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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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I
remember
it
as
a
kind
of
half
chaise
-
cart
,
half
pianoforte
-
van
,
painted
of
a
sombre
colour
,
and
drawn
by
a
black
horse
with
a
long
tail
.
There
was
plenty
of
room
for
us
all
.
I
do
not
think
I
have
ever
experienced
so
strange
a
feeling
in
my
life
(
I
am
wiser
now
,
perhaps
)
as
that
of
being
with
them
,
remembering
how
they
had
been
employed
,
and
seeing
them
enjoy
the
ride
.
I
was
not
angry
with
them
;
I
was
more
afraid
of
them
,
as
if
I
were
cast
away
among
creatures
with
whom
I
had
no
community
of
nature
.
They
were
very
cheerful
.
The
old
man
sat
in
front
to
drive
,
and
the
two
young
people
sat
behind
him
,
and
whenever
he
spoke
to
them
leaned
forward
,
the
one
on
one
side
of
his
chubby
face
and
the
other
on
the
other
,
and
made
a
great
deal
of
him
.
They
would
have
talked
to
me
too
,
but
I
held
back
,
and
moped
in
my
corner
;
scared
by
their
love
-
making
and
hilarity
,
though
it
was
far
from
boisterous
,
and
almost
wondering
that
no
judgement
came
upon
them
for
their
hardness
of
heart
.
So
,
when
they
stopped
to
bait
the
horse
,
and
ate
and
drank
and
enjoyed
themselves
,
I
could
touch
nothing
that
they
touched
,
but
kept
my
fast
unbroken
.
So
,
when
we
reached
home
,
I
dropped
out
of
the
chaise
behind
,
as
quickly
as
possible
,
that
I
might
not
be
in
their
company
before
those
solemn
windows
,
looking
blindly
on
me
like
closed
eyes
once
bright
.
And
oh
,
how
little
need
I
had
had
to
think
what
would
move
me
to
tears
when
I
came
back
—
seeing
the
window
of
my
mother
’
s
room
,
and
next
it
that
which
,
in
the
better
time
,
was
mine
!
I
was
in
Peggotty
’
s
arms
before
I
got
to
the
door
,
and
she
took
me
into
the
house
.
Her
grief
burst
out
when
she
first
saw
me
;
but
she
controlled
it
soon
,
and
spoke
in
whispers
,
and
walked
softly
,
as
if
the
dead
could
be
disturbed
.
She
had
not
been
in
bed
,
I
found
,
for
a
long
time
.
She
sat
up
at
night
still
,
and
watched
.
As
long
as
her
poor
dear
pretty
was
above
the
ground
,
she
said
,
she
would
never
desert
her
.
Mr
.
Murdstone
took
no
heed
of
me
when
I
went
into
the
parlour
where
he
was
,
but
sat
by
the
fireside
,
weeping
silently
,
and
pondering
in
his
elbow
-
chair
.
Miss
Murdstone
,
who
was
busy
at
her
writing
-
desk
,
which
was
covered
with
letters
and
papers
,
gave
me
her
cold
finger
-
nails
,
and
asked
me
,
in
an
iron
whisper
,
if
I
had
been
measured
for
my
mourning
.
I
said
:
‘
Yes
.
’
‘
And
your
shirts
,
’
said
Miss
Murdstone
;
‘
have
you
brought
‘
em
home
?
’
‘
Yes
,
ma
’
am
.
I
have
brought
home
all
my
clothes
.
’
This
was
all
the
consolation
that
her
firmness
administered
to
me
.
I
do
not
doubt
that
she
had
a
choice
pleasure
in
exhibiting
what
she
called
her
self
-
command
,
and
her
firmness
,
and
her
strength
of
mind
,
and
her
common
sense
,
and
the
whole
diabolical
catalogue
of
her
unamiable
qualities
,
on
such
an
occasion
.
