Part 2

Pip went to an evening school taught by an old lady who also kept a little store in the same room. He didn’t learn very much, for the old lady used to go to sleep most of the time. But as she only charged four cents a week, Mrs. Joe thought it was cheap enough. It was in this school that Pip learned the alphabet, and he was very proud when he found that he could put the letters together to make words. He wanted to know whether Joe had learned to read, and Joe did not want him to find out. One night they were sitting in the chimney corner, and with great effort Pip printed a letter which he handed to Joe. He tells how the letter was received.

WHY JOE DID NOT KNOW HOW TO READ

“mI deEr JO i opE U r krWitE wEll i opE i shAl soN B haBelL 4 2 teeDge U JO aN theN wE shOrl b sO glOdd aN wEn i M preNgtD 2 u JO woT larX an blEvE ME inF xn PiP.”

There was no indispensable necessity for my communicating with Joe by letter, inasmuch as he sat beside me and we were alone. But, I delivered this written communication (slate and all) with my own hand, and Joe received it, as a miracle of erudition.

“I say, Pip, old chap!” cried Joe, opening his blue eyes wide, “what a scholar you are! Ain’t you?”

“I should like to be,” said I, glancing at the slate as he held it: with a misgiving that the writing was rather hilly.

“Why, here’s a J,” said Joe, “and an O equal to anythink! Here’s a J and an O, Pip, and a J-O, Joe.”

I had never heard Joe read aloud to any greater extent than this monosyllable, and I had observed at church last Sunday, when I accidentally held our Prayer-Book upside down, that it seemed to suit his convenience quite as well as if it had been all right. Wishing to embrace the present occasion of finding out whether in teaching Joe, I should have to begin quite at the beginning, I said, “Ah! But read the rest, Joe.”

“The rest, eh, Pip?” said Joe, looking at it with a slowly searching eye. “One, two, three. Why, here’s three J’s, and three O’s, and three J-O, Joes, in it, Pip!”

I leaned over Joe, and, with the aid of my forefinger, read him the whole letter.

“Astonishing!” said Joe, when I had finished. “You ARE a scholar.”

“How do you spell Gargery, Joe?” I asked him, with a modest patronage.

“I don’t spell it at all,” said Joe.

“But supposing you did?”

“It _can’t_ be supposed,” said Joe. “Tho’ I’m uncommon fond of reading, too.”

“Are you, Joe?”

“On-common. Give me,” said Joe, “a good book, or a good newspaper, and sit me down afore a good fire, and I ask no better. Lord!” he continued, after rubbing his knees a little. “When you _do_ come to a J and a O, and says you, ‘Here, at last, is a J-O, Joe,’ how interesting reading is!”

I derived from this last, that Joe’s education, like Steam, was yet in its infancy. Pursuing the subject, I inquired:

“Didn’t you ever go to school, Joe, when you were as little as me?”

“No, Pip.”

“Why didn’t you ever go to school, Joe, when you were as little as me?”

“Well, Pip,” said Joe, taking up the poker, and settling himself to his usual occupation when he was thoughtful, of slowly raking the fire between the lower bars: “I’ll tell you. My father, Pip, he were given to drink, and when he were overtook with drink, he hammered away at my mother most onmerciful. It were a’most the only hammering he did, indeed, ’xcepting at myself. And he hammered at me with a wigor only to be equalled by the wigor with which he didn’t hammer at his anwil. You’re a-listening and understanding, Pip?”

“Yes, Joe.”

“’Consequence, my mother and me we ran away from my father several times; and then my mother she’d go out to work, and she’d say, ‘Joe,’ she’d say, ‘now, please God, you shall have some schooling, child,’ and she’d put me to school. But my father were that good in his heart that he couldn’t abear to be without us. So, he’d come with a most tremenjous crowd and make such a row at the doors of the houses where we was, that they used to be obligated to have no more to do with us and to give us up to him. And then he took us home and hammered us. Which, you see, Pip,” said Joe, pausing in his meditative raking of the fire, and looking at me, “were a drawback on my learning.”

