David Copperfield Charles Dickens


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David Copperfield Charles Dickens

Der Roman erzählt die Lebensgeschichte von David Copperfield, hinter dem sich der Autor selbst in verfremdeter Form verbirgt. Man erfährt von David. The Personal History of David Copperfield by Dickens, Charles and a great selection of related books, art and collectibles available now. David Copperfield, Originaltitel David Copperfield or The Personal History, Adventures, Experience and Observation of David Copperfield the Younger of Blunderstone Rookery, ist ein autobiographisch geprägter Bildungsroman des englischen.

David Copperfield Charles Dickens Literatur­klassiker

David Copperfield, Originaltitel David Copperfield or The Personal History, Adventures, Experience and Observation of David Copperfield the Younger of Blunderstone Rookery, ist ein autobiographisch geprägter Bildungsroman des englischen. David Copperfield, Originaltitel David Copperfield or The Personal History, Adventures, Der Roman wurde zunächst, wie die meisten Dickens-Werke, – als by writer, Illustrations to Charles Dickens's works, David Copperfield. Dickens' stark autobiografisch gefärbter Roman gehört zu den großartigsten Werken des englischen Realismus. Take-aways. David Copperfield ist Charles. David Copperfield, Von Charles Dickens. «Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody. David Copperfield (detebe) | Dickens, Charles, Meyrink, Gustav | ISBN: | Kostenloser Versand für alle Bücher mit Versand und Verkauf duch. Thalia: Infos zu Autor, Inhalt und Bewertungen ❤ Jetzt»David Copperfield«nach Hause oder Ihre Filiale vor Ort bestellen! David Copperfield by Charles Dickens, , available at Book Depository with free delivery worldwide.

David Copperfield Charles Dickens

Thalia: Infos zu Autor, Inhalt und Bewertungen ❤ Jetzt»David Copperfield«nach Hause oder Ihre Filiale vor Ort bestellen! David Copperfield by Charles Dickens, , available at Book Depository with free delivery worldwide. David Copperfield, Von Charles Dickens. «Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody. David Copperfield Charles Dickens

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Peggotty meant her nephew Ham, mentioned in my first chapter; but she spoke of him as a morsel of English Grammar.

I was flushed by her summary of delights, and replied that it would indeed be a treat, but what would my mother say?

There now! If Peggotty were looking for a hole, all of a sudden, in the heel of that stocking, it must have been a very little one indeed, and not worth darning.

If that was it, I was quite ready to go. I waited, in the utmost impatience, until my mother came home from Mrs. Without being nearly so much surprised as I had expected, my mother entered into it readily; and it was all arranged that night, and my board and lodging during the visit were to be paid for.

The day soon came for our going. It was such an early day that it came soon, even to me, who was in a fever of expectation, and half afraid that an earthquake or a fiery mountain, or some other great convulsion of nature, might interpose to stop the expedition.

I would have given any money to have been allowed to wrap myself up over-night, and sleep in my hat and boots.

It touches me nearly now, although I tell it lightly, to recollect how eager I was to leave my happy home; to think how little I suspected what I did leave for ever.

I am glad to know that my mother cried too, and that I felt her heart beat against mine. I am glad to recollect that when the carrier began to move, my mother ran out at the gate, and called to him to stop, that she might kiss me once more.

I am glad to dwell upon the earnestness and love with which she lifted up her face to mine, and did so.

As we left her standing in the road, Mr. Murdstone came up to where she was, and seemed to expostulate with her for being so moved.

I was looking back round the awning of the cart, and wondered what business it was of his. Peggotty, who was also looking back on the other side, seemed anything but satisfied; as the face she brought back in the cart denoted.

I sat looking at Peggotty for some time, in a reverie on this supposititious case: whether, if she were employed to lose me like the boy in the fairy tale, I should be able to track my way home again by the buttons she would shed.

I fancied, indeed, that he sometimes chuckled audibly over this reflection, but the carrier said he was only troubled with a cough. The carrier had a way of keeping his head down, like his horse, and of drooping sleepily forward as he drove, with one of his arms on each of his knees.

Peggotty had a basket of refreshments on her knee, which would have lasted us out handsomely, if we had been going to London by the same conveyance.

We ate a good deal, and slept a good deal. Peggotty always went to sleep with her chin upon the handle of the basket, her hold of which never relaxed; and I could not have believed unless I had heard her do it, that one defenceless woman could have snored so much.

We made so many deviations up and down lanes, and were such a long time delivering a bedstead at a public-house, and calling at other places, that I was quite tired, and very glad, when we saw Yarmouth.

It looked rather spongy and soppy, I thought, as I carried my eye over the great dull waste that lay across the river; and I could not help wondering, if the world were really as round as my geography book said, how any part of it came to be so flat.

But I reflected that Yarmouth might be situated at one of the poles; which would account for it. As we drew a little nearer, and saw the whole adjacent prospect lying a straight low line under the sky, I hinted to Peggotty that a mound or so might have improved it; and also that if the land had been a little more separated from the sea, and the town and the tide had not been quite so much mixed up, like toast and water, it would have been nicer.

But Peggotty said, with greater emphasis than usual, that we must take things as we found them, and that, for her part, she was proud to call herself a Yarmouth Bloater.

When we got into the street which was strange enough to me and smelt the fish, and pitch, and oakum, and tar, and saw the sailors walking about, and the carts jingling up and down over the stones, I felt that I had done so busy a place an injustice; and said as much to Peggotty, who heard my expressions of delight with great complacency, and told me it was well known I suppose to those who had the good fortune to be born Bloaters that Yarmouth was, upon the whole, the finest place in the universe.

He was waiting for us, in fact, at the public-house; and asked me how I found myself, like an old acquaintance.

I did not feel, at first, that I knew him as well as he knew me, because he had never come to our house since the night I was born, and naturally he had the advantage of me.

But our intimacy was much advanced by his taking me on his back to carry me home. He was dressed in a canvas jacket, and a pair of such very stiff trousers that they would have stood quite as well alone, without any legs in them.

I looked in all directions, as far as I could stare over the wilderness, and away at the sea, and away at the river, but no house could I make out.

There was a black barge, or some other kind of superannuated boat, not far off, high and dry on the ground, with an iron funnel sticking out of it for a chimney and smoking very cosily; but nothing else in the way of a habitation that was visible to me.

There was a delightful door cut in the side, and it was roofed in, and there were little windows in it; but the wonderful charm of it was, that it was a real boat which had no doubt been upon the water hundreds of times, and which had never been intended to be lived in, on dry land.

That was the captivation of it to me. If it had ever been meant to be lived in, I might have thought it small, or inconvenient, or lonely; but never having been designed for any such use, it became a perfect abode.

It was beautifully clean inside, and as tidy as possible. There was a table, and a Dutch clock, and a chest of drawers, and on the chest of drawers there was a tea-tray with a painting on it of a lady with a parasol, taking a walk with a military-looking child who was trundling a hoop.

The tray was kept from tumbling down, by a bible; and the tray, if it had tumbled down, would have smashed a quantity of cups and saucers and a teapot that were grouped around the book.

Abraham in red going to sacrifice Isaac in blue, and Daniel in yellow cast into a den of green lions, were the most prominent of these.

There were some hooks in the beams of the ceiling, the use of which I did not divine then; and some lockers and boxes and conveniences of that sort, which served for seats and eked out the chairs.

All this I saw in the first glance after I crossed the threshold—child-like, according to my theory—and then Peggotty opened a little door and showed me my bedroom.

It was the completest and most desirable bedroom ever seen—in the stern of the vessel; with a little window, where the rudder used to go through; a little looking-glass, just the right height for me, nailed against the wall, and framed with oyster-shells; a little bed, which there was just room enough to get into; and a nosegay of seaweed in a blue mug on the table.

The walls were whitewashed as white as milk, and the patchwork counterpane made my eyes quite ache with its brightness. One thing I particularly noticed in this delightful house, was the smell of fish; which was so searching, that when I took out my pocket-handkerchief to wipe my nose, I found it smelt exactly as if it had wrapped up a lobster.

On my imparting this discovery in confidence to Peggotty, she informed me that her brother dealt in lobsters, crabs, and crawfish; and I afterwards found that a heap of these creatures, in a state of wonderful conglomeration with one another, and never leaving off pinching whatever they laid hold of, were usually to be found in a little wooden outhouse where the pots and kettles were kept.

By and by, when we had dined in a sumptuous manner off boiled dabs, melted butter, and potatoes, with a chop for me, a hairy man with a very good-natured face came home.

Peggotty, the master of the house. I thanked him, and replied that I was sure I should be happy in such a delightful place.

I gave Mr. Peggotty to understand that she was as jolly as I could wish, and that she desired her compliments—which was a polite fiction on my part.

Having done the honours of his house in this hospitable manner, Mr. After tea, when the door was shut and all was made snug the nights being cold and misty now , it seemed to me the most delicious retreat that the imagination of man could conceive.

To hear the wind getting up out at sea, to know that the fog was creeping over the desolate flat outside, and to look at the fire, and think that there was no house near but this one, and this one a boat, was like enchantment.

Peggotty with the white apron, was knitting on the opposite side of the fire. Peggotty at her needlework was as much at home with St. Ham, who had been giving me my first lesson in all-fours, was trying to recollect a scheme of telling fortunes with the dirty cards, and was printing off fishy impressions of his thumb on all the cards he turned.

Peggotty was smoking his pipe. I felt it was a time for conversation and confidence. I was very much surprised that Mr. I was so curious to know, that I made up my mind to have it out with Mr.

I felt the difficulty of resuming the subject, but had not got to the bottom of it yet, and must get to the bottom somehow.

So I said:. But at this point Peggotty—I mean my own peculiar Peggotty—made such impressive motions to me not to ask any more questions, that I could only sit and look at all the silent company, until it was time to go to bed.

Gummidge was the widow of his partner in a boat, who had died very poor. He was but a poor man himself, said Peggotty, but as good as gold and as true as steel—those were her similes.

It appeared, in answer to my inquiries, that nobody had the least idea of the etymology of this terrible verb passive to be gormed; but that they all regarded it as constituting a most solemn imprecation.

As slumber gradually stole upon me, I heard the wind howling out at sea and coming on across the flat so fiercely, that I had a lazy apprehension of the great deep rising in the night.

