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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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- Стр. 53/820
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Even
when
the
lessons
are
done
,
the
worst
is
yet
to
happen
,
in
the
shape
of
an
appalling
sum
.
This
is
invented
for
me
,
and
delivered
to
me
orally
by
Mr
.
Murdstone
,
and
begins
,
‘
If
I
go
into
a
cheesemonger
’
s
shop
,
and
buy
five
thousand
double
-
Gloucester
cheeses
at
fourpence
-
halfpenny
each
,
present
payment
’
—
at
which
I
see
Miss
Murdstone
secretly
overjoyed
.
I
pore
over
these
cheeses
without
any
result
or
enlightenment
until
dinner
-
time
,
when
,
having
made
a
Mulatto
of
myself
by
getting
the
dirt
of
the
slate
into
the
pores
of
my
skin
,
I
have
a
slice
of
bread
to
help
me
out
with
the
cheeses
,
and
am
considered
in
disgrace
for
the
rest
of
the
evening
.
It
seems
to
me
,
at
this
distance
of
time
,
as
if
my
unfortunate
studies
generally
took
this
course
.
I
could
have
done
very
well
if
I
had
been
without
the
Murdstones
;
but
the
influence
of
the
Murdstones
upon
me
was
like
the
fascination
of
two
snakes
on
a
wretched
young
bird
.
Even
when
I
did
get
through
the
morning
with
tolerable
credit
,
there
was
not
much
gained
but
dinner
;
for
Miss
Murdstone
never
could
endure
to
see
me
untasked
,
and
if
I
rashly
made
any
show
of
being
unemployed
,
called
her
brother
’
s
attention
to
me
by
saying
,
‘
Clara
,
my
dear
,
there
’
s
nothing
like
work
—
give
your
boy
an
exercise
’
;
which
caused
me
to
be
clapped
down
to
some
new
labour
,
there
and
then
.
As
to
any
recreation
with
other
children
of
my
age
,
I
had
very
little
of
that
;
for
the
gloomy
theology
of
the
Murdstones
made
all
children
out
to
be
a
swarm
of
little
vipers
(
though
there
WAS
a
child
once
set
in
the
midst
of
the
Disciples
)
,
and
held
that
they
contaminated
one
another
.
The
natural
result
of
this
treatment
,
continued
,
I
suppose
,
for
some
six
months
or
more
,
was
to
make
me
sullen
,
dull
,
and
dogged
.
I
was
not
made
the
less
so
by
my
sense
of
being
daily
more
and
more
shut
out
and
alienated
from
my
mother
.
I
believe
I
should
have
been
almost
stupefied
but
for
one
circumstance
.
It
was
this
.
My
father
had
left
a
small
collection
of
books
in
a
little
room
upstairs
,
to
which
I
had
access
(
for
it
adjoined
my
own
)
and
which
nobody
else
in
our
house
ever
troubled
.
From
that
blessed
little
room
,
Roderick
Random
,
Peregrine
Pickle
,
Humphrey
Clinker
,
Tom
Jones
,
the
Vicar
of
Wakefield
,
Don
Quixote
,
Gil
Blas
,
and
Robinson
Crusoe
,
came
out
,
a
glorious
host
,
to
keep
me
company
.
They
kept
alive
my
fancy
,
and
my
hope
of
something
beyond
that
place
and
time
,
—
they
,
and
the
Arabian
Nights
,
and
the
Tales
of
the
Genii
,
—
and
did
me
no
harm
;
for
whatever
harm
was
in
some
of
them
was
not
there
for
me
;
I
knew
nothing
of
it
.
It
is
astonishing
to
me
now
,
how
I
found
time
,
in
the
midst
of
my
porings
and
blunderings
over
heavier
themes
,
to
read
those
books
as
I
did
.
It
is
curious
to
me
how
I
could
ever
have
consoled
myself
under
my
small
troubles
(
which
were
great
troubles
to
me
)
,
by
impersonating
my
favourite
characters
in
them
—
as
I
did
—
and
by
putting
Mr
.
and
Miss
Murdstone
into
all
the
bad
ones
—
which
I
did
too
.
I
have
been
Tom
Jones
(
a
child
’
s
Tom
Jones
,
a
harmless
creature
)
for
a
week
together
.
I
have
sustained
my
own
idea
of
Roderick
Random
for
a
month
at
a
stretch
,
I
verily
believe
.
I
had
a
greedy
relish
for
a
few
volumes
of
Voyages
and
Travels
—
I
forget
what
,
now
—
that
were
on
those
shelves
;
and
for
days
and
days
I
can
remember
to
have
gone
about
my
region
of
our
house
,
armed
with
the
centre
-
piece
out
of
an
old
set
of
boot
-
trees
—
the
perfect
realization
of
Captain
Somebody
,
of
the
Royal
British
Navy
,
in
danger
of
being
beset
by
savages
,
and
resolved
to
sell
his
life
at
a
great
price
.
The
Captain
never
lost
dignity
,
from
having
his
ears
boxed
with
the
Latin
Grammar
.
I
did
;
but
the
Captain
was
a
Captain
and
a
hero
,
in
despite
of
all
the
grammars
of
all
the
languages
in
the
world
,
dead
or
alive
.
This
was
my
only
and
my
constant
comfort
.
When
I
think
of
it
,
the
picture
always
rises
in
my
mind
,
of
a
summer
evening
,
the
boys
at
play
in
the
churchyard
,
and
I
sitting
on
my
bed
,
reading
as
if
for
life
.
Every
barn
in
the
neighbourhood
,
every
stone
in
the
church
,
and
every
foot
of
the
churchyard
,
had
some
association
of
its
own
,
in
my
mind
,
connected
with
these
books
,
and
stood
for
some
locality
made
famous
in
them
.
I
have
seen
Tom
Pipes
go
climbing
up
the
church
-
steeple
;
I
have
watched
Strap
,
with
the
knapsack
on
his
back
,
stopping
to
rest
himself
upon
the
wicket
-
gate
;
and
I
know
that
Commodore
Trunnion
held
that
club
with
Mr
.
Pickle
,
in
the
parlour
of
our
little
village
alehouse
.
The
reader
now
understands
,
as
well
as
I
do
,
what
I
was
when
I
came
to
that
point
of
my
youthful
history
to
which
I
am
now
coming
again
.
One
morning
when
I
went
into
the
parlour
with
my
books
,
I
found
my
mother
looking
anxious
,
Miss
Murdstone
looking
firm
,
and
Mr
.
Murdstone
binding
something
round
the
bottom
of
a
cane
—
a
lithe
and
limber
cane
,
which
he
left
off
binding
when
I
came
in
,
and
poised
and
switched
in
the
air
.
‘
I
tell
you
,
Clara
,
’
said
Mr
.
Murdstone
,
‘
I
have
been
often
flogged
myself
.
’
