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- Авторы
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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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- Стр. 51/820
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The
gloomy
taint
that
was
in
the
Murdstone
blood
,
darkened
the
Murdstone
religion
,
which
was
austere
and
wrathful
.
I
have
thought
,
since
,
that
its
assuming
that
character
was
a
necessary
consequence
of
Mr
.
Murdstone
’
s
firmness
,
which
wouldn
’
t
allow
him
to
let
anybody
off
from
the
utmost
weight
of
the
severest
penalties
he
could
find
any
excuse
for
.
Be
this
as
it
may
,
I
well
remember
the
tremendous
visages
with
which
we
used
to
go
to
church
,
and
the
changed
air
of
the
place
.
Again
,
the
dreaded
Sunday
comes
round
,
and
I
file
into
the
old
pew
first
,
like
a
guarded
captive
brought
to
a
condemned
service
.
Again
,
Miss
Murdstone
,
in
a
black
velvet
gown
,
that
looks
as
if
it
had
been
made
out
of
a
pall
,
follows
close
upon
me
;
then
my
mother
;
then
her
husband
.
There
is
no
Peggotty
now
,
as
in
the
old
time
.
Again
,
I
listen
to
Miss
Murdstone
mumbling
the
responses
,
and
emphasizing
all
the
dread
words
with
a
cruel
relish
.
Again
,
I
see
her
dark
eyes
roll
round
the
church
when
she
says
‘
miserable
sinners
’
,
as
if
she
were
calling
all
the
congregation
names
.
Again
,
I
catch
rare
glimpses
of
my
mother
,
moving
her
lips
timidly
between
the
two
,
with
one
of
them
muttering
at
each
ear
like
low
thunder
.
Again
,
I
wonder
with
a
sudden
fear
whether
it
is
likely
that
our
good
old
clergyman
can
be
wrong
,
and
Mr
.
and
Miss
Murdstone
right
,
and
that
all
the
angels
in
Heaven
can
be
destroying
angels
.
Again
,
if
I
move
a
finger
or
relax
a
muscle
of
my
face
,
Miss
Murdstone
pokes
me
with
her
prayer
-
book
,
and
makes
my
side
ache
.
Yes
,
and
again
,
as
we
walk
home
,
I
note
some
neighbours
looking
at
my
mother
and
at
me
,
and
whispering
.
Again
,
as
the
three
go
on
arm
-
in
-
arm
,
and
I
linger
behind
alone
,
I
follow
some
of
those
looks
,
and
wonder
if
my
mother
’
s
step
be
really
not
so
light
as
I
have
seen
it
,
and
if
the
gaiety
of
her
beauty
be
really
almost
worried
away
.
Again
,
I
wonder
whether
any
of
the
neighbours
call
to
mind
,
as
I
do
,
how
we
used
to
walk
home
together
,
she
and
I
;
and
I
wonder
stupidly
about
that
,
all
the
dreary
dismal
day
.
There
had
been
some
talk
on
occasions
of
my
going
to
boarding
-
school
.
Mr
.
and
Miss
Murdstone
had
originated
it
,
and
my
mother
had
of
course
agreed
with
them
.
Nothing
,
however
,
was
concluded
on
the
subject
yet
.
In
the
meantime
,
I
learnt
lessons
at
home
.
Shall
I
ever
forget
those
lessons
!
They
were
presided
over
nominally
by
my
mother
,
but
really
by
Mr
.
Murdstone
and
his
sister
,
who
were
always
present
,
and
found
them
a
favourable
occasion
for
giving
my
mother
lessons
in
that
miscalled
firmness
,
which
was
the
bane
of
both
our
lives
.
I
believe
I
was
kept
at
home
for
that
purpose
.
I
had
been
apt
enough
to
learn
,
and
willing
enough
,
when
my
mother
and
I
had
lived
alone
together
.
I
can
faintly
remember
learning
the
alphabet
at
her
knee
.
To
this
day
,
when
I
look
upon
the
fat
black
letters
in
the
primer
,
the
puzzling
novelty
of
their
shapes
,
and
the
easy
good
-
nature
of
O
and
Q
and
S
,
seem
to
present
themselves
again
before
me
as
they
used
to
do
.
But
they
recall
no
feeling
of
disgust
or
reluctance
.
On
the
contrary
,
I
seem
to
have
walked
along
a
path
of
flowers
as
far
as
the
crocodile
-
book
,
and
to
have
been
cheered
by
the
gentleness
of
my
mother
’
s
voice
and
manner
all
the
way
.
But
these
solemn
lessons
which
succeeded
those
,
I
remember
as
the
death
-
blow
of
my
peace
,
and
a
grievous
daily
drudgery
and
misery
.
They
were
very
long
,
very
numerous
,
very
hard
-
perfectly
unintelligible
,
some
of
them
,
to
me
—
and
I
was
generally
as
much
bewildered
by
them
as
I
believe
my
poor
mother
was
herself
.
Let
me
remember
how
it
used
to
be
,
and
bring
one
morning
back
again
.
I
come
into
the
second
-
best
parlour
after
breakfast
,
with
my
books
,
and
an
exercise
-
book
,
and
a
slate
.
My
mother
is
ready
for
me
at
her
writing
-
desk
,
but
not
half
so
ready
as
Mr
.
Murdstone
in
his
easy
-
chair
by
the
window
(
though
he
pretends
to
be
reading
a
book
)
,
or
as
Miss
Murdstone
,
sitting
near
my
mother
stringing
steel
beads
.
The
very
sight
of
these
two
has
such
an
influence
over
me
,
that
I
begin
to
feel
the
words
I
have
been
at
infinite
pains
to
get
into
my
head
,
all
sliding
away
,
and
going
I
don
’
t
know
where
.
I
wonder
where
they
do
go
,
by
the
by
?
I
hand
the
first
book
to
my
mother
.
Perhaps
it
is
a
grammar
,
perhaps
a
history
,
or
geography
.
I
take
a
last
drowning
look
at
the
page
as
I
give
it
into
her
hand
,
and
start
off
aloud
at
a
racing
pace
while
I
have
got
it
fresh
.
I
trip
over
a
word
.
Mr
.
Murdstone
looks
up
.
I
trip
over
another
word
.
Miss
Murdstone
looks
up
.
I
redden
,
tumble
over
half
-
a
-
dozen
words
,
and
stop
.
I
think
my
mother
would
show
me
the
book
if
she
dared
,
but
she
does
not
dare
,
and
she
says
softly
:
‘
Oh
,
Davy
,
Davy
!
’
