Chapter 9 Chapter Five I Was Sent From Home

After about half a mile, my little handkerchief was soaked, when the carriage stopped suddenly. I looked out, wondering why.I was pleasantly surprised to see Peggotty emerge from behind a fence and climb onto the car.She hugged me and hugged her tightly, pressing my nose so painfully, but I didn't feel the pain in my nose at the time, and I didn't realize it until later.Peggotty said nothing.She reached into her elbow pocket with one hand, pulled out several paper packets of pastries and stuffed them into my pockets, and put a purse in my hand, but still said nothing.Once again, and for the last time, she hugged me tightly and squeezed, then got out of the car and ran away.I believe now, and have always believed so—that there was not a single button left on her gown.I picked up one of the buttons that were rolling around and kept it as a keepsake for a long time.

The coachman looked at me as if asking me if she would come back.I shook my head and said I didn't think she would. "Go on, then," said the coachman to the languid horse; and the horse did as it was ordered. By this time I had wept so much that I could cry no more, and I began to think that it was useless to cry, especially when I thought of Roderick Langton and the captain of the Royal Navy in trouble, as far as I could remember, Never cried.Seeing that I had made up my mind, the coachman suggested that I spread the handkerchief on the horse's back to dry.I thanked him and agreed to that.In such a case the handkerchief seemed very small.

I'm in the mood to check that wallet now.It was a hard leather purse with a clasp, and contained three shiny shillings which Peggotty had evidently chalked up with white chalk, in a desire to please me.But the more precious contents of the wallet were two and a half crowns wrapped in a piece of paper.My mother wrote on the paper: "To Weiwei, with my love." I couldn't bear it anymore, so I had to ask the driver to pass me my little handkerchief.But he said he thought I'd better not have it, and I thought I'd be better off not.So I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and stopped myself.

Although I still whimpered loudly from time to time due to previous agitation, I never cried again.After walking slowly and not far, I asked the coachman if he would go all the way there. "Where have we been going?" asked the coachman. "There." I said. "Where is that?" asked the coachman. "Not far from London," I said. "Hey, that's the horse," said the coachman, pointing at the horse, shaking the rein. "It will be more lifeless than pork before we go halfway." "So you've only come to Yarmouth?" I asked.

"Basically," said the coachman, "I'll put you in a coach when you get there, and the coach will take you to—whatever it is." That was a lot to say to the coachman (his last name was Bagis).As I said in an earlier chapter, he was a man of few words and hardly talked to anyone.I gave him a piece of cake as a reward, and he ate it like an elephant.And the morsel aroused no more expression on his face than it did on an elephant. "She did, huh?" asked Mr. Baggis, who was always sitting on the front step, leaning listlessly forward with his arms on each knee.

"Do you mean Peggotty, sir?" "Ah!" said Mr. Barkiss, "it's her." "Yes, she cooks all our snacks and cooks all the meals." "Is that so?" said Mr. Baggis. He pursed his mouth as if to whistle, but he didn't.He sat there staring at the horse's ears, as if he had discovered something new there.In this way, he sat for quite some time.He said again slowly: "No lover, I believe." "You mean almonds, Mr. Bagis?" Since I thought he was going to eat something else, I pointed out what it was. "Lover," said Mr. Barkiss, "is a lover; no one wants to be with her?"

"And Peggotty?" "Ah!" he said, "with her?" "Oh no, she never had a lover." "Really do not have?" He put his mouth up again, as if to whistle, but he didn't, and sat looking into the horse's ears. "Then she does," continued Mr. Bagis, after a moment's thought, "all kinds of apple pies, and all kinds of meals, doesn't she?" I replied that it was so. "Well, I want to tell you," said Mr. Baggis, "perhaps you will write to her?" "Of course I'll write to her," I replied.

