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Hello and welcome to Storytime for Grown Ups. I'm Faith Moore and this season we're reading David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. Each episode I'll read a few chapters from the book, pausing from time to time to give brief explanations so it's easier to follow along. It's like an audiobook with built in notes. So brew a pot of tea, find a cozy chair and settle in. It's story time. Hello. Welcome back. We made it. We're finally here. We get to start the book today. Gosh, it feels like it's been such a long wait, I guess because we took that break from Christmas and New Year's and then we had the intro and it's just felt like, oh my gosh, can we start the book already? Well, the answer is yes, we are here today to start the book, chapter one of David Copperfield. And I cannot wait to start this with you. I think this is going to be such a wonderful journey, a long journey. As we discussed before, it's going to take us through almost to the end of the summer. And so I hope you're ready. I am ready, and thank you so much for being here and for wanting to take this journey with me and with the rest of the Storytime for Grown Ups listeners. Before we get into the episode, I just have a couple of quick reminders. Please subscribe if you haven't already, just hit the subscribe or the Follow button. It's called Different Things and Different Podcast Players. But hit that because that will make sure that you get all the episodes in order. And with a podcast like this, you want to make sure that that happens so you don't skip around or miss a chapter. So hit that subscribe button also, through some magical algorithm that I don't understand that helps more people to find the show. And I always say the more the merrier because I really believe that reading these great books, these classic books, is going to change the world. So the more people who do it, the better the world will become. So if you could just hit subscribe if you are enjoying this show, if you've been listening for a while, or even if you're just really excited to start this show and this book with us, if you could hit those five stars in your podcast player or even leave a positive review, those are all also really helpful ways to grow the show and to get more people's eyes and ears on Storytime for Grownups. So thank you so much for supporting the show that way. And of course, the best way that you can do that is just to tell a friend. And telling a friend is awesome because it means that you end up with someone in your life that you can talk to about the show, about David Copperfield, about books in general. That's a wonderful thing. So spread the word. Tell your friends, your family, your colleagues, tell people on the street, tell the barista at the coffee shop in the morning, whoever you want to tell. Tell everyone. And spread the word about this show. Also, just to let you know, there are several links in the show notes. The show notes are the description of this episode. So wherever you're listening, if you scroll down, there's a kind of description that tells you about Storytime for Grown Ups and that this is David Copperfield and all of that. And under that there are several links, and I hope that you will check those out. Some notable ones are we have a merch store. We have merchandise. You can get Storytime for Grown Ups mugs and hats and shirts and all kinds of things. And there are different designs for all of the books that we've done. And there's also just a Storytime for Grown Ups logo design. David Copperfield is coming. It's not there yet, but it is coming and I will let you know when it's in the store so you can check that out. And the other link that is of note is the link to our post Buy Me a Coffee page. I like to call it Buy Me a Tea, but it is both our donation page. If you'd like to make a financial donation to support the work that I'm doing here, that's the way that you can do that. But it's also the way to join our online community, which is called the Drawing Room. Not because we like to draw there, but because it is where we withdraw after the show. Every lovely old Victorian house would have had a drawing room, the place where the guests at the house party would withdraw after dinner to read, play games, play music, talk about life. And we have one of those as well. I like to think of this podcast as the main room of our Victorian house, and then our online community is our drawing room. So if you're interested in joining that, there's a couple different membership levels. We have monthly Tea Times, which are voice chats where you and I and all of us get to sit together and talk. There will be one coming up at the end of January. I'll tell you next time what the date is. I'm still just finalizing that, but there will be one at the end of January. There's one every month so if you'd like to find out more, if that sounds interesting to you and you're not sure if you want to join but you'd like to learn more, you can go into the show notes and click the link that's there. And while you're there, just check out all the other links. I won't go into them all now. That would be very boring. So. But please do check those out and you might