CHAPTER 19 - I LOOK ABOUT ME, AND MAKE A DISCOVERY

I am doubtful whether I was at heart glad or sorry, when my

school-days drew to an end, and the time came for my leaving Doctor

Strong's. I had been very happy there, I had a great attachment

for the Doctor, and I was eminent and distinguished in that little

world. For these reasons I was sorry to go; but for other reasons,

unsubstantial enough, I was glad. Misty ideas of being a young man

at my own disposal, of the importance attaching to a young man at

his own disposal, of the wonderful things to be seen and done by

that magnificent animal, and the wonderful effects he could not

fail to make upon society, lured me away. So powerful were these

visionary considerations in my boyish mind, that I seem, according

to my present way of thinking, to have left school without natural

regret. The separation has not made the impression on me, that

other separations have. I try in vain to recall how I felt about

it, and what its circumstances were; but it is not momentous in my

recollection. I suppose the opening prospect confused me. I know

that my juvenile experiences went for little or nothing then; and

that life was more like a great fairy story, which I was just about

to begin to read, than anything else.

MY aunt and I had held many grave deliberations on the calling to

which I should be devoted. For a year or more I had endeavoured to

find a satisfactory answer to her often-repeated question, 'What I

would like to be?' But I had no particular liking, that I could

discover, for anything. If I could have been inspired with a

knowledge of the science of navigation, taken the command of a

fast-sailing expedition, and gone round the world on a triumphant

voyage of discovery, I think I might have considered myself

completely suited. But, in the absence of any such miraculous

provision, my desire was to apply myself to some pursuit that would

not lie too heavily upon her purse; and to do my duty in it,

whatever it might be.

Mr. Dick had regularly assisted at our councils, with a meditative

and sage demeanour. He never made a suggestion but once; and on

that occasion (I don't know what put it in his head), he suddenly

proposed that I should be 'a Brazier'. My aunt received this

proposal so very ungraciously, that he never ventured on a second;

but ever afterwards confined himself to looking watchfully at her

for her suggestions, and rattling his money.

'Trot, I tell you what, my dear,' said my aunt, one morning in the

Christmas season when I left school: 'as this knotty point is still

unsettled, and as we must not make a mistake in our decision if we

can help it, I think we had better take a little breathing-time.

In the meanwhile, you must try to look at it from a new point of

view, and not as a schoolboy.'

'I will, aunt.'

'It has occurred to me,' pursued my aunt, 'that a little change,

and a glimpse of life out of doors, may be useful in helping you to

know your own mind, and form a cooler judgement. Suppose you were

to go down into the old part of the country again, for instance,

and see that - that out-of-the-way woman with the savagest of

names,' said my aunt, rubbing her nose, for she could never

thoroughly forgive Peggotty for being so called.

'Of all things in the world, aunt, I should like it best!'

'Well,' said my aunt, 'that's lucky, for I should like it too. But

it's natural and rational that you should like it. And I am very

well persuaded that whatever you do, Trot, will always be natural

and rational.'

'I hope so, aunt.'

'Your sister, Betsey Trotwood,' said my aunt, 'would have been as

natural and rational a girl as ever breathed. You'll be worthy of

her, won't you?'

'I hope I shall be worthy of YOU, aunt. That will be enough for

me.'

'It's a mercy that poor dear baby of a mother of yours didn't

live,' said my aunt, looking at me approvingly, 'or she'd have been

so vain of her boy by this time, that her soft little head would

have been completely turned, if there was anything of it left to

turn.' (My aunt always excused any weakness of her own in my

behalf, by transferring it in this way to my poor mother.) 'Bless

me, Trotwood, how you do remind me of her!'

'Pleasantly, I hope, aunt?' said I.

'He's as like her, Dick,' said my aunt, emphatically, 'he's as like

her, as she was that afternoon before she began to fret - bless my

heart, he's as like her, as he can look at me out of his two eyes!'

'Is he indeed?' said Mr. Dick.

'And he's like David, too,' said my aunt, decisively.

'He is very like David!' said Mr. Dick.

