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- Чарльз Диккенс
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"
What
a
watch
to
return
good
for
evil
if
it
ticked
in
answer
,
"
Don
’
t
go
home
!
"
He
passes
out
into
the
streets
and
walks
on
,
with
his
hands
behind
him
,
under
the
shadow
of
the
lofty
houses
,
many
of
whose
mysteries
,
difficulties
,
mortgages
,
delicate
affairs
of
all
kinds
,
are
treasured
up
within
his
old
black
satin
waistcoat
.
He
is
in
the
confidence
of
the
very
bricks
and
mortar
.
The
high
chimney
-
stacks
telegraph
family
secrets
to
him
.
Yet
there
is
not
a
voice
in
a
mile
of
them
to
whisper
,
"
Don
’
t
go
home
!
"
Through
the
stir
and
motion
of
the
commoner
streets
;
through
the
roar
and
jar
of
many
vehicles
,
many
feet
,
many
voices
;
with
the
blazing
shop
-
lights
lighting
him
on
,
the
west
wind
blowing
him
on
,
and
the
crowd
pressing
him
on
,
he
is
pitilessly
urged
upon
his
way
,
and
nothing
meets
him
murmuring
,
"
Don
’
t
go
home
!
"
Arrived
at
last
in
his
dull
room
to
light
his
candles
,
and
look
round
and
up
,
and
see
the
Roman
pointing
from
the
ceiling
,
there
is
no
new
significance
in
the
Roman
’
s
hand
to
-
night
or
in
the
flutter
of
the
attendant
groups
to
give
him
the
late
warning
,
"
Don
’
t
come
here
!
"
It
is
a
moonlight
night
,
but
the
moon
,
being
past
the
full
,
is
only
now
rising
over
the
great
wilderness
of
London
.
The
stars
are
shining
as
they
shone
above
the
turret
-
leads
at
Chesney
Wold
.
This
woman
,
as
he
has
of
late
been
so
accustomed
to
call
her
,
looks
out
upon
them
.
Her
soul
is
turbulent
within
her
;
she
is
sick
at
heart
and
restless
.
The
large
rooms
are
too
cramped
and
close
.
She
cannot
endure
their
restraint
and
will
walk
alone
in
a
neighbouring
garden
.
Too
capricious
and
imperious
in
all
she
does
to
be
the
cause
of
much
surprise
in
those
about
her
as
to
anything
she
does
,
this
woman
,
loosely
muffled
,
goes
out
into
the
moonlight
.
Mercury
attends
with
the
key
.
Having
opened
the
garden
-
gate
,
he
delivers
the
key
into
his
Lady
’
s
hands
at
her
request
and
is
bidden
to
go
back
.
She
will
walk
there
some
time
to
ease
her
aching
head
.
She
may
be
an
hour
,
she
may
be
more
.
She
needs
no
further
escort
.
The
gate
shuts
upon
its
spring
with
a
clash
,
and
he
leaves
her
passing
on
into
the
dark
shade
of
some
trees
.
A
fine
night
,
and
a
bright
large
moon
,
and
multitudes
of
stars
.
Mr
.
Tulkinghorn
,
in
repairing
to
his
cellar
and
in
opening
and
shutting
those
resounding
doors
,
has
to
cross
a
little
prison
-
like
yard
.
He
looks
up
casually
,
thinking
what
a
fine
night
,
what
a
bright
large
moon
,
what
multitudes
of
stars
!
A
quiet
night
,
too
.
A
very
quiet
night
.
When
the
moon
shines
very
brilliantly
,
a
solitude
and
stillness
seem
to
proceed
from
her
that
influence
even
crowded
places
full
of
life
.