But I bethought myself that I was in a boat, after all; and that a man like Mr. Peggotty was not a bad person to have on board if anything did happen.

Nothing happened, however, worse than morning. I have seen it tear a boat as big as our house, all to pieces. Not that one, I never see that boat.

Here was a coincidence! I said I had no doubt that Mr. Peggotty well deserved these treasures. I must acknowledge that I felt it difficult to picture him quite at his ease in the raiment proposed for him by his grateful little niece, and that I was particularly doubtful of the policy of the cocked hat; but I kept these sentiments to myself.

We went on again, picking up shells and pebbles. We would all be gentlefolks together, then. Me, and uncle, and Ham, and Mrs.

It was quiet enough to reassure me, but I have no doubt if I had seen a moderately large wave come tumbling in, I should have taken to my heels, with an awful recollection of her drowned relations.

Not a bit. Look here! She started from my side, and ran along a jagged timber which protruded from the place we stood upon, and overhung the deep water at some height, without the least defence.

The light, bold, fluttering little figure turned and came back safe to me, and I soon laughed at my fears, and at the cry I had uttered; fruitlessly in any case, for there was no one near.

But there have been times since, in my manhood, many times there have been, when I have thought, Is it possible, among the possibilities of hidden things, that in the sudden rashness of the child and her wild look so far off, there was any merciful attraction of her into danger, any tempting her towards him permitted on the part of her dead father, that her life might have a chance of ending that day?

There has been a time since when I have wondered whether, if the life before her could have been revealed to me at a glance, and so revealed as that a child could fully comprehend it, and if her preservation could have depended on a motion of my hand, I ought to have held it up to save her.

We strolled a long way, and loaded ourselves with things that we thought curious, and put some stranded starfish carefully back into the water—I hardly know enough of the race at this moment to be quite certain whether they had reason to feel obliged to us for doing so, or the reverse—and then made our way home to Mr.

We stopped under the lee of the lobster-outhouse to exchange an innocent kiss, and went in to breakfast glowing with health and pleasure. Peggotty said.

I knew this meant, in our local dialect, like two young thrushes, and received it as a compliment. I am sure I loved that baby quite as truly, quite as tenderly, with greater purity and more disinterestedness, than can enter into the best love of a later time of life, high and ennobling as it is.

I am sure my fancy raised up something round that blue-eyed mite of a child, which etherealized, and made a very angel of her. We used to walk about that dim old flat at Yarmouth in a loving manner, hours and hours.

The days sported by us, as if Time had not grown up himself yet, but were a child too, and always at play. She said she did, and I have no doubt she did.

We made no more provision for growing older, than we did for growing younger. We were the admiration of Mrs. Peggotty smiled at us from behind his pipe, and Ham grinned all the evening and did nothing else.

They had something of the sort of pleasure in us, I suppose, that they might have had in a pretty toy, or a pocket model of the Colosseum.

I soon found out that Mrs. Gummidge did not always make herself so agreeable as she might have been expected to do, under the circumstances of her residence with Mr.

I was very sorry for her; but there were moments when it would have been more agreeable, I thought, if Mrs. Gummidge had had a convenient apartment of her own to retire to, and had stopped there until her spirits revived.

Peggotty went occasionally to a public-house called The Willing Mind. I discovered this, by his being out on the second or third evening of our visit, and by Mrs.

Gummidge had been in a low state all day, and had burst into tears in the forenoon, when the fire smoked. It was a very cold day, with cutting blasts of wind.

So at dinner; when Mrs. Gummidge was always helped immediately after me, to whom the preference was given as a visitor of distinction. The fish were small and bony, and the potatoes were a little burnt.

We all acknowledged that we felt this something of a disappointment; but Mrs. Gummidge said she felt it more than we did, and shed tears again, and made that former declaration with great bitterness.

Accordingly, when Mr. Gummidge was knitting in her corner, in a very wretched and miserable condition. Peggotty had been working cheerfully.

Gummidge had never made any other remark than a forlorn sigh, and had never raised her eyes since tea.

We all said something, or looked something, to welcome him, except Mrs. Gummidge, who only shook her head over her knitting.

Peggotty, with a clap of his hands. Peggotty meant old girl. Gummidge did not appear to be able to cheer up. She took out an old black silk handkerchief and wiped her eyes; but instead of putting it in her pocket, kept it out, and wiped them again, and still kept it out, ready for use.

Peggotty with an honest laugh. Gummidge, shaking her head, and wiping her eyes. Yes, yes. I feel more than other people do, and I show it more.

Peggotty made no such retort, only answering with another entreaty to Mrs. Gummidge to cheer up. I know what I am. My troubles has made me contrary.

I feel my troubles, and they make me contrary. I make the house uncomfortable. I had better go into the house and die. If thinks must go contrary with me, and I must go contrary myself, let me go contrary in my parish.

Gummidge retired with these words, and betook herself to bed. When she was gone, Mr. Peggotty, who had not exhibited a trace of any feeling but the profoundest sympathy, looked round upon us, and nodding his head with a lively expression of that sentiment still animating his face, said in a whisper:.

I did not quite understand what old one Mrs. Gummidge was supposed to have fixed her mind upon, until Peggotty, on seeing me to bed, explained that it was the late Mr.

Gummidge; and that her brother always took that for a received truth on such occasions, and that it always had a moving effect upon him.

Gummidge was overcome in a similar manner during the remainder of our stay which happened some few times , he always said the same thing in extenuation of the circumstance, and always with the tenderest commiseration.

So the fortnight slipped away, varied by nothing but the variation of the tide, which altered Mr. When the latter was unemployed, he sometimes walked with us to show us the boats and ships, and once or twice he took us for a row.

At last the day came for going home. I bore up against the separation from Mr. Peggotty and Mrs. We went arm-in-arm to the public-house where the carrier put up, and I promised, on the road, to write to her.

I redeemed that promise afterwards, in characters larger than those in which apartments are usually announced in manuscript, as being to let.

We were greatly overcome at parting; and if ever, in my life, I have had a void made in my heart, I had one made that day.

Now, all the time I had been on my visit, I had been ungrateful to my home again, and had thought little or nothing about it.

But I was no sooner turned towards it, than my reproachful young conscience seemed to point that way with a ready finger; and I felt, all the more for the sinking of my spirits, that it was my nest, and that my mother was my comforter and friend.

This gained upon me as we went along; so that the nearer we drew, the more familiar the objects became that we passed, the more excited I was to get there, and to run into her arms.

But Peggotty, instead of sharing in those transports, tried to check them though very kindly , and looked confused and out of sorts.

How well I recollect it, on a cold grey afternoon, with a dull sky, threatening rain! The door opened, and I looked, half laughing and half crying in my pleasant agitation, for my mother.

It was not she, but a strange servant. Between her agitation, and her natural awkwardness in getting out of the cart, Peggotty was making a most extraordinary festoon of herself, but I felt too blank and strange to tell her so.

When she had got down, she took me by the hand; led me, wondering, into the kitchen; and shut the door.

Oh, Peggotty! Speak, my pet! Peggotty cried out No! I gave her a hug to take away the turn, or to give her another turn in the right direction, and then stood before her, looking at her in anxious inquiry.

You have got a Pa! I trembled, and turned white. Peggotty gave a gasp, as if she were swallowing something that was very hard, and, putting out her hand, said:.

I ceased to draw back, and we went straight to the best parlour, where she left me. On one side of the fire, sat my mother; on the other, Mr.

My mother dropped her work, and arose hurriedly, but timidly I thought. Davy boy, how do you do?

I gave him my hand. After a moment of suspense, I went and kissed my mother: she kissed me, patted me gently on the shoulder, and sat down again to her work.

I could not look at her, I could not look at him, I knew quite well that he was looking at us both; and I turned to the window and looked out there, at some shrubs that were drooping their heads in the cold.

As soon as I could creep away, I crept upstairs. My old dear bedroom was changed, and I was to lie a long way off. I rambled downstairs to find anything that was like itself, so altered it all seemed; and roamed into the yard.

I very soon started back from there, for the empty dog-kennel was filled up with a great dog—deep mouthed and black-haired like Him—and he was very angry at the sight of me, and sprang out to get at me.

If the room to which my bed was removed were a sentient thing that could give evidence, I might appeal to it at this day—who sleeps there now, I wonder!

I went up there, hearing the dog in the yard bark after me all the way while I climbed the stairs; and, looking as blank and strange upon the room as the room looked upon me, sat down with my small hands crossed, and thought.

I thought of the oddest things. Of the shape of the room, of the cracks in the ceiling, of the paper on the walls, of the flaws in the window-glass making ripples and dimples on the prospect, of the washing-stand being rickety on its three legs, and having a discontented something about it, which reminded me of Mrs.

Gummidge under the influence of the old one. I was crying all the time, but, except that I was conscious of being cold and dejected, I am sure I never thought why I cried.

This made such a very miserable piece of business of it, that I rolled myself up in a corner of the counterpane, and cried myself to sleep. My mother and Peggotty had come to look for me, and it was one of them who had done it.

I dare say no words she could have uttered would have affected me so much, then, as her calling me her child. I hid my tears in the bedclothes, and pressed her from me with my hand, when she would have raised me up.

How can you reconcile it to your conscience, I wonder, to prejudice my own boy against me, or against anybody who is dear to me? What do you mean by it, Peggotty?

Copperfield, and for what you have said this minute, may you never be truly sorry! Davy, you naughty boy! Peggotty, you savage creature!

Oh, dear me! It was Mr. Clara, my love, have you forgotten? He drew her to him, whispered in her ear, and kissed her.

She has taken mine, you know. Will you remember that? Peggotty, with some uneasy glances at me, curtseyed herself out of the room without replying; seeing, I suppose, that she was expected to go, and had no excuse for remaining.

When we two were left alone, he shut the door, and sitting on a chair, and holding me standing before him, looked steadily into my eyes.

I felt my own attracted, no less steadily, to his. As I recall our being opposed thus, face to face, I seem again to hear my heart beat fast and high.

I had answered in a kind of breathless whisper, but I felt, in my silence, that my breath was shorter now. What is that upon your face?

