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 attachment1 for the Doctor, and I was eminent2 and distinguished3 in that little world. For these reasons I was sorry to go; but for other reasons, unsubstantial enough, I was glad. Misty4 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, lured5 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 momentous6 in my recollection. I suppose the opening prospect8 confused me. I know that my juvenile9 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 devoted10. 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 liking11, 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 triumphant12 voyage of discovery, I think I might have considered myself completely suited. But, in the absence of any such miraculous13 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 meditative14 and sage15 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 watchfully16 at her for her suggestions, and rattling17 his money.
'Trot18, I tell you what, my dear,' said my aunt, one morning in the Christmas season when I left school: 'as this knotty19 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 helping20 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 thoroughly21 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 worthy22 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 fret23 - 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 physically24, 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 clenching25 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 confide27 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 wary28 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 confidential29 jest and earnest, that had long grown naturally out of our familiar relations, begun as mere30 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 alteration31 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 jaded32 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 touching33. There was such deep fondness for him, and gratitude34 to him for all his love and care, in her beautiful look; and there was such a fervent35 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 compassionate36 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 relinquish26 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 bind37 us firmly to them, like a couple of knaves38.'
'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 hesitation39 and timidity, that his attention became fixed40 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. Jack41 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, underneath42 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 perfectly43 recollect7 that your cousin never was strong - not what can be called ROBUST44, 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 interfere45 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 penitently46 at his adviser47. 'That is to say, our joint48 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 bigoted49 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 chid50 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 spoke51, 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 severely52, 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 unnatural53 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 unwilling54 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 forth55 - it's not there. "The amiable56 old Proctor" - who's he? Dear me, Annie, how illegibly57 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 placid58 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 decided59 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; secondly60, that Mr. Wickfield seemed to dislike the intimacy61 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 standing62 in the doorway63 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 reverence64 that I had for his grey head, was mingled65 with commiseration66 for his faith in those who were treacherous67 to him, and with resentment68 against those who injured him. The impending69 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 urns70, and the Doctor's walk, and the congenial sound of the Cathedral bell hovering71 above them all. It was as if the tranquil72 sanctuary73 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 sufficiently74. 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 mighty75 glad that I was going.
I got away from Agnes and her father, somehow, with an indifferent show of being very manly76, and took my seat upon the box of the London coach. I was so softened77 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 obdurate78 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 uncommon79 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 wholesale80.'
The gentleman spoken of was a gentleman with a very unpromising squint81, 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 hips82. His chin was cocked over the coachman's shoulder, so near to me, that his breath quite tickled83 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 - lodging84, 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 reins85.
I construed86 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 eminence87; had glorified88 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 supplanted89 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 beset90 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 conspicuous91 landmark92 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 bosom93 of my shirt again. When we clattered94 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 lawful95 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 Charing96 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 smelt97 like a hackney-coach, and was shut up like a family vault98. I was still painfully conscious of my youth, for nobody stood in any awe99 of me at all: the chambermaid being utterly100 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 poultry101 in general: have a fowl102!'
I told him, as majestically103 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 assented104 to this proposal, in default of being able to suggest anything else.
'Do you care for taters?' said the waiter, with an insinuating105 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 veal106 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 pint107 of sherry,'thought it a favourable108 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 vessels109 into one, like a chemist and druggist making up a prescription110. When the wine came, too, I thought it flat; and it certainly had more English crumbs111 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 delightful112 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 bawling113, splashing, link-lighted, umbrella-struggling, hackney-coach-jostling, patten-clinking, muddy, miserable114 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 hustling115 that I received, soon recalled me to myself, and put me in the road back to the hotel; whither I went, revolving116 the glorious vision all the way; and where, after some porter and oysters117, 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 negligence118 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, musing119, 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 contortions120 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 overflowed121 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 displease122 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 heartily123. '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 affected124 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 Oxford125 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 gaily126:
'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 dozing127 and grumbling128 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 attentive130 to our recognition, at a distance, and now came forward deferentially131.
'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 loft132 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 heartiness133 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, rumbling129 out of the archway underneath, made me dream of thunder and the gods.
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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watchfully
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| 警惕地，留心地 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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knotty
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| adj.有结的，多节的，多瘤的，棘手的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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42
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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penitently
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adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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bigoted
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| adj.固执己见的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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chid
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| v.责骂，责备( chide的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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54
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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57
illegibly
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| adv.难读地，暧昧地 | |
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58
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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60
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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61
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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65
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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urns
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| n.壶( urn的名词复数 )；瓮；缸；骨灰瓮 | |
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71
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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73
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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squint
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| v. 使变斜视眼, 斜视, 眯眼看, 偏移, 窥视; n. 斜视, 斜孔小窗; adj. 斜视的, 斜的 | |
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82
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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84
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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construed
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| v.解释（陈述、行为等）( construe的过去式和过去分词 )；翻译，作句法分析 | |
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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supplanted
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| 把…排挤掉，取代( supplant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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landmark
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| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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veal
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| n.小牛肉 | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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bawling
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的现在分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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hustling
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| 催促（hustle的现在分词形式） | |
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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contortions
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| n.扭歪，弯曲；扭曲，弄歪，歪曲( contortion的名词复数 ) | |
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overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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deferentially
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| adv.表示敬意地，谦恭地 | |
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loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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