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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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- Стр. 756/820
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For
many
months
I
travelled
with
this
ever
-
darkening
cloud
upon
my
mind
.
Some
blind
reasons
that
I
had
for
not
returning
home
—
reasons
then
struggling
within
me
,
vainly
,
for
more
distinct
expression
—
kept
me
on
my
pilgrimage
.
Sometimes
,
I
had
proceeded
restlessly
from
place
to
place
,
stopping
nowhere
;
sometimes
,
I
had
lingered
long
in
one
spot
.
I
had
had
no
purpose
,
no
sustaining
soul
within
me
,
anywhere
.
I
was
in
Switzerland
.
I
had
come
out
of
Italy
,
over
one
of
the
great
passes
of
the
Alps
,
and
had
since
wandered
with
a
guide
among
the
by
-
ways
of
the
mountains
.
If
those
awful
solitudes
had
spoken
to
my
heart
,
I
did
not
know
it
.
I
had
found
sublimity
and
wonder
in
the
dread
heights
and
precipices
,
in
the
roaring
torrents
,
and
the
wastes
of
ice
and
snow
;
but
as
yet
,
they
had
taught
me
nothing
else
.
I
came
,
one
evening
before
sunset
,
down
into
a
valley
,
where
I
was
to
rest
.
In
the
course
of
my
descent
to
it
,
by
the
winding
track
along
the
mountain
-
side
,
from
which
I
saw
it
shining
far
below
,
I
think
some
long
-
unwonted
sense
of
beauty
and
tranquillity
,
some
softening
influence
awakened
by
its
peace
,
moved
faintly
in
my
breast
.
I
remember
pausing
once
,
with
a
kind
of
sorrow
that
was
not
all
oppressive
,
not
quite
despairing
.
I
remember
almost
hoping
that
some
better
change
was
possible
within
me
.
I
came
into
the
valley
,
as
the
evening
sun
was
shining
on
the
remote
heights
of
snow
,
that
closed
it
in
,
like
eternal
clouds
.
The
bases
of
the
mountains
forming
the
gorge
in
which
the
little
village
lay
,
were
richly
green
;
and
high
above
this
gentler
vegetation
,
grew
forests
of
dark
fir
,
cleaving
the
wintry
snow
-
drift
,
wedge
-
like
,
and
stemming
the
avalanche
.
Above
these
,
were
range
upon
range
of
craggy
steeps
,
grey
rock
,
bright
ice
,
and
smooth
verdure
-
specks
of
pasture
,
all
gradually
blending
with
the
crowning
snow
.
Dotted
here
and
there
on
the
mountain
’
s
-
side
,
each
tiny
dot
a
home
,
were
lonely
wooden
cottages
,
so
dwarfed
by
the
towering
heights
that
they
appeared
too
small
for
toys
.
So
did
even
the
clustered
village
in
the
valley
,
with
its
wooden
bridge
across
the
stream
,
where
the
stream
tumbled
over
broken
rocks
,
and
roared
away
among
the
trees
.
In
the
quiet
air
,
there
was
a
sound
of
distant
singing
—
shepherd
voices
;
but
,
as
one
bright
evening
cloud
floated
midway
along
the
mountain
’
s
-
side
,
I
could
almost
have
believed
it
came
from
there
,
and
was
not
earthly
music
.
All
at
once
,
in
this
serenity
,
great
Nature
spoke
to
me
;
and
soothed
me
to
lay
down
my
weary
head
upon
the
grass
,
and
weep
as
I
had
not
wept
yet
,
since
Dora
died
!
I
had
found
a
packet
of
letters
awaiting
me
but
a
few
minutes
before
,
and
had
strolled
out
of
the
village
to
read
them
while
my
supper
was
making
ready
.
Other
packets
had
missed
me
,
and
I
had
received
none
for
a
long
time
.
Beyond
a
line
or
two
,
to
say
that
I
was
well
,
and
had
arrived
at
such
a
place
,
I
had
not
had
fortitude
or
constancy
to
write
a
letter
since
I
left
home
.
The
packet
was
in
my
hand
.
I
opened
it
,
and
read
the
writing
of
Agnes
.
She
was
happy
and
useful
,
was
prospering
as
she
had
hoped
.
That
was
all
she
told
me
of
herself
.
The
rest
referred
to
me
.
She
gave
me
no
advice
;
she
urged
no
duty
on
me
;
she
only
told
me
,
in
her
own
fervent
manner
,
what
her
trust
in
me
was
.
She
knew
(
she
said
)
how
such
a
nature
as
mine
would
turn
affliction
to
good
.
She
knew
how
trial
and
emotion
would
exalt
and
strengthen
it
.
She
was
sure
that
in
my
every
purpose
I
should
gain
a
firmer
and
a
higher
tendency
,
through
the
grief
I
had
undergone
.
She
,
who
so
gloried
in
my
fame
,
and
so
looked
forward
to
its
augmentation
,
well
knew
that
I
would
labour
on
.
She
knew
that
in
me
,
sorrow
could
not
be
weakness
,
but
must
be
strength
.
As
the
endurance
of
my
childish
days
had
done
its
part
to
make
me
what
I
was
,
so
greater
calamities
would
nerve
me
on
,
to
be
yet
better
than
I
was
;
and
so
,
as
they
had
taught
me
,
would
I
teach
others
.
She
commended
me
to
God
,
who
had
taken
my
innocent
darling
to
His
rest
;
and
in
her
sisterly
affection
cherished
me
always
,
and
was
always
at
my
side
go
where
I
would
;
proud
of
what
I
had
done
,
but
infinitely
prouder
yet
of
what
I
was
reserved
to
do
.
I
put
the
letter
in
my
breast
,
and
thought
what
had
I
been
an
hour
ago
!
When
I
heard
the
voices
die
away
,
and
saw
the
quiet
evening
cloud
grow
dim
,
and
all
the
colours
in
the
valley
fade
,
and
the
golden
snow
upon
the
mountain
-
tops
become
a
remote
part
of
the
pale
night
sky
,
yet
felt
that
the
night
was
passing
from
my
mind
,
and
all
its
shadows
clearing
,
there
was
no
name
for
the
love
I
bore
her
,
dearer
to
me
,
henceforward
,
than
ever
until
then
.