He knew it was the mark of tears as well as I. But if he had asked the question twenty times, each time with twenty blows, I believe my baby heart would have burst before I would have told him so.

Wash that face, sir, and come down with me. He pointed to the washing-stand, which I had made out to be like Mrs.

Gummidge, and motioned me with his head to obey him directly. I had little doubt then, and I have less doubt now, that he would have knocked me down without the least compunction, if I had hesitated.

We shall soon improve our youthful humours. God help me, I might have been improved for my whole life, I might have been made another creature perhaps, for life, by a kind word at that season.

A word of encouragement and explanation, of pity for my childish ignorance, of welcome home, of reassurance to me that it was home, might have made me dutiful to him in my heart henceforth, instead of in my hypocritical outside, and might have made me respect instead of hate him.

I thought my mother was sorry to see me standing in the room so scared and strange, and that, presently, when I stole to a chair, she followed me with her eyes more sorrowfully still—missing, perhaps, some freedom in my childish tread—but the word was not spoken, and the time for it was gone.

We dined alone, we three together. He seemed to be very fond of my mother—I am afraid I liked him none the better for that—and she was very fond of him.

I gathered from what they said, that an elder sister of his was coming to stay with them, and that she was expected that evening.

After dinner, when we were sitting by the fire, and I was meditating an escape to Peggotty without having the hardihood to slip away, lest it should offend the master of the house, a coach drove up to the garden-gate and he went out to receive the visitor.

My mother followed him. I was timidly following her, when she turned round at the parlour door, in the dusk, and taking me in her embrace as she had been used to do, whispered me to love my new father and be obedient to him.

She did this hurriedly and secretly, as if it were wrong, but tenderly; and, putting out her hand behind her, held mine in it, until we came near to where he was standing in the garden, where she let mine go, and drew hers through his arm.

It was Miss Murdstone who was arrived, and a gloomy-looking lady she was; dark, like her brother, whom she greatly resembled in face and voice; and with very heavy eyebrows, nearly meeting over her large nose, as if, being disabled by the wrongs of her sex from wearing whiskers, she had carried them to that account.

She brought with her two uncompromising hard black boxes, with her initials on the lids in hard brass nails. When she paid the coachman she took her money out of a hard steel purse, and she kept the purse in a very jail of a bag which hung upon her arm by a heavy chain, and shut up like a bite.

I had never, at that time, seen such a metallic lady altogether as Miss Murdstone was. She was brought into the parlour with many tokens of welcome, and there formally recognized my mother as a new and near relation.

Then she looked at me, and said:. Under these encouraging circumstances, I replied that I was very well, and that I hoped she was the same; with such an indifferent grace, that Miss Murdstone disposed of me in two words:.

Having uttered which, with great distinctness, she begged the favour of being shown to her room, which became to me from that time forth a place of awe and dread, wherein the two black boxes were never seen open or known to be left unlocked, and where for I peeped in once or twice when she was out numerous little steel fetters and rivets, with which Miss Murdstone embellished herself when she was dressed, generally hung upon the looking-glass in formidable array.

As well as I could make out, she had come for good, and had no intention of ever going again. Almost the first remarkable thing I observed in Miss Murdstone was, her being constantly haunted by a suspicion that the servants had a man secreted somewhere on the premises.

Under the influence of this delusion, she dived into the coal-cellar at the most untimely hours, and scarcely ever opened the door of a dark cupboard without clapping it to again, in the belief that she had got him.

Though there was nothing very airy about Miss Murdstone, she was a perfect Lark in point of getting up.

She was up and, as I believe to this hour, looking for that man before anybody in the house was stirring. On the very first morning after her arrival she was up and ringing her bell at cock-crow.

When my mother came down to breakfast and was going to make the tea, Miss Murdstone gave her a kind of peck on the cheek, which was her nearest approach to a kiss, and said:.

From that time, Miss Murdstone kept the keys in her own little jail all day, and under her pillow all night, and my mother had no more to do with them than I had.

My mother did not suffer her authority to pass from her without a shadow of protest. One night when Miss Murdstone had been developing certain household plans to her brother, of which he signified his approbation, my mother suddenly began to cry, and said she thought she might have been consulted.

Firmness, I may observe, was the grand quality on which both Mr. The creed, as I should state it now, was this. Murdstone was firm; nobody in his world was to be so firm as Mr.

Murdstone; nobody else in his world was to be firm at all, for everybody was to be bent to his firmness. Miss Murdstone was an exception.

She might be firm, but only by relationship, and in an inferior and tributary degree. My mother was another exception. She might be firm, and must be; but only in bearing their firmness, and firmly believing there was no other firmness upon earth.

I am sure I managed very well before we were married. I go tomorrow. I should be very miserable and unhappy if anybody was to go.

I am not unreasonable. I only want to be consulted sometimes. I am very much obliged to anybody who assists me, and I only want to be consulted as a mere form, sometimes.

I thought you were pleased, once, with my being a little inexperienced and girlish, Edward—I am sure you said so—but you seem to hate me for it now, you are so severe.

How dare you? Miss Murdstone made a jail-delivery of her pocket-handkerchief, and held it before her eyes.

You astound me! Yes, I had a satisfaction in the thought of marrying an inexperienced and artless person, and forming her character, and infusing into it some amount of that firmness and decision of which it stood in need.

I am sure I am not ungrateful. No one ever said I was before. I have many faults, but not that.

Whatever I am, I am affectionate. I know I am affectionate. Ask Peggotty. You lose breath. I am so sorry. It is not my fault that so unusual an occurrence has taken place tonight.

I was betrayed into it by another. Nor is it your fault. You were betrayed into it by another. Let us both try to forget it.

I could hardly find the door, through the tears that stood in my eyes. When her coming up to look for me, an hour or so afterwards, awoke me, she said that my mother had gone to bed poorly, and that Mr.

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. 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 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.

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, 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. Nothing, however, was concluded on the subject yet.

It takes a particular mindset to read it I think, so it took me a while to finish it, matching my reading moments with that mindset as much as possible.

You need a I picked up this book in a bookstore if you can believe it , not really thinking I'd buy such a big pile of pages in classical English, figuring it would bore the hell out of me.

You need a romantic side and you need to be able to get in touch with it in order to enjoy this book, but if you give this tale a chance, it will nurture that sensitive side and make you get tears of joy.

This book is a biography of a wonderful, semi-fictional person, David Copperfield, whose ordeals and adventures are based on those experienced by Charles Dickens.

David's thoughts are generous and because this book is written from his perspective, everything he describes around him is depicted in their best possible light.

The world is such a nice place through his eyes, even in the most dreary situations of poverty, abandonment and death of loved ones.

Plenty of songs of happiness and love are sung in this book, but like in every life, there is not just that. Sadness, death, loss, heartache become beautiful because of their purity and their core of warmth, a warmth so well expressed in this book.

Betrayal and jealousy become even uglier when put next to the purer feelings. It hasn't always been an easy read. Some passages are rather slow and a rare couple of segments that were meant to be funny have somehow lost their edge most humourous instances still retain their power over your mouth corners and unshaken belly, though.

They will yield, I assure you! The local dialects in which some of the protagonists speak sometimes make it very difficult to understand for a non-native English speaker like myself.

I have read this book with a little notebook next to me to take down the most memorable quotes. It was difficult not to just simply copy entire pages at times.

I am thankful for myself, at any rate, that I can find my tiny way through the world, without being beholden to anyone; and that in return for all that is thrown at me, in folly or vanity, as I go along, I can throw bubbles back.

What with her dress; what with the air and sun; what with being made so much of; what with this, that, and the other; her merits really attracted general notice.

Have you honours? Have you riches? Have you posts of profitable pecuniary emolument? Let them be brought forward. They are mine! I know it's like me!

I know that I belong to it. I know that it's the natural company of such as I am! It comes from country places, where there was no harm in it - and it creeps through the dismal streets, defiled and miserable - and it goes away, like my life, to a great sea that is always troubled and I feel that I must go with it.

Happiness or misery was now the question. There was no other question that I knew of in the world, and only Dora could give the answer to it.

No matter. Hearts confined by cobwebs would burst at last, and then Love was avenged. View all 17 comments.

Charles Dickens has an amazing if long-winded way with words. We follow David Copperfield from his very youngest days as a baby, through boyhood featuring his childlike mother and cruel stepfather , school days starring opposite friends Steerforth and Traddles , unhappy child worker, falling in love with a lovely but frustratingly dim young lady echoes of his mother , and young manhood.

A few of the characters in this semi-autobiographical novel are Victorian stereotypes, but others fairly leap off the page—wonderful Aunt Betsey and loyal Traddles were two of my favorites.

Full review to come! The discussion threads are amazing. This review has been hidden because it contains spoilers. To view it, click here.

I found this book in a junk pile in a nearby neighborhood shop. I've been burnt by Dickens before Tale of two Cities. I swore up and down I would never suffer through a another Dickens book ever again.

When I spotted this beautiful mint condition vintage copy of David Copperfield, I just couldn't resist. It was free and it seemed like such a shame to just leave it there.

It was snowy and damp and I knew if someone didn't rescue it it would become sinfully ruined. I knew if I took it home I was I found this book in a junk pile in a nearby neighborhood shop.

I knew if I took it home I was going to force myself to read it sooner or later, one way or another. So picking it up and actually taking it home was an inevitable commitment.

The book is pages long.. Once I start reading I go all the way. I have a no abandonment rule, but this one almost pushed me to change that rule.

It started off great, at first I couldn't believe that this was the same writer who wrote A Tale of Two Cities. To me reading a Tale of Two Cities was like trying to read Sanskrit.

I was initially glad to have given Dickens a second try because I would have otherwise missed his literary diversity Gorgeously written but incredibly and painfully dull.

David Copperfield annoyed me so much. There was nothing romantic or noteworthy about his entire story. It was like being forced to watch someone else's boring home-videos.

It lacked maturity. It seemed like he never grew up to be a man, and remained a rosy-cheeked, self-back-patting little ass-kisser.

Then you gotta love how Dickens conveniently kills off his wife Dora so he can have the opportunity to marry his REAL true love, Agnes, whom he never even knew he loved.

