| | |
|
| 1 | Once again, let me pause upon a memorable period of my life. Let
|
| 2 | me stand aside, to see the phantoms of those days go by me,
|
| 3 | accompanying the shadow of myself, in dim procession.
|
| 4 | Weeks, months, seasons, pass along. They seem little more than a
|
| 5 | summer day and a winter evening. Now, the Common where I walk with
|
| 6 | Dora is all in bloom, a field of bright gold; and now the unseen
|
| 7 | heather lies in mounds and bunches underneath a covering of snow.
|
| 8 | In a breath, the river that flows through our Sunday walks is
|
| 9 | sparkling in the summer sun, is ruffled by the winter wind, or
|
| 10 | thickened with drifting heaps of ice. Faster than ever river ran
|
| 11 | towards the sea, it flashes, darkens, and rolls away.
|
| 12 | Not a thread changes, in the house of the two little bird-like
|
| 13 | ladies. The clock ticks over the fireplace, the weather-glass
|
| 14 | hangs in the hall. Neither clock nor weather-glass is ever right;
|
| 15 | but we believe in both, devoutly.
|
| 16 | I have come legally to man's estate. I have attained the dignity
|
| 17 | of twenty-one. But this is a sort of dignity that may be thrust
|
| 18 | upon one. Let me think what I have achieved.
|
| 19 | I have tamed that savage stenographic mystery. I make a
|
| 20 | respectable income by it. I am in high repute for my
|
| 21 | accomplishment in all pertaining to the art, and am joined with
|
| 22 | eleven others in reporting the debates in Parliament for a Morning
|
| 23 | Newspaper. Night after night, I record predictions that never come
|
| 24 | to pass, professions that are never fulfilled, explanations that
|
| 25 | are only meant to mystify. I wallow in words. Britannia, that
|
| 26 | unfortunate female, is always before me, like a trussed fowl:
|
| 27 | skewered through and through with office-pens, and bound hand and
|
| 28 | foot with red tape. I am sufficiently behind the scenes to know
|
| 29 | the worth of political life. I am quite an Infidel about it, and
|
| 30 | shall never be converted.
|
| 31 | My dear old Traddles has tried his hand at the same pursuit, but it
|
| 32 | is not in Traddles's way. He is perfectly good-humoured respecting
|
| 33 | his failure, and reminds me that he always did consider himself
|
| 34 | slow. He has occasional employment on the same newspaper, in
|
| 35 | getting up the facts of dry subjects, to be written about and
|
| 36 | embellished by more fertile minds. He is called to the bar; and
|
| 37 | with admirable industry and self-denial has scraped another hundred
|
| 38 | pounds together, to fee a Conveyancer whose chambers he attends.
|
| 39 | A great deal of very hot port wine was consumed at his call; and,
|
| 40 | considering the figure, I should think the Inner Temple must have
|
| 41 | made a profit by it.
|
| 42 | I have come out in another way. I have taken with fear and
|
| 43 | trembling to authorship. I wrote a little something, in secret,
|
| 44 | and sent it to a magazine, and it was published in the magazine.
|
| 45 | Since then, I have taken heart to write a good many trifling
|
| 46 | pieces. Now, I am regularly paid for them. Altogether, I am well
|
| 47 | off, when I tell my income on the fingers of my left hand, I pass
|
| 48 | the third finger and take in the fourth to the middle joint.
|
| 49 | We have removed, from Buckingham Street, to a pleasant little
|
| 50 | cottage very near the one I looked at, when my enthusiasm first
|
| 51 | came on. My aunt, however (who has sold the house at Dover, to
|
| 52 | good advantage), is not going to remain here, but intends removing
|
| 53 | herself to a still more tiny cottage close at hand. What does this
|
| 54 | portend? My marriage? Yes!
