David Copperfield
reasonest well. It’s all up now. I can show fight no more.” But at no
time of my life,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘have I enjoyed a higher degree of
satisfaction than in pouring my griefs (if I may describe difficulties,
chiefly arising out of warrants of attorney and promissory notes at two
and four months, by that word) into the bosom of my friend Copperfield.’
Mr. Micawber closed this handsome tribute by saying, ‘Mr. Heep! Good
evening. Mrs. Heep! Your servant,’ and then walking out with me in his
most fashionable manner, making a good deal of noise on the pavement
with his shoes, and humming a tune as we went.
It was a little inn where Mr. Micawber put up, and he occupied a little
room in it, partitioned off from the commercial room, and strongly
flavoured with tobacco-smoke. I think it was over the kitchen, because
a warm greasy smell appeared to come up through the chinks in the floor,
and there was a flabby perspiration on the walls. I know it was near the
bar, on account of the smell of spirits and jingling of glasses. Here,
recumbent on a small sofa, underneath a picture of a race-horse, with
her head close to the fire, and her feet pushing the mustard off the
dumb-waiter at the other end of the room, was Mrs. Micawber, to whom Mr.
Micawber entered first, saying, ‘My dear, allow me to introduce to you a
pupil of Doctor Strong’s.’
I noticed, by the by, that although Mr. Micawber was just as much
confused as ever about my age and standing, he always remembered, as a
genteel thing, that I was a pupil of Doctor Strong’s.
Mrs. Micawber was amazed, but very glad to see me. I was very glad to
see her too, and, after an affectionate greeting on both sides, sat down
on the small sofa near her.
‘My dear,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘if you will mention to Copperfield what
our present position is, which I have no doubt he will like to know, I
will go and look at the paper the while, and see whether anything turns
up among the advertisements.’
‘I thought you were at Plymouth, ma’am,’ I said to Mrs. Micawber, as he
went out.
‘My dear Master Copperfield,’ she replied, ‘we went to Plymouth.’
‘To be on the spot,’ I hinted.
‘Just so,’ said Mrs. Micawber. ‘To be on the spot. But, the truth is,
talent is not wanted in the Custom House. The local influence of my
family was quite unavailing to obtain any employment in that department,
for a man of Mr. Micawber’s abilities. They would rather NOT have a man
of Mr. Micawber’s abilities. He would only show the deficiency of the
others. Apart from which,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘I will not disguise
from you, my dear Master Copperfield, that when that branch of my
family which is settled in Plymouth, became aware that Mr. Micawber was
accompanied by myself, and by little Wilkins and his sister, and by the
twins, they did not receive him with that ardour which he might have
expected, being so newly released from captivity. In fact,’ said Mrs.
Micawber, lowering her voice,--‘this is between ourselves--our reception
was cool.’
‘Dear me!’ I said.
‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Micawber. ‘It is truly painful to contemplate mankind
in such an aspect, Master Copperfield, but our reception was, decidedly,
cool. There is no doubt about it. In fact, that branch of my family
which is settled in Plymouth became quite personal to Mr. Micawber,
before we had been there a week.’
I said, and thought, that they ought to be ashamed of themselves.
‘Still, so it was,’ continued Mrs. Micawber. ‘Under such circumstances,
what could a man of Mr. Micawber’s spirit do? But one obvious course
was left. To borrow, of that branch of my family, the money to return to
London, and to return at any sacrifice.’
‘Then you all came back again, ma’am?’ I said.
‘We all came back again,’ replied Mrs. Micawber. ‘Since then, I have
consulted other branches of my family on the course which it is most
expedient for Mr. Micawber to take--for I maintain that he must take
some course, Master Copperfield,’ said Mrs. Micawber, argumentatively.
‘It is clear that a family of six, not including a domestic, cannot live
upon air.’
‘Certainly, ma’am,’ said I.
‘The opinion of those other branches of my family,’ pursued Mrs.
Micawber, ‘is, that Mr. Micawber should immediately turn his attention
to coals.’
‘To what, ma’am?’
‘To coals,’ said Mrs. Micawber. ‘To the coal trade. Mr. Micawber was
induced to think, on inquiry, that there might be an opening for a
man of his talent in the Medway Coal Trade. Then, as Mr. Micawber very
properly said, the first step to be taken clearly was, to come and see
the Medway. Which we came and saw. I say “we”, Master Copperfield; for
I never will,’ said Mrs. Micawber with emotion, ‘I never will desert Mr.
Micawber.’
I murmured my admiration and approbation.
‘We came,’ repeated Mrs. Micawber, ‘and saw the Medway. My opinion of
the coal trade on that river is, that it may require talent, but that
it certainly requires capital. Talent, Mr. Micawber has; capital, Mr.
Micawber has not. We saw, I think, the greater part of the Medway; and
that is my individual conclusion. Being so near here, Mr. Micawber was
of opinion that it would be rash not to come on, and see the Cathedral.
Firstly, on account of its being so well worth seeing, and our never
having seen it; and secondly, on account of the great probability of
something turning up in a cathedral town. We have been here,’ said Mrs.
Micawber, ‘three days. Nothing has, as yet, turned up; and it may
not surprise you, my dear Master Copperfield, so much as it would a
stranger, to know that we are at present waiting for a remittance from
London, to discharge our pecuniary obligations at this hotel. Until the
arrival of that remittance,’ said Mrs. Micawber with much feeling, ‘I am
cut off from my home (I allude to lodgings in Pentonville), from my boy
and girl, and from my twins.’
