David Copperfield

by Charles Dickens

  When I approached the Doctor's cottage--a pretty old place, on which he seemed to have expended some money, if I might judge from the embellishments and repairs that had the look of being just completed--I saw him walking in the garden at the side, gaiters and all, as if he had never left off walking since the days of my pupilage. He had his old companions about him, too, for there were plenty of high trees in the neighbourhood, and two or three rooks were on the grass, looking after him as if they had been written to about him by the Canterbury rooks, and were observing him closely in consequence.

  Knowing the utter hopelessness of attracting his attention from that distance, I made bold to open the gate, and walk after him, so as to meet him when he should turn round. When he did, and came towards me, he looked at me thoughtfully for a few moments, evidently without thinking about me at all, and then his benevolent face expressed extraordinary pleasure, and he took me by both hands.

  "Why, my dear Copperfield," said the Doctor, "you are a man! How do you do? I am delighted to see you. My dear Copperfield, how very much you have improved! You are quite--yes--dear me!"

  I hoped he was well, and Mrs. Strong too.

  "Oh dear, yes!" said the Doctor, "Annie's quite well, and she'll be delighted to see you. You were always her favourite. She said so, last night, when I showed her your letter. And --yes, to be sure--you recollect Mr. Jack Maldon, Copper-Seld?"

  "Perfectly, sir."

  "Of course," said the Doctor. "To be sure. He's pretty well, too."

  "Has he come home, sir?" I inquired.

  "From India?" said the Doctor. "Yes. Mr. Jack Maldon couldn't bear the climate, my dear. Mrs. Markleham--you have not forgotten Mrs. Markleham?"

  Forgotten the Old Soldier! And in that short time!

  "Mrs. Markleham," said the Doctor, "was quite vexed about him, poor thing, so we have got him at home again, and we have bought him a little Patent place, which agrees with him much better."

  I knew enough of Mr. Jack Maldon to suspect from this account that it was a place where there was not much to do, and which was pretty well paid. The Doctor, walking up and down with his hand on my shoulder, and his kind face turned encouragingly to mine, went on:

  "Now, my dear Copperfield, in reference to this proposal of yours. It's very gratifying and agreeable to me, I am sure, but don't you think you could do better? You achieved distinction, you know, when you were with us. You are qualified for many good things. You have laid a foundation that any edifice may be raised upon, and is it not a pity that you should devote the springtime of your life to such a poor pursuit as I can offer?"

  I became very glowing again, and, expressing myself in a rhapsodical style, I am afraid, urged my request strongly, reminding the Doctor that I had already a profession.

  "Well, well," returned the Doctor, "that's true. Certainly, your having a profession, and being actually engaged in studying it, makes a difference. But, my good young friend, what's seventy pounds a year?"

  "It doubles our income, Doctor Strong," said I.

  "Dear me!" replied the Doctor. "To think of that! Not that I mean to say it's rigidly limited to seventy pounds a year, because I have always contemplated making any young friend I might thus employ, a present too. Undoubtedly," said the Doctor, still walking me up and down with his hand on my shoulder, "I have always taken an annual present into account."

  "My dear tutor," said I (now, really, without any nonsense) "to whom I owe more obligations already than I ever can acknowledge--"

  "No, no," interposed the Doctor. "Pardon me!"

  "If you will take such time as 1 have, and that is my mornings and evenings, and can think it worth seventy pounds a year, you will do me such a service as I cannot express."

  "Dear me!" said the Doctor, innocently. "To think that so little should go for so much! Dear, dear! And when you can do better, you will? On your word, now?" said the Doctor--which he had always made a very grave appeal to the honour of us boys.

  "On my word, sir!" I returned, answering in our old school manner.

  "Then be it so," said the Doctor, clapping me on the shoulder; and still keeping his hand there, as we still walked up and down.

  "And I shall be twenty times happier, sir," said I, with a little--I hope innocent--flattery, "if my employment is to be on the Dictionary."

