Chapter 5 Chapter 1 I came into this world

Let people understand that the protagonist of this book is me and not someone else. This is what this book must do.My biography begins when I first came into the world.I remember (as I was told, and I believed in it) that I was born at twelve o'clock on a Friday night.It is said that the clock had just struck, and I also cried out, every minute and every second. I was born on that day and at that hour.My nanny and some of the wisest female neighbors have a saying about it.They gave me incredible attention from the first few months of my life.They said, first of all, my life is not good, and there will be many disasters; secondly, I have the ability to see ghosts.They decided this: that any baby born within a few hours of midnight on a Friday night was unlucky.We all have that gift, it's innate, boys and girls alike.

Regarding the first point, I don't need to say anything, because only my own experience can best confirm whether the prophecy is true.On the second point, all I can say is, maybe I used up that aura when I was a kid, which I haven't experienced so far anyway.But I don't complain if I don't have that aura, and if someone else is enjoying it, I wish him the best of luck for life. I was born with a membrane①.Later, the fetal membranes were advertised in newspapers for sale at a low price of 15 guineas.I don't know whether it was because the sailors were short of money at that time, or people didn't have much confidence in the fetal membranes and preferred to wear cork lifejackets. Anyway, only one person made an offer.This man, a solicitor dealing with stockbrokers, quoted two pounds in cash, with sherry for the shortfall.Even if he would lose the risk guarantee of never drowning, this man would not add a penny.In the end, the advertisement was only withdrawn, and a sum of advertising fees was paid for nothing.As for sherry, my dear poor mother sells it in the market herself.Ten years later, this fetal membrane will be drawn by our local 50 people to decide who will buy it.Each person who draws the lottery first pays half a crown, and the person who wins the lottery pays 5 shillings for the membrane.I was there at the time, and it made me sick and embarrassed to see a part of my body being handled in such a way.I remember that the lottery was won by an old lady with a basket.Reluctantly, the old lady took out the required five shillings from the basket, which were all one and a half pennies, and there was still two and a half pennies in the end-although it took a long time for people to spend a lot of money. Arithmetic methods to show her this had no effect.Afterwards, people in that area remembered for a long time this remarkable fact: the old lady was indeed not drowned, but died triumphantly on her bed at the age of 92.I have heard her boast most proudly in her life, that she never crossed any water, except on one bridge.Over tea (tea was her great passion), she always expressed her indignation at sailors and other such people who should wander about, which she considered sinful.It was of little use if anyone told her that one got something out of such a nuisance, and got something out of it—tea, for instance—and she always said with more force and confidence: " We never wander."

-------- ①The British believe that those born with fetal membranes are lucky.This fetal membrane can protect people from drowning. I will not ramble about now, I will turn to my birth. I was born in Blandstone, Suffolk, or "over there," as the Scots say. I was a posthumous.Six months after Dad closed his eyes, I opened them.Even now it still strikes me as strange to think that he never met me.And when the memory of the past is hazy, it makes me feel even more strange that his white-gray headstone is the first association I had when I was a child, when our small living room was warmed by the fire and lit by candles. When it was bright, I felt infinitely sympathetic to my father who was lying alone in the dark, thinking that he was shut out by us, I felt extremely cruel.

One of my father's aunts—my great-aunt, of course—was a constant figure in our family, and I shall speak of her later—Miss Trotwood, or Miss Bessie (when my poor mother could muster Courage always refers to her by the latter title, but this is not very often) was married to a younger husband.The man was handsome but, as the old saying goes, "beautiful is not beautiful," he was not handsome enough in this respect-for he was very suspected of beating Miss Betsy, and even quarreled over the daily meal once. At that time, he was so reckless that he wanted to throw Miss Bessie out of the window on the third floor.His bad-tempered behavior finally caused Miss Bessie to give him a sum of money, and the two separated.He went to India with that capital, and, according to a wild legend in my family, he was seen there riding an elephant with a large baboon.But I always feel that it should be a noble concubine or a noble concubine's daughter, that is, a princess.In any case, how my aunt felt when the news of his death came from India ten years later is anyone's guess.After breaking up with that man, my aunt resumed her maiden surname, bought a farmhouse in a small seaside village far away, and took a servant there to live a celibate life.Everyone knew that she was going to stay away from the world of mortals from now on.

