Дэвид Копперфильд

I Fall into Disgrace

           Ihadbeenaptenoughtolearn,andwillingenough,whenmymotherandIhadlivedalonetogether.Icanfaintlyrememberlearningthealphabetatherknee.Tothisday,whenIlookuponthefatblacklettersintheprimer,thepuzzlingnoveltyoftheirshapes,andtheeasygood-natureofOandQandS,seemtopresentthemselvesagainbeforemeastheyusedtodo.Buttheyrecallnofeelingofdisgustorreluctance.Onthecontrary,Iseemtohavewalkedalongapathofflowersasfarasthecrocodile-book,andtohavebeencheeredbythegentlenessofmymother’svoiceandmanneralltheway.Butthesesolemnlessonswhichsucceededthose,Irememberasthedeath-blowofmypeace,andagrievousdailydrudgeryandmisery.Theywereverylong,verynumerous,veryhard-perfectlyunintelligible,someofthem,tomeandIwasgenerallyasmuchbewilderedbythemasIbelievemypoormotherwasherself.

           Letmerememberhowitusedtobe,andbringonemorningbackagain.

           Icomeintothesecond-bestparlourafterbreakfast,withmybooks,andanexercise-book,andaslate.Mymotherisreadyformeatherwriting-desk,butnothalfsoreadyasMr.Murdstoneinhiseasy-chairbythewindow(thoughhepretendstobereadingabook),orasMissMurdstone,sittingnearmymotherstringingsteelbeads.Theverysightofthesetwohassuchaninfluenceoverme,thatIbegintofeelthewordsIhavebeenatinfinitepainstogetintomyhead,allslidingaway,andgoingIdon’tknowwhere.

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