CHAPTER 43. 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 fireplace, 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 man’s 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 Traddles’s 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

darling’s wardrobe, is constantly cutting out brown-paper 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 can’t 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 upstairs!’

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 meat-screen, 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 form’s sake, when

I have time? The realization 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

can’t believe that it is going to be; and yet I can’t believe but that

everyone I pass in the street, must have some kind of perception, that I

am to be married the day after tomorrow. 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. It’s a satisfaction to know that she’ll 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 Wickfield’s 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 don’t believe it. Nothing is real.

Sophy arrives at the house of Dora’s 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 don’t believe it. We have a delightful evening, and are

supremely happy; but I don’t believe it yet. I can’t collect myself. I

can’t 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 can’t 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--Dora’s 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 rose-coloured furniture, and

Dora’s 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 Jip’s 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

someone taps.

I say, ‘Come in!’ but someone 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 Dora’s eyes and face, and Miss

Lavinia has dressed her in tomorrow’s 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 her 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

he’ll 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-coloured 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 colour 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 gives mine to Traddles, and then we come to the church door.

The church is calm enough, I am sure; but it might be a steam-power 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-sergeant, 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

flavouring 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 Dora’s 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

Peggotty’s 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 flavour; 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 haven’t said it. Of our being very sociably and simply

happy (always in a dream though); and of Jip’s having wedding cake, and

its not agreeing with him afterwards.

Of the pair of hired post-horses being ready, and of Dora’s 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 Dora’s aunts, being mightily amused with herself, but

a little proud of it too.

Of Dora’s being ready, and of Miss Lavinia’s hovering about her, loth to

lose the pretty toy that has given her so much pleasant occupation.

Of Dora’s making a long series of surprised discoveries that she

has forgotten all sorts of little things; and of everybody’s running

everywhere to fetch them.

Of their all closing about Dora, when at last she begins to say

good-bye, looking, with their bright colours 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 Dora’s

saying no, that she must carry him, or else he’ll think she don’t 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, don’t 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 don’t

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.