|
| 55 | Yes! I am going to be married to Dora! Miss Lavinia and Miss
|
| 56 | Clarissa have given their consent; and if ever canary birds were in
|
| 57 | a flutter, they are. Miss Lavinia, self-charged with the
|
| 58 | superintendence of my darling's wardrobe, is constantly cutting out
|
| 59 | brown-paper cuirasses, and differing in opinion from a highly
|
| 60 | respectable young man, with a long bundle, and a yard measure under
|
| 61 | his arm. A dressmaker, always stabbed in the breast with a needle
|
| 62 | and thread, boards and lodges in the house; and seems to me,
|
| 63 | eating, drinking, or sleeping, never to take her thimble off. They
|
| 64 | make a lay-figure of my dear. They are always sending for her to
|
| 65 | come and try something on. We can't be happy together for five
|
| 66 | minutes in the evening, but some intrusive female knocks at the
|
| 67 | door, and says, 'Oh, if you please, Miss Dora, would you step
|
| 68 | upstairs!'
|
| 69 | Miss Clarissa and my aunt roam all over London, to find out
|
| 70 | articles of furniture for Dora and me to look at. It would be
|
| 71 | better for them to buy the goods at once, without this ceremony of
|
| 72 | inspection; for, when we go to see a kitchen fender and
|
| 73 | meat-screen, Dora sees a Chinese house for Jip, with little bells
|
| 74 | on the top, and prefers that. And it takes a long time to accustom
|
| 75 | Jip to his new residence, after we have bought it; whenever he goes
|
| 76 | in or out, he makes all the little bells ring, and is horribly
|
| 77 | frightened.
|
| 78 | Peggotty comes up to make herself useful, and falls to work
|
| 79 | immediately. Her department appears to be, to clean everything
|
| 80 | over and over again. She rubs everything that can be rubbed, until
|
| 81 | it shines, like her own honest forehead, with perpetual friction.
|
| 82 | And now it is, that I begin to see her solitary brother passing
|
| 83 | through the dark streets at night, and looking, as he goes, among
|
| 84 | the wandering faces. I never speak to him at such an hour. I know
|
| 85 | too well, as his grave figure passes onward, what he seeks, and
|
| 86 | what he dreads.
|
| 87 | Why does Traddles look so important when he calls upon me this
|
| 88 | afternoon in the Commons - where I still occasionally attend, for
|
| 89 | form's sake, when I have time? The realization of my boyish
|
| 90 | day-dreams is at hand. I am going to take out the licence.
|
| 91 | It is a little document to do so much; and Traddles contemplates
|
| 92 | it, as it lies upon my desk, half in admiration, half in awe.
|
| 93 | There are the names, in the sweet old visionary connexion, David
|
| 94 | Copperfield and Dora Spenlow; and there, in the corner, is that
|
| 95 | Parental Institution, the Stamp Office, which is so benignantly
|
| 96 | interested in the various transactions of human life, looking down
|
| 97 | upon our Union; and there is the Archbishop of Canterbury invoking
|
| 98 | a blessing on us in print, and doing it as cheap as could possibly
|
| 99 | be expected.
|
| 100 | Nevertheless, I am in a dream, a flustered, happy, hurried dream.
|
| 101 | I can't believe that it is going to be; and yet I can't believe but
|
| 102 | that everyone I pass in the street, must have some kind of
|
| 103 | perception, that I am to be married the day after tomorrow. The
|
| 104 | Surrogate knows me, when I go down to be sworn; and disposes of me
|
| 105 | easily, as if there were a Masonic understanding between us.
|
| 106 | Traddles is not at all wanted, but is in attendance as my general
|
| 107 | backer.
|
| 108 | 'I hope the next time you come here, my dear fellow,' I say to
|
| 109 | Traddles, 'it will be on the same errand for yourself. And I hope
|
| 110 | it will be soon.'
|
| 111 | 'Thank you for your good wishes, my dear Copperfield,' he replies.
|
| 112 | 'I hope so too. It's a satisfaction to know that she'll wait for
|
| 113 | me any length of time, and that she really is the dearest girl -'
|
| 114 | 'When are you to meet her at the coach?' I ask.
|
| 115 | 'At seven,' says Traddles, looking at his plain old silver watch -
|
| 116 | the very watch he once took a wheel out of, at school, to make a
|
| 117 | water-mill. 'That is about Miss Wickfield's time, is it not?'
|
| 118 | 'A little earlier. Her time is half past eight.'
