony of inspection; for, when we go to see a kitchen
fender and meat-screen, Dora sees a Chinese house for Jip, with little bells on
the top, and prefers that. And it takes a long time to accustom Jip to his new
residence, after we have bought it; whenever he goes in or out, he makes all
the little bells ring, and is horribly frightened.
Peggotty
comes up to make herself useful, and falls to work immediately. Her department
appears to be, to clean everything over and over again. She rubs everything
that can be rubbed, until it shines, like her own honest forehead, with
perpetual friction. And now it is, that I begin to see her solitary brother
passing through the dark streets at night, and looking, as he goes, among the
wandering faces. I never speak to him at such an hour. I know too well, as his
grave figure passes onward, what he seeks, and what he dreads.
Why does
Traddles look so important when he calls upon me this afternoon in the
Commons—where I still occasionally attend, for form's sake, when I have time?
The realization of my boyish day-dreams is at hand. I am going to take out the
licence.
It is a
little document to do so much; and Traddles contemplates it, as it lies upon my
desk, half in admiration, half in awe. There are the names, in the sweet old
visionary connexion, David Copperfield and Dora Spenlow; and there, in the
corner, is that Parental Institution, the Stamp Office, which is so benignantly
interested in the various transactions of human life, looking down upon our
Union; and there is the Archbishop of Canterbury invoking a blessing on us in
print, and doing it as cheap as could possibly be expected.
Nevertheless,
I am in a dream, a flustered, happy, hurried dream. I can't believe that it is
going to be; and yet I can't believe but that everyone I pass in the street,
must have some kind of perception, that I am to be married the day after
tomorrow. The Surrogate knows me, when I go down to be sworn; and disposes of
me easily, as if there were a Masonic understanding between us. Traddles is not
at all wanted, but is in attendance as my general backer.
'I hope
the next time you come here, my dear fellow,' I say to Traddles, 'it will be on
the same errand for yourself. And I hope it will be soon.'
'Thank
you for your good wishes, my dear Copperfield,' he replies. 'I hope so too.
It's a satisfaction to know that she'll wait for me any length of time, and
that she really is the dearest girl—'
'When are
you to meet her at the coach?' I ask.
'At
seven,' says Traddles, looking at his plain old silver watch—the very watch he
once took a wheel out of, at school, to make a water-mill. 'That is about Miss
Wickfield's time, is it not?'
'A little
earlier. Her time is half past eight.' 'I assure you, my dear boy,' says
Traddles, 'I am almost as pleased as if I were going to be married myself, to
think that this event is coming to such a happy termination. And really the
great friendship and consideration of personally associating Sophy with the
joyful occasion, and inviting her to be a bridesmaid in conjunction with Miss
Wickfield, demands my warmest thanks. I am extremely sensible of it.'
I hear
him, and shake hands with him; and we talk, and walk, and dine, and so on; but
I don't believe it. Nothing is real.
Sophy
arrives at the house of Dora's aunts, in due course. She has the most agreeable
of faces,—not absolutely beautiful, but extraordinarily pleasant,—and is one of
the most genial, unaffected, frank, engaging creatures I have ever seen.
Traddles presents her to us with great pride; and rubs his hands for ten
minutes by the clock, with every individual hair upon his head standing on
tiptoe, when I congratulate him in a corner on his choice.
I have
brought Agnes from the Canterbury coach, and her cheerful and beautiful face is
among us for the second time. Agnes has a great liking for Traddles, and it is
capital to see them meet, and to observe the glory of Traddles as he commends
the dearest girl in the world to her acquaintance.
Still I
don't believe it. We have a delightful evening, and are supremely happy; but I
don't believe it yet. I can't collect myself. I can't check off my happiness as
it takes place. I feel in a misty and unsettled kind of state; as if I had got
up very early in the morning a week or two ago, and had never been to bed
since. I can't make out when yesterday was. I seem to have been carrying the
licence about, in my pocket, many months.