  The Doctor stopped, smilingly clapped me on the shoulder again, and exclaimed, with a triumph most delightful to behold, as if I had penetrated to the profoundest depths of mortal sagacity, "My dear young friend, you have hit it. It is the Dictionary!"

  How could it be anything else! His pockets were as full of it as his head. It was sticking out of him in all directions. He told me that since his retirement from scholastic life, he had been advancing with it wonderfully, and that nothing could suit him better than the proposed arrangements for morning and evening work, as it was his custom to walk about in the day-time with his considering cap on. His papers were in a little confusion, in consequence of Mr. Jack Maldon having lately proffered his occasional services as an amanuensis, and not being accustomed to that occupation, but we should soon put right what was amiss, and go on swimmingly. Afterwards, when we were fairly at our work, I found Mr. Jack Maldon's efforts more troublesome to me than I had expected, as he had not confined himself to making numerous mistakes, but had sketched so many soldiers, and ladies' heads, over the Doctor's manuscript, that I often became involved in labyrinths of obscurity.

  The Doctor was quite happy in the prospect of our going to work together on that wonderful performance, and we settled to begin next morning at seven o'clock. We were to work two hours every morning, and two or three hours every night, except on Saturdays, when I was to rest. On Sundays, of course, I was to rest also, and I considered these very easy terms.

  Our plans being thus arranged to our mutual satisfaction, the Doctor took me into the house to present me to Mrs. Strong, whom we found in the Doctor's new study, dusting his books--a freedom which he never permitted anybody else to take with those sacred favourites. [She looked very youthful, and extremely beautiful, and received me with great kindness, though I thought with some uneasiness. But I was uneasy myself in the old suspicious feeling which the sight of her revived within me, and I don't know how much of the constraint between us may have been on my side.]

  They had postponed their breakfast on my account, and we sat down to table together. We had not been seated long, when I saw an approaching arrival in Mrs. Strong's face, before I heard any sound of it. A gentleman on horseback came to the gate, and, leading his horse into the little court, with the bridle over his arm, as if he were quite at home, tied him to a ring in the empty coach-house wall, and came into the breakfast-parlour, whip in hand. It was Mr. Jack Maldon, and Mr. Jack Maldon was not at all improved by India, I thought. I was in a state of ferocious virtue, however, as to young men who were not cutting down the trees in the forest of difficulty, and my impression must be received with due allowance.

  "Mr. Jack!" said the Doctor. "Copperfield!"

  Mr. Jack Maldon shook hands with me, but not very warmly, I believed, and with an air of languid patronage, at which I secretly took great umbrage. But his languor altogether was quite a wonderful sight, except when he addressed himself to his cousin Annie.

  "Have you breakfasted this morning, Mr. Jack?" said the Doctor.

  "I hardly ever take breakfast, sir," he replied, with his head thrown back in an easy-chair. "I find it bores me."

  "Is there any news today?" inquired the Doctor.

  "Nothing at all, sir," replied Mr. Maldon. "There's an account about the people being hungry and discontented down in the North, but they are always being hungry and discontented somewhere."

  The Doctor looked grave, and said, as though he wished to change the subject, "Then there's no news at all, and no news, they say, is good news."

  "There's a long statement in the papers, sir, about a murder," observed Mr. Maldon. "But somebody is always being murdered, and I didn't re
ad it."

  A display of indifference to all the actions and passions of mankind was not supposed to be such a distinguished quality at that time, I think, as I have observed it to be considered since. I have known it very fashionable indeed. I have seen it displayed with such success that I have encountered some fine ladies and gentlemen who might as well have been bom caterpillars. Perhaps it impressed me the more then, because it was new to me, but it certainly did not tend to exalt my opinion of, or to strengthen my confidence in, Mr. Jack Maldon.

  "I came out to inquire whether Annie would like to go to the opera tonight," said Mr. Maldon, turning to her. "It's the last good night there will be, this season, and there's a singer there, whom she really ought to hear. She is perfectly exquisite. Besides which, she is so charmingly ugly," relapsing into languor.

  The Doctor, ever pleased with what was likely to please his young wife, turned to her and said:

  "You must go, Annie. You must go."

