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Charles Dickens
Great Expectations

GREAT EXPECTATIONS

© Translation. M. Laurie, heirs, 2014

© AST Publishing House LLC, 2014

Chapter I

My father's surname was Pirrip, I was given the name Philip at baptism, and since from both my infant tongue could not form anything more intelligible than Pip, I called myself Pip, and then everyone began to call me that.

I know for certain that my father was named Pirrip from the inscription on his tombstone, and also from the words of my sister Mrs. Jo Gargery, who married a blacksmith. Because I had never seen either my father or my mother, or any portraits of them (photography was unheard of in those days), my first idea of ​​my parents was strangely associated with their gravestones. For some reason, based on the shape of the letters on my father’s grave, I decided that he was thick-set and broad-shouldered, dark-skinned, with black curly hair. The inscription “And also Georgiana, wife of the above” evoked in my childhood imagination the image of my mother - a frail, freckled woman. Carefully placed in a row near their grave, five narrow stone tombstones, each a foot and a half long, under which rested five of my little brothers, who early gave up trying to survive in the general struggle, gave rise to the firm belief in me that they were all born lying on their backs and hiding his hands in the pockets of his pants, from where he did not take them out during his entire stay on earth.

We lived in a swampy area near a large river, twenty miles from its confluence with the sea. Probably, I received my first conscious impression of the wide world around me on one memorable winter day, already in the evening. It was then that it first became clear to me that this sad place, surrounded by a fence and thickly overgrown with nettles, was a cemetery; that Philip Pirrip, a resident of this parish, and Georgiana, the wife of the above, died and were buried; that their young sons, the infants Alexander, Bartholomew, Abraham, Tobias and Roger, also died and were buried; that the flat dark distance beyond the fence, all cut up by dams, dams and sluices, among which cattle graze here and there, is a swamp; that the lead strip closing them is a river; a distant lair where a fierce wind is born - the sea; and the little trembling creature that is lost among all this and cries with fear is Pip.

- Well, shut up! – there was a menacing shout, and among the graves, near the porch, a man suddenly grew up. “Don’t yell, little devil, or I’ll cut your throat!”

A scary man in rough gray clothes, with a heavy chain on his leg! A man without a hat, in broken shoes, his head tied with some kind of rag. A man who, apparently, was soaked in water and crawled through the mud, knocked down and injured his legs on stones, who was stung by nettles and torn by thorns! He limped and shook, stared and wheezed, and suddenly, his teeth chattering loudly, he grabbed me by the chin.

- Oh, don't cut me, sir! – I begged in horror. - Please, sir, don't!

- What is your name? – the man asked. - Well, lively!

- Pip, sir.

- How, how? – the man asked, piercing me with his eyes. - Repeat.

- Pip. Pip, sir.

- Where do you live? – the man asked. - Show me!

I pointed my finger to where, on a flat coastal lowland, a good mile from the church, our village nestled among alder and willow trees.

After looking at me for a minute, the man turned me upside down and shook out my pockets. There was nothing in them except a piece of bread. When the church fell into place - and he was so dexterous and strong that he knocked it upside down at once, so that the bell tower was under my feet - so, when the church fell into place, it turned out that I was sitting on a high gravestone stone, and it devours my bread.

“Wow, puppy,” the man said, licking his lips. - Wow, what thick cheeks!

It is possible that they really were fat, although at that time I was small for my age and did not have a strong build.

“I wish I could eat them,” the man said and shook his head furiously, “or maybe, damn it, I’ll actually eat them.”

I very seriously asked him not to do this and grabbed tighter the gravestone on which he had placed me, partly in order not to fall, partly in order to hold back my tears.

“Listen,” said the man. -Where is your mother?

“Here, sir,” I said.

He shuddered and started to run, then stopped and looked over his shoulder.

“Right here, sir,” I explained timidly. - “Also Georgiana.” This is my mother.

“Ah,” he said, returning. – And this, next to your mother, is your father?

“Yes, sir,” I said. “He’s here too: “A resident of this parish.”

“Yes,” he drawled and paused. “Who do you live with, or rather, who did you live with, because I haven’t decided yet whether to leave you alive or not.”

- With my sister, sir. Mrs Joe Gargery. She's the blacksmith's wife, sir.

- Blacksmith, you say? – he asked again. And he looked at his leg.

He looked from his leg to me and back several times, then he came close to me, took me by the shoulders and threw me back as far as he could, so that his eyes looked searchingly down at me, and mine looked up at him in confusion.

“Now listen to me,” he said, “and remember that I have not yet decided whether to let you live or not.” What is a file, do you know?

- Yes, sir.

– Do you know what grub is?

- Yes, sir.

After each question, he shook me gently so that I could better feel the danger threatening me and my complete helplessness.

- You will get me some filing. – He shook me. “And you’ll get some grub.” “He shook me again. - And bring everything here. “He shook me again. “Otherwise I’ll rip your heart and liver out.” “He shook me again.

I was scared to death, and my head was so spinning that I grabbed him with both hands and said:

“Please, sir, don’t shake me, then maybe I won’t feel sick and I’ll understand better.”