"Ah!" he said, slowly turning his eyes to me, "that's right! If you write to him, perhaps you'll remember to write: Bagis willing, won't you?" "Baggis is willing," I repeated, ignorant, "that's all?" "Yes," he said, considering, "yes—yes. Bagis would." "But you're going to Blandstone again tomorrow, Mr. Barkiss," I stammered, thinking I'd be far away by then, "you might as well tell yourself." He shook his head against the idea, emphasizing once again the previous request, very solemnly, "Baggis is willing, that's it." I wholeheartedly agreed.While waiting for the carriage at an inn that afternoon, I ordered a piece of paper and a bottle of ink, and wrote a short note to Peggotty.The letter read: "My dear Peggotty, I am here safe and sound. Burgess willing. Sending my love to mother. Your dear. And: he said he especially wanted you to know--Barkiss Keith would."

After I promised to do that, Mr Bagis fell into complete silence again.I was so tired from everything that had been going on lately that I lay down on a bag in the trunk and fell asleep.I slept soundly and did not wake up until I reached Yarmouth.We drove into the little courtyard of an inn, and Yarmouth was so new and strange to me that I immediately gave up any hope of seeing Mr. Peggotty's family, or even Hopes of seeing little Emily were also dispelled. The long-distance carriage was in the yard. Although the horses hadn't been harnessed yet, the whole carriage was clean. It didn't look like it was going to London at all.I'm thinking about this, and wondering what's going to happen to my box - it's been left on the sidewalk of the yard by a pillar by Mr. Barkis (he drives the car into the yard and turns around) - still guessing What will happen to me, when a lady looks out of a half-circle window where poultry and chunks of leg meat hang, and she says:

"Is that the little mister from Brandstone?" "Yes, ma'am," I said. "What's your last name?" asked the lady. "Copperfield, ma'am," I said. "That's not right," the lady replied. "No one here pre-pays for this name." "Is it Murdstone, ma'am?" I said. "If you are Master Murdstone," said the lady, "why do you have another name in the first place?" I explained the reason to the lady, and she rang the bell and called, "William! Take someone to the dining room!" A waiter heard this and ran out of the kitchen across the yard to take someone to the dining room, when he He seemed surprised to find out that it was only me.

It's a long, big room with some really big maps in it.Even if the maps were foreign and I was cast out among them, I wonder if I would feel even more out of place.Hat in hand, I sat down on the corner of the chair near the door, which I thought was carefree enough.I thought I must have flushed with shame as the waiter spread out the tablecloth and set out a set of crueters for me. He brought me some chops and vegetables, and uncapped them so rudely that I was afraid I had offended him.But he put a chair down for me at the table and said very graciously, "Hey, six feet tall! Come on!" I thanked him and sat down at the table.But he stood across from me and stared at me so hard, I found it hard to use a knife and fork flexibly, or hard not to splash the broth on myself, every time I met his eyes, my face turned red Terrible.As he watched me eat my second rib, he said: "And there's a half-pint for you. Would you drink it now?" I thanked him and said yes.So he poured the wine from a large jug into a large glass, and held the glass up to the light, to make the wine look better. "Oh, look!" said he, "seems like a lot, doesn't it?" "It really does look like a lot," I replied with a smile.I was also happy to see him in such a good mood.His eyes blinked constantly, his face was pimple, and his hair stood on end.He stood there with one arm on his hip and the other holding his glass up to the light, looking friendly. "There was a gentleman here yesterday," he said, "--a very stocky gentleman, call the sawmaker--maybe you know him?" "No," I said, "I don't think—" "He wore shorts and leggings, a wide-brimmed hat, and a gray coat with a flowered neckerchief," said the waiter. "No," I said sheepishly, "I