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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. Hi, welcome back. Well, you know what? It happened. It's spring. For the last two days it has been the most glorious weather. And I swear I feel like a different person. I'm like walking down the streets smiling at everyone. I might just randomly break into song. I don't know. It's feeling like a musical around here. But I keep looking at my weather app and it's telling me that it's not going to last, that it's going to get cold again before it gets warm for good. And I think I'm just in denial about that. I'm going to just pretend that that's not true. I'm going to enjoy this weather for as long as I can. And, and I actually kind of think it goes with what we have been reading with the last chapter. I think this kind of spirit spring like excitement is very apropos, don't you? So we're going to talk about that. But I actually have two quick announcements that I want to make. The first is I always like to tell you if I've been on somebody else's podcast, particularly if I'm talking about this podcast and that happened fairly recently. I was featured in a magazine called Women who Podcast Magazine. That is a magazine you have to buy like a physical copy of which you're welcome to do. You can find it online, just do a Google search. And they did a whole profile of me which was very lovely. I'm very grateful. But also, also if you want to kind of get the digest of it for free, I was then interviewed on Instagram about Storytime for Grown Ups. So I've just included a link in the show notes to that interview if you're interested in checking it out. I talk about storytime and how amazing I think it is and how wonderful you guys are. So you can check that out if you are interested. So that's there. That's the first announcement. The second is that I have now scheduled tea time for March. It's going to be Tuesday 24th March at 8pm Eastern. That's over in our online community, the drawing room. If you don't know what tea time is. It's a voice chat, kind of like a group phone call. I'm there, you can be there. We talk to each other. You can also just listen. We always talk about the book and where we are so far and our thoughts, but we also talk about other things. You can ask me anything, so I answer questions there. You can share whatever you want to share. And it's usually a lovely. It's always a lovely, very cozy time. The time goes by. It's a great chat. I love being there with you guys. So I hope that you will join me and join us. And if you're not yet a member of the drawing room and you have to be landed gentry, you have to be a member of that membership tier in order to participate in tea time. So if you're not yet landed gentry or you're not yet a member at all, you can scroll into the show notes. You'll find the link there. It's clearly labeled. Click on that. It's not going to automatically sign you up or anything, but it will give you some more information and let you know. Basically, if you're interested in talking to other Storytime listeners and having a conversation about the books we're reading and books in general, it's a great place to be. It's very active over there. I guarantee you'll make a friend. So if you're interested, just click on that link. And I hope that you will join us for tea time on Tuesday, March 24th at 8pm Eastern. Okay, other than that, just all the usual reminders. Please, please subscribe. Please tap those five stars. Please leave a positive review. Please scroll into the show notes and check out the links. And tell a friend, tell everyone about Storytime for Grownups. Spread the word, because the more people listening to these books, the better the world will be. All right, well, last time we read chapter 18, today we're going to be reading chapter 19. So we have to talk about chapter 18. I got some great questions and comments. You guys had some feelings about this chapter and I understand why. So we're going to talk about that. But first, let's just remind ourselves. Happened. So here is the recap. Okay, so where we left off, David takes us through a sort of retrospective of his growing from childhood into young adulthood. We learn that he rises through the ranks of the school to become head Boy. He has a schoolboy crush on a girl named Ms. Shepard, and they become a couple for a while and then break up. He tries to fight the neighborhood bully, the butcher and gets horribly beaten. He falls in love with a woman far too old for him and pines over her and is first thrilled to get to dance with her at a ball and then devastated to learn that she's marrying someone else. Agnes has grown up too, and she's David's closest friend and like a sister to him. And eventually, David is 17. He's gotten over his grand passion for the older woman. He's beaten the butcher in a fight and he's ready, he says, to be a man. All right, I'm gonna read 4 comments today. The first one comes from Rachel Clevenger. She says, aw, what a timid romantic David is. He's just so innocent and sweet. What's not to love? The world needs more David Trotwood Copperfields. The second one comes from Jennifer Schudel. She says David is showing himself to be quite the romantic, though maybe not picking the most eligible bachelorettes to admire. First it was Emily with the sweet kiss in the coach who was beneath him socially. Then the angelic Ms. Shepherd, then finally the 13 years his senior, Ms. Larkins. Davy has a lot of boldness in his romantic pursuits, even if they are short lived. All of the girls respond well to him and it was so cute when he asked for Ms. Larkins's flower. We'll have to see if one of his romantic pursuits last longer in the future. The third one comes from Katie. She says, Chapter 18 left me feeling a little dizzy. Did the writing style change to frenetic and choppy? Is Dickens showing us what it feels like to possess the mind of a teenaged boy with all the hormones coursing through his body? I'm feeling so wistful for sweet, thoughtful young Davey. I know he's still in there somewhere, and he has clearly turned into a lovely, thoughtful man as he's narrated his entire life's journey. But I'm ready for him to get through this more heedless, emotionally turbulent phase of his life. And the last one comes from Emily McGuire. She says, I just finished chapter 18 and laughed most of the time. The innocent young Davey was almost unrecognizable in his swooning, ridiculous but relatable teenage years. I loved the little note in there of the older David mentioning that at the time he believed himself sensible, as all teens do. Agnes is such a wonderful friend. Far better than the women he swoons over, I think. Okay, so I like to think of chapter 18 as one of those movie montages, you know, where