I felt the utmost sympathy for Mr. and Mrs. Micawber in this anxious
extremity, and said as much to Mr. Micawber, who now returned: adding
that I only wished I had money enough, to lend them the amount they
needed. Mr. Micawber’s answer expressed the disturbance of his mind. He
said, shaking hands with me, ‘Copperfield, you are a true friend; but
when the worst comes to the worst, no man is without a friend who is
possessed of shaving materials.’ At this dreadful hint Mrs. Micawber
threw her arms round Mr. Micawber’s neck and entreated him to be calm.
He wept; but so far recovered, almost immediately, as to ring the bell
for the waiter, and bespeak a hot kidney pudding and a plate of shrimps
for breakfast in the morning.
When I took my leave of them, they both pressed me so much to come and
dine before they went away, that I could not refuse. But, as I knew I
could not come next day, when I should have a good deal to prepare in
the evening, Mr. Micawber arranged that he would call at Doctor Strong’s
in the course of the morning (having a presentiment that the remittance
would arrive by that post), and propose the day after, if it would suit
me better. Accordingly I was called out of school next forenoon, and
found Mr. Micawber in the parlour; who had called to say that the dinner
would take place as proposed. When I asked him if the remittance had
come, he pressed my hand and departed.
As I was looking out of window that same evening, it surprised me, and
made me rather uneasy, to see Mr. Micawber and Uriah Heep walk past, arm
in arm: Uriah humbly sensible of the honour that was done him, and Mr.
Micawber taking a bland delight in extending his patronage to Uriah. But
I was still more surprised, when I went to the little hotel next day at
the appointed dinner-hour, which was four o’clock, to find, from what
Mr. Micawber said, that he had gone home with Uriah, and had drunk
brandy-and-water at Mrs. Heep’s.
‘And I’ll tell you what, my dear Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘your
friend Heep is a young fellow who might be attorney-general. If I had
known that young man, at the period when my difficulties came to a
crisis, all I can say is, that I believe my creditors would have been a
great deal better managed than they were.’
I hardly understood how this could have been, seeing that Mr. Micawber
had paid them nothing at all as it was; but I did not like to
ask. Neither did I like to say, that I hoped he had not been too
communicative to Uriah; or to inquire if they had talked much about me.
I was afraid of hurting Mr. Micawber’s feelings, or, at all events, Mrs.
Micawber’s, she being very sensitive; but I was uncomfortable about it,
too, and often thought about it afterwards.
We had a beautiful little dinner. Quite an elegant dish of fish; the
kidney-end of a loin of veal, roasted; fried sausage-meat; a partridge,
and a pudding. There was wine, and there was strong ale; and after
dinner Mrs. Micawber made us a bowl of hot punch with her own hands.
Mr. Micawber was uncommonly convivial. I never saw him such good
company. He made his face shine with the punch, so that it looked as if
it had been varnished all over. He got cheerfully sentimental about
the town, and proposed success to it; observing that Mrs. Micawber and
himself had been made extremely snug and comfortable there and that he
never should forget the agreeable hours they had passed in Canterbury.
He proposed me afterwards; and he, and Mrs. Micawber, and I, took a
review of our past acquaintance, in the course of which we sold the
property all over again. Then I proposed Mrs. Micawber: or, at least,
said, modestly, ‘If you’ll allow me, Mrs. Micawber, I shall now have
the pleasure of drinking your health, ma’am.’ On which Mr. Micawber
delivered an eulogium on Mrs. Micawber’s character, and said she
had ever been his guide, philosopher, and friend, and that he would
recommend me, when I came to a marrying time of life, to marry such
another woman, if such another woman could be found.
As the punch disappeared, Mr. Micawber became still more friendly and
convivial. Mrs. Micawber’s spirits becoming elevated, too, we sang ‘Auld
Lang Syne’. When we came to ‘Here’s a hand, my trusty frere’, we all
joined hands round the table; and when we declared we would ‘take a
right gude Willie Waught’, and hadn’t the least idea what it meant, we
were really affected.
In a word, I never saw anybody so thoroughly jovial as Mr. Micawber
was, down to the very last moment of the evening, when I took a hearty
farewell of himself and his amiable wife. Consequently, I was not
prepared, at seven o’clock next morning, to receive the following
communication, dated half past nine in the evening; a quarter of an hour
after I had left him:--
‘My DEAR YOUNG FRIEND,
‘The die is cast--all is over. Hiding the ravages of care with a sickly
mask of mirth, I have not informed you, this evening, that there is no
hope of the remittance! Under these circumstances, alike humiliating to
endure, humiliating to contemplate, and humiliating to relate, I have
discharged the pecuniary liability contracted at this establishment,
by giving a note of hand, made payable fourteen days after date, at
my residence, Pentonville, London. When it becomes due, it will not be
taken up. The result is destruction. The bolt is impending, and the tree
must fall.
‘Let the wretched man who now addresses you, my dear Copperfield, be a
beacon to you through life. He writes with that intention, and in that
hope. If he could think himself of so much use, one gleam of day might,
by possibility, penetrate into the cheerless dungeon of his remaining
existence--though his longevity is, at present (to say the least of it),
extremely problematical.
‘This is the last communication, my dear Copperfield, you will ever
receive
‘From
‘The