'But what I want you to be, Trot,' resumed my aunt, '- I don't mean

physically, but morally; you are very well physically - is, a firm

fellow. A fine firm fellow, with a will of your own. With

resolution,' said my aunt, shaking her cap at me, and clenching her

hand. 'With determination. With character, Trot - with strength

of character that is not to be influenced, except on good reason,

by anybody, or by anything. That's what I want you to be. That's

what your father and mother might both have been, Heaven knows, and

been the better for it.'

I intimated that I hoped I should be what she described.

'That you may begin, in a small way, to have a reliance upon

yourself, and to act for yourself,' said my aunt, 'I shall send you

upon your trip, alone. I did think, once, of Mr. Dick's going with

you; but, on second thoughts, I shall keep him to take care of me.'

Mr. Dick, for a moment, looked a little disappointed; until the

honour and dignity of having to take care of the most wonderful

woman in the world, restored the sunshine to his face.

'Besides,' said my aunt, 'there's the Memorial -'

'Oh, certainly,' said Mr. Dick, in a hurry, 'I intend, Trotwood, to

get that done immediately - it really must be done immediately!

And then it will go in, you know - and then -' said Mr. Dick, after

checking himself, and pausing a long time, 'there'll be a pretty

kettle of fish!'

In pursuance of my aunt's kind scheme, I was shortly afterwards

fitted out with a handsome purse of money, and a portmanteau, and

tenderly dismissed upon my expedition. At parting, my aunt gave me

some good advice, and a good many kisses; and said that as her

object was that I should look about me, and should think a little,

she would recommend me to stay a few days in London, if I liked it,

either on my way down into Suffolk, or in coming back. In a word,

I was at liberty to do what I would, for three weeks or a month;

and no other conditions were imposed upon my freedom than the

before-mentioned thinking and looking about me, and a pledge to

write three times a week and faithfully report myself.

I went to Canterbury first, that I might take leave of Agnes and

Mr. Wickfield (my old room in whose house I had not yet

relinquished), and also of the good Doctor. Agnes was very glad to

see me, and told me that the house had not been like itself since

I had left it.

'I am sure I am not like myself when I am away,' said I. 'I seem

to want my right hand, when I miss you. Though that's not saying

much; for there's no head in my right hand, and no heart. Everyone

who knows you, consults with you, and is guided by you, Agnes.'

'Everyone who knows me, spoils me, I believe,' she answered,

smiling.

'No. it's because you are like no one else. You are so good, and

so sweet-tempered. You have such a gentle nature, and you are

always right.'

'You talk,' said Agnes, breaking into a pleasant laugh, as she sat

at work, 'as if I were the late Miss Larkins.'

'Come! It's not fair to abuse my confidence,' I answered,

reddening at the recollection of my blue enslaver. 'But I shall

confide in you, just the same, Agnes. I can never grow out of

that. Whenever I fall into trouble, or fall in love, I shall

always tell you, if you'll let me - even when I come to fall in

love in earnest.'

'Why, you have always been in earnest!' said Agnes, laughing again.

'Oh! that was as a child, or a schoolboy,' said I, laughing in my

turn, not without being a little shame-faced. 'Times are altering

now, and I suppose I shall be in a terrible state of earnestness

one day or other. My wonder is, that you are not in earnest

yourself, by this time, Agnes.'

Agnes laughed again, and shook her head.

'Oh, I know you are not!' said I, 'because if you had been you

would have told me. Or at least' - for I saw a faint blush in her

face, 'you would have let me find it out for myself. But there is

no one that I know of, who deserves to love you, Agnes. Someone of

a nobler character, and more worthy altogether than anyone I have

ever seen here, must rise up, before I give my consent. In the

time to come, I shall have a wary eye on all admirers; and shall

exact a great deal from the successful one, I assure you.'

We had gone on, so far, in a mixture of confidential jest and

earnest, that had long grown naturally out of our familiar

relations, begun as mere children. But Agnes, now suddenly lifting

up her eyes to mine, and speaking in a different manner, said:

'Trotwood, there is something that I want to ask you, and that I

may not have another opportunity of asking for a long time, perhaps

- something I would ask, I think, of no one else. Have you

observed any gradual alteration in Papa?'

