Холодний дім

The Law-Writer

           Tulkinghorn.Itisletoffinsetsofchambersnow,andinthoseshrunkenfragmentsofitsgreatness,lawyerslielikemaggotsinnuts.Butitsroomystaircases,passages,andantechambersstillremain;andevenitspaintedceilings,whereAllegory,inRomanhelmetandcelestiallinen,sprawlsamongbalustradesandpillars,flowers,clouds,andbig-leggedboys,andmakestheheadacheaswouldseemtobeAllegory’sobjectalways,moreorless.Here,amonghismanyboxeslabelledwithtranscendentnames,livesMr.Tulkinghorn,whennotspeechlesslyathomeincountry-houseswherethegreatonesoftheearthareboredtodeath.Hereheisto-day,quietathistable.Anoysteroftheoldschoolwhomnobodycanopen.Likeasheistolookat,soishisapartmentintheduskofthepresentafternoon.Rusty,outofdate,withdrawingfromattention,abletoaffordit.Heavy,broad-backed,old-fashioned,mahogany-and-horsehairchairs,noteasilylifted;obsoletetableswithspindle-legsanddustybaizecovers;presentationprintsoftheholdersofgreattitlesinthelastgenerationorthelastbutone,environhim.AthickanddingyTurkey-carpetmufflesthefloorwherehesits,attendedbytwocandlesinold-fashionedsilvercandlesticksthatgiveaveryinsufficientlighttohislargeroom.Thetitlesonthebacksofhisbookshaveretiredintothebinding;everythingthatcanhavealockhasgotone;nokeyisvisible.Veryfewloosepapersareabout.Hehassomemanuscriptnearhim,butisnotreferringtoit.

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Roboto Lora
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