David Copperfield

by Charles Dickens

  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.

  CHAPTER XLIV

  Our Housekeeping

  IT WAS A STRANGE CONDITION OF THINGS, THE HONEYMOON being over, and the bridesmaids gone home, when I found myself sitting down in my own small house with Dora, quite thrown out of employment, as I may say, in respect of the delicious old occupation of making love.

  It seemed such an extraordinary thing to have Dora always there. It was so unaccountable not to be obliged to go out to see her, not to have any occasion to be tormenting myself about her, not to have to write to her, not to be scheming and devising opportunities of being alone with her. Sometimes, of an evening, when I looked up from my writing, and saw her seated opposite, I would lean back in my chair, and think how queer it was that there we were, alone together as a matter of course--nobody's business any more--all the romance of our engagement put away upon a shelf, to rust--no one to please but one another--one another to please, for life.

  When there was a debate, and I was kept out very late, it seemed so strange to me, as I was walking home, to think that Dora was at home! It was such a wonderful thing, at first, to have her coming softly down to talk to me as I ate my supper. It was such a stupendous thing to know for certain that she put her hair in papers. It was altogether such an astonishing event to see her do it!

  I doubt whether two young birds could have known less about keeping house, than I and my pretty Dora did. We had a servant, of course. She kept house for us. I have still a latent belief that she must have been Mrs. Crupp's daughter in disguise, we had such an awful time of it with Mary Anne.

  Her name was Paragon. Her nature was represented to us, when we engaged her, as being feebly expressed in her name. She had a written character, as large as a proclamation, and, according to this document, could do everything of a domestic nature that ever I heard of, and a great many things that I never did hear of. She was a woman in the prime of life, of a severe countenance, and subject (particularly in the arms) to a sort of perpetual measles or fiery rash. She had a cousin in the Life Guards, with such long legs that he looked like the afternoon shadow of somebody else. His shell-jacket was as much too little for him as he was too big for the premises. He made the cottage smaller than it need have been, by being so very much out of proportion to it. Besides which, the walls were not thick, and whenever he passed the evening at our house, we always knew of it by hearing one continual growl in the kitchen.

  Our treasure was warranted sober and honest. I am therefore willing to believe that she was in a fit when we found her under the boiler, and that the deficient teaspoons were attributable to the dustman.

  But she preyed upon our minds dreadfully. We felt our inexperience, and were unable to help ourselves. We should have been at her mercy, if she had had any, but she was a remorseless woman, and had none. She was the cause of our first little quarrel.

  "My dearest life," I said one day to Dora, "do you think Mary Anne has any idea of time?"

  "Why, Doady?" inquired Dora, looking up, innocently, from her drawing.

  "My love, because it's five, and we were to have dined at four."

  Dora glanced wistfully at the clock, and hinted that she thought it was too fast.

  "On the contrary, my love," said I, referring to my watch, "it's a few minutes too slow."

  My little wife came and sat upon my knee, to coax me to be quiet, and drew a line with her pencil down the middle of my nose, but I couldn't dine off that, though it was very agreeable.

  "Don't you think, my dear," said I, "it would be better for you to remonstrate with Mary Anne?"

  "Oh no, please! I couldn't, Doady!" said Dora.

  "Why not, my love?" I gently asked.

  "Oh, because I am such a little goose," said Dora, "and she knows I am!"

  I thought this sentiment so incompatible with the establishment of any system of check on Mary Anne, that I frowned a little.

  "Oh, what ugly wrinkles in my bad boy's forehead!" said Dora, and, still being on my knee, she traced them with her pencil, putting it to her rosy lips to make it mark blacker, and working at my forehead with a quaint little mockery of being industrious, that quite delighted me in spite of myself.

  "There's a good child," said Dora, "it makes its face so much prettier to laugh."

  "But, my love," said I.

  "No, no! please!" cried Dora, with a kiss, "don't be a naughty Blue Beard! Don't be serious!"

  "My precious wife," said I, "we must be serious sometimes. Come! Sit down on this chair, close beside me! Give me the pencil! There! Now let us talk sensibly. You know, dear"--what a little hand it was to hold, and what a tiny wedding-ring it was to see! "You know, my love, it is not exactly comfortable to have to go out without one's dinner. Now, is it?"

  "N--n--no!" replied Dora, faintly.

  "My love, how you tremble!"

  "Because I KNOW you're going to scold me," exclaimed Dora, in a piteous voice.

  "My sweet, I am only going to reason."

  "Oh, but reasoning is worse than scolding!" exclaimed Dora, in despair. "I didn't marry to be reasoned with. If you meant to reason with such a poor little thing as I am, you ought to have told me so, you cruel boy!"