I had observed it, and had often wondered whether she had too. I

must have shown as much, now, in my face; for her eyes were in a

moment cast down, and I saw tears in them.

'Tell me what it is,' she said, in a low voice.

'I think - shall I be quite plain, Agnes, liking him so much?'

'Yes,' she said.

'I think he does himself no good by the habit that has increased

upon him since I first came here. He is often very nervous - or I

fancy so.'

'It is not fancy,' said Agnes, shaking her head.

'His hand trembles, his speech is not plain, and his eyes look

wild. I have remarked that at those times, and when he is least

like himself, he is most certain to be wanted on some business.'

'By Uriah,' said Agnes.

'Yes; and the sense of being unfit for it, or of not having

understood it, or of having shown his condition in spite of

himself, seems to make him so uneasy, that next day he is worse,

and next day worse, and so he becomes jaded and haggard. Do not be

alarmed by what I say, Agnes, but in this state I saw him, only the

other evening, lay down his head upon his desk, and shed tears like

a child.'

Her hand passed softly before my lips while I was yet speaking, and

in a moment she had met her father at the door of the room, and was

hanging on his shoulder. The expression of her face, as they both

looked towards me, I felt to be very touching. There was such deep

fondness for him, and gratitude to him for all his love and care,

in her beautiful look; and there was such a fervent appeal to me to

deal tenderly by him, even in my inmost thoughts, and to let no

harsh construction find any place against him; she was, at once, so

proud of him and devoted to him, yet so compassionate and sorry,

and so reliant upon me to be so, too; that nothing she could have

said would have expressed more to me, or moved me more.

We were to drink tea at the Doctor's. We went there at the usual

hour; and round the study fireside found the Doctor, and his young

wife, and her mother. The Doctor, who made as much of my going

away as if I were going to China, received me as an honoured guest;

and called for a log of wood to be thrown on the fire, that he

might see the face of his old pupil reddening in the blaze.

'I shall not see many more new faces in Trotwood's stead,

Wickfield,' said the Doctor, warming his hands; 'I am getting lazy,

and want ease. I shall relinquish all my young people in another

six months, and lead a quieter life.'

'You have said so, any time these ten years, Doctor,' Mr. Wickfield

answered.

'But now I mean to do it,' returned the Doctor. 'My first master

will succeed me - I am in earnest at last - so you'll soon have to

arrange our contracts, and to bind us firmly to them, like a couple

of knaves.'

'And to take care,' said Mr. Wickfield, 'that you're not imposed

on, eh? As you certainly would be, in any contract you should make

for yourself. Well! I am ready. There are worse tasks than that,

in my calling.'

'I shall have nothing to think of then,' said the Doctor, with a

smile, 'but my Dictionary; and this other contract-bargain -

Annie.'

As Mr. Wickfield glanced towards her, sitting at the tea table by

Agnes, she seemed to me to avoid his look with such unwonted

hesitation and timidity, that his attention became fixed upon her,

as if something were suggested to his thoughts.

'There is a post come in from India, I observe,' he said, after a

short silence.

'By the by! and letters from Mr. Jack Maldon!' said the Doctor.

'Indeed!'

'Poor dear Jack!' said Mrs. Markleham, shaking her head. 'That

trying climate! - like living, they tell me, on a sand-heap,

underneath a burning-glass! He looked strong, but he wasn't. My

dear Doctor, it was his spirit, not his constitution, that he

ventured on so boldly. Annie, my dear, I am sure you must

perfectly recollect that your cousin never was strong - not what

can be called ROBUST, you know,' said Mrs. Markleham, with

emphasis, and looking round upon us generally, '- from the time

when my daughter and himself were children together, and walking

about, arm-in-arm, the livelong day.'

Annie, thus addressed, made no reply.

'Do I gather from what you say, ma'am, that Mr. Maldon is ill?'

asked Mr. Wickfield.

'Ill!' replied the Old Soldier. 'My dear sir, he's all sorts of

things.'

'Except well?' said Mr. Wickfield.

'Except well, indeed!' said the Old Soldier. 'He has had dreadful

strokes of the sun, no doubt, and jungle fevers and agues, and

every kind of thing you can mention. As to his liver,' said the

Old Soldier resignedly, 'that, of course, he gave up altogether,

when he first went out!'

