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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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- Стр. 576/820
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‘
You
will
picture
to
yourself
,
my
dear
Mr
.
Copperfield
,
what
the
poignancy
of
my
feelings
must
be
,
when
I
inform
you
that
Mr
.
Micawber
is
entirely
changed
.
He
is
reserved
.
He
is
secret
.
His
life
is
a
mystery
to
the
partner
of
his
joys
and
sorrows
—
I
again
allude
to
his
wife
—
and
if
I
should
assure
you
that
beyond
knowing
that
it
is
passed
from
morning
to
night
at
the
office
,
I
now
know
less
of
it
than
I
do
of
the
man
in
the
south
,
connected
with
whose
mouth
the
thoughtless
children
repeat
an
idle
tale
respecting
cold
plum
porridge
,
I
should
adopt
a
popular
fallacy
to
express
an
actual
fact
.
‘
But
this
is
not
all
.
Mr
.
Micawber
is
morose
.
He
is
severe
.
He
is
estranged
from
our
eldest
son
and
daughter
,
he
has
no
pride
in
his
twins
,
he
looks
with
an
eye
of
coldness
even
on
the
unoffending
stranger
who
last
became
a
member
of
our
circle
.
The
pecuniary
means
of
meeting
our
expenses
,
kept
down
to
the
utmost
farthing
,
are
obtained
from
him
with
great
difficulty
,
and
even
under
fearful
threats
that
he
will
Settle
himself
(
the
exact
expression
)
;
and
he
inexorably
refuses
to
give
any
explanation
whatever
of
this
distracting
policy
.
‘
This
is
hard
to
bear
This
is
heart
-
breaking
.
If
you
will
advise
me
,
knowing
my
feeble
powers
such
as
they
are
,
how
you
think
it
will
be
best
to
exert
them
in
a
dilemma
so
unwonted
,
you
will
add
another
friendly
obligation
to
the
many
you
have
already
rendered
me
.
With
loves
from
the
children
,
and
a
smile
from
the
happily
-
unconscious
stranger
,
I
remain
,
dear
Mr
.
Copperfield
,
Your
afflicted
,
‘
EMMA
MICAWBER
.
’
I
did
not
feel
justified
in
giving
a
wife
of
Mrs
.
Micawber
’
s
experience
any
other
recommendation
,
than
that
she
should
try
to
reclaim
Mr
.
Micawber
by
patience
and
kindness
(
as
I
knew
she
would
in
any
case
)
;
but
the
letter
set
me
thinking
about
him
very
much
.
Once
again
,
let
me
pause
upon
a
memorable
period
of
my
life
.
Let
me
stand
aside
,
to
see
the
phantoms
of
those
days
go
by
me
,
accompanying
the
shadow
of
myself
,
in
dim
procession
.
Weeks
,
months
,
seasons
,
pass
along
.
They
seem
little
more
than
a
summer
day
and
a
winter
evening
.
Now
,
the
Common
where
I
walk
with
Dora
is
all
in
bloom
,
a
field
of
bright
gold
;
and
now
the
unseen
heather
lies
in
mounds
and
bunches
underneath
a
covering
of
snow
.
In
a
breath
,
the
river
that
flows
through
our
Sunday
walks
is
sparkling
in
the
summer
sun
,
is
ruffled
by
the
winter
wind
,
or
thickened
with
drifting
heaps
of
ice
.
Faster
than
ever
river
ran
towards
the
sea
,
it
flashes
,
darkens
,
and
rolls
away
.
Not
a
thread
changes
,
in
the
house
of
the
two
little
bird
-
like
ladies
.
The
clock
ticks
over
the
fireplace
,
the
weather
-
glass
hangs
in
the
hall
.
Neither
clock
nor
weather
-
glass
is
ever
right
;
but
we
believe
in
both
,
devoutly
.