“Certainly, poor Joe!”

“Though mind you, Pip,” said Joe, with a judicial touch or two of the poker on the top bar, “rendering unto all their doo, and maintaining equal justice betwixt man and man, my father were that good in his heart, don’t you see?”

I didn’t see; but I didn’t say so.

“Well!” Joe pursued, “somebody must keep the pot a-biling, Pip, or the pot won’t bile, don’t you know?”

I saw that, and said so.

“’Consequence, my father didn’t make objections to my going to work; so I went to work at my present calling, which were his too, if he would have followed it, and I worked tolerable hard, I assure _you_, Pip. In time I were able to keep him, and I kep him till he went off in a purple leptic fit. And it were my intentions to have had put upon his tombstone that Whatsume’er the failings on his part, Remember reader he were that good in his hart.”

Joe recited this couplet with such manifest pride and careful perspicuity, that I asked him if he had made it himself.

“I made it,” said Joe, “my own self. I made it in a moment. It was like striking out a horseshoe complete, in a single blow. I never was so much surprised in all my life--couldn’t credit my own ed--to tell you the truth, hardly believed it were _my_ own ed. As I was saying, Pip, it were my intentions to have had it cut over him; but poetry costs money, cut it how you will, small or large, and it were not done. Not to mention bearers, all the money that could be spared were wanted for my mother. She were in poor elth, and quite broke. She waren’t long of following, poor soul, and her share of peace come round at last.”

Joe’s blue eyes turned a little watery; he rubbed, first one of them, and then the other, in a most uncongenial and uncomfortable manner, with the round knob on the top of the poker.

“It were but lonesome then,” said Joe, “living here alone, and I got acquainted with your sister. Now, Pip”; Joe looked firmly at me, as if he knew I was not going to agree with him; “your sister is a fine figure of a woman.”

I could not help looking at the fire, in an obvious state of doubt.

“Whatever family opinions, or whatever the world’s opinions, on that subject may be, Pip, your sister is,” Joe tapped the top bar with the poker after every word following, “a--fine--figure--of--a--woman!”

I could think of nothing better to say than “I am glad you think so, Joe.”

“So am I,” returned Joe, catching me up. “_I_ am glad I think so, Pip. A little redness, or a little matter of Bone, here or there, what does it signify to Me?”

I sagaciously observed, if it didn’t signify to him, to whom did it signify?

“Certainly!” assented Joe. “That’s it. You’re right, old chap! When I got acquainted with your sister, it were the talk how she was bringing you up by hand. Very kind of her too, all the folks said, and I said, along with all the folks. As to you,” Joe pursued, with a countenance expressive of saying something very nasty indeed: “if you could have been aware how small and flabby and mean you was, dear me, you’d have formed the most contemptible opinions of yourself!”

Not exactly relishing this, I said, “Never mind me, Joe.”

“But I did mind you, Pip. And when I married your sister, I said, ‘Bring the poor little child. There’s room for him at the forge.’ And now when you take me in hand for learning, Mrs. Joe mustn’t see too much of what we are up to. It must be done, as I may say, on the sly. Well you see, Pip, here we are. That’s about where it lights--here we are. And we are ever the best friends; ain’t us?”

PIP AT MR. PUMBLECHOOK’S

THE first time Pip was away from home was when he went to Mr. Pumblechook’s. Mr. Pumblechook lived in a near-by town, where he kept a seed-store in the High Street. He was a big, solemn-looking man and he had an idea that small boys ought to be instructed at all hours. He thought it was good for them. So he kept at mental arithmetic all the time, firing one question after another at poor Pip. When he got up in the morning, Pip said politely, “Good morning, Mr. Pumblechook.”

