David Copperfield

Chapter 31 After the decision (2)
Chapter 13 After Resolution(2)
The bum was worse than usual that day, and the panic it caused is still vivid in my memory.Some vicious gangsters stared at me when I passed by; or stopped, told me to come and talk to me, and threw stones at me when I fled.A younger one—a tinker, judging from his tool bag and charcoal stove—stands with the woman and turns to stare at me.Then call me over with such a loud voice.

"You are called, so come," said the Tinker, "or I will cut your little body apart."

I think it's better to go.I approached the tinker with a reassuring smile and saw that the woman had a bruised eye.

"Where are you going?" asked the Tinker, grasping the front of my shirt with his black hand.

"Fighting Buddha." I said.

"Where did it come from?" said the Tinker, twisting my shirt with both hands to get a firmer grip.

"London," I said.

"Which line?" asked the Tinker. "Are you a thief?"

"No—no," I said.

"No, to be honest, if you lie to me," said the Tinker, "you'll have your brains blown out."

As he spoke, he raised his free hand as if to hit me, and then looked me up and down.

"Have you got enough money on you for a pint of beer?" asked the Tinker. "If you have, get it out before I do it!"

If I hadn't met the woman's gaze and seen her shake her head slightly and form a "no" with her lips, I would have done so.

"What do you mean?" said the Tinker, looking at me so badly that I was afraid he had seen through me.

"Sir!" I said timidly.

"Why are you wearing my brother's silk scarf," said the tinker, "what do you mean, give it back! Take it out!" He took my scarf from my neck and threw it to the woman.

The woman laughed, as if thinking it was a joke, tossed the scarf back to me, nodded slightly as before, and made a "go" with her lips.But before I could do so, the tinker snatched the scarf out again, wound it roughly around his neck, and flung me away like a feather, cursing the woman, and knocking her down.I will never forget the sight of her slamming down on the hard road, with her hat off and her hair turning white in the dust.When I ran to the distance and looked back, I saw her sitting on the sidewalk (it was an embankment next to the road), wiping the blood from her face with a shawl, while the tinker walked forward, the scene I still can't forget it.

This dangerous encounter left me with lingering fears. From then on, whenever I encountered such people, I immediately turned around and hid, and I didn't set out until they were far away.This happened many times, and a great deal of time was lost on the road.However, when I encountered this kind of ordeal, the beautiful girlish image of my mother before I was born in my fantasy always gave me strength and supported me to go on.This image is always with me.It was with me when I slept among the hops; it was my company when I walked in the morning, and it guided me all day long.I have always associated it with the streets of Canterbury, which seem to be dozing in the warm daylight, and with the old houses and gates and old stately chapels with the crows flying about their lofts.Later I did come to the bare and empty plateau near the Dou Buddha, and the picture gave me hope, so that the sense of desolation of the plateau was reduced (on the sixth day of my escape from London, on the day I entered that town Only then did the picture really leave me).But, strangely enough, when I stood on the long-awaited ground with my worn-out shoes supporting my weather-beaten body, the picture seemed to disappear like a dream, leaving me in a helpless Dire situation.

I first inquired about my aunt from the fisherman, and got various answers.One said that she had lived in the lighthouse of South Ferland, and her hair had been burnt because of it; another said that she was tied to a buoy outside the harbor, and could only be seen at half-tide; the third said, She was locked up in Maconton Prison for child trafficking; a fourth said she had been seen flying towards Kelis on a broom in a high wind.Immediately afterwards, I inquired among the coachmen again, and they were equally funny and equally out of business.At last I asked among the shopkeepers, and they hated my appearance, and would not listen to what I had to say, but answered me that they had nothing to offer me.I feel this period is sadder than any period since my escape.I ran out of money and had nothing else to do with it.I was hungry, thirsty, and tired, and seemed as far from my goal as I had been in London.

I spent the whole morning inquiring about my aunt's whereabouts. I was sitting on the steps of an empty shop on the corner near the market, thinking of going to the places mentioned above. At this moment, a coachman driving a carriage A quilt was thrown off.The friendly look on the man's face when I handed him the horse gave me the courage to ask him if he could tell me where Miss Trowood lived; but I've asked that question too often, This time I almost couldn't say it.

"Trouud," he said, "let me think. I seem to have an impression of this man. Is she an old woman?"

"Yes." I said.

"Is the waist very straight?" He straightened his waist at the same time and said.

"Yes," I said, "I think so."

"Always carry a pocket?" he said. "Large pockets. Curious and harsh?"

I confirmed the correctness of this description, but my heart sank a lot.

"Then," said he, "go right up there," pointing his whip toward the plateau, "when you get to some houses facing the sea, and you'll hear about her, who has no sympathy. , won't give you anything, and here's a penny I'll give you."

I accepted his favor gratefully, and bought a loaf of bread with it.While eating, I walked in the direction pointed by the coachman. After walking a lot, I still couldn't see that kind of house.At last I saw some houses in front of me! As I got nearer, I went into a little shop (this is what we used to call a grocer's at home), and asked them where Miss Trowood lived.I was asking a man behind the counter who was weighing some rice for a young woman who thought I was asking her and turned her head.

"Is it our master you're asking about?" she said. "What do you want her for? Child."

"Sorry, I want to talk to her," I said.

"You mean, beg from her?" retorted the young girl.

"No," I said, "No." But I suddenly remembered that there was no other purpose, and I was flustered for a while, feeling my face was burning hot.

