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health, was overcome by it, and was taken so unwell, that Mr. Micawber

was obliged, in great trepidation, to run down to the water-butt in

the backyard, and draw a basinful to lave her brow with. She

presently revived, however, and was really pleased to see me. We had

half-an-hour’s talk, all together; and I asked her about the twins,

who, she said, were ‘grown great creatures’; and after Master and Miss

Micawber, whom she described as ‘absolute giants’, but they were not

produced on that occasion.

Mr. Micawber was very anxious that I should stay to dinner. I should not

have been averse to do so, but that I imagined I detected trouble, and

calculation relative to the extent of the cold meat, in Mrs. Micawber’s

eye. I therefore pleaded another engagement; and observing that Mrs.

Micawber’s spirits were immediately lightened, I resisted all persuasion

to forego it.

But I told Traddles, and Mr. and Mrs. Micawber, that before I could

think of leaving, they must appoint a day when they would come and dine

with me. The occupations to which Traddles stood pledged, rendered it

necessary to fix a somewhat distant one; but an appointment was made for

the purpose, that suited us all, and then I took my leave.

Mr. Micawber, under pretence of showing me a nearer way than that by

which I had come, accompanied me to the corner of the street; being

anxious (he explained to me) to say a few words to an old friend, in

confidence.

‘My dear Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘I need hardly tell you that

to have beneath our roof, under existing circumstances, a mind like that

which gleams--if I may be allowed the expression--which gleams--in your

friend Traddles, is an unspeakable comfort. With a washerwoman, who

exposes hard-bake for sale in her parlour-window, dwelling next door,

and a Bow-street officer residing over the way, you may imagine that his

society is a source of consolation to myself and to Mrs. Micawber. I

am at present, my dear Copperfield, engaged in the sale of corn upon

commission. It is not an avocation of a remunerative description--in

other words, it does not pay--and some temporary embarrassments of a

pecuniary nature have been the consequence. I am, however, delighted to

add that I have now an immediate prospect of something turning up (I am

not at liberty to say in what direction), which I trust will enable me

to provide, permanently, both for myself and for your friend Traddles,

in whom I have an unaffected interest. You may, perhaps, be prepared

to hear that Mrs. Micawber is in a state of health which renders it

not wholly improbable that an addition may be ultimately made to those

pledges of affection which--in short, to the infantine group. Mrs.

Micawber’s family have been so good as to express their dissatisfaction

at this state of things. I have merely to observe, that I am not aware

that it is any business of theirs, and that I repel that exhibition of

feeling with scorn, and with defiance!’

Mr. Micawber then shook hands with me again, and left me.

CHAPTER 28. Mr. MICAWBER’S GAUNTLET

Until the day arrived on which I was to entertain my newly-found

old friends, I lived principally on Dora and coffee. In my love-lorn

condition, my appetite languished; and I was glad of it, for I felt

as though it would have been an act of perfidy towards Dora to have a

natural relish for my dinner. The quantity of walking exercise I took,

was not in this respect attended with its usual consequence, as the

disappointment counteracted the fresh air. I have my doubts, too,

founded on the acute experience acquired at this period of my life,

whether a sound enjoyment of animal food can develop itself freely in

any human subject who is always in torment from tight boots. I think

the extremities require to be at peace before the stomach will conduct

itself with vigour.

On the occasion of this domestic little party, I did not repeat my

former extensive preparations. I merely provided a pair of soles,

a small leg of mutton, and a pigeon-pie. Mrs. Crupp broke out into

rebellion on my first bashful hint in reference to the cooking of the

fish and joint, and said, with a dignified sense of injury, ‘No! No,

sir! You will not ask me sich a thing, for you are better acquainted

with me than to suppose me capable of doing what I cannot do with ampial

satisfaction to my own feelings!’ But, in the end, a compromise was

effected; and Mrs. Crupp consented to achieve this feat, on condition

that I dined from home for a fortnight afterwards.

And here I may remark, that what I underwent from Mrs. Crupp, in

consequence of the tyranny she established over me, was dreadful. I

never was so much afraid of anyone. We made a compromise of everything.