He threw me back so much that the church jumped over its weathervane. Then he straightened it up with one jerk and, still holding him by the shoulders, spoke more terribly than before:

“Tomorrow at first light you will bring me some sawdust and grub.” Over there, to the old battery. If you bring it and don’t say a word to anyone, and don’t show that you met me or anyone else, then so be it, live. If you don’t bring it or deviate from my words even this much, then they will tear out your heart and liver, fry it and eat it. And don't think that there is no one to help me. I have one friend hidden here, so compared to him I’m just an angel. This friend of mine hears everything I tell you. This friend of mine has his own secret, how to get to the boy, both to his heart and to his liver. The boy can’t hide from him, even if he doesn’t try. The boy and the door is locked, and he will climb into bed, and cover his head with a blanket, and will think that, they say, he is warm and good and no one will touch him, but my friend will quietly creep up to him and kill him!.. I and now you know how difficult it is to prevent him from rushing at you. I can barely hold him, he’s so eager to grab you. Well, what do you say now?

I said that I would get him some sawing and food, as much as I could find, and bring it to the battery early in the morning.

“Repeat after me: “God destroy me if I’m lying,” said the man.

I repeated, and he took me off the stone.

“And now,” he said, “don’t forget what you promised, and don’t forget about that friend of mine, and run home.”

“G-good night, sir,” I stammered.

- Dead! - he said, looking around the cold wet plain. - Where is it? I wish I could turn into a frog or something. Or in eel.

He grabbed his trembling body tightly with both hands, as if afraid that it would fall apart, and hobbled towards the low church fence. He made his way through the nettles, through the burrs that bordered the green hills, and my childish imagination imagined that he was dodging the dead, who were silently reaching out from their graves to grab him and drag him to themselves, underground.

He got to the low church fence, climbed over it heavily - it was clear that his legs were numb and numb - and then looked back at me. Then I turned towards the house and took off running. But, after running a little, I looked back: he was walking towards the river, still hugging himself by the shoulders and carefully stepping with his knuckled feet between the stones thrown in the swamps so that he could walk along them after prolonged rains or during high tide.

I looked after him, the swamps stretched in front of me as a long black stripe; and the river behind them also stretched in a stripe, only narrower and lighter; and in the sky long blood-red stripes alternated with deep black ones. On the bank of the river, my eye could barely discern the only two black objects in the entire landscape, directed upward: the lighthouse along which the ships were heading, very ugly if you come closer to it, like a barrel put on a pole; and a gallows with pieces of chains on which a pirate was once hanged. The man hobbled straight to the gallows, as if the same pirate had risen from the dead and, having taken a walk, was now returning to reattach himself to his old place. This thought made me shudder; noticing that the cows raised their heads and looked thoughtfully after him, I asked myself if it seemed the same to them. I looked around, looking for my stranger’s bloodthirsty friend, but did not find anything suspicious. However, fear took possession of me again, and I, without stopping any longer, ran home.

Chapter II

My sister, Mrs. Jo Gargery, was more than twenty years my senior, and earned respect in her own eyes and in the eyes of her neighbors by raising me “with her own hands.” Because I had to figure out the meaning of this expression myself, and because I knew that her hand was heavy and hard and that she could not raise it not only against me, but also against her husband, I believed that Joe Gargery and I had both been brought up "with your own hands."

My sister was far from beautiful; so I got the impression that she married Joe Gargery with her own hands. Joe Gargery, a blond giant, had flaxen curls framed clean face, and the blue eyes were so bright, as if their blue had accidentally mixed with their own whites. He was a golden man, quiet, soft, meek, flexible, simple-minded, Hercules both in his strength and in his weakness.

My sister, Mrs. Joe, had black hair and dark eyes, and the skin on her face was so red that I sometimes wondered if she washed herself with a grater instead of soap. She was tall, bony, and almost always wore a thick apron with straps on the back and a square bib like a shell, completely studded with needles and pins. She took it as a great credit that she always wore an apron and always reproached Joe about it. However, I don’t see why she needed to wear an apron at all, or why, once she wore it, she couldn’t part with it for a minute.

Joe's blacksmith shop was adjacent to our house, and the house was made of wood, like many others - or rather, like almost all the houses in our area at that time. When I came home from the cemetery, the blacksmith shop was closed and Joe was sitting alone in the kitchen. Since Joe and I were fellow sufferers and had no secrets from each other, he whispered something to me as soon as I lifted the latch and looked through the crack, I saw him in the corner by the hearth, just opposite the door.

“Mrs. Joe came out to look for you at least twelve times, Pip.” Now it’s off again, there will be a damn dozen.

- Oh, really?

“True, Pip,” said Joe. “And worse than that, she took Tickler with her.”

Hearing this sad news, I completely lost heart and, looking into the fire, began to twist the only button on my vest. The tickler was a cane with a waxed end, polished to a shine by frequent tickling of my back.

“She was sitting here,” said Joe, “and then she jumped up and grabbed Tickle, and ran out into the street to rage.” That’s it,” said Joe, looking into the fire and stirring the coals with a poker stuck through the grate. “I just took it and ran, Pip.”

“Has she been gone for a long time, Joe?” “I always saw him as my equal, the same child, only bigger.

Joe glanced at the wall clock.

- Yes, it’s probably been fierce for about five minutes already. Wow, here he comes! Hide behind the door, my friend, and cover yourself with a towel.

I took his advice. My sister Mrs. Joe opened the door and, feeling that it did not open all the way, immediately guessed the reason and began to examine it with the help of the Tickler. It ended with her throwing me at Joe - in family life I often served as her projectile - and he, always ready to accept me on any terms, calmly sat me in a corner and blocked me with his huge knee.