find something there that's of interest to you. Okay, so this is the part of the show where normally I would start with a recap of what we've read before, but of course we didn't read anything. We haven't read anything yet, so there will be no recap. And then I usually take your questions and use them to discuss the chapter that we read last time. But again, we didn't read a chapter last time, so I can't read do that. But what I have done is I have saved many of your letters that you wrote in when the trailer for David Copperfield dropped and you found out what book we were going to start reading here in January. I saved a bunch of them. And what I like to do in this first chapter episode is just to read them because it gives you a sense of how people are feeling at the start of this book and what they're looking forward to, what they're worried about, maybe. And I like to read a bunch of those in place of the questions, since this is the question section. And then we'll get into the chapter. So I'm going to do that. I have several of them that I would like to read. And then after that we will get right into the chapter. And of course next time we will have a question and answer session. And the way to get your questions to me is by going to my website, which is faith k.moore.com and then you click on Contact at the top of the page that takes you to a contact form. You fill that out with your name, your email and your question or comment, and that goes straight to my email and I will get those. And I choose 1 or 2 or sometimes 3 or 4 for the top of each episode. So please do that. I really would love it if you would get in touch at the end of this episode with your questions. It could be questions like things that you were confused about, parts of the story that you didn't understand, but it can also be just comments, things that struck you, things you liked, things that were confusing. Whatever it is, whatever comes up for you as you're listening, if you would like to get in touch, you can do that. There's also just a link in the show Notes to that contact page. So if you rather do that, you can just scroll into the show notes and click that and all of that will come to me and I will choose some that I think would be helpful for everyone to hear. And we will talk about that at the start of next week's episode on Monday. But for now, here are some of your reactions to learning that we are going to be reading David Copperfield. This first one comes from Timothy Bleeker. He writes, oh, I'm thrilled about David Copperfield. Faith. That's my favorite Dickens novel too. Thank you. This one's from Mariam. She says, I've just listened to the trailer and oh my gosh, I didn't think I could be more excited, but I'm so, so, so excited to read this book. I feel like every book you choose is so perfect and comes at just the right time. I've been wanting to read more Dickens for ages because I've read some in the past and I have enjoyed it, but just always felt like there was stuff I wasn't really getting. His books are so long and I struggle to understand the language sometimes, even when I don't struggle with other classics. So I'm so happy we're going to be reading this together. This one comes from Jennifer Weigel. She says, I absolutely exclaimed, oh yes. When I heard that our next book is David Copperfield. I love Dickens and have been meaning to pick up David Copperfield and Oliver Twist and never have. I'm having a baby next month, but I'm definitely going to try to keep up. Now I have something to listen to during middle of the night nursing sessions. Well, maybe you've already had your baby and congratulations. I hope you're doing well, Jennifer. This one's from Jocelyn Shiflett. She says, I just wanted to write and say I am so excited to read David Copperfield. This is exactly the kind of book that feels too big, too hard and too lonely to read for the first time alone. I am looking forward to your insights as well as those of others who will be reading this for the first time. Thanks. Next is Michael C. Rockwell. He says, yes, Dickens. He's my favorite. And David Copperfield too. I am looking forward to hearing what you do with the voices of the characters. Oh boy, me too, you guys. Okay. This is from Becky Clay. She says, when you announced David Copperfield, I said out loud, no way. This has been on my tbr, meaning her to be read list and I started it a few years ago, but it has been sitting on my shelf ever since and I was determined to read it in 2026. I had even hoped that maybe you would select it, but thought there is no way I could get that lucky. I feel like I won the lottery. So excited. This next one is from Karen. David Copperfield. I'm so excited. I have never read the book, but have always wanted to thank you for opening up the classics to me. This one's from Kate Copeland. I'm so excited for the announcement of David Copperfield being our next book. I've always wanted to read it and look forward to sharing this experience with everyone who is part of your podcast. This one's from Katherine Steed. She says, I can't believe you're tackling David Copperfield for story time. It's always seemed daunting to me, but I'm excited to listen to it. I think Storytime for Grown ups is