Next day,
too, when we all go in a flock to see the house—our house—Dora's and mine—I am
quite unable to regard myself as its master. I seem to be there, by permission
of somebody else. I half expect the real master to come home presently, and say
he is glad to see me. Such a beautiful little house as it is, with everything
so bright and new; with the flowers on the carpets looking as if freshly
gathered, and the green leaves on the paper as if they had just come out; with
the spotless muslin curtains, and the blushing rose-coloured furniture, and
Dora's garden hat with the blue ribbon—do I remember, now, how I loved her in
such another hat when I first knew her!—already hanging on its little peg; the
guitar-case quite at home on its heels in a corner; and everybody tumbling over
Jip's pagoda, which is much too big for the establishment. Another happy
evening, quite as unreal as all the rest of it, and I steal into the usual room
before going away. Dora is not there. I suppose they have not done trying on
yet. Miss Lavinia peeps in, and tells me mysteriously that she will not be
long. She is rather long, notwithstanding; but by and by I hear a rustling at
the door, and someone taps.
I say,
'Come in!' but someone taps again.
I go to
the door, wondering who it is; there, I meet a pair of bright eyes, and a
blushing face; they are Dora's eyes and face, and Miss Lavinia has dressed her
in tomorrow's dress, bonnet and all, for me to see. I take my little wife to my
heart; and Miss Lavinia gives a little scream because I tumble the bonnet, and
Dora laughs and cries at once, because I am so pleased; and I believe it less
than ever.
'Do you
think it pretty, Doady?' says Dora.
Pretty! I
should rather think I did.
'And are
you sure you like me very much?' says Dora.
The topic
is fraught with such danger to the bonnet, that Miss Lavinia gives another
little scream, and begs me to understand that Dora is only to be looked at, and
on no account to be touched. So Dora stands in a delightful state of confusion
for a minute or two, to be admired; and then takes off her bonnet—looking so
natural without it!—and runs away with it in her hand; and comes dancing down
again in her own familiar dress, and asks Jip if I have got a beautiful little
wife, and whether he'll forgive her for being married, and kneels down to make
him stand upon the cookery-book, for the last time in her single life.
I go
home, more incredulous than ever, to a lodging that I have hard by; and get up
very early in the morning, to ride to the Highgate road and fetch my aunt.
I have
never seen my aunt in such state. She is dressed in lavender-coloured silk, and
has a white bonnet on, and is amazing. Janet has dressed her, and is there to
look at me. Peggotty is ready to go to church, intending to behold the ceremony
from the gallery. Mr. Dick, who is to give my darling to me at the altar, has
had his hair curled. Traddles, whom I have taken up by appointment at the
turnpike, presents a dazzling combination of cream colour and light blue; and
both he and Mr. Dick have a general effect about them of being all gloves.
No doubt
I see this, because I know it is so; but I am astray, and seem to see nothing.
Nor do I believe anything whatever. Still, as we drive along in an open
carriage, this fairy marriage is real enough to fill me with a sort of
wondering pity for the unfortunate people who have no part in it, but are
sweeping out the shops, and going to their daily occupations.
My aunt
sits with my hand in hers all the way. When we stop a little way short of the
church, to put down Peggotty, whom we have brought on the box, she gives it a
squeeze, and me a kiss.
'God
bless you, Trot! My own boy never could be dearer. I think of poor dear Baby
this morning.' 'So do I. And of all I owe to you, dear aunt.'
'Tut,
child!' says my aunt; and gives her hand in overflowing cordiality to Traddles,
who then gives his to Mr. Dick, who then gives his to me, who then gives mine
to Traddles, and then we come to the church door.
The
church is calm enough, I am sure; but it might be a steam-power loom in full
action, for any sedative effect it has on me. I am too far gone for that.
The rest
is all a more or less incoherent dream.
A dream
of their coming in with Dora; of the pew-opener arranging us, like a
drill-sergeant, before the altar rails; of my wondering, even then, why
pew-openers must always be the most disagreeable females procurable, and
whether there is any religious dread of a disastrous infection of good-humour
which renders it indispensable to set those vessels of vinegar upon the road to
Heaven.