- Where have you been, little shooter? Mrs. Joe said, stamping her foot. “Now tell me where you were staggering while I couldn’t find a place for myself here from anxiety and fear, otherwise I’ll drag you out of the corner, even if there were fifty Pips and a hundred Gargeries here.”

“I just went to the cemetery,” I said, crying and rubbing my bruised areas.

- To the cemetery! - repeated the sister. “If it weren’t for me, you would have been in the cemetery long ago.” Who raised you with their own hands?

“You,” I said.

- Why did I need this, pray tell? – the sister continued.

I sobbed:

- Don't know.

“Well, I don’t know,” said the sister. “I wouldn’t do it any other time.” This I know for sure. Since you were born, I can say that I have never taken off this apron. It’s not enough for me to grieve that I’m a blacksmith’s wife (and, what’s more, my husband is Gargery), but no, let me still be your mother!

But I no longer listened to her words. I looked sadly at the fire, and in the evilly flickering coals the swamps, the fugitive with a heavy chain on his leg, his mysterious friend, the file, the grub, and the terrible oath that bound me to rob my home stood before me.

- Yes! - Mrs. Joe said, putting Tickler back in place. - Cemetery! It’s easy for you to say “cemetery”! “One of us, by the way, didn’t say a word.” “Soon, by your grace, I will go to the cemetery myself, and you, my dears, will be fine without me!” Nothing to say, nice couple!

Taking advantage of the fact that she began to set the table for tea, Joe looked over his knee into my corner, as if wondering in his mind what kind of couple we would make if this gloomy prophecy came true. Then he straightened up and, as usually happened during domestic storms, began silently watching Mrs. Joe with his blue eyes, right hand fiddling with her brown curls and sideburns.

My sister had a special, very determined way of preparing our bread and butter. With her left hand she pressed the rug tightly to the breastplate, from where a needle or pin would sometimes stick into it, which would then end up in our mouths. Then she took butter (not too much) on a knife and spread it over the bread, like a pharmacist prepares mustard plaster, deftly turning the knife first one side or the other, carefully adjusting and scraping off the butter from the crust. Finally, deftly wiping the knife on the edge of the mustard plaster, she sawed off a thick slice from the mustard, cut it in half and gave one half to Joe and the other to me.

That evening I did not dare to eat my portion, although I was hungry. I had to save something for my terrible acquaintance and his even more terrible friend. I knew that Mrs. Joe adhered to the strictest economy in her household, and that my attempt to steal something from her might end in nothing. So I decided to put my bread down my trouser leg just in case.

It turned out that almost superhuman courage was required to carry out this plan. Like I was about to jump off a roof tall house or throw yourself into a deep pond. And the unsuspecting Joe made my task even more difficult. Because we, as I already mentioned, were comrades in misfortune and, in a way, conspirators, and because he, out of his kindness, was always happy to amuse me, we started the custom of comparing who could eat bread faster: at dinner we secretly showed each other our bitten slices, and then tried even harder. That evening Joe challenged me several times to this friendly competition, showing me his rapidly diminishing chunk; but every time he was convinced that I was holding my yellow mug of tea on one knee, and on the other was my bread and butter, not even begun. Finally, having gathered my courage, I decided that I could not delay any longer and that it would be better if the inevitable happened in the most natural way under the given circumstances. I took a moment when Joe turned away from me and pulled the bread down his trouser leg.

Joe was clearly distressed, imagining that I had lost my appetite, and absentmindedly took a bite of his bread, which did not seem to give him any pleasure. He chewed it much longer than usual, thinking about something, and finally swallowed it like a pill. Then, bending his head to the side to get a better look at the next piece, he casually looked at me and saw that my bread had disappeared.

The astonishment and horror that appeared on Joe's face when he fixed his eyes on me before he could get the slice to his mouth did not escape my sister's attention.

-What else happened there? – She asked grumpily, putting down her cup.

- Well, you know! - Joe muttered, shaking his head reproachfully. - Pip, my friend, you can hurt yourself that way. He'll get stuck somewhere. You didn't chew it, Pip.

-What else happened? – the sister repeated, raising her voice.

“I advise you, Pip,” continued the stunned Joe, “you cough, maybe at least a little will come out.” Don’t look at how ugly it is, because health is more important.

At this point my sister became completely enraged. She ran at Joe, grabbed him by the sideburns and began banging his head against the wall, while I looked on guiltily from my corner.

“Now maybe you can tell me what happened, you bug-eyed hog,” she said, catching her breath.

Joe looked at her absentmindedly, then just as absently took a bite of his slice and stared at me again.

“You know, Pip,” he said solemnly, putting the bread behind his cheek and in such a mysterious tone, as if there was no one else in the room except us, “you and I are friends, and I would never give you away.” But for this to happen... - he pushed back his chair, looked at the floor, then turned his eyes back to me - to swallow a whole chunk at once...

– Is he swallowing without chewing again? - my sister shouted.

“You understand, my friend,” said Joe, looking not at Mrs. Joe, but at me and still holding his piece in his cheek, “at your age I was so mischievous myself and I saw a lot of boys who threw out such things; but I’ll never remember this, Pip, and it’s lucky that you’re still alive.

My sister swooped down on me like a hawk and pulled me out of the corner by my hair, confining herself to the ominous words: “Open your mouth.”

