David Copperfield

by Charles Dickens

  My mother was too much afraid of her to refuse compliance with this odd request, if she had any disposition to do so. Therefore she did as she was told, and did it with such nervous hands that her hair (which was luxuriant and beautiful) fell all about her face.

  "Why, bless my heartl" exclaimed Miss Betsey. "You are a very Babyl"

  My mother was, no doubt, unusually youthful in appearance even for her years; she hung her head, as if it were her fault, poor thing, and said, sobbing, that indeed she was afraid she was but a childish widow, and would be but a childish mother if she lived. In a short pause which ensued, she had a fancy that she felt Miss Betsey touch her hair, and that with no ungentle hand, but, looking at her, in her timid hope, she found that lady sitting with the skirt of her dress tucked up, her hands folded on one knee, and her feet upon the fender, frowning at the fire.

  "In the name of Heaven," said Miss Betsey, suddenly, "why Rookery?"

  "Do you mean the house, ma'am?" asked my mother.

  "Why Rookery?" said Miss Betsey. "Cookery would have been more to the purpose, if you had had any practical ideas of life, either of you."

  "The name was Mr. Copperfield's choice," returned my mother. "When he bought the house, he liked to think that there were rooks about it."

  The evening wind made such a disturbance just now, among some tall old elm-trees at the bottom of the garden, that neither my mother nor Miss Betsey could forbear glancing that way. As the elms bent to one another, like giants who were whispering secrets, and after a few seconds of such repose, fell into a violent flurry, tossing their wild arms about, as if their late confidences were really too wicked for their peace of mind, some weather-beaten, ragged old rooks' nests, burdening their high branches, swung like wrecks upon a stormy sea.

  "Where are the birds?" asked Miss Betsey.

  "The--?" My mother had been thinking of something else.

  "The rooks--what has become of them?" asked Miss Betsey.

  "'There have not been any since we have lived here," said my mother. "We thought--Mr. Copperfield thought--it was quite a large rookery, but the nests were very old ones, and the birds have deserted them a long while."

  "David Copperfield all over!" cried Miss Betsey. "David Copperfield from head to foot! Calls a house a rookery when there's not a rook near it, and takes the birds on trust, because he sees the nests!"

  "Mr. Copperfield," returned my mother, "is dead, and if you dare to speak unkindly of him to me--"

  My poor dear mother, I suppose, had some momentary intention of committing an assault and battery upon my aunt, who could easily have settled her with one hand, even if my mother had been in far better training for such an encounter than she was that evening. But it passed with the action of rising from her chair, and she sat down again very meekly, and fainted.

  When she came to herself, or when Miss Betsey had restored her, whichever it was, she found the latter standing at the window. The twilight was by this time shading down into darkness, and, dimly as they saw each other, they could not have done that without the aid of the fire.

  "Well?" said Miss Betsey, coming back to her chair, as if she had only been taking a casual look at the prospect, "and when do you expect--"

  "I am all in a tremble," faltered my mother. "I don't know what's the matter. I shall die, I am sure!"

  "No, no, no," said Miss Betsey. "Have some tea."

  "Oh dear me, dear me, do you think it will do me any good?" cried my mother in a helpless manner.

  "Of course it will," said Miss Betsey. "It's nothing but fancy. What do you call your girl?"

  "I don't know that it will be a girl, yet, ma'am," said my mother innocently.

  "Bless the Baby!" exclaimed Miss Betsey, unconsciously quoting the second sentiment of the pincushion in the drawer upstairs, but applying it to my mother instead of me, "I don't mean that. I mean your servant."

  "Peggotty," said my mother.

  "Peggotty!" repeated Miss Betsey, with some indignation. "Do you mean to say, child, that any human being has gone into a Christian church and got herself named Peggotty?"

  "It's her surname," said my mother, faintly. "Mr. Copperfield called her by it, because her Christian name was the same as mine."

  "Here, Peggotty!" cried Miss Betsey, opening the parlour-door. "Tea. Your mistress is a little unwell. Don't dawdle."

  Having issued this mandate with as much potentiality as if she had been a recognized authority in the house ever since it had been a house, and having looked out to confront the amazed Peggotty coming along the passage with a candle at the sound of a strange voice, Miss Betsey shut the door again, and sat down as before, with her feet on the fender, the skirt of her dress tucked up, and her hands folded on one knee.