I believe she was fond of my father at one time.But her father's marriage broke her heart, because my mother was nothing more than a wax doll to her.Although she never met my mother, she knew that my mother was not yet 20 years old.After getting married, my father and my aunt never met again.At that time, my father was twice my mother's age, and he was not very strong.A year later he died, and as I said before, I came into this world six months after his death. On that very important--forgive me for saying this--Friday afternoon, an unusual thing happened.How it happened, my own senses have no impression.

At the time, my mother was sitting by the fire.Weak and depressed, she looked at the fire with tears in her eyes, and thought of herself and the little man who had no father before birth, so desperate, as indicated by the many pins embroidered with good wishes in the drawer upstairs. To welcome the little baby to a world that wasn't at all excited about his arrival.As I say, my mother sat by the fire on a fine and blustery March afternoon, timid and mournful, and very much doubting whether she would get through her time.When she wiped her tears and looked out of the window, she saw a strange woman walking towards the garden.

On another glance, my mother had an instant presentiment that the woman was Miss Bessie, and my mother firmly believed in the presentiment.The woman stood outside the garden fence, and in the afterglow of the setting sun, she walked to the door with a stiff gait and an expression of indifference. Her demeanor when she came to the house proved once again that she was unique.My father used to say that no Christian in general behaved like she did.She didn't ring the bell, but went straight to the window facing my mother, and looked in.She pressed the tip of her nose to the glass, so tight she pressed it that my poor sweet mother said that then the tip of her nose flattened and turned white.

She surprised my mother quite a bit, so I just thought I was really indebted to Miss Bessie for being born on a Friday. Panicked, my mother got up and walked to the corner behind the chair.Miss Bessie stood opposite, scanning the room.She was unhurried, thoughtful, and her expression was like that of the clock on a Dutch clock.Her eyes finally fell on my mother, she frowned, and gestured to my mother like a master who is used to driving his servants, beckoning my mother to go and open the door.My mother passed. "Mrs. David Copperfield, I suppose," said Miss Betsy, with a particular emphatic emphasis which may have been inferred from my mother's mourning dress and state of mind.

"Yes." My mother replied weakly. "Miss Trotwood," said the visitor, "you must have heard of her, I dare say." My mother said she was lucky enough to have heard the name.But her unhappiness did not justify that it was a special honor. "Now you see her," said Miss Betsy.My mother bowed her head and asked her to come in. They went into the living room where my mother had just come out.The nicest room across the corridor had no fire, in fact the furnace there hadn't been lit since my father's funeral.After the two of them were seated, my mother couldn't hold back anymore and burst into tears.

"Oh, come, come, come!" said Miss Betsy hastily. "Don't do that! OK, OK, OK! " But my mother couldn't help it, and kept crying until she had enough. "Take off your hat, child," said Miss Betsy, "and let me see you." Unreasonable though the request was, my mother was too cowardly to refuse, even if she was skeptical.She had to do as Miss Bessie told her, and in her nervousness she let her hair fall over her face.Her hair is not only rich, but also beautiful. "Oh, my God!" exclaimed Miss Betsy. "You're still a baby!"