In those days, some villainous doctor revived the reputation of tar water as the best remedy against all illnesses, and Mrs. Joe always kept it in reserve on the cupboard shelf, firmly believing that her medicinal properties quite consistent with the nauseating taste. This healing elixir was given to me in such quantities that, I’m afraid, sometimes I smelled of tar, like a new fence. That evening, in view of the seriousness of the illness, a whole pint of tar water was required, which was poured into me, for which Mrs. Joe held my head under her arm, as if in a vice; Joe got away with half the dose, which, however, he was forced to swallow (to his great frustration - he was thinking about something by the fire, slowly chewing the bread) because he was “grabbed.” Judging by my own experience, I can assume that he was seized not before taking the medicine, but after.

Reproaches of conscience are difficult for both an adult and a child: when a child has one secret burden and another hidden in his trouser leg, this, I can testify, is a truly severe test. From the sinful thought that I intended to rob Mrs. Joe (that I intended to rob Joe himself, it never occurred to me, because I never considered him the master of the house), and also from the need, both while sitting and walking, to hold my hand all the time bread, I almost lost my mind. And when the coals in the fireplace flared up and flared up from the wind blowing in from the swamps, I imagined behind the door the voice of a man with a chain on his leg, who bound me with a terrible oath and now said that he could not and did not want to starve until the morning, but give him food now same. His friend, who was so thirsty for my blood, also worried me - what if he didn’t have enough patience, or he mistakenly decided that he could help himself to my heart and liver not tomorrow, but today. Yes, if anyone's hair stood on end with horror, it probably did for me that evening. But maybe that's just what they say?

It was Christmas Eve, and I was forced from seven to eight, for hours at a time, to knead Christmas pudding with a rolling pin. I tried kneading with a weight on my leg (while once again remembering the weight on my leg Togo person), but with my every movement the bread uncontrollably tried to jump out. Fortunately, I managed to sneak out of the kitchen under some pretext and hide it in my closet under the roof.

- What is this? - I asked when, having finished the pudding, I sat down by the fire to warm myself until they sent me to bed. “Is that a gun firing, Joe?”

“Yeah,” Joe replied. – Again the prisoner gave traction.

-What did you say, Joe?

Mrs. Joe, who always preferred to give explanations herself, said: “Run away. He ran away,” just as peremptorily as she gave me tar water.

Seeing that Mrs. Joe was again bent over her needlework, I silently, with my lips alone, asked Joe: “What is a prisoner?”, and he, also with his lips alone, uttered a long phrase in response, from which I could only make out one word - Pip .

“One of the prisoners gave a draft last night, after sunset,” Joe said aloud. “They shot then to announce this.” Now, apparently, they are notifying about the second one.

-Who shot? – I asked.

“He’s an obnoxious boy,” my sister intervened, looking up from her work and looking sternly at me, “he’s always asking questions.” He who does not ask questions does not hear lies.

I thought how impolitely she spoke about herself, which meant that if I asked questions, I would hear lies from her. But she was polite only in front of guests.

Here Joe added fuel to the fire: with his mouth wide open, he carefully formed a word with his lips, which I interpreted as “bliss.” Naturally, I pointed at Mrs. Joe and said in one breath: “She?” But Joe didn’t want to hear about it and, opening his mouth again, with a superhuman effort squeezed out some word, which I still didn’t understand.

“Mrs. Joe,” I turned to my sister out of grief, “please explain—I’m very interested—where are they shooting from?”

- Lord have mercy! - my sister exclaimed as if she was asking the Lord for anything for me, but not mercy. - Yes, from the barge!

“Ah,” I said, looking at Joe. - From the barge!

Joe coughed reproachfully, as if he wanted to say: “I told you so!”

-What kind of barge is this? – I asked.

- Punishment with this boy! - the sister cried, pointing at me with the hand in which she was holding the needle, and shaking her head. “If you answer him one question, he’ll ask you ten more.” A floating prison on an old barge beyond the swamps.

“I wonder who is being put in this prison and for what,” I said with the courage of despair, not addressing anyone in particular.

Mrs. Joe's patience ran out.

“Tell you what, my dear,” she said, quickly getting up, “I didn’t raise you with my own hands so that you could bleed the soul out of people.” It would not have been a great honor for me then. People are sent to prison for murder, for theft, for forgery, for various good deeds, and they always start by asking stupid questions. And now - go to bed.

I was not allowed to take a candle upstairs with me. I groped my way up the stairs, my ears ringing because Mrs. Joe, to reinforce her words, was beating a fraction on the top of my head with a thimble, and I thought with horror how convenient it was to have a floating prison so close to us. It was clear that I could not escape her: I started with stupid questions, and now I was going to rob Mrs. Joe.

Many times since that distant day I have thought about this ability of a child’s soul to deeply harbor something out of fear, even if completely unreasonable. I was mortally afraid of a bloodthirsty friend who had his eye on my heart and liver; I was mortally afraid of my acquaintance with a chain on his leg; bound by a terrible oath, I was mortally afraid of myself and did not hope for the help of my almighty sister, who kicked me and besieged me at every step. It’s scary to think what kind of things I could be pushed into by intimidating and forcing me into silence.

