The Personal History of David Copperfield. Чарльз Диккенс

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СКАЧАТЬ sorry I should drive you there,” said Mrs. Gummidge.

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

      “Very ready,” said Mrs. Gummidge, shaking her head, and wiping her eyes. “Yes, yes, very ready. I am sorry it should be along of me that you’re so ready.”

      “Along o’ you? It an’t along o’ you!” said Mr. Peggotty. “Don’t ye believe a bit on it.”

      “Yes, yes, it is,” cried Mrs. Gummidge. “I know what I am. I know that I’m a lone lorn creetur, and not only that everythink goes contrairy with me, but that I go contrairy with everybody. Yes, yes. I feel more than other people do, and I show it more. It’s my misfortun’.”

      I really couldn’t help thinking, as I sat taking in all this, that the misfortune extended to some other members of that family besides Mrs. Gummidge. But Mr. Peggotty made no such retort, only answering with another entreaty to Mrs. Gummidge to cheer up.

      “I an’t what I could wish myself to be,” said Mrs. Gummidge. “I am far from it. I know what I am. My troubles has made me contrairy. 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 an’t. I make the house uncomfortable. I don’t wonder at it. I’ve made your sister so all day, and Master Davy.”

      Here I was suddenly melted, and roared out “No, you haven’t, Mrs. Gummidge,” in great mental distress.

      “It’s far from right that I should do it,” said Mrs. Gummidge. “It an’t a fit return. I had better go into the house and die. I am a lone lorn creetur, and had much better not make myself contrairy here. If thinks must go contrairy with me, and I must go contrairy myself, let me go contrairy in my parish. Dan’l, I’d better go into the house, and die and be a riddance!”

      Mrs. Gummidge retired with these words, and betook herself to bed. When she was gone, Mr. Peggotty, who had not exhibited a trace of any feeling but the profoundest sympathy, looked round upon us, and nodding his head with a lively expression of that sentiment still animating his face, said in a whisper:

      “She’s been thinking of the old ’un!”

      I did not quite understand what old one Mrs. Gummidge was supposed to have fixed her mind upon, until Peggotty, on seeing me to bed, explained that it was the late Mr. Gummidge; and that her brother always took that for a received truth on such occasions, and that it always had a moving effect upon him. Some time after he was in his hammock that night, I heard him myself repeat to Ham, “Poor thing! She’s been thinking of the old ’un!” And whenever Mrs. Gummidge was overcome in a similar manner during the remainder of our stay (which happened some few times), he always said the same thing in extenuation of the circumstance, and always with the tenderest commiseration.

      So the fortnight slipped away, varied by nothing but the variation of the tide, which altered Mr. Peggotty’s times of going out and coming in, and altered Ham’s engagements also. When the latter was unemployed, he sometimes walked with us to show us the boats and ships, and once or twice he took us for a row. I don’t know why one slight set of impressions should be more particularly associated with a place than another, though I believe this obtains with most people, in reference especially to the associations of their childhood. I never hear the name, or read the name, of Yarmouth, but I am reminded of a certain Sunday morning on the beach, the bells ringing for church, little Em’ly leaning on my shoulder, Ham lazily dropping stones into the water, and the sun, away at sea, just breaking through the heavy mist, and showing us the ships, like their own shadows.

      At last the day came for going home. I bore up against the separation from Mr. Peggotty and Mrs. Gummidge, but my agony of mind at leaving little Em’ly was piercing. We went arm-in-arm to the public-house where the carrier put up, and I promised, on the road, to write to her. (I redeemed that promise afterwards, in characters larger than those in which apartments are usually announced in manuscript, as being to let). We were greatly overcome at parting; and if ever, in my life, I have had a void made in my heart, I had one made that day.

      Now, all the time I had been on my visit, I had been ungrateful to my home again, and had thought little or nothing about it. But I was no sooner turned towards it, than my reproachful young conscience seemed to point that way with a steady finger; and I felt, all the more for the sinking of my spirits, that it was my nest, and that my mother was my comforter and friend.

      This gained upon me as we went along; so that the nearer we drew, and the more familiar the objects became that we passed, the more excited I was to get there, and to run into her arms. But Peggotty, instead of sharing in these transports, tried to check them (though very kindly), and looked confused and out of sorts.

      Blunderstone Rookery would come, however, in spite of her, when the carrier’s horse pleased – and did. How well I recollect it, on a cold grey afternoon, with a dull sky, threatening rain!

      The door opened, and I looked, half laughing and half crying in my pleasant agitation, for my mother. It was not she, but a strange servant.

      “Why, Peggotty!” I said, ruefully, “isn’t she come home!”

      “Yes, yes, Master Davy,” said Peggotty. “She’s come home. Wait a bit, Master Davy, and I’ll – I’ll tell you something.”

      Between her agitation, and her natural awkwardness in getting out of the cart, Peggotty was making a most extraordinary festoon of herself, but I felt too blank and strange to tell her so. When she had got down, she took me by the hand; led me, wondering, into the kitchen; and shut the door.

      “Peggotty!” said I, quite frightened. “What’s the matter?”

      “Nothing’s the matter, bless you, Master Davy dear!” she answered, assuming an air of sprightliness.

      “Something’s the matter, I’m sure. Where’s mama?”

      “Where’s mama, Master Davy?” repeated Peggotty.

      “Yes. Why hasn’t she come out to the gate, and what have we come in here for? Oh, Peggotty!” My eyes were full, and I felt as if I were going to tumble down.

      “Bless the precious boy!” cried Peggotty, taking hold of me. “What is it? Speak, my pet!”

      “Not dead, too! Oh, she’s not dead, Peggotty?”

      Peggotty cried out No! with an astonishing volume of voice; and then sat down, and began to pant, and said I had given her a turn.

      I gave her a hug to take away the turn, or to give her another turn in the right direction, and then stood before her, looking at her in anxious inquiry.

      “You see, dear, I should have told you before now,” said Peggotty, “but I hadn’t an opportunity. I ought to have made it, perhaps, but I couldn’t azackly” – that was always the substitute for exactly, in Peggotty’s militia of words – “bring my mind to it.”

      “Go on, Peggotty,” said I, more frightened than before.

      “Master Davy,” said Peggotty, untying her bonnet with a shaking hand, and speaking in a breathless sort of way. “What do you think? You have got a Pa!”

      I trembled, and turned white. Something – I don’t know what, or how – connected with the grave in the churchyard, and the raising of the dead, seemed to strike me like an unwholesome wind.

      “A new СКАЧАТЬ