CHAPTER 64 - 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 four-score

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 needle-work 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 parlour 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 Croesus 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-coloured 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 Croesus, 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.

Or perhaps this IS the Desert of Sahara! For, though Julia has a

stately house, and mighty company, and sumptuous dinners every day,

I see no green growth near her; nothing that can ever come to fruit

or flower. What Julia calls 'society', I see; among it Mr. Jack

Maldon, from his Patent Place, sneering at the hand that gave it

him, and speaking to me of the Doctor as 'so charmingly antique'.

But when society is the name for such hollow gentlemen and ladies,

Julia, and when its breeding is professed indifference to

everything that can advance or can retard mankind, I think we must

have lost ourselves in that same Desert of Sahara, and had better

find the way out.

And lo, the Doctor, always our good friend, labouring at his

Dictionary (somewhere about the letter D), and happy in his home

and wife. Also the Old Soldier, on a considerably reduced footing,

and by no means so influential as in days of yore!

Working at his chambers in the Temple, with a busy aspect, and his

hair (where he is not bald) made more rebellious than ever by the

constant friction of his lawyer's-wig, I come, in a later time,

upon my dear old Traddles. His table is covered with thick piles

of papers; and I say, as I look around me:

'If Sophy were your clerk, now, Traddles, she would have enough to

do!'

'You may say that, my dear Copperfield! But those were capital

days, too, in Holborn Court! Were they not?'

'When she told you you would be a judge? But it was not the town

talk then!'

'At all events,' says Traddles, 'if I ever am one -'

'Why, you know you will be.'

'Well, my dear Copperfield, WHEN I am one, I shall tell the story,

as I said I would.'

We walk away, arm in arm. I am going to have a family dinner with

Traddles. It is Sophy's birthday; and, on our road, Traddles

discourses to me of the good fortune he has enjoyed.

'I really have been able, my dear Copperfield, to do all that I had

most at heart. There's the Reverend Horace promoted to that living

at four hundred and fifty pounds a year; there are our two boys

receiving the very best education, and distinguishing themselves as

steady scholars and good fellows; there are three of the girls

married very comfortably; there are three more living with us;

there are three more keeping house for the Reverend Horace since

Mrs. Crewler's decease; and all of them happy.'

'Except -' I suggest.

'Except the Beauty,' says Traddles. 'Yes. It was very unfortunate

that she should marry such a vagabond. But there was a certain

dash and glare about him that caught her. However, now we have got

her safe at our house, and got rid of him, we must cheer her up

again.'

Traddles's house is one of the very houses - or it easily may have

been - which he and Sophy used to parcel out, in their evening

walks. It is a large house; but Traddles keeps his papers in his

dressing-room and his boots with his papers; and he and Sophy

squeeze themselves into upper rooms, reserving the best bedrooms

for the Beauty and the girls. There is no room to spare in the

house; for more of 'the girls' are here, and always are here, by

some accident or other, than I know how to count. Here, when we go

in, is a crowd of them, running down to the door, and handing

Traddles about to be kissed, until he is out of breath. Here,

established in perpetuity, is the poor Beauty, a widow with a

little girl; here, at dinner on Sophy's birthday, are the three

married girls with their three husbands, and one of the husband's

brothers, and another husband's cousin, and another husband's

sister, who appears to me to be engaged to the cousin. Traddles,

exactly the same simple, unaffected fellow as he ever was, sits at

the foot of the large table like a Patriarch; and Sophy beams upon

him, from the head, across a cheerful space that is certainly not

glittering with Britannia metal.

And now, as I close my task, subduing my desire to linger yet,

these faces fade away. But one face, shining on me like a Heavenly

light by which I see all other objects, is above them and beyond

them all. And that remains.

I turn my head, and see it, in its beautiful serenity, beside me.

My lamp burns low, and I have written far into the night; but the

dear presence, without which I were nothing, bears me company.

O Agnes, O my soul, so may thy face be by me when I close my life

indeed; so may I, when realities are melting from me, like the

shadows which I now dismiss, still find thee near me, pointing

upward!

THE END.
'David Copperfield', by Charles Dickens.

Read previous: CHAPTER 63 - A VISITOR

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