A Last Retrospect
And now my written story ends. I look back, once morefor the last timebefore I close these leaves.
I see myself, with Agnes at my side, journeying along the road of life. I see our children and our friends around us; and I hear the roar of many voices, not indifferent to me as I travel on.
What faces are the most distinct to me in the fleeting crowd? Lo, these; all turning to me as I ask my thoughts the question!
Here is my aunt, in stronger spectacles, an old woman of fourscore years and more, but upright yet, and a steady walker of six miles at a stretch in winter weather.
Always with her, here comes Peggotty, my good old nurse, likewise in spectacles, accustomed to do needlework at night very close to the lamp, but never sitting down to it without a bit of wax-candle, a yard-measure in a little house, and a work-box with a picture of St. Pauls upon the lid.
The cheeks and arms of Peggotty, so hard and red in my childish days, when I wondered why the birds didnt peck her in preference to apples, are shrivelled now; and her eyes, that used to darken their whole neighbourhood in her face, are fainter (though they glitter still); but her rough forefinger, which I once associated with a pocket nutmeggrater, is just the same, and when I see my least child catching at it as it totters from my aunt to her, I think of our little parlour at home, when I could scarcely walk. My aunts old disappointment is set right, now. She is godmother to a real living Betsey Trotwood; and Dora (the next in order) says she spoils her.
There is something bulky in Peggottys pocket. It is nothing smaller than the Crocodile-Book, which is in rather a dilapidated condition by this time, with divers of the leaves torn and stitched across, but which Peggotty exhibits to the children as a precious relic. I find it very curious to see my own infant face, looking up at me from the Crocodile stories; and to be reminded by it of my old acquaintance Brooks of Sheffield.
Among my boys, this summer holiday time, I see an old man making giant kites, and gazing at them in the air, with a delight for which there are no words. He greets me rapturously, and whispers, with many nods and winks, Trotwood, you will be glad to hear that I shall finish the Memorial when I have nothing else to do, and that your aunts the most extraordinary woman in the world, Sir!
Who is this bent lady, supporting herself by a stick, and showing me a countenance in which there are some traces of old pride and beauty, feebly contending with a querulous, imbecile, fretful wandering of the mind? She is in a garden; and near her stands a sharp, dark, withered woman, with a white scar on her lip. Let me hear what they say
Rosa, I have forgotten this gentlemans name.
Rosa bends over her, and calls to her, Mr. Copperfield.
I am glad to see you, Sir. I am sorry to observe you are in mourning. I hope Time will be good to you.
Her impatient attendant scolds her, tells her I am not in mourning, bids her look again, tries to rouse her.
You have seen my son, Sir, says the elder lady. Are you reconciled?
Looking fixedly at me, she puts her hand to her forehead, and moans. Suddenly, she cries, in a terrible voice, Rosa, come to me. He is dead! Rosa, kneeling at her feet, by turns caresses her, and quarrels with her; now fiercely telling her, I loved him better than you ever did!now soothing her to sleep on her breast, like a sick child. Thus I leave them; thus I always find them; thus they wear their time away, from year to year.
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