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

before,” said I, “it is you who have been, in your greed and cunning, against all the world. It may be profitable to you to reflect, in future, that there never were greed and cunning in the world yet, that did not do too much, and overreach themselves. It is as certain as death.”

“Or as certain as they used to teach at school (the same school where I picked up so much ’umbleness), from nine o’clock to eleven, that labour was a curse; and from eleven o’clock to one, that it was a blessing and a cheerfulness, and a dignity, and I don’t know what all, eh?” said he with a sneer. “You preach, about as consistent as they did. Won’t ’umbleness go down? I shouldn’t have got round my gentleman fellow-partner without it, I think.⁠—Micawber, you old bully, I’ll pay you!”

Mr. Micawber, supremely defiant of him and his extended finger, and making a great deal of his chest until he had slunk out at the door, then addressed himself to me, and proffered me the satisfaction of “witnessing the reestablishment of mutual confidence between himself and Mrs. Micawber.” After which, he invited the company generally to the contemplation of that affecting spectacle.

“The veil that has long been interposed between Mrs. Micawber and myself, is now withdrawn,” said Mr. Micawber; “and my children and the Author of their Being can once more come in contact on equal terms.”

As we were all very grateful to him, and all desirous to show that we were, as well as the hurry and disorder of our spirits would permit, I dare say we should all have gone, but that it was necessary for Agnes to return to her father, as yet unable to bear more than the dawn of hope; and for someone else to hold Uriah in safe keeping. So, Traddles remained for the latter purpose, to be presently relieved by Mr. Dick; and Mr. Dick, my aunt, and I, went home with Mr. Micawber. As I parted hurriedly from the dear girl to whom I owed so much, and thought from what she had been saved, perhaps, that morning⁠—her better resolution notwithstanding⁠—I felt devoutly thankful for the miseries of my younger days which had brought me to the knowledge of Mr. Micawber.

His house was not far off; and as the street door opened into the sitting room, and he bolted in with a precipitation quite his own, we found ourselves at once in the bosom of the family. Mr. Micawber exclaiming, “Emma! my life!” rushed into Mrs. Micawber’s arms. Mrs. Micawber shrieked, and folded Mr. Micawber in her embrace. Miss Micawber, nursing the unconscious stranger of Mrs. Micawber’s last letter to me, was sensibly affected. The stranger leaped. The twins testified their joy by several inconvenient but innocent demonstrations. Master Micawber, whose disposition appeared to have been soured by early disappointment, and whose aspect had become morose, yielded to his better feelings, and blubbered.

“Emma!” said Mr. Micawber. “The cloud is past from my mind. Mutual confidence, so long preserved between us once, is restored, to know no further interruption. Now, welcome poverty!” cried Mr. Micawber, shedding tears. “Welcome misery, welcome houselessness, welcome hunger, rags, tempest, and beggary! Mutual confidence will sustain us to the end!”

With these expressions, Mr. Micawber placed Mrs. Micawber in a chair, and embraced the family all round; welcoming a variety of bleak prospects, which appeared, to the best of my judgement, to be anything but welcome to them; and calling upon them to come out into Canterbury and sing a chorus, as nothing else was left for their support.

But Mrs. Micawber having, in the strength of her emotions, fainted away, the first thing to be done, even before the chorus could be considered complete, was to recover her. This my aunt and Mr. Micawber did; and then my aunt was introduced, and Mrs. Micawber recognized me.

“Excuse me, dear Mr. Copperfield,” said the poor lady, giving me her hand, “but I am not strong; and the removal of the late misunderstanding between Mr. Micawber and myself was at first too much for me.”

“Is this all your family, ma’am?” said my aunt.

“There are no more at present,” returned Mrs. Micawber.

“Good gracious, I didn’t mean that, ma’am,” said my aunt. “I mean, are all these yours?”

“Madam,” replied Mr. Micawber, “it is a true bill.”

“And that eldest young gentleman, now,” said my aunt, musing, “what has he been brought up to?”

“It was my hope when I came here,” said Mr. Micawber, “to have got Wilkins into the Church: or perhaps I shall express my meaning more strictly, if I say the Choir. But there was no vacancy for a tenor in the venerable Pile for which this city is so justly eminent; and he has⁠—in short, he has contracted a habit of singing in public-houses, rather than in sacred edifices.”

“But he means well,” said Mrs. Micawber, tenderly.

“I dare say, my love,” rejoined Mr. Micawber, “that he means particularly well; but I have not yet found that he carries out his meaning, in any given direction whatsoever.”

Master Micawber’s moroseness of aspect returned upon him again, and he demanded, with some temper, what he was to do? Whether he had been born a carpenter, or a coach-painter, any more than he had been born a bird? Whether he could go into the next street, and open a chemist’s shop? Whether he could rush to the next assizes, and proclaim himself a lawyer? Whether he could come out by force at the opera, and succeed by violence? Whether he could do anything, without being brought up to something?

My aunt mused a little while, and then said:

“Mr. Micawber, I wonder you have never turned your thoughts to emigration.”

“Madam,” returned Mr. Micawber, “it was the dream of my youth, and the fallacious aspiration of my riper years.” I am thoroughly persuaded, by the by, that he had never thought of it in his life.

“Aye?” said my aunt, with a glance at me. “Why, what a thing it would be for yourselves and your family, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber, if you were to emigrate now.”

“Capital, madam, capital,” urged Mr. Micawber, gloomily.

“That is the principal, I may say the only difficulty,