Not
only
is
it
a
still
night
on
dusty
high
roads
and
on
hill
-
summits
,
whence
a
wide
expanse
of
country
may
be
seen
in
repose
,
quieter
and
quieter
as
it
spreads
away
into
a
fringe
of
trees
against
the
sky
with
the
grey
ghost
of
a
bloom
upon
them
;
not
only
is
it
a
still
night
in
gardens
and
in
woods
,
and
on
the
river
where
the
water
-
meadows
are
fresh
and
green
,
and
the
stream
sparkles
on
among
pleasant
islands
,
murmuring
weirs
,
and
whispering
rushes
;
not
only
does
the
stillness
attend
it
as
it
flows
where
houses
cluster
thick
,
where
many
bridges
are
reflected
in
it
,
where
wharves
and
shipping
make
it
black
and
awful
,
where
it
winds
from
these
disfigurements
through
marshes
whose
grim
beacons
stand
like
skeletons
washed
ashore
,
where
it
expands
through
the
bolder
region
of
rising
grounds
,
rich
in
cornfield
wind
-
mill
and
steeple
,
and
where
it
mingles
with
the
ever
-
heaving
sea
;
not
only
is
it
a
still
night
on
the
deep
,
and
on
the
shore
where
the
watcher
stands
to
see
the
ship
with
her
spread
wings
cross
the
path
of
light
that
appears
to
be
presented
to
only
him
;
but
even
on
this
stranger
’
s
wilderness
of
London
there
is
some
rest
.
Its
steeples
and
towers
and
its
one
great
dome
grow
more
ethereal
;
its
smoky
house
-
tops
lose
their
grossness
in
the
pale
effulgence
;
the
noises
that
arise
from
the
streets
are
fewer
and
are
softened
,
and
the
footsteps
on
the
pavements
pass
more
tranquilly
away
.
In
these
fields
of
Mr
.
Tulkinghorn
’
s
inhabiting
,
where
the
shepherds
play
on
Chancery
pipes
that
have
no
stop
,
and
keep
their
sheep
in
the
fold
by
hook
and
by
crook
until
they
have
shorn
them
exceeding
close
,
every
noise
is
merged
,
this
moonlight
night
,
into
a
distant
ringing
hum
,
as
if
the
city
were
a
vast
glass
,
vibrating
.
What
’
s
that
?
Who
fired
a
gun
or
pistol
?
Where
was
it
?
The
few
foot
-
passengers
start
,
stop
,
and
stare
about
them
.
Some
windows
and
doors
are
opened
,
and
people
come
out
to
look
.
It
was
a
loud
report
and
echoed
and
rattled
heavily
.
It
shook
one
house
,
or
so
a
man
says
who
was
passing
.
It
has
aroused
all
the
dogs
in
the
neighbourhood
,
who
bark
vehemently
.
Terrified
cats
scamper
across
the
road
.
While
the
dogs
are
yet
barking
and
howling
—
there
is
one
dog
howling
like
a
demon
—
the
church
-
clocks
,
as
if
they
were
startled
too
,
begin
to
strike
.
The
hum
from
the
streets
,
likewise
,
seems
to
swell
into
a
shout
.
But
it
is
soon
over
.
Before
the
last
clock
begins
to
strike
ten
,
there
is
a
lull
.
When
it
has
ceased
,
the
fine
night
,
the
bright
large
moon
,
and
multitudes
of
stars
,
are
left
at
peace
again
.
Has
Mr
.
Tulkinghorn
been
disturbed
?
His
windows
are
dark
and
quiet
,
and
his
door
is
shut
.
It
must
be
something
unusual
indeed
to
bring
him
out
of
his
shell
.
Nothing
is
heard
of
him
,
nothing
is
seen
of
him
.
What
power
of
cannon
might
it
take
to
shake
that
rusty
old
man
out
of
his
immovable
composure
?
For
many
years
the
persistent
Roman
has
been
pointing
,
with
no
particular
meaning
,
from
that
ceiling
.
It
is
not
likely
that
he
has
any
new
meaning
in
him
to
-
night
.
