Дэвид Копперфильд/David Copperfield (Чарльз Диккенс). Страница 798 из 820

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The

year

came

round

to

Christmas

-

time

,

and

I

had

been

at

home

above

two

months

.

I

had

seen

Agnes

frequently

.

However

loud

the

general

voice

might

be

in

giving

me

encouragement

,

and

however

fervent

the

emotions

and

endeavours

to

which

it

roused

me

,

I

heard

her

lightest

word

of

praise

as

I

heard

nothing

else

.

At

least

once

a

week

,

and

sometimes

oftener

,

I

rode

over

there

,

and

passed

the

evening

.

I

usually

rode

back

at

night

;

for

the

old

unhappy

sense

was

always

hovering

about

me

now

—

most

sorrowfully

when

I

left

her

—

and

I

was

glad

to

be

up

and

out

,

rather

than

wandering

over

the

past

in

weary

wakefulness

or

miserable

dreams

.

I

wore

away

the

longest

part

of

many

wild

sad

nights

,

in

those

rides

;

reviving

,

as

I

went

,

the

thoughts

that

had

occupied

me

in

my

long

absence

.

Or

,

if

I

were

to

say

rather

that

I

listened

to

the

echoes

of

those

thoughts

,

I

should

better

express

the

truth

.

They

spoke

to

me

from

afar

off

.

I

had

put

them

at

a

distance

,

and

accepted

my

inevitable

place

.

When

I

read

to

Agnes

what

I

wrote

;

when

I

saw

her

listening

face

;

moved

her

to

smiles

or

tears

;

and

heard

her

cordial

voice

so

earnest

on

the

shadowy

events

of

that

imaginative

world

in

which

I

lived

;

I

thought

what

a

fate

mine

might

have

been

—

but

only

thought

so

,

as

I

had

thought

after

I

was

married

to

Dora

,

what

I

could

have

wished

my

wife

to

be

.

Отключить рекламу

My

duty

to

Agnes

,

who

loved

me

with

a

love

,

which

,

if

I

disquieted

,

I

wronged

most

selfishly

and

poorly

,

and

could

never

restore

;

my

matured

assurance

that

I

,

who

had

worked

out

my

own

destiny

,

and

won

what

I

had

impetuously

set

my

heart

on

,

had

no

right

to

murmur

,

and

must

bear

;

comprised

what

I

felt

and

what

I

had

learned

.

But

I

loved

her

:

and

now

it

even

became

some

consolation

to

me

,

vaguely

to

conceive

a

distant

day

when

I

might

blamelessly

avow

it

;

when

all

this

should

be

over

;

when

I

could

say

‘

Agnes

,

so

it

was

when

I

came

home

;

and

now

I

am

old

,

and

I

never

have

loved

since

!

’

She

did

not

once

show

me

any

change

in

herself

.

What

she

always

had

been

to

me

,

she

still

was

;

wholly

unaltered

.

Between

my

aunt

and

me

there

had

been

something

,

in

this

connexion

,

since

the

night

of

my

return

,

which

I

cannot

call

a

restraint

,

or

an

avoidance

of

the

subject

,

so

much

as

an

implied

understanding

that

we

thought

of

it

together

,

but

did

not

shape

our

thoughts

into

words

.

When

,

according

to

our

old

custom

,

we

sat

before

the

fire

at

night

,

we

often

fell

into

this

train

;

as

naturally

,

and

as

consciously

to

each

other

,

as

if

we

had

unreservedly

said

so

.

But

we

preserved

an

unbroken

silence

.

I

believed

that

she

had

read

,

or

partly

read

,

my

thoughts

that

night

;

and

that

she

fully

comprehended

why

I

gave

mine

no

more

distinct

expression

.

This

Christmas

-

time

being

come

,

and

Agnes

having

reposed

no

new

confidence

in

me

,

a

doubt

that

had

several

times

arisen

in

my

mind

-

whether

she

could

have

that

perception

of

the

true

state

of

my

breast

,

which

restrained

her

with

the

apprehension

of

giving

me

pain

—

began

to

oppress

me

heavily

.

If

that

were

so

,

my

sacrifice

was

nothing

;

my

plainest

obligation

to

her

unfulfilled

;

and

every

poor

action

I

had

shrunk

from

,

I

was

hourly

doing

.

I

resolved

to

set

this

right

beyond

all

doubt

;

—

if

such

a

barrier

were

between

us

,

to

break

it

down

at

once

with

a

determined

hand

.

Отключить рекламу

It

was

—

what

lasting

reason

have

I

to

remember

it

!

—

a

cold

,

harsh

,

winter

day

.

There

had

been

snow

,

some

hours

before

;

and

it

lay

,

not

deep

,

but

hard

-

frozen

on

the

ground

.

Out

at

sea

,

beyond

my

window

,

the

wind

blew

ruggedly

from

the

north

.

I

had

been

thinking

of

it

,

sweeping

over

those

mountain

wastes

of

snow

in

Switzerland

,

then

inaccessible

to

any

human

foot

;

and

had

been

speculating

which

was

the

lonelier

,

those

solitary

regions

,

or

a

deserted

ocean

.

‘

Riding

today

,

Trot

?

’

said

my

aunt

,

putting

her

head

in

at

the

door

.

‘

Yes

,

’

said

I

,

‘

I

am

going

over

to

Canterbury

.

It

’

s

a

good

day

for

a

ride

.

’

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