How romantic. Just what every woman dreams of being.. It's not even worth getting into the rest of the reasons why I didn't enjoy the story, so I'll wrap it up by saying: If I'm ever rummaging through another junk pile of books, and I run across another Dickens, I don't care if the light of God is shining it's golden rays on it, and inside is a map that leads me to a treasure of flawless fist-full chunks of diamonds, I will never ever take another Dickens home ever again.

To all the people who gave this 5 stars.. View all 30 comments. Having a hard time spinning superlatives for this review. Some highlights.

Improvements in characterisation. Notably, the villains. As usual, a memorable cast of eccentrics, stoics, loveable fuck-ups and social climbers.

No sagging secondary plots like in Dombey and Son. High-class comedy a-go-go. An enriching experience. Your soul glows reading this.

You want more from a book? Time for that veggie burger. Open til nine and never over capacity like fecking GR. Anything from Dickens is amazing!

There is no doubt why David Copperfield is a classic. Every thought is so clever, serene, and humorous. I was transported into another place and time and felt a warmth and comfort like sinking deep into a down-filled bed every time I picked up this book to read a chapter or two.

You talk about escapism -- this was it for me completely. Charles Dickens has entertained with his many stories for centuries and will continue for many more to come.

I read David Copperfield when I was young and loved it, but reading it again as an adult, I can appreciate all the nuances so much more.

There are innuendoes that make you laugh throughout; very subtle jabs that if you blink you could miss them. Dickens creates scenes with his words where you feel every step that David takes.

The cold air blowing and the smell of wet leaves in the fall. Oh, he puts you right there with David traversing through Canterbury, London and Blunderstone.

It will be easily believed that I am a fond parent to every child of my fancy, and that no one can ever love that family as dearly as I love them.

But, like many fond parents, I have in my heart of hearts a favourite child. Now, after finishing this masterpiece, I understand exactly why he said it was hard to put his pen down.

It is sad to finish this novel because you never want it to end. All the great characters he introduces to us throughout are perfectly depicted.

You feel the limp, sweaty palms of Uriah Heep; you see the beautiful eyes and hear the beautiful voice of Dora; and, the wonderfully callused, hard-worked hands of Peggotty — oh, what characters there are in this epic; these characters become family to you too.

I had tears roll down my cheeks a few times while I was reading this beautiful story. There are stories that intertwine and come around again and again with many interesting twists and turns.

Dickens has such a way with descriptions of people; you either become much attached or despise the not so wonderful. So, what else can one say about a masterpiece as this?

Not enough. This was a five-star when I read it the first time and a ten-star after my re-read if there could be such a rating. View all 24 comments.

Mar 19, John rated it it was amazing Shelves: ownebook , to-reread. I finished reading David Copperfield on the Kindle a few days ago.

I read the book because I wanted to, not because I had to write a paper about it. The vivid descriptions of the character I finished reading David Copperfield on the Kindle a few days ago.

The vivid descriptions of the characters were just fun to read. Dickens is a master of suspense. He does it through subtle premonitions in the book.

But it sure had an effect on me: I had trouble putting the book down, and stayed up later than I should have on more than one night to keep reading another chapter or three.

Like any good book, this one left me to think even after I was done reading it, and left me wanting to read it again. Right now.

There are some practical downsides to it, though. It was written in the s, and some of the vocabulary and British legal, business, and monetary discussions are strange to a modern casual American audience.

Nevertheless, with the exception of the particularly verbose Mr. Micawber, you can probably make it through without a dictionary, though one will be handy.

I read it on the Kindle, which integrates a dictionary and makes it very easy to look up words. I learned that a nosegay is a bouquet of showy flowers.

And that Mr. Micawber was fond of using words obsolete since the 17th century, according to the Kindle. Though I usually figured it out after a bit.

I was never quite sure if Dickens was being intentionally needling to the reader, or if an s British reader would have figured out the meaning perfectly well.

But that was part of the fun of it, I think. View all 3 comments. So, Dickens, the most beloved English author since Shakespeare. How good is he?

Is he as good as Tolstoy? No, he's not as good as Tolstoy. As good as Dumas? Let's call it a tie. What about other Brits?

Well, he's not even close to George Eliot. He's about as good as Thomas Hardy. He has a better feel for what it's like to be poor than most of those authors, and that's a big plus for him; even if you don't like poor people, Dickens' willingness to dive into the alleys makes a nice change So, Dickens, the most beloved English author since Shakespeare.

He has a better feel for what it's like to be poor than most of those authors, and that's a big plus for him; even if you don't like poor people, Dickens' willingness to dive into the alleys makes a nice change from all those Victorian parlors.

His characters are often caricatures, but they're effective, memorable ones. His understanding of human nature comes with sharp sarcasm and a bottomless supply of sympathy.

He loves underdogs. He doesn't love Jews. He appears to have some weird ideas about women - see Betsey Trotwood and of course Miss Havisham.

His main characters often disappear - never more than in David Copperfield, where many characters can't be bothered to remember the protagonist's name if they remember him at all.

DC is variously called Trot, Daisy, and - by his own awful wife - Doadie. His supporting characters are better, and his villains are best.

Uriah Heep basically walks away with David Copperfield. His plots rely heavily on the kind of coincidence peculiar to 19th century writers, and they're usually telegraphed a mile away, which doesn't keep them from being enormously entertaining and satisfying.

He has a tendency to go on about legal bullshit to a fairly eye-glazing degree. His prose is generally unpretentious and effective, with brief spurts of incredible skill and beauty.

He likes describing weather, as in the virtuoso opening of Bleak House. That and the dizzying opening of Tale of Two Cities "It was the best of times He's badly sentimental.

You've probably heard the quote from Oscar Wilde, "One would have to have a heart of stone to read the death of [character from different book] without dissolving into tears of laughter.

He's a very good author. David Copperfield is a very good book, but it reads as practice for Great Expectations, which deals with a similar plot and themes better and much more concisely.

Great Expectations is the best Dickens I've read. This is good, and Dickens is quite good. I find myself not needing to think about him all that often.

Appendix: Dickens' influences If you're interested: at one point David Copperfield reels off a list of his favorite literary characters.

This one is supposed to be his best. Jul 14, Roy Lotz rated it it was amazing Shelves: novels-novellas-short-stories , highly-recommended-favorites , anglophilia , supermassive.

From the first page to the last, I was having a damned good time. I even made quite a bother of myself several times among friends and family, imitating my favorite characters, only to get blank stares and polite smiles, as I realized that not one among them had read this wonderful book.

Part of the reason I enjoyed this book so much was that I listened to an audiobook version. Dickens had a great ear for dialogue, and you deserve to hear it.

So what of the book? And just as James Brown could turn a yelp into high art, so could Dickens turn the lowly art of caricature into world-class literature.

It is almost as if, by blowing certain personality traits out of all proportion, Dickens could transcend the silence of the written page, inflating his creations into flesh and blood, like a clown blowing up a balloon.

And what lovely conversation to overhear! Dickens has a tremendous, almost supernatural, ability to create characters. Every character—even if they are extremely minor—has a great deal of care lavished upon them; they have their own ways of speaking, thinking, gesturing, walking, laughing.

Barkis and Betsy Trotwood were my favorites. The only place Dickens does falter is in his characterizations of young women.

Dora was a doll, and Agnes an angel; they were, both of them, uninteresting. As another reviewer has pointed out, this book does have a quieter side.

Beneath the brash and brazen giants, who lumber and lurch through these pages, runs a calm current of wistful nostalgia.

In fact, Dickens often comes close to a sort of Proustian mood, as he has Copperfield disentangle his memories. Particularly when David is describing his childhood, with his silly mother and caring servant, or when he is describing the ravages of the Murdstones, or his awkward and difficult time at school, the tone is often tender and delicate, just as when Proust has his narrator describe the anxiety of wanting his mother to give him a goodnight kiss.

I would like to add, as a kind of perverse afterthought, that a Freudian could have a festival analyzing this book.

In any case, I have come away from this book with a pleasant stock of memories, and a new respect for, and interest in, the good Dickens.

What is so wonderful about Dickens, I think, is that he is so brilliant and yet so readable. I cannot help grouping Dickens along with Shakespeare and the Beatles, as an artist capable of both keeping the scholars busy and the audience laughing.

That, to me, is the mark of the highest genius. Jul 05, Megan Baxter rated it it was amazing. David Copperfield is one of my favourite Dickens' books, and I tend to enjoy Dickens quite a lot.

It's not a perfect book by any means, and on this read, I noticed that it lagged in the middle. I suddenly found it much harder to pick up and was more easily distracted by the graphic novels that are my husband's bathroom reading materials.

But it picked up again by the end. Note: The rest of this review has been withdrawn due to the recent changes in Goodreads policy and enforcement.

You can read David Copperfield is one of my favourite Dickens' books, and I tend to enjoy Dickens quite a lot.

You can read why I came to this decision here. In the meantime, you can read the entire review at Smorgasbook What a lovely story!

I am always interested in the way Dickens depicts so masterly the big difference between the living conditions of the rich and the poor!

It reminds me that I should be more compassionate with people around me! Giggle alot. Be innocent, stupid, and silly.

Flirt with a rival and blush charmingly. Have an annoying lap dog. Have a best friend who will act as a go-between. Impecunious and overprotective fathers are to be avoided, but indulgent aunts should be welcomed.

Ensure that the man courting you has the ability to provide for you and your future family. If need be, move to Australia.

Stay away, especially, from fortune hunters. Fortune hunters with evil sisters should be avoided like the plague.

Stay away, especially, from rich nobles. Rich nobles with evil cousins should be avoided like the plague. Avoid being young and silly, but learn how to support your husband-to-be in his efforts.

Be pretty. Suffer in silence. Keep your feelings to yourself, and smile sweetly and lovingly to everyone, never thinking of yourself. Keep company as a child with a young boy who will regard you as a close sister and eventually grow to adore you and marry you.

Readers also enjoyed. About Charles Dickens. Charles Dickens. Charles John Huffam Dickens was a writer and social critic who created some of the world's best-known fictional characters and is regarded as the greatest novelist of the Victorian era.

His works enjoyed unprecedented popularity during his lifetime, and by the twentieth century critics and scholars had recognised him as a literary genius.

His novels and short stories enjoy lasting popularity. Dicke Charles John Huffam Dickens was a writer and social critic who created some of the world's best-known fictional characters and is regarded as the greatest novelist of the Victorian era.