don't have the honor—" "He came in here," said the waiter, staring at the light that shone through the glass, "and asked for a beer like this--I advised him not to--he wanted--drank it, poured it Down dead. The wine is too old for him. It shouldn't have been brought out; that's what it is." I was shocked to hear of this sad accident; I said I thought I'd better drink some water. "Hey, you see," said the waiter, still squinting at the light shining through the glass, "we people don't like leftovers from what we've ordered. It makes them angry. But if You like it, I can drink it. I'm used to it, and it's all right. I don't think it'll do me any harm, if I put my head back and drink it all in one gulp. Can I drink it?" I replied that if he thought it was safe to drink it, I'd appreciate it; but if he didn't think so then never do it.When he threw back his head and drank it, I was terribly frightened, I confess, to see him fall on the carpet without a mouthful of the same fate as the poor good sawmaker.But that didn't do him any harm.On the contrary, he looked more refreshed. "What do we have here?" he said, sticking his fork into my plate. "It's not ribs, is it?" "Ribs," I said. "Jesus," he exclaimed, "I didn't know it was ribs, hey, ribs are just the thing that detoxifies this beer. Isn't that luck?" So he picked up a rib in one hand and a potato in the other, and ate them all with relish, which made me so happy.He picked up another rib and a potato; then another rib and a potato.After we finished eating, he brought another pudding and put it in front of me. He seemed to be thinking about something, and his mind was a little distracted. "How's the cake?" He cheered up and asked. "It's pudding," I replied. "Pudding!" he cried. "Hey, my God, that's it! What!" He looked a little closer. "Didn't you say it was an egg and flour pudding?" "Yes, it is." "Hey, egg flour pudding," he said, picking up a large spoon, "is my favorite pudding! Isn't that luck? Eat up, boy, and let's see who eats the most." Of course the waiter ate the most.He wants to compete with me again and again, but with his big spoon against my small spoon, his big mouth against my small mouth, and his appetite against my appetite, from the first bite, I was far away. Left behind, there was no chance of catching up with him.I don't think I've ever seen a man eat his pudding so well; and when the pudding was finished, he laughed, as if he was still savoring the pudding. Seeing him so friendly and agreeable, I asked him for pen, ink, and paper, to write to Peggotty.Not only did he bring it, but he also kindly watched me write it.I wrote the letter and he asked me where I was going to school. I said, "It's close to London." That's all I know. "Oh, look!" he said, looking despondent, "it really makes me sad." "Why?" I asked him. "Oh, God!" he said, shaking his head, "that's the school where they broke a little boy's ribs--two ribs--and he was a very little boy. I should have said he was - let me see - how old are you, roughly? " I told him I was between eight and nine years old. "That's the age," he said, "that they broke his first rib when he was eight years and six months old, and they broke his second rib at eight years and eight months, and he was going to die." His life." The incident was so uncomfortable to listen to, I couldn't hide it from myself, and I couldn't hide it from the waiter, and I asked him how it happened.I wasn't encouraged by his answer because it was just three answerable words: "Interrupted." At this moment, the long-distance carriage in the yard blew its horn in time, so I stood up hastily, and half-proudly hesitated to have a wallet and asked him if there was anything I had to pay for. "A letter," he answered. "Have you bought a letter?" I don't remember buying one. "Letter paper is expensive," he said, "because of the tax. Threepence. That's how we are taxed in this country. Nothing but the waiter. Ink, I'll post it." "Should you--I should--how much should I give--how much do you wish to give the waiter?" I stammered, blushing. "If I hadn't got a house, and the house hadn't all got smallpox," said the waiter, "I