the only way I'd be able to make it all the way through the book. Okay, well, good. We're gonna do it. We're gonna make it all the way through this book. Next is Meg Longley. She says, I'm so excited about David Copperfield. Being forced to read Great Expectations in 8th grade made me leery of Dickens, but I really enjoyed A Christmas Carol. If I were to pick one to read myself, it would be David Copperfield and I know I'll get much more out of it by having you read it to me. I know nothing about the plot, so that's fun. That is fun. I love it when people go in blind. That's the best. Okay, so Laura says, I'm looking forward to this David Copperfield. I know absolutely nothing about it. I'm glad we are doing books that are too long for me to want to attempt to read on my own. That's why I listen. This one's from Cali Ball. She says, I cannot wait to read David Copperfield in January. I actually know nothing about this book, which is turning out to be how I prefer to go into books. I love Dickens, though, so I know it will not disappoint. Okay, and this is the last one. It's from Lanya Berger. She says, I'm so excited for David Copperfield. Honest to goodness faith. If you had phoned me and said, hey, Lanya, do you have any requests for our next book? I would have said, I feel bad asking for it because I know it's long and you've already read a Christmas Carol. But I would be absolutely giddy about David Copperfield. It is the book that for more than a decade has been near the top of my list. But somehow poor little Copperfield gets pushed back for one reason or another. Thank you for escorting Mr. Copperfield to the front of my list for 2026. I am so excited and also delighted to hear the discussions of Dickens, most semi biographical novel. So much to discuss, so much to learn. I can't wait. Okay, well, I can't wait either you guys. And I feel like a theme in all of those letters or in many of those letters is this book is so long I never would have picked it up or I tried it, but I couldn't get into it. It was just too long. And that's why I just really am excited to share it with you because it is long, it's true, but it's wonderful. It's so, so good. So for those of you who felt like I want to read this, but I don't really want to devote all this time to it or whatever, it feels too hard, this is where you're going to read it. This is the place to be. So thank you for being here and thank you for being a part of this and thank you for trusting me as we embark on this long, long journey. I hope I will not let you down. I think this is a wonderful world that we get to live in for several months. Wonderful characters that we get to meet and get to know. And so I think it's going to be a really, really fun time. So I'm so glad you're here with me. Thank you so much for being a part of Storytime for Grown ups. And don't forget to write to me faithkmore.com and click on Contact or scroll into the show notes and get in touch with all your questions and comments and thoughts about Chapter one. All right, let's get started with chapter one of David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. It's story time. Chapter One. I am born. Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born as I have been informed and believe on a Friday at 12 o' clock at night, it was remarked that the clock began to strike and I began to cry simultaneously in consideration of the day and hour of my birth. It was declared by the nurse and by some sage women in the neighborhood who had taken a lively interest in me several months before there was any possibility of our becoming personally acquainted. First, that I was destined to be unlucky in life, and second, that I was privileged to see ghosts and spirits, both these gifts inevitably attaching, as they believed, to all unlucky infants of either gender born towards the small hours on a Friday night. I need say nothing here on the first head because nothing can show better than my history whether that prediction was verified or falsified by the result. Meaning he won't say anything now about whether he's been in fact unlucky in his life since we can judge that based on the story of his life that he's going to tell us. On the second branch of the question, I will only remark that unless I ran through that part of my inheritance while I was still a baby, I have not come into it yet. Meaning unless he was able to see ghosts and spirits when he was a baby and therefore can't now remember it, he doesn't think he has the gift of seeing ghost or spirits either. But I do not at all complain of having been kept out of this property. And if anybody else should be in the present enjoyment of it, he is heartily welcome to keep it. Meaning he doesn't want to see ghosts and spirits. So if anybody else got that gift instead of him, that's fine, they can keep it. I was born with a call which was advertised for sale in the newspapers at the low price of 15 guineas. Whether sea going people were short of money about that time or were short of faith and preferred cork jackets, I don't know. All I know is that there was but one solitary bidding, and that was from an attorney connected with the bill broking business who offered two pounds in cash and the balance in