فصل 43

CHAPTER XLIII 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 fire-place, 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 mans 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 Traddless 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 darlings wardrobe, is constantly cutting out brownpaper 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 cant 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 up-stairs!

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 a meatscreen, 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 forms sake, when I have time? The realisation 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 cant believe that it is going to be and yet I cant believe but that every one I pass in the street, must have some kind of perception, that I am to be married the day after to-morrow. 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. Its a satisfaction to know that shell 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 Wickfields 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 dont believe it. Nothing is real.

Sophy arrives at the house of Doras 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 dont believe it. We have a delightful evening, and are supremely happy but I dont believe it yet. I cant collect myself. I cant 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 cant 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—Doras 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 rosecolored furniture, and Doras 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 Jips 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 some one taps.

I say, Come in! but some one 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 Doras eyes and face, and Miss Lavinia has dressed her in to-morrows 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 the 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 hell 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-colored 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 color 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 give mine to Traddles, and then we come to the church-door.

The church is calm enough, I am sure but it might be a steampower 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-serjeant, 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 flavoring 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 Doras 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 Peggottys 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 flavor 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 havent said it. Of our being very sociably and simply happy always in a dream though and of Jips having wedding cake, and its not agreeing with him afterwards.

Of the pair of hired post-horses being ready, and of Doras 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 Doras aunts, being mightily amused with herself, but a little proud of it too.

Of Doras being ready, and of Miss Lavinias hovering about her, loth to lose the pretty toy that has given her so much pleasant occupation. Of Doras making a long series of surprised discoveries that she has forgotten all sorts of little things and of everybodys running everywhere to fetch them.

Of their all closing about Dora, when at last she begins to say good bye, looking, with their bright colors 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 Doras saying no, that she must carry him, or else hell think she dont 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, dont 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 dont 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.

END OF No. XIV