|
| 119 | 'I assure you, my dear boy,' says Traddles, 'I am almost as pleased
|
| 120 | as if I were going to be married myself, to think that this event
|
| 121 | is coming to such a happy termination. And really the great
|
| 122 | friendship and consideration of personally associating Sophy with
|
| 123 | the joyful occasion, and inviting her to be a bridesmaid in
|
| 124 | conjunction with Miss Wickfield, demands my warmest thanks. I am
|
| 125 | extremely sensible of it.'
|
| 126 | I hear him, and shake hands with him; and we talk, and walk, and
|
| 127 | dine, and so on; but I don't believe it. Nothing is real.
|
| 128 | Sophy arrives at the house of Dora's aunts, in due course. She has
|
| 129 | the most agreeable of faces, - not absolutely beautiful, but
|
| 130 | extraordinarily pleasant, - and is one of the most genial,
|
| 131 | unaffected, frank, engaging creatures I have ever seen. Traddles
|
| 132 | presents her to us with great pride; and rubs his hands for ten
|
| 133 | minutes by the clock, with every individual hair upon his head
|
| 134 | standing on tiptoe, when I congratulate him in a corner on his
|
| 135 | choice.
|
| 136 | I have brought Agnes from the Canterbury coach, and her cheerful
|
| 137 | and beautiful face is among us for the second time. Agnes has a
|
| 138 | great liking for Traddles, and it is capital to see them meet, and
|
| 139 | to observe the glory of Traddles as he commends the dearest girl in
|
| 140 | the world to her acquaintance.
|
| 141 | Still I don't believe it. We have a delightful evening, and are
|
| 142 | supremely happy; but I don't believe it yet. I can't collect
|
| 143 | myself. I can't check off my happiness as it takes place. I feel
|
| 144 | in a misty and unsettled kind of state; as if I had got up very
|
| 145 | early in the morning a week or two ago, and had never been to bed
|
| 146 | since. I can't make out when yesterday was. I seem to have been
|
| 147 | carrying the licence about, in my pocket, many months.
|
| 148 | Next day, too, when we all go in a flock to see the house - our
|
| 149 | house - Dora's and mine - I am quite unable to regard myself as its
|
| 150 | master. I seem to be there, by permission of somebody else. I
|
| 151 | half expect the real master to come home presently, and say he is
|
| 152 | glad to see me. Such a beautiful little house as it is, with
|
| 153 | everything so bright and new; with the flowers on the carpets
|
| 154 | looking as if freshly gathered, and the green leaves on the paper
|
| 155 | as if they had just come out; with the spotless muslin curtains,
|
| 156 | and the blushing rose-coloured furniture, and Dora's garden hat
|
| 157 | with the blue ribbon - do I remember, now, how I loved her in such
|
| 158 | another hat when I first knew her! - already hanging on its little
|
| 159 | peg; the guitar-case quite at home on its heels in a corner; and
|
| 160 | everybody tumbling over Jip's pagoda, which is much too big for the
|
| 161 | establishment. Another happy evening, quite as unreal as all the
|
| 162 | rest of it, and I steal into the usual room before going away.
|
| 163 | Dora is not there. I suppose they have not done trying on yet.
|
| 164 | Miss Lavinia peeps in, and tells me mysteriously that she will not
|
| 165 | be long. She is rather long, notwithstanding; but by and by I hear
|
| 166 | a rustling at the door, and someone taps.
|
| 167 | I say, 'Come in!' but someone taps again.
|
| 168 | I go to the door, wondering who it is; there, I meet a pair of
|
| 169 | bright eyes, and a blushing face; they are Dora's eyes and face,
|
| 170 | and Miss Lavinia has dressed her in tomorrow's dress, bonnet and
|
| 171 | all, for me to see. I take my little wife to my heart; and Miss
|
| 172 | Lavinia gives a little scream because I tumble the bonnet, and Dora
|
| 173 | laughs and cries at once, because I am so pleased; and I believe it
|
| 174 | less than ever.
|
| 175 | 'Do you think it pretty, Doady?' says Dora.
|
| 176 | Pretty! I should rather think I did.
|
| 177 | 'And are you sure you like me very much?' says Dora.