they show you a bunch of little scenes one after another. Usually it's set to music or something, and it's to show you that time is passing and to give you a kind of general idea of what went on during that time. The chapter's called a retrospect, meaning a looking back. And it is that from the perspective of adult David who's writing it. But to us, the reader, it's essentially like a fast forwarding. Right. Other than the first couple of chapters, which happened when Davey was five or so, we've been with nine or ten year old Davey for most of the events of the book so far. But obviously, if this is going to be the story of his whole life, or at least his whole life up to maybe middle age or whatever age we imagine that adult David is, then the story can't progress as slowly as it's been progressing. We'd be here forever. It's a long book, but it's not that long. So there have to be some jumps forward in time. And so we're getting one of those right now. And it is this, I think, that accounts for the difference in writing style that Katie is talking about in her letter. You'll notice that this chapter is narrated completely in the present tense rather than in the past. We've had a few little sections in other chapters that were narrated in the present tense, but this is the first full chapter narrated that way. And it gives the chapter this kind of sense of immediacy and of time moving forward very quickly. And also, like Katie suggests, it puts us into a more teenaged, more frenetic sort of state. Because as all of the letters that I just read this time point out, what this chapter is essentially fast forwarding us through is Davey's adolescence. And I agree with Rachel, I think it's really sweet. I mean, it's true that it's sort of jarring to see Davy acting in this ridiculous, swooning, preening way as he develops and then moves on from these various crushes. But I would argue that he's still very much himself, that this is sort of the logical next phase of the Davie, the same Devi that we've come to know and love. You know, Emily calls young Devi innocent. And that is a word that I've used many times as well to describe him as we've gone along. And we've also talked about his sweet sort of gullibleness and the way that he gravitates toward anyone who shows him love or kindness of any kind. We've talked about how he's sort of romantic and he's creative and he's imaginative. You know, the way he latched onto those old books of his father's that he found and he pretended that he was all the heroes of those books and he imagined all those characters sort of gallivanting all over the place outside of his window. So if you were to ask yourself what sort of teenager a kid like that would become, I kind of think you might come up with pretty much exactly the sort of teenager that Dickens describes. I mean, romantic feelings are a huge part of adolescence, right? So obviously that was going to be part of it. And the fact that Davies crushes become these huge romantic affairs in his mind, I mean, I think it makes sense. He has this huge imagination. He loves romantic adventure stories and he craves love and connection. So of course his burgeoning romantic feelings become these sort of larger than life passions in his mind. And I mean, it's all very funny, but I think it's funny in a really sweet sort of way. You know, I think I said once before that Dickens is so good at blending emotions. I think before we were talking about how he blends humor and hardship, which he's really good at. But here he's blending humor with a sort of heartfelt romanticism. And it makes for an almost perfect picture of adolescence, I think. I mean, listen to how he talks about his first Crush. This is Ms. Shepherd, he says, I cannot look upon my book, for I must look upon Ms. Shepherd. When the choristers chant I hear Ms. Shepherd in the service. I mentally insert Ms. Shepherd's name. I put her in among the royal family. At home in my own room, I am sometimes moved to cry out, oh, Ms. Shepard. In a transport of love. It's hilarious, right? But it's also, I think, very much the way a teenage boy who has always been sort of innocent and romantic and imaginative, it's the way that he would experience his first adolescent crush. And this is really relatable too. I think these grand passions, they disappear as quickly as they appear. He says, I am not at all polite now to the Mrs. Nettingles young ladies and shouldn't dote on any of them if they were twice as many and 20 times as beautiful. I think the dancing school a tiresome affair and wonder why the girls can't dance by themselves and leave us alone. It's so funny. And then this whole thing with the butcher too, it's very relatable. I think we've got the burgeoning romantic feelings and we've also got the urge to prove himself in battle Right. And to assert his dominance. And all of this, which is very teenage boy as well. But of course, because he's Davey and he's the romantic that he is, he turns it into this sort of chivalric test of his honor or whatever. Here's what he says. He names individuals among them. So he being the Butcher, myself included, whom he could undertake to settle with one hand and the other tied behind him, he waylays the smaller boys to punch their unprotected heads and calls challenges after me in the open streets. For these sufficient reasons, I resolve to fight the Butcher. And of course he also fails spectacularly because for the most part, Davey is sort of like the troubadour and not really the knight. So really, all in all, I do think that the teenager Davey becomes is very much in keeping with the child that he was. And as Emily points out, it's not just Davey that's growing up, it's Agnes as well. And it's really interesting, I think, that as Davey is falling all over himself in pursuit of these sort of inappropriate for him women, he has for his best friend, essentially a woman of far greater integrity and humility and wisdom. But because he thinks of her as a of sense sister, and I also think because he thinks of her as almost too good or too angelic, because of that, he doesn't develop romantic feelings for Agnes. And he views her as his closest friend or closer than a friend, he views her as his sister. I mean, it's beautiful the way that Dickens describes Agnes here, here's what it says. And the little girl I saw on that first day at Mr. Wickfield's, where is she? Gone. Also in her stead, the perfect likeness of the picture, meaning the picture of her mother, a childlikeness no more moves about the house. And Agnes, my sweet sister, as I call her in my thoughts, my counselor and friend, the better angel of the lives of all who come within her calm, good, self denying influence, is quite a woman. Okay, so again, she's the angel in the house. She's Davey's