Of the
clergyman and clerk appearing; of a few boatmen and some other people strolling
in; of an ancient mariner behind me, strongly flavouring the church with rum;
of the service beginning in a deep voice, and our all being very attentive.
Of Miss
Lavinia, who acts as a semi-auxiliary bridesmaid, being the first to cry, and
of her doing homage (as I take it) to the memory of Pidger, in sobs; of Miss
Clarissa applying a smelling-bottle; of Agnes taking care of Dora; of my aunt
endeavouring to represent herself as a model of sternness, with tears rolling
down her face; of little Dora trembling very much, and making her responses in
faint whispers.
Of our
kneeling down together, side by side; of Dora's trembling less and less, but
always clasping Agnes by the hand; of the service being got through, quietly
and gravely; of our all looking at each other in an April state of smiles and
tears, when it is over; of my young wife being hysterical in the vestry, and
crying for her poor papa, her dear papa.
Of her
soon cheering up again, and our signing the register all round. Of my going
into the gallery for Peggotty to bring her to sign it; of Peggotty's hugging me
in a corner, and telling me she saw my own dear mother married; of its being
over, and our going away.
Of my
walking so proudly and lovingly down the aisle with my sweet wife upon my arm,
through a mist of half-seen people, pulpits, monuments, pews, fonts, organs,
and church windows, in which there flutter faint airs of association with my
childish church at home, so long ago.
Of their
whispering, as we pass, what a youthful couple we are, and what a pretty little
wife she is. Of our all being so merry and talkative in the carriage going
back. Of Sophy telling us that when she saw Traddles (whom I had entrusted with
the licence) asked for it, she almost fainted, having been convinced that he
would contrive to lose it, or to have his pocket picked. Of Agnes laughing
gaily; and of Dora being so fond of Agnes that she will not be separated from
her, but still keeps her hand.
Of there
being a breakfast, with abundance of things, pretty and substantial, to eat and
drink, whereof I partake, as I should do in any other dream, without the least
perception of their flavour; eating and drinking, as I may say, nothing but
love and marriage, and no more believing in the viands than in anything else.
Of my
making a speech in the same dreamy fashion, without having an idea of what I
want to say, beyond such as may be comprehended in the full conviction that I
haven't said it. Of our being very sociably and simply happy (always in a dream
though); and of Jip's having wedding cake, and its not agreeing with him
afterwards.
Of the
pair of hired post-horses being ready, and of Dora's going away to change her
dress. Of my aunt and Miss Clarissa remaining with us; and our walking in the
garden; and my aunt, who has made quite a speech at breakfast touching Dora's
aunts, being mightily amused with herself, but a little proud of it too.
Of Dora's
being ready, and of Miss Lavinia's hovering about her, loth to lose the pretty
toy that has given her so much pleasant occupation. Of Dora's making a long
series of surprised discoveries that she has forgotten all sorts of little
things; and of everybody's running everywhere to fetch them.
Of their
all closing about Dora, when at last she begins to say good-bye, looking, with
their bright colours and ribbons, like a bed of flowers. Of my darling being
almost smothered among the flowers, and coming out, laughing and crying both
together, to my jealous arms.
Of my
wanting to carry Jip (who is to go along with us), and Dora's saying no, that
she must carry him, or else he'll think she don't like him any more, now she is
married, and will break his heart. Of our going, arm in arm, and Dora stopping
and looking back, and saying, 'If I have ever been cross or ungrateful to
anybody, don't remember it!' and bursting into tears.
Of her
waving her little hand, and our going away once more. Of her once more
stopping, and looking back, and hurrying to Agnes, and giving Agnes, above all
the others, her last kisses and farewells.
We drive
away together, and I awake from the dream. I believe it at last. It is my dear,
dear, little wife beside me, whom I love so well!
'Are you
happy now, you foolish boy?' says Dora, 'and sure you don't repent?'
I have
stood aside to see the phantoms of those days go by me. They are gone, and I
resume the journey of my story.
To be continued