sherry, but declined to be guaranteed from drowning on any higher bargain. So to be born with a caul means to be born still inside the amniotic sack and the caul itself. So the sack was meant to be lucky, particularly in keeping you from drowning. So his family tried to sell, sell the call, but only one guy wanted it and wouldn't offer them much money for it. Consequently the advertisement was withdrawn at a dead loss. For as to sherry, my poor dear mother's own sherry was in the market then. And 10 years afterwards the call was put up in a raffle down in our part of the country to 50 members at half a crown ahead. The winner to spend five shillings. I was present myself and I remember to have felt quite uncomfortable and confused at a part of myself being disposed of in that way. The Call was won, I recollect, by an old lady with a hand basket. Who very reluctantly produced from it the stipulated 5 shillings. All in halfpence and twopence halfpenny short. As it took an immense time and a great waste of arithmetic. To endeavour without any effect to prove to her. It is a fact which will be long remembered as remarkable down there. That she was never drowned. But died triumphantly in bed at 92. I have understood that it was to the last her proudest boast. That she never had been on the water in her life. Except upon a bridge. And that over her tea. To which she was extremely partial. She to the last expressed her indignation. At the impiety of mariners and others. Who had the presumption to go meandering about the world. It was in vain to represent to her. That some conveniences, t perhaps included. Resulted from this objectionable practice. She always returned with greater emphasis. And with an instinctive knowledge of the strength of her objection. Let us have no meandering. Okay, so an old woman bought the call eventually and didn't drown. But also didn't ever go in or on the water. And refused to understand why anyone ever would. Not to meander myself. At present, I will go back to my birthday. I was born at Blunderstone in Suffolk. Or thereby, as they say in Scotland. I was a posthumous child. My father's eyes had closed upon the light of this world. Six months when mine opened on it. So his father had been dead for six months before he was born. There is something strange to me even now in the reflection that he never saw me. And something stranger yet in the shadowy remembrance that I have. Of my first childish associations. With his white gravestone in the churchyard. And of the indefinable compassion I used to feel for it. Lying out alone there in the dark night. When our little parlor was warm and bright with fire and candle. And the doors of our house were almost cruelly, it seemed to me. Sometimes bolted and locked against it. An aunt of my father's, and consequently a great aunt of mine. Of whom I shall have more to relate by and by. Was the principal magnate of our family. Okay, so with the father dead. The head of the family was this great aunt. Miss Trotwood. Or Miss Betsy, as my poor mother always called her. When she sufficiently overcame her dread of this formidable personage to mention her at all. Which was seldom had been married to a husband younger than herself. Who was very handsome. Except in the sense of the homely adage Handsome is that handsome does. For he was strongly suspected of having beaten Miss Betsy and even of having once, on a disputed question of supplies, made some hasty but determined arrangements to throw her out of a two pair of stairs window. Okay, so this great aunt, Miss Betsy's husband was a handsome man, but was also a terrible person and once threatened to throw her out of a two story window. These evidences of an incompatibility of temper induced Miss Betsy to pay him off and effect a separation by mutual consent. So they're still married, but they've separated. He went to India with his capital and there, according to a wild legend in our family, he was once seen riding on an elephant in company with a baboon. But I think it must have been a baboo or a bagoom. A baboo is an Indian term for mister. And a begum is a Muslim lady of high rank. So essentially misses Anyhow from India. Tidings of his death reached home within 10 years. How they affected my aunt nobody knew. For immediately upon the separation, she took her maiden name again, bought a cottage in a hamlet on the sea coast a long way off, established herself there as a single woman with one servant, and was understood to live secluded ever afterwards in an inflexible retirement. My father had once been a favorite of hers, I believe, but she was mortally affronted by his marriage on the ground that my mother was a wax doll. She had never seen my mother, but she knew her to be not yet 20. Okay, so the father was a favorite of Miss Betsy until the father married the mother who Miss Betsy didn't like even though she hadn't met because she seems to be too young. My father and Miss Betsy never met again. He was double my mother's age when he married and of but a delicate constitution. He died a year afterwards and as I have said, six months before I came into the world. This was the state of matters on the afternoon of what I may be excused for calling that eventful and important Friday. I