Дэвид Копперфильд

Mr. Micawber’s Gauntlet

           Itinformedmeofherhusband’shopelessstate,andhintedathisbeing‘alittlenearer’thanheretofore,andconsequentlymoredifficulttomanageforhisowncomfort.Itsaidnothingofherwearinessandwatching,andpraisedhimhighly.Itwaswrittenwithaplain,unaffected,homelypietythatIknewtobegenuine,andendedwith‘mydutytomyeverdarling’meaningmyself.

           WhileIdecipheredit,Steerforthcontinuedtoeatanddrink.

           ‘It’sabadjob,’hesaid,whenIhaddone;‘butthesunsetseveryday,andpeopledieeveryminute,andwemustn’tbescaredbythecommonlot.Ifwefailedtoholdourown,becausethatequalfootatallmen’sdoorswasheardknockingsomewhere,everyobjectinthisworldwouldslipfromus.No!Rideon!Rough-shodifneedbe,smooth-shodifthatwilldo,butrideon!Rideonoverallobstacles,andwintherace!’

           ‘Andwinwhatrace?’saidI.

           ‘Theracethatonehasstartedin,’saidhe.‘Rideon!’

           Inoticed,Iremember,ashepaused,lookingatmewithhishandsomeheadalittlethrownback,andhisglassraisedinhishand,that,thoughthefreshnessofthesea-windwasonhisface,anditwasruddy,thereweretracesinit,madesinceIlastsawit,asifhehadappliedhimselftosomehabitualstrainoftheferventenergywhich,whenroused,wassopassionatelyrousedwithinhim.

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