Читаем David Copperfield полностью

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.

I read her letter many times. I wrote to her before I slept. I told her that I had been in sore need of her help; that without her I was not, and I never had been, what she thought me; but that she inspired me to be that, and I would try.

I did try. In three months more, a year would have passed since the beginning of my sorrow. I determined to make no resolutions until the expiration of those three months, but to try. I lived in that valley, and its neighbourhood, all the time.

The three months gone, I resolved to remain away from home for some time longer; to settle myself for the present in Switzerland, which was growing dear to me in the remembrance of that evening; to resume my pen; to work.

I resorted humbly whither Agnes had commended me; I sought out Nature, never sought in vain; and I admitted to my breast the human interest I had lately shrunk from. It was not long, before I had almost as many friends in the valley as in Yarmouth: and when I left it, before the winter set in, for Geneva, and came back in the spring, their cordial greetings had a homely sound to me, although they were not conveyed in English words.

I worked early and late, patiently and hard. I wrote a Story, with a purpose growing, not remotely, out of my experience, and sent it to Traddles, and he arranged for its publication very advantageously for me; and the tidings of my growing reputation began to reach me from travellers whom I encountered by chance.

After some rest and change, I fell to work, in my old ardent way, on a new fancy, which took strong possession of me. As I advanced in the execution of this task, I felt it more and more, and roused my utmost energies to do it well. This was my third work of fiction. It was not half written, when, in an interval of rest, I thought of returning home.

For a long time, though studying and working patiently, I had accustomed myself to robust exercise. My health, severely impaired when I left England, was quite restored. I had seen much. I had been in many countries, and I hope I had improved my store of knowledge.

Перейти на страницу:

Похожие книги

Отверженные
Отверженные

Великий французский писатель Виктор Гюго — один из самых ярких представителей прогрессивно-романтической литературы XIX века. Вот уже более ста лет во всем мире зачитываются его блестящими романами, со сцен театров не сходят его драмы. В данном томе представлен один из лучших романов Гюго — «Отверженные». Это громадная эпопея, представляющая целую энциклопедию французской жизни начала XIX века. Сюжет романа чрезвычайно увлекателен, судьбы его героев удивительно связаны между собой неожиданными и таинственными узами. Его основная идея — это путь от зла к добру, моральное совершенствование как средство преобразования жизни.Перевод под редакцией Анатолия Корнелиевича Виноградова (1931).

Виктор Гюго , Вячеслав Александрович Егоров , Джордж Оливер Смит , Лаванда Риз , Марина Колесова , Оксана Сергеевна Головина

Проза / Классическая проза / Классическая проза ХIX века / Историческая литература / Образование и наука
1984. Скотный двор
1984. Скотный двор

Роман «1984» об опасности тоталитаризма стал одной из самых известных антиутопий XX века, которая стоит в одном ряду с «Мы» Замятина, «О дивный новый мир» Хаксли и «451° по Фаренгейту» Брэдбери.Что будет, если в правящих кругах распространятся идеи фашизма и диктатуры? Каким станет общественный уклад, если власть потребует неуклонного подчинения? К какой катастрофе приведет подобный режим?Повесть-притча «Скотный двор» полна острого сарказма и политической сатиры. Обитатели фермы олицетворяют самые ужасные людские пороки, а сама ферма становится символом тоталитарного общества. Как будут существовать в таком обществе его обитатели – животные, которых поведут на бойню?

Джордж Оруэлл

Классический детектив / Классическая проза / Прочее / Социально-психологическая фантастика / Классическая литература