'Does he say all this?' asked Mr. Wickfield.

'Say? My dear sir,' returned Mrs. Markleham, shaking her head and

her fan, 'you little know my poor Jack Maldon when you ask that

question. Say? Not he. You might drag him at the heels of four

wild horses first.'

'Mama!' said Mrs. Strong.

'Annie, my dear,' returned her mother, 'once for all, I must really

beg that you will not interfere with me, unless it is to confirm

what I say. You know as well as I do that your cousin Maldon would

be dragged at the heels of any number of wild horses - why should

I confine myself to four! I WON'T confine myself to four - eight,

sixteen, two-and-thirty, rather than say anything calculated to

overturn the Doctor's plans.'

'Wickfield's plans,' said the Doctor, stroking his face, and

looking penitently at his adviser. 'That is to say, our joint

plans for him. I said myself, abroad or at home.'

'And I said' added Mr. Wickfield gravely, 'abroad. I was the means

of sending him abroad. It's my responsibility.'

'Oh! Responsibility!' said the Old Soldier. 'Everything was done

for the best, my dear Mr. Wickfield; everything was done for the

kindest and best, we know. But if the dear fellow can't live

there, he can't live there. And if he can't live there, he'll die

there, sooner than he'll overturn the Doctor's plans. I know him,'

said the Old Soldier, fanning herself, in a sort of calm prophetic

agony, 'and I know he'll die there, sooner than he'll overturn the

Doctor's plans.'

'Well, well, ma'am,' said the Doctor cheerfully, 'I am not bigoted

to my plans, and I can overturn them myself. I can substitute some

other plans. If Mr. Jack Maldon comes home on account of ill

health, he must not be allowed to go back, and we must endeavour to

make some more suitable and fortunate provision for him in this

country.'

Mrs. Markleham was so overcome by this generous speech - which, I

need not say, she had not at all expected or led up to - that she

could only tell the Doctor it was like himself, and go several

times through that operation of kissing the sticks of her fan, and

then tapping his hand with it. After which she gently chid her

daughter Annie, for not being more demonstrative when such

kindnesses were showered, for her sake, on her old playfellow; and

entertained us with some particulars concerning other deserving

members of her family, whom it was desirable to set on their

deserving legs.

All this time, her daughter Annie never once spoke, or lifted up

her eyes. All this time, Mr. Wickfield had his glance upon her as

she sat by his own daughter's side. It appeared to me that he

never thought of being observed by anyone; but was so intent upon

her, and upon his own thoughts in connexion with her, as to be

quite absorbed. He now asked what Mr. Jack Maldon had actually

written in reference to himself, and to whom he had written?

'Why, here,' said Mrs. Markleham, taking a letter from the

chimney-piece above the Doctor's head, 'the dear fellow says to the

Doctor himself - where is it? Oh! - "I am sorry to inform you that

my health is suffering severely, and that I fear I may be reduced

to the necessity of returning home for a time, as the only hope of

restoration." That's pretty plain, poor fellow! His only hope of

restoration! But Annie's letter is plainer still. Annie, show me

that letter again.'

'Not now, mama,' she pleaded in a low tone.

'My dear, you absolutely are, on some subjects, one of the most

ridiculous persons in the world,' returned her mother, 'and perhaps

the most unnatural to the claims of your own family. We never

should have heard of the letter at all, I believe, unless I had

asked for it myself. Do you call that confidence, my love, towards

Doctor Strong? I am surprised. You ought to know better.'

The letter was reluctantly produced; and as I handed it to the old

lady, I saw how the unwilling hand from which I took it, trembled.

