David Copperfield (Illustrated Edition). Charles Dickens

Chapter 41. Dora’s Aunts

       Chapter 42. Mischief

       Chapter 43. Another Retrospect

       Chapter 44. Our Housekeeping

       Chapter 45. Mr. Dick Fulfils My Aunt’s Predictions

       Chapter 46. Intelligence

       Chapter 47. Martha

       Chapter 48. Domestic

       Chapter 49. I Am Involved in Mystery

       Chapter 50. Mr. Peggotty’s Dream Comes True

       Chapter 51. The Beginning of a Longer Journey

       Chapter 52. I Assist at an Explosion

       Chapter 53. Another Retrospect

       Chapter 54. Mr. Micawber’s Transactions

       Chapter 55. Tempest

       Chapter 56. The New Wound, and the Old

       Chapter 57. The Emigrants

       Chapter 58. Absence

       Chapter 59. Return

       Chapter 60. Agnes

       Chapter 61. I Am Shown Two Interesting Penitents

       Chapter 62. A Light Shines on My Way

       Chapter 63. A Visitor

       Chapter 64. A Last Retrospect

      Preface I

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      I do not find it easy to get sufficiently far away from this Book, in the first sensations of having finished it, to refer to it with the composure which this formal heading would seem to require. My interest in it, is so recent and strong; and my mind is so divided between pleasure and regret—pleasure in the achievement of a long design, regret in the separation from many companions—that I am in danger of wearying the reader whom I love, with personal confidences, and private emotions.

      Besides which, all that I could say of the Story, to any purpose, I have endeavoured to say in it.

      It would concern the reader little, perhaps, to know, how sorrowfully the pen is laid down at the close of a two-years’ imaginative task; or how an Author feels as if he were dismissing some portion of himself into the shadowy world, when a crowd of the creatures of his brain are going from him for ever. Yet, I have nothing else to tell; unless, indeed, I were to confess (which might be of less moment still) that no one can ever believe this Narrative, in the reading, more than I have believed it in the writing.

      Instead of looking back, therefore, I will look forward. I cannot close this Volume more agreeably to myself, than with a hopeful glance towards the time when I shall again put forth my two green leaves once a month, and with a faithful remembrance of the genial sun and showers that have fallen on these leaves of David Copperfield, and made me happy.

      London, October, 1850.

      Preface II

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      I remarked in the original Preface to this Book, that I did not find it easy to get sufficiently far away from it, in the first sensations of having finished it, to refer to it with the composure which this formal heading would seem to require. My interest in it was so recent and strong, and my mind was so divided between pleasure and regret—pleasure in the achievement of a long design, regret in the separation from many companions—that I was in danger of wearying the reader with personal confidences and private emotions.

      Besides which, all that I could have said of the Story to any purpose, I had endeavoured to say in it.

      It would concern the reader little, perhaps, to know how sorrowfully the pen is laid down at the close of a two-years’ imaginative task; or how an Author feels as if he were dismissing some portion of himself into the shadowy world, when a crowd of the creatures of his brain are going from him for ever. Yet, I had nothing else to tell; unless, indeed, I were to confess (which might be of less moment still), that no one can ever believe this Narrative, in the reading, more than I believed it in the writing.

      So true are these avowals at the present day, that I can now only take the reader into one confidence more. Of all my books, I like this the best. It will be easily believed that I am a fond parent to every child of my fancy, and that no one can ever love that family as dearly as I love them. But, like many fond parents, I have in my heart of hearts a favourite child. And his name is

      DAVID COPPERFIELD.

      1869

      Chapter 1.

       I Am Born

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      Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday, at twelve o’clock at night. It was remarked that the clock began to strike, and I began to cry, simultaneously.

      In consideration of the day and hour of my birth, it was declared by the nurse, and by some sage women in the neighbourhood who had taken a lively interest in me several months before there was any possibility of our becoming personally acquainted, first, that I was destined to be unlucky in life; and secondly, that I was privileged to see ghosts and spirits; both these gifts inevitably attaching, as they believed, to all unlucky infants of either gender, born towards the small hours on a Friday night.

      I need say nothing here, on the first head, because nothing can show better than my history whether that prediction was verified or falsified by the result. On the second branch of the question, I will only remark,