There is no doubt that my mother looked very young, even younger than her real age.She lowered her head, as if she had done something wrong.Poor man!While choking up, she said that she was afraid that she was indeed a childish widow, and that as long as she could live, she would still be a childish mother.She paused for a moment, when she vaguely felt that Miss Bessie was touching her hair, and felt that Miss Bessie's hand was not gentle.But when she looked in timid hope at Miss Bessie, she saw the lady sitting there with her skirts rolled up, her hands folded on one knee, her feet on the grate, staring frowningly at fire. "What's the matter?" Miss Bessie asked suddenly, "Why is it called the Crow's Nest?" "Is this the house you mean, miss?" my mother asked. "Why call it the Crow's Nest?" said Miss Betsy. "It would be better called the Kitchen, if either of you has any practical idea of ​​life." -------- ① Crow's Nest is Rookery in English, which is similar in sound to the word kitchen cookery in English. "Mr. Copperfield chose the name," said my mother. "We—Mr. Copperfield think it's a really big crow's nest. They're very old, though, and the birds Haven’t come here long ago.” "It's really David Copperfield!" exclaimed Miss Betsy. "It's a real David Copperfield! Call the house a Crow's Nest when there's not a single crow around. Foolishly decided There are birds, but only because they saw the bird's nest." "Mr. Copperfield," my mother returned, "is dead. If you're going to mock him in my presence..." I thought, my poor and lovely mother really wanted to beat my aunt and grandma.Even if my mother had been professionally trained before she shot that night, my aunt could have subdued her with one hand without breaking a sweat.However, the fight was over when she got up from her chair - she sat down again because she passed out. When she regained consciousness, or Miss Bessie brought her back to consciousness, she found Miss Bessie standing at the window.The twilight grew thicker, and they could no longer see each other clearly.If it wasn't for the fire, they wouldn't be able to see each other at all. "Well," said Miss Bessie, returning to her seat, as if she had just taken a casual look at the scenery, "when do you reckon..." "I'm shaking," my mother said with difficulty, "I don't know what's wrong. I'm dying, I believe I'm dying! " "No, no, no," said Miss Betsy, "have some tea." "Ah, ah, do you think tea will do me any good?" cried the mother, looking very pitiful. "Of course it is good," said Miss Betsy, "but it's just a hallucination. What do you call that girl?" "I don't know if it's a girl yet, miss," said the mother innocently. "God bless the boy!" Miss Bessie couldn't help quoting the second auspicious phrase from the needle in the drawer upstairs, but she addressed it not to me but to my mother, "I didn't mean that, I mean your maid." "Peggotty?" said my mother. "Peggotty!" repeated Miss Bessie, very indignantly. "You mean, my child, that a man should go into a Christian church and take the Christian name of Peggotty for himself?" "It was her last name," said my mother timidly, "and Mr. Copperfield called her by it, as her Christian name was the same as mine." "Hey, Peggotty," cried Miss Betsy, opening the drawing-room door, "bring you some tea. Your mistress is not feeling well, so don't wander around idly. " Miss Bessie gave command as if she had been the head of the family for as long as she had the house.Hear this strange voice.A startled Peggotty came down the corridor carrying a candle.When they had met, Miss Bessie closed the door again, and sat down as before, with her feet on the grate, her skirts rolled up, and her hands folded on one knee. "You said just now that you were going to have a girl," said Miss Betsy. "I have no doubt that it will be a girl. I have a presentiment that it must be a girl. Well, boy, when the girl is born--" "Maybe it's a boy?" the mother put in boldly. "I told you I had a hunch it must be a girl," said Miss Betsy. "Don't talk back. I want to be her friend as soon as this girl is born. I want to be her godmother, and I beg you to call her Bessie." Sy Trowood Copperfield. This Bessie Trowood should do no wrong in her life and abuse her love. Poor child, she deserves a good education , well guarded so that she isn't so foolish as to believe things she shouldn't believe. I'll definitely see it as my responsibility." Miss Betsy's head jerked convulsively after each sentence, as if her old faults were still tormenting her, and she was trying to keep them from showing.At least, that's what my mother thought as she watched her by the dim light of the fire.My mother was so afraid of Miss Bessie, she was too restless, and too weak and timid and dazed, that she could not