If I hesitated, she was taken with that wonderful disorder which was

always lying in ambush in her system, ready, at the shortest notice, to

prey upon her vitals. If I rang the bell impatiently, after half-a-dozen

unavailing modest pulls, and she appeared at last--which was not by any

means to be relied upon--she would appear with a reproachful aspect,

sink breathless on a chair near the door, lay her hand upon her nankeen

bosom, and become so ill, that I was glad, at any sacrifice of brandy or

anything else, to get rid of her. If I objected to having my bed made at

five o’clock in the afternoon--which I do still think an uncomfortable

arrangement--one motion of her hand towards the same nankeen region of

wounded sensibility was enough to make me falter an apology. In short,

I would have done anything in an honourable way rather than give Mrs.

Crupp offence; and she was the terror of my life.

I bought a second-hand dumb-waiter for this dinner-party, in preference

to re-engaging the handy young man; against whom I had conceived a

prejudice, in consequence of meeting him in the Strand, one Sunday

morning, in a waistcoat remarkably like one of mine, which had been

missing since the former occasion. The ‘young gal’ was re-engaged; but

on the stipulation that she should only bring in the dishes, and then

withdraw to the landing-place, beyond the outer door; where a habit of

sniffing she had contracted would be lost upon the guests, and where her

retiring on the plates would be a physical impossibility.

Having laid in the materials for a bowl of punch, to be compounded

by Mr. Micawber; having provided a bottle of lavender-water, two

wax-candles, a paper of mixed pins, and a pincushion, to assist Mrs.

Micawber in her toilette at my dressing-table; having also caused the

fire in my bedroom to be lighted for Mrs. Micawber’s convenience; and

having laid the cloth with my own hands, I awaited the result with

composure.

At the appointed time, my three visitors arrived together. Mr. Micawber

with more shirt-collar than usual, and a new ribbon to his eye-glass;

Mrs. Micawber with her cap in a whitey-brown paper parcel; Traddles

carrying the parcel, and supporting Mrs. Micawber on his arm. They were

all delighted with my residence. When I conducted Mrs. Micawber to my

dressing-table, and she saw the scale on which it was prepared for her,

she was in such raptures, that she called Mr. Micawber to come in and

look.

‘My dear Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘this is luxurious. This is a

way of life which reminds me of the period when I was myself in a state

of celibacy, and Mrs. Micawber had not yet been solicited to plight her

faith at the Hymeneal altar.’

‘He means, solicited by him, Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mrs. Micawber,

archly. ‘He cannot answer for others.’

‘My dear,’ returned Mr. Micawber with sudden seriousness, ‘I have no

desire to answer for others. I am too well aware that when, in the

inscrutable decrees of Fate, you were reserved for me, it is possible

you may have been reserved for one, destined, after a protracted

struggle, at length to fall a victim to pecuniary involvements of a

complicated nature. I understand your allusion, my love. I regret it,

but I can bear it.’

‘Micawber!’ exclaimed Mrs. Micawber, in tears. ‘Have I deserved this! I,

who never have deserted you; who never WILL desert you, Micawber!’ ‘My

love,’ said Mr. Micawber, much affected, ‘you will forgive, and our old

and tried friend Copperfield will, I am sure, forgive, the momentary

laceration of a wounded spirit, made sensitive by a recent collision

with the Minion of Power--in other words, with a ribald Turncock

attached to the water-works--and will pity, not condemn, its excesses.’

Mr. Micawber then embraced Mrs. Micawber, and pressed my hand; leaving

me to infer from this broken allusion that his domestic supply of

water had been cut off that afternoon, in consequence of default in the

payment of the company’s rates.

To divert his thoughts from this melancholy subject, I informed Mr.

Micawber that I relied upon him for a bowl of punch, and led him to

the lemons. His recent despondency, not to say despair, was gone in a

moment. I never saw a man so thoroughly enjoy himself amid the fragrance

of lemon-peel and sugar, the odour of burning rum, and the steam of

boiling water, as Mr. Micawber did that afternoon. It was wonderful to

see his face shining at us out of a thin cloud of these delicate fumes,

as he stirred, and mixed, and tasted, and looked as if he were making,

instead of punch, a fortune for his family down to the latest posterity.

