Дэвид Копперфильд

Another Retrospect

           AndittakesalongtimetoaccustomJiptohisnewresidence,afterwehaveboughtit;wheneverhegoesinorout,hemakesallthelittlebellsring,andishorriblyfrightened.

           Peggottycomesuptomakeherselfuseful,andfallstoworkimmediately.Herdepartmentappearstobe,tocleaneverythingoverandoveragain.Sherubseverythingthatcanberubbed,untilitshines,likeherownhonestforehead,withperpetualfriction.Andnowitis,thatIbegintoseehersolitarybrotherpassingthroughthedarkstreetsatnight,andlooking,ashegoes,amongthewanderingfaces.Ineverspeaktohimatsuchanhour.Iknowtoowell,ashisgravefigurepassesonward,whatheseeks,andwhathedreads.

           WhydoesTraddleslooksoimportantwhenhecallsuponmethisafternoonintheCommonswhereIstilloccasionallyattend,forform’ssake,whenIhavetime?Therealizationofmyboyishday-dreamsisathand.Iamgoingtotakeoutthelicence.

           Itisalittledocumenttodosomuch;andTraddlescontemplatesit,asitliesuponmydesk,halfinadmiration,halfinawe.Therearethenames,inthesweetoldvisionaryconnexion,DavidCopperfieldandDoraSpenlow;andthere,inthecorner,isthatParentalInstitution,theStampOffice,whichissobenignantlyinterestedinthevarioustransactionsofhumanlife,lookingdownuponourUnion;andthereistheArchbishopofCanterburyinvokingablessingonusinprint,anddoingitascheapascouldpossiblybeexpected.

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