Chapter: And now my written story ends. I look back, once more--for the last
time--before 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 four-score
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 needle-work 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.
Paul's upon the lid.

The cheeks and arms of Peggotty, so hard and red in my childish days,
when I wondered why the birds didn't 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
nutmeg-grater, 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 aunt's 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 Peggotty's 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 aunt's 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 gentleman's 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.

What ship comes sailing home from India, and what English lady is this,
married to a growling old Scotch Croesus with great flaps of ears? Can
this be Julia Mills?

Indeed it is Julia Mills, peevish and fine, with a black man to carry
cards and letters to her on a golden salver, and a copper-coloured woman
in linen, with a bright handkerchief round her head, to serve her Tiffin
in her dressing-room. But Julia keeps no diary in these days; never
sings Affection's Dirge; eternally quarrels with the old Scotch Croesus,
who is a sort of yellow bear with a tanned hide. Julia is steeped in
money to the throat, and talks and thinks of nothing else. I liked her
better in the Desert of Sahara.

Or perhaps this IS the Desert of Sahara! For, though Julia has a stately
house, and mighty company, and sumptuous dinners every day, I see no
green growth near her; nothing that can ever come to fruit or flower.
What Julia calls 'society', I see; among it Mr. Jack Maldon, from his
Patent Place, sneering at the hand that gave it him, and speaking to me
of the Doctor as 'so charmingly antique'. But when society is the name
for such hollow gentlemen and ladies, Julia, and when its breeding is
professed indifference to everything that can advance or can retard
mankind, I think we must have lost ourselves in that same Desert of
Sahara, and had better find the way out.

And lo, the Doctor, always our good friend, labouring at his Dictionary
(somewhere about the letter D), and happy in his home and wife. Also
the Old Soldier, on a considerably reduced footing, and by no means so
influential as in days of yore!

Working at his chambers in the Temple, with a busy aspect, and his hair
(where he is not bald) made more rebellious than ever by the constant
friction of his lawyer's-wig, I come, in a later time, upon my dear old
Traddles. His table is covered with thick piles of papers; and I say, as
I look around me:

'If Sophy were your clerk, now, Traddles, she would have enough to do!'

'You may say that, my dear Copperfield! But those were capital days,
too, in Holborn Court! Were they not?'

'When she told you you would be a judge? But it was not the town talk
then!'

'At all events,' says Traddles, 'if I ever am one--' 'Why, you know you
will be.'

'Well, my dear Copperfield, WHEN I am one, I shall tell the story, as I
said I would.'

We walk away, arm in arm. I am going to have a family dinner with
Traddles. It is Sophy's birthday; and, on our road, Traddles discourses
to me of the good fortune he has enjoyed.

'I really have been able, my dear Copperfield, to do all that I had most
at heart. There's the Reverend Horace promoted to that living at four
hundred and fifty pounds a year; there are our two boys receiving the
very best education, and distinguishing themselves as steady scholars
and good fellows; there are three of the girls married very comfortably;
there are three more living with us; there are three more keeping house
for the Reverend Horace since Mrs. Crewler's decease; and all of them
happy.'

'Except--' I suggest.

'Except the Beauty,' says Traddles. 'Yes. It was very unfortunate that
she should marry such a vagabond. But there was a certain dash and glare
about him that caught her. However, now we have got her safe at our
house, and got rid of him, we must cheer her up again.'

Traddles's house is one of the very houses--or it easily may have
been--which he and Sophy used to parcel out, in their evening walks. It
is a large house; but Traddles keeps his papers in his dressing-room
and his boots with his papers; and he and Sophy squeeze themselves into
upper rooms, reserving the best bedrooms for the Beauty and the girls.
There is no room to spare in the house; for more of 'the girls' are
here, and always are here, by some accident or other, than I know how
to count. Here, when we go in, is a crowd of them, running down to
the door, and handing Traddles about to be kissed, until he is out of
breath. Here, established in perpetuity, is the poor Beauty, a widow
with a little girl; here, at dinner on Sophy's birthday, are the three
married girls with their three husbands, and one of the husband's
brothers, and another husband's cousin, and another husband's sister,
who appears to me to be engaged to the cousin. Traddles, exactly the
same simple, unaffected fellow as he ever was, sits at the foot of the
large table like a Patriarch; and Sophy beams upon him, from the head,
across a cheerful space that is certainly not glittering with Britannia
metal.

And now, as I close my task, subduing my desire to linger yet, these
faces fade away. But one face, shining on me like a Heavenly light by
which I see all other objects, is above them and beyond them all. And
that remains.

I turn my head, and see it, in its beautiful serenity, beside me.

My lamp burns low, and I have written far into the night; but the dear
presence, without which I were nothing, bears me company.

O Agnes, O my soul, so may thy face be by me when I close my life
indeed; so may I, when realities are melting from me, like the shadows
which I now dismiss, still find thee near me, pointing upward!

 A Last Retrospect David muses on the state of affairs at the time of his writing. He sees Miss Betsey, old but still upright, accompanied by Peggotty, who is also old but still bright and happy. Mr. Dick is still working on his autobiography. Mrs. Steerforth and Miss Dartle argue as usual. Doctor Strong continues to work on his dictionary while he and Annie live in marital bliss. Traddles is a successful lawyer and happily married to Sophy, and Agnes is forever the light of David's life.

