david copperfield(大卫.科波维尔)-第17章

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to　march　through　my　mind。　Supposing　nobody　should　ever　fetch　
me；　how　long　would　they　consent　to　keep　me　there？　Would　they　
keep　me　long　enough　to　spend　seven　shillings？　Should　I　sleep　at　
night　in　one　of　those　wooden　bins；　with　the　other　luggage；　and　
wash　myself　at　the　pump　in　the　yard　in　the　morning；　or　should　I　
be　turned　out　every　night；　and　expected　to　come　again　to　be　left　
till　called　for；　when　the　office　opened　next　day？　Supposing　there　
was　no　mistake　in　the　case；　and　Mr。　Murdstone　had　devised　this　
plan　to　get　rid　of　me；　what　should　I　do？　If　they　allowed　me　to　
remain　there　until　my　seven　shillings　were　spent；　I　couldn’t　hope　
to　remain　there　when　I　began　to　starve。　That　would　obviously　be　
inconvenient　and　unpleasant　to　the　customers；　besides　entailing　
on　the　Blue　Whatever…it…was；　the　risk　of　funeral　expenses。　If　I　
started　off　at　once；　and　tried　to　walk　back　home；　how　could　I　ever　
find　my　way；　how　could　I　ever　hope　to　walk　so　far；　how　could　I　
make　sure　of　anyone　but　Peggotty；　even　if　I　got　back？　If　I　found　
out　the　nearest　proper　authorities；　and　offered　myself　to　go　for　a　
soldier；　or　a　sailor；　I　was　such　a　little　fellow　that　it　was　most　likely　
they　wouldn’t　take　me　in。　These　thoughts；　and　a　hundred　other　
such　thoughts；　turned　me　burning　hot；　and　made　me　giddy　with　
apprehension　and　dismay。　I　was　in　the　height　of　my　fever　when　a　
man　entered　and　whispered　to　the　clerk；　who　presently　slanted　me　
off　the　scale；　and　pushed　me　over　to　him；　as　if　I　were　weighed；　
bought；　delivered；　and　paid　for。　

As　I　went　out　of　the　office；　hand　in　hand　with　this　new　

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David　Copperfield　

acquaintance；　I　stole　a　look　at　him。　He　was　a　gaunt；　sallow　young　
man；　with　hollow　cheeks；　and　a　chin　almost　as　black　as　Mr。　
Murdstone’s；　but　there　the　likeness　ended；　for　his　whiskers　were　
shaved　off；　and　his　hair；　instead　of　being　glossy；　was　rusty　and　dry。　
He　was　dressed　in　a　suit　of　black　clothes　which　were　rather　rusty　
and　dry　too；　and　rather　short　in　the　sleeves　and　legs；　and　he　had　a　
white　neck…kerchief　on；　that　was　not　over…clean。　I　did　not；　and　do　
not；　suppose　that　this　neck…kerchief　was　all　the　linen　he　wore；　but　
it　was　all　he　showed　or　gave　any　hint　of。　

‘You’re　the　new　boy？’　he　said。　‘Yes；　sir；’　I　said。　

I　supposed　I　was。　I　didn’t　know。　

‘I’m　one　of　the　masters　at　Salem　House；’　he　said。　

I　made　him　a　bow　and　felt　very　much　overawed。　I　was　so　
ashamed　to　allude　to　a　commonplace　thing　like　my　box；　to　a　
scholar　and　a　master　at　Salem　House；　that　we　had　gone　some　little　
distance　from　the　yard　before　I　had　the　hardihood　to　mention　it。　
We　turned　back；　on　my　humbly　insinuating　that　it　might　be　useful　
to　me　hereafter；　and　he　told　the　clerk　that　the　carrier　had　
instructions　to　call　for　it　at　noon。　

‘If　you　please；　sir；’　I　said；　when　we　had　accomplished　about　the　
same　distance　as　before；　‘is　it　far？’　

‘It’s　down　by　Blackheath；’　he　said。　

‘Is　that　far；　sir？’　I　diffidently　asked。　

‘It’s　a　good　step；’　he　said。　‘We　shall　go　by　the　stage…coach。　It’s　
about　six　miles。’　

I　was　so　faint　and　tired；　that　the　idea　of　holding　out　for　six　miles　
more；　was　too　much　for　me。　I　took　heart　to　tell　him　that　I　had　had　
nothing　all　night；　and　that　if　he　would　allow　me　to　buy　something　
to　eat；　I　should　be　very　much　obliged　to　him。　He　appeared　

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surprised　at　this—I　see　him　stop　and　look　at　me　now—and　after　
considering　for　a　few　moments；　said　he　wanted　to　call　on　an　old　
person　who　lived　not　far　off；　and　that　the　best　way　would　be　for　me　
to　buy　some　bread；　or　whatever　I　liked　best　that　was　wholesome；　
and　make　my　breakfast　at　her　house；　where　we　could　get　some　
milk。　