As to Mrs. Micawber, I don’t know whether it was the effect of the cap,

or the lavender-water, or the pins, or the fire, or the wax-candles, but

she came out of my room, comparatively speaking, lovely. And the lark

was never gayer than that excellent woman.

I suppose--I never ventured to inquire, but I suppose--that Mrs. Crupp,

after frying the soles, was taken ill. Because we broke down at that

point. The leg of mutton came up very red within, and very pale without:

besides having a foreign substance of a gritty nature sprinkled over

it, as if if had had a fall into the ashes of that remarkable kitchen

fireplace. But we were not in condition to judge of this fact from the

appearance of the gravy, forasmuch as the ‘young gal’ had dropped it all

upon the stairs--where it remained, by the by, in a long train, until it

was worn out. The pigeon-pie was not bad, but it was a delusive pie: the

crust being like a disappointing head, phrenologically speaking: full

of lumps and bumps, with nothing particular underneath. In short, the

banquet was such a failure that I should have been quite unhappy--about

the failure, I mean, for I was always unhappy about Dora--if I had not

been relieved by the great good humour of my company, and by a bright

suggestion from Mr. Micawber.

‘My dear friend Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘accidents will occur

in the best-regulated families; and in families not regulated by that

pervading influence which sanctifies while it enhances the--a--I would

say, in short, by the influence of Woman, in the lofty character of

Wife, they may be expected with confidence, and must be borne with

philosophy. If you will allow me to take the liberty of remarking that

there are few comestibles better, in their way, than a Devil, and that

I believe, with a little division of labour, we could accomplish a good

one if the young person in attendance could produce a gridiron, I would

put it to you, that this little misfortune may be easily repaired.’

There was a gridiron in the pantry, on which my morning rasher of

bacon was cooked. We had it in, in a twinkling, and immediately applied

ourselves to carrying Mr. Micawber’s idea into effect. The division of

labour to which he had referred was this:--Traddles cut the mutton into

slices; Mr. Micawber (who could do anything of this sort to perfection)

covered them with pepper, mustard, salt, and cayenne; I put them on

the gridiron, turned them with a fork, and took them off, under Mr.

Micawber’s direction; and Mrs. Micawber heated, and continually stirred,

some mushroom ketchup in a little saucepan. When we had slices enough

done to begin upon, we fell-to, with our sleeves still tucked up at the

wrist, more slices sputtering and blazing on the fire, and our attention

divided between the mutton on our plates, and the mutton then preparing.

What with the novelty of this cookery, the excellence of it, the bustle

of it, the frequent starting up to look after it, the frequent sitting

down to dispose of it as the crisp slices came off the gridiron hot and

hot, the being so busy, so flushed with the fire, so amused, and in the

midst of such a tempting noise and savour, we reduced the leg of mutton

to the bone. My own appetite came back miraculously. I am ashamed to

record it, but I really believe I forgot Dora for a little while. I am

satisfied that Mr. and Mrs. Micawber could not have enjoyed the

feast more, if they had sold a bed to provide it. Traddles laughed as

heartily, almost the whole time, as he ate and worked. Indeed we all

did, all at once; and I dare say there was never a greater success.

We were at the height of our enjoyment, and were all busily engaged, in

our several departments, endeavouring to bring the last batch of slices

to a state of perfection that should crown the feast, when I was aware

of a strange presence in the room, and my eyes encountered those of the

staid Littimer, standing hat in hand before me.

‘What’s the matter?’ I involuntarily asked.

‘I beg your pardon, sir, I was directed to come in. Is my master not

here, sir?’

‘No.’

‘Have you not seen him, sir?’

‘No; don’t you come from him?’

‘Not immediately so, sir.’

‘Did he tell you you would find him here?’

‘Not exactly so, sir. But I should think he might be here tomorrow, as

he has not been here today.’ ‘Is he coming up from Oxford?’

‘I beg, sir,’ he returned respectfully, ‘that you will be seated, and

allow me to do this.’ With which he took the fork from my unresisting

hand, and bent over the gridiron, as if his whole attention were

concentrated on it.

We should not have been much discomposed, I dare say, by the appearance

of Steerforth himself, but we became in a moment the meekest of the meek

before his respectable serving-man. Mr. Micawber, humming a tune, to

show that he was quite at ease, subsided into his chair, with the handle