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Hello and welcome to Storytime for Grown Ups. I'm Faith Moore and this season we're reading David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. Each episode I'll read a few chapters from the book, pausing from time to time to give brief explanations so it's easier to follow along. It's like an audiobook with built in notes. So brew a pot of tea, find a cozy chair and settle in. It's story time. Hello. Welcome back. I am talking to you from the very top floor of my apartment building where my little desk area is and where out my window is probably like a foot foot of snow on my little tiny outdoor deck. So I'm feeling very cozy. I have my cup of tea right next to me here and I am really happy to be with you and excited to be here on this snowy day. Thank you by the way to those of you who came to tea time on Tuesday. It was lovely to get to chat with you and I always love checking in and we always have such fun and interesting conversations. So thank you to those of you who showed up. I really appreciate you being there. I will schedule the next tea time tea time in the next couple of weeks and let you know when I have a date scheduled. It will be somewhere at the end of February. It's usually around the end of the month, so I will keep you updated on that. If you missed this tea time and you'd like to join in the next one, just make sure that you are signed up to be a member of our online community, the Drawing Room. There is a link in the show notes to sign up for that and learn more about it as well. So if you'd like to join us next time, there is plenty of time now to sign up and you can also just explore the drawing room which is really fun. We have a lot of great conversations over there. It's very active and so you will definitely make new friends if you sign up and join us. So thank you to those of you who came to tea time on Tuesday. Okay, so we had a kind of a short chapter last time which means that the intro is going to be a bit short, but we do have a couple of things to talk about and then this is another really long chapter so that actually works out well. So I'm not going to talk too much in the intro. I'm not going to talk too much about your questions though I do have a couple things I want to say and I do have some questions to read but then we'll get into this chapter. So today we're going to be reading chapter seven, and last time we read chapter six. So we're gonna do the recap, the questions, and then we'll get into this long chapter. Before we do all the usual things, please make sure you're subscribed to this show. Please tap the five stars if you're enjoying this show. If you have a couple of extra seconds, please leave a positive review. I read all of them, so they make me happy. So if you want to make me happy, just leave a positive review wherever you're listening. Also, it helps people, people to find the show, which is great because the more people, the merrier. And the more people reading these great books and talking about them, the better the world is going to be. I really do believe that. So please do that if you can. And also tell everyone, tell a friend, tell not friends, tell anyone that you can think of about this show and let them know that they might enjoy it. Send them a link. You can copy a link and then put it in a text message or an email, or you can just have them look it up wherever they listen to their podcasts. And it's great because then you and that person can talk about the book together in real life. It's always great to have real, live people that you can talk about these books with. And also, again, it means more people, more people reading great books. That is the best there. Really. You can't go wrong with more people reading great books. So please do spread the word if you can. All right, let's get into this episode. As I say, last time we read chapter six. So let's just review one what happened, and then we'll go from there. Here is the recap. Okay, so where we left off, Devi finally makes it through the time when the students and the other teachers and everyone are on vacation and everyone starts to come back. The first person who comes is the headmaster, Mr. Creakle, who is this horrible fat man who can only speak in a whisper and uses the man with the wooden leg, whose name turns out to be Tungay, as a kind of interpreter. Mr. Creakle is mean, and we learn that he beats the children and that he isn't even really an educator in the sense that he used to make beer and failed at that. So now he runs a school. So he's a tyrant, essentially. The boys do come back also, and Davey meets Jay Stearforth, who is the oldest and most important boy in the school. He's a kind of selfish, but also sort of likable boy. And he takes Davey under his wing, even though he also kind of makes Davey do things for him. One of the things he makes him do is buy the whole dorm room a feast that they eat in the night. And they all talk together and Davey starts to become one of the groups. Okay, so this time I'm going to read two comments. The first one comes from Elizabeth. Elizabeth says, I'm not sure whether to be happy for Davey or worried. The headmaster seems really weird and pretty intense and like he's going to terrorize the kids, but the kids actually seem pretty nice. And the second one comes from our online community, the Drawing Room. And this person goes by the handle avicjack, he says, so Davie is out of money now. He gave his seven shillings to Steerforth, who suggested hosting a dorm room party with the funds at least, as one might be reasonably surprised by at this point, Steerforth produced the goods and the party was the highlight of the social season. Do you think it was a good use of the funds? Okay, so I totally agree with these comments. I think we're not entirely sure how to feel here at the moment. On the one hand, things are definitely better than we feared that they might be, right? We weren't sure what would happen. But one worry that we had was that the kids were going to come back and totally ostracize Davey because of the stuff sign he had to wear and that he was going to be bullied and he was going to have no friends and be totally miserable. But that is not what happened at all. In fact, it seems like he is actually well on his way to being included by the boys and becoming a part of a friend group. And he seems to have the protection of the oldest, most popular boy. So in that sense, things are looking pretty good. On the other hand, as Elizabeth points out, the guy in charge of this school doesn't seem like exactly the person that you want running your school. Right? And as Havoc Jack points out this whole situation with Steerforth helping Davy to buy all this food for the boys, it's a little bit questionable, although not necessarily malicious. So I think it makes sense to talk a little bit about Mr. Kreakle, the headmaster, and also to try to answer Havoc Jack's question, which is whether or not Davy used his money wisely here, or in other words, was it good that he allowed Steerforth to take his money and buy the food for the dorm? Okay, so let's start with Mr. Creakle. I just love Dickens's descriptions of people, right? He gives you like one paragraph describing