Once
pointing
,
always
pointing
—
like
any
Roman
,
or
even
Briton
,
with
a
single
idea
.
There
he
is
,
no
doubt
,
in
his
impossible
attitude
,
pointing
,
unavailingly
,
all
night
long
.
Moonlight
,
darkness
,
dawn
,
sunrise
,
day
.
There
he
is
still
,
eagerly
pointing
,
and
no
one
minds
him
.
But
a
little
after
the
coming
of
the
day
come
people
to
clean
the
rooms
.
And
either
the
Roman
has
some
new
meaning
in
him
,
not
expressed
before
,
or
the
foremost
of
them
goes
wild
,
for
looking
up
at
his
outstretched
hand
and
looking
down
at
what
is
below
it
,
that
person
shrieks
and
flies
.
The
others
,
looking
in
as
the
first
one
looked
,
shriek
and
fly
too
,
and
there
is
an
alarm
in
the
street
.
What
does
it
mean
?
No
light
is
admitted
into
the
darkened
chamber
,
and
people
unaccustomed
to
it
enter
,
and
treading
softly
but
heavily
,
carry
a
weight
into
the
bedroom
and
lay
it
down
.
There
is
whispering
and
wondering
all
day
,
strict
search
of
every
corner
,
careful
tracing
of
steps
,
and
careful
noting
of
the
disposition
of
every
article
of
furniture
.
All
eyes
look
up
at
the
Roman
,
and
all
voices
murmur
,
"
If
he
could
only
tell
what
he
saw
!
"
He
is
pointing
at
a
table
with
a
bottle
(
nearly
full
of
wine
)
and
a
glass
upon
it
and
two
candles
that
were
blown
out
suddenly
soon
after
being
lighted
.
He
is
pointing
at
an
empty
chair
and
at
a
stain
upon
the
ground
before
it
that
might
be
almost
covered
with
a
hand
.
These
objects
lie
directly
within
his
range
An
excited
imagination
might
suppose
that
there
was
something
in
them
so
terrific
as
to
drive
the
rest
of
the
composition
,
not
only
the
attendant
big
-
legged
boys
,
but
the
clouds
and
flowers
and
pillars
too
—
in
short
,
the
very
body
and
soul
of
Allegory
,
and
all
the
brains
it
has
—
stark
mad
.
It
happens
surely
that
every
one
who
comes
into
the
darkened
room
and
looks
at
these
things
looks
up
at
the
Roman
and
that
he
is
invested
in
all
eyes
with
mystery
and
awe
,
as
if
he
were
a
paralysed
dumb
witness
.
So
it
shall
happen
surely
,
through
many
years
to
come
,
that
ghostly
stories
shall
be
told
of
the
stain
upon
the
floor
,
so
easy
to
be
covered
,
so
hard
to
be
got
out
,
and
that
the
Roman
,
pointing
from
the
ceiling
shall
point
,
so
long
as
dust
and
damp
and
spiders
spare
him
,
with
far
greater
significance
than
he
ever
had
in
Mr
.
Tulkinghorn
’
s
time
,
and
with
a
deadly
meaning
.
For
Mr
.
Tulkinghorn
’
s
time
is
over
for
evermore
,
and
the
Roman
pointed
at
the
murderous
hand
uplifted
against
his
life
,
and
pointed
helplessly
at
him
,
from
night
to
morning
,
lying
face
downward
on
the
floor
,
shot
through
the
heart
.
A
great
annual
occasion
has
come
round
in
the
establishment
of
Mr
.
Matthew
Bagnet
,
otherwise
Lignum
Vitae
,
ex
-
artilleryman
and
present
bassoon
-
player
.
An
occasion
of
feasting
and
festival
.
The
celebration
of
a
birthday
in
the
family
.
It
is
not
Mr
.
Bagnet
’
s
birthday
.
Mr
.
