David Copperfield
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.
CHAPTER 44. 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 tea-spoons 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
gave 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!’ cried 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.