see anything clearly, nor know what to say. "How is David to you, child?" Miss Bessie asked again after a moment's silence, her head gradually no longer moving. "Are you having a good time together?" "I am very happy," said my mother, "and Mr. Copperfield has been nothing but good to me." "What, he's spoiled you, I suppose?" Miss Betsy followed. "In this tough world, being alone again, everything on my own, yeah, I think he's spoiling me," my mother said, choked up. "Come on, come on! Don't cry!" said Miss Betsy. "You're not a good match, boy—if anyone could be—so I ask you this question. You're an orphan, aren't you? ?” "yes." "Ever been a governess?" "I was working as a nurse-governor in a house where Mr. Copperfield visited. Mr. Copperfield treated me very kindly, and took special care of me, and was so considerate that he finally proposed to me. I agreed. We'll get married." My mother said flatly. "Cough! Poor little boy!" Miss Bessie mused, still frowning at the fire. "What do you know?" "I don't understand what you're talking about, ma'am," said my mother timidly. "For example, in housekeeping," said Miss Bessie. "Not so much, I'm afraid," my mother replied, "not as much as I'd like to know. But Mr. Copperfield taught me--" "And how much does he know himself!" interposed Miss Betsy. "...I hope I have made great progress, because I was eager to learn at the time, and he taught very patiently, if it hadn't been for his unfortunate death..." At this point, my mother choked up again. There is no way to go on. "All right, all right!" went on Miss Betsy, "don't cry any more." "... I dare say we have never had a quarrel in this matter, except that sometimes Mr. Copperfield disapproved of me making 3 and 5 almost indistinguishable, or adding 7 and 9 Crooked tail," another pang of grief struck my mother again. "You're making yourself sick," said Miss Betsy, "and you know it's going to be very bad for you and my goddaughter. Don't do it! You mustn't!" It also had a somewhat calming effect on my mother, though she was feeling increasingly ill.Then neither of them spoke, only Miss Bessie let out an occasional "cough" to break the silence, and she still sat with her feet on the stove. "David bought an annuity out of his money, I know," said Miss Betsy after a while, "and what arrangements has he made for you?" "Mr. Copperfield," my mother replied with some difficulty, "is very thoughtful and kind. He gave me a part of the annuity." "How much?" asked Miss Betsy. "One hundred and fifty pounds a year," said my mother. "He could have done worse," my aunt said. Her words were timely.My mother's situation was now worse than before.Peggotty, who came in with a tea-tray and a candle, saw this at once.Miss Bessie would have seen it, too, if the room had been a little better lighted.Peggotty hastily carried my mother up-stairs, and immediately sent her nephew, Ham Peggotty, for the nurse and doctor.These days, Ham has been living in my house unnoticed, just in order to deliver letters in such emergencies, but my mother doesn't know it. The members of this combined army were taken aback when they arrived, for they did not expect to see a strange woman sitting strangely in front of the fire, with her hat hanging over her left arm, trying to stuff cotton balls into her ears.Peggotty had never heard of my aunt, nor had my mother mentioned her.She looked very mysterious sitting in the living room.She seemed to have a bagful of jeweler's cotton balls stuffed in her ears, but that didn't detract from her awe-inspiring dignity. The doctor went upstairs and came down again.Spotting such a strange woman sitting across from him, and figuring that they might spend hours together like this, the doctor tried—I presume—to be polite and sociable.The doctor was the most humble of his sex, and the most docile of little people.When going in and out of the house, he always walks sideways, lest he take up too much room.His steps were as soft and slower as the ghost in Hamlet.His head was always tilted to one side, and he was always humbly belittling himself or humbly flattering others.It was nothing if he never said anything rude to a dog, he never said anything harsh to a mad dog.He would only say a word, or half a word, or just a few words to a mad dog docilely, because he talked as slowly as he walked.He would never be rough with a dog, he would never be rough with a dog, not at all. Mr. Chillip looked at my aunt gently and submissively, tilted his head to one side and bowed slightly to her, then pointed to his own left ear to indicate that he was talking about the jeweler's cotton balls and said: "A local inflammation, ma'am?" "What?" My aunt pulled out the cotton like a plug. Mr. Chillip was taken aback by her rudeness--he told my