better angel, almost as if she really is an angel, sort of guiding and protecting him. She's his sister, she's his friend. And he doesn't think of her romantically because of all of that. But as Emily says, she's clearly like a million times better than any of these other crushes that he's having. And adult David, in that section that I just read a second ago, he seems to understand that. But teenage David doesn't really. Or he holds her in such high esteem that she's above all of that somehow. And so David emerges from his early adolescence, right? And into his late teens. And here is how he describes himself. He says, I wear a gold watch and chains a ring upon my little finger and a long tailed coat. And I use a great deal of bear's grease, which, taken in conjunction with the ring, looks bad. Am I in love again? I am. I worship the eldest Miss Larkins. The eldest Miss Larkins is not a little girl. She is a tall, dark, black eyed, fine figure of a woman. Okay, So I agree that this is a little jarring to think of our Davey, our little Devi, with a ring on his finger and a tail coat and a bunch of gel essentially in his hair. He sounds like a sort of fop or a dandy or something. Not really like the strapping young man or whatever that we might want him to be. But really, what did we expect? He is a romantic. He's a creative. He's a lover, not a fighter, essentially. And he's still very young and of course, adult. David says he looks very bad, so obviously he grows out of this. But all of this primping and preening, it is kind of normal and natural, I think. And as Rachel says, he falls for this much older woman, which I think is also sort of a teenage rite of passage, like this grand passion for a totally unattainable woman. And his interest in fashion and his appearance, it's clearly his way of trying to appeal to the ladies. So he's not interested in fashion for fashion's sake. But he sees it as his way to be the most appealing that he can be. And also as a way to give himself courage and to feel a sense of self confidence that he might not otherwise feel. Here's what he says. My passion takes away my appetite and makes me wear my newest silk neckerchief continually. I have no relief but in putting on my best clothes and having my boots cleaned over and over again. I seem then to be worthier of the eldest Ms. Larkins. Okay, but in his mind he is also a brave knight, right? He mopes around outside of Ms. Larkin's house. And what he's doing out there is indulging in these fantasies of saving the day. He says he's out there and here's a quote, wishing that a fire would burst out, that the assembled crowd would stand appalled that I, dashing through them with a ladder, might rear it against her window, save her in my arms, go back for something she had left behind, and perish in the flames. Okay, so lest we think that he is just a total incompetent when it comes to anything physical and he's really just this wispy, willowy young man moping and pining over people. Lest we think that Dickens ends this chapter with what I consider to be a masterstroke, he says, here's a quote. Being by that time rather tired of this kind of life and having received due provocation from the Butcher, I think throw the flower away, go out with the Butcher and gloriously defeat him. I mean, that's just brilliant. I think it tells us that while David is romantic, he is innocent. He is a creative. He's not without a backbone, and we don't really need to worry about him in the long run. He's telling us he can fight when he needs to, he can defend his honor in battle. In the end, he actually is the troubadour and the knight. And I think that's really lovely. And it's a real gift, gift that Dickens gives us because he knows that we care so much about Davey and we don't want to think that there's anything lacking in him as he grows up. So here he is. He is 17. He's finishing up his education at Dr. Strong's. So what is next for him? We've fast forwarded to this moment and now it is time to slow down again and kind of see what plays out from here. So let's do that. Let's read the chapter. But of course, don't forget to write to me. It's faithful k.moore.com and click on Contact. Or you can scroll into the show notes. There's a link there to that same page. You're never bothering me. Please do write in with all your questions and thoughts. I love to hear them. All right, let's get started with chapter 19 of David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. It's story time. Chapter 19. I look about me and make a discovery. I am doubtful whether I was at heart glad or sorry when my school days drew to an end and the time came for leaving Dr. Strong's, I had been very happy there. I had a great attachment for the doctor and I was eminent and distinguished in that little world. For these reasons I was sorry to go. But for other reasons unsubstantial enough, I was glad. Misty ideas of being a young man at my own disposal, of the importance attaching to a young man at his own disposal, of the wonderful things to be seen and done by that magnificent animal and the wonderful effects he could not fail to make upon society lured me away. So powerful were these visionary considerations in my boyish mind that I seem, according to my present way of thinking, to have left school without natural regret. The separation has not made the impression on me that other separations have. I try in vain to recall how I felt about it and what its circumstances were, but it is not momentous in my recollection. I suppose the opening prospect confused me. I know that my juvenile experiences went for little or nothing then, and that life was more like a great fairy story, which I was just about to begin to read, than anything else. My aunt and I held many grave deliberations on the calling to which I should be devoted. For a year or more I had endeavoured to find a satisfactory answer to her often repeated question what I would like to be. But I had no particular liking that I could discover for anything. If I could have been inspired with a knowledge of the science of navigation, taken the command of a fast sailing expedition and gone round the world on a triumphant voyage of discovery, I think I might have considered myself completely suited. But in the absence of any such miraculous provision, my desire was to apply myself to some pursuit that would not lie too heavily upon her purse. Meaning that it wouldn't be too expensive to Miss Betsey and to do my duty in it, whatever it might be. Mr. Dick had regularly assisted at our councils with a meditative and sage demeanour. He never made a suggestion but once, and on that occasion I don't know what put it in his head, he suddenly proposed that I should be a brazier, meaning a person who makes things out of metal. My