The Personal History of David Copperfield

CHAPTER LXIII.

A VISITOR

What I have purposed to record is nearly finished; but there is yet an incident conspicuous in my memory, on which it often rests with delight, and without which one thread in the web I have spun, would have a ravelled end.

I had advanced in fame and fortune, my domestic joy was perfect, I had been married ten happy years. Agnes and I were sitting by the fire, in our house in London, one night in spring, and three of our children were playing in the room, when I was told that a stranger wished to see me.

He had been asked if he came on business, and had answered No; he had come for the pleasure of seeing me, and had come a long way. He was an old man, my servant said, and looked like a farmer.

As this sounded mysterious to the children, and moreover was like the beginning of a favorite story Agnes used to tell them, introductory to the arrival of a wicked old Fairy in a cloak who hated every body, it produced some commotion. One of our boys laid his head in his mother’s lap to be out of harm’s way, and little Agnes (our eldest child) left her doll in a chair to represent her, and thrust out her little heap of golden curls from between the window-curtains, to see what happened next.

“Let him come in here!” said I.

There soon appeared, pausing in the dark doorway as he entered, a hale, grey-haired old man. Little Agnes, attracted by his looks, had run to bring him in, and I had not yet clearly seen his face, when my wife, starting up, cried out to me, in a pleased and agitated voice, that it was Mr. Peggotty!

It was Mr. Peggotty. An old man now, but in a ruddy, hearty, strong old age. When our first emotion was over, and he sat before the fire with the children on his knees, and the blaze shining on his face, he looked, to me, as vigorous and robust, withal as handsome, an old man, as ever I had seen.

“Mas’r Davy,” said he. And the old name in the old tone fell so naturally on my ear! “Mas’r Davy, ’tis a joyful hour as I see you, once more, ’long with your own trew wife!”

“A joyful hour indeed, old friend!” cried I.

“And these heer pretty ones,” said Mr. Peggotty. “To look at these heer flowers! Why, Mas’r Davy, you was but the heighth of the littlest of these, when I first see you! When Em’ly warn’t no bigger, and our poor lad were but a lad!”

“Time has changed me more than it has changed you since then,” said I. “But, let these dear rogues go to bed; and as no house in England but this must hold you, tell me where to send for your luggage (is the old black bag among it, that went so far, I wonder!), and then, over a glass of Yarmouth grog, we will have the tidings of ten years!”

“Are you alone?” asked Agnes.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, kissing her hand, “quite alone.”

We sat him between us, not knowing how to give him welcome enough; and as I began to listen to his old familiar voice, I could have fancied he was still pursuing his long journey in search of his darling niece.

“It’s a mort of water,” said Mr. Peggotty, “fur to come across, and on’y stay a matter of fower weeks. But water (’specially when ’tis salt) comes nat’ral to me; and friends is dear, and I am heer. – Which is verse,” said Mr. Peggotty, surprised to find it out, “though I hadn’t such intentions.”

“Are you going back those many thousand miles, so soon?” asked Agnes.

“Yes, ma’am,” he returned. “I giv the promise to Em’ly, afore I come away. You see, I doen’t grow younger as the years comes round, and if I hadn’t sailed as ’twas, most like I shouldn’t never have done ’t. And it’s allus been on my mind, as I must come and see Mas’r Davy and your own sweet blooming self, in your wedded happiness, afore I got to be too old.”

He looked at us, as if he could never feast his eyes on us sufficiently. Agnes laughingly put back some scattered locks of his grey hair, that he might see us better.

“And now tell us,” said I, “everything relating to your fortunes.”

“Our fortuns, Mas’r Davy,” he rejoined, “is soon told. We haven’t fared nohows, but fared to thrive. We’ve allus thrived. We’ve worked as we ought to ’t, and maybe we lived a leetle hard at first or so, but we have allus thrived. What with sheep-farming, and what with stock-farming, and what with one thing and what with t’other, we are as well to do, as well could be. Theer’s been kiender a blessing fell upon us,” said Mr. Peggotty, reverentially inclining his head, “and we’ve done nowt but prosper. That is, in the long run. If not yesterday, why then to-day. If not to-day, why then to-morrow.”

“And Emily?” said Agnes and I, both together.

“Em’ly,” said he, “arter you left her, ma’am – and I never heerd her saying of her prayers at night, t’other side the canvas screen, when we was settled in the Bush, but what I heerd your name – and arter she and me lost sight of Mas’r Davy, that theer shining sundown – was that low, at first, that, if she had know’d then what Mas’r Davy kep from us so kind and thowtful, ’tis my opinion she’d have drooped away. But theer was some poor folks aboard as had illness among ’em, and she took care of them; and theer was the children in our company, and she took care of them; and so she got to be busy, and to be doing good, and that helped her.”