  "You were speaking about its being a girl," said Miss Betsey. "I have no doubt it will be a girl. I have a presentiment that it must be a girl. Now, child, from the moment of the birth of this girl--"

  "Perhaps boy," my mother took the liberty of putting in.

  "I tell you I have a presentiment that it must be a girl," returned Miss Betsey. "Don't contradict. From the moment of this girl's birth, child, I intend to be her friend. I intend to be her godmother, and I beg you'll call her Betsey Trotwood Copperfield. There must be no mistakes in life with this Betsey Trotwood. There must be no trifling with her affections, poor dear. She must be well brought up, and well guarded from reposing any foolish confidences where they are not deserved. I must make that my care."

  There was a twitch of Miss Betsy's head after each of these sentences, as if her own old wrongs were working within her and she repressed any plainer reference to them by strong constraint. So my mother suspected, at least, as she observed her by the low glimmer of the fire, too much scared by Miss Betsey, too uneasy in herself, and too subdued and bewildered altogether, to observe anything very clearly, or to know what to say.

  "And was David good to you, child?" asked Miss Betsey, when she had been silent for a little while, and these motions of her head had gradually ceased. "Were you comfortable together?"

  "We were very happy," said my mother. "Mr. Coppeifield was only too good to me."

  "What, he spoilt you, I suppose?" returned Miss Betsey.

  "For being quite alone and dependent on myself in this rough world again, yes, I fear he did indeed," sobbed my mother.

  "Well! Don't cry!" said Miss Betsey. "You were not equally matched, child--if any two people can be equally matched--and so I asked the question. You were an orphan, weren't you?"

  "And a governess?"

  "I was nursery-governess in a family where Mr. Copperfield came to visit. Mr. Copperfield was very kind to me, and took a great deal of notice of me, and paid me a good deal of attention, and at last proposed to me. And I accepted him. And so we were married," said my mother simply.

  "Ha! Poor Baby!" mused Miss Betsey, with her frown still bent upon the fire. "Do you know anything?"

  "I beg your pardon, ma'am," faltered my mother.

  "About keeping house, for instance," said Miss Betsey.

  "Not much, I fear," returned my mother. "Not so much as I could wish. But Mr. Copperfield was teaching me--"

  ("Much he knew about it himself!") said Miss Betsey in a parenthesis.

  --"And I hope I should have improved, being very anxious to learn, and he very patient to teach, if the great misfortune of his death"--my mother broke down again here, and could get no farther.

  "Well, well!" said Miss Betsey.

  "I kept my housekeeping-book regularly, and balanced it with Mr. Copperfield every night," cried my mother in another burst of distress, and breaking down again.

  "Well, well!" said Miss Betsey. "Don't cry any more."

  "And I am sure we never had a word of difference respecting it, except when Mr. Copperfield objected to my threes and fives being too much like each other, or to my putting curly tails to my sevens and nines," resumed my mother in another burst, and breaking down again.

  "You'll make yours
elf ill," said Miss Betsey, "and you know that will not be good either for you or for my god-daughter. Come! You mustn't do it!"

  This argument had some share in quieting my mother, though her increasing indisposition had perhaps a larger one. There was an interval of silence, only broken by Miss Betsey's occasionally ejaculating "Ha!" as she sat with her feet upon the fender.

  "David had bought an annuity for himself with his money, I know," said she, by and by. "What did he do for you?"

  "Mr. Copperfield," said my mother, answering with some difficulty, "was so considerate and good as to secure the reversion of a part of it to me."

  "How much?" asked Miss Betsey.

  "A hundred and five pounds a year," said my mother.

  "He might have done worse," said my aunt.

  The word was appropriate to the moment. My mother was so much worse that Peggotty, coming in with the teaboard and candles, and seeing at a glance how ill she was, as Miss Betsey might have done sooner if there had been light enough, conveyed her upstairs to her own room with all speed, and immediately despatched Ham Peggotty, her nephew, who had been for some days past secreted in the house, unknown to my mother, as a special messenger in case of emergency, to fetch the nurse and doctor.