That night, as soon as I closed my eyes, I imagined that the fast current was carrying me straight to the old barge; Here I am sailing past the gallows, and the ghost of a pirate is shouting into the pipe for me to come ashore, because it’s time to hang me long ago. Even if I wanted to sleep, I would be afraid to fall asleep, remembering that, as soon as it was dawn, I would have to empty the pantry. At night there was nothing to think about it - at that time it was not so easy to light a candle; a spark was struck with a flint, and I would have made as much noise as the pirate himself if he had rattled his chains.

As soon as the black velvet canopy outside my window began to fade, I stood up and went downstairs, and every floorboard and every crack in the floorboard shouted after me: “Stop the thief!”, “Wake up, Mrs. Joe!” In the pantry, where on the occasion of the holiday there was more food of all kinds than usual, I was greatly frightened by a hare hanging by its hind legs - it seemed to me that he was winking slyly behind my back. However, there was no time to check my suspicion, and there was no time to choose for a long time; I didn’t have a minute to spare. I stole a piece of bread, the rest of the cheese, half a jar fruit filling(having tied it all up in a handkerchief along with yesterday's slice), I poured some brandy from a clay bottle into a bottle, which I had hidden for the purpose of making strong drink- licorice liqueur, and filled the bottle from a jug in the kitchen cupboard, stole a bone almost without meat and a magnificent round pork pate. I was about to leave without any pate, but at the last minute I became curious about what kind of bowl it was, covered with a lid, standing in the very corner on the top shelf, and there was pate there, which I took away in the hope that it had been prepared for future use and was not available. they'll grab it right away.

From the kitchen there was a door directly into the forge; I unlocked it, pulled back the bolt, and found a file among Joe's tools. Then he pushed all the bolts and bolts back, opened the front door and, closing it behind him, ran into the fog, into the swamps.

Novel " Great Expectations"is considered one of the famous works Charles Dickens, at least it was based on him large number theatrical plays and film adaptations. There is a kind of dark humor in this book, in some places you have to laugh through your tears, but to a greater extent this novel can be called heavy. Having hope is good, but it is not always justified, and then a person experiences the greatest despair in his life.

The events of the novel take place in England Victorian era. Little boy Pip was left without parents, he is being raised by sister. However, the sister cannot be called caring and gentle; she often uses force in educational purposes. Even her husband gets it, who works as a blacksmith and is very kind by nature.

A boy is introduced to a neighbor girl so that they can spend time together. Estella is not being raised by her own mother. This woman was once deceived by the man she loved. And now she wants to raise a daughter who will take revenge on all men. Estella must be beautiful, attract men, and then break their hearts. She grows up to be an arrogant girl.

Pip falls in love with Estella, over time realizing that he is embarrassed to appear in front of her in an unkempt or stupid manner. When a mysterious benefactor appears who wants to provide the guy with everything he needs, Pip begins to think that this is Estella’s mother. He believes that's what she wants to do to him. successful person so that he becomes a worthy match for her daughter. The guy looks into the future with great hopes, but will they come true, or will he be severely disappointed?

The work belongs to the Prose genre. It was published in 1861 by Eksmo Publishing House. The book is part of the "Foreign Classics" series. On our website you can download the book "Great Expectations" in fb2, rtf, epub, pdf, txt format or read online. The book's rating is 4.35 out of 5. Here, before reading, you can also turn to reviews from readers who are already familiar with the book and find out their opinion. In our partner's online store you can buy and read the book in paper version.

I was twenty-three years old, and a week had passed since my birth, and I still had not heard a single word that could shed light on my hopes. It had been more than a year since we had moved out of Barnard's Yard and were now living in the Temple, in Garden Court, right next to the river.

For some time my studies with Mr. Popet ceased, but our relations remained the most friendly. Despite my inability to do anything specific - and I like to think that it was due to anxiety and complete ignorance of my situation and livelihood - I loved to read and invariably read several hours a day. Herbert's affairs were gradually improving, but for me everything was as I described in the previous chapter.

The day before, Herbert had gone to Marseille on business. I was alone and sadly felt my loneliness. Unable to find a place for anxiety, tired of endlessly waiting for something to become clearer tomorrow or in a week, and endlessly being deceived in my expectations, I greatly missed my friend’s cheerful face and cheerful responsiveness.

The weather was terrible: storms and rain, storms and rain, and mud, mud, ankle-deep mud in all the streets... Day after day, a huge heavy veil floated over London from the east, as if there, in the east, there had been an entire accumulation of wind and clouds. eternity. The wind blew so fiercely that in the city tall buildings iron roofs were torn off; in the village trees were torn out of the ground by the roots, the wings of windmills were carried away; and sad news came from the coast about shipwrecks and casualties. Violent gusts of wind alternated with downpours, and the last day, the end of which I decided to sit with a book, was the stormiest of all.

Much has changed in this part of the Temple since then - now it is no longer so deserted and not so exposed on the river side. We lived on the top floor of the last house, and on the evening about which I am writing, the wind blew in from the river. shook it to the ground, like cannon shots or sea surf. When the wind threw streams of rain against the window panes and I, looking at them, saw the frames shaking, it seemed to me that I was sitting on a lighthouse, in the middle of a raging sea. At times, smoke from the fireplace rushed into the room, as if not daring to go out on such a night, and when I opened the door and looked up the flight of stairs, the lanterns on the landings blew out; when I, shielding my face with my hands, leaned against the black glass of the window (there was no point even thinking about opening the window in such rain and wind), I saw that all the lights in the yard had blown out, that on the bridges and on the shore they were blinking convulsively, and sparks from fires lit on barges fly in the wind like red-hot splashes of rain.

