Дэвид Копперфильд

Absence

           

           Icameintothevalley,astheeveningsunwasshiningontheremoteheightsofsnow,thatcloseditin,likeeternalclouds.Thebasesofthemountainsformingthegorgeinwhichthelittlevillagelay,wererichlygreen;andhighabovethisgentlervegetation,grewforestsofdarkfir,cleavingthewintrysnow-drift,wedge-like,andstemmingtheavalanche.Abovethese,wererangeuponrangeofcraggysteeps,greyrock,brightice,andsmoothverdure-specksofpasture,allgraduallyblendingwiththecrowningsnow.Dottedhereandthereonthemountain’s-side,eachtinydotahome,werelonelywoodencottages,sodwarfedbythetoweringheightsthattheyappearedtoosmallfortoys.Sodideventheclusteredvillageinthevalley,withitswoodenbridgeacrossthestream,wherethestreamtumbledoverbrokenrocks,androaredawayamongthetrees.Inthequietair,therewasasoundofdistantsingingshepherdvoices;but,asonebrighteveningcloudfloatedmidwayalongthemountain’s-side,Icouldalmosthavebelieveditcamefromthere,andwasnotearthlymusic.Allatonce,inthisserenity,greatNaturespoketome;andsoothedmetolaydownmywearyheaduponthegrass,andweepasIhadnotweptyet,sinceDoradied!

           Ihadfoundapacketoflettersawaitingmebutafewminutesbefore,andhadstrolledoutofthevillagetoreadthemwhilemysupperwasmakingready.Otherpacketshadmissedme,andIhadreceivednoneforalongtime.

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