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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Крошка Доррит
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- Стр. 432/761
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With
a
remembrance
of
her
father
’
s
old
life
in
prison
hanging
about
her
like
the
burden
of
a
sorrowful
tune
,
Little
Dorrit
would
wake
from
a
dream
of
her
birth
-
place
into
a
whole
day
’
s
dream
.
The
painted
room
in
which
she
awoke
,
often
a
humbled
state
-
chamber
in
a
dilapidated
palace
,
would
begin
it
;
with
its
wild
red
autumnal
vine
-
leaves
overhanging
the
glass
,
its
orange
-
trees
on
the
cracked
white
terrace
outside
the
window
,
a
group
of
monks
and
peasants
in
the
little
street
below
,
misery
and
magnificence
wrestling
with
each
other
upon
every
rood
of
ground
in
the
prospect
,
no
matter
how
widely
diversified
,
and
misery
throwing
magnificence
with
the
strength
of
fate
.
To
this
would
succeed
a
labyrinth
of
bare
passages
and
pillared
galleries
,
with
the
family
procession
already
preparing
in
the
quadrangle
below
,
through
the
carriages
and
luggage
being
brought
together
by
the
servants
for
the
day
’
s
journey
.
Then
breakfast
in
another
painted
chamber
,
damp
-
stained
and
of
desolate
proportions
;
and
then
the
departure
,
which
,
to
her
timidity
and
sense
of
not
being
grand
enough
for
her
place
in
the
ceremonies
,
was
always
an
uneasy
thing
.
For
then
the
courier
(
who
himself
would
have
been
a
foreign
gentleman
of
high
mark
in
the
Marshalsea
)
would
present
himself
to
report
that
all
was
ready
;
and
then
her
father
’
s
valet
would
pompously
induct
him
into
his
travelling
-
cloak
;
and
then
Fanny
’
s
maid
,
and
her
own
maid
(
who
was
a
weight
on
Little
Dorrit
’
s
mind
—
absolutely
made
her
cry
at
first
,
she
knew
so
little
what
to
do
with
her
)
,
would
be
in
attendance
;
and
then
her
brother
’
s
man
would
complete
his
master
’
s
equipment
;
and
then
her
father
would
give
his
arm
to
Mrs
General
,
and
her
uncle
would
give
his
to
her
,
and
,
escorted
by
the
landlord
and
Inn
servants
,
they
would
swoop
down
-
stairs
.
There
,
a
crowd
would
be
collected
to
see
them
enter
their
carriages
,
which
,
amidst
much
bowing
,
and
begging
,
and
prancing
,
and
lashing
,
and
clattering
,
they
would
do
;
and
so
they
would
be
driven
madly
through
narrow
unsavoury
streets
,
and
jerked
out
at
the
town
gate
.
Among
the
day
’
s
unrealities
would
be
roads
where
the
bright
red
vines
were
looped
and
garlanded
together
on
trees
for
many
miles
;
woods
of
olives
;
white
villages
and
towns
on
hill
-
sides
,
lovely
without
,
but
frightful
in
their
dirt
and
poverty
within
;
crosses
by
the
way
;
deep
blue
lakes
with
fairy
islands
,
and
clustering
boats
with
awnings
of
bright
colours
and
sails
of
beautiful
forms
;
vast
piles
of
building
mouldering
to
dust
;
hanging
-
gardens
where
the
weeds
had
grown
so
strong
that
their
stems
,
like
wedges
driven
home
,
had
split
the
arch
and
rent
the
wall
;
stone
-
terraced
lanes
,
with
the
lizards
running
into
and
out
of
every
chink
;
beggars
of
all
sorts
everywhere
:
pitiful
,
picturesque
,
hungry
,
merry
;
children
beggars
and
aged
beggars
.
Often
at
posting
-
houses
and
other
halting
places
,
these
miserable
creatures
would
appear
to
her
the
only
realities
of
the
day
;
and
many
a
time
,
when
the
money
she
had
brought
to
give
them
was
all
given
away
,
she
would
sit
with
her
folded
hands
,
thoughtfully
looking
after
some
diminutive
girl
leading
her
grey
father
,
as
if
the
sight
reminded
her
of
something
in
the
days
that
were
gone
.