someone and you Immediately know whether you're going to like this person or not, whether they're a good guy or not. And you can just picture them. He just like conjures them somehow out of thin air. It's brilliant. Here's the description that we get of Mr. Creakle, the headmaster of Salem House. It says Mr. Creakle's face was fiery and his eyes were small and deep in his head. He had thick veins in his forehead, a little nose and a large chin. He was bald on the top of his head and had some thin, wet looking hair that was just turning grey, brushed across each temple so that the two sides interlaced on his forehead. But the circumstance about him which impressed me most was that he had no voice and spoke in a whisper. The exertion this cost him, or the consciousness of talking in that feeble way, made his angry face so much more angry and his thick veins so much thicker when he spoke that I am not surprised on looking back back at this peculiarity, striking me as his chief one. Okay, so I think it's fair to say that we are not meant to like this guy right up front, right? Like Elizabeth says, he's weird, he's intense. We're told he has an angry face. And this whole thing with the whispering and then the man with the wooden leg sort of repeating everything he says so people can hear it. I mean, it's funny. It's really funny. But there is something sort of strange and ominous about it too. And we're told that he's not even really an educator, right? He just started a school when his other business venture failed. And we're told here is a quote, that he knew nothing himself but the art of slashing, being more ignorant, J. Steerforth said, than the lowest boy in the school. Okay, so the art of slashing means the art of physically punishing the boy. So that's bad. And when Davey asked if he can take the sign off before the boys come back, it looks like Mr. Creakle is going to try to slash him right then and there. Here's what it says. Whether Mr. Creakle was in earnest or whether he only did it to frighten me, I don't know. But he made a burst out of his chair before which I precipitately retreated without waiting for the escort of the man with the wooden leg. And never once stopped until I reached my own bedroom where, finding I was not pursued, I went to bed as it was time and lay quaking for a couple of hours. Okay, so Damie has Now gone from his home, which used to be a place filled with love, but has become a place where the adults are either cruel, in the case of Mr. And Ms. Murdstone, or. Or just too scared to show him any real affection in the case of his mother. And where the only person who still loves him demonstrably and truly is Peggy, who can't actually show him the affection he so needs and deserves. So he's gone from that to a place run by a crazy man who isn't even really an educator. So if we were hoping that he would find some loving adults at this new school to care for him and give him the affection he so desperately needs, it doesn't look like that's going to happen. I mean, there is Mr. Mel, who seems nice, but also weird and doesn't really have any authority anyway. And there's another teacher, Mr. Sharp, who is superior to Mr. Mel, so has more authority, but we don't really know anything about him yet. So the adult supervision at Salem House leaves much to be desired, let's say, as far as we can tell, right? So that's not good, because Davey is very much still a child and very much still in need of the love and care that all children deserve. So he's still not in a great place there. But he does all of a sudden have something that he's never had before, which is friends his own age or around his own age in particular. Last time we met Tommy Traddles, he seems to be a sort of class clown type character. But he also does Davey a real service in that he finds the placard so funny that he turns it into a joke, which causes all the other boys to find it funny and to kind of bring Davey in on the joke. And even though Davey finds that overwhelming at first, and in the end, it's really good for him because it allows the other boys to take notice of him and bring him into the fold in this kind of joking way. So there's Traddles, and then there is Jay Steerforth. And Steerforth is the oldest boy in the school, the most important, the most popular. He is their chosen leader. And Steerforth kind of takes Davey under his wing, right? And he says that the punishment of the placard is essentially wrong and unfair. And since he says that, then that's it. Davy is accepted. The kids are all on his side on the issue of the placard. Here's what we're told. It says, I was not considered as being formally received into the school, however, until J. Steerforth arrived before this boy who was reputed to be a great scholar and was very good looking. And at least half a dozen years my senior, I was carried as before a magistrate. He inquired under a shed in the playground into the particulars of my punishment and was pleased to express his opinion that it was a jolly shame for which I became bound to him ever afterwards. Okay, so Davey gets like the seal of approval from the only boy whose seal of approval matters in the kind of playground hierarchy of the school. So that's good. But then this kind of semi questionable thing happens with the money, because as havoc Jack points out, this thing with taking Davey's money and buying a feast for the dormitory, it looks initially like exactly what the waiter did to Davey, doesn't it? It looks like Stephen Steerforth is sort of pretending that Davey can do whatever he wants with his money and then just kind of suggesting all these things that he should buy. Things that would benefit Steerforth, just coincidentally and the other boys. And Davey has a kind of inkling that this isn't right in some way. Here's what he says. He says with these words, he put the money in his pocket and kindly told me not to make myself uneasy. He would take care. It should be all right. He was as good as his word. If that were all right, which I had a secret misgiving, was nearly all wrong, for I feared it was a waste of my mother's two half crowns. So it looks like Davey is going to be taken advantage of again. But even though this dormitory feast does benefit Steerforth and the other boys, it also benefits Davey in the end because it casts Davey in the light of generous benefactor to the other boys, and it sort of seals the deal on his acceptance into the group. So was it a good use of the funds? I mean, yes, kind of. Right, because these boys are the only friends he's gonna have at this point. And he wants to be included and liked and not ostracized or anything. I mean, this is clearly a sort of kids against the grown ups situation. And the kids clearly have their own kind of hierarchy and system and a code and rules. And being outside of that system would definitely not be good for Davie. So in one sense, Steerforth really guides Davey toward doing the thing that will seal the deal of his inclusion into the group. And he gives Davey the credit for the feast and he shares everything equally. And he's very fair in all of this. So in that sense, Steerforth really is taking Davey under his wing and caring for him. But there is just a little Doubt like Davey feels just a little