The Personal History of David Copperfield. Чарльз Диккенс
at the door when I was on Ham’s back, about a quarter of a mile off. Likewise by a most beautiful little girl (or I thought her so) with a necklace of blue beads on, who wouldn’t let me kiss her when I offered to, but ran away and hid herself. By and by, when we had dined in a sumptuous manner off boiled dabs, melted butter, and potatoes, with a chop for me, a hairy man with a very good-natured face came home. As he called Peggotty “Lass,” and gave her a hearty smack on the cheek, I had no doubt, from the general propriety of her conduct, that he was her brother; and so he turned out – being presently introduced to me as Mr. Peggotty, the master of the house.
“Glad to see you, sir,” said Mr. Peggotty. “You’ll find us rough, sir, but you’ll find us ready.”
I thanked him, and replied that I was sure I should be happy in such a delightful place.
“How’s your Ma, sir,” said Mr. Peggotty. “Did you leave her pretty jolly?”
I gave Mr. Peggotty to understand that she was as jolly as I could wish, and that she desired her compliments – which was a polite fiction on my part.
“I’m much obleeged to her, I’m sure,” said Mr. Peggotty. “Well sir, if you can make out here, fur a fortnut, ’long wi’ her,” nodding at his sister, “and Ham, and little Em’ly, we shall be proud of your company.”
Having done the honors of his house in this hospitable manner, Mr. Peggotty went out to wash himself in a kettleful of hot water, remarking that “cold would never get his muck off.” He soon returned, greatly improved in appearance; but so rubicund, that I couldn’t help thinking his face had this in common with the lobsters, crabs, and crawfish, – that it went into the hot water very black, and came out very red.
After tea, when the door was shut and all was made snug (the nights being cold and misty now), it seemed to me the most delicious retreat that the imagination of man could conceive. To hear the wind getting up out at sea, to know that the fog was creeping over the desolate flat outside, and to look at the fire, and think that there was no house near but this one, and this one a boat, was like enchantment. Little Em’ly had overcome her shyness, and was sitting by my side upon the lowest and least of the lockers, which was just large enough for us two, and just fitted into the chimney corner. Mrs. Peggotty with the white apron, was knitting on the opposite side of the fire. Peggotty at her needle-work was as much at home with Saint Paul’s and the bit of wax-candle, as if they had never known any other roof. Ham, who had been giving me my first lesson in all-fours, was trying to recollect a scheme of telling fortunes with the dirty cards, and was printing off fishy impressions of his thumb on all the cards he turned. Mr. Peggotty was smoking his pipe. I felt it was a time for conversation and confidence.
“Mr. Peggotty!” says I.
“Sir,” says he.
“Did you give your son the name of Ham, because you lived in a sort of ark?”
Mr. Peggotty seemed to think it a deep idea, but answered:
“No, sir. I never giv him no name.”
“Who gave him that name, then?” said I, putting question number two of the catechism to Mr. Peggotty.
“Why, sir, his father giv it him,” said Mr. Peggotty.
“I thought you were his father!”
“My brother Joe was his father,” said Mr. Peggotty.
“Dead, Mr. Peggotty?” I hinted, after a respectful pause.
“Drowndead,” said Mr. Peggotty.
I was very much surprised that Mr. Peggotty was not Ham’s father, and began to wonder whether I was mistaken about his relationship to anybody else there. I was so curious to know, that I made up my mind to have it out with Mr. Peggotty.
“Little Em’ly,” I said, glancing at her. “She is your daughter, isn’t she, Mr. Peggotty?”
“No, sir. My brother in law, Tom, was her father.”
I couldn’t help it. “ – Dead, Mr. Peggotty?” I hinted, after another respectful silence.
“Drowndead,” said Mr. Peggotty.
I felt the difficulty of resuming the subject, but had not got to the bottom of it yet, and must get to the bottom somehow. So I said:
“Haven’t you any children, Mr. Peggotty?”
“No, master,” he answered with a short laugh. “I’m a bacheldore.”
“A bachelor!” I said, astonished. “Why, who’s that, Mr. Peggotty?” pointing to the person in the apron who was knitting.
“That’s Missis Gummidge,” said Mr. Peggotty.
“Gummidge, Mr. Peggotty?”
But at this point Peggotty – I mean my own peculiar Peggotty – made such impressive motions to me not to ask any more questions, that I could only sit and look at all the silent company, until it was time to go to bed. Then, in the privacy of my own little cabin, she informed me that Ham and Em’ly were an orphan nephew and niece, whom my host had at different times adopted in their childhood, when they were left destitute; and that Mrs. Gummidge was the widow of his partner in a boat, who had died very poor. He was but a poor man himself, said Peggotty, but as good as gold and as true as steel – those were her similies. The only subject, she informed me, on which he ever showed a violent temper or swore an oath, was this generosity of his; and if it were ever referred to, by any one of them, he struck the table a heavy blow with his right hand (had split it on one such occasion), and swore a dreadful oath that he would be ‘Gormed’ if he didn’t cut and run for good, if it was ever mentioned again. It appeared, in answer to my inquiries, that nobody had the least idea of the etymology of this terrible verb passive to be gormed; but that they all regarded it as constituting a most solemn imprecation.
I was very sensible of my entertainer’s goodness, and listened to the women’s going to bed in another little crib like mine at the opposite end of the boat, and to him and Ham hanging up two hammocks for themselves on the hooks I had noticed in the roof, in a very luxurious state of mind, enhanced by my being sleepy. As slumber gradually stole upon me, I heard the wind howling out at sea and coming on across the flat so fiercely, that I had a lazy apprehension of the great deep rising in the night. But I bethought myself that I was in a boat, after all; and that a man like Mr. Peggotty was not a bad person to have on board if anything did happen.
Nothing happened, however, worse than morning. Almost as soon as it shone upon the oyster-shell frame of my mirror I was out of bed, and out with little Em’ly, picking up stones upon the beach.
“You’re quite a sailor, I suppose?” I said to Em’ly. I don’t know that I supposed any thing of the kind, but I felt it an act of gallantry to say something; and a shining sail close to us made such a pretty little image of itself, at the moment, in her bright eye, that it came into my head to say this.
“No,” replied Em’ly, shaking her head, “I’m afraid of the sea.”
“Afraid!” I said, with a becoming air of boldness, and looking very big at the mighty ocean. “I a’nt!”
“Ah! but it’s cruel,” said Em’ly. “I have seen it very cruel to some of our men. I have seen it tear a boat as big as our house, all to pieces.”
“I hope it wasn’t the boat that – ”
“That father was drownded in?” said Em’ly. “No. Not that one, I never see that boat.”
“Nor him?” I asked her.
Little Em’ly shook her head. “Not to remember!”
Here was a coincidence! I immediately went into an explanation how I had never seen my own father; and how my mother and I had always lived by ourselves in the happiest state imaginable, and lived so then, and always meant to live so; and how my father’s grave was in the churchyard near our house, and shaded by a tree, beneath the boughs of which I had walked and heard the birds sing many a pleasant morning. But there were some differences between Em’ly’s orphanhood and