wouldn't ask for sixpence. If I didn't have to support old parents, and a lovely sister," and here, The waiter was very emotional—"I don't want a law student. If I have a good place and I am treated well, I will ask you to accept something from me instead of asking you. But I am Living on the leftovers, sleeping on the coals—” At this point the waiter began to cry. I sympathized with his misfortune, and thought it cruel and cruel to give him anything less than ninepence.I offered him one of my three shiny shillings, and he humbly accepted it, and immediately twirled it with his thumb to see if it was real. I was a little embarrassed when I was lifted from the back of the car, because I found out that people thought I ate all the Chinese food by myself.I know this because I overheard the lady say to the watchers from behind the half-round window, "Watch out for that kid, George, or he'll burst open!" The maids all came out and looked at me and laughed like I was a monster.And the waiter—my unfortunate friend—had picked himself up, and instead of looking disturbed by it, he was not at all ashamed to join in the fuss.If I had any doubts about him, I think that was half the reason for it.But I am now more inclined to think that, with the innocent trust of a child and the natural trust of a young man in an elder (which I regret to be replaced prematurely by any child with worldly shrewdness), I am on the whole Said that he didn't doubt him very much, and never will. I have to admit, I felt bad for being the butt of unwarranted jokes from the drivers and watchers.They said it was heavy because I was in the back of the car; and that I was more dignified traveling in a van.The story of my big belly got out to some of the passengers outside, and they were happy to hear it, asking if I was paid for meals at school as two or three brothers, and if I was contracted under certain conditions , and other questions that kept them entertained.But worst of all, I knew I'd be ashamed to eat when I had the chance, so after such a small lunch I'd starve all night—because I'd put my pastry in a hurry. Forgot it at the inn.My concerns were confirmed.When we stopped for supper, I could not muster up courage to take a little, though I should have liked it very much, but sat down by the fire and said I didn't want anything.Even that didn't save me from more taunts; a hoarse-voiced man with a swollen face who kept eating from sandwich boxes and drinking from bottles all the way told me I was like a A boa constrictor can last a long time with one bite; he said that afterward he really gobbled up a serving of boiled beef. We started from Yarmouth at three o'clock in the afternoon, and were due to arrive in London about eight o'clock the next morning.It was midsummer weather, and the evening was pleasant.As we passed through a small village, I alone imagined what it was like inside those houses and what the people who lived there were doing.Some of the boys chased us and clung to the back of the car for a while, and I wondered if their fathers were all alive, and if they were happy at home.My thoughts went on and on to the kind of place I was going--a dreadful scene indeed in my imagination, and many other things.I can remember now that I sometimes let my thoughts go home and Peggotty, and I try to recall what I felt and what kind of a boy I was before I bit Mr Murdstone; Looking up, it seems that I bit him in ancient times. Evenings are not as comfortable as evenings, because it's too cold; to prevent me from falling out of the car, I'm seated between two men (between the one with the swollen face and the other) and they both doze off, It almost suffocates me.They squeezed me so tight sometimes that I cried out, "Oh, please!" but they didn't like it because it woke them up.Sitting opposite me was a lady in a fur coat, so tightly wrapped up that in the gloom she looked not like a lady but like a haystack.The lady had a basket with her, and for a long time she didn't know where to put it, until she realized I had short legs and decided to put the basket under me.The basket squeezed and pinned me, and caused me great pain; but if I moved a