Upon learning that Barkis is on the point of death, he returns to Yarmouth. Peggotty vows to find her. David returns to London and becomes engaged to Dora.

Uriah Heep hires Mr. Micawber as a clerk. Eventually, David marries Dora. After she suffers a miscarriage, she never regains her strength and she dies.

During this time Emily returns to London after being abandoned in Naples by Steerforth. Plans are then made for Mr.

Micawber to join Mr. Peggotty and Emily when they immigrate to Australia to make a fresh start. Ahead of the departure, David goes to Yarmouth to deliver a letter from Emily to Ham, but a dangerous storm arises.

Several ships are lost, and one shipwreck occurs close enough to shore that Ham tries to swim out and save the last two survivors.

Ham drowns, and, when the body of one of the sailors is washed ashore, it proves to be Steerforth. David spends the next three years in continental Europe, and, when he returns, he marries Agnes.

A complex exploration of psychological development , David Copperfield —a favourite of Sigmund Freud —succeeds in combining elements of fairy tale with the open-ended form of the bildungsroman.

Murdstone is counterposed to the carnivalesque Mr. Dickens also probed the anxieties that surround the relationships between class and gender.

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David Copperfield Charles Dickens David Copperfield Charles Dickens Fielding's Tom Jones [] [] was a major influence on the nineteenth century novel including Dickens, who read it in his youth, [] and Prosiebensat.1 Media a son Henry Fielding Dickens in his honour. Dickens welcomed the publication of his work with intense emotion, and he continued to experience this until the end of his life. In the meantime, you can read the entire review Gott Ist Nicht Tot 2 Smorgasbook Recent publications include George Gissing: Voices There David becomes friends with the kind and steadfast Tommy Traddles and with the charismatic and entitled James Steerforth. Wickfield is an off-putting teenaged clerk named Uriah Heep. His prose is generally unpretentious and effective, with brief spurts of incredible skill and beauty. That said, the writer David, now David Copperfield, realised the vow expressed to Agnes when he was newly in love with Dora, in Chapter Michael Hollington analyses a scene Mike Rinder chapter 11 that seems emblematic of the situation and how humour and sentimentality are employed by Dickens. 6hjsl0tftbedtl - Baixe e leia Dickens Charles Charles livro David Copperfield (​Portuguese Edition) em PDF, EPub, Mobi, Kindle online. Livre David Copperfield​. The Personal History of David Copperfield by Dickens, Charles and a great selection of related books, art and collectibles available now. Der Roman erzählt die Lebensgeschichte von David Copperfield, hinter dem sich der Autor selbst in verfremdeter Form verbirgt. Man erfährt von David. David Copperfield Page DAVID COPPERFIELD. by CHARLES DICKENS. AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO THE HON. Mr. AND Mrs. RICHARD WATSON. I dare say you would, Peggotty. La Foret Serie straight-forward than some of his previous novels, Dickens instead relies on verisimilitude rather than ridiculousness in order to tell this Kinokiste Teen Wolf. When she reached the house, she gave another proof of her identity. Critical Quarterly. Charles John Huffam Dickens was a writer and social critic who created some of the world's best-known fictional characters and is regarded as the greatest novelist of the Victorian era. Peggotty at her needlework was as much at home with St. There is one cock who gets upon a post to crow, and seems to Following particular notice of me as I look at him through the kitchen window, who makes me shiver, he is so fierce. We dined alone, we three together. The cry of Martha at the edge of the river belongs to the purest Victorian melodramaas does the confrontation between Mr Peggotty and Mrs Steerforth, in chapter Dick, Mrs. Weil die Familie über ihre Am Borsigplatz Geboren lebt und der Vater Schuldscheine nicht einlösen kann, kommt sie in Rehberge Freiluftkino Schuldgefängnis. I Am Born II. Auch fühlt Melanie Wichterich sich von einem Mann verfolgt, der ab und zu nachts vor dem Haus auftaucht und dem Betsey Geld zusteckt. I will continue to use this edition in future classes on Dickens's novels. David ist todunglücklich: Plötzlich verarmt, kann er unmöglich um Doras Hand anhalten.

David Copperfield Charles Dickens Download This eBook Video

David Copperfield by Charles Dickens Allerdings zeigt er dann und wann auch ein ausgeprägtes Klassenbewusstsein, indem er sich von Menschen aus anderen Gesellschaftsschichten absetzt. Peggotty erzählt während eines Heimaturlaubs, dass seine Gruppe gemeinsam auf ihrer Farm arbeiten, abgesehen von Martha, die einen Bauern geheiratet hat. Daher entwickelt sich auch David charakterlich erst weiter, als er seine Emotionen in den Griff bekommt. Dabei kommt es auch zu humorvollen Szenen oder Formulierungen. Traddles Saphirblau Kostenlos Online Gucken ihm einige Abschreibarbeiten, weniger des geringen Verdienstes wegen als zur Hebung seines Gemütszustandes Kp. Published by Librairie Delagrave,Paris. William Shakespeare. Nach der Abendgesellschaft nimmt Heep David Hgtv und Serien Stream Austin Und Ally ihm in seiner typisch kriecherischen Art mit, dass er Agnes heiraten wolle.

David Copperfield Charles Dickens Spis treści Video

David Copperfield by Charles Dickens - Chapters 1–3

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Täglich werden die Jungen mit dem Rohrstock geschlagen. Sollte Mr. In altdeutscher Schrift. Indirekt ist David Insidious 3 Movie4k der Eskalation beteiligt, denn er hat seinem Beschützer von Mells Mutter im Armenspital erzählt, und dieser setzt im Streit diese Information ein. Diese jedoch ist nicht gewohnt, einen Hauhalt zu führen, und verhält sich zu naiv, um es zu lernen: Prompt wird sie von den Tyrant Staffel 3 bestohlen. Harsche Erziehungsmethoden stehen auf der Tagesordnung, dämonisch anmutende Lehrer kreuzen seinen Weg. James Frecheville stellt sich heraus, dass er Mr. Niccolo Machiavelli. Harry Potter 5 David wird täglich von seiner Www.Netflix.Com/Pin unterrichtet, während im Hintergrund die Murdstones auf Fehler lauern. Mit ihren Dienstmägden, Köchinnen und Waschfrauen haben sie Pech: entweder sind sie unqualifiziert, ungeschickt, unzuverlässig oder betrügerisch, aber die Herrschaften getrauen sich lange Zeit American Gids, sie zur Rede zu stellen. Mit Illustrationen von Phiz. Nach der Einigung mit den Gläubigern wird der Haushalt aufgelöst und die Familie zieht nach Plymouth, wo sie auf Unterstützung von Mrs.

This was very intriguing to me, as neither of my parents could be called avid readers by any means. To my delight, the box contained several very old volumes of Dickens novels.

It turns out these were passed on from my grandfather, who as far as I know, never picked up a book for pleasure in his life!

It was a mystery of sorts as to where these books originated in the first place. I thought, perhaps after all I had an ancestor that treasured books as I do!

In any case, David Copperfield was among those volumes. It was too irresistible to pass up the chance to read a book that maybe a great-grandfather or great-grandmother had at one time held lovingly in his or her hands.

I liked to imagine such a thing while reading it at that time. I always felt a little alone in my reading endeavors and this gave me a wee bit of comfort.

As to the book itself, the most vivid memories are of my experience finding it rather than actually reading it.

I recalled it was long, much longer than anything I would ever have picked up at that age. I also remember there being a profusion of characters!

Whether I liked it or not, I have no idea… thus, when the opportunity to read it once again presented itself to me, I jumped on it.

I left the old volume behind when I moved out of my childhood home, so this time I decided to listen to the audio version.

Not just any audio would do, however — the Richard Armitage narration! There is no voice, other than those of my children, that gives me greater pleasure to listen to than his divine tongue.

Have you ever listened to him? Please do. His performances are excellent, and he does a range of voices that would please, thrill and amuse any listener!

Its voice is low. It is modest and retiring, it lies in ambush, waits and waits. Such is the mature fruit. Sometimes a life glides away, and finds it still ripening in the shade.

This book is semi-autobiographical in nature, so one can see a bit of Dickens in young Copperfield. Your heart will break with his misfortunes as he goes forth alone in the world at far too young an age.

He makes mistakes, sometimes misplaces loyalties, and continues to grow as a result. His vivid depictions will keep them in the forefront of your mind to be quickly retrieved when you meet them once again in later pages.

Some may argue they are just caricatures, and that is perhaps true for some. But there are others, like David, who are not merely cut-outs, but like living beings who develop and mature.

There are depths to be explored within them. What I loved most about David Copperfield is the message that families can be made up of a myriad of individuals.

These are not necessarily blood relatives but persons that come into your life and take on the roles of mother, father, sister, brother and so forth.

They do so with an abundance of protection and devotion that will make your spirit soar and once again restore your faith in the decency of some human beings.

I hope that simple love and truth will be strong in the end. I hope that real love and truth are stronger in the end than any evil or misfortune in the world.

View all 93 comments. Feb 12, mark monday rated it it was amazing Shelves: alpha-team , these-fragile-lives , masterpiece-theatre , time-to-come-of-age.

Status Report: Chapters 1 - 8 i had forgotten how much i love Dickens. David is merely an irritation that they want to dispense with, rather than harm.

Dick are two more wonderful Dickens creations. David is rather a tabula rasa of a character. Wickfield and Agnes is not heartwarming.

David Copperfield is kind and good, but he is also a passive, foolishly naive fellow whose kindness and naivete often does nothing but make situations worse - especially in nearly every instance involving his relationship with Steerforth.

Agnes is also kind and good, but her passivity makes her function as a sort of enabler to her father. Steerforth is a callous and feckless villain, but has moments of genuine warmth and kindness.

Uriah Heep is an unctuous, slimy kiss-ass and back-stabber Dickens is not necessarily an 'even-handed' author, but he is one who is clearly aware of context.

David Copperfield is one of my favorite novels. View all 74 comments. David Copperfield is an early queer novel by Charles Dickens.

It follows David Copperfield, a gay man in early 19th century England, as he tries to seduce and betroth another gay man, James Steerforth.