can make no claim, therefore, to have known at that time how matters stood, or to have any remembrance founded on the evidence of my own senses of what follows. Meaning he doesn't remember any of this since he was a baby, but he's been told of it, so now he's going to tell us. My mother was sitting by the fire, but poorly in health and very low in spirits, looking at it through her tears and desponding heavily about herself and the fatherless little stranger who was already welcomed by some grosses of prophetic pins in a drawer upstairs to A world not at all excited on the subject of its arrival. Okay, so this is before the baby is born and the mother is sitting there thinking how she's going to raise him without a father. My mother, I say, was sitting by the fire that bright, windy March afternoon, very timid and sad and very doubtful of ever coming alive out of the trial that was before her, the trial being the labor and the delivery of the baby. When lifting her eyes as she dried them to the window opposite, she saw a strange lady coming up the garden. My mother had a sure foreboding at the second glance that it was Miss Betsey. The setting sun was glowing on the strange lady over the garden fence, and she came walking up to the door with a fell rigidity of figure and composure, of countenance that could have belonged to nobody else. When she reached the house, she gave another proof of her identity. My father had often hinted that she seldom conducted herself like an ordinary Christian. And now, instead of ringing the bell, she came and looked in at that identical window, pressing the end of her nose against the glass to that extent that my poor dear mother used to say. It became perfectly flat and white in a moment. She gave my mother such a turn that I have always been convinced I am indebted to Miss Betsy for having been born on a Friday. Meaning she scared the mother so much that he thinks this is why she went into labor at that moment. My mother had left her chair in her agitation and gone behind it in the corner. Miss Betsey, looking round the room slowly and inquiringly, began on the other side and carried her eyes on like a Saracen's head in a Dutch clock, until they reached my mother. Then she made a frown and a gesture to my mother like one who was accustomed to be obeyed to come and open the door. My mother went. Mrs. David Copperfield, I think, said Miss Betsy, the emphasis referring perhaps to my mother's mourning weeds and her condition. So mourning weeds are her black clothes because of the death of the father, and her condition is that she's pregnant? Yes, said my mother faintly. Ms. Trotwood, said the visitor. You have heard of her, I dare say, my mother answered. She had had that pleasure, and she had a disagreeable consciousness of not appearing to imply that it had been an overpowering pleasure. Now you see her, said Miss Betsey. My mother bent her head and begged her to walk in. They went into the parlor. My mother had come from the fire in the best room on the other side of the passage, not being lighted, not having been lighted, indeed, since my father's funeral. And when they were both seated and Miss Betsy said nothing, my mother, after vainly trying to restrain herself, began, began to cry. Oh, tut, tut, tut, said Miss Betsy, in a hurry. Don't do that. Come, come. My mother couldn't help it notwithstanding, so she cried until she had had her cry out. Take off your cap, child, said Miss Betsy, and let me see you. My mother was too much afraid of her to refuse compliance with this odd request, if she had any disposition to do so. Therefore she did as she was told, and did it with such nervous hands that her hair, which was luxuriant and beautiful, fell about her face. Why, bless my heart. Exclaimed Miss Betsy. You're a very baby. My mother was no doubt unusually youthful in appearance, even for her years. She hung her head as if it were her fault, poor thing, and said, sobbing, that indeed she was afraid she was but a childish widow and would be but a childish mother if she lived. In a short pause which ensued, she had a fancy that she felt Miss Betsey touch her hair, and that with no ungentle hand but looking at her in her timid hope, she found that lady sitting with the skirt of her dress tucked up, her hands folded on one knee and her feet upon the fender, frowning at the fire. In the name of heaven, said Miss Betsy suddenly. Why rookery, do you mean the house, ma'? Am? Asked my mother. Why rookery, said Miss Betsy. Cookery would have been more to the purpose if you had had any practical ideas of life, either of you. So apparently this house is named the Rookery, which is a place for rooks, for birds, right to nest. And Miss Betsy is saying a house would be better off called the Cookery, because that's what's meant to happen there. The name was Mr. Copperfield's choice, returned my mother. When he bought the house. He liked to think that there were rooks about it. The evening wind made such a disturbance just now among some tall old elm trees at the bottom of the garden that neither my mother nor Miss Betsy could forbear, glancing that way as the elms bent to one another like giants who were whispering secrets, and after a few seconds of such repose fell into