  "I would rather not," she said to the Doctor. "I prefer to remain at home. I would much rather remain at home."

  Without looking at her cousin, she then addressed me, and asked me about Agnes, and whether she should see her, and whether she was not likely to come that day, and was so much disturbed, that I wondered how even the Doctor, buttering his toast, could be blind to what was so obvious.

  But he saw nothing. He told her, good-naturedly, that she was young and ought to be amused and entertained, and must not allow herself to be made dull by a dull old fellow. Moreover, he said, he wanted to hear her sing all the new singer's songs to him, and how could she do that well, unless she went? So the Doctor persisted in making the engagement for her, and Mr. Jack Maldon was to come back to dinner. This concluded, he went to his Patent place, I suppose, but at all events went away on his horse, looking very idle.

  I was curious to find out next morning, whether she had been. She had not, but had sent into London to put her cousin off, and had gone out in the afternoon to see Agnes, and had prevailed upon the Doctor to go with her, and they had walked home by the fields, the Doctor told me, the evening being delightful. I wondered then whether she would have gone if Agnes had not been in town, and whether Agnes had some good influence over her tool

  She did not look very happy, I thought, but it was a good face, or a very false one. I often glanced at it, for she sat in the window all the time we were at work, and made our breakfast, which we took by snatches as we were employed. When I left, at nine o'clock, she was kneeling on the ground at the Doctor's feet, putting on his shoes and gaiters for him. There was a softened shade upon her face, thrown from some green leaves overhanging the open window of the low room, and I thought, all the way to Doctors' Commons, of the night when I had seen it looking at him as he read.

  I was pretty busy now, up at five in the morning, and home at nine or ten at night. But I had infinite satisfaction in being so closely engaged, and never walked slowly on any account, and felt enthusiastically that the more I tired myself, the more I was doing to deserve Dora. I had not revealed myself in my altered character to Dora yet, because she was coming to see Miss Mills in a few days, and I deferred all I had to tell her until then, merely informing her in my letters (all our communications were secretly forwarded through Miss Mills) that I had much to tell her. In the meantime, I put myself on a short allowance of bear's grease, wholly abandoned scented soap and lavender water, and sold off three waistcoats at a prodigious sacrifice, as being too luxurious for my stem career.

  Not satisfied with all these proceedings, but burning with impatience to do something more, I went to see Traddles, now lodging up behind the parapet of a house in Castle Street, Holborn. Mr. Dick, who had been with me to Highgate twice already, and had resumed his companionship with the Doctor, I took with me.

  I took Mr. Dick with me because, acutely sensitive to my aunt's reverses, and sincerely believing that no galley-slave or convict worked as I did, he had begun to fret and worry himself out of spirits and appetite, as having nothing useful to do. In this condition, he felt more incapable of finishing the Memorial than ever, and the harder he worked at it, the oftener that unlucky head of King Charles the First got into it. Seriously apprehending that his malady would increase, unless we put some innocent deception upon him and caused him to believe that he was useful, or unless we could put him in the way of being really useful (which would be better), I made up my mind to try if Traddles could help us. Before we went, I wrote Traddles a full statement of all that had happened, and Traddles wrote me back a capital answer, expressive of his sympathy and friendship.

  We found him hard at work with his inkstand and papers, refreshed by the sight of the flower-pot-stand and the little round table in a comer of the small apartment. He received us cordially, and made friends with Mr. Dick in a moment. Mr. Dick professed an absolute certainty of having seen him before, and we both said, "Very likely."

  The first subject on which I had to consult Traddles was this: I had heard that many men distinguished in various pursuits had begun life by reporting the debates in Parliament. Traddles having mentioned newspapers to me, as one of his hopes, I had put the two things together, and told Traddles in my letter that I wished to know how I could qualify myself for this pursuit. Traddles now informed me, as the result of his inquiries, that the mere mechanical acquisition necessary, except in rare cases, for thorough excellence in it, that is to say, a perfect and entire command of the mystery of shorthand writing and reading, was about equal in difficulty to the mastery of six languages, and that it might perhaps be attained, by dint of perseverance, in the course of a few years. Traddles reasonably supposed that this would settle the business, but I, only feeling that here indeed were a few tall trees to be hewn down, immediately resolved to work my way on to Dora through this thicket, axe in hand.