“When did she first hear of it?” I asked.

“I kep it from her arter I heerd on’t,” said Mr. Peggotty, “going on nigh a year. We was living then in a solitary place, but among the beautifullest trees, and with the roses a covering our Beein to the roof. Theer come along one day, when I was out a working on the land, a traveller from our own Norfolk or Suffolk in England (I doen’t rightly mind which), and of course we took him in, and giv him to eat and drink, and made him welcome. We all do that, all the colony over. He’d got an old newspaper with him, and some other account in print of the storm. That’s how she know’d it. When I come home at night, I found she know’d it.”

He dropped his voice as he said these words, and the gravity I so well remembered overspread his face.

“Did it change her much?” we asked.

“Aye, for a good long time,” he said, shaking his head; “if not to this present hour. But I think the solitoode done her good. And she had a deal to mind in the way of poultry and the like, and minded of it, and come through. I wonder,” he said thoughtfully, “if you could see my Em’ly now, Mas’r Davy, whether you’d know her!”

“Is she so altered?” I inquired.

“I doen’t know. I see her ev’ry day, and doen’t know; but, odd-times, I have thowt so. A slight figure,” said Mr. Peggotty, looking at the fire, “kiender worn; soft, sorrowful, blue eyes; a delicate face; a pritty head, leaning a little down; a quiet voice and way – timid a’most. That’s Em’ly!”

We silently observed him as he sat, still looking at the fire.

“Some thinks,” he said, “as her affection was ill-bestowed; some, as her marriage was broke off by death. No one knows how ’tis. She might have married well, a mort of times, ‘but, uncle,’ she says to me, ‘that’s gone for ever.’ Cheerful along with me; retired when others is by; fond of going any distance fur to teach a child, or fur to tend a sick person, or fur to do some kindness tow’rds a young girl’s wedding (and she’s done a many, but has never seen one); fondly loving of her uncle; patient; liked by young and old; sowt out by all that has any trouble. That’s Em’ly!”

He drew his hand across his face, and with a half-suppressed sigh looked up from the fire.

“Is Martha with you yet?” I asked.

“Martha,” he replied “got married, Mas’r Davy, in the second year. A young man, a farm-laborer, as come by us on his way to market with his mas’r’s drays – a journey of over five hundred mile, theer and back – made offers fur to take her fur his wife (wives is very scarce theer), and then to set up fur their two selves in the Bush. She spoke to me fur to tell him her trew story. I did. They was married, and they live fower hundred mile away from any voices but their own and the singing birds.”

“Mrs. Gummidge?” I suggested.

It was a pleasant key to touch, for Mr. Peggotty suddenly burst into a roar of laughter, and rubbed his hands up and down his legs, as he had been accustomed to do when he enjoyed himself in the long-shipwrecked boat.

“Would you believe it!” he said. “Why, someun even made offers fur to marry her! If a ship’s cook that was turning settler, Mas’r Davy, didn’t make offers fur to marry Missis Gummidge, I’m Gormed – and I can’t say no fairer than that!”

I never saw Agnes laugh so. This sudden ecstacy on the part of Mr. Peggotty was so delightful to her, that she could not leave off laughing; and the more she laughed the more she made me laugh, and the greater Mr. Peggotty’s ecstacy became, and the more he rubbed his legs.

“And what did Mrs. Gummidge say?” I asked, when I was grave enough.

“If you’ll believe me,” returned Mr. Peggotty, “Missis Gummidge, ’stead of saying ‘thank you, I’m much obleeged to you, I ain’t a going fur to change my condition at my time of life,’ up’d with a bucket as was standing by, and laid it over that theer ship’s cook’s head ’till he sung out for help, and I went in and reskied of him.”

Mr. Peggotty burst into a great roar of laughter, and Agnes and I both kept him company.

“But I must say this, for the good creetur,” he resumed, wiping his face when we were quite exhausted; “she has been all she said she’d be to us, and more. She’s the willingest, the trewest, the honestest-helping woman, Mas’r Davy, as ever draw’d the breath of life. I have never know’d her to be lone and lorn, for a single minute, not even when the colony was all afore us, and we was new to it. And thinking of the old ’un is a thing she never done, I do assure you, since she left England!”

“Now, last, not least, Mr. Micawber,” said I. “He has paid off every obligation he incurred here – even to Traddles’s bill, you remember, my dear Agnes – and therefore we may take it for granted that he is doing well. But what is the latest news of him?”

Mr. Peggotty, with a smile, put his hand in his breast-pocket, and produced a flat-folded, paper parcel, from which he took out, with much care, a little odd-looking newspaper.