doubt. There's a little doubt because just like with the waiter, Steerforth is kind of manipulating Davey into spending all his money in one place when he wouldn't necessarily have chosen to do that on his own. So is Steerforth helping Devi? Yes, definitely. Is he also taking advantage of Devi? Maybe also, yes. Right. It kind of remains to be seen, but I think in a situation like this where there's a kind of dangerous and unpredictable grownup in charge, I think having the protection of the oldest and most popular boy is definitely a good thing. And Steerforth at least says that he's going to protect David. Right. Here's what he says. He says, good night, young copperfield. I'll take care of you. Okay, so that bodes well. And he's essentially in. Right. The fact that Traddles laughed at the sign and Steerforth said it was an unfair punishment, and the fact that he gave the dorm room feast and the fact that Steerforth says he'll take care of him, all of this means that he is now an accepted member of this kind of ragtag community of boys, which is something that he has never had before. And it's definitely a good thing. So now what remains to be seen is what it will actually be like for him in the schoolroom now that the boys are back and school is going to be back in session. What's that going to be like with this guy, Mr. Creakle, in charge? So we have to keep reading to find that out. Right? So let's do that. But of course, don't forget to write to me. It's faithkmoore.com and then you click on Contact. Or you can scroll into the show notes and click the link that's there. It's the same link. Get in touch. Ask me your questions. Tell me your thoughts. Tell me what all this brings up for you. I would love to hear from you. All right, let's get started with chapter seven of David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. It's story time. Chapter seven. My first half at Salem House School began in earnest. Next day, a profound impression was made upon me. I remember by the roar of voices in the schoolroom suddenly becoming hushed as death. When Mr. Creakle entered after breakfast and stood in the doorway looking round upon us like a giant in a storybook, surveying his captives. Tungay stood at Mr. Creakle's elbow. He had no occasion, I thought, to cry out silence so ferociously, for the boys were all struck speechless and motionless. Mr. Creakle was seen to speak. And Tange was heard to this effect, meaning Mr. Kreekle whispers so then Tungay translates, and this is what he now, boys, this is a new half, meaning a half term. So this is a segment of time where they'll be at school learning. Take care what you're about in this new half. Come fresh up to the lessons. I advise you, for I come fresh up to the punishment. I won't flinch. It will be of no use your rubbing yourselves. You won't rub the marks out that I shall give you. Now get to work, every boy. When this dreadful exordium was over and hunge had stumped out again, Mr. Creakle came to where I sat and told me that if I were famous for biting, he was famous for biting, too. He then showed me the cane and asked me what I thought of that for a tooth. Was it a sharp tooth? Hey? Was it a double tooth? Hey? Had it a deep prong? Hey? Did it bite? Hey? Did it bite? At every question he gave me a fleshy cut with it that made me writhe. So I was very soon made free of Salem House, as Deerforth said, and was very soon in tears also. Not that I mean to say these were special marks of distinction which only I received. On the contrary, a large majority of the boys, especially the smaller ones, were visited with similar instances of notice. As Mr. Creakle made the round of the schoolroom. Half the establishment was writhing and crying before the day's work began, and how much of it had writhed and cried before the day's work was over, I am really afraid to recollect, lest I should seem to exaggerate. I should think there never can have been a man who enjoyed his profession more than Mr. Creakle did. He had a delight in cutting at the boys, which was like the satisfaction of a craving appetite. I am confident that he couldn't resist a chubby boy. Especially that there was a fascination in such a subject which made him restless in his mind until he had scored and marked him for the day. I was chubby myself and ought to know, I am sure when I think of the fellow now, my blood rises against him with the disinterested indignation I should feel if I could have known all about him without having ever been in his power. But it rises hotly because I know him to have been an incapable brute who had no more right to be possessed of the great trust he held than to be lord high admiral or commander in chief. In either of which capacities it is probable that he would have done infinitely less mischief. Miserable little propitiators of a remorseless idol. How abject we were to him. Okay, so a propitiator is someone who tries to win favor. So he's saying how they all tried to win Mr. Kreakle's favor and would do anything to try not to be beaten. What a launch in life. I think it now, on looking back, to be so mean and servile to a man of such parts and pretensions. Here I sit at the desk again, watching his eye, humbly watching his eye as he rules a ciphering book for another victim, whose hands have just been flattened by that identical ruler and who is trying to wipe the sting out with a pocket handkerchief. I have plenty to do. I don't watch his eye in idleness, but because I am morbidly attracted to it in a dread desire to know what he will do next and whether it will be my turn to suffer or somebody else's. A lane of small boys beyond me with the same interest in his eye watch it, too. I think he knows it, though he pretends he don't. He makes dreadful mouths as he rules the ciphering book. And now he throws his eye sideways down our lane, and we all droop over our books and tremble. A moment afterwards we are again eyeing him. An unhappy culprit found guilty of imperfect exercise approaches at his command. The culprit falters, excuses, and professes a determination to do better tomorrow. Mr. Creakle cuts a joke before he beats him, and we laugh at it. Miserable little dogs, we laugh with our visages as white as ashes and our hearts sinking into our boots. Here I sit at the desk again on a drowsy summer afternoon. A buzz and hum go up around me as if the boys were so many bluebottles. A cloggy sensation of the lukewarm fat of meat is upon me. We dined an hour or two ago, and my head is as heavy as so much lead I would give the world to go to sleep. I sit with my eye on Mr. Creakle, blinking at him like a young owl. When sleep overpowers me for a minute, he still looms through my slumber, ruling those ciphering books, until he softly comes behind me and wakes me to plainer perception of him with a red ridge across my back. Here I am in the playground with my eyes still fascinated by him, though I can't see him. The window, at a little distance from which I know he is having his dinner, stands for him, and I eye that instead. If he shows his face near it. Mine assumes an imploring and submissive expression. If he looks out through the glass, the boldest boy, Steerforth excepted, stops in the middle of a shout or yell and becomes contemplative. One day Traddles, the