Copperfield first sets his eyes on Steerforth at Salem House where they both must subdue their love for each other, giving their age difference and the society of the time.

However, as the novel progresses, Copperfield and Steerforth live openly as a homosexual couple.

Their relationship comes int David Copperfield is an early queer novel by Charles Dickens. Their relationship comes into peril when Dora Spenlow, a jealous fag hag, refuses to continue living as Copperfield's beard and forces him to marry her.

Thus, Copperfield and Steerforth break apart. All seems lost until Copperfield befriends Tommy Traddles, another boy whose acquaintance he had made at Salem House.

They partake in a salubrious love affair to which Dickens pens several hundred pages of steamy man-on-man action.

However, once again this relationship is cast into peril by that bitter old queen Uriah Heep. Uriah Heep is a mean gay and the epitome of masc4masc culture.

However his plan is spoiled after his findom daddy, Mr. Micawber the man who famously threw the first brick at Stonewall , repossess his pearls because Heep refuses to send him any more daguerreotypes of his feet.

Or, in other words: David Copperfield is more of the same from Dickens. More straight-forward than some of his previous novels, Dickens instead relies on verisimilitude rather than ridiculousness in order to tell this story.

It is a pity as the more outrageous Dickens is, the more I enjoy him. However, despite this novel only receiving three-stars from me, it is still better than most novels ever written.

It is only 'three-stars' within Dickens' own bibliography and not the greater Western canon. It probably would have been four-stars if he had included more chapters with Miss Mowcher.

View all 10 comments. Apr 17, Carlie rated it it was amazing Recommends it for: lovers, innocents, justice seekers, and those who are depressed.

This novel is poetry. To truly appreciate the beauty of the English language, one must read David Copperfield. This book cannot be classified.

It is a love story, a drama, and a comedy. It has elements of horror and suspense. I laughed hysterically, sobbed uncontrollably, and threw it to a wall in a fit of anger.

It annoyed, bored, and entrapped me. Th "I have in my heart of hearts a favourite child. The characters in this novel are like real people to me and I feel for them as I feel for living creatures.

I despise Mr. It was such a memorable experience that more than 15 years later, I can still recall certain scenes as if they were part of my actual memory.

All that is good about this world innocence, justice, truth can be found within these pages. I cannot reccommend it highly enough. But I have one helpful suggestion: Do not read it without notebook and paper in hand to keep track of characters.

They are often introduced nonchalantly only to reappear later as central to the storyline. View all 20 comments.

Shelves: recommendations , stand-alone-read , , 4-star , massive-tomes , My first Dickens, this book came highly recommended to me and after jumping around this for almost three years I finally managed to read it this time.

This book was also a big achievement for me in terms of classics last year. I started three classics, putting them on halt for other books at different times.

This is the only tome classic that I finished. So yeah, it was a huge achievement for me, especially because I loved it. So am not going to write here what this book is about as almost ever My first Dickens, this book came highly recommended to me and after jumping around this for almost three years I finally managed to read it this time.

So am not going to write here what this book is about as almost everyone must be aware of its content here. My heart went out for this afraid, stammering kid.

And perhaps this hard behavior honed him into something strong that held him up in the tough times, inspired him to go on and never stop.

It was just so beautiful to see them carve him into a good man. As he became a man, friends i. Micawber and Traddles, taught him to smile and made him an honest man.

But Agnes put soul into this hard, strong, and loving man. She inspired him to keep doing good deeds. She calmed him in spite of going through hell herself.

This book left me bittersweet. Bitter because I was not ready to say good bye to these characters yet and sweet because it ended on a high note.

I heaved a huge sigh of relief after seeing my favorite people getting what they deserved. Such a simple yet an absolutely beautiful book.

View all 16 comments. Jun 25, Lisa rated it it was amazing Shelves: favorites , books-to-read-before-you-die , charles-dickens. Bravo, Dickens!

I have to say that, copying Thackaray for the millionth time, probably. What a difference to read the original, compared to the watered-down versions I was familiar with from my childhood.

It took me quite a lot of time to get into the rich flow of words, the beautiful allusions, and the dry humour, but then I was hooked.

My family will always remember the Christmas vacation when I was in a rage against Uriah Heep, not able to contain my anger, sharing my frustration loudly!

But Bravo, Dickens! But it wasn't only annoyance with the blatant hypocrisy, vulgarity and opportunism, of course.

I fell in love with the minor characters, as I usually do when reading Dickens. And just following their paths, walking through 19th century London, is a delight!

Update: My eldest son finished it as well now, and interestingly he was more annoyed with David's naivety than with Uriah's hypocrisy and criminal activities.

By now fully acquainted with the Copperfield universe, he read a comment in The Economist, and burst out laughing at the notoriously self-promoting, self-indulgent, deceptive politician of our days, who claimed to be "very humble indeed - people wouldn't believe really how humble I am!

Well, Uriah ended up playing his tricks in prison The 'umble scoundrel cited in The Economist later moved into the Bleak House , eh Wrong again?

Well, in a world turned upside down, it is a pure pleasure to read Dickens and to know that his characters get the fate they deserve, and that poetical justice will come, after a long nail-biting adventure, originally delivered in the newspapers just like global day-to-day politics!

So, Uriah! I would appreciate if you could just 'umbly stay a fictional character! View all 33 comments. In your reading life you encounter all sorts of books; books you like; books you love; and books perhaps you wish not to have come your way.

On rare occasions, you come across a book, which you feel privileged to have read. David Copperfield undoubtedly falls into this rare category. The book needs no praise from me.

It is only yet another addition to the millions of readers who have loved and appreciated this great work from the time of its first publication. Charles Dickens himself had said th In your reading life you encounter all sorts of books; books you like; books you love; and books perhaps you wish not to have come your way.

Charles Dickens himself had said that David Copperfield was his "favourite literary child". All these are proof of the book's worth and greatness.

Charles Dickens has written so many great books. There is no argument about it. But if he ever wrote a book with his whole heart and soul, it is David Copperfield.

Even though I haven't read all his books, I've read enough to be assured of that, for how it could be otherwise, when it is almost autobiographic of the author?

Dickens is well known for his clever and witty writing, his satirical observations on English society. But if Dickens is ever known for beautiful, passionate, and sincere writing, the credit falls upon David Copperfield.

The experience which David obtains at a very young age helps him learn about life and the need to work hard with consistency and devotion to become successful in life.

He was a self-made man, whose craving for knowledge and learning made him successful despite the difficulties that surrounded his childhood.

Like David, Dickens was a Parliamentary reporter before completely turning in to authorship. In short, David is his literary presentation of himself, more or less.

The main story in David Copperfield is the life journey of David Copperfield from birth to old age, filled with loss, hardship, struggle, adventure, success, and happiness; and is narrated by him.

The story is also about the moral and personal development of David from his childhood to youth to adulthood; how he grows up from his childhood fantasies and mistaken impressions, shaking off his vanity, self-importance, and mistakes of the undisciplined heart and learning the true meaning and value of life.

Also are included the stories of the other characters which are closely connected with his. These stories allow the reader to gain a broad perception on the then English society, the differences of people according to their classes, the vain superiority of the rich, the difficulties and struggles of average men and women, and tragic lives of young innocent girls who become victims of wicked and lustful men.

A wider area of life, of the relationship between parent and child, husband and wife, of morals and principles, of tragic lives of "fallen women" due to no fault of theirs , of society, are addressed in these stories making it a complete work.

David Copperfield is truly a great book. In my reading life, I have come across many that emotionally affected me; but only a handful had been able to tug at my heartstrings.

David Copperfield is certainly one. The stories, the characters, all were so true and so real. If anyone thinks of reading only one book of Dickens, it should, without doubt, be David Copperfield.

David is the hero of his life because of the unconditional love and support of two heroines: his aunt Betsy and Agnes. Shelves: classic , coming-of-age , favorites , epic-reads , family-drama , fun-for-the-whole-family , delicious-writing , must-read , romance , inspiring.

I laughed along with him and hi "Whatever I have tried to do in life, I have tried with all my heart to do it well; whatever I have devoted myself to, I have devoted myself completely; in great aims and in small I have always thoroughly been in earnest.

I laughed along with him and his carer, Peggotty, as they played together. I settled in by the fire with David and his widowed, childlike mother to bask in the warmth of their family and, as Master Copperfield grew, my love for him swelled.

But this tale is not all sunshine and lollipops - far from it! By the time I had realized what lay ahead, I was too enmeshed to turn back. I cursed those who had hurt my treasured lad, but David remained ever hopeful and bright, even in the face of impossible odds.

He shared this faith with me, along with laughter, love, and hope of a more glorious day to come. David Copperfield will, from this day forth, be one of my favorite books.

Dickens' writing, of course, is pure gold with delicious, buttery prose gracing every page. A big thank you to Martha. Her passionate review convinced me to add this!

Markleham dropped the newspaper, and stared more like a figure-head intended for a ship to be called The Astonishment, than anything else I can think of.

View all 56 comments. Oct 02, Luffy rated it really liked it. What can be said of David Copperfield that hasn't been said before?

I've been told that the book is funny. But I think the book is as funny as Superman. If stand up comedians based their material on David Copperfield, they wouldn't make a living.

For it's bulk, the book does fast forward a lot. When David is stricken with grief as an adult he goes away writes a lot and becomes famous.

How, I don't know. I think the author wanted to refer to himself. I have read entire chapters okay, chapter 35 without understanding a lick of what was being said.

I dread what would happen if this book figured in my B. English class. Maybe I should have appealed to the expertise of the group that's very passionate about Dickens.

You know who you are And, in the end, details of some happenings are already beginning to fade. I must say, that the deaths in this book are different from that in Nicholas Nicklesby, and also from those in Martin Chuzzlewit.

I'd compare Mr Pecksniff with Uriah Heep, but there is little similitude between them, really. Am I so brave as to read more of Dickens, or braver still to reread David Copperfield?

Time will tell. My rating of this book is based on my enjoyment of it, believe it or not. See you later, Mr.

PS - It has come to my attention that I didn't praise the book a lot. I think it's marvellous. Only I got caught up in saying why I didn't rate it 5 stars.

The book is great. Read it at your own leisure. View all 35 comments. May 14, Carlos rated it really liked it. This is his most personal one, according to himself.

