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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. I'm so happy you're here. I'm excited to be with you. We have a long chapter today, so I'm going to try not to talk too much here at the beginning, but I do want to just quickly remind you that one week from today, so three Thursday, May 28th at 8pm Eastern is tea time. If you don't know what tea time is, it's like a voice chat, a kind of group phone call that we get to have together. If you are a member of the online community that we have here at Storytime for Grown Ups, which is called the Drawing Room, and if you are a member of the Landed Gentry membership tier, then you are entitled to join us once a month for tea time, which is where we talk together. We just chat. It's a chat. I love it. It's so much fun. I love chatting with you guys. We talk about the book, we talk about where we are so far and what's been going on and we also talk about other things. You can ask me anything so I answer questions during that time. Sometimes we've talked about kind of how I create the podcast or about some of the other things that I do in my working life, like my writing and my editing. Other times we just talk about other books, other things that interest us. It's a really lovely time and we've had lots of people each time time. So it's a really fun and lively chat and I would love to have you if you haven't been there yet. I love chatting with my old friends, but I also really love making new ones. So if you'd like to join us, there's still time. You can just sign up to be a member of the Drawing Room. Make sure you sign up to be landed gentry and then you can join us on May 28th at 8pm Eastern. So click on the link in the show notes if that sounds like something that might be of interest to you. Other than that, all the usual things apply. Please subscribe. Subscribe. Please tap the five stars if you're enjoying the show. Please leave a positive review and please tell every Single person on the face of the planet that you know about. Story time for grown ups. Or at least somebody that you think might enjoy it. Because I would love to get even more people listening and talking about these wonderful books together. Because the more we talk about them, the better the world is. Because these books are the heart and soul of what it means to be human. And we need to be human in this. This weird world that we're living in now. So please, do tell a friend, tell everyone, and let's keep this conversation going. All right, let's also get into this episode. So last time we read chapter 38, today is going to be chapter 39. We have a little bit to talk about and then we'll get into this long chapter. So first let's just remind ourselves of what we read last time. Here is the recap. All right, so where we left off. David holds firm in his resolve to learn shorthand so that he can get a job taking down the text of the speeches given in the Houses of Parliament. It's very difficult, but he makes progress and Traddles agrees to help him by reading out speeches for him to take down. They do this nightly at David's rooms with Ms. Betsy and Mr. Dick playing the parts of the opposing party. One day, David finds Mr. Spenlow looking very grave and they go together to a coffee shop where they find Ms. Murdstone waiting for them. She shows David that she has all of the letters that he's written to Dora and she reveals that Mr. Spenlo now knows about their courtship. Mr. Spenlo is very upset that David went behind his back and he feels that they are far too young to be thinking about marriage. And he tells David that he must forget about Dora. David says he could never do that, and Mr. Spenlo threatens to then cut Dora out of his will and leave her destitute if David doesn't agree to give up the engagement. He gives David a week to think about it. David's very upset and worries about Dora, who he assumes is very upset as well. The next day, David comes into the office and learns that Mr. Spenlow has died suddenly. He is very upset by this, very concerned about Dora's feelings, and worried that this will mean that she can't focus on him at the moment. David and the other clerks search Mr. Spenlow's office for his will, but it turns out that he actually doesn't have one. And in going through his finances, it turns out he doesn't really have very much money at all. Dora goes to live with some aunts, and David meets regularly with Ms. Mills to learn about how she's doing. Ms. Mills shares her journal with David, which is all about how sad Dora is and how every time Ms. Mills mentions David, Dora gets upset and starts crying about her father. So we left David in a state of desperation, not knowing how to reunite with Dora. Okay, I'm going to read 3 comments today. The first one comes from Peter Graziano. He says, oh, wow, Mr. Spenlow died and without a will or his affairs in order. Poor Dora. Narratively, however, it seemed quite sudden to me, especially since the conflict with Mr. Spenlow started just this chapter. The second one comes from our online community, and this person goes by the handle ilv. He says, let's say that you are the only child of a doting parent and say there's a Murdstone or two in the house. Next, let's say that your one parent dies, leaving you nothing, and you must go and live with an aunt or two. Does this remind anyone of someone else's situation? Maybe minus the protracted poverty. And the last one comes from Donya. She says, since you mentioned how Dickens inserts comedy during serious or stressful situations, I find myself looking for them despite David's distress. I couldn't help but laugh out loud, imagining Jip hanging from the air while they try to pull the letter out of his mouth. That dog was destined to be David's rival to the bitter end. Also, I feel like Ms. Murdstone has a particular role in this story to separate David from the women he loves. I wonder if there's a deeper meaning that Dickens had in mind with her character, or if she is just the female villain. I have a hard time believing in Dora's love for David when she doesn't turn to him for consolation with the death of her father. Okay, so lots of plot in this chapter, a lot of events. But I want to begin by saying that I agree with Peter. This chapter doesn't quite work narratively. It seems to me that there's a bit of a deus ex machina going on here. And there are a couple of thematic things that think Dickens is trying to get in, but in terms of just straight up storytelling, this chapter does feel a little bit odd. But I at least am willing to forgive Dickens a slightly kind of wonky chapter in the middle of this absolute masterpiece. And also I think the chapter kind of gets the job done. But like Peter says, it's all kind of condensed into one episode when it seems like you'd want to maybe have Mr. Spenlo finding out about David and Dora and separating them in one chapter, and then maybe like several chapters later, you might kill him off and get rid of obstacle, but then put up the next obstacle, that Dora is too grief stricken now to have anything to do with him. That has kind of been Dickens's MO so far, right? He gives us a problem, then he deals with something else for a while, then he comes back to that problem he deals with, that presents a new problem, moves on to something else, etc. Etc. But here we get the problem, the solution and the new problem all in one chapter. And it does feel a little bit rushed, but c' est la vie. And regardless of how it's all presented, we do get some important information in this chapter as well as some kind of deeper thematic elements. So I think it's worth taking a look at those before we move on. So the first thing I want to Talk about is Ms. Murdstone. Danya asked in her letter if there is some reason why Ms. Murdstone keeps showing up. And I loved Phil's comparison between what is currently happening to Dora and what happened to David when he was younger. It's obviously not as dire for Dora as Phil pointed out, but it is interesting that the Murdstones were around during both the breakup of David's family of origin and the breakup of Dora's family of origin. And I think there are probably two things actually going on here. The first is just to continue this comparison between Dora and David's mother. It was the Murdstones who showed up and essentially took everything good away from Clara and David until Klara became so put upon that she died. And now it's Ms. Murdstone who has broken up this lovely, albeit childish, dream of Dora and David, that they are in love and going to get married and all of this. The Murdstones are like this horrible force of, like, extreme practicality. It's like they wield reality like a weapon or something, and they're going to beat you over the head with it. So the fact that the Murdstones ruined Clara's life and the fact that Ms. Murdstone is in a way ruining Dora's life, or at least upsetting her in, is a sort of parallel that I think is worth noting. It reminds us to think about Dora in relation to Clara. But the other thing that Ms. Murdstone's presence is doing in this chapter, I think, is to remind David of how young he is, how childish the Murdstones were the villains, or at least some of the villains of David's childhood. He was powerless against them because of how young he was. And he had to do what they told him to, even though it was awful because they were essentially his parental figures. So to have Ms. Murdstone show and cause his courtship of Dora to be nipped in the bud such that he can't fight back against it is to remind him of that time when he was powerless against the Murdstones. And David himself makes this comparison. Here's what he she looked so exactly as she used to look at about that hour of the morning in our parlor at Blunderstone that I could have fancied I had been breaking down in my lessons again. And that the dead weight on my mind was that horrible old sea spelling book with oval woodcuts shaped to my youthful fancy like the glasses out of spectacles. And of course, this is a huge theme of David and Dora's relationship. The fact that they are actually acting very childish, even though they are talking about something very grown up, which is marriage. And Mr. Spenlo hammers that home. He says, have you considered your years and my daughter's years, Mr. Copperfield? Have you considered what it is to undermine the confidence that should submit subsist between my daughter and myself? Have you considered my daughter's station in life, the projects I may contemplate for her advancement, the testamentary intentions I may have with reference to her? Have you considered anything, Mr. Copperfield? Which is all kind of true, actually. I mean, David hasn't really considered any of that. And his love for Dora has been essentially a sort of make believe game. Because if he'd actually been in earnest, he would certainly have asked Mr. Spenlow's permission for Dora's hand in marriage before taking up this whole relationship with her. That would be the adult thing to do. But he didn't do that and now he's paying for it. So I think Ms. Murdstone serves to remind David and us both that Dora is very much like Clara. And also that David and Dora are not really behaving like adults. But it's interesting though, because obviously we don't side with Ms. Murdstone. We hate Ms. Murdstone. So even though we also think that David and Dora are acting childishly, I think we also feel in this chapter that Ms. Murdstone ought not to have outed them to Mr. Spenlow. And also that the way that the Murdstones go about ruining everyone's kind of carefree, innocent, creative dreamy impulses. I mean, it's just not on. We don't approve of that at all. And that's a good reminder as well that even though we worry about David entering into this relationship, we also want to remember that we don't want him to turn into a Murdstone type person without any imagination or silliness or father fun in him at all. And that's why I think Dickens gives us this scene that Danya mentioned in her letter with Jip and Ms. Murdstone fighting over the letter, because it is really funny and it allows us to laugh at Ms. Murdstone, who doesn't even realize she's describing something funny. Right. Here's what she says. The little dog retreated under the sofa on my approaching him and was with great difficulty dislodged by the fire irons. Even when dislodged, he said, still kept the letter in his mouth. And on my endeavoring to take it from him at the imminent risk of being bitten, he kept it between his teeth so pertinaciously as to suffer himself to be held suspended in the air by means of the document. At length I obtained possession of it. So we can feel sufficiently removed from Ms. Murdstone's clutches now to laugh at her chasing after Jip. And we can know that even though she's thwarted David's relationship with Dora for now, she can't actually harm David anymore in the same kind of truly devastating way that she and Mr. Birdstone did when he was young. But as Peter points out, this entire sequence with Mr. Spenlow and Ms. Murdstone, it's immediately kind of negated by Mr. Spenlow's death. And his death is kind of a deus ex machina, meaning a kind of very convenient plot device to make things come out all right or to further the plot in some way. Because not only does it take away the obstacle of Mr. Spenlo's consent to the marriage, but it also reveals that Mr. Spenlow isn't actually as wealthy as he seemed, which causes David's altered financial situation to not actually be as big of a deal in terms of his relationship with Dora. David says, Here's a quote. Tiffy told me little, thinking how interested I was in the story, that paying all the just debts of the deceased and deducting his share of outstanding bad and doubtful debts due to the firm, he wouldn't give £1,000 for all the assets remaining. So essentially, David and Dora are now much more on the same same level financially than they were before. And that makes David a more suitable husband for Dora, even with his financial problems. So in a way, the path has been substantially cleared for David to marry Dora. There is just one problem, which is that Dora is now so grief stricken over the loss of her beloved father that she can't bear to think about her relationship with David. Right. Danya said that Dora should have turned to David in her grief. And I think that probably she would have if their love was kind of deeper and more established than it is. But I don't think that she's actually being heartless here. I think we're meant to feel that she thinks it wouldn't be right to think about her own enjoyment and her own love affair when she is grieving for her father. Remember when Julia Mills tries to talk to her about David, Dora says, oh, don't, don't, don't. It's so wicked to think of anything but poor Papa. Okay, so it's not that she's totally forgotten about David. It's that she thinks that she shouldn't be thinking about him right now. And of course, David's reaction to all this is also sort of silly and childish in the sense that what he feels is jealous of everyone around Dora for getting to comfort her in her grief while he has to stay away. And jealous that she's thinking of her dead father instead of of him. Which is both pretty relatable, I think, and also not particularly grown up. Here's what he what I cannot describe is how in the innermost recesses of my heart I had a lurking jealousy of death. How I felt as if its might would push me from my ground in Dora's thoughts. How I was in a grudging way I have no words for, envious of her grief. How it made me restless to think of her weeping to others or being consoled by others. How I had a grasping, avaricious wish to shut out everybody from her but myself. And to be all in all to her at that unseasonable time of all times. Okay, And I think the final thing that kind of hits home, the fact that David and Dora's relationship is at the heart of it, really very childish and silly is this whole sequence about Julia Mills's diary. I mean, I don't know about you, but I find this section, like Laugh Out Loud funny. It's hilarious the way that Ms. Mills describes these ridiculous incidents as if they were the height of drama. I mean, it's brilliant. Here is just one example from the diary. It says, Monday, my sweet D. Still much Depressed headache called attention to J as being beautifully sleek D fondled J Associations thus awakened opened floodgates of sorrow. Rush of grief admitted are tears the dew drops of the heart. JM I mean, come on. It's really funny. And it also is making fun of the kind of maudlin emotion that has been almost the hallmark of Dora and David relationship. So while of course it is awful that Dora's beloved father has died, there's an over the top quality to all of this that just speaks to the fact that this relationship isn't quite the kind of adult connection you would want to see in two people who were committing to spend their lives together. So now Dora is going to live with some kind of spinster aunts, it seems like. And we don't know if that means it's the end of David's relationship with Dora or if the aunts will actually allow them to continue their relationship whenever Dora decides it's okay for her to enjoy herself again, or if some additional wrench will get thrown into the situation that we haven't thought of yet, which is entirely possible. But as always, there is only one way to find out and of course that is to keep reading. And so I think that is what we should do now. But of course, don't forget to write to me. It's faithkmore.com, click on Contact. Send me all your questions and thoughts. You can also find a link to that contact page in the show notes. And I really hope that you will get in touch. I love to hear what you are thinking about or wondering about as you listen. So please do get in touch. All right, let's get started with chapter 39 of David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. It's story time. Chapter 39, Wickfield and Heap. My aunt, beginning, I imagine, to be made seriously uncomfortable by my prolonged dejection, made a pretense of being anxious that I should go to Dover to see that all was working well at the cottage which was let and to conclude an agreement with the same tenant for a longer term of occupation. Betsy wants David to go to her house and make sure that everything's going well with the people who are renting it and to see if they'll rent it for longer. Janet was drafted into the service of Mrs. Strong, where I saw her every day. She had been undecided on leaving Dover, whether or no to give the finishing touch to that renunciation of mankind in which she had been educated by marrying a pilot. But she decided against the venture, not so much for the Sake of principle, I believe as because she happened not to like him. Okay, so Janet, Ms. Betsy's servant, is now working for Mrs. Strong, Dr. Strong's wife, because she decided not to get married because she didn't like her sister. Suitor and a pilot at this time would have been a sort of specialized sailor. Although it required an effort to leave Ms. Mills, I fell rather willingly into my aunt's pretense as a means of enabling me to pass a few tranquil hours with Agnes. I consulted the good doctor relative to an absence of three days and the doctor wishing me to take that relaxation, he wished me to take more. But my energy could not bear that. I made up my mind to go as to the Commons. I had no great occasion to be particular about my duties in that quarter. To say the truth. We were getting in no very good odour among the tip top proctors and were rapidly sliding down to but a doubtful position. The business had been indifferent under Mr. Jorkins before Mr. Spenlow's time and although it had been quickened by the infusion of new blood and by the display which Mr. Spenlow made, still it was not established on a sufficiently strong basis to bear without being shaken or such a blow as the sudden loss of its active manager, it fell off very much. Mr. Jorkins, notwithstanding his reputation in the firm, was an easy going, incapable sort of man whose reputation out of doors was not calculated to back it up. I was turned over to him now and when I saw him take his snuff and let the business go, I regretted my aunt's thousand pounds more than ever. Okay, so now that Mr. Spenlow is gone, the law firm is not doing very well at all. And David is a upset that he still has to work there and that he can't get his aunt's investment back. But this was not the worst of it. There were a number of hangers on and outsiders about the Commons who without being proctors themselves dabbled in common form business and got it done by real proctors who lent their names in consideration of a share in the spoil. And there were a good many of these too. As our house now wanted business on any terms, we joined this noble band and threw out lures to the hangers on and outsiders to bring their business to us. Marriage licenses and small probates were what we all looked for and what paid us best. And the competition for these ran very high indeed. Kidnappers and inveiglers were planted in all the avenues of entrance to the Commons with Instructions to do their utmost to cut off all persons in mourning. And all gentlemen with anything bashful in their appearance. Parents. And entice them to the offices in which their respective employers were interested. Which instructions were so well observed. That I myself, before I was known by sight. Was twice hustled into the premises of our principal opponent. The conflicting interests of these touting gentlemen being of a nature to irritate their feelings. Personal collisions took place. And the Commons was even scandalized by our principal inveigler. Who had formerly been in the wine trade. And afterwards in the sworn brokery line, walking about for some days with a black eye. Any one of these scouts used to think nothing of politely assisting an old lady in black out of a vehicle. Killing any proctor whom she inquired for representing his employer as the lawful successor and representative of that proctor. And bearing the old lady off, sometimes greatly affected to his employer's office. Okay, so not actually killing them. But saying that the person that she was looking for was dead. And that their own employer was the successor and could help her. Many captives were brought to me in this way. As to marriage licenses, the competition rose to such a pitch. That a shy gentleman in want of one had nothing to do but submit himself to the first inveigler. Or be fought for and become the prey of the strongest. One of our clerks, who was an outsider, used in the height of this contest to sit with his hat on. That he might be ready to rush out and swear before a surrogate any victim who was brought in. The system of inveigling continues I believe to this day. The last time I was in the Commons, a civil, able bodied person in a white apron pounced out upon me from a doorway. And whispering the word marriage license in my ear, was with great difficulty prevented from taking me up in his arms and lifting me into a proctor's. Okay, so he's basically describing a system that's sort of like ambulance chasing. Where people are trying to get business to their own law firm by waiting around for people who seem to be in mourning or need a marriage license. And then getting to them first so that they'll use their lawyer instead of someone else's. From this digression, let me proceed to Dover. I found everything in a satisfactory state at the cottage. And was enabled to gratify my aunt exceedingly by reporting that the tenant inherited her feud and waged incessant war against donkeys. Having settled the little business I had to transact there and slept there one night I walked on to Canterbury early in the Morning. It was now winter again, and the fresh, cold, windy day and the sweeping downland brightened up my hopes a little. Coming into Canterbury, I loitered through the old streets with a sober pleasure that calmed my spirits and eased my heart. There were the old signs, the old names over the shops, the old people serving in them. It appeared so long since I had been a schoolboy there that I wondered. The place was so little changed until I reflected how little I was changed myself. Strange to say. That quiet influence, which was inseparable in my mind from Agnes seemed to pervade even the city where she dwelt the venerable cathedral towers and the old jackdaws and rooks whose airy voices made them more retired than perfect silence would have done. The battered gateways, one stuck full with statues, statues long thrown down and crumbled away like the reverential pilgrims who had gazed upon them. The still nooks where the ivied growth of centuries crept over gabled ends and ruined walls the ancient houses, the pastoral landscape of field, orchard and garden. Everywhere on everything I felt the same serene air, the same calm, thoughtful, softening spirit arrived at Mr. Wickfield's house I found in the little lower room on the ground floor where Uriah Heep had been of old accustomed to sit, Mr. Micawber plying his pen with great assiduity, which means great concentration. He was dressed in a legal looking suit of black and loomed burly and large in that small office. Mr. Micawber was extremely glad to see me, but a little confused too. He would have conducted me immediately into the presence of Uriah, but I declined. I know the house of old, you recollect, said I, and will find my way upstairs. How do you like the law, Mr. Micawber? My dear Copperfield, he replied to a man possessed of the higher imaginative powers. The objection to legal studies is the amount of detail which they involve even in our professional correspondence, said Mr. Micawber, glancing at some letters he was writing. The mind is not at liberty to soar to any exalted form of expression. Still, it is a great pursuit, a great pursuit. He then told me that he had become the tenant of Uriah Heep's old house, and that Mrs. Micawber would be delighted to receive me once more under her roof. It is humble, said Mr. Micawber, to quote a favourite expression of my friend Heap, but it may provide the stepping stone to more ambitious domiciliary accommodation. I asked him whether he had reason so far to be satisfied with his friend Heape's treatment of him. He got up to ascertain if the door were closed shut before he replied in a lower voice. My dear Copperfield, a man who labors under the pressure of pecuniary embarrassments is with the generality of people at a disadvantage. That disadvantage is not diminished when that pressure necessitates the drawing of stipendiary emoluments before those emoluments are strictly due and payable. All I can say is that my friend Heap has responded to appeals to which I need not more particularly refer, in a manner calculated to redound equally to the honor of of his head and of his heart. So he's saying that when Mr. Macabre doesn't have enough money, Uriah is willing to give him a kind of loan, or an advance on his salary. I should not have supposed him to be very free with his money either, I observed. Pardon me, said Mr. Micawber, with an air of constraint. I speak of my friend Heap, as I have experienced. I am glad your experience is so favorable, I returned. You are very obliging, my dear Copperfield, said Mr. Micawber, and hummed a tune. Do you see much of Mr. Wickfield? I asked, to change the subject. Not much, said Mr. Micawber slightingly. Mr. Wickfield is, I dare say, a man of very excellent intentions, but he is, in short, he is obsolete. I am afraid his partner seeks to make him so, said I. My Dear Copperfield, returned Mr. Micawber after some uneasy evolutions on his stool. Allow me to offer a remark. I am here in a capacity of confidence. I am here in a position of trust. The discussion of some topics, even with Mrs. Micawber herself so long the partner of my various vicissitudes, and a woman of a remarkable lucidity of intellect, is, I am led to consider, incompatible with the functions now devolving on me. I would therefore take the liberty of suggesting that in our friendly intercourse, which I trust will never be disturbed, we draw a line. On one side of this line, said Mr. Micawber, representing it on the desk with the office ruler, is the whole range of the human intellect, with a trifling exception, and on the other is that exception, that is to say, the affairs of Messrs. Wickfield and Heap, with all belonging and appertaining thereunto. I trust I give no offence to the companion of my youth in submitting this proposition to his cooler judgment, though I saw an uneasy change in Mr. Micawber, which sat tightly on him, as if his new duties were a misfit I felt I had no right to be offended. My telling him so appeared to relieve him, and he shook hands with me. I am charmed, Copperfield, said Mr. Micawber. Let me assure you with Ms. Wickfield. She is a very superior young lady of very remarkable attractions, graces and virtues. Upon my honour, said Mr. Micawber, indefinitely kissing his hand and bowing with his genteelest air, I do homage to Ms. Wickfield. I am glad of that at least, said I. If you had not assured us, my dear Copperfield, on the occasion of that agreeable afternoon, we had the happiness of passing with you. That D was your favorite letter, said Mr. Micawber. I should unquestionably have supposed that A had been so. Meaning, if Mr. Micawber didn't know that David was in love with Dora or someone with the initial D, he might think that Agnes would be a good match for him. We have all some experience of a feeling that comes over us occasionally of what we are saying and doing, having been said and done before in a remote time, of our having been surrounded dim ages ago by the same faces, objects and circumstances of our knowing perfectly what will be said next as if we suddenly remembered it. I never had this mysterious impression more strongly in my life than before he uttered those words. I took my leave of Mr. Micawber for the time, charging him with my best remembrances to all at home. As I left him resuming his stool and his pen and rolling his head in his stock to get it into easier writing order, I clearly perceived that there was something interposed between him and me, since he had come into his new functions, which prevented our getting at each other as we used to do, and quite altered the character of our intercourse. There was no one in the quaint old drawing room, though it presented tokens of Mrs. Heape's whereabouts. I looked into the room still belonging to Agnes and saw her sitting by the fire at a pretty old fashioned desk she had writing. My darkening the light made her look up. What a pleasure to be the cause of that bright change in her attentive face and the object of that sweet regard and welcome. Ah, Agnes, said I, when we were sitting together side by side, I have missed you so much lately. Indeed, she replied again, and so soon. I shook my head. I don't know how it is, Agnes. I seem to want some faculty of mind that I ought to have. You were so much in the habit of thinking for me in the happy old days here, and I came so naturally to you for counsel and support. That I really think I have missed acquiring it. And what is it? Said Agnes cheerfully. I don't know what to call it, I replied. I think I am in earnest and persevering. I am sure of it, said Agnes, and patient Agnes? I inquired with a little hesitation. Yes, returned Agnes, laughing pretty well. And yet, said I, I get so miserable and worried and am so unsteady and irresolute in my power of assuring myself that I know I must want. Shall I call it reliance of some kind? Call it so, if you will, said Agnes. Well, I returned. See here. You come to London, I rely on you, and I have an object and a course. At once I am driven out of it. I come here, and in a moment I feel an altered person. The circumstances that distressed me are not changed since I came into this room, but an influence comes over me in that short interval that alters me. Oh, how much for the better. What is it? What is your secret, Agnes? Her head was bent down, looking at the fire. It's the old story, said I. Don't laugh when I say it was always the same in little things as it is in greater ones. My old troubles were nonsense, and now they are serious. But whenever I have gone away from my adopted sister, Agnes looked up with such a heavenly face and gave me her hand, which I kissed. Whenever I have not had you, Agnes, to advise and approve. In the beginning I have seemed to go wild and to get into all sorts of difficulty. When I have come to you at last, as I have always done, I have come to peace and happiness. I come home now like a tired traveller and find such a blessed sense of rest. I felt so deeply what I said. It affected me so sincerely that my voice failed and I covered my face with my hand and broke into tears. I write the truth, whatever contradictions and inconsistencies there were within me, as there are within so many of us, whatever might have been so different and so much better. Whatever I had done in which I had perversely wandered away from the voice of my own heart, I knew nothing of. I only knew that I was fervently in earnest when I felt the rest and peace of having Agnes near me in her placid sisterly manner, with her beaming eyes, with her tender voice, and with that sweet composure which had long ago made the house that held her quite a sacred place to me. She soon won me from this weakness and led me on to tell all that had happened since our last meeting. And there is not another word to tell, Agnes said. I When I had made an end of my confidence. Now my reliance is on you, but it must not be on me. Trotwood returned Agnes with a pleasant smile. It must be on someone else. On Dora, said I assuredly. Why, I have not mentioned Agnes, said I, a little embarrassed. That Dora is rather difficult toi would not for the world say, to rely upon, because she is the soul of purity and truth, but rather difficult to. I hardly know how to express it. Really, Agnes, she is a timid little thing, and easily disturbed and frightened some time ago, before her father's death, when I thought it right to mention to her. But I'll tell you, if you will bear with me, how it was. Accordingly, I told Agnes about my declaration of poverty, about the cookery book, the housekeeping accounts and all the rest of it. Oh, Trotwood, she remonstrated with a smile, just your old headlong way. You might have been in earnest in striving to get on in the world without being so very sudden with a timid, loving, inexperienced girl. Poor Dora. I never heard such sweet, forbearing kindness expressed in a voice as she expressed in making this rep. It was as if I had seen her admiringly and tenderly embracing Dora and tacitly reproving me by her considerate protection for my hot haste in fluttering that little heart. It was as if I had seen Dora, in all her fascinating artlessness, caressing Agnes and thanking her and coaxingly appealing against me and loving me with all her childish innocence. I felt so grateful to Agnes and admired her so. I saw those two together in a bright perspective, Such well associated friends, each adorning the other so much. What ought I to do then, Agnes? I inquired, after looking at the fire a little while. What would it be right to do? I think, said Agnes, that the honourable course to take would be to write to those two ladies, meaning the two aunts that Dora now lives with. Don't you think that any secret course is an unworthy one? Yes, if you think so, said I. I am poorly qualified to judge of such matters, replied Agnes with a modest hesitation. But I certainly feel, in short, I feel that you're being secret and clandestine is not being like yourself. Like myself, in the too high opinion you have of me. Agnes, I am afraid, said I, like yourself in the candour of your nature. She returned. And therefore I would write to those two ladies. I would relate as plainly and as openly as possible all that has taken place, and I would ask their permission to visit sometimes at their house. Considering that you are young and striving for a place in life. I think it would be well to say that you would readily abide by any conditions they might impose upon you. I would entreat them not to dismiss your request without a reference to Dora, and to discuss it with her when they should think the time suitable. I would not be too vehement, said Agnes gently, or propose too much. I would trust to my fidelity and perseverance, and to Dora. But if they were to frighten Dora again Agnes by speaking to her, said I. And if Dora were to cry and say nothing about me? Is that likely? Inquired Agnes, with the same sweet consideration in her face. God bless her, she is as easily scared as a bird, said I. It might be. Or if the two Ms. Spenlowselderly ladies of that sort are odd characters sometimes should not be likely persons to address in that way. I don't think, Trotwood, returned Agnes, raising her soft eyes to mine. I would consider that perhaps it would be better only to consider whether it is right to do this, and if it is to do it. I had no longer any doubt on the subject. With a lightened heart, though with a profound sense of the weighty importance of my task, I devoted the whole afternoon to the composition of the draught of this letter. Letter for which great purpose Agnes relinquished her desk to me. But first I went downstairs to see Mr. Wickfield and Uriah Heape. I found Uriah in possession of a new plaster smelling office built out in the garden, looking extraordinarily mean in the midst of a quantity of books and papers. Mean? Meaning undecorated or unadorned. He received me in his usual fawning way, and pretended not to have heard of my arrival from Mr. Micawber, a pretence I took the liberty of disbelieving. He accompanied me into Mr. Wickfield's room, which was the shadow of its former self, having been divested of a variety of conveniences for the accommodation of the new partner, and stood before the fire, warming his back and shaving his chin with his bony hand, while Mr. Wickfield and I exchanged greetings. You stay with us, Trotwood, while you remain in Canterbury, said Mr. Wickfield, not without a glance at Uriah for his approval. Is there room for me? Said I. I am sure, Master Copperfield, I should say, mister, but the other comes so natural, said Uriah. I would herd out of your old room with pleasure, if it would be agreeable. No, no, said Mr. Wakefield. Why should you be inconvenienced? There's Another room. There's another room. Oh, but you know, returned Uriah with a grin, I should really be delighted to cut the matter short, I said I would have the other room, or none at all. So it was settled that I should have the other room, and, taking my leave of the firm until dinner, I went upstairs again. I had hoped to have no other companion than Agnes, but Mrs. Heep had asked permission to bring herself and her knitting near the fire in that room room, on pretence of its having an aspect more favourable for her rheumatics, as the wind then was, than the drawing room or dining parlour though I could almost have consigned her to the mercies of the wind on the topmost pinnacle of the cathedral without remorse, I made a virtue of necessity and gave her a friendly salutation. I'm humbly thankful to you, sir, said Mrs. Heep, in acknowledgment of my inquiries concerning her health. But I'm only pretty well. I haven't much to boast of. If I could see my Uriah well settled in life, I couldn't expect much more, I think. How do you think my Uri looking, sir? I thought him looking as villainous as ever, and I replied that I saw no change in him. Oh, don't you think he's changed? Said Mrs. Heep. There I must omly beg to differ from you. Don't you see a thinness in him? Not more than usual, I replied. Don't you, though? Said Mrs. Heep. But you don't take notice of him with a mother's eye. His mother's eye was an evil eye to the rest of the world, I thought, as it met mine, howsoever affectionate to him, and I believed she and her son were devoted to one another. It passed me and went on to Agnes. Don't you see a wasting and a wearing in him, Miss Wickfield? Inquired Mrs. Heep. No, said Agnes quietly, pursuing the work on which she was engaged. You are too solicitous about him. He is very well. Mrs. Heape, with a prodigious sniff, resumed her knitting. She never left off or left us for a moment. I had arrived early in the day, and we had still three or four hours before dinner. But she sat there plying her knitting needles as monotonously as an hour glass might have poured out in the sands. She sat on one side of the fire. I sat at the desk in front of it. A little beyond me, on the other side, sat Agnes. Whensoever slowly pondering over my letter I lifted up my eyes and meeting the thoughtful face of Agnes, saw it clear and beam encouragement upon me with its own angelic expression. I was conscious presently of the evil eye passing me and going on to her and coming back to me again and dropping furtively upon the knitting. What the knitting was, I don't know, not being learned in that art, but it looked like a net. And as she worked away with those Chinese chopsticks of knitting needles, she showed in the firelight like an ill looking enchantress, bulked as yet by the radiant goodness opposite, but getting ready for a cast of her net by and by. At dinner she maintained her watch with the same unwinking eyes. After dinner her son took his turn and when Mr. Wickfield himself and I were left alone together, leered at me and writhed until I could hardly bear it. In the drawing room there was the mother knitting and watching again. All the time that Agnes sang and played, the mother sat at the piano. Once she asked for a particular ballad, which she said her Yuri, who was yawning in a great chair, doted on and at intervals she looked round at him and reported to Agnes that he was in raptures with the music. But she hardly ever spoke. I question if she ever did. Without making some mention of him, it was evident to me that this was the duty assigned to her. This lasted until bedtime. To have seen the mother and son, like two great bats hanging over the whole house and darkening it with their ugly forms arms, made me so uncomfortable that I would rather have remained downstairs, knitting and all, than go to bed. I hardly got any sleep. Next day the knitting and watching began again and lasted all day. I had not an opportunity of speaking to Agnes for 10 minutes. I could barely show her my letter. I proposed to her to walk out with me, but Mrs. Heep repeatedly complaining that she was worse, Agnes charitably remained within to bear her company. Me, towards the twilight I went out by myself, musing on what I ought to do and whether I was justified in withholding from Agnes any longer what Uriah Heep had told me in London. For that began to trouble me again very much. Meaning that Uriah intends to try to marry her. I had not walked out far enough to be quite clear of the town upon the Ramsgate Road, where there was a good path. When I was haled through the dust by somebody behind me. Me, the shambling figure and the scanty greatcoat were not to be mistaken. I stopped, and Uriah Heep came up. Well, said I, how fast you walk Said he, My legs are pretty long, but you've given him quite a job. Where are you going? Said I. I am going with you, Master Copperfield, if you'll allow me the pleasure of a walk with an old acquaintance. Saying this with a jerk of his body, which might have been either propitiatory or derisive, he fell into step beside me. Uriah, said I as civilly as I could. After a silence, Master Copperfield, said uriah, to tell you the truth, at which you will not be offended, I came out to walk alone because I have had so much company. He looked at me sideways and said with his hardest grin, you mean, Mother. Why, yes, I do, said I. Ah, but you know, we're so very umble, he returned, and having such a knowledge of our own umbleness, we must really take care that we're not pushed to the wall by them as isn't umble. All stratagems are fair in love, sir. Raising his great hands until they touched his chin, he rubbed them softly and softly chuckled, looking as like a malevolent baboon, I thought, as anything human could look. You see, he said, still hugging himself in that unpleasant way and shaking his head at me, you're quite a dangerous rival, Master Copperfield. You always was, you know. Do you set a watch upon Ms. Wickfield and make her home? No home because of me, said I. Oh, Master Copperfield, those are very arsh words, he replied. Put my meaning into any words you like, said I. You know what it is, Uriah, as well as I do. Oh, no, you must put it into words, he said. Oh, really, I couldn't myself. Do you suppose, said I, constraining myself to be very temperate and quiet with him on account of Agnes, that I regard Ms. Wickfield otherwise than as a very dear sister? Well, Master Copperfield, he replied, you perceive I am not bound to answer that question? You may not, you know, but then, you see you may. Anything to equal the low cunning of his visage and of his shadowless eyes. Without the ghost of an eyelash, I never saw. Come then, said I, for the sake of Miss Wickfield. My Agnes. He exclaimed, with a sickly angular contortion of himself. Would you be so good as to call her Agnes, Master Copperfield, for the sake of Agnes Wickfield? Heaven bless her. Thank you for that blessing, Master Copperfield, he interposed. I will tell you what I should, under any other circumstances, as soon have thought of telling to Jack Ketch. To who, sir? Said Uriah, stretching out his neck and shading his ear with his hand to the hangman. I returned the most unlikely person I could think of, though his own face had suggested the allusion quite as a natural sequence. I am engaged to another young lady. I hope that contents you upon your soul, said Uriah. I was about indignantly to give my assertion the confirmation he required, when he caught hold of my hand and gave it a squeak. Oh, Master Copperfield, he said, if you had only had the condescension to return my confidence when I poured out the fullness of my art the night I put you so much out of the way by sleeping before your sitting room fire, I should never have doubted you. As it is, I'm sure I'll take off, Mother, directly and only to Appy. I know you'll excuse the precautions of affection, won't you? What a pity, Master Copperfield, that you didn't condescend to return my confidence. I'm sure I gave you every opportunity, but you never have condescended to me as much as I could have wished. I know you have never liked me, and I have liked you all this time. He was squeezing my hand with his damp, fishy fingers while I made every effort I decently could to get it away, but I was quite unsuccessful. He drew it under the sleeve of his mulberry colored greatcoat, and I walked on almost upon compulsion, arm in arm with him. Shall we turn, said Uriah, by and by wheeling me face about towards the town on which the early moon was now shining, silvering the distant windows. Before we leave the subject, you ought to understand, said I, breaking a pretty long silence, that I believe Agnes Wickfield to be as far above you and as far removed from all your aspirations as that moon herself. Peaceful, ain't she? Said Uriah. Very. Now confess, Master Copperfield, that you haven't liked me quite as I have liked you all along. You've thought me too umble now, I shouldn't wonder. I am not fond of professions of humility, I returned, or professions of anything else. There now, said Uriah, looking flabby and lead coloured in the moonlight. Didn't I know it? But how little you think of the rightful humbleness of a person in my station, Master Copperfield. Father and me was both brought up at a foundation school for boys, and Mother, she was likewise brought up at a public sort of charitable establishment. They taught us all a deal of umbleness, not much else that I know of. From morning to night we was to be umble to this person and umble to that, and to Pull off our cap here and to make bows there, and always to know our place and abase ourselves before our betters. And we had such a lot of betters. Father got the monitor medal by being umble. So did I. Father got made a sexton by being umble. He had the character among the gentlefolks of being such a well behaved man that they was determined to to bring em in. Be umble, Uriah, says my father to me, and you'll get on. It was what was always being dinned into you and me at school. It's what goes down best. Be umble, says father, and you'll do. And really it ain't done bad. It was the first time it had ever occurred to me that this detestable cant of false humility might have originated out of the Heap family. I had seen the harvest but had never thought of the seed. When I was quite a young boy, said Uriah, I got to know what umbleness did, and I took to it. I ate umble pie with an appetite. I stopped at the umble point of my learning and says, I hold hard. When you offered to teach me Latin, I knew better. People like to be above you, says Father. Keep yourself down. I am very umble to the present moment, Master Copperfield, but I have got a little power. And he said all this I knew as I saw his face in the moonlight, that I might understand he was resolved to recompense himself by using his power. I had never doubted his meanness, his craft and malice, but I fully comprehended now for the first time, what a base, unrelenting, and revengeful spirit must have been engendered by this early and this long suppression. His account of himself was so far attended with an agreeable result that it led to his withdrawing his hand in order that he might have another hug of himself under the chin. Once apart from him, I was determined to keep apart, and we walked back side by side, saying very little more. By the way, whether his spirits were elevated by the communication I had made to him, or by his having indulged in this respect, I don't know, but they were raised by some influence. He talked more at dinner than was usual with him. Asked his mother, off duty from the moment of our re entering the house, whether he was not growing too old for a bachelor and once once looked at Agnes so that I would have given all I had for leave to knock him down. When we three males were left alone after dinner, he got into a more adventurous state. He had taken little or no wine And I presume it was the mere insolence of triumph that was upon him, flushed perhaps by the temptation my presence furnished to its exhibition. I had observed yesterday that he tried to entice Mr. Wickfield to drink, and interpreting the look which Agnes had given me as she went out, had limited myself to one glass, and then proposed that we should follow her. I would have done so again to day, but Uriah was too quick for me. We seldom see our present visitor, sir, he said, addressing Mr. Wickfield, sitting such a contrast to him at the end of the table, and I should propose to give him welcome in another glass. Glass or two of wine, if you have no objection, Mr. Copperfield. Your health and appiness. I was obliged to make a show of taking the hand he stretched across to me, and then, with very different emotions, I took the hand of the broken gentleman, his partner. Come, fellow partner, said Uriah, if I may take the liberty now, suppose you give us something or another appropriate to Copperfield. I pass over Mr. Wickfield's proposing my aunt, his proposing, Mr. Dick, his proposing Doctor's Commons, his proposing Uriah, his drinking everything twice, his consciousness of his own weakness, the ineffectual effort that he made against it, the struggle between his shame in Uriah's deportment and his desire to conciliate him, the manifest exultation with which Uriah twisted, twisted and turned and held him up before me. It made me sick at heart to see, and my hand recoils from writing it. Come, fellow partner, said Uriah at last. I'll give you another one, and I humbly ask for bumpers, seeing I intend to make it the divinest of her sex. Her father had his empty glass in his hand. I saw him set it down, look at the picture she was so like. Put his hand to his forehead and shrink back in his elbow chair. I'm an umble individual to give you her elf, proceeded Uriah, but I admire, adore her. No physical pain that her father's gray head could have borne, I think could have been more terrible to me than the mental endurance I saw compressed now in both his hands. Agnes, said Uriah, either not regarding him or not knowing what the nature of his action was. Agnes Wickfield is, I am safe to say, the divinest of her sex. May I speak out among friends? To be her father is a proud distinction, but to be her usband spare me from ever again hearing such a cry as that with which her father rose up from the table. What's the matter? Said Uriah turning of a deadly colour. You are not gone mad after all, Mr. Wickfield, I hope, if I say, of an ambition to make your Agnes this, my Agnes, I have as good a right to it as any other man. I have a better right to it than any other man. I had my arms round Mr. Wickfield, imploring him by everything that I could think of, oftenest of all by his love for Agnes, to calm himself a little. He was mad for the moment, tearing out his hair, beating his head, trying to force me from him and to force himself from me. Not answering a word, not looking at or seeing anyone, blindly striving for he knew not what. His face all staring and distorted, a frightful spectacle. I conjured him incoherently, but in the most impassioned manner, not to abandon himself to this wildless, but to hear me. I besought him to think of Agnes, to connect me with Agnes, to recollect how Agnes and I had grown up together, how I honored her and loved her, how she was his pride and joy. I tried to bring her idea before him in any form. I even reproached him with not having firmness to spare her the knowledge of such a scene as this. I may have affected something, or his wildness may have spent itself, but by degrees. He struggled less and began to look at me strangely at first, then with recognition in his eyes, at length he said, I know, Trotwood, my darling child, and you I know, but look at him. He pointed to Uriah, pale and glowering in a corner, evidently very much out in his calculations and taken by surprise. Look at my torturer, he replied before him. I have, step by step, abandoned name and reputation, peace and quiet, house and home. I have kept your name and reputation for you. You and your peace and quiet, and your house and home too, said Uriah, with a sulky, hurried, defeated air of compromise. Don't be foolish, Mr. Wickfield. If I have gone a little beyond what you were prepared for, I can go back, I suppose there's no harm done. I looked for single motives in every one, said Mr. Wickfield, and I was satisfied I had bound him to me by motives of interest. But see what he is. Oh, see what he is. You had better stop him, Copperfield, if you can. Cried Uriah with his long forefinger pointing towards me. He'll say something presently. Mind you, he'll be sorry to have said afterwards, and you'll be sorry to have heard. I'll say anything. Cried Mr. Wickfield with a desperate air. Why should I not be in all the world's power if I am in yours? Mind I tell you, said Uriah, continuing to warn me, if you don't stop his mouth, you're not his friend. Why shouldn't you be in all the world's power, Mr. Wickfield? Because you have got a daughter. You and me know what we know, don't we? Let sleeping dogs lie. Who wants to rouse a boy? I don't. Can't you see I'm as umble as I can be? I tell you, if I've gone too far, I'm sorry. What would you have, sir? Oh, draught Drotwood. Exclaimed Mr. Wickfield, wringing his hands. What I have come down to be since I first saw you in this house. I was on my downward way then. But the dreary, dreary road I have traversed since. Weak indulgence has ruined me. Indulgence in remembrance and indulgence in forgetfulness. My natural grief for my child's mother turned to disease. My natural love for my child turned to disease. I have infected everything I touched. I have brought misery on what I dearly love. I know. You know. I thought it possible that I could truly love one creature in the world and not love the rest. I thought it possible that I could truly mourn for one creature gone out of the world and not have some part in the grief of all who mourned. Thus the lessons of my life have been perverted. I have preyed on my own morbid, coward heart and it has preyed on me sordid in my grief, sordid in my love, sordid in my miserable escape from the darker side of both. Oh, see the ruin I am and hate me. Shun me. He dropped into a chair and weakly sobbed. The excitement into which he had been roused was leaving him. Uriah came out of his corner. I don't know all I have done in my fatuity. Meaning his senselessness, said Mr. Wickfield, putting out his hands as if to deprecate my condemnation. He knows best. Meaning Uriah Heep. For he has always been at my elbow, whispering me, you see the millstone that is about my neck. You find him in my house. You find him in my business. You heard him but a little time ago. What need have I to say more? You haven't need to say so much or half so much, nor anything at all, observed Uriah, half defiant and half fawning. You wouldn't have took it up so if it hadn't been for the wine. You'll think better of it to morrow. Sir, if I have said too much or more than I meant. What of it? I haven't stood by it. The door opened and Agnes, gliding in without a vestige of colour in her face, put her arm round his neck and steadily said, papa, you are not well. Come with me. He laid his head upon her shoulder as if he were oppressed with heavy shame, and went out with her. Her eyes met mine for but an instant, yet I saw how much she knew of what had passed. I didn't expect he'd cut up so rough. Master Copperfield, said Uriah, but it's nothing. I'll be friends with him tomorrow. It's for his good. I'm humbly anxious for his good. I gave him no answer and went upstairs into the quiet room where Agnes had so often sat beside me at my books. Nobody came near me until late at night. I took up a book and tried to read. I heard the clocks strike 12 and was still reading without knowing what I read when Agnes touched me. You will be going early in the morning, Trotwood. Let us say goodbye now. She had been weeping, but her face then was so calm and beautiful. Heaven bless you, she said, giving me her hand. Dearest Agnes, I returned. I see you ask me not to speak of to night. But is there nothing to be done? There is God to trust in, she replied. Can I do nothing, I who come to you with my poor sorrows and make mine so much lighter? She replied. Dear Trotwood. No, dear Agnes, I said. It is presumptuous for me who am so poor in all in which you are so rich. Goodness, resolution, all noble qualities to doubt or direct you. But you know how much I love you and how much I owe you. You will never sacrifice yourself to a mistaken sense of duty. Agnes. More agitated for a moment than I had ever seen her. She took her hands from me and moved a step back. Say you have no such thought, dear Agnes, much more than sister, think of the priceless gift of such a heart as yours, of such a love as yours. So he's telling her, please don't marry Uriah just for love of your father. Oh, long, long afterwards I saw that face rise up before me with its momentary look, not wondering, not accusing, not regretting. Oh, long, long afterwards I saw that look subside as it did now into the lovely smile with which she told me she had no fear for herself, I need have none for her, and parted from me by the name of brother, and was gone. It was dark in the morning when I got upon the coach at the inn door. The day was just breaking when we were about to start. And then, as I sat thinking of her, came struggling up the coach side through the mingled day and night. Uriah's head Copperfield, said he in a croaking whisper as he hung by the iron on the roof. I thought you'd be glad to hear before you went off that there are no squares broke between us. I've been to his room already and we've made it all smooth. Why, though I'm umble, I'm useful to him, you know, and he understands his interests when he isn't in liquor. What an agreeable man he is after all, Master Copperfield, I obliged myself to say that I was glad he had made his apology. Oh, to be sure, said Uriah. When a person's umble, you know what's an apology? So easy, I say. I suppose with a jerk you have sometimes plucked a pear before it was ripe, Master Copperfield? I suppose I have, I replied. I did that last night, said Uriah. But it will ripen yet it only wants attending to. I can wait. Profuse. In his farewell, he got down again as the coachman got up for anything. I know he was eating something to keep the raw morning air out, but he made motions with his mouth as if the pear were ripe already and he were smacking his lips over it. 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. 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