a violent flurry, tossing their wild arms about as if their late confidences were really too wicked for their peace of mind. Some weather beaten ragged old rooks, nests burdening their higher branches swung like wrecks upon a stormy sea. Where are the birds? Asked Miss Betsy. The my mother had been thinking of something else. The rooks. What has Become of them? Asked Miss Betsy. There have not been any since we have lived here, said my mother. We thought, Mr. Copperfield thought it was quite a large rookery, but the nests were very old ones, and the birds have deserted them a long while. David Copperfield all over. Cried Miss Betsy. David Copperfield from head to foot calls a house a rookery when there's not a rook near it, and takes the birds on trust because he sees the nests. Mr. Copperfield returned. My mother is dead, and if you dare to speak unkindly of him to me. My poor dear mother, I suppose, had some momentary intention of committing an assault and battery upon my aunt, who could easily have settled her with one hand, even if my mother had been in far better training for such an encounter than she was that evening. But it passed with the action of rising from her chair, and she sat down again very meekly, and fainted when she came to herself, or when Miss Betsy had restored her. Whichever it was, she found the latter standing at the window. The twilight was by this time shading down into darkness, and dimly as they saw each other. They could not have done that without the aid of the fire. Well. Said Miss Betsy, coming back to her chair as if she had only been taking a casual look at the prospect. And when do you expect? I am all in a tremble, faltered my mother. I don't know what's the matter. I shall die, I am sure. No, no, no, said Miss Betsy. Have some tea. Oh, dear me, dear me. Do you think it will do me any good? Cried my mother in a helpless manner. Of course it will, said Miss Betsey. It's nothing but fancy. What do you call your girl? I don't know that it will be a girl yet, ma', am, said my mother innocently. Bless the baby. Exclaimed Miss Betsy, unconsciously quoting the second sentiment of the pin cushion in the drawer upstairs, but applying it to my mother instead of me. I don't mean that. I mean your servant girl, Peggotty, said my mother. Peggotty. Repeated Miss Betsy with some indignation. Do you mean to say, child, that any human being has gone into a Christian church and got herself named Peggotty? It's her surname, said my mother faintly. Mr. Copperfield called her by it because her Christian name was the same as mine. Okay, so the servant goes by her last name because her first name is the same name as the mother's name here. Peggotty. Cried Miss Betsy, opening the parlor door. Tea. Your mistress is a little unwell. Don't dawdle. Having issued this mandate with as much potentiality as if she had been a recognized authority in the house ever since it had been a house. And having looked out to confront the amazed Peggotty coming along the passage with a candle at the sound of a strange voice, Miss Betsy shut the door again and sat down as before, with her feet on the fender, the skirt of her dress tucked up, and her hands folded on one knee. You were speaking about its being a girl, said Miss Betsey. I have no doubt it will be a girl. I have a presentiment that it must be a girl. Now, child, from the moment of the birth of this girl, perhaps a boy, my mother took the liberty of putting in. I tell you I have a presentiment that it must be a girl, returned Miss Betsy. Don't contradict. From the moment of this girl's birth, child. I intend to be her friend. I intend to be her godmother, and I beg you'll call her Betsy Trott, Trotwood Copperfield. There must be no mistakes in life with this Betsey Trotwood. There must be no trifling with her affections, poor dear. She must be well brought up and well guarded from reposing any foolish confidences where they are not deserved. I must make that my care. So she's saying she wants the baby to be named after her, and then she wants the baby to not make any of the mistakes that she made. There was a twitch of Miss Betsy's head after each of these sentences, as if her own old wrongs were working within her, and she repressed any plainer reference to them by strong constraint. So my mother suspected, at least as she observed her by the low glimmer of the fire. Too much scared by Miss Betsy, too uneasy in herself, and too subdued and bewildered altogether to observe anything very clearly or to know what to say. And was David good to you, child? Asked Miss Betsey, when she had been silent for a little while and these motions of her head had gradually ceased. Were you comfortable together? We were very happy, said my mother. Mr. Copperfield was only too good to me. What? He's spoiled you, I suppose, returned Miss Betsy, for being quite alone and dependent on myself in this rough world again. Yes, I fear he did indeed, sobbed my mother. Well, don't cry, said Miss Betsy. You are not equally matched, child, if any two people can be equally matched. And so I asked a question. You were an orphan, weren't you? Yes. And a governess. I was nursery governess in a family where Mr. Copperfield came to visit. Mr. Copperfield was very