most unfortunate boy in the world, breaks that window accidentally with a ball. I shudder at this moment with the tremendous sensation of seeing it done and feeling that the ball has bounded onto Mr. Creakle's sacred head. Poor Traddles, in a tight sky blue suit that made his arms and legs like German sausages or roly poly puddings. He was the merriest and most miserable of all the boys. He was always being caned. I think he was caned every day that half year, except one holiday Monday, when he was only rulered on both hands and was always going to write to his uncle about it and never did. After laying his head on the desk for a little while, he would cheer up somehow begin to laugh again and draw skeletons all over his slate before his eyes were dry. I used at first to wonder what comfort Traddles found in drawing skeletons and for some time looked upon him as a sort of hermit who reminded himself by those symbols of mortality that caning couldn't last forever. But I believe he only did it because they were easy and didn't want any features. He was very honorable, Traddles was, and held it as a solemn duty in the boys to stand by one another. He suffered for this on several occasions, and particularly once when Steerforth laughed in church and the Beadle thought it was Traddles and and took him out. So the Beadle is like the local policeman. I see him now, going away in custody, despised by the congregation. He never said who was the real offender, though he smarted for it next day and was imprisoned so many hours that he came forth with a whole churchyard full of skeletons swarming all over his Latin dictionary. But he had his reward. Steerforth said that there was nothing of the sneak in Traddles, and we all felt that to be the highest praise. For my part, I could have gone through a good deal, though I was much less brave than Traddles and nothing like so old to have won such a recompense. To see Steerforth walk to church before us arm in Arm with Ms. Creakle, was one of the great sights of my life. I didn't think Ms. Creakle equal to little Emily in point of beauty, and I didn't love her, I didn't dare. But I thought her a young lady of extraordinary attractions and in point of gentility not to be surpassed. When Steerforth, in white trousers, carried her parasol for her, I felt proud to know him, and believed that she could not choose but adore him with all her heart. Mr. Sharp and Mr. Mel were both notable personages in my eyes, but Steerforth was to them what the sun was to two stars. Steerforth continued his protection of me and proved a very useful friend, since nobody dared to annoy one whom he honoured with his countenance. He couldn't, or at all events he didn't defend me from Mr. Creakle, who was very severe with me. But whenever I had been treated worse than usual, he always told me that I wanted a little of his pluck and that he wouldn't have stood it himself, which I felt he intended for encouragement and considered to be very kind of him. There was one advantage, and only one that I know of, in Mr. Creakle's severity. He found my placard in his way when he came up or down behind the form on which I sat and wanted to make a cut at me in passing. For this reason it was soon taken off and I saw it no more. An accidental circumstance cemented the intimacy between Steerforth and me in a manner that inspired me with great pride and satisfaction, though it sometimes led to inconvenience. It happened on one occasion when he was doing me the honor of talking to me in the playground that I hazarded the observation that something or somebody, I forget what now was like something or somebody in Peregrine Pickle. He said nothing at the time, but when I was going to bed at night, asked me if I had got that book, I told him no, and explained how it was that I had read it and all those other books of which I have made mention. And do you recollect them? Steerforth said. Oh, yes, I replied. I had a good memory and I believed I recollected them very well. Then I'll tell you what, young Copperfield said, Steerforth. You shall tell em to me. I can't get to sleep very early at night, and I generally wake rather early in the morning. We'll go over em one after another. We'll make some regular Arabian Nights of it. I felt extremely flattered by this arrangement, and we commenced carrying it into execution that very evening. What ravages I committed on my favorite authors in the course of my interpretation of them I am not in a condition to say, and should be very unwilling to know, but I had a profound faith in them, and I had, to the best of my belief, a simple, earnest manner of narrating what I did narrate, and these qualities went a long way. The drawback was that I was often sleepy at night or out of spirits, and indisposed to resume the story. And then it was rather hard work, and it must be done, for to disappoint or to displease Steerforth was of course out of the question. In the morning too, when I felt weary and should have enjoyed another hour's repose very much, it was a tiresome thing to be roused like the Sultana Scheherazade and forced into a long story before the getting up bell rang. But Steerforth was resolute, and as he explained to me in return my sums and exercises and anything in my tasks that was too hard for me, I was no loser by the transaction. Let me do myself justice. However, I was moved by no interested or selfish motive, nor was I moved by fear of him. I admired and loved him, and his approval was return enough. It was so precious to me that I look back on these trifles now with an aching heart. Steerforth was considerate too, and showed his consideration in one particular instance in an unflinching manner that was a little tantalizing, I suspect, to to pour traddles and the rest. Peggotty's promised letterwhat a comfortable letter it was, arrived before the half was many weeks old, and with it a cake in a perfect nest of oranges and two bottles of cowslip wine. This treasure, as in duty bound, I laid at the feet of Steerforth and begged him to dispense. Now I'll tell you what, young Copperfield, said he the wine shall be kept to whet your whistle when you are story telling. I blushed at the idea and begged him in my modesty not to think of it. But he said he had observed I was sometimes hoarse. A little rupee was his exact expression, and it should be every drop devoted to the purpose he had mentioned. Accordingly, it was locked up in his box and drawn off by himself in a phial, and administered to me through a piece of quill in the cork when I was supposed to be in want of a restorative. Sometimes, to make it a more sovereign specific, he was so kind as to squeeze orange juice into it, or to stir it up with ginger, or dissolve a peppermint drop in it. And although I cannot assert that the flavor was improved by these experiments, or that it was exactly the compound one would have chosen for a stomachic, the last thing at night and the first thing in the morning. I drank it gratefully and was very sensible of his attention. So a stomachic is something that is supposed to aid your digestion or help your appetite. So he's saying he doesn't think it really helps to put all this weird stuff in the wine, but he's grateful to steer forth and he drank it anyway. We seem