Accordingly　we　looked　in　at　a　baker’s　window；　and　after　I　had　
made　a　series　of　proposals　to　buy　everything　that　was　bilious　in　
the　shop；　and　he　had　rejected　them　one　by　one；　we　decided　in　
favour　of　a　nice　little　loaf　of　brown　bread；　which　cost　me　
threepence。　Then；　at　a　grocer’s　shop；　we　bought　an　egg　and　a　slice　
of　streaky　bacon；　which　still　left　what　I　thought　a　good　deal　of　
change；　out　of　the　second　of　the　bright　shillings；　and　made　me　
consider　London　a　very　cheap　place。　These　provisions　laid　in；　we　
went　on　through　a　great　noise　and　uproar　that　confused　my　weary　
head　beyond　description；　and　over　a　bridge　which；　no　doubt；　was　
London　Bridge　（indeed　I　think　he　told　me　so；　but　I　was　half　
asleep）；　until　we　came　to　the　poor　person’s　house；　which　was　a　
part　of　some　alms…houses；　as　I　knew　by　their　look；　and　by　an　
inscription　on　a　stone　over　the　gate　which　said　they　were　
established　for　twenty…five　poor　women。　

The　Master　at　Salem　House　lifted　the　latch　of　one　of　a　number　
of　little　black　doors　that　were　all　alike；　and　had　each　a　little　
diamond…paned　window　on　one　side；　and　another　little　diamond…
paned　window　above；　and　we　went　into　the　little　house　of　one　of　
these　poor　old　women；　who　was　blowing　a　fire　to　make　a　little　
saucepan　boil。　On　seeing　the　master　enter；　the　old　woman　stopped　
with　the　bellows　on　her　knee；　and　said　something　that　I　thought　
sounded　like　‘My　Charley！’　but　on　seeing　me　come　in　too；　she　got　

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up；　and　rubbing　her　hands　made　a　confused　sort　of　half　curtsey。　

‘Can　you　cook　this　young　gentleman’s　breakfast　for　him；　if　you　
please？’　said　the　Master　at　Salem　House。　

‘Can　I？’　said　the　old　woman。　‘Yes　can　I；　sure！’　

‘How’s　Mrs。　Fibbitson　today？’　said　the　Master；　looking　at　
another　old　woman　in　a　large　chair　by　the　fire；　who　was　such　a　
bundle　of　clothes　that　I　feel　grateful　to　this　hour　for　not　having　sat　
upon　her　by　mistake。　

‘Ah；　she’s　poorly；’　said　the　first　old　woman。　‘It’s　one　of　her　bad　
days。　If　the　fire　was　to　go　out；　through　any　accident；　I　verily　
believe　she’d　go　out　too；　and　never　come　to　life　again。’　

As　they　looked　at　her；　I　looked　at　her　also。　Although　it　was　a　
warm　day；　she　seemed　to　think　of　nothing　but　the　fire。　I　fancied　
she　was　jealous　even　of　the　saucepan　on　it；　and　I　have　reason　to　
know　that　she　took　its　impressment　into　the　service　of　boiling　my　
egg　and　broiling　my　bacon；　in　dudgeon；　for　I　saw　her；　with　my　own　
discomfited　eyes；　shake　her　fist　at　me　once；　when　those　culinary　
operations　were　going　on；　and　no　one　else　was　looking。　The　sun　
streamed　in　at　the　little　window；　but　she　sat　with　her　own　back　
and　the　back　of　the　large　chair　towards　it；　screening　the　fire　as　if　
she　were　sedulously　keeping　it　warm；　instead　of　it　keeping　her　
warm；　and　watching　it　in　a　most　distrustful　manner。　The　
completion　of　the　preparations　for　my　breakfast；　by　relieving　the　
fire；　gave　her　such　extreme　joy　that　she　laughed　aloud—and　a　very　
unmelodious　laugh　she　had；　I　must　say。　

I　sat　down　to　my　brown　loaf；　my　egg；　and　my　rasher　of　bacon；　
with　a　basin　of　milk　besides；　and　made　a　most　delicious　meal。　
While　I　was　yet　in　the　full　enjoyment　of　it；　the　old　woman　of　the　
house　said　to　the　Master：　

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‘Have　you　got　your　flute　with　you？’　

‘Yes；’　he　returned。　

‘Have　a　blow　at　it；’　said　the　old　woman；　coaxingly。　‘Do！’　