Bagnet
merely
distinguishes
that
epoch
in
the
musical
instrument
business
by
kissing
the
children
with
an
extra
smack
before
breakfast
,
smoking
an
additional
pipe
after
dinner
,
and
wondering
towards
evening
what
his
poor
old
mother
is
thinking
about
it
—
a
subject
of
infinite
speculation
,
and
rendered
so
by
his
mother
having
departed
this
life
twenty
years
.
Some
men
rarely
revert
to
their
father
,
but
seem
,
in
the
bank
-
books
of
their
remembrance
,
to
have
transferred
all
the
stock
of
filial
affection
into
their
mother
’
s
name
.
Mr
.
Bagnet
is
one
of
these
.
Perhaps
his
exalted
appreciation
of
the
merits
of
the
old
girl
causes
him
usually
to
make
the
noun
-
substantive
"
goodness
"
of
the
feminine
gender
.
It
is
not
the
birthday
of
one
of
the
three
children
.
Those
occasions
are
kept
with
some
marks
of
distinction
,
but
they
rarely
overleap
the
bounds
of
happy
returns
and
a
pudding
.
On
young
Woolwich
’
s
last
birthday
,
Mr
.
Bagnet
certainly
did
,
after
observing
on
his
growth
and
general
advancement
,
proceed
,
in
a
moment
of
profound
reflection
on
the
changes
wrought
by
time
,
to
examine
him
in
the
catechism
,
accomplishing
with
extreme
accuracy
the
questions
number
one
and
two
,
"
What
is
your
name
?
"
and
"
Who
gave
you
that
name
?
"
but
there
failing
in
the
exact
precision
of
his
memory
and
substituting
for
number
three
the
question
"
And
how
do
you
like
that
name
?
"
which
he
propounded
with
a
sense
of
its
importance
,
in
itself
so
edifying
and
improving
as
to
give
it
quite
an
orthodox
air
.
This
,
however
,
was
a
speciality
on
that
particular
birthday
,
and
not
a
general
solemnity
.
It
is
the
old
girl
’
s
birthday
,
and
that
is
the
greatest
holiday
and
reddest
-
letter
day
in
Mr
.
Bagnet
’
s
calendar
.
The
auspicious
event
is
always
commemorated
according
to
certain
forms
settled
and
prescribed
by
Mr
.
Bagnet
some
years
since
.
Mr
.
Bagnet
,
being
deeply
convinced
that
to
have
a
pair
of
fowls
for
dinner
is
to
attain
the
highest
pitch
of
imperial
luxury
,
invariably
goes
forth
himself
very
early
in
the
morning
of
this
day
to
buy
a
pair
;
he
is
,
as
invariably
,
taken
in
by
the
vendor
and
installed
in
the
possession
of
the
oldest
inhabitants
of
any
coop
in
Europe
.
Returning
with
these
triumphs
of
toughness
tied
up
in
a
clean
blue
and
white
cotton
handkerchief
(
essential
to
the
arrangements
)
,
he
in
a
casual
manner
invites
Mrs
.
Bagnet
to
declare
at
breakfast
what
she
would
like
for
dinner
.
Mrs
.
Bagnet
,
by
a
coincidence
never
known
to
fail
,
replying
fowls
,
Mr
.
Bagnet
instantly
produces
his
bundle
from
a
place
of
concealment
amidst
general
amazement
and
rejoicing
.
He
further
requires
that
the
old
girl
shall
do
nothing
all
day
long
but
sit
in
her
very
best
gown
and
be
served
by
himself
and
the
young
people
.
As
he
is
not
illustrious
for
his
cookery
,
this
may
be
supposed
to
be
a
matter
of
state
rather
than
enjoyment
on
the
old
girl
’
s
part
,
but
she
keeps
her
state
with
all
imaginable
cheerfulness
.
On
this
present
birthday
,
Mr
.
Bagnet
has
accomplished
the
usual
preliminaries
.