“You are to unnerstan’, Mas’r Davy,” said he, “as we have left the Bush now, being so well to do; and have gone right away round to Port Middlebay Harbor, wheer theer’s what we call a town.”

“Mr. Micawber was in the Bush near you?” said I.

“Bless you, yes,” said Mr. Peggotty, “and turned to with a will. I never wish to meet a better gen’lman for turning to, with a will. I’ve seen that theer bald head of his, a perspiring in the sun, Mas’r Davy, ’till I a’most thowt it would have melted away. And now he’s a Magistrate.”

“A Magistrate, eh?” said I.

Mr. Peggotty pointed to a certain paragraph in the newspaper, where I read aloud as follows, from the “Port Middlebay Times:”

“☞ The public dinner to our distinguished fellow-colonist and townsman, Wilkins Micawber, Esquire, Port Middlebay District Magistrate, came off yesterday in the large room of the Hotel, which was crowded to suffocation. It is estimated that not fewer than forty-seven persons must have been accommodated with dinner at one time, exclusive of the company in the passage and on the stairs. The beauty, fashion, and exclusiveness of Port Middlebay, flocked to do honor to one so deservedly esteemed, so highly talented, and so widely popular. Doctor Mell (of Colonial Salem-House Grammar School, Port Middlebay) presided, and on his right sat the distinguished guest. After the removal of the cloth, and the singing of Non Nobis (beautifully executed, and in which we were at no loss to distinguish the bell-like notes of that gifted amateur, Wilkins Micawber, Esquire, Junior), the usual loyal and patriotic toasts were severally given and rapturously received. Doctor Mell, in a speech replete with feeling, then proposed ‘Our distinguished Guest, the ornament of our town. May he never leave us but to better himself, and may his success among us be such as to render his bettering himself impossible!’ The cheering with which the toast was received defies description. Again and again it rose and fell, like the waves of ocean. At length all was hushed, and Wilkins Micawber, Esquire, presented himself to return thanks. Far be it from us, in the present comparatively imperfect state of the resources of our establishment, to endeavour to follow our distinguished townsman through the smoothly-flowing periods of his polished and highly-ornate address! Suffice it to observe, that it was a masterpiece of eloquence; and that those passages in which he more particularly traced his own successful career to its source, and warned the younger portion of his auditory from the shoals of ever incurring pecuniary liabilities which they were unable to liquidate, brought a tear into the manliest eye present. The remaining toasts were Doctor Mell; Mrs. Micawber (who gracefully bowed her acknowledgments from the side-door, where a galaxy of beauty was elevated on chairs, at once to witness and adorn the gratifying scene); Mrs. Ridger Begs (late Miss Micawber); Mrs. Mell; Wilkins Micawber, Esquire, Junior (who convulsed the assembly by humorously remarking that he found himself unable to return thanks in a speech, but would do so, with their permission, in a song); Mrs. Micawber’s Family (well-known, it is needless to remark, in the mother-country), &c. &c. &c. At the conclusion of the proceedings the tables were cleared as if by art-magic for dancing. Among the votaries of Terpsichore, who disported themselves until Sol gave warning for departure, Wilkins Micawber, Esquire, Junior, and the lovely and accomplished Miss Helena, fourth daughter of Doctor Mell, were particularly remarkable.”

I was looking back to the name of Doctor Mell, pleased to have discovered, in these happier circumstances, Mr. Mell, formerly poor pinched usher to my Middlesex magistrate, when Mr. Peggotty pointing to another part of the paper, my eyes rested on my own name, and I read thus:

“My Dear Sir,

“Years have elapsed, since I had an opportunity of ocularly perusing the lineaments, now familiar to the imaginations of a considerable portion of the civilised world.

“But, my dear sir, though estranged (by the force of circumstances over which I have had no controul) from the personal society of the friend and companion of my youth, I have not been unmindful of his soaring flight. Nor have I been debarred,

(Burns) from participating in the intellectual feasts he has spread before us.

“I cannot, therefore, allow of the departure from this place of an individual whom we mutually respect and esteem, without, my dear sir, taking this public opportunity of thanking you, on my own behalf, and, I may undertake to add, on that of the whole of the Inhabitants of Port Middlebay, for the gratification of which you are the ministering agent.

“Go on, my dear sir! You are not unknown here, you are not unappreciated. Though ‘remote,’ we are neither ‘unfriended,’ ‘melancholy,’ nor (I may add) ‘slow.’ Go on, my dear sir, in your Eagle course! The Inhabitants of Port Middlebay may at least aspire to watch it, with delight, with entertainment, with instruction!