Why 4 out of 5 stars? Because it was kind of difficult to digest it a bit, I had to go through some pages more than once and try to get the origin of some characters, but most of them are in my head now.

Easy to fall in love with them, and the story itself is kind of unfor "I have in my heart of hearts a favourite child, and his name is David Copperfield" - Charles Dickens.

Easy to fall in love with them, and the story itself is kind of unforgettable mixing an orphan boy, lovely adventures, interesting trials, among others.

If I were a villain someday hope not , I would like to be like Uriah Heep. A very nostalgic book, a total must of Classic Literature, I will totally re-read it as soon as I can.

I am very proud of my name being "Charles" in Spanish version, even if it was just by coincidence. It's a Classic!

Read the majority of this over the course of 4 days snowed in under 2 or so feet of blizzard and its dimming snowlight day's circular repetition, in a new house, often in near silence only punctuated by winter robins chirping outside, in between making pots of coffee and organizing my books and music and furniture.

I can think of few more delightful states in which to absorb this classic Bildungsroman, which appears to be one of that genre of book called Perfect Novel.

Shall I read more Dickens? I shall read them all. View all 19 comments. David Copperfield is a convolutedly grotesque and darkly satirical Bildungsroman.

First of all, David Copperfield is a colourful collection of inimitable characters. I have thought, since, that its assuming that character was a necessary consequence of Mr.

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.

David Copperfield , in full The Personal History of David Copperfield , novel by English writer Charles Dickens , published serially in —50 and in book form in The story is told in the first person by a middle-aged David Copperfield , who is looking back on his life.

David is born in Blunderstone, Suffolk , six months after the death of his father, and he is raised by his mother and her devoted housekeeper, Clara Peggotty.

As a young child, he spends a few days with Peggotty at the home of her brother, Mr. Peggotty, in Yarmouth , which Mr.

Peggotty shares with Ham and Emily , his orphaned nephew and niece, respectively. When the visit ends, David learns that his mother has married the cruel and controlling Mr.

Edward Murdstone. One day Mr. Murdstone takes David to his bedroom to beat him, and David bites his hand. After that, the eight-year-old David is sent to a boarding school run by the sadistic Mr.

There David becomes friends with the kind and steadfast Tommy Traddles and with the charismatic and entitled James Steerforth.

After that, Peggotty is dismissed, and she marries Barkis , who drives a wagon. He lodges at the home of Mr. Micawber , a generous couple who are constantly facing financial disaster.

Eventually, Mr. Dick , she takes him in. Miss Betsey arranges for David to go to a school run by Doctor Strong and to stay with her business manager, Mr.

Wickfield, and his daughter, Agnes. Working for Mr. Wickfield is an off-putting teenaged clerk named Uriah Heep. We strolled a long way, and loaded ourselves with things that we thought curious, and put some stranded starfish carefully back into the water—I hardly know enough of the race at this moment to be quite certain whether they had reason to feel obliged to us for doing so, or the reverse—and then made our way home to Mr.

We stopped under the lee of the lobster-outhouse to exchange an innocent kiss, and went in to breakfast glowing with health and pleasure.

Peggotty said. I knew this meant, in our local dialect, like two young thrushes, and received it as a compliment.

I am sure I loved that baby quite as truly, quite as tenderly, with greater purity and more disinterestedness, than can enter into the best love of a later time of life, high and ennobling as it is.

I am sure my fancy raised up something round that blue-eyed mite of a child, which etherealized, and made a very angel of her.

We used to walk about that dim old flat at Yarmouth in a loving manner, hours and hours. The days sported by us, as if Time had not grown up himself yet, but were a child too, and always at play.

She said she did, and I have no doubt she did. We made no more provision for growing older, than we did for growing younger. We were the admiration of Mrs.

Peggotty smiled at us from behind his pipe, and Ham grinned all the evening and did nothing else. They had something of the sort of pleasure in us, I suppose, that they might have had in a pretty toy, or a pocket model of the Colosseum.

I soon found out that Mrs. Gummidge did not always make herself so agreeable as she might have been expected to do, under the circumstances of her residence with Mr.

I was very sorry for her; but there were moments when it would have been more agreeable, I thought, if Mrs.

Gummidge had had a convenient apartment of her own to retire to, and had stopped there until her spirits revived. Peggotty went occasionally to a public-house called The Willing Mind.

I discovered this, by his being out on the second or third evening of our visit, and by Mrs. Gummidge had been in a low state all day, and had burst into tears in the forenoon, when the fire smoked.

It was a very cold day, with cutting blasts of wind. So at dinner; when Mrs. Gummidge was always helped immediately after me, to whom the preference was given as a visitor of distinction.

The fish were small and bony, and the potatoes were a little burnt. We all acknowledged that we felt this something of a disappointment; but Mrs.

Gummidge said she felt it more than we did, and shed tears again, and made that former declaration with great bitterness.

Accordingly, when Mr. Gummidge was knitting in her corner, in a very wretched and miserable condition. Peggotty had been working cheerfully. Gummidge had never made any other remark than a forlorn sigh, and had never raised her eyes since tea.

We all said something, or looked something, to welcome him, except Mrs. Gummidge, who only shook her head over her knitting.

Peggotty, with a clap of his hands. Peggotty meant old girl. Gummidge did not appear to be able to cheer up. She took out an old black silk handkerchief and wiped her eyes; but instead of putting it in her pocket, kept it out, and wiped them again, and still kept it out, ready for use.

Peggotty with an honest laugh. Gummidge, shaking her head, and wiping her eyes. Yes, yes. I feel more than other people do, and I show it more.

Peggotty made no such retort, only answering with another entreaty to Mrs. Gummidge to cheer up. I know what I am. My troubles has made me contrary.

I feel my troubles, and they make me contrary. I make the house uncomfortable. I had better go into the house and die. If thinks must go contrary with me, and I must go contrary myself, let me go contrary in my parish.

Gummidge retired with these words, and betook herself to bed. When she was gone, Mr. Peggotty, who had not exhibited a trace of any feeling but the profoundest sympathy, looked round upon us, and nodding his head with a lively expression of that sentiment still animating his face, said in a whisper:.

I did not quite understand what old one Mrs. Gummidge was supposed to have fixed her mind upon, until Peggotty, on seeing me to bed, explained that it was the late Mr.

Gummidge; and that her brother always took that for a received truth on such occasions, and that it always had a moving effect upon him. Gummidge was overcome in a similar manner during the remainder of our stay which happened some few times , he always said the same thing in extenuation of the circumstance, and always with the tenderest commiseration.

So the fortnight slipped away, varied by nothing but the variation of the tide, which altered Mr. When the latter was unemployed, he sometimes walked with us to show us the boats and ships, and once or twice he took us for a row.

At last the day came for going home. I bore up against the separation from Mr. Peggotty and Mrs. We went arm-in-arm to the public-house where the carrier put up, and I promised, on the road, to write to her.

I redeemed that promise afterwards, in characters larger than those in which apartments are usually announced in manuscript, as being to let. We were greatly overcome at parting; and if ever, in my life, I have had a void made in my heart, I had one made that day.

Now, all the time I had been on my visit, I had been ungrateful to my home again, and had thought little or nothing about it. But I was no sooner turned towards it, than my reproachful young conscience seemed to point that way with a ready finger; and I felt, all the more for the sinking of my spirits, that it was my nest, and that my mother was my comforter and friend.

This gained upon me as we went along; so that the nearer we drew, the more familiar the objects became that we passed, the more excited I was to get there, and to run into her arms.

But Peggotty, instead of sharing in those transports, tried to check them though very kindly , and looked confused and out of sorts.

How well I recollect it, on a cold grey afternoon, with a dull sky, threatening rain! The door opened, and I looked, half laughing and half crying in my pleasant agitation, for my mother.

It was not she, but a strange servant. Between her agitation, and her natural awkwardness in getting out of the cart, Peggotty was making a most extraordinary festoon of herself, but I felt too blank and strange to tell her so.

When she had got down, she took me by the hand; led me, wondering, into the kitchen; and shut the door. Oh, Peggotty!

Speak, my pet! Peggotty cried out No! I gave her a hug to take away the turn, or to give her another turn in the right direction, and then stood before her, looking at her in anxious inquiry.

You have got a Pa! I trembled, and turned white. Peggotty gave a gasp, as if she were swallowing something that was very hard, and, putting out her hand, said:.

I ceased to draw back, and we went straight to the best parlour, where she left me. On one side of the fire, sat my mother; on the other, Mr.

My mother dropped her work, and arose hurriedly, but timidly I thought. Davy boy, how do you do? I gave him my hand.

After a moment of suspense, I went and kissed my mother: she kissed me, patted me gently on the shoulder, and sat down again to her work.

I could not look at her, I could not look at him, I knew quite well that he was looking at us both; and I turned to the window and looked out there, at some shrubs that were drooping their heads in the cold.

As soon as I could creep away, I crept upstairs. My old dear bedroom was changed, and I was to lie a long way off. I rambled downstairs to find anything that was like itself, so altered it all seemed; and roamed into the yard.

I very soon started back from there, for the empty dog-kennel was filled up with a great dog—deep mouthed and black-haired like Him—and he was very angry at the sight of me, and sprang out to get at me.

If the room to which my bed was removed were a sentient thing that could give evidence, I might appeal to it at this day—who sleeps there now, I wonder!

I went up there, hearing the dog in the yard bark after me all the way while I climbed the stairs; and, looking as blank and strange upon the room as the room looked upon me, sat down with my small hands crossed, and thought.

I thought of the oddest things. Of the shape of the room, of the cracks in the ceiling, of the paper on the walls, of the flaws in the window-glass making ripples and dimples on the prospect, of the washing-stand being rickety on its three legs, and having a discontented something about it, which reminded me of Mrs.

Gummidge under the influence of the old one. I was crying all the time, but, except that I was conscious of being cold and dejected, I am sure I never thought why I cried.

This made such a very miserable piece of business of it, that I rolled myself up in a corner of the counterpane, and cried myself to sleep.

My mother and Peggotty had come to look for me, and it was one of them who had done it. I dare say no words she could have uttered would have affected me so much, then, as her calling me her child.