mother afterwards--almost at a loss as to what to do.But he still gently repeated: "A local inflammation, ma'am?" "Nonsense!" My aunt said and plugged her ears again. Mr. Chillip had nothing to do now but sit looking timidly at her while she sat looking at the fire.And so they sat until the doctor was sent upstairs.The doctor came down again after a quarter of an hour upstairs. "How is it?" My aunt asked, pulling out the cotton from the doctor's ear. "Well, ma'am," replied Mr. Chillip, "we're . . . going slowly, ma'am." "Bah...!" my aunt uttered the contemptuous word with a pure trill.Then she plugged her ears up as before. Indeed—indeed—Mr. Chillip told my mother later that he was nearly dead with fright, almost dead from a professional point of view.But he still sat there, looking at her, and she sat there looking at the fire.In this way, they sat for nearly two hours, until the doctor was called upstairs again.Shortly after leaving the living room, the doctor returned. "How is it?" My aunt asked after pulling out the cotton from that ear. "Well, ma'am," replied Mr. Chillip, "we're . . . going slowly, ma'am." "Hush...!" My aunt and grandma only made this sound.Mr. Chillip found this insolent treatment absolutely intolerable.He later said it was designed to break his nerves.He preferred to sit on the dark and drafty stairs before people came to ask him again. An hour or so after Ham Peggotty's report the next day, he happened to glance into the drawing-room again at the drawing-room door, when he was caught and caught by Miss Bassie, who was pacing up and down in agitation. Stop, he can't run away now.Ham had gone to a free national school, and answered the catechism fairly well, so he was a solid witness.He said there were footsteps and other noises upstairs, and when they got louder, the lady grabbed him and used him like a punching bag for her excess excitement; he said, It can be deduced from this that the cotton can't block the sound from upstairs.He also said the woman dragged him around after grabbing him by the collar, as if he had taken too much laudanum.The lady shook him, ruffled his hair, rumpled his collar, plugged his ears as if he could not tell his ears from her own, grabbed him, and beat him.His own aunt attested to the truth of his statement, for she saw him at half-past twelve—just after she was released—and claimed that he was as red as I was. If the docile Mr. Chillip had been malicious at any time, it was impossible then.As soon as he finished his work, he walked sideways into the living room, and said to my aunt very kindly: "Well, ma'am, it is my pleasure to congratulate you." "Congratulate me for what?" my aunt said sternly. Again Mr. Chillip was taken aback by my aunt's severe severity.To soften her, Mr. Chillip bowed slightly to her, and smiled again. "My God, what's the matter with this man?" my aunt cried impatiently. "Can't he talk?" "Calm down, ma'am," said Mr. Chillip, in his most gentle tone; "now, there's nothing to worry about. Calm down, ma'am." It's been considered a miracle ever since—that my aunt didn't shake him, didn't shake him to make him talk.She just shook her head at him, but that was enough to scare him. "Oh, ma'am," said Mr. Chillip at once, finding courage, "to congratulate you with great pleasure. All is well, ma'am, and well concluded." When Mr. Chillip gave a speech for about five minutes, my aunt watched him carefully. "How is she?" my aunt asked, with her arms folded, one of which still had her hat hanging from it. "Oh, ma'am, she'll feel very comfortable right away, I hope," said Mr. Chillip, "as much comfort as we can expect from any young mother in such miserable domestic circumstances. If, ma'am, If you are going to see her now please go, it will only do her good." "What about her? How is she?" my aunt asked sternly. Mr. Chillip tilted his head even more.He looked at my aunt and grandma like an obedient bird. "That little girl," said my aunt, "how is she?" "Ma'am," replied Mr. Chillip, "I thought you knew. The baby is a boy." Without saying a word, my aunt picked up the hatband and pointed it at Mr. Chillip's head as if holding a sling for a while, then put the hat on her own head, and disappeared forever.She disappeared like a disappointed fairy.Or disappeared like the ghost everyone thought I could see, and never came here again. She never came here again.I slept in my cradle, and my mother in her bed, and Bessie Trowood Copperfield remained forever in that land of dreams and fantasies, that vast expanse I traveled not so long ago area.The light that shines on our bedroom windows also shines on the final resting place of the passers-by of this world, and on the remnants of dust that do not belong to the one without whom there would be no me.