DAVID COOPERFIELD BY CHARLES DICKENDS

Following the death of his father, Davids mother, Clara, remarries. She dies soon after, so David is left in the care of his cruel and tyrannical stepfather, Mr. Murdstone, and his just as unpleasant sister, Miss Murdstone.

David runs away and starts to build a life for himself. He continues his studies in Canterbury and finds a job as a clerk in London. He does not like his job but he has a wide range of contacts and friends, among whom the most memorable are the impecunious but lovable Mr. Micawber, and the conniving, greedy riah Heep. He marries Dora, a pretty but silly girl, and launches out on a new career as a writer. !hen Dora dies, he marries his lifelong friend, "gnes, and becomes a successful writer. I Fall into Disgrace
David remembers what his lessons used to be li e when he studied at home in the presence of his mother, Clara, Mr. Murdstone and Miss Murdstone.

Let me remember how it used to be, and bring one morning back again. # come into the second$best parlour% after breakfast, with my books, and an e&ercise$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. )he very sight of these two has such an influence over me, that # begin to feel the words # have been at infinite pains to get into my head, all sliding away, and going # don%t know where. # wonder where they do go, by the by* # hand the first book to my mother. +erhaps it is a grammar, perhaps a history, or geography. # take a last drowning look at the page as # give it into her hand, and start off aloud at a racing pace while # have got it fresh. # trip over a word. Mr. Murdstone looks up. # trip over another word.

Miss Murdstone looks up. # redden, tumble over half$a$do,en words, and stop. # think my mother would show me the book if she dared, but she does not dare, and she says softly%.h, Davy, Davy/% %0ow, Clara,% says Mr. Murdstone, %be firm with the boy. Don%t say, %.h, Davy, Davy/% )hat%s childish. He knows his lesson, or he does not know it.% %He does not know it,% Miss Murdstone interposes awfully. %# am really afraid he does not,% says my mother. %)hen, you see, Clara,% returns Miss Murdstone, % you should just give him the book back, and make him know it.% %1es, certainly,% says my mother2 % that is what # intend to do, my dear 3ane. 0ow, Davy, try once more, and don%t be stupid.% # obey the first clause of the injunction44 by trying once more, but am not so successful with the second, for # am very stupid. # tumble down before # get to the old place, at a point where # was all right before, and stop to think. 5ut # can%t think about the lesson. # think of the number of yards of net in Miss Mudstone6s cap, or of the price of Mr. Mudstone6s dressing gown, or any such ridiculous problem that # have no business with, and don%t want to have anything at all to do with. Mr. Murdstone makes a movement of impatience which # have been e&pecting for a long time. Miss Murdstone does the same. My mother glances submissively a t them, shuts the book, and lays it by as an arrear to be worked out when my other tasks are done. )here is a pile of these arrears very soon, and it swells like a rolling snowball. )he , bigger it gets, the more stupid # get. )he case is so hopeless, and # feel that # am wallowing in such a bog of nonsense, that # give up all idea of getting out, and abandon myself to my fate. )he despairing way in which my mother and # look at each other, as # blunder on is truly melancholy. 5ut 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. "t that instant, Miss Murdstone, who has been lying in wait for nothing else all along, says in a deep warning voice%Clara/%

My mother starts, colours, and smiles faintly. Mr. Murdstone comes out of his chair, takes the book, throws it at me or bo&es74 my ears with it, and turns me out of the room by the shoulders. 8ven when the lessons are done, the worst is yet to happen, in the shape of an appalling sum. )his is invented for me, and delivered to me orally by Mr. Murdstone, and begins, %#f # go into a cheesemonger6s shop, and buy five thousand double$ 9loucester cheeses at fourpence$halfpenny each, present payment% $at which # see Miss Murdstone secretly overjoyed. # pore over these cheeses without any result or enlightenment until dinner$time, when, having made a Mulatto of myself by getting the dirt of the slate into the pores of my skin, # have a slice of bread to help me out with the cheeses, and am considered in disgrace for the rest of the evening. #t seems to me, at this distance of time, as if my unfortunate studies generally took this , course. # could have done very well if # had been without the Murdstones2 but the influence of the Murdstones upon me was like the fascination of two snakes on a wretched young bird. 8ven when # did get through the morning with tolerable credit, there was not much gained but dinner2 for Miss Murdstone never could endure to see me untasked and if # rashly made any show of being unemployed, called her brother%s attention to me by saying, %Clara, my dear, there%s nothing like work$ give your boy an e&ercise%2 which caused me to be clapped down to some new labour, there and then. "s to any recreation with other children of my age, # had very little of that2 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 Disdples(, and held that they contaminated one another. Our Housekeeping
David tells us how his wife, Dora, tried to come to grips with household management.