He
has
bought
two
specimens
of
poultry
,
which
,
if
there
be
any
truth
in
adages
,
were
certainly
not
caught
with
chaff
,
to
be
prepared
for
the
spit
;
he
has
amazed
and
rejoiced
the
family
by
their
unlooked
-
for
production
;
he
is
himself
directing
the
roasting
of
the
poultry
;
and
Mrs
.
Bagnet
,
with
her
wholesome
brown
fingers
itching
to
prevent
what
she
sees
going
wrong
,
sits
in
her
gown
of
ceremony
,
an
honoured
guest
.
Quebec
and
Malta
lay
the
cloth
for
dinner
,
while
Woolwich
,
serving
,
as
beseems
him
,
under
his
father
,
keeps
the
fowls
revolving
.
To
these
young
scullions
Mrs
.
Bagnet
occasionally
imparts
a
wink
,
or
a
shake
of
the
head
,
or
a
crooked
face
,
as
they
made
mistakes
.
"
At
half
after
one
.
"
Says
Mr
.
Bagnet
.
"
To
the
minute
.
They
’
ll
be
done
.
"
Mrs
.
Bagnet
,
with
anguish
,
beholds
one
of
them
at
a
standstill
before
the
fire
and
beginning
to
burn
.
"
You
shall
have
a
dinner
,
old
girl
,
"
says
Mr
.
Bagnet
.
"
Fit
for
a
queen
.
"
Mrs
.
Bagnet
shows
her
white
teeth
cheerfully
,
but
to
the
perception
of
her
son
,
betrays
so
much
uneasiness
of
spirit
that
he
is
impelled
by
the
dictates
of
affection
to
ask
her
,
with
his
eyes
,
what
is
the
matter
,
thus
standing
,
with
his
eyes
wide
open
,
more
oblivious
of
the
fowls
than
before
,
and
not
affording
the
least
hope
of
a
return
to
consciousness
.
Fortunately
his
elder
sister
perceives
the
cause
of
the
agitation
in
Mrs
.
Bagnet
’
s
breast
and
with
an
admonitory
poke
recalls
him
.
The
stopped
fowls
going
round
again
,
Mrs
.
Bagnet
closes
her
eyes
in
the
intensity
of
her
relief
.
"
George
will
look
us
up
,
"
says
Mr
.
Bagnet
.
"
At
half
after
four
.
To
the
moment
.
How
many
years
,
old
girl
.
Has
George
looked
us
up
.
This
afternoon
?
"
"
Ah
,
Lignum
,
Lignum
,
as
many
as
make
an
old
woman
of
a
young
one
,
I
begin
to
think
.
Just
about
that
,
and
no
less
,
"
returns
Mrs
.
Bagnet
,
laughing
and
shaking
her
head
.
"
Old
girl
,
"
says
Mr
.
Bagnet
,
"
never
mind
.
You
’
d
be
as
young
as
ever
you
was
.
If
you
wasn
’
t
younger
.
Which
you
are
.
As
everybody
knows
.
"
Quebec
and
Malta
here
exclaim
,
with
clapping
of
hands
,
that
Bluffy
is
sure
to
bring
mother
something
,
and
begin
to
speculate
on
what
it
will
be
.
"
Do
you
know
,
Lignum
,
"
says
Mrs
.
Bagnet
,
casting
a
glance
on
the
table
-
cloth
,
and
winking
"
salt
!
"
at
Malta
with
her
right
eye
,
and
shaking
the
pepper
away
from
Quebec
with
her
head
,
"
I
begin
to
think
George
is
in
the
roving
way
again
.
"
George
,
"
returns
Mr
.
Bagnet
,
"
will
never
desert
.
And
leave
his
old
comrade
.
In
the
lurch
.
Don
’
t
be
afraid
of
it
.
"
"
No
,
Lignum
.
No
.
I
don
’
t
say
he
will
.
I
don
’
t
think
he
will
.