  I tried to pacify Dora, but she turned away her face, and shook her curls from side to side, and said "You cruel, cruel boy!" so many times, that I really did not exactly know what to do, so I took a few turns up and down the room in my uncertainty, and came back again.

  "Dora, my darling!"

  "No, I am not your darling. Because you must be sorry that you married me, or else you wouldn't reason with me!" returned Dora.

  I felt so injured by the inconsequential nature of this charge, that it gav
e me courage to be grave.

  "Now, my own Dora," said I, "you are very childish, and are talking nonsense. You must remember, I am sure, that I was obliged to go out yesterday when dinner was half-over, and that, the day before, I was made quite unwell by being obliged to eat underdone veal in a hurry, today, I don't dine at all--and I am afraid to say how long we waited for breakfast--and then the water didn't boil. I don't mean to reproach you, my dear, but this is not comfortable."

  "Oh, you cruel, cruel boy, to say I am a disagreeable wife!" cried Dora.

  "Now, my dear Dora, you must know that I never said that!"

  "You said I wasn't comfortable!" said Dora.

  "I said the housekeeping was not comfortable."

  "It's exactly the same thing!" cried Dora. And she evidently thought so, for she wept most grievously.

  I took another turn across the room, full of love for my pretty wife, and distracted by self-accusatory inclinations to knock my head against the door. I sat down again, and said:

  "I am not blaming you, Dora. We have both a great deal to learn. I am only trying to show you, my dear, that you must --you really must" (I was resolved not to give this up) "accustom yourself to look after Mary Anne. Likewise to act a little for yourself, and me."

  "I wonder, I do, at your making such ungrateful speeches," sobbed Dora. "When you know that the other day, when you said you would like a little bit of fish, I went out myself, miles and miles, and ordered it, to surprise you."

  "And it was very kind of you, my own darling," said I. "I felt it so much that I wouldn't on any account have even mentioned that you bought a Salmon--which was too much for two. Or that it cost one pound six--which was more than we can afford."

  "You enjoyed it very much," sobbed Dora. "And you said I was a Mouse."

  "And I'll say so again, my love," I returned, "a thousand times!"

  But I had wounded Dora's soft little heart, and she was not to be comforted. She was so pathetic in her sobbing and bewailing, that I felt as if I had said I don't know what to hurt her. I was obliged to hurry away, I was kept out late, and I felt all night such pangs of remorse as made me miserable. I had the conscience of an assassin, and was haunted by a vague sense of enormous wickedness.

  It was two or three hours past midnight when I got home. I found my aunt, in our house, sitting up for me.

  "Is anything the matter, Aunt?" said I, alarmed.

  "Nothing, Trot," she replied. "Sit down, sit down. Little Blossom has been rather out of spirits, and I have been keeping her company. That's all."

  I leaned my head upon my hand, and felt more sorry and downcast, as I sat looking at the fire, than I could have supposed possible so soon after the fulfilment of my brightest hopes. As I sat thinking, I happened to meet my aunt's eyes, which were resting on my face. There was an anxious expression in them, but it cleared directly.

  "I assure you, Aunt," said I, "I have been quite unhappy myself all night, to think of Dora's being so. But I had no other intention than to speak to her tenderly and lovingly about our home-affairs."

  My aunt nodded encouragement.

  "You must have patience, Trot," said she.

  "Of course. Heaven knows I don't mean to be unreasonable, Auntl"

  "No, no," said my aunt. "But Little Blossom is a very tender little blossom, and the wind must be gentle with her."

  I thanked my good aunt, in my heart, for her tenderness towards my wife, and I was sure that she knew I did.

  "Don't you think, Aunt," said I, after some further contemplation of the fire, "that you could advise and counsel Dora a little, for our mutual advantage, now and then?"

  "Trot," returned my aunt, with some emotion, "no! Don't ask me such a thing."

  Her tone was so very earnest that I raised my eyes in surprise.

  "I look back on my life, child," said my aunt, "and I think of some who are in their graves, with whom I might have been on kinder terms. If I judged harshly of other people's mistakes in marriage, it may have been because I had bitter reason to judge harshly of my own. Let that pass. I have been a grumpy, frumpy, wayward sort of a woman, a good many years. I am still, and I always shall be. But you and I have done one another some good, Trot--at all events, you have done me good, my dear, and division must not come between us, at this time of day."

  "Division between us!" cried I.

  "Child, child!" said my aunt, smoothing her dress, "how soon it might come between us, or how unhappy I might make our Little Blossom, if I meddled in anything, a prophet couldn't say. I want our pet to like me, and be as gay as a butterfly. Remember your own home, in that second marriage, and never do both me and her the injury you have hinted at!"

