Shall I ever forget those lessons!  They were presided over nominally by my mother, but really by Mr. Murdstone and his sister, who were always present, and the very sight of the Murdstones had such an effect upon me, that every word I had tried to learn would glide away, and go I know not where.  I was treated to so much systematic cruelty that after six months, I became sullen, dull, and dogged, and this feeling was not lessened by the fact that I was more and more shut out from my mother.  I believe I should have been almost stupified but for the small collection of books which had belonged to my own father, and to which I had access.  From that blessed little room, came forth “Roderick Random,” “Peregrine Pickle,” “Tom Jones,” “The Vicar of Wakefield,” “Robinson Crusoe,” “Gil Blas,” and “Don Quixote,”—­a glorious company to sustain me.  They kept alive my fancy, and my hope of something beyond that place and time—­they, and the “Arabian Nights” and “Tales of the Genii,”—­and were my only comfort.

One morning, when I went into the parlour with my books, I found Mr. Murdstone poising a cane in the air, which he had obtained, it seemed, for the purpose of flogging me for any mistake I might make.  My apprehension was so great, that the words of my lessons slipped off by the entire page,—­I made mistake after mistake, failure upon failure,—­and presently Mr. Murdstone rose, taking up the cane, and telling me to follow him.  As he took me out at the door, my mother ran towards us.  Miss Murdstone said, “Clara! are you a perfect fool?” and interfered.  I saw my mother stop her ears then, and I heard her crying.

Mr. Murdstone walked me up to my room, and when we got there suddenly twisted my head under his arm.

“Mr. Murdstone!  Sir!” I cried, “Don’t.  Pray don’t beat me!  I have tried to learn, sir, but I can’t learn while you and Miss Murdstone are by.  I can’t indeed!”

“Can’t you, indeed, David?” he said.  “We’ll try that.”  He had my head as in a vise, but I twined round him somehow, and stopped him for a moment, entreating him again not to beat me.  It was only for a moment though, for he cut me heavily an instant afterwards, and in the same instant I caught the hand with which he held me in my mouth and bit it through.  It sets my teeth on edge to think of it.

He beat me then, as if he would have beaten me to death.  Above all the noise we made, I heard them running up the stairs and crying out—­my mother and Peggotty.  Then he was gone; and the door was locked outside; and I was lying, fevered and hot, and torn, and sore, and raging in my puny way, upon the floor.

How well I recollect, when I became quiet, what an unnatural stillness seemed to reign through the house!  When my passion began to cool, how wicked I began to feel!  My stripes were sore and stiff, and made me cry afresh when I moved, but they were nothing to the guilt I felt.  It lay like lead upon my breast.  For five days I was imprisoned, and of the length of those days I can convey no idea to any one.  They occupy the place of years in my remembrance.  On the fifth night Peggotty came to my door and whispered my name through the keyhole.