“Among the eyes elevated towards you from this portion of the globe, will ever be found, while it has light and life,

I found, on glancing at the remaining contents of the newspaper, that Mr. Micawber was a diligent and esteemed correspondent of that Journal. There was another letter from him in the same paper, touching a bridge; there was an advertisement of a collection of similar letters by him, to be shortly republished, in a neat volume, “with considerable additions;” and, unless I am very much mistaken, the Leading Article was his also.

We talked much of Mr. Micawber, on many other evenings while Mr. Peggotty remained with us. He lived with us during the whole term of his stay, – which, I think, was something less than a month, – and his sister and my aunt came to London to see him. Agnes and I parted from him aboardship, when he sailed; and we shall never part from him more, on earth.

But before he left, he went with me to Yarmouth, to see a little tablet I had put up in the churchyard to the memory of Ham. While I was copying the plain inscription for him at his request, I saw him stoop, and gather a tuft of grass from the grave, and a little earth.

“For Em’ly,” he said, as he put it in his breast. “I promised, Mas’r Davy.”

CHAPTER LXIV.

A LAST RETROSPECT

And now my written story ends. I look back, once more – for the last time – before I close these leaves.

I see myself, with Agnes at my side, journeying along the road of life. I see our children and our friends around us; and I hear the roar of many voices, not indifferent to me as I travel on.

What faces are the most distinct to me in the fleeting crowd? Lo, these; all turning to me as I ask my thoughts the question!

Here is my aunt, in stronger spectacles, an old woman of fourscore years and more, but upright yet, and a steady walker of six miles at a stretch in winter weather.

Always with her, here comes Peggotty, my good old nurse, likewise in spectacles, accustomed to do needlework at night very close to the lamp, but never sitting down to it without a bit of wax candle, a yard measure in a little house, and a work-box with a picture of St. Paul’s upon the lid.

The cheeks and arms of Peggotty, so hard and red in my childish days, when I wondered why the birds didn’t peck her in preference to apples, are shrivelled now; and her eyes, that used to darken their whole neighbourhood in her face, are fainter (though they glitter still); but her rough forefinger, which I once associated with a pocket nutmeg grater, is just the same, and when I see my least child catching at it as it totters from my aunt to her, I think of our little parlor at home, when I could scarcely walk. My aunt’s old disappointment is set right, now. She is godmother to a real living Betsey Trotwood; and Dora (the next in order) says she spoils her.

There is something bulky in Peggotty’s pocket. It is nothing smaller than the Crocodile-Book, which is in rather a dilapidated condition by this time, with divers of the leaves torn and stitched across, but which Peggotty exhibits to the children as a precious relic. I find it very curious to see my own infant face, looking up at me from the Crocodile stories; and to be reminded by it of my old acquaintance Brooks of Sheffield.

Among my boys, this summer holiday time, I see an old man making giant kites, and gazing at them in the air, with a delight for which there are no words. He greets me rapturously, and whispers, with many nods and winks, “Trotwood, you will be glad to hear that I shall finish the Memorial when I have nothing else to do, and that your aunt’s the most extraordinary woman in the world, sir!”

Who is this bent lady, supporting herself by a stick, and showing me a countenance in which there are some traces of old pride and beauty, feebly contending with a querulous, imbecile, fretful wandering of the mind? She is in a garden; and near her stands a sharp, dark, withered woman, with a white scar on her lip. Let me hear what they say.

“Rosa, I have forgotten this gentleman’s name.”

Rosa bends over her, and calls to her, “Mr. Copperfield.”

“I am glad to see you, sir. I am sorry to observe you are in mourning. I hope Time will be good to you!”

Her impatient attendant scolds her, tells her I am not in mourning, bids her look again, tries to rouse her.

“You have seen my son, sir,” says the elder lady. “Are you reconciled?”

Looking fixedly at me, she puts her hand to her forehead, and moans. Suddenly, she cries, in a terrible voice, “Rosa, come to me. He is dead!” Rosa, kneeling at her feet, by turns caresses her, and quarrels with her; now fiercely telling her, “I loved him better than you ever did!” – now soothing her to sleep on her breast, like a sick child. Thus I leave them; thus I always find them; thus they wear their time away, from year to year.

What ship comes sailing home from India, and what English lady is this, married to a growling old Scotch Crœsus with great flaps of ears. Can this be Julia Mills?

Indeed it is Julia Mills, peevish and fine, with a black man to carry cards and letters to her on a golden salver, and a copper-colored woman in linen, with a bright handkerchief round her head, to serve her Tiffin in her dressing-room. But Julia keeps no diary in these days; never sings Affection’s Dirge; eternally quarrels with the old Scotch Crœsus, who is a sort of yellow bear with a tanned hide. Julia is steeped in money to the throat, and talks and thinks of nothing else. I liked her better in the Desert of Sahara.