The　Master；　upon　this；　put　his　hand　underneath　the　skirts　of　his　
coat；　and　brought　out　his　flute　in　three　pieces；　which　he　screwed　
together；　and　began　immediately　to　play。　My　impression　is；　after　
many　years　of　consideration；　that　there　never　can　have　been　
anybody　in　the　world　who　played　worse。　He　made　the　most　dismal　
sounds　I　have　ever　heard　produced　by　any　means；　natural　or　
artificial。　I　don’t　know　what　the　tunes　were—if　there　were　such　
things　in　the　performance　at　all；　which　I　doubt—but　the　influence　
of　the　strain　upon　me　was；　first；　to　make　me　think　of　all　my　
sorrows　until　I　could　hardly　keep　my　tears　back；　then　to　take　away　
my　appetite；　and　lastly；　to　make　me　so　sleepy　that　I　couldn’t　keep　
my　eyes　open。　They　begin　to　close　again；　and　I　begin　to　nod；　as　the　
recollection　rises　fresh　upon　me。　Once　more　the　little　room；　with　
its　open　corner　cupboard；　and　its　square…backed　chairs；　and　its　
angular　little　staircase　leading　to　the　room　above；　and　its　three　
peacock’s　feathers　displayed　over　the　mantelpiece—I　remember　
wondering　when　I　first　went　in；　what　that　peacock　would　have　
thought　if　he　had　known　what　his　finery　was　doomed　to　come　to—　
fades　from　before　me；　and　I　nod；　and　sleep。　The　flute　becomes　
inaudible；　the　wheels　of　the　coach　are　heard　instead；　and　I　am　on　
my　journey。　The　coach　jolts；　I　wake　with　a　start；　and　the　flute　has　
come　back　again；　and　the　Master　at　Salem　House　is　sitting　with　his　
legs　crossed；　playing　it　dolefully；　while　the　old　woman　of　the　house　
looks　on　delighted。　She　fades　in　her　turn；　and　he　fades；　and　all　
fades；　and　there　is　no　flute；　no　Master；　no　Salem　House；　no　David　
Copperfield；　no　anything　but　heavy　sleep。　

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I　dreamed；　I　thought；　that　once　while　he　was　blowing　into　this　
dismal　flute；　the　old　woman　of　the　house；　who　had　gone　nearer　
and　nearer　to　him　in　her　ecstatic　admiration；　leaned　over　the　back　
of　his　chair　and　gave　him　an　affectionate　squeeze　round　the　neck；　
which　stopped　his　playing　for　a　moment。　I　was　in　the　middle　state　
between　sleeping　and　waking；　either　then　or　immediately　
afterwards；　for；　as　he　resumed—it　was　a　real　fact　that　he　had　
stopped　playing—I　saw　and　heard　the　same　old　woman　ask　Mrs。　
Fibbitson　if　it　wasn’t　delicious　（meaning　the　flute）；　to　which　Mrs。　
Fibbitson　replied；　‘Ay；　ay！　yes！’　and　nodded　at　the　fire：　to　which；　I　
am　persuaded；　she　gave　the　credit　of　the　whole　performance。　

When　I　seemed　to　have　been　dozing　a　long　while；　the　Master　at　
Salem　House　unscrewed　his　flute　into　the　three　pieces；　put　them　
up　as　before；　and　took　me　away。　We　found　the　coach　very　near　at　
hand；　and　got　upon　the　roof；　but　I　was　so　dead　sleepy；　that　when　
we　stopped　on　the　road　to　take　up　somebody　else；　they　put　me　
inside　where　there　were　no　passengers；　and　where　I　slept　
profoundly；　until　I　found　the　coach　going　at　a　footpace　up　a　steep　
hill　among　green　leaves。　Presently；　it　stopped；　and　had　come　to　its　
destination。　

A　short　walk　brought　us—I　mean　the　Master　and　me—to　Salem　
House；　which　was　enclosed　with　a　high　brick　wall；　and　looked　very　
dull。　Over　a　door　in　this　wall　was　a　board　with　SALEM　HOUSE　
upon　it；　and　through　a　grating　in　this　door　we　were　surveyed　when　
we　rang　the　bell　by　a　surly　face；　which　I　found；　on　the　door　being　
opened；　belonged　to　a　stout　man　with　a　bull…neck；　a　wooden　leg；　
overhanging　temples；　and　his　hair　cut　close　all　round　his　head。　

‘The　new　boy；’　said　the　Master。　

The　man　with　the　wooden　leg　eyed　me　all　over—it　didn’t　take　

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long；　for　there　was　not　much　of　me—and　locked　the　gate　behind　
us；　and　took　out　the　key。　We　were　going　up　to　the　house；　among　
some　dark　heavy　trees；　when　he　called　after　my　conductor。　‘Hallo！’　

We　looked　back；　and　he　was　standing　at　the　door　of　a　little　
lodge；　where　he　lived；　with　a　pair　of　boots　in　his