David Copperfield, Charles Dickens [best historical fiction books of all time TXT] 📗

half parlour and half kitchen, but not at all a snug room. The tea-things were set upon the table, and the kettle was boiling on the hob. There was a chest of drawers with an escritoire top, for Uriah to read or write at of an evening; there was Uriah’s blue bag lying down and vomiting papers; there was a company of Uriah’s books commanded by Mr. Tidd; there was a corner cupboard: and there were the usual articles of furniture. I don’t remember that any individual object had a bare, pinched, spare look; but I do remember that the whole place had.

It was perhaps a part of Mrs. Heep’s humility, that she still wore weeds. Notwithstanding the lapse of time that had occurred since Mr. Heep’s decease, she still wore weeds. I think there was some compromise in the cap; but otherwise she was as weedy as in the early days of her mourning.

“This is a day to be remembered, my Uriah, I am sure,” said Mrs. Heep, making the tea, “when Master Copperfield pays us a visit.”

“I said you’d think so, mother,” said Uriah.

“If I could have wished father to remain among us for any reason,” said Mrs. Heep, “it would have been, that he might have known his company this afternoon.”

I felt embarrassed by these compliments; but I was sensible, too, of being entertained as an honoured guest, and I thought Mrs. Heep an agreeable woman.

“My Uriah,” said Mrs. Heep, “has looked forward to this, sir, a long while. He had his fears that our ’umbleness stood in the way, and I joined in them myself. ’Umble we are, ’umble we have been, ’umble we shall ever be,” said Mrs. Heep.

“I am sure you have no occasion to be so, ma’am,” I said, “unless you like.”

“Thank you, sir,” retorted Mrs. Heep. “We know our station and are thankful in it.”

I found that Mrs. Heep gradually got nearer to me, and that Uriah gradually got opposite to me, and that they respectfully plied me with the choicest of the eatables on the table. There was nothing particularly choice there, to be sure; but I took the will for the deed, and felt that they were very attentive. Presently they began to talk about aunts, and then I told them about mine; and about fathers and mothers, and then I told them about mine; and then Mrs. Heep began to talk about fathers-in-law, and then I began to tell her about mine⁠—but stopped, because my aunt had advised me to observe a silence on that subject. A tender young cork, however, would have had no more chance against a pair of corkscrews, or a tender young tooth against a pair of dentists, or a little shuttlecock against two battledores, than I had against Uriah and Mrs. Heep. They did just what they liked with me; and wormed things out of me that I had no desire to tell, with a certainty I blush to think of, the more especially, as in my juvenile frankness, I took some credit to myself for being so confidential and felt that I was quite the patron of my two respectful entertainers.

They were very fond of one another: that was certain. I take it, that had its effect upon me, as a touch of nature; but the skill with which the one followed up whatever the other said, was a touch of art which I was still less proof against. When there was nothing more to be got out of me about myself (for on the Murdstone and Grinby life, and on my journey, I was dumb), they began about Mr. Wickfield and Agnes. Uriah threw the ball to Mrs. Heep, Mrs. Heep caught it and threw it back to Uriah, Uriah kept it up a little while, then sent it back to Mrs. Heep, and so they went on tossing it about until I had no idea who had got it, and was quite bewildered. The ball itself was always changing too. Now it was Mr. Wickfield, now Agnes, now the excellence of Mr. Wickfield, now my admiration of Agnes; now the extent of Mr. Wickfield’s business and resources, now our domestic life after dinner; now, the wine that Mr. Wickfield took, the reason why he took it, and the pity that it was he took so much; now one thing, now another, then everything at once; and all the time, without appearing to speak very often, or to do anything but sometimes encourage them a little, for fear they should be overcome by their humility and the honour of my company, I found myself perpetually letting out something or other that I had no business to let out and seeing the effect of it in the twinkling of Uriah’s dinted nostrils.

I had begun to be a little uncomfortable, and to wish myself well out of the visit, when a figure coming down the street passed the door⁠—it stood open to air the room, which was warm, the weather being close for the time of year⁠—came back again, looked in, and walked in, exclaiming loudly, “Copperfield! Is it possible?”

It was Mr. Micawber! It was Mr. Micawber, with his eyeglass, and his walking stick, and his shirt-collar, and his genteel air, and the condescending roll in his voice, all complete!

“My dear Copperfield,” said Mr. Micawber, putting out his hand, “this is indeed a meeting which is calculated to impress the mind with a sense of the instability and uncertainty of all human⁠—in short, it is a most extraordinary meeting. Walking along the street, reflecting upon the probability of something turning up (of which I am at present rather sanguine), I find a young but valued friend turn up, who is connected with the most eventful period of my life; I may say, with the turning-point of my existence. Copperfield, my dear fellow, how do you do?”

I cannot say⁠—I really cannot say⁠—that I was glad to see Mr. Micawber there; but I was glad to see him too, and shook hands with him, heartily, inquiring how Mrs. Micawber was.

“Thank you,” said Mr. Micawber, waving his hand as of old, and settling