Mr. Pumblechook answered, “Boy, what is seven times nine?” At the breakfast-table he would say, “Seven? and four? and eight? and six? and two? and ten?” All the time Mr. Pumblechook was eating bacon and hot rolls, while Pip was scared for fear he couldn’t answer the next question. The hardest thing was to remember about shillings and pence. Mr. Pumblechook would begin with twelve pence make one shilling, and keep on to forty pence make three and four pence. No wonder that Pip was glad to get back to the blacksmith-shop!

DAVID COPPERFIELD

IV

DAVID COPPERFIELD

DICKENS makes David Copperfield tell the story of his life. He begins at the beginning and tells everything that happened to him as a boy, the places where he lived, and the people whom he met. There are few persons whom we can know as thoroughly as David Copperfield. It is all the more lifelike because many of the scenes are taken from the life of Dickens himself.

David’s father had died and his mother had married again. His stepfather, Mr. Murdstone, a gentleman with very black hair and whiskers, was all that a stepfather ought not to be, so that David was happiest when he was away from home.

Happily he had a nurse, who was big and good-natured and really loved David. Her name was Clara Peggotty, but they always called her Peggotty. Her home was in a town by the sea. Mr. Peggotty and his nephew Ham and a despondent old lady named Mrs. Gummidge lived in a houseboat on the shore. David was about seven years old when he went with Clara on a carrier’s cart to visit the Peggottys.

Ham met them as they got off the cart. He was a great big fellow, six feet tall, and he carried David’s box under his arm, while Peggotty trudged along through the sand at his side. There was a fishy smell about everything. There were boats and fishermen’s nets scattered about, and an air of pleasant disorder. Everybody seemed to have all the time there was in the world, and nobody was hurried. Evidently Yarmouth was a very pleasant place for a boy on his vacation. There was plenty of room to play in, and no Mr. Murdstone to make him afraid.

[Illustration:

_Copyright by Charles Scribner’s Sons_

LITTLE EM’LY]

“Yon’s our house, Master Davy,” said Ham.

David looked out and saw a barge high and dry on the beach, with a snug little house built upon it. There was a stovepipe out of which the smoke was coming. When they came up, they found everything was as pleasant as could be. There was a door on one side and tiny little windows. On the mantelpiece was a Dutch clock, and the table had all the tea-things on it.

Peggotty opened a door to show David his bedroom. It was in the stern of the boat where the rudder used to be. There was a little window and a little looking-glass framed with oyster-shells and a tiny bed, and there was a blue mug filled with fresh seaweed.

Pretty soon Mr. Peggotty, Peggotty’s older brother and the master of the house, came in. “Glad to see you, sir,” said Mr. Peggotty. “How’s your ma? Did you leave her pretty jolly?”

David gave him to understand that she was as jolly as could be wished.

“Well,” said Mr. Peggotty, “if you can make out here for a fortnut, ’long with her,” pointing to his sister, “and Ham, and little Em’ly, we shall be proud of your company.”

When I spoke of the people who lived on the old boat, I had forgotten to mention little Em’ly, who turned out to be the most important member of the family in David’s eyes. She was a very pretty little girl, who wore a necklace of blue beads, and thought that she would like to be a lady and marry a prince, or even an earl.

“If I was ever a lady,” said Em’ly, “I’d give Uncle Dan,” that was Mr. Peggotty, “a sky-blue coat with diamond buttons, nankeen trousers, a red velvet waistcoat, a cocked hat, a large gold watch, a silver pipe, and a box of money.”

David thought that was very fine, though it was easier for him to think of Em’ly as dressed like a princess in the fairy books than it was to think of big Mr. Peggotty walking about in a red velvet waistcoat and a cocked hat. As for little Em’ly marrying a prince, that seemed all right if David could be the prince.

All of the Peggotty family were so healthy and cheerful that even Mrs. Gummidge, who lived with them, could not make them unhappy. Mrs. Gummidge was a person who felt that it was necessary to have some one to pity, and as she couldn’t pity the Peggottys she got into the habit of pitying herself. She would sit by the fire, and take out an old black handkerchief, and wipe her eyes, and tell her troubles, and then tell how wrong it was in her to tell them.