I put the clock in front of me on the table so that I could read until eleven. Before I had time to close the book, the clock on the Cathedral of St. Paul and at many churches in the City - some running ahead, others in tune, others belatedly - began to beat the clock. The sound of the wind strangely distorted their fight, and while I was listening, thinking about how the wind grabs and tears these sounds, footsteps were heard on the stairs.

Why I shuddered and, cold with horror, thought about my dead sister, does not matter. The moment of unaccountable fear passed, I listened again and heard the steps, rising, tentatively groping the steps. Then I remembered that the lanterns on the stairs were not lit, and, taking the lamp from the table, I went out onto the landing. The light of my lamp must have been noticed, because everything became quiet.

Is there anyone downstairs? - I shouted, leaning over the railing.

What floor do you need?

Upper. Mister Pip.

It's me. Did something happen?

I held the lamp over the flight of stairs, and its light finally fell on the man. The lamp had a lampshade, convenient for reading, but it gave only a very small circle of light, so that the person was in it for only a moment.

During this moment, I managed to see a face completely unfamiliar to me, and a gaze turned upward, in which one could read an incomprehensible joy and tenderness from meeting me.

Moving the lamp as the man rose, I saw that his clothes were good, but rough - befitting a traveler from a sea ship. What are his long gray hair. That he is sixty years old. That this is a muscular man, still very strong, with a tanned, weather-beaten face. But then he climbed the last two steps, the lamp was already illuminating both of us, and I was dumbfounded with amazement when I saw that he was holding out his hands to me.

Excuse me, what business are you on? - I asked him.

For what reason? - he asked, stopping. - Yeah. Yes. With your permission, I will state my case.

Do you want to come into the room?

Yes, he answered. - I want to go into the room, mister.

My question was not asked very kindly, because I was annoyed by the expression of happy confidence that did not leave his face. It made me angry, because he seemed to be waiting for a response from me. Nevertheless, I led him into the room and, putting the lamp on the table, politely asked him as much as I could to explain what he needed.

He looked around with a very strange look, clearly amazed and approving, but as if he himself was involved in everything he admired - then he took off his thick traveling cloak and hat. Now I saw that his head was wrinkled and bald, and his long gray hair grew only on the sides. But I didn’t see anything that would explain his appearance. On the contrary, the next minute he again extended both hands to me.

What does it mean? - I asked, beginning to suspect that I was dealing with a madman.

He looked away from me and slowly rubbed his head with his right hand.

It’s not easy for a person to bear this,” he said lowly, in a hoarse voice, - when I waited so long and traveled so many miles; but you are not to blame here - neither you nor I are to blame here. I'll tell you everything in about five minutes. Please wait about five minutes.

He sank into a chair by the fire and covered his face with his large, dark, sinewy hands. I looked at him carefully and moved away slightly; but I didn't recognize him.

There's no one around here, is there? - he asked, looking over his shoulder.

Why does this interest you, a stranger who came to me at such a late hour?

And you, it turns out, are in trouble! - he answered, shaking his head so affectionately that I was completely confused and angry. - It’s good that you grew up so poor! Just don’t touch me, otherwise you’ll regret it later.

I had already left the intention, which he managed to guess, because now I knew who it was! I couldn’t remember a single feature of him yet, but I knew who it was! If wind and rain had dispelled the years that separated me from the past, swept away all the objects that obscured the past, and carried us to the cemetery where we first met under such dissimilar circumstances, I would not have recognized my convict with such confidence as now, as he sat by my fireplace. There was no need for him to take the files out of his pocket; there was no need to remove the scarf from your neck and tie it around your head; there was no need to wrap your arms around yourself and, shaking as if from the cold, walk around the room, looking at me expectantly. I recognized him before he resorted to these clues, although for another minute it seemed to me that I did not even remotely suspect who he was.

He returned to the table and again extended both hands to me. Not knowing what to do - my head was spinning from amazement - I reluctantly gave him mine. He squeezed them tightly, brought them to his lips, kissed them and did not immediately release them.

You did a noble thing, my boy,” he said. - Well done, Pip! I haven't forgotten this!

Realizing from his changed expression that he was going to hug me, I put my hand on his chest and pushed him away.

No, I said. - No need! If you are grateful to me for what I did when I was a child, I hope that as proof of your gratitude you have tried to improve. If you came here to thank me, it wasn't worth the trouble. I don’t know how you managed to find me, but you were obviously guided by good feeling, and I don't want to push you away; only you, of course, must understand that I...

There was so much inexplicability in his gaze that the words froze on my lips.

You said,” he remarked, after we had looked at each other in silence for some time, “that I, of course, must understand.” What exactly should I understand, of course?

That now, when everything has changed so much, I am by no means trying to renew our long-standing casual acquaintance. I like to think that you have repented and become a different person. It's my pleasure to express this to you. - I am pleased that you came to thank me, since, in your opinion, I deserve gratitude. But, however, you and I have different roads. You are wet and you look tired. Would you like something to drink before you go?

He had already thrown the scarf around his neck again and stood there, biting its end and not taking his wary gaze off me.

“Perhaps,” he answered, still not taking his eyes off me and not letting go of the handkerchief from his mouth. - I guess so, thanks, I'll have a drink before I go.