'Now let us see,' said Mrs. Markleham, putting her glass to her

eye, 'where the passage is. "The remembrance of old times, my

dearest Annie" - and so forth - it's not there. "The amiable old

Proctor" - who's he? Dear me, Annie, how illegibly your cousin

Maldon writes, and how stupid I am! "Doctor," of course. Ah!

amiable indeed!' Here she left off, to kiss her fan again, and

shake it at the Doctor, who was looking at us in a state of placid

satisfaction. 'Now I have found it. "You may not be surprised to

hear, Annie," - no, to be sure, knowing that he never was really

strong; what did I say just now? - "that I have undergone so much

in this distant place, as to have decided to leave it at all

hazards; on sick leave, if I can; on total resignation, if that is

not to be obtained. What I have endured, and do endure here, is

insupportable." And but for the promptitude of that best of

creatures,' said Mrs. Markleham, telegraphing the Doctor as before,

and refolding the letter, 'it would be insupportable to me to think

of.'

Mr. Wickfield said not one word, though the old lady looked to him

as if for his commentary on this intelligence; but sat severely

silent, with his eyes fixed on the ground. Long after the subject

was dismissed, and other topics occupied us, he remained so; seldom

raising his eyes, unless to rest them for a moment, with a

thoughtful frown, upon the Doctor, or his wife, or both.

The Doctor was very fond of music. Agnes sang with great sweetness

and expression, and so did Mrs. Strong. They sang together, and

played duets together, and we had quite a little concert. But I

remarked two things: first, that though Annie soon recovered her

composure, and was quite herself, there was a blank between her and

Mr. Wickfield which separated them wholly from each other;

secondly, that Mr. Wickfield seemed to dislike the intimacy between

her and Agnes, and to watch it with uneasiness. And now, I must

confess, the recollection of what I had seen on that night when Mr.

Maldon went away, first began to return upon me with a meaning it

had never had, and to trouble me. The innocent beauty of her face

was not as innocent to me as it had been; I mistrusted the natural

grace and charm of her manner; and when I looked at Agnes by her

side, and thought how good and true Agnes was, suspicions arose

within me that it was an ill-assorted friendship.

She was so happy in it herself, however, and the other was so happy

too, that they made the evening fly away as if it were but an hour.

It closed in an incident which I well remember. They were taking

leave of each other, and Agnes was going to embrace her and kiss

her, when Mr. Wickfield stepped between them, as if by accident,

and drew Agnes quickly away. Then I saw, as though all the

intervening time had been cancelled, and I were still standing in

the doorway on the night of the departure, the expression of that

night in the face of Mrs. Strong, as it confronted his.

I cannot say what an impression this made upon me, or how

impossible I found it, when I thought of her afterwards, to

separate her from this look, and remember her face in its innocent

loveliness again. It haunted me when I got home. I seemed to have

left the Doctor's roof with a dark cloud lowering on it. The

reverence that I had for his grey head, was mingled with

commiseration for his faith in those who were treacherous to him,

and with resentment against those who injured him. The impending

shadow of a great affliction, and a great disgrace that had no

distinct form in it yet, fell like a stain upon the quiet place

where I had worked and played as a boy, and did it a cruel wrong.

I had no pleasure in thinking, any more, of the grave old

broad-leaved aloe-trees, which remained shut up in themselves a

hundred years together, and of the trim smooth grass-plot, and the

stone urns, and the Doctor's walk, and the congenial sound of the

Cathedral bell hovering above them all. It was as if the tranquil

sanctuary of my boyhood had been sacked before my face, and its

peace and honour given to the winds.

But morning brought with it my parting from the old house, which

Agnes had filled with her influence; and that occupied my mind

sufficiently. I should be there again soon, no doubt; I might

sleep again - perhaps often - in my old room; but the days of my

inhabiting there were gone, and the old time was past. I was

heavier at heart when I packed up such of my books and clothes as

still remained there to be sent to Dover, than I cared to show to

Uriah Heep; who was so officious to help me, that I uncharitably

thought him mighty glad that I was going.

I got away from Agnes and her father, somehow, with an indifferent

show of being very manly, and took my seat upon the box of the

London coach. I was so softened and forgiving, going through the

town, that I had half a mind to nod to my old enemy the butcher,

and throw him five shillings to drink. But he looked such a very

obdurate butcher as he stood scraping the great block in the shop,

and moreover, his appearance was so little improved by the loss of

a front tooth which I had knocked out, that I thought it best to

make no advances.