  Those allied powers were considerably astonished, when they arrived within a few minutes of each other, to find an unknown lady of portentous appearance sitting before the fire, with her bonnet tied over her left arm, stopping her ears with jewellers' cotton. Peggotty knowing nothing about her, and my mother saying nothing about her, she was quite a mystery in the parlour, and the fact of her having a magazine of jewellers' cotton in her pocket, and sticking the article in her ears in that way, did not detract from the solemnity of her presence.

  The doctor having been upstairs and come down again, and having satisfied himself, I suppose, that there was a probability of this unknown lady and himself having to sit there, face to face, for some hours, laid himself out to be polite and social. He was the meekest of his sex, the mildest of little men. He sidled in and out of a room to take up the less space. He walked as softly as the Ghost in Hamlet, and more slowly. He carried his head on one side, partly in modest depreciation of himself, partly in modest propitiation of everybody else. It is nothing to say that he hadn't a word to throw at a dog. He couldn't have thrown a word at a mad dog. He might have offered him one gently, or half a one, or a fragment of one, for he spoke as slowly as he walked, but he wouldn't have been rude to him, and he couldn't have been quick with him, for any earthly consideration.

  Mr. Chillip, looking mildly at my aunt with his head on one side, and, making her a little bow, said, in allusion to the jewellers' cotton, as he softly touched his left ear:

  "Some local irritation, ma'am?"

  "What!" replied my aunt, pulling the cotton out of one ear like a cork.

  Mr. Chillip was so alarmed by her abruptness--as he told my mother afterwards--that it was a mercy he didn't lose his presence of mind. But he repeated sweetly:

  "Some local irritation, ma'am?"

  "Nonsense!" replied my aunt, and corked herself again, at one blow.

  Mr. Chillip could do nothing after this but sit and look at her feebly, as she sat and looked at the fire, until he was called upstairs again. After some quarter of an hour's absence, he returned.

  "Well?" said my aunt, taking the cotton out of the ear nearest to him.

  "Well, ma'am," returned Mr. Chillip, "we are--we are progressing slowly, ma'am."

  "Ba--a--ah!" said my aunt, with a perfect shake on the contemptuous interjection. And corked herself as before.

  Really--really--as Mr. Chillip told my mother, he was almost shocked; speaking in a professional point of view alone he was almost shocked. But he sat and looked at her, notwithstanding, for nearly two hours, as she sat looking at the fire, until he was again called out. After another absence, he again returned.

  "Well?" said my aunt, taking out the cotton on that side again.

  "Well, ma'am," returned Mr. Chillip, "we are--we are progressing slowly, ma'am."

  "Ya--a--ah!" said my aunt. With such a snarl at him that Mr. Chillip absolutely could not bear it. It was really calculated to break his spirit, he said afterwards. He preferred to go and sit upon the stairs, in the dark and a strong draught, until he was again sent for.

  Ham Peggotty, who went to the national school, and was a very dragon at his catechism, and who may therefore be regarded as a credible witness, reported next day that, happening to peep in at the parlour-door an hour after this, he was instantly descried by Miss Betsey, then walking to and fro in a state of agitation, and pounced upon before he could make his escape. That there were now occasional sounds of feet and voices overhead which he inferred the cotton did not exclude, from the circumstance of his evidently being clutched by the lady as a victim on whom to expend her superabundant agitation when the sounds were loudest. That, marching him constantly up and down by the collar (as if he had been taking too much laudanum), she, at those times, shook him, rumpled his hair, made light of his linen, stopped his ears as if she confounded them with her own, and otherwise tousled and maltreated him. This was in part confirmed by his aunt, who saw him at half-past twelve o'clock, soon after his release, and affirmed that he was then as red as I was.

  The mild Mr. Chillip could not possibly bear malice at such a time, if at any time. He sidled into the parlour as soon as he was at liberty, and said to my aunt in his meekest manner:

  "Well, ma'am, I am happy to congratulate you."

  "What upon?" said my aunt, sharply.

  Mr. Chillip was fluttered again by the extreme severity of my aunt's manner, so he made her a little bow, and gave her a little smile to mollify her.