My aunt's maid (I deduce from her words) put the vegetables in a small basket and came out of the shop.She told me to just follow her.This is of course the best.Although I was panicked and excited at this time, my legs kept shaking.Following her, they soon came to a neat little house with bright bow windows, and in front of it was a little stone-paved yard, full of fragrant flowers and plants.

"That's it," said the young woman, "then, you see, that's all I've said," and hurried into the room, as if to shirk responsibility for my presence.She made me stand in front of the garden gate and stare blankly through the door towards the living room window.I saw a gauze curtain on the window, partly torn in the middle, a large curved green screen or fan nailed on the window sill, a small table, and a big chair; Sit there.

My shoes were by this time in irreparable condition, the soles were peeling off in pieces, and the upper leather was cracked and lost its original shape.My hat (which I also use as a nightcap) is so flat that a broken pot with its handle missing from the rubbish heap would have been equal to it.My shirt and trousers, with the heat, the dew, the grass, the dirt of Kent (on which I slept), and they are in tatters.So when I stood in front of the door, the birds in my aunt's garden were terrified.My hair has not been combed since I left London.My face, neck, and hands have turned a maroon purple color due to being unaccustomed to prolonged exposure to the wind and sun.Dust covered from head to toe, as if just came out of a grotto.In this situation, I was acutely aware that I would soon be introducing myself to my terrible aunt, and making her understand me in this original way.

After a while, the living room window was still silent, so I deduced that my aunt was not there.So, I raised my eyes and looked up at the window, and there I saw a man with red face, white hair and high spirits. He closed one eye with a strange expression, nodded to me a few times, and shook his head a few more times. Once, smiled, and walked away.

I was already upset enough, and his unexpected behavior made me even more upset.I was just about to sneak outside when a woman with a handkerchief tied into her hat, a pair of gardening gloves on her hands, and a gardener's coat like a tax collector's apron stepped out of the house. Pocket, holding a large knife in his hand.I decided at once that she was Miss Bessie, for she came out of the house with style, as my mother used to describe entering our garden at Blandstone's Crow's Nest.

"Go away!" said Miss Bessie, shaking her head and waving her knife in the air. "Go away! Boys are not allowed here!"

When she walked to a corner of the garden and bent down to dig a small tree, I watched her from a distance with fear.So, although I didn't have the slightest courage, but I had the spirit of not giving up my goal, I walked in quietly, stood beside her, and touched her with my fingers.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," I said.

Startled, she looked up.

"I'm sorry, Auntie."

"Huh?" cried Miss Betsy, in a tone of astonishment I had never heard before.

"I'm sorry, aunt, I'm your grandson."

"Oh, dear!" said my aunt, slumping down on the garden path.

"I'm David Copperfield from Brandstone, Suffolk. You've been there and met my mum the night I was born. I've been very unhappy since my mum died. I Suffered from apathy, lost access to education, was forced to fend for myself, and did a job that wasn't for me. So I fled here. I was robbed when I started, all the way through, and since I set out, I’ve never touched the side of the bed.” As I spoke, I didn’t care too much, I moved my hand and showed her my embarrassment, which was used to prove that I had indeed suffered a lot, and then said loudly cry.I believe that I have been bored in my heart for a week after crying bitterly.

Listening to my narration, only surprise remained on my aunt's face, and other expressions disappeared, and she kept staring at me.When I started to cry, my aunt who had been sitting on the stone hurriedly stood up, grabbed my collar, and led me into the living room.In the living room, she first unlocked a high cabinet, took out several bottles, and poured the contents of each bottle into my mouth.These bottles must have been pulled out randomly, I thought, because I did taste fennel liquid, anchovy sauce, cold cut juices.In spite of all the tonics she gave me, I still felt ill and could not stop my grief.She put me on the sofa, put a quilt under my head, and put a hand towel she pulled off by herself so that I would not stain the sofa cover, and then she sat behind the green fan or screen I just mentioned , so that I couldn't see her face, every once in a while, it was like firing a cannon, shouting: "My God!"

After a while, she rang the bell. "Jenny," said she, when the maid came in, "go upstairs and greet Mr. Dick for me, and say I want to have a word with him."

Seeing that I was lying on the sofa upright (I was afraid that I would displease my aunt if I moved), Jenny looked a little surprised, but she followed the order.My aunt paced up and down the room with her hands behind her back until the man who was squinting at me from the upstairs window came out.

"Mr. Dick," said my aunt, "don't play a fool, because, if you like, no one knows better than you. We all know that. So you had better not play a fool."

The man immediately took on a dignified look, and looked at me as if begging me never to lift the window.

"Mr. Dick," said my aunt, "I mentioned David Copperfield to you. Don't pretend to have a bad memory, because you and I know it's not the case."

"David Copperfield?" said Mr. Dick. I don't think he could remember. "David Copperfield? Oh, yes. Yes, yes."

"Well," said my aunt, "this is his child—his son. The child is like his father, if not his mother."

Mr. Dick said, "David's son? Really?"

"That's right!" went on my aunt. "It's David's boy. He escaped, ah! His sister Bessie Trowood will never escape." The aunt went on and on. Shaking his head, he was quite confident in the character of the girl who was never born.

"Well, you believe it's impossible for her to escape?" said Mr. Dick.

"What's the matter with you," cried my aunt sternly; "I know her character very well, and she's going to be with her godmother, and if Bessie Trowood escapes, I wonder if she'll come from Where did you flee, and where will you flee to?"

"I don't know," said Mr. Dick.

(End of this chapter)