kind to me, and took a great deal of notice of me, and paid me a good deal of attention, and at last proposed to me, and I accepted him. And so we were married, said my mother simply. Ha. Poor baby, mused Miss Betsy with her frown still bent upon the fire. Do you know anything? I beg your pardon, ma'? Am, Faltered my mother. About keeping house, for instance, Said Miss Betsy. Not much, I fear, returned my mother. Not so much as I could wish. But Mr. Copperfield was teaching me much. He knew about it himself, said Miss Betsy in a parenthesis, and I hope I should have improved, being very anxious to learn, and he very patient to teach me, if the great misfortune of his death. My mother broke down again here and could get no farther. Well, well, said Miss Betsey. I kept my housekeeping book regularly and balanced it with Mr. Copperfield every night. Cried my mother in another burst of distress and breaking down again. Well, well, said Miss Betsy. Don't cry any more. And I am sure we never had a word of difference respecting it, except when Mr. Copperfield objected to my threes and fives being too much like each other, or to my putting curly tails to my sevens and nines, resumed my mother in another burst and breaking down again. You'll make yourself ill, said Miss Betsey, and you know that will not be good, either for you or for my goddaughter. Come, you mustn't do it. This argument had some share in quieting my mother, though her increasing indisposition had a larger one. There was an interval of silence only broken by Miss Betsy's occasionally ejaculating ha. As she sat with her feet upon the fender. David had bought an annuity for himself with his money. I know, said she by and by. What did he do for you, Mr. Copperfield? Said my mother, answering with some difficulty, was so considerate and good as to secure the reversion of a part of it to me. How much? Asked Ms. Betsy. 105 pounds a year, said my mother. Okay, so basically the father had a kind of life insurance policy, so now the mother gets £105 each year as an income. He might have done worse, said my aunt. The word was appropriate to the moment. My mother was so much worse that Peggotty, coming in with the tea board and candles and seeing at a glance how ill she was, as Miss Betsey might have done sooner if there had been light enough, conveyed her upstairs to her own room with all speed and immediately dispatched Ham Peggotty, her nephew, who had been for some days past secreted in the house unknown to my mother as a special messenger in case of emergency, to fetch the nurse and doctor. Those allied powers were considerably astonished when they arrived within a few minutes of each other to find an unknown lady of portentous appearance sitting before the fire with her bonnet tied over her left arm, stopping her ears with jeweller's cotton, Peggotty knowing nothing about her, and my mother saying nothing about her. She was quite a mystery in the parlour. And the fact of her having a magazine of jeweller's cotton in her pocket and sticking the article in her ears in that way did not detract from the solemnity of her presence. The doctor having been upstairs and come down again and having satisfied himself, I suppose, that there was a probability of this unknown lady and himself having to sit there face to face for some hours, laid himself out to be polite and social. He was the meekest of his sexual, the mildest of little men. He sidled in and out of a room to take up the less space. He walked as softly as the Ghost in Hamlet, and more slowly. He carried his head on one side, partly in modest appreciation of himself, partly in modest propitiation of everybody else. Meaning he's partly showing that he doesn't matter at all, and also that he wants to appease everyone else. It is nothing to say that he hadn't a word to throw at a dog. He couldn't have thrown a word at a mad dog. He might have offered him one gently, or half a one, or a fragment of one, for he spoke as slowly as he walked. But he wouldn't have been rude to him, and he couldn't have been quick with him for any earthly consideration. Mr. Chillip, looking mildly at my aunt with his head on one side and making her a little bow, said in allusion to the jeweller's cotton as he softly touched his left ear, some local irritation, ma'. Am. So he's asking if there's something bothering her with her ear because she stuffed cotton into her ear. What? Replied my aunt, pulling the cotton out of one ear like a cork. Mr. Chillip was so alarmed by her abruptness as he told my mother afterwards that it was a mercy he didn't lose his presence of mind. But he repeated sweetly, some local irritation, ma'. Am. Nonsense, replied my aunt, and corked herself again at one blow. Mr. Chillip could do nothing after this but sit and look at her feebly as she sat and looked at the fire until he was called upstairs again after some quarter of an hour's absence. He Returned. Well, Said my aunt, taking the cotton out of the ear nearest to him. Well, ma', am, returned Mr. Chillip, we are. We are progressing slowly, ma'. Am. Bah. Ah. Ah. Said my aunt, with a perfect shake on the contemptuous interjection and corked herself as before. Really, really. As Mr. Chillip told my mother, he was almost shocked. Speaking