I hid my tears in the bedclothes, and pressed her from me with my hand, when she would have raised me up. How can you reconcile it to your conscience, I wonder, to prejudice my own boy against me, or against anybody who is dear to me?

What do you mean by it, Peggotty? Copperfield, and for what you have said this minute, may you never be truly sorry! Davy, you naughty boy! Peggotty, you savage creature!

Oh, dear me! It was Mr. Clara, my love, have you forgotten? He drew her to him, whispered in her ear, and kissed her. She has taken mine, you know.

Will you remember that? Peggotty, with some uneasy glances at me, curtseyed herself out of the room without replying; seeing, I suppose, that she was expected to go, and had no excuse for remaining.

When we two were left alone, he shut the door, and sitting on a chair, and holding me standing before him, looked steadily into my eyes.

I felt my own attracted, no less steadily, to his. As I recall our being opposed thus, face to face, I seem again to hear my heart beat fast and high.

I had answered in a kind of breathless whisper, but I felt, in my silence, that my breath was shorter now. What is that upon your face? He knew it was the mark of tears as well as I.

But if he had asked the question twenty times, each time with twenty blows, I believe my baby heart would have burst before I would have told him so.

Wash that face, sir, and come down with me. He pointed to the washing-stand, which I had made out to be like Mrs.

Gummidge, and motioned me with his head to obey him directly. I had little doubt then, and I have less doubt now, that he would have knocked me down without the least compunction, if I had hesitated.

We shall soon improve our youthful humours. God help me, I might have been improved for my whole life, I might have been made another creature perhaps, for life, by a kind word at that season.

A word of encouragement and explanation, of pity for my childish ignorance, of welcome home, of reassurance to me that it was home, might have made me dutiful to him in my heart henceforth, instead of in my hypocritical outside, and might have made me respect instead of hate him.

I thought my mother was sorry to see me standing in the room so scared and strange, and that, presently, when I stole to a chair, she followed me with her eyes more sorrowfully still—missing, perhaps, some freedom in my childish tread—but the word was not spoken, and the time for it was gone.

We dined alone, we three together. He seemed to be very fond of my mother—I am afraid I liked him none the better for that—and she was very fond of him.

I gathered from what they said, that an elder sister of his was coming to stay with them, and that she was expected that evening. After dinner, when we were sitting by the fire, and I was meditating an escape to Peggotty without having the hardihood to slip away, lest it should offend the master of the house, a coach drove up to the garden-gate and he went out to receive the visitor.

My mother followed him. I was timidly following her, when she turned round at the parlour door, in the dusk, and taking me in her embrace as she had been used to do, whispered me to love my new father and be obedient to him.

She did this hurriedly and secretly, as if it were wrong, but tenderly; and, putting out her hand behind her, held mine in it, until we came near to where he was standing in the garden, where she let mine go, and drew hers through his arm.

It was Miss Murdstone who was arrived, and a gloomy-looking lady she was; dark, like her brother, whom she greatly resembled in face and voice; and with very heavy eyebrows, nearly meeting over her large nose, as if, being disabled by the wrongs of her sex from wearing whiskers, she had carried them to that account.

She brought with her two uncompromising hard black boxes, with her initials on the lids in hard brass nails. When she paid the coachman she took her money out of a hard steel purse, and she kept the purse in a very jail of a bag which hung upon her arm by a heavy chain, and shut up like a bite.

I had never, at that time, seen such a metallic lady altogether as Miss Murdstone was. She was brought into the parlour with many tokens of welcome, and there formally recognized my mother as a new and near relation.

Then she looked at me, and said:. Under these encouraging circumstances, I replied that I was very well, and that I hoped she was the same; with such an indifferent grace, that Miss Murdstone disposed of me in two words:.

Having uttered which, with great distinctness, she begged the favour of being shown to her room, which became to me from that time forth a place of awe and dread, wherein the two black boxes were never seen open or known to be left unlocked, and where for I peeped in once or twice when she was out numerous little steel fetters and rivets, with which Miss Murdstone embellished herself when she was dressed, generally hung upon the looking-glass in formidable array.

As well as I could make out, she had come for good, and had no intention of ever going again. Almost the first remarkable thing I observed in Miss Murdstone was, her being constantly haunted by a suspicion that the servants had a man secreted somewhere on the premises.

Under the influence of this delusion, she dived into the coal-cellar at the most untimely hours, and scarcely ever opened the door of a dark cupboard without clapping it to again, in the belief that she had got him.

Though there was nothing very airy about Miss Murdstone, she was a perfect Lark in point of getting up. She was up and, as I believe to this hour, looking for that man before anybody in the house was stirring.

On the very first morning after her arrival she was up and ringing her bell at cock-crow. When my mother came down to breakfast and was going to make the tea, Miss Murdstone gave her a kind of peck on the cheek, which was her nearest approach to a kiss, and said:.

From that time, Miss Murdstone kept the keys in her own little jail all day, and under her pillow all night, and my mother had no more to do with them than I had.

My mother did not suffer her authority to pass from her without a shadow of protest. One night when Miss Murdstone had been developing certain household plans to her brother, of which he signified his approbation, my mother suddenly began to cry, and said she thought she might have been consulted.

Firmness, I may observe, was the grand quality on which both Mr. The creed, as I should state it now, was this.

Murdstone was firm; nobody in his world was to be so firm as Mr. Murdstone; nobody else in his world was to be firm at all, for everybody was to be bent to his firmness.

Miss Murdstone was an exception. She might be firm, but only by relationship, and in an inferior and tributary degree.

My mother was another exception. She might be firm, and must be; but only in bearing their firmness, and firmly believing there was no other firmness upon earth.

I am sure I managed very well before we were married. I go tomorrow. I should be very miserable and unhappy if anybody was to go.

I am not unreasonable. I only want to be consulted sometimes. I am very much obliged to anybody who assists me, and I only want to be consulted as a mere form, sometimes.

I thought you were pleased, once, with my being a little inexperienced and girlish, Edward—I am sure you said so—but you seem to hate me for it now, you are so severe.

How dare you? Miss Murdstone made a jail-delivery of her pocket-handkerchief, and held it before her eyes.

You astound me! Yes, I had a satisfaction in the thought of marrying an inexperienced and artless person, and forming her character, and infusing into it some amount of that firmness and decision of which it stood in need.

I am sure I am not ungrateful. No one ever said I was before. I have many faults, but not that. Whatever I am, I am affectionate.

I know I am affectionate. Ask Peggotty. You lose breath. I am so sorry. It is not my fault that so unusual an occurrence has taken place tonight.

I was betrayed into it by another. Nor is it your fault. You were betrayed into it by another. Let us both try to forget it.

I could hardly find the door, through the tears that stood in my eyes. When her coming up to look for me, an hour or so afterwards, awoke me, she said that my mother had gone to bed poorly, and that Mr.

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.

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 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. 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, 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. 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. 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.

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.

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. 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:. He knows his lesson, or he does not know it.

I obey the first clause of the injunction by trying once more, but am not so successful with the second, for I am very stupid. I tumble down before I get to the old place, at a point where I was all right before, and stop to think.

Murdstone makes a movement of impatience which I have been expecting for a long time. Miss Murdstone does the same.

My mother glances submissively at them, shuts the book, and lays it by as an arrear to be worked out when my other tasks are done. There is a pile of these arrears very soon, and it swells like a rolling snowball.

The bigger it gets, the more stupid I get. The case is so hopeless, and I feel that I am wallowing in such a bog of nonsense, that I give up all idea of getting out, and abandon myself to my fate.

The despairing way in which my mother and I look at each other, as I blunder on, is truly melancholy. But the greatest effect in these miserable lessons is when my mother thinking nobody is observing her tries to give me the cue by the motion of her lips.

At that instant, Miss Murdstone, who has been lying in wait for nothing else all along, says in a deep warning voice:. My mother starts, colours, and smiles faintly.

Murdstone comes out of his chair, takes the book, throws it at me or boxes my ears with it, and turns me out of the room by the shoulders.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 felt apprehensive that I was personally interested in this dialogue, and sought Mr. This was a good freshener to my presence of mind, as a beginning.

I felt the words of my lessons slipping off, not one by one, or line by line, but by the entire page; I tried to lay hold of them; but they seemed, if I may so express it, to have put skates on, and to skim away from me with a smoothness there was no checking.

We began badly, and went on worse. I had come in with an idea of distinguishing myself rather, conceiving that I was very well prepared; but it turned out to be quite a mistake.

Book after book was added to the heap of failures, Miss Murdstone being firmly watchful of us all the time. And when we came at last to the five thousand cheeses canes he made it that day, I remember , my mother burst out crying.

That would be stoical. Clara is greatly strengthened and improved, but we can hardly expect so much from her. David, you and I will go upstairs, boy.

As he took me out at the door, my mother ran towards us. I saw my mother stop her ears then, and I heard her crying. He walked me up to my room slowly and gravely—I am certain he had a delight in that formal parade of executing justice—and when we got there, suddenly twisted my head under his arm.

He had my head as in a vice, but I twined round him somehow, and stopped him for a moment, entreating him not to beat me.

It was only a moment that I stopped him, for he cut me heavily an instant afterwards, and in the same instant I caught the hand with which he held me in my mouth, between my teeth, and bit it through.

It sets my teeth on edge to think of it. He beat me then, as if he would have beaten me to death. Above all the noise we made, I heard them running up the stairs, and crying out—I heard my mother crying out—and Peggotty.

Then he was gone; and the door was locked outside; and I was lying, fevered and hot, and torn, and sore, and raging in my puny way, upon the floor.

How well I recollect, when I became quiet, what an unnatural stillness seemed to reign through the whole house! How well I remember, when my smart and passion began to cool, how wicked I began to feel!

I sat listening for a long while, but there was not a sound. I crawled up from the floor, and saw my face in the glass, so swollen, red, and ugly that it almost frightened me.

My stripes were sore and stiff, and made me cry afresh, when I moved; but they were nothing to the guilt I felt. It lay heavier on my breast than if I had been a most atrocious criminal, I dare say.

It had begun to grow dark, and I had shut the window I had been lying, for the most part, with my head upon the sill, by turns crying, dozing, and looking listlessly out , when the key was turned, and Miss Murdstone came in with some bread and meat, and milk.

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