On a table against the wall there was a tray with bottles and glasses. I brought it to the fireplace and asked my guest what he would drink. He silently, almost without looking, pointed to one of the bottles, and I began to prepare the grog. At the same time, I tried not to let my hand tremble, but because he was looking at me all the time, leaning back in his chair and squeezing in his teeth the long, crumpled end of a neckerchief, which he had apparently completely forgotten about, I had to cope with it. It was very difficult for me with my hand. When I finally handed him the glass, I was struck by the fact that his eyes were full of tears.

Until now, I had not even sat down to show that I was eager to close the door behind him as quickly as possible. But at the sight of his softened face, I softened, and I felt ashamed.

I hope you don’t think my words are too harsh,” I said, hastily pouring grog into a second glass and pulling up a chair. “I didn’t mean to offend you and I apologize if I did it unwittingly.” Here's to your health and I wish you happiness!

When I raised the glass to my lips, he cast a surprised glance at the end of the handkerchief, which fell on his chest as soon as he opened his mouth, and extended his hand to me. I shook it, and then he drank it, and then ran his sleeve over his eyes and across his forehead.

What do you do? - I asked him.

Raised sheep, raised cattle, tried a lot of other things,” he said, “there in the New World, many thousands of miles away on stormy seas.”

Hope you are successful in life?

I did remarkably well. There were others who left with me and also succeeded, but they were far from me. There is fame about me there.

I'm glad to hear that.

It's good that you say that, my dear boy.

Without bothering to think about these words or the tone in which they were spoken, I turned to the subject that I had just remembered.

Once you sent one person to me,” I said. - Did you see him after he fulfilled your instructions?

I've never seen it. And I couldn't see.

He found me and gave me those two pound tickets. You know, I was a poor boy then, and for a poor boy it was a fortune. But since then, like you, I have succeeded in life, and now I ask you to take this money back. You can give them to some other poor boy. - I took out my wallet.

He watched as I put my wallet on the table and opened it, watched as I pulled out two banknotes, one after the other. They were new, clean, I straightened them and handed them to him. Without ceasing to look at me, he put them together, bent them lengthwise, twisted them once, set them on fire over the lamp and threw the ashes onto the tray.

And now I’ll take the liberty of asking,” he said, smiling as if he was frowning, and frowning as if he was smiling, “how have you succeeded since we talked on the empty cold swamp?”

How?

That's it.

He finished his glass, got up and stood by the fire, putting down a heavy dark hand on the mantelpiece. He put one foot on the grate to dry and warm it, and steam began to rise from his wet shoe; but he did not look at the shoe or at the fire, he stubbornly looked at me. And only now I began to tremble.

I opened my mouth, but my lips moved silently, until I finally forced myself to say (although not very clearly) that I was to inherit the fortune.

Will a despicable brat be allowed to ask what kind of condition this is?

I stammered:

Don't know.

Will the despicable brat be allowed to ask whose condition this is?

I stammered again:

Don't know.

“Come on, I’ll try to guess,” said the convict, “how much you receive per year since you reached adulthood!” For example, what is the first number - five?

Feeling that my heart was beating like a heavy hammer in the hands of a madman, I stood up and, leaning on the back of the chair, stared in confusion at my interlocutor.

Again, about the guardian,” he continued. - Most likely, you had a guardian until you were twenty-one or something like that. Maybe some kind of attorney. What, for example, is the first letter of his last name? What if D?

It was as if a bright flash suddenly illuminated my world, and so many disappointments, humiliations, dangers, all kinds of consequences washed over me that, overwhelmed by their flood, I could hardly catch my breath.

Imagine,” he began again, “that the client of this solicitor, whose last name begins with D, and if we go to the end, perhaps Jaggers, imagine that he arrived by sea in Portsmouth, landed there and wanted to visit you . You said just now: “I don’t know how you managed to find me.” So how did I manage to find you, huh? It’s very simple: from Portsmouth I wrote to a person in London and found out your address. What is this person's name? Yes Wemmick!

Even under pain of death I could not utter a word. I stood, leaning on the back of the chair with one hand, and pressing the other to my chest, which seemed about to burst, stood, staring at him in confusion, and then convulsively grabbed the chair, because the room floated and spun. He picked me up, sat me down on the sofa, leaned me against the pillows and dropped to one knee in front of me, so that his face, which now clearly emerged in my memory and terrified me, was very close to mine.

Yes, Pip, my dear boy, it was I who made a gentleman out of you! Me and no one else! Even then I swore that as soon as I earned a guinea, you would receive this guinea. And later he swore that as soon as I made money and got rich, you would get rich too. I had a hard time - I didn’t complain, as long as you lived a sweet life. I worked tirelessly to keep you from having to work. So what, dear boy? Do you think I’m saying this so that you feel gratitude towards me? Not at all. And for this reason I say this, so that you know: the hunted, mangy dog, whose life you saved, rose so high that he made a gentleman out of a village boy, and this gentleman is you, Pip!

The disgust that I felt for this man, the horror that he inspired in me, the disgust that his presence evoked in me, could not have been stronger if I had seen the most terrible monster in front of me.