to me to have been months over Peregrine, meaning it took months for him to tell Steerforth just this one story and months more over the other stories. The institution never flagged for want of a story, I am certain, and the wine lasted out almost as well as the matter. Poor Traddles. I never think of that boy, but with a strange disposition to laugh and with tears in my eyes was a sort of chorus in general and affected to be convulsed with mirth at the comic parts and to be overcome with fear when there was any passage of an alarming character in the narrative. This rather put me out very often. It was a great jest of his, I recollect, to pretend that he couldn't keep his teeth from chattering whenever mention was made of an alguazil in connection with the adventures of Gil Blas. So an alguazil is a kind of law enforcement officer in Spain. And I remember that when Gil Bias met the captain of the robbers in Madrid, this unlucky joker counterfeited such an ague of terror that he was overheard by Mr. Creakle, who was prowling about the passage and handsomely flogged for disorderly conduct in the bedroom. Whatever I had within me that was romantic and dreamy was encouraged by so much storytelling in the dark. And in that respect the pursuit may not have been very profitable to me, but the being cherished as a kind of plaything in my room and the consciousness that this accomplishment of mine was brooded about among the boys, meaning the boys talk about what a good storyteller Davy is, and attracted a good deal of notice to me, though I was the youngest there stimulated me to exertion in a school carried on by sheer cruelty. Whether it is presided over by a dunce or not, there is not likely to be much learnt. I believe our boys were generally as ignorant a set of any schoolboys in existence. They were too much troubled and knocked about to learn they could no more do that to advantage than anyone can do anything to advantage in a life of constant misfortune, torment, and worry. But my little vanity and Steerforth's help urged me on somehow and without saving me from much, if anything, in the way of punishment, made me, for the time I was there, an exception to the general body, insomuch that I did steadily pick up some crumbs of knowledge. In this I was much assisted by Mr. Mel, who had a liking for me that I am grateful to remember. It always gave me pain to observe that Steerforth treated him with systematic disparagement and seldom lost an occasion of wounding his feelings or inducing others to do so. This troubled me the more for a long time, because I had soon told Steerforth, and from whom I could no more keep such a secret than I could keep a cake or any other tangible possession about the two old women Mr. Mel had taken me to see. And I was always afraid that Steerforth would let it out and twit him with it. Meaning Davey told Steerforth about going to Mr. Mel's mother's house in the alms houses, and he's afraid that Steerforth is going to use it against Mr. Mel. We little thought any one of us. I dare say, when I ate my breakfast that first morning and went to sleep under the shadow of the peacock's feathers to the sound of the flute, what consequences would come of the introduction into those almshouses of my insignificant person? But the visit had its unforeseen consequences, and of a serious sort too, in their way. One day, when Mr. Creakle kept the house from indisposition, meaning he's not feeling well, so he stayed at home, which naturally diffused a lively joy through the school. There was a good deal of noise in the course of the morning's work. Work. The great relief and satisfaction experienced by the boys made them difficult to manage. And though the dreaded Tungay brought his wooden leg in twice or thrice and took notes of the principal offenders names, no great impression was made by it, as they were pretty sure of getting into trouble to morrow do what they would, and thought it wise, no doubt, to enjoy themselves. To day it was properly a half holiday, being Saturday, but as the noise in the playground would have disturbed Mr. Creakle, and the weather was not favourable for going out walking, we were ordered into school in the afternoon and set some lighter tasks than usual which were made for the occasion. It was the day of the week on which Mr. Sharp went out to get his wig curled, so Mr. Mel, who always did the drudgery, whatever it was, kept school by himself. If I could associate the idea of a bull or a bear with anyone so mild as Mr. Mel, I should think of him in connection with that afternoo, when the uproar was at its height, as of one of those animals baited by a thousand dogs, I recall him bending, his aching head supported on his bony hand over the book on his desk and wretchedly endeavoring to get on with his tiresome work amidst an uproar that might have made the speaker of the House of Commons giddy. Boys started in and out of their places, playing at Puss in the Corner with other boys. Puss in the Corner was a children's playground game. There were laughing boys, singing boys, talking boys, dancing boys, howling boys. Boys shuffled with their feet. Boys whirled about him, grinning, making faces, mimicking him behind his back and before his eyes, mimicking his poverty, his boots, his coat, his mother, everything belonging to him that they should have had consideration for. Silence. Cried Mr. Mel, suddenly, rising up and striking his desk with the book. What does this mean? It's impossible to bear it. It's maddening. How can you do it to me, boys? It was my book that he struck his desk with, and as I stood beside him, following his eye as it glanced round the room, I saw the boys all stop, some suddenly surprised, some half afraid, and some sorry. Perhaps Steerforth's place was at the bottom of the school, at the opposite end of the long room. He was lounging with his back against the wall and his hands in his pockets, and looked at Mr. Mel with his mouth shut up as if he were whistling when Mr. Mel looked at him. Silence, Mr. Steerforth, said Mr. Mel. Silence yourself, said Steerforth, turning red. Whom are you talking to? Sit down, said Mr. Mel. Sit down yourself, said Steerforth, and mind your business. There was a titter and some applause, but Mr. Mel was so white that silence immediately succeeded, and one boy who had darted out behind him to imitate his mother again changed his mind and pretended to want a pen mended. If you think, Steerforth, said Mr. Mel, that I am not acquainted with the power you can establish over any mind here he laid his hand without considering what he did, as I supposed upon my head, or that I have not observed you within a few minutes, urging your juniors on to every sort of outrage against me, you are mistaken. I don't give myself the trouble of thinking at all about you, said Steerforth coolly. So I'm not mistaken, as it happens. And when you make use of your position of favouritism. Here, sir, pursued Mr. Mel with his lip trembling very much, to insult a gentleman. What? Where is he? Said Steerforth. Here. Somebody cried out. Shame J. Steerforth Too bad it was traddles who Mr. Mel instantly discomfited by bidding him hold his tongue. To insult one who is not fortunate in life, sir, and who never gave you the least offense and