To Save Myself
By Laura Schiller
Based on: David Copperfield (book/2000 movie)
Copyright: Charles Dickens' estate/BBC
He was never sure what made him do it. The innocent smile on Miss Hawton's face, perhaps; her black ringlets dancing around her face, so much like his mother's; the steely satisfaction in Jane Murdstone's eyes when she referred to their acquaintance as merely distant; the contempt lurking at the edges of Edward Murdstone's lips. But whatever his reasons were – on that bright spring morning, at that breakfast table, in an elegant hotel in Switzerland of all places, David Copperfield broke the silence of fifteen years and found his voice at last.
"Mr. Murdstone was my stepfather," he said. "And he and his sister are the hardest, cruelest, most unforgiving people I have ever known. Between them, they made my childhood miserable and bullied my mother to an early grave."
The steady, even quality of his own words surprised him, especially as the young woman's eyes widened with confusion. She glanced from David back to Mr. Murdstone, her mouth falling open, weighing her friend's statement against what she knew or believed of her lover – only to gasp with fear instead as Mr. Murdstone knocked over the table. The smash of china, the clash of cutlery, and the splattering of tea, jam and scones on the marble floor, shocked the entire company into a breathless silence which Mr. Murdstone was the first to break.
"Repeat that in England, Sir!" he snarled.
David's heartbeat pounded in his ears as he met his childhood demon face to face. For the first time, David saw the fear in Murdstone's black eyes – fear for his name, for his reputation, for his relationship with Miss Hawton, which he probably believed was one of love. Fear of the truth about himself, the same truth Betsey Trotwood had shouted fifteen years ago, which David spoke today. Fear of anything and anybody he could not control. Was this really the man who had haunted his nightmares for all these years?
David felt his own power as clearly as the sunlight on his face. He could do anything with Murdstone now; he could beat the man with his own cane if he wanted. But he had a better idea.
"I'll do better than that," he replied. "I'll write it. I'm an author now, as you may have heard, and I will use my name to show the world exactly what you are."
Murdstone paled. His fear rose into his face like a murky tide, drowning out every other emotion. It was Miss Murdstone, so often silenced and overruled, who with a parting glare over her shoulder, took her brother's arm and led him away.
Dizzy with victory, David turned back to Miss Hawton and her companion. The two women clung together, the younger one bewildered, the elder smiling at David with tear-bright eyes. They could have been his own mother and Peggotty, long ago.
"I apologize," he stammered. "For this … most unpleasant scene … I couldn't let you go without a warning."
"I believe you did it for her," said the companion, amazed and grateful. "To save her."
Yes and no, he thought wisfully. He remembered the veiled, silent figure of Murdstone's second wife in the carriage, who had died young as well. He remembered his mother's tear-wet face behind the iron bars of the window, the last time he ever saw her. He remembered the snap of a purse, the low menace of two voices, the whistle and sting of a cane.
"I did it," he admitted, "To save myself."
And with a final distracted nod, he left them to retire to his rooms.
Never be mean in anything, Trot, his aunt had told him once. Never be false, never be cruel. But he had been all these things. By letting childhood fears dominate his life, he had done himself more harm than even Murdstone's cane. Fear had led him to avoid confronting Steerforth about his betrayal; fear and guilt had kept him away from Emily, so that instead of supporting her as an old friend should after her recovery, he had let her leave the country without a word. Fear had made him choose to marry a childlike woman, so that he would have the power in their relationship – to protect her, he'd told himself, from the Murdstones and their ilk, but his frustrated attempts to "teach" Dora had made him dangerously close to following Murdstone's example.
Fear had made him stand passively by as Uriah Heep stole from Betsey, blackmailed Mr. Wickfield and tried to force Agnes into marriage. And by the same token, it had hidden from him what he should have realized long ago.
He loved Agnes. He had loved her since the night of Uriah's toast, when Mr. Wickfield had exploded with fury and she had led him away, strong and level-headed even as her world was falling apart. Perhaps even since the moment he first saw her on the swing when they were children. Certainly since Dora's death, when she had come downstairs and embraced him, knowing exactly what he needed without his saying a word. He had loved Agnes Wickfield all along. It was only his fear – and with it, self-loathing – that had kept him away from her all these years.
He had never really stopped being the little criminal who was afraid to be arrested for biting his stepfather; whose mother's sad warning, try to be better, had hurt worse than any beating; whose disappointing behavior might very well have helped to push her over the edge. Beware of him, he bites. Creakle's target; Steerforth's dupe; the Micawbers' burden; the clumsy, helpless "Milady" of the blacking factory. What right did he have to be on equal terms with Agnes? Better to call her his sister and his angel, associate her with everything pure and bright and untouchable, rather than let any trace of his darkness taint her by coming too close.
But Agnes was no angel. She had a warped sense of obligation, blaming herself for her mother's death and every mistake her father made. She would lie to herself and others rather than risk a confrontation. She had hated Uriah; by her own admission, she would have killed herself rather than marry him. She was every bit as human as David was, and he had every right to love her as a man loves a woman. Even if she did not feel the same, their friendship would survive as it always had; even if it didn't, he was strong enough to carry on.
Someone had broken Edward Murdstone as a child, as implied by that chillingly matter-of-fact reference to being "often flogged". Grown into adulthood, he had tried to break David in turn. The cycle ends here and now, he promised himself. The only weapon he would wield was a pen, to free himself of poisonous truths like a physician letting blood.
Whether I am to be the hero of my own life, he wrote, or whether that station will be held by another, these pages must show. To begin my life, appropriately enough, with the beginning of my life …