Риф, или Там, где разбивается счастье

X

           

           Herethepoorlady,elegantlydressed,andseatedinthemiddleofalargelonelycanvas,intheblankcontemplationofagiltconsole,hadalwaysseemedtoAnnatobewaitingforvisitorswhonevercame.

           “Ofcoursetheynevercame,youpoorthing!Iwonderhowlongittookyoutofindoutthattheyneverwould?”Annahadmorethanonceapostrophizedher,withaderisionaddressedrathertoherselfthantothedead;butitwasonlyafterEffie’sbirththatitoccurredtohertostudymorecloselythefaceinthepicture,andspeculateonthekindofvisitorsthatOwen’smothermighthavehopedfor.

           “Shecertainlydoesn’tlookasiftheywouldhavebeenthesamekindasmine:butthere’snotelling,fromaportraitthatwassoobviouslydone‘topleasethefamily’,andthatleavesOwensounaccountedfor.Well,theynevercame,thevisitors;theynevercame;andshediedofit.Shediedofitlongbeforetheyburiedher:I’mcertainofthat.Thosearestone-deadeyesinthepicture....Thelonelinessmusthavebeenawful,ifevenOwencouldn’tkeepherfromdyingofit.Andtofeelitsoshemusthavehadfeelings—realliveones,thekindthattwitchandtug.Andallshehadtolookatallherlifewasagiltconsole—yes,that’sit,agiltconsolescrewedtothewall!That’sexactlyandabsolutelywhatheis!”

           Shedidnotmean,ifshecouldhelpit,thateitherEffieorOwenshouldknowthatloneliness,orletherknowitagain.

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