the many reasons for not insulting whom you are old enough and wise enough to understand, said Mr. Mel with his lips trembling more and more. You commit a mean and base action. You can sit down or stand up as you please, sir. Copperfield. Go on, young Copperfield, said Steerforth, coming forward up the room. Stop a bit. I tell you what, Mr. Mel, once for all, when you take the liberty of calling me mean or base or anything of that sort, you are an impudent beggar. You are always a beggar, you know, but when you do that, you're an impudent beggar. So impudent means disrespectful. I am not clear whether he was going to strike Mr. Mel or Mr. Mel was going to strike him, or there was any such intention on either side. I saw a rigidity come upon the whole school as if they had been turned into stone, and found Mr. Creakle in the midst of us, with Tungay at his side and Mrs. And Ms. Creakle looking in at the door as if they were frightened. Mr. Mell, with his elbows on his desk and his face in his hands, sat for some moments quite still. Mr. Mell, said Mr. Creakle, shaking him by the arm, and his whisper was so audible now that Tungay felt it unnecessary to repeat his words. You have not forgotten yourself, I hope? No, sir, no, returned the master, showing his face and shaking his head and rubbing his hands in great agitation. No, sir, no. I have remembered myself. I know, Mr. Creakle. I have not forgotten myself. I have remembered myself, sir. I. I could wish you had remembered me a little sooner, Mr. Creakle. Itit would have been more kind, sir, more just, sir. It would have saved me something, sir. Mr. Creakle, looking hard at Mr. Mel, put his hand on Tungay's shoulder and got his feet upon the form close by and sat upon the desk. After still looking hard at Mr. Mell from his throne, as he shook his head and rubbed his hands and remained in the same state of agitation, Mr. Creakle turned to Steerforth and said, now, sir, as he don't condescend to tell me what is this. Steerforth evaded the question for a little while, looking in scorn and anger on his opponent and remaining silent, I could not help thinking, even in that interval, I remember what a noble fellow he was. In appearance and how Homely and plain Mr. Mel looked opposite to him. What did he mean by talking about favorites, then? Said Steerforth at length. Favorites? Repeated Mr. Creakle, with the veins in his forehead swelling quickly. Who talked about favorites? He did, said Steerforth. And pray, what did you mean by that, sir? Demanded Mr. Creakle, turning angrily on his assistant. I meant Mr. Creakle, he returned in a low voice, as I said that no pupil had a right to avail himself of his position of favoritism. To degrade me. To degrade you? Said Mr. Creakle. My stars. But give me leave to ask you, mister, what's your name? And here Mr. Creakle folded his arms, cane and all, upon his chest, and made such a knot of his brows that his little eyes were hardly visible below them. Whether when you talk about favorites, you showed proper respect to me. To me, sir, said Mr. Creekle, darting his head at him suddenly and drawing it back again. The principle of this establishment and your employer. It was not judicious, sir, I am willing to admit, said Mr. Mel. I should not have done so if I had been cool. Here Steerforth struck in then he said that I was mean, and then he said I was base. And then I called him a beggar. If I had been cool, perhaps I shouldn't have called him a beggar. But I did, and I'm ready to take the consequences of it without considering perhaps, whether there were any consequences to be taken. I felt quite in a glow at this gallant speech. It made an impression on the boys, too, for there was a low stir among them, though no one spoke a word. I am surprised, Steerforth, although your candor does you honor, said Mr. Creakle. Does you honor? Certainly I am surprised, Steerforth. I must say, that you should attach such an epithet to any person important, employed and paid in Salem House, sir. Steerforth gave a short laugh. That is not an answer, sir, said Mr. Creakle, to my remark. I expect more than that from you, Steerforth. If Mr. Mel looked homely in my eyes before the handsome boy, it would be quite impossible to say how homely Mr. Creel looked. Let him deny it, said Steerforth. Deny that he is a beggar, steerforth. Cried Mr. Creakle. Why, where does he go a begging if he is not a beggar himself? His near relation's one, said Steerforth. It's all the same. He glanced at me, and Mr. Mel's hand gently patted me upon the shoulder. I looked up with a flush upon my face and remorse in my heart. But Mr. Mel's eyes were fixed on Steerforth. He continued to pat me kindly on the shoulder, but he looked at him since you expect me, Mr. Creakle, to justify myself, said Steerforth, and to say what I mean. What I have to say is that his mother lives on charity in an almshouse. Mr. Mel still looked at him and still patted me kindly on the shoulder and said to himself in a whisper, if I heard right. Yes, I thought so. Mr. Crickle turned to his assistant with a severe frown and labored politeness. Now you hear what this gentleman says, Mr. Bell. Have the goodness, if you please, to set him right before the assembled school. He is right, sir, without correction, returned Mr. Mel in the midst of a dead silence, what he has said is true. Be so good then, as to declare publicly, will you? Said Mr. Creakle, putting his head on one side and rolling his eyes round the school. Whether it ever came to my knowledge until this moment, I believe not directly, he returned. Why, you know not, said Mr. Creakle, don't you, man? I apprehend you never supposed my worldly circumstances to be very good, replied the assistant. You know what my position is and always has been here. I apprehend, if you come to that, said Mr. Creakle, with his veins swelling again bigger than ever, that you have been in a wrong position altogether and mistook this for a Charity School. Mr. Mel, we'll part if you please. The sooner the better. Meaning Mr. Mel is fired. There is no time, answered Mr. Mel, rising like the present sir to you, said Mr. Creakle. I take my leave of you, Mr. Creakle, and all of you, said Mr. Mel, glancing round the room and again patting me gently on the shoulders. James Steerforth, the best wish I can leave you is that you may come to be ashamed of what you have done to day. At present I would prefer to see you anything rather than a friend to me, or to any one in whom I feel an interest. Once more he laid his hand upon my shoulder, and then, taking his flute and a few books from his desk and leaving the key in it for his successor, he went out of the school with his property under his arm. Mr. Creakle then made a speech through Tungay in which he thanked Steerforth for asserting, though perhaps too warmly, the independence and respectability of Salem House, and which he wound up by shaking hands with Steerforth while we gave three cheers. I did not quite know what for, but I supposed for Steerforth, and so I joined in them ardently, though I felt miserable. Mr. Creakle then caned Tommy Traddles for being discovered in tears instead of cheers on account of Mr. Mills's departure, and went back to his sofa or his bed or wherever he had come from. We