little, and made a big glass in the basket rattle against something else (for it was inevitable), She kicked me hard and said, "Be careful, don't move. Your bones are still tender, I'm sure." Finally, the sun came up and my mates seemed to be sleeping much more comfortably.They had struggled so hard at night, they showed it by their horrible panting and snoring, and now they were all calm.The higher the sun rose, the more comfortably they slept.When they all woke up, everyone said that they hadn't closed their eyes. If someone said that someone had fallen asleep, the person said would refute angrily.I remember being amazed by this at the time, and I am still amazed today.For I have observed that, of all human weaknesses, the one which is natural and least admitted, yet common, is (I cannot conceive why) sleeping in a carriage. What an amazing place I think London is when it appears in the distance, and how I believe that the deeds of my favorite heroes will be repeated there, and how I feel vaguely that this is all the cities in the world The most magical and sinful places in the world, I need not stop here to say more.We approached it gradually, and arrived in time at the inn in Whitechapel where we planned to go.I don't remember if the inn was called the Blue Bull or the Blue Pig, but I know it's called Blue or something, and it's still painted on the back of the wagon. The spectator looked at me when he got out of the car, and said at the gate of the box office: "There's a little chap coming from Blondestone, Suffolk, and Murdstone booked him. Anybody come to get the little chap?" -------- ①The person watching the car did not read the place name correctly. No one answered. "Please try again with the name Copperfield, sir," I said, bowing my head resignedly. "There's a little chap from Blondstone, Suffolk, booked for him by Murdstone, but he says his name is Copperfield, and he's still waiting here to be picked up here. Little one?" said the man watching the car, "Hurry up! Anyone come to pick me up?" nobody.No one answered.I looked around uneasily, but the question provoked no response from anyone, except the one-eyed man in the leggings.The man suggested that they'd better put a brass ring around my neck and chain me to the stables. When the ladder was brought, I got out of the car after the haystack-like lady, but didn't dare to move until her basket was removed.At that time, there were no passengers in the carriage, and the luggage was quickly removed. The horse was taken away before the luggage was moved, and the rest of the carriage was pushed away by several hotel grooms.But still no one came forward for this young man from Brandstone in Suffolk, this dusty young man. I was lonelier then than Robinson Crusoe, who hadn't been looked at or known to be lonely; invited by the conductor on duty, I went into the box office, walked behind the counter, and sat down. On the scales where they weigh luggage.As I sat looking at the parcels and parcels and smelling the stable smell (which has since been forever associated with the memory of that morning), a wave of horrific anxieties raced through my mind.How long will they keep me here assuming no one comes to pick me up?Are they going to keep me here till my seven shillings are spent?Am I going to sleep at night in one of those big wooden boxes with the luggage and wash my face at a sump pump in the yard in the morning?Maybe I'll be sent outside every night to wait for someone to pick me up when the ticket office opens the next day?Assuming there is nothing wrong with all this, and Mr. Murdstone has concocted this plan to get rid of me, what shall I do?If they let me stay until the seven shillings are spent, I can't expect to stay here any longer when I start to starve.Not only would that put the blue monster at risk of paying for my funeral, but it would obviously be inconvenient and unpleasant to the customer.If I set off right away and managed to walk home, how would I find my way home, how could I hope to make it that far?And if I go home, who shall I trust but Peggotty?Even if I found the nearest authorities and offered to devote myself to being a