Again
,
there
would
be
places
where
they
stayed
the
week
together
in
splendid
rooms
,
had
banquets
every
day
,
rode
out
among
heaps
of
wonders
,
walked
through
miles
of
palaces
,
and
rested
in
dark
corners
of
great
churches
;
where
there
were
winking
lamps
of
gold
and
silver
among
pillars
and
arches
,
kneeling
figures
dotted
about
at
confessionals
and
on
the
pavements
;
where
there
was
the
mist
and
scent
of
incense
;
where
there
were
pictures
,
fantastic
images
,
gaudy
altars
,
great
heights
and
distances
,
all
softly
lighted
through
stained
glass
,
and
the
massive
curtains
that
hung
in
the
doorways
.
From
these
cities
they
would
go
on
again
,
by
the
roads
of
vines
and
olives
,
through
squalid
villages
,
where
there
was
not
a
hovel
without
a
gap
in
its
filthy
walls
,
not
a
window
with
a
whole
inch
of
glass
or
paper
;
where
there
seemed
to
be
nothing
to
support
life
,
nothing
to
eat
,
nothing
to
make
,
nothing
to
grow
,
nothing
to
hope
,
nothing
to
do
but
die
.
Again
they
would
come
to
whole
towns
of
palaces
,
whose
proper
inmates
were
all
banished
,
and
which
were
all
changed
into
barracks
:
troops
of
idle
soldiers
leaning
out
of
the
state
windows
,
where
their
accoutrements
hung
drying
on
the
marble
architecture
,
and
showing
to
the
mind
like
hosts
of
rats
who
were
(
happily
)
eating
away
the
props
of
the
edifices
that
supported
them
,
and
must
soon
,
with
them
,
be
smashed
on
the
heads
of
the
other
swarms
of
soldiers
and
the
swarms
of
priests
,
and
the
swarms
of
spies
,
who
were
all
the
ill
-
looking
population
left
to
be
ruined
,
in
the
streets
below
.
Through
such
scenes
,
the
family
procession
moved
on
to
Venice
.
And
here
it
dispersed
for
a
time
,
as
they
were
to
live
in
Venice
some
few
months
in
a
palace
(
itself
six
times
as
big
as
the
whole
Marshalsea
)
on
the
Grand
Canal
.
In
this
crowning
unreality
,
where
all
the
streets
were
paved
with
water
,
and
where
the
deathlike
stillness
of
the
days
and
nights
was
broken
by
no
sound
but
the
softened
ringing
of
church
-
bells
,
the
rippling
of
the
current
,
and
the
cry
of
the
gondoliers
turning
the
corners
of
the
flowing
streets
,
Little
Dorrit
,
quite
lost
by
her
task
being
done
,
sat
down
to
muse
.
The
family
began
a
gay
life
,
went
here
and
there
,
and
turned
night
into
day
;
but
she
was
timid
of
joining
in
their
gaieties
,
and
only
asked
leave
to
be
left
alone
.
Sometimes
she
would
step
into
one
of
the
gondolas
that
were
always
kept
in
waiting
,
moored
to
painted
posts
at
the
door
—
when
she
could
escape
from
the
attendance
of
that
oppressive
maid
,
who
was
her
mistress
,
and
a
very
hard
one
—
and
would
be
taken
all
over
the
strange
city
.
Social
people
in
other
gondolas
began
to
ask
each
other
who
the
little
solitary
girl
was
whom
they
passed
,
sitting
in
her
boat
with
folded
hands
,
looking
so
pensively
and
wonderingly
about
her
.
Never
thinking
that
it
would
be
worth
anybody
’
s
while
to
notice
her
or
her
doings
,
Little
Dorrit
,
in
her
quiet
,
scared
,
lost
manner
,
went
about
the
city
none
the
less
.
But
her
favourite
station
was
the
balcony
of
her
own
room
,
overhanging
the
canal
,
with
other
balconies
below
,
and
none
above
.
