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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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- Стр. 74/820
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The
Master
,
upon
this
,
put
his
hand
underneath
the
skirts
of
his
coat
,
and
brought
out
his
flute
in
three
pieces
,
which
he
screwed
together
,
and
began
immediately
to
play
.
My
impression
is
,
after
many
years
of
consideration
,
that
there
never
can
have
been
anybody
in
the
world
who
played
worse
.
He
made
the
most
dismal
sounds
I
have
ever
heard
produced
by
any
means
,
natural
or
artificial
.
I
don
’
t
know
what
the
tunes
were
—
if
there
were
such
things
in
the
performance
at
all
,
which
I
doubt
—
but
the
influence
of
the
strain
upon
me
was
,
first
,
to
make
me
think
of
all
my
sorrows
until
I
could
hardly
keep
my
tears
back
;
then
to
take
away
my
appetite
;
and
lastly
,
to
make
me
so
sleepy
that
I
couldn
’
t
keep
my
eyes
open
.
They
begin
to
close
again
,
and
I
begin
to
nod
,
as
the
recollection
rises
fresh
upon
me
.
Once
more
the
little
room
,
with
its
open
corner
cupboard
,
and
its
square
-
backed
chairs
,
and
its
angular
little
staircase
leading
to
the
room
above
,
and
its
three
peacock
’
s
feathers
displayed
over
the
mantelpiece
—
I
remember
wondering
when
I
first
went
in
,
what
that
peacock
would
have
thought
if
he
had
known
what
his
finery
was
doomed
to
come
to
—
fades
from
before
me
,
and
I
nod
,
and
sleep
.
The
flute
becomes
inaudible
,
the
wheels
of
the
coach
are
heard
instead
,
and
I
am
on
my
journey
.
The
coach
jolts
,
I
wake
with
a
start
,
and
the
flute
has
come
back
again
,
and
the
Master
at
Salem
House
is
sitting
with
his
legs
crossed
,
playing
it
dolefully
,
while
the
old
woman
of
the
house
looks
on
delighted
.
She
fades
in
her
turn
,
and
he
fades
,
and
all
fades
,
and
there
is
no
flute
,
no
Master
,
no
Salem
House
,
no
David
Copperfield
,
no
anything
but
heavy
sleep
.
I
dreamed
,
I
thought
,
that
once
while
he
was
blowing
into
this
dismal
flute
,
the
old
woman
of
the
house
,
who
had
gone
nearer
and
nearer
to
him
in
her
ecstatic
admiration
,
leaned
over
the
back
of
his
chair
and
gave
him
an
affectionate
squeeze
round
the
neck
,
which
stopped
his
playing
for
a
moment
.
I
was
in
the
middle
state
between
sleeping
and
waking
,
either
then
or
immediately
afterwards
;
for
,
as
he
resumed
—
it
was
a
real
fact
that
he
had
stopped
playing
-
I
saw
and
heard
the
same
old
woman
ask
Mrs
.
Fibbitson
if
it
wasn
’
t
delicious
(
meaning
the
flute
)
,
to
which
Mrs
.
Fibbitson
replied
,
‘
Ay
,
ay
!
yes
!
’
and
nodded
at
the
fire
:
to
which
,
I
am
persuaded
,
she
gave
the
credit
of
the
whole
performance
.
When
I
seemed
to
have
been
dozing
a
long
while
,
the
Master
at
Salem
House
unscrewed
his
flute
into
the
three
pieces
,
put
them
up
as
before
,
and
took
me
away
.
We
found
the
coach
very
near
at
hand
,
and
got
upon
the
roof
;
but
I
was
so
dead
sleepy
,
that
when
we
stopped
on
the
road
to
take
up
somebody
else
,
they
put
me
inside
where
there
were
no
passengers
,
and
where
I
slept
profoundly
,
until
I
found
the
coach
going
at
a
footpace
up
a
steep
hill
among
green
leaves
.
Presently
,
it
stopped
,
and
had
come
to
its
destination
.
A
short
walk
brought
us
—
I
mean
the
Master
and
me
—
to
Salem
House
,
which
was
enclosed
with
a
high
brick
wall
,
and
looked
very
dull
.
Over
a
door
in
this
wall
was
a
board
with
SALEM
HOUSE
upon
it
;
and
through
a
grating
in
this
door
we
were
surveyed
when
we
rang
the
bell
by
a
surly
face
,
which
I
found
,
on
the
door
being
opened
,
belonged
to
a
stout
man
with
a
bull
-
neck
,
a
wooden
leg
,
overhanging
temples
,
and
his
hair
cut
close
all
round
his
head
.
‘
The
new
boy
,
’
said
the
Master
.
The
man
with
the
wooden
leg
eyed
me
all
over
—
it
didn
’
t
take
long
,
for
there
was
not
much
of
me
—
and
locked
the
gate
behind
us
,
and
took
out
the
key
.
We
were
going
up
to
the
house
,
among
some
dark
heavy
trees
,
when
he
called
after
my
conductor
.
‘
Hallo
!
’
We
looked
back
,
and
he
was
standing
at
the
door
of
a
little
lodge
,
where
he
lived
,
with
a
pair
of
boots
in
his
hand
.
‘
Here
!
The
cobbler
’
s
been
,
’
he
said
,
‘
since
you
’
ve
been
out
,
Mr
.
Mell
,
and
he
says
he
can
’
t
mend
‘
em
any
more
.
He
says
there
ain
’
t
a
bit
of
the
original
boot
left
,
and
he
wonders
you
expect
it
.
’