|
| 178 | The topic is fraught with such danger to the bonnet, that Miss
|
| 179 | Lavinia gives another little scream, and begs me to understand that
|
| 180 | Dora is only to be looked at, and on no account to be touched. So
|
| 181 | Dora stands in a delightful state of confusion for a minute or two,
|
| 182 | to be admired; and then takes off her bonnet - looking so natural
|
| 183 | without it! - and runs away with it in her hand; and comes dancing
|
| 184 | down again in her own familiar dress, and asks Jip if I have got a
|
| 185 | beautiful little wife, and whether he'll forgive her for being
|
| 186 | married, and kneels down to make him stand upon the cookery-book,
|
| 187 | for the last time in her single life.
|
| 188 | I go home, more incredulous than ever, to a lodging that I have
|
| 189 | hard by; and get up very early in the morning, to ride to the
|
| 190 | Highgate road and fetch my aunt.
|
| 191 | I have never seen my aunt in such state. She is dressed in
|
| 192 | lavender-coloured silk, and has a white bonnet on, and is amazing.
|
| 193 | Janet has dressed her, and is there to look at me. Peggotty is
|
| 194 | ready to go to church, intending to behold the ceremony from the
|
| 195 | gallery. Mr. Dick, who is to give my darling to me at the altar,
|
| 196 | has had his hair curled. Traddles, whom I have taken up by
|
| 197 | appointment at the turnpike, presents a dazzling combination of
|
| 198 | cream colour and light blue; and both he and Mr. Dick have a
|
| 199 | general effect about them of being all gloves.
|
| 200 | No doubt I see this, because I know it is so; but I am astray, and
|
| 201 | seem to see nothing. Nor do I believe anything whatever. Still,
|
| 202 | as we drive along in an open carriage, this fairy marriage is real
|
| 203 | enough to fill me with a sort of wondering pity for the unfortunate
|
| 204 | people who have no part in it, but are sweeping out the shops, and
|
| 205 | going to their daily occupations.
|
| 206 | My aunt sits with my hand in hers all the way. When we stop a
|
| 207 | little way short of the church, to put down Peggotty, whom we have
|
| 208 | brought on the box, she gives it a squeeze, and me a kiss.
|
| 209 | 'God bless you, Trot! My own boy never could be dearer. I think
|
| 210 | of poor dear Baby this morning.'
|
| 211 | 'So do I. And of all I owe to you, dear aunt.'
|
| 212 | 'Tut, child!' says my aunt; and gives her hand in overflowing
|
| 213 | cordiality to Traddles, who then gives his to Mr. Dick, who then
|
| 214 | gives his to me, who then gives mine to Traddles, and then we come
|
| 215 | to the church door.
|
| 216 | The church is calm enough, I am sure; but it might be a steam-power
|
| 217 | loom in full action, for any sedative effect it has on me. I am
|
| 218 | too far gone for that.
|
| 219 | The rest is all a more or less incoherent dream.
|
| 220 | A dream of their coming in with Dora; of the pew-opener arranging
|
| 221 | us, like a drill-sergeant, before the altar rails; of my wondering,
|
| 222 | even then, why pew-openers must always be the most disagreeable
|
| 223 | females procurable, and whether there is any religious dread of a
|
| 224 | disastrous infection of good-humour which renders it indispensable
|
| 225 | to set those vessels of vinegar upon the road to Heaven.
|
| 226 | Of the clergyman and clerk appearing; of a few boatmen and some
|
| 227 | other people strolling in; of an ancient mariner behind me,
|
| 228 | strongly flavouring the church with rum; of the service beginning
|
| 229 | in a deep voice, and our all being very attentive.
|
| 230 | Of Miss Lavinia, who acts as a semi-auxiliary bridesmaid, being the
|
| 231 | first to cry, and of her doing homage (as I take it) to the memory
|
| 232 | of Pidger, in sobs; of Miss Clarissa applying a smelling-bottle; of
|
| 233 | Agnes taking care of Dora; of my aunt endeavouring to represent
|
| 234 | herself as a model of sternness, with tears rolling down her face;
|
| 235 | of little Dora trembling very much, and making her responses in
|
| 236 | faint whispers.
|
| 237 | Of our kneeling down together, side by side; of Dora's trembling
|
| 238 | less and less, but always clasping Agnes by the hand; of the
|
| 239 | service being got through, quietly and gravely; of our all looking
|
| 240 | at each other in an April state of smiles and tears, when it is
|
| 241 | over; of my young wife being hysterical in the vestry, and crying
|
| 242 | for her poor papa, her dear papa.