  "I am very much obliged to you, my dear Traddles!" said I. "I'll begin tomorrow."

  Traddles looked astonished, as he well might, but he had no notion as yet of my rapturous condition.

  "I'll buy a book," said I, "with a good scheme of this art in it, I'll work at it at the Commons, where I haven't half enough to do, I'll take down the speeches in our court for practice--Traddles, my dear fellow, I'll master it!"

  "Dear me," said Traddles, opening his eyes, "I had no idea you were such a determined character, Copperfield!"

  I don't know how he should have had, for it was new enough to me. I passed that off, and brought Mr. Dick on the carpet.

  "You see," said Mr. Dick, wistfully, "if I could exert myself, Mr. Traddles--if I could beat a drum--or blow anything!"

  Poor fellow! I have little doubt he would have preferred such an employment in his heart to all others. Traddles, who would not have smiled for the world, replied composedly:

  "But you are a very good penman, sir. You told me so, Copperfield?"

  "Excellent!" said I. And indeed he was. He wrote with extraordinary neatness.

  "Don't you think," said Traddles, "you could copy writings, sir, if I got them for you?"

  Mr. Dick looked doubtfully at me. "Eh, Trotwood?"

  I shook my head. Mr. Dick shook his, and sighed. "Tell him about the Memorial," said Mr. Dick.

  I explained to Traddles that there was a difficulty in keeping King Charles the First out of Mr. Dick's manuscripts, Mr. Dick in the meanwhile looking very deferentially and seriously at Traddles, and sucking his thumb.

  "But these writings, you know, that I speak of, are already drawn up and finished," said Traddles after a little consideration. "Mr. Dick has nothing to do with them. Wouldn't that make a difference, Copperfield? At all events, wouldn't it be well to try?"

  This gave us new hope. Traddles and I laying our heads together apart, while Mr. Dick anxiously watched us from his chair, we concocted a scheme in virtue of which we got him to work next day, with triumphant success.

  On a table by the window in Buckingham Street, we set out the work Traddles procured for him--which was to make, I forget how ma
ny copies of a legal document about some right of way--and on another table we spread the last unfinished original of the great Memorial. Our instructions to Mr. Dick were that he should copy exactly what he had before him, without the least departure from the original, and that when he felt it necessary to make the slightest allusion to King Charles the First, he should fly to the Memorial. We exhorted him to be resolute in this, and left my aunt to observe him. My aunt reported to us, afterwards, that, at first, he was like a man playing the kettle-drums, and constantly divided his attentions between the two, but that, finding this confuse and fatigue him, and having his copy there, plainly before his eyes, he soon sat at it in an orderly business-like manner, and postponed the Memorial to a more convenient time. In a word, although we took great care that he should have no more to do than was good for him, and although he did not begin with the beginning of a week, he earned by the following Saturday night ten shillings and ninepence, and never, while I live, shall I forget his going about to all the shops in the neighbourhood to change this treasure into sixpences, or his bringing them to my aunt arranged in the form of a heart upon a waiter, with tears of joy and pride in his eyes. He was like one under the propitious influence of a charm, from the moment of his being usefully employed, and, if there were a happy man in the world, that Saturday night, it was the grateful creature who thought my aunt the most wonderful woman in existence, and me the most wonderful young man.

  "No starving now, Trotwood," said Mr. Dick, shaking hands with me in a comer. "I'll provide for her, sir!" and he flourished his ten fingers in the air, as if they were ten banks.

  I hardly know which was the better pleased, Traddles or I. "It really," said Traddles, suddenly, taking a letter out of his pocket, and giving it to me, "put Mr. Micawber quite out of my head!"

  The letter (Mr. Micawber never missed any possible opportunity of writing a letter) was addressed to me, "By the kindness of T. Traddles, Esquire, of the Inner Temple." It ran thus: