David Copperfield – Day 213 of 331

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 retrospect, 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 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 today; 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 or two of wine, if you have no objections. Mr. Copperfield, your elth 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 Doctors’ 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 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 umbly 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 elth,” proceeded Uriah, “but I admire—adore her.”

No physical pain that her father’s grey head could have borne, I think, could have been more terrible to me, than the mental endurance I saw compressed now within 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 I’ve an ambition to make your Agnes my Agnes, I have as good a right to it as another 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 wildness, 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 honoured 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 effected 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, 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 everyone,” 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!”

Post a Comment

Your email is never published nor shared. (To tell the truth I don't even really care if you give me your email or not.)