The main object on my mind, I remember, when we got fairly on the

road, was to appear as old as possible to the coachman, and to

speak extremely gruff. The latter point I achieved at great

personal inconvenience; but I stuck to it, because I felt it was a

grown-up sort of thing.

'You are going through, sir?' said the coachman.

'Yes, William,' I said, condescendingly (I knew him); 'I am going

to London. I shall go down into Suffolk afterwards.'

'Shooting, sir?' said the coachman.

He knew as well as I did that it was just as likely, at that time

of year, I was going down there whaling; but I felt complimented,

too.

'I don't know,' I said, pretending to be undecided, 'whether I

shall take a shot or not.'

'Birds is got wery shy, I'm told,' said William.

'So I understand,' said I.

'Is Suffolk your county, sir?' asked William.

'Yes,' I said, with some importance. 'Suffolk's my county.'

'I'm told the dumplings is uncommon fine down there,' said William.

I was not aware of it myself, but I felt it necessary to uphold the

institutions of my county, and to evince a familiarity with them;

so I shook my head, as much as to say, 'I believe you!'

'And the Punches,' said William. 'There's cattle! A Suffolk

Punch, when he's a good un, is worth his weight in gold. Did you

ever breed any Suffolk Punches yourself, sir?'

'N-no,' I said, 'not exactly.'

'Here's a gen'lm'n behind me, I'll pound it,' said William, 'as has

bred 'em by wholesale.'

The gentleman spoken of was a gentleman with a very unpromising

squint, and a prominent chin, who had a tall white hat on with a

narrow flat brim, and whose close-fitting drab trousers seemed to

button all the way up outside his legs from his boots to his hips.

His chin was cocked over the coachman's shoulder, so near to me,

that his breath quite tickled the back of my head; and as I looked

at him, he leered at the leaders with the eye with which he didn't

squint, in a very knowing manner.

'Ain't you?' asked William.

'Ain't I what?' said the gentleman behind.

'Bred them Suffolk Punches by wholesale?'

'I should think so,' said the gentleman. 'There ain't no sort of

orse that I ain't bred, and no sort of dorg. Orses and dorgs is

some men's fancy. They're wittles and drink to me - lodging, wife,

and children - reading, writing, and Arithmetic - snuff, tobacker,

and sleep.'

'That ain't a sort of man to see sitting behind a coach-box, is it

though?' said William in my ear, as he handled the reins.

I construed this remark into an indication of a wish that he should

have my place, so I blushingly offered to resign it.

'Well, if you don't mind, sir,' said William, 'I think it would be

more correct.'

I have always considered this as the first fall I had in life.

When I booked my place at the coach office I had had 'Box Seat'

written against the entry, and had given the book-keeper

half-a-crown. I was got up in a special great-coat and shawl,

expressly to do honour to that distinguished eminence; had

glorified myself upon it a good deal; and had felt that I was a

credit to the coach. And here, in the very first stage, I was

supplanted by a shabby man with a squint, who had no other merit

than smelling like a livery-stables, and being able to walk across

me, more like a fly than a human being, while the horses were at a

canter!

A distrust of myself, which has often beset me in life on small

occasions, when it would have been better away, was assuredly not

stopped in its growth by this little incident outside the

Canterbury coach. It was in vain to take refuge in gruffness of

speech. I spoke from the pit of my stomach for the rest of the

journey, but I felt completely extinguished, and dreadfully young.

It was curious and interesting, nevertheless, to be sitting up

there behind four horses: well educated, well dressed, and with

plenty of money in my pocket; and to look out for the places where

I had slept on my weary journey. I had abundant occupation for my

thoughts, in every conspicuous landmark on the road. When I looked

down at the trampers whom we passed, and saw that well-remembered

style of face turned up, I felt as if the tinker's blackened hand

were in the bosom of my shirt again. When we clattered through the

narrow street of Chatham, and I caught a glimpse, in passing, of

the lane where the old monster lived who had bought my jacket, I

stretched my neck eagerly to look for the place where I had sat, in

the sun and in the shade, waiting for my money. When we came, at

last, within a stage of London, and passed the veritable Salem

House where Mr. Creakle had laid about him with a heavy hand, I

would have given all I had, for lawful permission to get down and

thrash him, and let all the boys out like so many caged sparrows.

