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- Авторы
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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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- Стр. 755/820
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Surrounded
by
the
rosy
light
,
and
standing
high
upon
the
deck
,
apart
together
,
she
clinging
to
him
,
and
he
holding
her
,
they
solemnly
passed
away
.
The
night
had
fallen
on
the
Kentish
hills
when
we
were
rowed
ashore
—
and
fallen
darkly
upon
me
.
It
was
a
long
and
gloomy
night
that
gathered
on
me
,
haunted
by
the
ghosts
of
many
hopes
,
of
many
dear
remembrances
,
many
errors
,
many
unavailing
sorrows
and
regrets
.
I
went
away
from
England
;
not
knowing
,
even
then
,
how
great
the
shock
was
,
that
I
had
to
bear
.
I
left
all
who
were
dear
to
me
,
and
went
away
;
and
believed
that
I
had
borne
it
,
and
it
was
past
.
As
a
man
upon
a
field
of
battle
will
receive
a
mortal
hurt
,
and
scarcely
know
that
he
is
struck
,
so
I
,
when
I
was
left
alone
with
my
undisciplined
heart
,
had
no
conception
of
the
wound
with
which
it
had
to
strive
.
The
knowledge
came
upon
me
,
not
quickly
,
but
little
by
little
,
and
grain
by
grain
.
The
desolate
feeling
with
which
I
went
abroad
,
deepened
and
widened
hourly
.
At
first
it
was
a
heavy
sense
of
loss
and
sorrow
,
wherein
I
could
distinguish
little
else
.
By
imperceptible
degrees
,
it
became
a
hopeless
consciousness
of
all
that
I
had
lost
—
love
,
friendship
,
interest
;
of
all
that
had
been
shattered
—
my
first
trust
,
my
first
affection
,
the
whole
airy
castle
of
my
life
;
of
all
that
remained
—
a
ruined
blank
and
waste
,
lying
wide
around
me
,
unbroken
,
to
the
dark
horizon
.
If
my
grief
were
selfish
,
I
did
not
know
it
to
be
so
.
I
mourned
for
my
child
-
wife
,
taken
from
her
blooming
world
,
so
young
.
I
mourned
for
him
who
might
have
won
the
love
and
admiration
of
thousands
,
as
he
had
won
mine
long
ago
.
I
mourned
for
the
broken
heart
that
had
found
rest
in
the
stormy
sea
;
and
for
the
wandering
remnants
of
the
simple
home
,
where
I
had
heard
the
night
-
wind
blowing
,
when
I
was
a
child
.
From
the
accumulated
sadness
into
which
I
fell
,
I
had
at
length
no
hope
of
ever
issuing
again
.
I
roamed
from
place
to
place
,
carrying
my
burden
with
me
everywhere
.
I
felt
its
whole
weight
now
;
and
I
drooped
beneath
it
,
and
I
said
in
my
heart
that
it
could
never
be
lightened
.
When
this
despondency
was
at
its
worst
,
I
believed
that
I
should
die
.
Sometimes
,
I
thought
that
I
would
like
to
die
at
home
;
and
actually
turned
back
on
my
road
,
that
I
might
get
there
soon
.
At
other
times
,
I
passed
on
farther
away
,
—
from
city
to
city
,
seeking
I
know
not
what
,
and
trying
to
leave
I
know
not
what
behind
.
It
is
not
in
my
power
to
retrace
,
one
by
one
,
all
the
weary
phases
of
distress
of
mind
through
which
I
passed
.
There
are
some
dreams
that
can
only
be
imperfectly
and
vaguely
described
;
and
when
I
oblige
myself
to
look
back
on
this
time
of
my
life
,
I
seem
to
be
recalling
such
a
dream
.
I
see
myself
passing
on
among
the
novelties
of
foreign
towns
,
palaces
,
cathedrals
,
temples
,
pictures
,
castles
,
tombs
,
fantastic
streets
—
the
old
abiding
places
of
History
and
Fancy
—
as
a
dreamer
might
;
bearing
my
painful
load
through
all
,
and
hardly
conscious
of
the
objects
as
they
fade
before
me
.
Listlessness
to
everything
,
but
brooding
sorrow
,
was
the
night
that
fell
on
my
undisciplined
heart
.
Let
me
look
up
from
it
—
as
at
last
I
did
,
thank
Heaven
!
—
and
from
its
long
,
sad
,
wretched
dream
,
to
dawn
.