aunt received this proposal so very ungraciously that he never ventured on a second, but ever afterwards confined himself to looking watchfully at her for her suggestions and rattling his money trot. I tell you what, my dear, said my aunt one morning in the Christmas season when I left school. As this knotty point is still unsettled, and as we must not make a mistake in our decision if we can help it, I think we had better take a little breathing time. In the meanwhile, you must try to look at it from a new point of view and not as a schoolboy. I will, aunt. It has occurred to me, pursued my aunt, that a little change and a glimpse of life out of doors may be useful in helping you to know your own mind and form a cooler judgment. Suppose you were to go down into the old part of the country again, for instance, and see that that out of the way, woman with the savagest of names, said my aunt, rubbing her nose, for she could never thoroughly forgive Peggotty for being so called. Of all the things in the world, Aunt, I should like it best. Well, said my aunt, that's lucky, for I should like it too. But it's natural and rational that you should like it. And I am very well persuaded that whatever you do, Trot will always be natural and rational. I hope so, Aunt. Your sister Betsy, Trotwood said my aunt, would have been as natural and rational a girl as ever breathed. You'll be worthy of her, won't you? I hope I shall be worthy of you, Aunt. That will be enough for me. It's a mercy that poor dear baby of a mother of yours didn't live, said my aunt, looking at me approvingly, or she'd have been so vain of her boy by this time that her soft little head would have been completely turned if there was anything of it left to turn. My aunt always excused any weakness of her own in my behalf by transferring it in this way to my poor mother. Bless me, Trotwood, how you do remind me of her. Pleasantly, I hope, Aunt, said I. He's as like her Dick, said my aunt emphatically. He's as like her as she was that afternoon before she began to fret. Bless my heart, he's as like her as he can look at me out of his two eyes. Is he indeed? Said Mr. Dick. And he's like David too, said my aunt decisively. He's very like David, said Mr. Dick. But what I want you to be, Trot, resumed my aunt, I don't mean physically, but morally. You are very well physically is a firm fellow, a fine firm fellow, with a will of your own. With resolution, said my aunt, shaking her cap at me and clenching her hand. With determination, with character, Trot with strength of character, that is not to be influenced except on good reason by anybody or anything. That's what I want you to be. That's what your father and mother might both have been, heaven knows, and been the better for it. I intimated that I hoped I should be what she described, that you may begin in a small way to have a reliance upon yourself and to act for yourself, said my aunt, I shall send you upon your trip alone. I did think once of Mr. Dick's going with you, but on second thoughts, I shall keep him to take care of me. Mr. Dick For a moment, looked a little disappointed until the honour and dignity of having to take care of the most wonderful woman in the world restored the sunshine to his face. Besides, said my aunt, there's the memorial. Oh, certainly, said Mr. Dick, in a hurry. I intend Trotwood to get that done immediately. It really must be done immediately. And then it will go in, you know. And then, said Mr. Dick, after checking himself and pausing a long time, there'll be a pretty kettle of fish. In pursuance of my aunt's kind scheme, I was shortly afterwards fitted out with a handsome purse of money and a portmanteau, and tenderly dismissed upon my expedition. At parting, my aunt gave me some good advice and a good many kisses, and said that as her object was that I should look about me and should think a little, she would recommend me to stay a few days in London, if I liked it, either on my way down into Suffolk or in coming back. In a word, I was at liberty to do what I would for three weeks or a month, and no other conditions were imposed upon my freedom than the before mentioned thinking and looking about me, and a pledge to write three times a week and faithfully report myself. I went to Canterbury first that I might take leave of Agnes and Mr. Wickfield, my old room in whose house I had not yet relinquished, and also of the good doctor. Agnes was very glad to see me and told me that the house had not been like itself since I had left it. I am sure I am not like myself when I am away, said I. I seem to want my right hand when I miss you, though that's not saying much, for there's no head in my right hand and no heart. Everyone who knows you consults with you and is guided by you, Agnes. Everyone who knows me spoils me, I believe she answered, smiling. No, it's because you are like no one else. You are so good and so sweet tempered. You have such a gentle nature, and you are always right. You talk, said Agnes, breaking into a pleasant laugh as she sat at work as if I were the late Miss Larkins. Come. It's not fair to abuse my confidence, I answered, reddening at the recollection of my blue enslaver. But I shall confide in you just the same, Agnes. I can never grow out of that. Whenever I fall into trouble or fall in love, I shall always tell you, if you'll let me, even when I come to fall in love in earnest. Why, you have always been in earnest, said Agnes, laughing again. Oh, that was as a child or schoolboy, said I, laughing in my turn, not without being a little shamefaced. Times are altering now, and I suppose I shall be in a terrible state of earnestness one day or other. My wonder is that you are not in earnest yourself by this time, Agnes. Agnes laughed again and shook her head. Oh, I know you are not, said I, because if you had been, you would have told me, or at least, for I saw a faint blush in her face, you would have let me find it out for myself. But there is no one that I know of who deserves to love you, Agnes. Someone of a noble character, and more worthy altogether than any one I have ever seen here must rise up before I give my consent. In the time to come I shall have a wary eye on all admirers, and shall exact a great deal from the successful one, I assure you. We had gone on so far in a mixture of confidential jest and earnest that had long grown naturally out of our familiar relations, begun as mere children. But Agnes now suddenly lifting up her eyes to mine and speaking in a different manner, said Trotwood, there is something that I want to ask you, and that I may not have another opportunity of asking for a long time. Perhaps something I would ask. I think of no one else. Have you observed a gradual alteration in Papa? I had observed it, and had often