  I comprehended, at once, that my aunt was right, and I comprehended the full extent of her generous feeling towards my dear wife.

  "These are early days, Trot," she pursued, "and Rome was not built in a day, nor in a year. You have chosen freely for yourself," a cloud passed over her face for a moment, I thought, "and you have chosen a very pretty and a very affectionate creature. It will be your duty, and it will be your pleasure too--of course I know that, I am not delivering a lecture--to estimate her (as you chose her) by the qualities she has, and not by the qualities she may not have. The latter you must develop in her, if you can. And if you cannot, child," here my aunt rubbed her nose, "you must just accustom yourself to do without 'em. But remember, my dear, your future is between you two. No one can assist you, you are to work it out for yourselves. This is marriage, Trot, and Heaven bless you both in it, for a pair of babes in the wood as you are!"

  My aunt said this in a sprightly way, and gave me a kiss to ratify the blessing.

  "Now," said she, "light my little lantern, and see me into my bandbox by the garden path," for there was a communication between our cottages in that direction. "Give Betsey Trotwood's love to Blossom, when you come back, and whatever you do, Trot, never dream of setting Betsey up as a scarecrow, for if I ever saw her in the glass, she's quite grim enough and gaunt enough in her private capacity!"

  With this, my aunt tied her head up in a handkerchief, with which she was accustomed to make a bundle of it on such occasions, and I escorted her home. As she stood in her garden, holding up her little lantern to light me back, I thought her observation of me had an anxious air again, but I was too much occupied in pondering on what she had said, and too much impressed--for the first time, in reality--by the conviction that Dora and I had indeed to work out our future for ourselves, and that no one could assist us, to take much notice of it.

  Dora came stealing down in her little slippers, to meet me, now that I was alone, and cried upon my shoulder, and said I had been hard-hearted and she had been naughty, and I said much the same thing in effect, I believe, and we made it up, and agreed that our first little difference was to be our last, and that we were never to have another if we lived a hundred years.

  The next domestic trial we went through was the Ordeal of Servants. Mary Anne's cousin deserted into our coal-bole, and was brought out, to our great amazement, by a piquet of his companions in arms, who took him away handcuffed, in a procession that covered our front-garden with ignominy. This nerved me to get rid of Mary Anne, who went so mildly, on receipt of wages, that I was surprised, until I found out about the teaspoons, and also about the little sums she had borrowed in my name of the tradespeople without authority. After an interval of Mrs. Kidgerbury--the oldest inhabitant of Kentish Town, I believe, who went out charing, but was too feeble to execute her conceptions of that art-we found another treasure, who was one of the most amiable of women, but who generally made a point of falling either up or down the kitchen stairs with the tray, and almost plunged into the parlour, as into a bath, with the tea-things. The ravages committed by this unfortunate rendering her dismissal necessary, she was succeeded (with intervals of Mrs. Kidgerbury) by a long line of Incapables, terminating in a young person of genteel appearance, who went to Greenwich Fair in Dora's bonnet. After whom I remember noth
ing but an average equality of failure.

  Everybody we had anything to do with seemed to cheat us. Our appearance in a shop was a signal for the damaged goods to be brought out immediately. If we bought a lobster, it was full of water. All our meat turned out to be tough, and there was hardly any crust to our loaves. In search of the principle on which joints ought to be roasted, to be roasted. enough, and not too much, I myself referred to the cookery book, and found it there established as the allowance of a quarter of an hour to every pound, and say a quarter over. But the principle always failed us by some curious fatality, and we never could hit any medium between redness and cinders.

  I had reason to believe that in accomplishing these failures we incurred a far greater expence than if we had achieved a series of triumphs. It appeared to me, on looking over the tradesmen's books, as if we might have kept the basement story paved with butter, such was the extensive scale of our consumption of that article. I don't know whether the Excise returns of the period may have exhibited any increase in the demand for pepper, but, if our performances did not affect the market, I should say several families must have left off using it. And the most wonderful fact of all was that we never had anything in the house.

  As to the washerwoman pawning the clothes, and coming in a state of penitent intoxication to apologize, I suppose that might have happened several times to anybody. Also the chimney on fire, the parish engine, and perjury on the part of the Beadle. But I apprehend that we were personally unfortunate in engaging a servant with a taste for cordials, who swelled our running account for porter at the public-house by such inexplicable item as "quartern rum shrub (Mrs. C.)," "Half-quartern gin and cloves (Mrs. C.)," "Glass rum and peppermint (Mrs. C.)"--the parentheses always referring to Dora, who was supposed, it appeared on explanation, to have imbibed the whole of these refreshments.