soldier or a sailor, I was such a little fellow that they would not accept me.These, and a hundred others like them, gave me a fever and made me faint with anxiety and depression.In the midst of my distraught, a man came in and whispered something to the conductor, and the conductor immediately pulled me off the scale and pushed me to the man, as if I had been weighed, bought, delivered and paid for payment. I stole a glance at my new acquaintance as we walked through the ticket office hand in hand.He was a thin young man with a sallow complexion, sunken cheeks, and a chin almost as dark as Mr. Murdstone's.But that's where their resemblance ends, as he shaved off his beard.His hair was dull and dull in color.He was wearing a black suit, which was also dull and burnt, and the trousers and sleeves were too short.He wore a white scarf, which was not very clean.I don't think then, nor do I think now, that it was the only linen he had, but that was all he showed or implied he had. -------- ①This implies that the person is not wearing a shirt. "You're the freshman, aren't you?" he said. "Yes, sir," I said. I thought I was.I have no idea. "I was one of the faculty at Salem School," he said. I bowed to him in awe. I felt so ashamed to mention something as mundane as my box to a scholar and teacher at the Salem School that I did not mention it until I had walked a short walk out of the yard.I humbly and tactfully said that maybe the box would be useful in the future, and we turned back, and he told the conductor that the porter would come to pick up the box at noon. "Excuse me, sir," I said, as we reached the point where we turned back first, "is it far?" "Over there in the Blackmoor," he said. "Is that far, sir?" I asked timidly. "It's a long way," said he. "We'll go by stagecoach. It's six miles." I was so weak and tired that I couldn't bear the thought of six miles to go.I took the courage to tell him that I hadn't eaten anything the night before, and that I would be very grateful to him if he would allow me to buy something to eat.He looked surprised when he heard about it—I saw him stop and look at me—he thought about it for a while and said he was going to see an old man who lived not far away, so the best way would be for me to Go get some bread, or something wholesome, and have it for breakfast at the old lady's, where we'll still have some milk. So we went to a bakery and looked in the window, I kept suggesting that I want to buy every digestible food in that store, and he kept saying no, and then we decided to buy a small piece of black Bread, that cost threepence.Then, in a little grocer, we bought another egg and a slice of bacon, for which I got so much change for a second shiny shilling, that I thought London was a cheap place place.Putting these things away, we passed through a din and commotion, which cluttered my tired mind beyond words, and then we crossed another bridge, which was, no doubt, London Bridge (indeed, I think he was told me so, but I was in a state of half-sleep), and at last we came to the houses of the poor, which I knew from the exteriors of the houses and the stone carvings on the front gates to be part of the workhouse.The stone inscriptions say that these houses were used to accommodate twenty-five poor women. The teacher at Salem's school unbolted one of those little black doors, all alike, with a little lozenge glass window beside each door, and another little glass window in the door. .We went into the house of one of those poor women, who was blowing on a fire and trying to boil a little saucepan.When the woman saw the teacher go in, she stopped tugging at the bellows on her knee, and said something which I thought sounded like "My Charlie!" , rubbed his hands together and gave a vague salute. "Would you please warm up the young gentleman's breakfast?" said the teacher at Salem's school. "Can I?" said the old woman, "I can, of course!" "How's Mrs. Fibbitzen today?" said the teacher, looking at another old woman sitting in a big chair by the fire, who looked so much like a pile of clothes that I still don't think I got it right. Feeling lucky to sit on her. "Oh, she's very