Mr. Peggotty had just come in from his work, having stopped a few moments at the public house, which was called The Willing Mind. Mrs. Gummidge was wiping her eyes.

“What’s amiss, dame?” said Mr. Peggotty.

“Nothing,” returned Mrs. Gummidge. “You’ve come from The Willing Mind, Dan’l?”

“Why yes, I’ve took a short spell at The Willing Mind to-night,” said Mr. Peggotty.

“I’m sorry I should have drove you there.”

“Drive! I don’t want no driving,” returned Mr. Peggotty. “I only go too ready.”

“Very ready,” said Mrs. Gummidge. “I am sorry that it should be along of me that you’re so ready.”

“Along of you! It ain’t along of you! Don’t you believe a bit of it.”

“Yes, it is,” cried Mrs. Gummidge. “I know what I am. I know I’m a lone lorn creetur’, and not only that everythink goes contrairy with me, but that I go contrairy with everybody. Yes, I feel more than other people do, and I know it more. It’s my misfortune. I feel my troubles, and they make me contrairy. I wish I didn’t feel ’em, but I do. I wish I could be hardened to ’em, but I ain’t. I make the house uncomfortable. I don’t wonder at it. It’s far from right. It ain’t a fit return. I’m a lone lorn creetur’, I’d better not make myself contrairy here. If things must go contrairy with me, and I must go contrairy with myself, let me go away.”

But Mrs. Gummidge had no idea of going away to the poorhouse, as she always threatened; and the Peggottys had no idea of letting her leave their cheerful little home. It was Mrs. Gummidge’s way of carrying on conversation, and they had got used to it.

The delightful visit to Yarmouth came to an end, and after a time Mr. Murdstone sent David to a school near London. We can see the shy little boy starting off for his first journey alone in the big world. The first part of the journey was easy, because it was in a carrier’s cart and the driver was a nice Mr. Barkis, who was in love with Peggotty and liked to talk about her in a very mysterious way, and gave David a message to her, saying that “Barkis is willin’.”

David tells of his conversation with Barkis in the cart. He first looked at the purse which his mother had given him.

* * * * *

It was a stiff leather purse, with a snap, and had three bright shillings in it, which Peggotty had evidently polished up with whitening for my greater delight. But its most precious contents were two half-crowns folded together in a bit of paper, on which was written, in my mother’s hand: “For Davy. With my love.” I was so overcome by this that I asked the carrier to be so good as reach me my pocket-handkerchief again; but he said he thought I had better do without it; and I thought I really had; so I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and stopped myself.

For good, too; though, in consequence of my previous emotions, I was still occasionally seized with a stormy sob. After we had jogged on for some little time, I asked the carrier if he was going all the way.

“All the way where?” inquired the carrier.

“There,” I said.

“Where’s there?” inquired the carrier.

“Near London,” I said.

“Why that horse,” said the carrier, jerking the rein to point him out, “would be deader than pork afore he got over half the ground.”

“Are you only going to Yarmouth, then?” I asked.

“That’s about it,” said the carrier. “And there I shall take you to the stage-cutch, and the stage-cutch that’ll take you to--wherever it is.”

As this was a great deal for the carrier (whose name was Mr. Barkis) to say--he being, as I observed in a former chapter, of a phlegmatic temperament, and not at all conversational--I offered him a cake as a mark of attention, which he ate at one gulp, exactly like an elephant, and which made no more impression on his big face than it would have done on an elephant’s.

“Did _she_ make ’em, now?” said Mr. Barkis, always leaning forward, in his slouching way, on the footboard of the cart with an arm on each knee.

“Peggotty, do you mean, sir?”

“Ah!” said Mr. Barkis. “Her.”

“Yes. She makes all our pastry, and does all our cooking.”

“Do she though?” said Mr. Barkis.

He made up his mouth as if to whistle, but he didn’t whistle. He sat looking at the horse’s ears, as if he saw something new there; and sat so, for a considerable time. By-and-by, he said:

“No sweethearts, I b’lieve?”