wondered whether she had too. I must have shown as much now in my face, for her eyes were in a moment cast down, and I saw tears in them. Tell me what it is, she said in a low voice. I thinkshall I be quite plain, Agnes, liking him so much. Yes, she said. I think he does himself no good by the habit that has increased upon him since I first came here. He is often very nervous, or I fancy so. It is not fancy, said Agnes, shaking her head. His hand trembles, his speech is not plain, and his eyes look wild. I have remarked that at those times, and when he is least like himself, he is most certain to be wanted on some business by Uriah, said Agnes. Yes, and the sense of being unfit for it, or of not having understood it, or of having shown his condition in spite of himself, seems to make him so uneasy that next day he is worse, and next day worse, and so he becomes jaded and haggard. Do not be alarmed by what I say, Agnes, but in this state. I saw him only the other evening, lay down his head upon his desk, and shed tears like a child. Her hand passed softly before my lips while I was yet speaking, and in a moment she had met her father at the door of the room and was hanging on his shoulder. The expression of her face as they both looked towards me, I felt to be very touching. There was such deep fondness for him, and gratitude to him for all his love and care in her beautiful look. And there was such a fervent appeal to me to deal tenderly by him, even in my inmost thoughts wants, and to let no harsh construction find any place against him. She was at once so proud of him, and devoted to him, yet so compassionate and sorry, and so reliant upon me to be so, too, that nothing she could have said would have expressed more to me or moved me more. We were to drink tea at the doctor's. We went there at the usual hour, and round the study fireside found the doctor and his young wife and her mother. The doctor, who made as much of my going away as if I were going to China, received me as an honored guest, and called for a log of wood to be thrown on the fire, that he might see the face of his old pupil reddening in the blaze. I shall not see many more new faces in Trotwood stead, Wickfield, said the doctor, warming his hands. I am getting lazy and want ease. I shall relinquish all my young people in another six months and lead a quieter life. You have said so anytime these 10 years, doctor, Mr. Wickfield answered. Meaning he's always saying he's going to retire. But now I mean to do it, returned the doctor. My first master will succeed me. I am in earnest at last. So you'll soon have to arrange our contracts, and to bind us firmly to them like a couple of knaves, and to take care, said Mr. Wickfield, that you're not imposed on, eh? As you certainly would be in any contract you should make for yourself. Well, I am ready. There are worse tasks than that in my calling. I shall have nothing to think of then, said the doctor with a smile, but my dictionary and this other contract bargain, Annie. As Mr. Wickfield glanced towards her, sitting at the tea table by Agnes, she seemed to me to avoid his look with such unwonted hesitation and timidity that his attention became fixed upon her, as if something were adjusted to his thoughts. There is a post come in from India, I observe, he said after a short silence. By the by, and letters from Mr. Jack Malden, said the doctor. Indeed. Poor dear Jack, said Mrs. Markleham, shaking her head. That trying climate like living, they tell me, on a sand heap underneath a burning glass. He looked strong, but he wasn't, my dear doctor. It was his spirit, not his constitution, that he ventured on so boldly. Annie, my dear, I am sure you must perfectly recollect that your cousin Never was strong, not what can be called robust, you know, said Mrs. Markleham with emphasis, and looking round upon us generally from the time when my daughter and himself were children together and walking about arm in arm the livelong day. Annie, thus addressed, made no reply. Do I gather from what you say, ma', am, that Mr. Malden is ill? Asked Mr. Wickfield. Ill? Replied the old soldier. Remember, the old soldier is Annie's mother. My dear sir, he's all sorts of things. Except well, said Mr. Wickfield. Except well indeed, said the old soldier. He has had dreadful strokes of the sun, no doubt, and jungle fevers and agues, and every kind of thing you can mention. As to his liver, said the old soldier resignedly, that of course he gave up altogether when he first went out. Does he say all this? Asked Mr. Wickfield. Say, my dear sir, returned Mrs. Markleham, shaking her head in her fan. You little know my poor Jack Malden. When you ask that question, say not he. You might drag him at the heels of four wild horses first, Mama, said Mrs. Strong. Annie, my dear, returned her mother once for all, I must really beg that you will not interfere with me unless it is to confirm what I say. You know as well as I do that your cousin Malden would be dragged at the heels of any number of wild horses. Why should I confine myself to 4? I won't confine myself to 4, 8, 16, 2, and 30, rather than say anything calculated to overturn the doctor's plans. Wickfield's plans, said the doctor, stroking his face and looking penitently at his adviser, that is to say, are joint plans for him. I said myself abroad or at home. And I said, added Mr. Wickfield, gravelyabroad, I was the means of sending him abroad. It's my responsibility. Oh, responsibility, said the old soldier. Everything was done for the best, my dear Mr. Wickfield. Everything was done for the kindest and best we know. But if the dear fellow can't live there, he can't live there. And if he can't live there, he'll die there sooner than he'll overturn the doctor's plans. I know him, said the old soldier, fanning herself in a sort of calm, prophetic agony. And I know he'll die there sooner than he'll overturn the doctor's plans. Well, well, ma', am, said the doctor cheerfully, I am not bigoted to my plans, and I can overturn them myself. I can substitute some other plans if Mr. Jack Malden comes home on account of Ill health. He must not be allowed to go back, and we must endeavour to make some more suitable and fortunate provision for him in this country. Mrs. Markleham was so overcome by this generous speech, which I need not say she had not at all expected or led up to, that she could only tell the doctor it was like himself, and go several times through that operation of kissing the sticks of her fan and then tapping his hand with it. It. After which she gently chid her daughter Annie for not being more demonstrative when such kindnesses were shewed for her sake on her old playfellow, and entertained us with some particulars concerning other deserving members of her family whom it was