ill," said the first woman. "It's another ill day for her. If the fire burns out, I'm sure she will, too, and never come back." Got mad." When they looked at her, I looked at her.Although it was a warm day, she seemed to think of nothing but the fire.I imagined that she envied even the stock-pot on the stove; she was indignant that the stove should be used to boil my eggs and roast my bacon, and I had good reason to conclude--for I saw She (saw her with my terrified eyes) shook her fist at me during the cooking operation on the stove, when no one else was looking at her.The sun streamed in through the little window, but she sat with her back and the back of the big chair facing it, keeping the whole fire from her, as if she were warming it instead of her. Heating, her posture was like watching the stove with a guarded heart.When my breakfast was ready and the fire was emptied, she laughed out loud--not a very pleasant laugh, I must say. I sat down to my brown bread, eggs, and bacon, and a little pot of milk, and it was a good meal.While I was eating with relish, the old lady in the room said to the teacher: "Did you come with a flute?" "Take it," he said. "Blow on it," the old woman begged in a flattering tone, "Blow it on for sure." So, the teacher reached under the skirt, took out the three-section flute and screwed it tightly together, and immediately began to play.After years of thinking about it, my feeling is this: No one in the world blows worse than this.Of all the sounds I have heard, whether they are natural or made in various ways, only his blowing is the most disturbing.I don't know what tune he played--I doubt if there is any tune in his playing--but the effect of that blowing sound on me is: first, I can't help thinking of all my troubles, until I can't help but burst into tears ; secondly, it took away my appetite; finally, it made me so sleepy that I couldn't lift my eyelids.Eyes start to close, I start to doze off, and that's when memories come flooding back.That little room with the corner cupboard open, and the square chair in it, and the little staircase leading to the room above, and the three peacock feathers on the mantelpiece—I remember, as soon as I entered, wondering if the What would the peacock think, knowing what was doomed to its rich plumage—it all vanished from my sight, I dozed, I fell asleep.The flute was no longer heard, but the wheels came, and I was on my way again.There was a jerk in the carriage, and I woke up with a start, and the flute came back, and the teacher at Salem's School sat there with his legs crossed, playing weeping, while the women of the house looked on excitedly.It was her turn to disappear, and he disappeared, everything disappeared.No flutes, no teachers, no Salem School, no David Copperfield, nothing but deep sleep. I think that when I dreamed that he was playing this sad flute, the old woman in the house came up to him with admiration, leaned over the back of the chair, and threw her arms around his neck warmly and vigorously His playing was interrupted for a moment.Either then or since, I was in a state of half-sleep; for when he resumed his playing--his playing was interrupted, it is true--I saw and heard the old woman ask Mrs. Wonderful or not (referring to the flute), Mrs. Phoebe Tsyn replied, "Ah, ah! Yes!" She nodded towards the stove.I believe that she attributed all the credit for playing to the stove. I seemed to have taken a long nap, and the teacher at Salem School took me away after disassembling the flute into three sections and putting it away.We found the carriage nearby and went up to the roof.But I was so sleepy that when we stopped on the road to let someone else get on, they put me in the car and there were no other passengers there, and I slept soundly until I found the car going down a steep hill among green leaves. Climb up the hill.After a while, the car stopped and the terminal arrived. A short road took us—I mean the teacher and I—to the Salem School, which was surrounded by a high brick wall and looked lifeless.Above a door in the wall is a plaque with the name of Salem School.As we rang the doorbell, a sullen face peered