in a professional point of view alone, he was almost shocked. But he sat and looked at her notwithstanding, for nearly two hours as she sat looking at the fire, until he was again called out. After another absence, he again returned. Well, Said my aunt, taking out the cotton on that side again. Well, ma', am, returned Mr. Chillip, we are. We are progressing slowly, ma'. Am. Yah. Ah. Ah. Said my aunt, with such a snarl at him, that Mr. Chillip absolutely could not bear it. It was really calculated to break his spirit, he said. Afterwards he preferred to go and sit upon the stairs in the dark and a strong draught, until he was again sent for. Ham Peggotty, who went to the national school and was a very dragon at his catechism, and who may therefore be regarded as a credible witness, reported next day that happening to peep in at the parlor door. An hour after this he was instantly decried by Miss Betsy, meaning he was seen by Miss Betsey then walking to and fro in a state of agitation, and pounced upon before he could make his escape. That there were now occasional sounds of feet and voices overhead, which he inferred the cotton did not exclude from the circumstance of his evidently being clutched by the lady as a victim on whom to expand expend her superabundant agitation, when the sounds were loudest, that marching him constantly up and down by the collar, as if he had been taking too much laudanum, she at those times shook him, rumpled his hair, made light of his linen, stopped his ears as if she confounded them with her own, and otherwise tousled and maltreated him. This was in part confirmed by his aunt, who saw him at half past 12 o', clock, soon after his release, and affirmed that he was then as red as I was. The mild Mr. Chillip could not possibly bear malice at such a time. If at any time he sidled into the parlour as soon as he was at liberty, and said to my aunt in his meekest manner, well, ma', am, I am happy to congratulate you. What upon? Said my aunt sharply. Mr. Chillip was fluttered again by the extreme severity of my aunt's manner. So he made her a little bow and gave her a little smile to mollify her mercy on the man. What's he doing? Cried my aunt impatiently. Can't he speak? Be calm, my dear ma', am, said Mr. Chillip in his softest accents. There is no longer any occasion for uneasiness, ma'. Am. Be calm. It has since been considered almost a miracle that my aunt didn't shake him and shake what he had to say out of him. She only shook her own head at him, but in a way that made him quail. Well, ma', am, resumed Mr. Chillip as soon as he had courage, I am happy to congratulate you. All is now over, ma', am, and well over. During the five minutes or so that Mr. Chillip devoted to the delivery of this oration, my aunt eyed him narrowly. How is she? Said my aunt, folding her arms with her bonnet still tied on one of them. Well, ma', am, she will soon be quite comfortable, I hope, returned Mr. Chillip, quite as comfortable as we can expect a young mother to be under these melancholy domestic circumstances. There cannot be any objection to your seeing her presently, ma'. Am. It may do her good. And she, how is it she? Said my aunt sharply. Mr. Chillip laid his head a little more on one side and looked at my aunt like an amiable bird. The baby, said my aunt. How is she? Ma', am, returned Mr. Chillip, I apprehend you had not known. It's a boy, my aunt said, never a word, but took her bonnet by the strings in the manner of a sling, aimed a blow at Mr. Chillip's head with it, put it on bent, walked out, and never came back. She vanished like a discontented fairy, or like one of those supernatural beings whom it was popularly supposed I was entitled to see. And never came back any more. No. I lay in my basket and my mother lay in her bed. But Betsy Trotwood Copperfield was forever in the land of dreams and shadows, the tremendous region whence I had so lately travelled. And the light upon the window of our room shone out upon the earthly bourne of all such travellers, and the mound above the ashes and the dust that once was he, without whom I had never been. Thank you so much for listening. I'd love to know what you thought of the chapters. Is there anything you'd like me to clarify? Did something particularly interest you? Please go to my website, faithkmoore.com click on contact and send me your questions and thoughts. Or you can click on the link in the Show Notes to contact me. I'll feature one or two of your entries at the start of the next episode. Speaking of links, don't forget to take a look at the other links in the show notes. You can learn more about me, check out our merch store, or become a member of the Storytime for Grown Ups online community. Before I go, I'd like to ask a quick favor. This is an independent podcast. It's produced, recorded, and marketed by me, so I need your help. Spread the word about the show by posting about it on social media or texting a link to your friends. Subscribe, tap those five stars and leave a positive review wherever you're listening. If you are able to support the show financially, there's a link in the show notes to make a donation. I would really, really appreciate it. Alright everyone, story time is over. To be continued.