desirable to set on their deserving legs. All this time, her daughter Annie never once spoke or lifted up her eyes. All this time Mr. Wickfield had his glance upon her as she sat by his own daughter's side. It appeared to me that he never thought of being observed by any one, but was so intent upon her and upon his own thoughts in connection with her as to be quite absorbed. He now asked what Mr. Jack Malden had actually written in reference to himself and to whom he had written. Why here, said Mrs. Markleham, taking a letter from the chimney piece above the doctor's head, the dear fellow says to the doctor himself, where is it? Oh, I am sorry to inform you that my health is suffering severely, and that I fear I may be reduced to the necessity of returning home for a time as the only hope of restoration. That's pretty plain. Poor fellow. His only hope of restoration. But Annie's letter is plainer still. Annie, show me that letter again. Not now, mama, she pleaded in a low voice. My dear, you absolutely are on some subjects, one of the most ridiculous persons in the world. Fault, returned her mother, and perhaps the most unnatural to the claims of your own family. We never should have heard of the letter at all, I believe, unless I had asked for it myself. Do you call that confidence my love towards Dr. Strong? I am surprised. You ought to know better. The letter was reluctantly produced, and as I handed it to the old lady, I saw how the unwilling hand from which I took it trembled. Now let us see, said Mrs. Markleham, putting her glass to her eye, where the passage is the remembrance of old times, my dearest Annie, and so forth. It's not there. The amiable old proctor, who is he? Dear me, Annie, how illegibly your cousin Malden writes. And how stupid I am. Doctor, of course. Ah, amiable indeed. Here she led off to kiss her fan Again. And shake it at the doctor, who was looking at us in a state of placid satisfaction. Now I have found it. You may not be surprised to hear Annie. No, to be sure, knowing that he never was really strong. What did I say just now? That I have undergone so much in this distant place. As to have decided to leave it at all hazards. On sick leave, if I can. On total resignation, if that is not to be obtained. What I have endured and do endure here is insupportable. And but for the promptitude of that best of creatures, said Mrs. Markleham, telegraphing the doctor as before and refolding the letter, it would be unsupportable to me to think of. Mr. Wickfield said not one word, though the old lady looked to him as if for his commentary on this intelligence. But sat severely silent with his eyes fixed on the ground. Long after the subject was dismissed and other topics occupied us. He remained so seldom raising his eyes. Unless to rest them for a moment with a thoughtful frown upon the doctor or his wife, or both. The doctor was very fond of music. Agnes sang with great sweetness and expression, and so did Mrs. Strong. They sang together and played duets together. And we had quite a little concert. But I remarked two things. First, that though Annie soon recovered her composure and was quite herself, There was a blank between her and Mr. Wickfield which separated them wholly from each other. Secondly, that Mr. Wickfield seemed to dislike the intimacy between her and Agnes. And to watch it with uneasiness. And now I must confess, the recollection of what I had seen on that night when Mr. Malden went away first Began to return upon me with a meaning it had never had. And to trouble me, the innocent beauty of her face was not as innocent to me as it had been. I mistrusted the natural grace and charm of her manner. And when I looked at Agnes by her side. And thought how good and true Agnes was, Suspicions arose within me that it was an ill assorted friendship. Meaning that he sees now that Annie Strong has feelings for Mr. Malden. And perhaps has acted on them, or is acting on them. And he thinks that she is not like Agnes at all. She was so happy in it herself, however, and the other was so happy too, that they made the evening fly away as if it were but an hour. It closed in an incident which I well remember. They were taking leave of each other, and Agnes was going to embrace her and kiss her. When Mr. Wickfield stepped between them as if by accident. And drew Agnes quickly away. Then I saw as though all the intervening time had been cancelled and I were still standing in the doorway on the night of the departure. The expression of that night in the face of Mrs. Strong as it confronted his. I cannot say what an impression this made upon me, or how impossible I found it when I thought of her afterwards, to separate her from this look and remember her face in its innocent loveliness again. It haunted me when I got home. I seem to have left the doctor's roof with a dark cloud lowering on it. The reverence that I had for his gray head was mingled with commiseration for his faith in those who were treacherous to him and with resentment against those who injured him. The impending shadow of a great affliction and a great disgrace that had no distinct form in it yet fell like a stain upon the quiet place where I had worked and played as a boy. And did it a cruel wrong. I had no pleasure in thinking any more of the grave old broad leaved aloe trees which remained shut up in themselves a hundred years together, and of the trim, smooth grass plot and the stone urns and the doctor's walk and the congenial sound of the cathedral bell hovering above them all. It was as if the tranquil sanctuary of my boyhood had been sacked before my face and its peace and honour given to the winds. But morning brought with it my parting from the old house which Agnes had filled with her influence, and that occupied my mind sufficiently. I should be there again soon. No doubt I might sleep again, perhaps often in my old room. But the days of my inhabiting there were gone and the old time was past. I was heavier at heart when I packed up such of my books and clothes as still remained there to be sent to Dover than I cared to show to Uriah Heep, who was so officious to help me that I uncharitably thought him mighty glad that I was going. I got away from Agnes and her father somehow with an indifferent show of being very manly, and took my seat upon the box of the London coach. I was so softened and forgiving going through the town, that I had half a mind to nod to my old enemy, the butcher, and throw him five shillings to drink. But he looked such a very obdurate butcher as he stood scraping the great block in the shop and moreover his appearance was so little improved by the loss of a front tooth which I had knocked out, that I thought it best to make no advances. The main object on my mind, I remember, when we got fairly on