at us through the bars of the door, and as soon as the door opened I saw that it belonged to a large man.The man's neck was like that of an ox's, he had a wooden leg, his temples protruded, and his hair was cut short to his forehead. "The freshman," said the instructor. The man with the wooden leg looked me around--which didn't take long, as I was not very big--locked the door behind us, and drew the key.We were walking towards the house, which stood among the dark, thick trees, when he called after my guide: "cough!" We look back and he's standing in the doorway of the cottage where he lives, with a pair of boots in his hand. "Here! The shoemaker came," said he, "while you were out, Mr. Mell, and he said he couldn't fix them any more. He said the boots were nothing like they were, and he returned them for you. Strange to want to mend." As he spoke, he threw the boots at Mr. Mel, and Mr. Mel took a few steps back to pick up his boots.He looked at the boot as we walked on again (I'm afraid he was very sad).Only then did I see that his boots were too bad to wear, and that his stockings were torn in one place, and burst like the tips of shoots. Salem School is a square brick building with an annexe, with a bare exterior without any decoration.Otherwise, the school was very quiet, so I said to Mr. Mel that I didn't think the students were in the school.But he seemed surprised that I didn't know it was vacation.All the students have gone to their homes, Mr. and Mrs. and Miss Creeker, the principal, have gone to the seashore, and I have been sent here during the holidays as a punishment for my fault, and these are all He told me when we were leaving together. I stared wide-eyed at the classroom he led me into. It was the loneliest, most desolate place I had ever seen.It is still vivid before my eyes.这是个长长的房间，里面放了三行课桌，六行长凳，墙上钉满了挂帽子和石板的钩子。脏兮兮的地板上尽是些零零散散的旧写字本和练习本。用那些旧本子的纸做成的蚕房也散乱地放在课桌上。在用硬纸板和铁丝做成的散发霉味的阁楼间，两只被主人抛下的可怜的小白鼠上上下下穿来穿去，它们瞪着两只红眼睛向每一个角落打量，想搜到什么吃的。一只鸟在一个比它大不了什么的笼子里，它在那二寸高的栖木上跳上跳下，翅膀拍打的声音令人感到悲哀，可它就是不开口叫也不开口唱。屋里弥漫着一种怪怪的不卫生气味，就像厚灯芯绒裤发了霉，甜苹果没有通风，书籍变腐。假如这房间建成时就没有顶，一年四季从天上往屋里下墨水雨，落墨水雪，降墨水雹，吹墨水风，也不会有这么多墨水溅在这屋里。 梅尔先生离开了我，把他那双不能再修的靴拿到楼上去。我轻轻走到屋子的另一头，并打量我经过的一切。突然，我发现一张书桌上平放了一块纸板告示，上面用优美的字体写道“·当·心·他！·他·咬·人。” 我立刻爬到书桌上，生怕桌下面至少有一条大狗。可我慌张地向四处看却怎么也看不到它。我还在张望时，梅尔先生回了，他问我为什么爬到桌子上去。 “请你原谅，先生，”我说，“对不起，我在找那条狗。” “狗？”他说，“什么狗？” “这不是狗吗，先生？” “什么不是狗？” “那要人当心的，先生；那咬人的。” “不，科波菲尔，”他严肃地说，“那不是狗，那是个学生。我奉命，科波菲尔，把这告示挂到你背上。我很抱歉，使你一开始就这样，可我只能这么做。” 他说着把我抱下来，把那专为我做的告示纸板系在我肩上，就像它是一个背包那样；打那以后，无论我走到哪儿，都得带着它。 没人能想象我为那告示板所遭的苦难。不管是否有人能看到我，我总觉得有人在看它。哪怕我转过身看到没什么人，我也不能放下心，因为无论我的背向着什么地方，我总认为有人在那里。那个支条木腿的狠心的人使我苦难更深。他有那权力；只要看到我靠着树，或围墙，或房子边，他就用那大嗓门从他的屋里往外吼：“咳，你这先生！你这科波菲尔！亮出那块告示板来，要不我就告发你！”操场是一个只铺了石子的院子，光秃秃的，正对着学校和勤杂房的背后，所以我知道工友看到它，肉店老板看到它，面包师傅看到了它。一句话，早上我奉命在那儿散步时，每一个到学校来的人，无论从哪儿来，都会看到它：要当心我，因为我咬人。我记得，我当时也开始怕我自己了，把自己当成一个真的咬人的野孩子。 操场上有个旧门，学生们有在门上刻自己姓名的传统。门上满是这种刻痕。我好怕他们在假期结束时会回来，所以我读着这些名字时就不能不想象·这·一·位会用什么腔调又如何强调地读：“当心他！他咬人。”有一个学生——一个叫杰什么，姓斯梯福兹的——总把他的名字刻得很深，还刻了很多次；我相信他准会用有力的声音来读告示，然后就扯我的头发。还有一个学生，一个叫汤米·特拉德尔的，我怕他会拿这开玩笑，并装出很怕我的样子。第三个是乔治·邓普尔，我想象中他会把这告示当成歌来唱。我看着那扇门，像一个提心吊胆的小动物那样看着门，看到所有名字的主人都声称和我不往来，并用各自的口气大声叫：“当心他。他咬人！”梅尔先生说，当时学校有四十五个学生。 对着书桌和长凳，我这么想。我去自己的床上时，爬到床上后以及向其它空空的床铺看去时，我还是这么想。我得一个夜晚接一个夜晚地做梦，梦见我母亲像从前那样和我在一起，或梦见在皮果提先生家的聚会，或梦见坐在马车车厢外边的地方旅行，或梦见又和那个不幸的侍者朋友一起吃饭。无论是什么情形，都梦见人们瞪眼看我并尖叫，因为他们很不快活地发现我只穿了件小睡衣，还挂着那块告示板。 那单调的生活，还有那对开学的不断焦虑，真是令人痛苦得难以忍受！每天，我得和梅尔先生一起做很久的功课，由于没有默德斯通先生和小姐在一旁，我能不受什么指责就都做完。做功课之前和之后，我都散步——如前面说过的那样，在木头腿的人监视下散步。我记得多清楚逼真啊——学校那房子四周的潮气，院里裂开了的绿色石板，一个漏水的旧桶，还有那些变了色的狰狞树干，雨天里这些树比别的树更往下滴水，阳光下这些树比别的树透过的风要少。一点钟时，我们——梅尔先生和我——在一个长长的饭厅的一端吃饭，那饭厅里放满了松木桌，一股油腻的气味在饭厅里荡漾。然后我们再做功课，直到喝茶。喝茶时，梅尔先生用蓝茶杯喝，我用一只锡罐喝。整整一天里，梅尔先生就在教室里他那张单独摆在一边的书桌旁努力工作，用笔、墨水、尺子、帐本和写字纸算上半年的帐（据我所发现），直干到晚上七、八点钟。晚上他收拾起那些东西后就拿出笛子来吹，一直吹到我几乎觉得他要把自己一点点吹进笛子最上面那个孔，然后从键上一点点漫出去。 我看到小小的我手支着头，坐在灯光幽暗的教室里，一面听梅尔先生吹奏，一面记诵第二天的功课。我看到我自己把书合上，仍然在听梅尔先生那哀切的吹奏，从笛声中我听到了家里往日的声音，听到了雅茅斯海滩上的刮风声，我感到伤感和孤独。我看到我自己走过那些没有人住的屋子去就寝，我坐在床边，因为听不到皮果提的安慰而哭泣。我看到我自己早晨走下楼，在楼梯旁窗子上一道阴森的破口处向外张望那挂在外层屋屋顶上的校钟，外层屋屋顶上还有一个风标；我好怕那钟叫杰·斯梯福兹和其它人上课的时刻会到。在我预先的种种忧虑中，那种时刻的可怕仅次于木腿人把生锈的大门打开让克里克尔先生进门的时刻。在这些种种场合中，我不能认为我是一个非常危险的人物，但在这些场合中我得背着那块板发出同样的警告。 梅尔先生和我说得不多，但对我从不苛刻粗暴。我想，我们已经成了不交谈的朋友了。我忘了提到这点：他有时自言自语，冷笑，捏拳，咬牙，扯头发，那样子真是无法形容。可他就是有这么一些特别之处的人，开始也叫我好生害怕，可不久我就习惯了。