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.

Read next: CHAPTER 44 - OUR HOUSEKEEPING

Read previous: CHAPTER 42 - MISCHIEF

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