We went to the Golden Cross at Charing Cross, then a mouldy sort of

establishment in a close neighbourhood. A waiter showed me into

the coffee-room; and a chambermaid introduced me to my small

bedchamber, which smelt like a hackney-coach, and was shut up like

a family vault. I was still painfully conscious of my youth, for

nobody stood in any awe of me at all: the chambermaid being utterly

indifferent to my opinions on any subject, and the waiter being

familiar with me, and offering advice to my inexperience.

'Well now,' said the waiter, in a tone of confidence, 'what would

you like for dinner? Young gentlemen likes poultry in general:

have a fowl!'

I told him, as majestically as I could, that I wasn't in the humour

for a fowl.

'Ain't you?' said the waiter. 'Young gentlemen is generally tired

of beef and mutton: have a weal cutlet!'

I assented to this proposal, in default of being able to suggest

anything else.

'Do you care for taters?' said the waiter, with an insinuating

smile, and his head on one side. 'Young gentlemen generally has

been overdosed with taters.'

I commanded him, in my deepest voice, to order a veal cutlet and

potatoes, and all things fitting; and to inquire at the bar if

there were any letters for Trotwood Copperfield, Esquire - which I

knew there were not, and couldn't be, but thought it manly to

appear to expect.

He soon came back to say that there were none (at which I was much

surprised) and began to lay the cloth for my dinner in a box by the

fire. While he was so engaged, he asked me what I would take with

it; and on my replying 'Half a pint of sherry,'thought it a

favourable opportunity, I am afraid, to extract that measure of

wine from the stale leavings at the bottoms of several small

decanters. I am of this opinion, because, while I was reading the

newspaper, I observed him behind a low wooden partition, which was

his private apartment, very busy pouring out of a number of those

vessels into one, like a chemist and druggist making up a

prescription. When the wine came, too, I thought it flat; and it

certainly had more English crumbs in it, than were to be expected

in a foreign wine in anything like a pure state, but I was bashful

enough to drink it, and say nothing.

Being then in a pleasant frame of mind (from which I infer that

poisoning is not always disagreeable in some stages of the

process), I resolved to go to the play. It was Covent Garden

Theatre that I chose; and there, from the back of a centre box, I

saw Julius Caesar and the new Pantomime. To have all those noble

Romans alive before me, and walking in and out for my

entertainment, instead of being the stern taskmasters they had been

at school, was a most novel and delightful effect. But the mingled

reality and mystery of the whole show, the influence upon me of the

poetry, the lights, the music, the company, the smooth stupendous

changes of glittering and brilliant scenery, were so dazzling, and

opened up such illimitable regions of delight, that when I came out

into the rainy street, at twelve o'clock at night, I felt as if I

had come from the clouds, where I had been leading a romantic life

for ages, to a bawling, splashing, link-lighted,

umbrella-struggling, hackney-coach-jostling, patten-clinking,

muddy, miserable world.

I had emerged by another door, and stood in the street for a little

while, as if I really were a stranger upon earth: but the

unceremonious pushing and hustling that I received, soon recalled

me to myself, and put me in the road back to the hotel; whither I

went, revolving the glorious vision all the way; and where, after

some porter and oysters, I sat revolving it still, at past one

o'clock, with my eyes on the coffee-room fire.

I was so filled with the play, and with the past - for it was, in

a manner, like a shining transparency, through which I saw my

earlier life moving along - that I don't know when the figure of a

handsome well-formed young man dressed with a tasteful easy

negligence which I have reason to remember very well, became a real

presence to me. But I recollect being conscious of his company

without having noticed his coming in - and my still sitting,

musing, over the coffee-room fire.

At last I rose to go to bed, much to the relief of the sleepy

waiter, who had got the fidgets in his legs, and was twisting them,

and hitting them, and putting them through all kinds of contortions

in his small pantry. In going towards the door, I passed the

person who had come in, and saw him plainly. I turned directly,

came back, and looked again. He did not know me, but I knew him in

a moment.