Dora told me, shortly afterwards, that she was going to be a wonderful housekeeper. "ccordingly, she polished the tablets, pointed the pencil, bought an immense account$book, carefully stitched up with a needle and thread all the leaves of the Cookery 5ook which 3ip had torn, and made :uite a desperate little attempt %to be good%, as she called it. 5ut the

figures had the old obstinate propensity $ they would not add up. !hen she had entered two or three laborious items in the account$book, 3ip would walk over the page, wagging his tail, and smear them all out. Her own little right$hand middle finger got steeped to the very bone in ink2 and # think that was the only decided result obtained. ;ometimes, of an evening, when # was at home and at work$ for # wrote a good deal now, and was beginning in a small way to be known as a writer <# would lay down my pen, and watch my child$wife trying to be good. =irst of all, she would bring out the immense account$book, and lay it down upon the table, with a deep sigh. )hen she would open it at the place where 3ip had made it illegible last night, and call 3ip up, to look at his misdeeds. )his would occasion a diversion in 3ip%s favour, and some inking of his nose, perhaps, as a penalty. )hen she would tell 3ip to lie down on the table instantly, >like a lion%$ which was one of his tricks, though # cannot say the likeness was striking $ and, if he were in an obedient humour, he would obey. )hen she would take up a pen, and begin to write, and find a hair in it. )hen she would take up another pen, and begin to write, and find that it spluttered. )hen she would take up another pen, and begin to write, and say in a low voice, %.h, it%s a talking pen, and will disturb Doady/% "nd then she would give it up as a bad job, and put the account$book away, after pretending to crush the lion with it. .r, if she were in a very sedate and serious state of mind, she would sit down with the tablets, and a little basket of bills and other documents, which looked more like curl$ papers than anything else, and endeavour to get some result out of them. "fter severely comparing one with another, and making entries on the tablets, and blotting them out and counting all the fingers of her left hand overwar and over again,

backwards and forwards, she would be so ve&ed and discouraged, and would look so unhappy, that it gave me pain to see her bright face clouded $and for me/$and # would go softly to her, and say- %!hat%s the matter, Dora*% Dora would look up hopelessly, and reply, %)hey won%t come right. )hey make my head ache so. "nd they won%t do anything # want/% )hen # would say, %0ow let us try together. Let me show you, Dora.% )hen # would commence a practical demonstration, to which Dora would pay profound attention, perhaps for five minutes2 when she would begin to be dreadfully tired, and would lighten the subject by curling my hair, or trying the effect of my face with my shirt$collar turned down. #f # tacitly checked this playfulness, and persisted, she would look so scared and disconsolate, as she became more and more bewildered, that the remembrance of her natural gaiety when # first strayed into her path and of her being my child$wife, would come reproachfully upon me2 and ? would lay the pencil down, and call for the guitar. # had a great deal of work to do, and had many an&ieties, but the same considerations made me keep them to myself. # am far from sure, now, that it was right to do this, but # did it for my child$wife%s sake. # search my breast, and # commit its secrets, if # know them, without any reservation to this paper. )he old unhappy loss or want of something had, # am conscious, some place in my heart2 but not to the embitterment of my life. !hen # walked alone in the fine weather, and thought of the summer days when all the air had been filled with my boyish enchantment, # did miss something of the reali,ation of my dreams2 but # thought it was a softened glory of the +ast, which nothing could have thrown upon the present time. # did feel, sometimes, for a little while, that # could have wished my wife had been my counsellor2 had had more character and purpose, to sustain me and improve me by2 had been endowed with power to fill up the void which somewhere seemed to be about me2 but # felt as if this were an unearthly consummation of my happiness, that never had been meant to be, and never could have been. # was a boyish husband as to years. # had known the softening influence of no other sorrows or e&periences than those recorded in these leaves. #f # did any wrong, as #
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may have done much, # did it in mistaken love, and in my want of wisdom. # write the e&act truth. #t would avail me nothing to e&tenuate it now. )hus it was that # took upon myself the toils and cares of our life, and had no partner in them. !e lived much as before, in reference to our scrambling household arrangements2 but # had got used to those, and Dora $# was pleased to see $ was seldom ve&ed now. ;he was bright and cheerful in the old childish way, loved me dearly, and was happy with her old trifles.