  "Mercy on the man, what's he doing!" cried my aunt, impatiently. "Can't he speak?"

  "Be calm, my dear ma'am," said Mr. Chillip, in his softest accents. "There is no longer any occasion for uneasiness, ma'am. Be calm."

  It has since been considered almost a miracle that my aunt didn't shake him, and shake what he had to say out of him. She only shook her own head at him, but in a way that made him quail.

  "Well, ma'am," resumed Mr. Chillip, as soon as he had courage, "I am happy to congratulate you. All is now over, ma'am, and well over."

  During the five minutes or so that Mr. Chillip devoted to the delivery of this oration, my aunt eyed him narrowly.

  "How is she?" said my aunt, folding her arms with her bonnet still tied on one of them.

  "Well, ma'am, she will soon be quite comfortable, I hope," returned Mr. Chilip. "Quite as comfortable as we can expect a young mother to be, under these melancholy domestic circumstances. There cannot be any objection to your seeing her presently, ma'am. It may do her good."

  "And she. How is she?" said my aunt, sharply.

  Mr. Chillip laid his head a little more on one side, and looked at my aunt like an amiable bird.

  "The baby," said my aunt. "How is she?"

  "Ma'am," returned Mr. Chillip, "I apprehended you had known. It's a boy."

  My aunt said never a word, but took her bonnet by the strings, in the manner of a sling, aimed a blow at Mr. Chillip's head with it, put it on bent, walked out, and never came back. She vanished like a discontented fairy, or like one of those supernatural beings whom it was popularly supposed I was entitled to see, and never came back any more.

  No. I lay in my basket, and my mother lay in her bed, but Betsey Trotwood Copperfield was for ever in the land of dreams and shadows, the tremendous region whence I had so lately travelled; and the light upon the window of our room shone out upon the earthly bourne of all such travellers, and the mound above the ashes and the dust that once was he, without whom I had never been.

  CHAPTER II

  I Observe

  THE FIRST OBJECTS THAT ASSUME A DISTINCT PRESENCE before me, as I look far back into the blank of my infancy, are my mother with her pretty hair and youthful shape, and Peggotty, with no shape at all, and eyes so dark that they seeme
d to darken their whole neighbourhood in her face, and cheeks and arms so hard and red that I wondered the birds didn't peck her in preference to apples.

  I believe I can remember these two at a little distance apart, dwarfed to my sight by stooping down or kneeling on the floor, and I going unsteadily from the one to the other. I have an impression on my mind, which I cannot distinguish from actual remembrance, of the touch of Peggotty's forefinger as she used to hold it out to me, and of its being roughened by needlework, like a pocket nutmeg-grater.

  This may be fancy, though I think the memory of most of us can go farther back into such times than many of us suppose, just as I believe the power of observation in numbers of very young children to be quite wonderful for its closeness and accuracy. Indeed, I think that most grown men who are remarkable in this respect may with greater propriety be said not to have lost the faculty, than to have acquired it: the rather, as I generally observe such men to retain a certain freshness, and gentleness, and capacity of being pleased, which are also an inheritance they have preserved from their childhood.

  I might have a misgiving that I am "meandering" in stopping to say this, but that it brings me to remark that I build these conclusions in part upon my own experience of myself, and, if it should appear from anything I may set down in this narrative that I was a child of close observation, or that as a man I have a strong memory of my childhood, I undoubtedly lay claim to both of these characteristics.

  Looking back, as I was saying, into the blank of my infancy, the first objects I can remember as standing out by themselves from a confusion of things are my mother and Peggotty. What else do I remember? Let me see.

  There comes out of the cloud, our house--not new to me, but quite familiar, in its earliest remembrance. On the ground-floor is Peggotty's kitchen, opening into a back yard, with a pigeon-house on a pole, in the centre, without any pigeons in it; a great dog-kennel in a comer, without any dog; and a quantity of fowls that look terribly tall to me, walking about, in a menacing and ferocious manner. There is one cock who gets upon a post to crow and seems to take particular notice of me as I look at him through the kitchen window, who makes me shiver, he is so fierce. Of the geese outside the side-gate who come waddling after me with their long necks stretched out when I go that way, I dream at night, as a man environed by wild beasts might dream of lions.