were left to ourselves now, and looked very blank, I recollect, on one another. For myself I felt so much self reproach and contrition for my part in what had happened that nothing would have enabled me to keep back my tears but the fear that Steerforth, who often looked at me, I saw, might think it unfriendly, or I should rather say, considering our relative ages and the feeling with which I regarded him undutiful, if I showed the emotion which distressed me. He was very angry with Traddles and said he was glad he had caught it. Poor Traddles, who had passed the stage of lying with his head upon the desk and was relieving himself as usual with a burst of skeletons, said he didn't care Mr. Mel was ill used. Who has ill used him? You, girl, said Steerforth. Why, you have returned, Traddles. What have I done? Said Steerforth. What have you done? Retorted Traddles. Hurt his feelings and lost him his situation. His feelings, repeated Steerforth disdainfully. His feelings will soon get the better of it. I'll be bound his feelings are not like yours, Ms. Traddles. As to his situation, which was a precious one, wasn't it? Do you suppose I'm not going to write home and take care that he gets some money, Polly? We thought this intention very noble in Steerforth. Steerforth, whose mother was a widow and rich and would do almost anything it was said that he asked her. We were all extremely glad to see Traddles so put down and exalted Steerforth to the skies. Especially when he told us, as he condescended to do, that what he had done had been done expressly for us and for our cause, and that he had conferred a great boon upon us by unselfishly doing it. But I must say that when I was going on with a story in the dark that night, Mr. Mel's old flute seemed more than once to sound mournfully in my ears, and that when at last Steerforth was tired and I lay down in my bed, I fancied it playing so sorrowfully somewhere that I was quite wretched. I soon forgot him in the contemplation of Steerforth, who, in an easy amateur way, and without any book, he seemed to me to know everything by heart, took some of his classes until a new master was found meaning. Steerforth took over Mr. Mel's teaching until a new teacher was hired. The new master came from a grammar school and before he entered on his duties, dined in the parlor one day to be introduced to Steerforth. Steerforth approved of him highly and told us he was a brick, meaning he's a great guy without exactly understanding what learned distinction was meant by this. I respected him greatly for it and had no doubt whatever of his superior knowledge, though he never took the pains with me, not that I was anybody that Mr. Mel had taken. There was only one other event in this half year out of the daily school life that made an impression upon me which still survives. It survives for many reasons. One afternoon, when we were all harassed into a state of dire confusion and Mr. Creakle was laying about him dreadfully, Tungay came in and called out in his usual strong way, visitors for Copperfield. A few words were interchanged between him and Mr. Creakle as who the visitors were and what room they were to be shown into. And then I, who had, according to custom, stood up on the announcement being made and felt quite faint with astonishment, was told to go by the back stairs and get a clean frill on before I repaired to the dining room. These orders I obeyed in such a flutter and hurry of my young spirits as I had never known before. And when I got to the parlour door and the thought came into my head that it might be my mother, I had only thought of Mr. Or Ms. Murdstone until thenI drew back my hand from the lock and stopped to have a sob before I went in. At first I saw nobody, but feeling a pressure against the door, I looked round it and there, to my amazement, were Mr. Peggotty and Ham, ducking at me with their hats and squeezing one another against the wall. I could not help laughing, but it was much more in the pleasure of seeing them than at the appearance they made. We shook hands in a very cordial way, and I laughed and laughed until I pulled out my pocket handkerchief and wiped my eyes. Mr. Peggotty, who never shut his mouth once, I remember during the visit, showed great concern when he saw me do this and nudged Ham to say something. Cheer up, Master Davy bore, said Ham in his simpering way. Why, how you have growed. Am I grown? I said, drying my eyes. I was not crying at anything in particular that I know of, but somehow it made me cry to see old friends growed. Master Davy boy, ain't he growed? Said Ham. Ain't he growed? Said Mr. Peggotty. They made Me laugh again by laughing at each other. And then we all three laughed until I was in danger of crying again. Do you know how mamma is, Mr. Peggotty? I said, and how my dear, dear old Peggotty is uncommon? Said Mr. Peggotty, and little Em' Ly and Mrs. Gummidge. Uncommon, said Mr. Peggotty. There was a silence. Mr. Peggotty to relieve it, took two prodigious lobsters and an enormous crab and a large canvas bag of shrimps out of his pockets, and piled them up in Ham's arms. You see, said Mr. Peggotty, knowing how you was partial to a little relish with your wittles when you was along with us, we took the liberty the old mother biled em. She did, Mrs. Gummidge. Biled em? Yes, said Mr. Peggotty slowly, who I thought appeared to stick to the subject on account of having no other subject ready. Mrs. Gummitch, I do assure you she biled em, meaning she boiled them. I expressed my thanks, and Mr. Peggotty, after looking at Ham, who stood smiling sheepishly over the shellfish without making any attempt to help him, said, we come ye see the wind and tide making in our favour, and one of our Yarmouth lugs to Gravesend my sister, she wrote to me the name of this ere place, and wrote to me as if ever I chanced to come to Gravesend, I was to come over and inquire for Master Davy and give her duty, meaning that they would give Davy love from Peggotty, humbly wishing him well, and reporting of the family as they was uncommon, to be sure. Little Um' ly see shall write to my sister when I go back, and as I see you, and as you was similar uncommon, and so we make it quite a merry go rounder. I was obliged to consider a little before I understood what Mr. Peggotty meant by this figure expressive of a complete circle of intelligence, meaning Davey had to figure out what Mr. Peggotty was saying, but then he realized it meant that Mr. Peggotty and Ham would tell Emily that Davey is doing well, and Emily would write to Peggety and tell her so. I then thanked him heartily and said, with a consciousness of reddening, that I supposed little Emily was altered too, since we used to pick up shells and pebbles on the beach. She's getting to be a woman, that's what she's getting to be, said Mr. Peggotty. Ask him. He meant Ham, who beamed with delight and assent over the bag of shrimps, her Pretty Face said Mr. Peggotty with his own shining like a light. Her learnin, said Ham. Her writin, said Mr. Peggotty. Why, it's as black as jet and so large it is, you might see it anywheres. It was perfectly delightful to behold. With what enthusiasm Mr. Peggotty became inspired when he thought of his little favourite. He stands before me again, his bluff, hairy