|
| 243 | Of her soon cheering up again, and our signing the register all
|
| 244 | round. Of my going into the gallery for Peggotty to bring her to
|
| 245 | sign it; of Peggotty's hugging me in a corner, and telling me she
|
| 246 | saw my own dear mother married; of its being over, and our going
|
| 247 | away.
|
| 248 | Of my walking so proudly and lovingly down the aisle with my sweet
|
| 249 | wife upon my arm, through a mist of half-seen people, pulpits,
|
| 250 | monuments, pews, fonts, organs, and church windows, in which there
|
| 251 | flutter faint airs of association with my childish church at home,
|
| 252 | so long ago.
|
| 253 | Of their whispering, as we pass, what a youthful couple we are, and
|
| 254 | what a pretty little wife she is. Of our all being so merry and
|
| 255 | talkative in the carriage going back. Of Sophy telling us that
|
| 256 | when she saw Traddles (whom I had entrusted with the licence) asked
|
| 257 | for it, she almost fainted, having been convinced that he would
|
| 258 | contrive to lose it, or to have his pocket picked. Of Agnes
|
| 259 | laughing gaily; and of Dora being so fond of Agnes that she will
|
| 260 | not be separated from her, but still keeps her hand.
|
| 261 | Of there being a breakfast, with abundance of things, pretty and
|
| 262 | substantial, to eat and drink, whereof I partake, as I should do in
|
| 263 | any other dream, without the least perception of their flavour;
|
| 264 | eating and drinking, as I may say, nothing but love and marriage,
|
| 265 | and no more believing in the viands than in anything else.
|
| 266 | Of my making a speech in the same dreamy fashion, without having an
|
| 267 | idea of what I want to say, beyond such as may be comprehended in
|
| 268 | the full conviction that I haven't said it. Of our being very
|
| 269 | sociably and simply happy (always in a dream though); and of Jip's
|
| 270 | having wedding cake, and its not agreeing with him afterwards.
|
| 271 | Of the pair of hired post-horses being ready, and of Dora's going
|
| 272 | away to change her dress. Of my aunt and Miss Clarissa remaining
|
| 273 | with us; and our walking in the garden; and my aunt, who has made
|
| 274 | quite a speech at breakfast touching Dora's aunts, being mightily
|
| 275 | amused with herself, but a little proud of it too.
|
| 276 | Of Dora's being ready, and of Miss Lavinia's hovering about her,
|
| 277 | loth to lose the pretty toy that has given her so much pleasant
|
| 278 | occupation. Of Dora's making a long series of surprised
|
| 279 | discoveries that she has forgotten all sorts of little things; and
|
| 280 | of everybody's running everywhere to fetch them.
|
| 281 | Of their all closing about Dora, when at last she begins to say
|
| 282 | good-bye, looking, with their bright colours and ribbons, like a
|
| 283 | bed of flowers. Of my darling being almost smothered among the
|
| 284 | flowers, and coming out, laughing and crying both together, to my
|
| 285 | jealous arms.
|
| 286 | Of my wanting to carry Jip (who is to go along with us), and Dora's
|
| 287 | saying no, that she must carry him, or else he'll think she don't
|
| 288 | like him any more, now she is married, and will break his heart.
|
| 289 | Of our going, arm in arm, and Dora stopping and looking back, and
|
| 290 | saying, 'If I have ever been cross or ungrateful to anybody, don't
|
| 291 | remember it!' and bursting into tears.
|
| 292 | Of her waving her little hand, and our going away once more. Of
|
| 293 | her once more stopping, and looking back, and hurrying to Agnes,
|
| 294 | and giving Agnes, above all the others, her last kisses and
|
| 295 | farewells.
|
| 296 | We drive away together, and I awake from the dream. I believe it
|
| 297 | at last. It is my dear, dear, little wife beside me, whom I love
|
| 298 | so well!
|
| 299 | 'Are you happy now, you foolish boy?' says Dora, 'and sure you
|
| 300 | don't repent?'
|
| 301 | I have stood aside to see the phantoms of those days go by me.
|
| 302 | They are gone, and I resume the journey of my story.
|