the road, was to appear as old as possible to the coachman, and to speak, extremely gruff. The latter point I achieved at great personal inconvenience, but I stuck to it because I felt it was a grown up sort of thing you were going through, sir, said the coachman. Yes, William, I said condescendingly. I knew him. I am going to London. I shall go down into Suffolk afterwards. Shoot in, sir, said the coachman. He knew as well as I did that it was just as likely. At that time of year I was going down there wailing, but I felt complimented too. I don't know, I said, pretending to be undecided whether I shall take a shot or not. Birds has got wery shy, I'm told, said William. So I understand, said I. Is Suffolk your county, sir? Asked William. Yes, I said with some importance. Suffolk's my county. I'm told the dumplings is uncommon fine down there, said William. I was not aware of it myself, but I felt it necessary to uphold the institutions of my county and to evince a familiarity with them. Them. So I shook my head as much as to say, I believe you. And the punches, Said William. There's cattle. A Suffolk punch, when he's a good un, is worth his weight in gold. Did you ever breed any Suffolk punches yourself, sir? N no, I said. Not exactly. Here's a gentleman behind me. I'll pound it, said William, as is bred and by wholesale. The gentleman spoken of was a gentleman with a very unpromising squint and a prominent chin, who had a tall white hat on with a narrow flat brim, and whose close fitting drab trousers seemed to button all the way up outside his legs from his boots to his hips. His chin was cocked over the coachman's shoulder, so near to me that his breath quite tickled the back of my head, and as I looked at him he leered at the leaders with the eye with which he didn't squint in a very knowing manner. Ain't you? Asked William. Ain't I wot? Said the gentleman behind. Bred them Suffolk punches by wholesale. I should think so, said the gentleman. There ain't no sort of horse that ain't bread and no sort of dog. Horses and dogs is some men's fancy. They're wittles and drink to me, meaning their food and drink, meaning he makes a living off of them, lodging, wife and children, reading, writing and arithmetic, snuff, tobacco and sleep. That ain't a sort of man to see sitting behind a coach box. Is it though? Said William in my ear as he handled the reins I construed this remark into an indication of a wish that he should have my place, so I blushingly offered to resign it. Well, if you don't mind, sir, said William, I think it would be more correct. I have always considered this as the first fall I had in life. When I booked my place at the coach office, I had had box seat written against the entry and had given the bookkeeper half a crown. I was got up in a special great coat and shawl expressly to do honour to that distinguished eminence, had glorified myself upon it a good deal and had felt that I was a credit to the coach. And here, in the very first stage, I was supplanted by a shabby man with a squint who had no other merit than smelling like livery stables and being able to walk across me more like a fly than a human being while the horses were at a canter. A distrust of myself, which has often beset me in life on small occasions when it would have been better away, was assuredly not stopped in its growth. By this little incident outside the Canterbury coach. It was in vain to take refuge in gruffness of speech. I spoke from the pit of my stomach for the rest of the journey, but I felt completely extinguished and dreadfully young. It was curious and interesting nevertheless to be sitting up there behind four horses, well educated, well dressed and with plenty of money in my pocket. And to look out for the places where I had slept on my weary journey. I had abundant occupation for my thoughts in every conspicuous landmark on the road. When I looked down at the trampers whom we passed and saw that well remembered style of face turned up, I felt as if the tinker's blackened hand were in the bosom of my shirt again. This is the road that he walked down when he was homeless and travelling to Miss Betsy. And so now he's remembering that time again when we clattered through the narrow street of Chatham and I caught a glimpse in passing of the lane where the old monster lived who had bought my jacket, I stretched my neck eagerly to look for the place where I had sat in the sun and in the shade waiting for my money. When we came at last within a stage of London and passed the veritable Salem house where Mr. Creakle had laid about him with a heavy hand, I would have given all I had for lawful permission to get down and thrash him and let all the boys out like so many caged sparrows. House we went to the Golden Cross at Charing Cross. Then a mouldy sort of establishment in a close neighborhood. A waiter showed me into the coffee room and a chambermaid introduced me to my small bedchamber, which smelt like a hackney coach and was shut up like a family vault. I was still painfully conscious of my youth, for nobody stood in any awe of me at all. The chambermaid being utterly indifferent to my opinions on any subject, and the waiter being familiar with me and offering advice to my inexperienced. Well, now, said the waiter in a tone of confidence, what would you like for dinner? Young gentleman likes poultry in general. Have a fowl. I told him as majestically as I could that I wasn't in the humor for a fowl. Ain't you? Said the waiter. Young gentleman is generally tired of beef and mutton. Have a weel cutlet. I assented to this proposal in default of being able to suggest anything else. Do you care for taters? Said the waiter with an insinuating smile and his head on one side. Young gentleman generally has been overdosed with taters. I commanded him in my deepest voice to order a veal cutlet and potatoes and all things fitting, and to inquire at the bar if there were any letters for Trotwood Copperfield Esq. Which I knew there were not and couldn't be, but thought it manly to appear to expect. He soon came back to say that there were none, at which I was much surprised, and began to lay the cloth for my dinner in a box by the fire. While he was so engaged, he asked me what I would take with it, and on my replying, half a pint of sherry. Thought it a favourable opportunity, I am afraid, to extract that measure of wine from the stale leavings at the bottoms of several small decanters. I am of this opinion, because while I was reading the newspaper I observed him behind a low wooden partition, which was his private apartment, very busy pouring out of a number of those vessels into one one, like a chemist and druggist making up a prescription. When the wine came too, I thought it flat, and it certainly had more English crumbs in