face irradiating with a joyful love and pride for which I can find no description. His honest eyes fire up and sparkle as if their depths were stirred by something bright. His broad chest heaves with pleasure, his strong, loose hands clench themselves in his earnestness, and he emphasizes what he says with a right arm that shows in my pygmy view like a sledge hammer. Ham was quite as earnest as he. I dare say. They would have said much more about her if they had not been abashed by the unexpected coming in of Steerforth, who, seeing me in a corner speaking with two strangers, stopped in a song he was singing and said, I didn't know you were here, young Copperfield, for it was not the usual visiting room, and crossed by us on his way out. I am not sure whether it was in the pride of having such a friend as Steerforth, or in the desire to explain to him how I came to have such a friend as Mr. Peggotty, that I called to him as he was going away. But I said modestly, good heaven, how it all comes back to me this long time afterwards. Don't go, Steerforth, if you please. These are two Yarmouth boatmen, very kind, good people, who are relations of my nurse and have come from Gravesend to see me. Ay, ay, said Steerforth, returning. I am glad to see them. How are you both? There was an ease in his manner, a gay and light manner it was, but not swaggering, which I still believe to have borne a kind of enchantment with it. I still believe him in virtue of this carriage, his animal spirits, his delightful voice, his handsome face and figure, and for aught I know, some inborn power of attraction, besides which I think a few people possess, to have carried a spell with him, to which it was a natural weakness to yield, and which not many persons could withstand. I could not but see how pleased they were with him, and how they seemed to open their hearts to him in a moment. You must let them know at home, if you please, Mr. Peggotty. I said, when that letter is sent, that Mr. Steerforth is very kind to me, and that I don't know what I should ever do Here without him. Nonsense, said Steerforth, laughing. You mustn't tell them anything of the sort. And if Mr. Steerforth ever comes into Norfolk or Suffolk, Mr. Peggotty, I said, while I am there, you may depend upon it. I shall bring him to Yarmouth if he will let me. To see your house? You never saw such a good house, Steerforth. It's made out of a boat. Made out of a boat, is it? Said Steerforth. It's the right sort of a house for such a thorough built boatman. So it is, sir, so it is, said Ham, grinning. You're right, young gentleman, Master Dava boy. Gentleman's right. A thorough built boatman. Ha ha. That's what he is, too. Mr. Peggotty was no less pleased than his nephew, though his modesty forbade him to claim a personal compliment so vociferously. Well, sir, he said, bowing and chuckling and tucking in the ends of his neckerchief at his breast, I thank ye, sir, I thank ye. I do my endeavors in my line of life, sir, the best of men can do. No more. Mr. Peggotty, said Steerforth. He had got his name already. I'll pound it. It's what you do yourself, sir, said Mr. Peggotty, shaking his hand. And what you do well, right well. I thank you, sir. I'm obleeged to you, sir, for your welcome and manner of me. I'm rough, sir, but I'm ruddy. Leastways. I hope I'm ready, you understand. The house ain't much for to see, sir, but it's hearty at your service, if you ever should come along with Master Davy to see it. I'm a regular dodman, I am, said Mr. Peggotty, by which he meant snail, and this was in allusion to his being slow to go, for he had attempted to go after every sentence and had somehow or other come back again. But I wish you both well, and I wish you happy. Ham echoed this sentiment, and we parted with them in the heartiest manner. I was almost tempted that evening to tell Steerforth about pretty little Em', ly, but I was too timid of mentioning her name and too much afraid of his laughing at me. I remember that I thought a good deal, and in an uneasy sort of way about Mr. Peggotty having said that she was getting on to be a woman, but I decided that was nonsense. We transported the shellfish, or the relish, as Mr. Peggotty had modestly called it, up into our room unobserved and made a great supper that evening. But traddles couldn't get happily out of it. He was too unfortunate even to come through a supper like anybody else. He was taken ill in the nightquite, prostrate he was, in consequence of crab, and after being drugged with black draughts and blue pills to an extent which Demple, whose father was a doctor, said was enough to undermine a horse's constitution, received a caning and six chapters of Greek testament for refusing to confess. The rest of the half year is a jumble in my recollection of the daily strife and struggle of our lives, of the waning summer and the changing season, of the frosty mornings when we were wrung out of bed and the cold, cold smell of the dark nights when we were rung into bed again, of the evening schoolroom dimly lighted and indifferently warmed, and the morning schoolroom which was nothing but a great shivering machine, of the alternation of boiled beef with roast beef, beef and boiled mutton with roast mutton, of clods of bread and butter, dog's eared lesson books, cracked slates, tear blotted copybooks, canings, rulerings, hair cuttings, rainy Sundays, suet puddings, and a dirty atmosphere of ink surrounding all. I well remember, though, how the distant idea of the holidays after seeming for an immense time to be a stationary speck, began to come towards us and to grow and grow, how from counting months we came to weeks and then to days, and how I then began to be afraid that I should not be sent for, and when I learnt from Steerforth that I had been sent for and was certainly to go home, had dim forebodings that I might break my leg first, how the breaking up day changed its place fast at last from the week after next to next week, this week, the day after tomorrow, to morrow, today, tonight, when I was inside the Yarmouth Mail, meaning the carriage bound for Yarmouth and going home. I had many a broken sleep inside the Yarmouth Mail and many an incoherent dream of all these things. But when I awoke at intervals, the ground outside the window was not the playground of Salem House and the sound in my ears was not the sound of Mr. Creakle giving it to Traddles, but the sound of the coachman touching up the horses. Foreign. Thank you so much for listening. I'd love to know what you thought of the chapters. Is there anything you'd like me to clarify? Did something particularly interest you? Please go to my website, faithkmore.com click on contact and send me your questions and thoughts. Or you can click on the link in the show notes to contact me. I'll feature one or two of your entries at the start of the next episode. Speaking of links, don't forget to take a look at the other links in the show notes. You can learn more about me, check out our merch store, or become a member of the Storytime for Grown Ups online community. Before I go, I'd like to ask a quick favor. This is an independent podcast. It's produced, recorded, and marketed by me, so I need your help. 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