Дэвид Копперфильд

I Am Sent Away from Home

           ‘Do!’

           TheMaster,uponthis,puthishandunderneaththeskirtsofhiscoat,andbroughtouthisfluteinthreepieces,whichhescrewedtogether,andbeganimmediatelytoplay.Myimpressionis,aftermanyyearsofconsideration,thattherenevercanhavebeenanybodyintheworldwhoplayedworse.HemadethemostdismalsoundsIhaveeverheardproducedbyanymeans,naturalorartificial.Idon’tknowwhatthetuneswere—ifthereweresuchthingsintheperformanceatall,whichIdoubt—buttheinfluenceofthestrainuponmewas,first,tomakemethinkofallmysorrowsuntilIcouldhardlykeepmytearsback;thentotakeawaymyappetite;andlastly,tomakemesosleepythatIcouldn’tkeepmyeyesopen.Theybegintocloseagain,andIbegintonod,astherecollectionrisesfreshuponme.Oncemorethelittleroom,withitsopencornercupboard,anditssquare-backedchairs,anditsangularlittlestaircaseleadingtotheroomabove,anditsthreepeacock’sfeathersdisplayedoverthemantelpiece—IrememberwonderingwhenIfirstwentin,whatthatpeacockwouldhavethoughtifhehadknownwhathisfinerywasdoomedtocometo—fadesfrombeforeme,andInod,andsleep.Theflutebecomesinaudible,thewheelsofthecoachareheardinstead,andIamonmyjourney.Thecoachjolts,Iwakewithastart,andtheflutehascomebackagain,andtheMasteratSalemHouseissittingwithhislegscrossed,playingitdolefully,whiletheoldwomanofthehouselooksondelighted.

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