“Sweetmeats did you say, Mr. Barkis?” For I thought he wanted something else to eat, and had pointedly alluded to that description of refreshment.

“Hearts,” said Mr. Barkis. “Sweethearts; no person walks with her!”

“With Peggotty?”

“Ah!” he said. “Her.”

“Oh, no. She never had a sweetheart.”

“Didn’t she though!” said Mr. Barkis.

Again he made up his mouth to whistle, and again he didn’t whistle, but sat looking at the horse’s ears.

“So she makes,” said Mr. Barkis, after a long interval of reflection, “all the apple parsties, and doos all the cooking, do she?”

I replied that such was the fact.

“Well. I’ll tell you what,” said Mr. Barkis. “P’raps you might be writin’ to her?”

“I shall certainly write to her,” I rejoined.

“Ah!” he said, slowly turning his eyes towards me. “Well! If you was writin’ to her, p’raps you’d recollect to say that Barkis was willin’; would you?”

“That Barkis is willing,” I repeated, innocently. “Is that all the message?”

“Ye-es,” he said, considering. “Ye-es. Barkis is willin’.”

“But you will be at Blunderstone again to-morrow, Mr. Barkis,” I said, faltering a little at the idea of my being far away from it then, “and could give your own message so much better.”

As he repudiated this suggestion, however, with a jerk of his head, and once more confirmed his previous request by saying, with profound gravity, “Barkis is willin’. That’s the message,” I readily undertook its transmission. While I was waiting for the coach in the hotel at Yarmouth that very afternoon, I procured a sheet of paper and an inkstand, and wrote a note to Peggotty, which ran thus: “My dear Peggotty. I have come here safe. Barkis is willing. My love to mama. Yours affectionately. P. S. He says he particularly wants you to know--_Barkis is willing_.”

When I had taken this commission on myself prospectively, Mr. Barkis relapsed into perfect silence; and I, feeling quite worn out by all that had happened lately, lay down on a sack in the cart and fell asleep.

It was in the inn at Yarmouth that David fell in with a jolly waiter who ate up his dinner for him. David was very much afraid of doing something which he ought not to do. Everything seemed so big and strange.

THE LITTLE BOY AND THE HUNGRY WAITER

THE waiter brought me some chops, and vegetables, and took the covers off in such a bouncing manner that I was afraid I must have given him some offence. But he greatly relieved my mind by putting a chair for me at the table, and saying, very affably, “Now, six-foot! come on!”

I thanked him, and took my seat at the board; but found it extremely difficult to handle my knife and fork with anything like dexterity, or to avoid splashing myself with the gravy, while he was standing opposite, staring so hard, and making me blush in the most dreadful manner every time I caught his eye. After watching me into the second chop, he said:

“There’s half a pint of ale for you. Will you have it now?”

I thanked him and said “Yes.” Upon which he poured it out of a jug into a large tumbler, and held it up against the light, and made it look beautiful.

“My eye!” he said. “It seems a good deal, don’t it?”

“It does seem a good deal,” I answered with a smile. For it was quite delightful to me to find him so pleasant. He was a twinkling-eyed, pimple-faced man, with his hair standing upright all over his head; and as he stood with one arm akimbo, holding up the glass to the light with the other hand, he looked quite friendly.

“There was a gentleman here, yesterday,” he said, “a stout gentleman, by the name of Topsawyer--perhaps you know him!”

“No,” I said, “I don’t think----”

“In breeches and gaiters, broad-brimmed hat, gray coat, speckled choker,” said the waiter.

“No,” I said bashfully, “I haven’t the pleasure----”

“He came in here,” said the waiter, looking at the light through the tumbler, “ordered a glass of this ale--_would_ order it--I told him not--drank it, and fell dead. It was too old for him. It oughtn’t to be drawn; that’s the fact.”

I was very much shocked to hear of this melancholy accident, and said I thought I had better have some water.