第 41 页

you with pleasure, as I learn it.’

‘Oh, thank you, Master Copperfield,’ he answered, shaking his head. ‘I

am sure it’s very kind of you to make the offer, but I am much too umble

to accept it.’

‘What nonsense, Uriah!’

‘Oh, indeed you must excuse me, Master Copperfield! I am greatly

obliged, and I should like it of all things, I assure you; but I am far

too umble. There are people enough to tread upon me in my lowly state,

without my doing outrage to their feelings by possessing learning.

Learning ain’t for me. A person like myself had better not aspire. If he

is to get on in life, he must get on umbly, Master Copperfield!’

I never saw his mouth so wide, or the creases in his cheeks so deep, as

when he delivered himself of these sentiments: shaking his head all the

time, and writhing modestly.

‘I think you are wrong, Uriah,’ I said. ‘I dare say there are several

things that I could teach you, if you would like to learn them.’

‘Oh, I don’t doubt that, Master Copperfield,’ he answered; ‘not in the

least. But not being umble yourself, you don’t judge well, perhaps, for

them that are. I won’t provoke my betters with knowledge, thank you. I’m

much too umble. Here is my umble dwelling, Master Copperfield!’

We entered a low, old-fashioned room, walked straight into from the

street, and found there Mrs. Heep, who was the dead image of Uriah, only

short. She received me with the utmost humility, and apologized to me

for giving her son a kiss, observing that, lowly as they were, they

had their natural affections, which they hoped would give no offence to

anyone. It was a perfectly decent room, 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 eye-glass, 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

his chin in his shirt-collar. ‘She is tolerably convalescent. The twins

no longer derive their sustenance from Nature’s founts--in short,’ said

Mr. Micawber, in one of his bursts of confidence, ‘they are weaned--and

Mrs. Micawber is, at present, my travelling companion. She will be

rejoiced, Copperfield, to renew her acquaintance with one who has

proved himself in all respects a worthy minister at the sacred altar of

friendship.’

I said I should be delighted to see her.

‘You are very good,’ said Mr. Micawber.

Mr. Micawber then smiled, settled his chin again, and looked about him.

‘I have discovered my friend Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber genteelly,

and without addressing himself particularly to anyone, ‘not in solitude,

but partaking of a social meal in company with a widow lady, and one who

is apparently her offspring--in short,’ said Mr. Micawber, in another

of his bursts of confidence, ‘her son. I shall esteem it an honour to be

presented.’

I could do no less, under these circumstances, than make Mr. Micawber

known to Uriah Heep and his mother; which I accordingly did. As they

abased themselves before him, Mr. Micawber took a seat, and waved his

hand in his most courtly manner.

‘Any friend of my friend Copperfield’s,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘has a

personal claim upon myself.’

‘We are too umble, sir,’ said Mrs. Heep, ‘my son and me, to be the

friends of Master Copperfield. He has been so good as take his tea with

us, and we are thankful to him for his company, also to you, sir, for

your notice.’

‘Ma’am,’ returned Mr. Micawber, with a bow, ‘you are very obliging: and

what are you doing, Copperfield? Still in the wine trade?’

I was excessively anxious to get Mr. Micawber away; and replied, with my

hat in my hand, and a very red face, I have no doubt, that I was a pupil

at Doctor Strong’s.

‘A pupil?’ said Mr. Micawber, raising his eyebrows. ‘I am extremely

happy to hear it. Although a mind like my friend Copperfield’s’--to

Uriah and Mrs. Heep--‘does not require that cultivation which, without

his knowledge of men and things, it would require, still it is a rich

soil teeming with latent vegetation--in short,’ said Mr. Micawber,

smiling, in another burst of confidence, ‘it is an intellect capable of

getting up the classics to any extent.’

Uriah, with his long hands slowly twining over one another, made a

ghastly writhe from the waist upwards, to express his concurrence in

this estimation of me.

‘Shall we go and see Mrs. Micawber, sir?’ I said, to get Mr. Micawber

away.

‘If you will do her that favour, Copperfield,’ replied Mr. Micawber,

rising. ‘I have no scruple in saying, in the presence of our friends

here, that I am a man who has, for some years, contended against the

pressure of pecuniary difficulties.’ I knew he was certain to say

something of this kind; he always would be so boastful about his

difficulties. ‘Sometimes I have risen superior to my difficulties.

Sometimes my difficulties have--in short, have floored me. There have

been times when I have administered a succession of facers to them;

there have been times when they have been too many for me, and I have

given in, and said to Mrs. Micawber, in the words of Cato, “Plato, thou

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