Дэвид Копперфильд

I Begin Life on My Own Account, and Don’t Like it

           ‘Wouldyouliketohearitread?’Ifheweaklyshowedtheleastdispositiontohearit,CaptainHopkins,inaloudsonorousvoice,gavehimeverywordofit.TheCaptainwouldhavereadittwentythousandtimes,iftwentythousandpeoplewouldhaveheardhim,onebyone.Irememberacertainlusciousrollhegavetosuchphrasesas‘Thepeople’srepresentativesinParliamentassembled,’‘Yourpetitionersthereforehumblyapproachyourhonourablehouse,’‘HisgraciousMajesty’sunfortunatesubjects,’asifthewordsweresomethingrealinhismouth,anddelicioustotaste;Mr.Micawber,meanwhile,listeningwithalittleofanauthor’svanity,andcontemplating(notseverely)thespikesontheoppositewall.

           AsIwalkedtoandfrodailybetweenSouthwarkandBlackfriars,andloungedaboutatmeal-timesinobscurestreets,thestonesofwhichmay,foranythingIknow,bewornatthismomentbymychildishfeet,Iwonderhowmanyofthesepeoplewerewantinginthecrowdthatusedtocomefilingbeforemeinreviewagain,totheechoofCaptainHopkins’svoice!Whenmythoughtsgoback,now,tothatslowagonyofmyyouth,IwonderhowmuchofthehistoriesIinventedforsuchpeoplehangslikeamistoffancyoverwell-rememberedfacts!WhenItreadtheoldground,IdonotwonderthatIseemtoseeandpity,goingonbeforeme,aninnocentromanticboy,makinghisimaginativeworldoutofsuchstrangeexperiencesandsordidthings!

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