At another time I might have wanted the confidence or the decision

to speak to him, and might have put it off until next day, and

might have lost him. But, in the then condition of my mind, where

the play was still running high, his former protection of me

appeared so deserving of my gratitude, and my old love for him

overflowed my breast so freshly and spontaneously, that I went up

to him at once, with a fast-beating heart, and said:

'Steerforth! won't you speak to me?'

He looked at me - just as he used to look, sometimes -but I saw no

recognition in his face.

'You don't remember me, I am afraid,' said I.

'My God!' he suddenly exclaimed. 'It's little Copperfield!'

I grasped him by both hands, and could not let them go. But for

very shame, and the fear that it might displease him, I could have

held him round the neck and cried.

'I never, never, never was so glad! My dear Steerforth, I am so

overjoyed to see you!'

'And I am rejoiced to see you, too!' he said, shaking my hands

heartily. 'Why, Copperfield, old boy, don't be overpowered!' And

yet he was glad, too, I thought, to see how the delight I had in

meeting him affected me.

I brushed away the tears that my utmost resolution had not been

able to keep back, and I made a clumsy laugh of it, and we sat down

together, side by side.

'Why, how do you come to be here?' said Steerforth, clapping me on

the shoulder.

'I came here by the Canterbury coach, today. I have been adopted

by an aunt down in that part of the country, and have just finished

my education there. How do YOU come to be here, Steerforth?'

'Well, I am what they call an Oxford man,' he returned; 'that is to

say, I get bored to death down there, periodically - and I am on my

way now to my mother's. You're a devilish amiable-looking fellow,

Copperfield. just what you used to be, now I look at you! Not

altered in the least!'

'I knew you immediately,' I said; 'but you are more easily

remembered.'

He laughed as he ran his hand through the clustering curls of his

hair, and said gaily:

'Yes, I am on an expedition of duty. My mother lives a little way

out of town; and the roads being in a beastly condition, and our

house tedious enough, I remained here tonight instead of going on.

I have not been in town half-a-dozen hours, and those I have been

dozing and grumbling away at the play.'

'I have been at the play, too,' said I. 'At Covent Garden. What

a delightful and magnificent entertainment, Steerforth!'

Steerforth laughed heartily.

'My dear young Davy,' he said, clapping me on the shoulder again,

'you are a very Daisy. The daisy of the field, at sunrise, is not

fresher than you are. I have been at Covent Garden, too, and there

never was a more miserable business. Holloa, you sir!'

This was addressed to the waiter, who had been very attentive to

our recognition, at a distance, and now came forward deferentially.

'Where have you put my friend, Mr. Copperfield?' said Steerforth.

'Beg your pardon, sir?'

'Where does he sleep? What's his number? You know what I mean,'

said Steerforth.

'Well, sir,' said the waiter, with an apologetic air. 'Mr.

Copperfield is at present in forty-four, sir.'

'And what the devil do you mean,' retorted Steerforth, 'by putting

Mr. Copperfield into a little loft over a stable?'

'Why, you see we wasn't aware, sir,' returned the waiter, still

apologetically, 'as Mr. Copperfield was anyways particular. We can

give Mr. Copperfield seventy-two, sir, if it would be preferred.

Next you, sir.'

'Of course it would be preferred,' said Steerforth. 'And do it at

once.'

The waiter immediately withdrew to make the exchange. Steerforth,

very much amused at my having been put into forty-four, laughed

again, and clapped me on the shoulder again, and invited me to

breakfast with him next morning at ten o'clock - an invitation I

was only too proud and happy to accept. It being now pretty late,

we took our candles and went upstairs, where we parted with

friendly heartiness at his door, and where I found my new room a

great improvement on my old one, it not being at all musty, and

having an immense four-post bedstead in it, which was quite a

little landed estate. Here, among pillows enough for six, I soon

fell asleep in a blissful condition, and dreamed of ancient Rome,

Steerforth, and friendship, until the early morning coaches,

rumbling out of the archway underneath, made me dream of thunder

and the gods.

Read next: CHAPTER 20 - STEERFORTH'S HOME

Read previous: CHAPTER 18 - A RETROSPECT

Table of content of David Copperfield



GO TO TOP OF SCREEN

Post your review
Your review will be placed after the table of content of this book