it than were to be expected in a foreign wine in anything like a pure state. But I was bashful enough to drink it and say nothing, being then in a pleasant frame of mind, from which I infer that poisoning is not always disagreeable in some stages of the process. I resolved to go to the play. It was Covent Garden theatre that I chose windows, and there, from the back of a centre box, I saw Julius Caesar and the New pantomime. To have all those noble Romans alive before me, and walking in and out for my entertainment, instead of being the stern taskmasters they had been at school, was a most novel and delightful effect. But the mingled reality and mystery of the whole show, the influence upon me of the poetry, the lights, the music, the company, the smooth, stupendous changes of glittering and brilliant scenery, were so dazzling and opened up such illimitable reasons of delight that when I came out into the Rainy street at 12 o' clock at night, I felt as if I had come from the clouds where I had been leading a romantic life for ages, to a bawling, splashing link, lighted umbrella, struggling hackney coach, jostling, patent clinking, muddy, miserable world. I had emerged by another door and stood in the street for a little while as if I really were a stranger upon earth. But the unceremonious pushing and hustling that I received soon recalled me to myself and put me in the road back to the hotel, whither I went, revolving the glorious vision all the way, and where, after some porter and oysters, I sat revolving it still at past 1 o', clock, with my eyes on the coffee room fire. I was so filled with the play and with the past, for it was in a manner like a shining transparency through which I saw my earlier life moving along, that I don't know when the figure of a handsome, well formed young man, dressed with a tasteful, easy negligence, which I have reason to remember very well, became a real presence to me. But I recollect being conscious of his company without having noticed his coming in, and my still sitting musing over the coffee room fire. At last I rose to go to bed, much to the relief of the sleepy waiter who had got the fidgets in his legs and was twisting them and pinning them and putting them through all kinds of contortions in his small pantry. In going towards the door, I passed the person who had come in and saw him plainly. I turned directly, came back, and looked again. He did not know me, but I knew him in a moment. At another time I might have wanted the confidence or the decision to speak to him, and might have put it off until next day, and might have lost him. But in the then condition of my mind, where the play was still running high, his former protection of me appeared so deserving of my gratitude, and my old love for him overflowed my breast so freshly and spontaneously that I went up to him at once with a fast beating heart and said, steerforth, won't you speak to me? He looked at me just as he used to look sometimes. But I saw no recognition in his face. You don't remember me? I am afraid, said I. My God. He suddenly exclaimed, it's little Copperfield. I grasped him by both hands and could not let them go. But for very shame and the fear that it might displease him, I could have held him round the neck and cried. I never, never, never was so glad. My dear Steerforth, I am so overjoyed to see you, and I am rejoiced to see you too, he said, shaking my hands heartily. Why, Copperfield, old boy, don't be overpowered. And yet he was glad too, I thought, to see how the delight I had in meeting him affected me. Me. I brushed away the tears that my utmost resolution had not been able to keep back, and I made a clumsy laugh of it, and we sat down together, side by side. Why, how do you come to be here? Said Steerforth, clapping me on the shoulder. I came here by the Canterbury coach to day. I have been adopted by an aunt down in that part of the country and have just finished my education there. How do you come to be here, Steerforth? Well, I am what they call an Oxford man, he returned. That is to say, I get bored to death down there periodically, and I am on my way now to my mother's. You're a devilish amiable looking fellow, Copperfield, just what you used to be. Now I look at you, not altered in the least. I knew you immediately, I said, but you are more easily remembered. He laughed as he ran his hand through the clustering curls of his hair and said gaily, yes, I am on an expedition of duty. My mother lives a little way out of town, and the roads being in a beastly condition, and our house tedious enough, I remained here to night instead of going on. I have not been in town half a dozen hours, and those I have been dozing and grumbling away at the play. I have been to the play too, said I, at Covent Garden. What a delightful and magnificent entertainment. Steerforth. Steerforth laughed heartily. My dear young Davy, he said, clapping me on the shoulder again, you are a very daisy. The daisy of the field at sunrise is not fresher than you are. I have been at Covent Garden too, and there never was a more miserable business. Hello, you, sir. This was addressed to the waiter, who had been very attentive to our recognition at a distance and now came forward deferentially. Where have you put my friend, Mr. Copperfield? Said Steerforth. Beg your pardon, sir. Where does he sleep? What's his number. You know what I mean, said Steerforth. Well sir, said the waiter with an apologetic air, Mr. Copperfield is at present in 44, sir. And what the devil do you mean? Retorted Steerforth, by putting Mr. Copperfield into a little loft over a stable. Why, you see we wasn't aware, sir, returned the waiter, still apologetically as Mr. Copperfield was anyways particular we can give Mr. Copperfield 72, sir, if it would be preferred Next to you, sir. Of course it would be preferred, said Steerforth, and do it at once. The waiter immediately withdrew to make the exchange. Steerforth, very much amused at my having been put into 44, laughed again and clapped me on the shoulder again and invited me to breakfast with him next morning at 10 o'clockan invitation. I was only too proud and happy to accept it being now pretty late, we took our candles and went upstairs, where we parted with friendly heartiness at his door and where I found my new room a great improvement on my old one, it not being at all musty and having an immense four poster bed in it, which was quite a little landed estate here among pillows enough for six. I soon fell asleep in a blissful condition and dreamed of ancient Rome, Steerforth, and friendship until the early morning coaches rumbling out of the archway underneath made me dream of thunder and the gods. 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, storytime is over. To be continued. Sam.