Listen to me, Pip. I'm like your own father. You are my son, you are dearer to me than any son. I saved money - everything is for you. When I was assigned to the distant pastures to guard the sheep and the faces around me were only sheep’s, so that I forgot what a human face is like, I saw you then too. You used to sit in the guardhouse, having lunch or dinner, and suddenly drop the knife - so, they say, my boy is looking at me as I eat and drink. How many times have I seen you there as clearly as in those rotten swamps, and each time I said: “God destroy me,” and left the gatehouse to say this in the open air: “When my time is over, let me make some money.” , I'll make a gentleman out of the boy." And he did. Just look at you, my boy! Look at your mansions - even the lord does not disdain such. Why, lord! With your money you will put any lord in his belt!

Reveling in his triumph and also remembering that I was close to fainting, he did not pay attention to how I perceived his words. This was the only bit of consolation for me.

Just look,” he continued, taking the watch out of my pocket and turning the ring on my finger with the stone towards him, although I shrank all over from his touch, as if at the sight of a snake, “a gold watch, and how beautiful: isn’t that becoming?” gentleman! And here is a diamond, all sprinkled with rubies: wouldn’t that suit a gentleman? Look at your underwear - thin and elegant. Look at your clothes - you couldn't find better ones! And the books! - He looked around the room. - There are so many of them on the shelves, hundreds! And you read them? I know, I know, when I arrived you were just reading them. Ha ha ha! You read them to me too, my boy! And if they are on foreign languages and I won’t understand a word - all the same, I will be even more proud of you.

He brought my hands to his lips again, and a chill ran through my skin.

“Don’t bother yourself, Pip, don’t talk,” he said, after again running his sleeve over his eyes and forehead, and something gurgled in his throat - I remembered that sound well! - and became even more disgusting to me because he spoke so seriously. - The best thing for you is to remain silent, my boy. You haven’t been waiting for this for years like I have; I didn’t prepare for as long as I did. But didn’t you ever think that I did it all?

No, no, no, I answered. - Not even once!

You see, it’s me and no one else. And not a single living soul knew about it except me and Mr. Jaggers.

And there was no one else? - I asked.

No,” he said, raising his eyes in surprise, “who else would there be?” Oh, my boy, how handsome you have become! Well, do you have brown eyes too? Are there brown eyes somewhere that make you sigh?

Ah, Estella, Estella!

You will have them, my boy, no matter the cost. I’m not saying, a gentleman like you, and educated at that, can stand up for himself; Well, with money it’s easier! Let me tell you what I started, my boy. From this little guardhouse, where I guarded the sheep, I got some money (the owner, a herdsman, left it for me when he died, he was one of the same people as me), then my term ended, and little by little I began to do something on my own . No matter what I took on, I thought about you. You might take up something new and say: “I’ll be thrice damned if this isn’t for a boy!” And I was surprisingly lucky in everything. I already told you that I am famous there. The very money that the owner left me, and the money that I earned in the first years, I sent to Mr. Jaggers in England - all for you, it was he who came for you after my letter.

Oh, if only he hadn’t come! If only he had left me in the forge, perhaps not entirely satisfied with my fate, but how much happier!

And that was my reward, my boy, to know within myself that I was raising a gentleman. Let me walk, and the colonists rode around on thoroughbred horses, showering me with dust; What was I thinking? Here's what: "I'm raising a cleaner gentleman than all of you combined!" When they said to each other: “He’s lucky, but only recently he was a convict and now he’s an ignorant, rude man,” what was I thinking? But this: “Okay, I may not be a gentleman and unlearned, but I have my own gentleman. You have lands and herds; do any of you have a real London gentleman?” This is how I supported myself all the time. And all the time I remembered that someday I would definitely come and see my boy, and open up to him as if he were my dearest person.

He put his hand on my shoulder. I shuddered at the thought that this hand might be stained with blood,

It was not easy for me to leave those parts, Pip, and it was not safe. But I achieved my goal, and the more difficult it was, the stronger I achieved it, because I thought everything through and firmly decided everything, and now I’m finally here. My dear boy, I'm here!

I tried to collect my thoughts, but my head wasn’t working. All the time it seemed to me that I was listening not so much to this man as to the noise of the rain and wind; even now I could not separate his voice from these voices, although they continued to sound when he fell silent.

Where will you place me? - he asked after a while. - I need to get settled somewhere, my boy.

Spend the night? - I asked.

Yes. And if I get enough sleep today, just think how many months I was carried and tossed across the seas!

My friend, with whom I live, is out of town now,” I said, getting up from the sofa, “lie down in his room.”

He won't be back tomorrow either?

No,” despite all my efforts, I spoke as if in a dream, “and he won’t return tomorrow.

Because, you see, dear boy,” he said, lowering his voice and impressively pressing his long finger into my chest, “you need to be careful.”

I don't understand. Caution?

Well, yes. Otherwise, I swear to God, death!

Why death?

I was sent away for life. For me, returning is death. Too many people were returning for lately, and if I’m caught, I won’t escape the gallows.

Only this was still missing! Not only did the unfortunate man forge chains for me for years from his unfortunate gold and silver, he also risked his life to come to me, and now his life was in my hands! If I had not disgust for him, but love; if he had inspired me not with a feeling of disgust, but with the deepest tenderness and admiration, I could not have felt worse. On the contrary, it would be better, because then I would naturally and with all my heart try to protect him from danger.

My first concern was to close the shutters so that the light would not be noticed from the street, and then I closed and locked the doors. While I was busy with this, he, standing at the table, drank rum and snacked on cookies, and, looking at him, I again saw my convict eating in the swamp. I think I was waiting for him to bend over and start sawing at his leg.

Having looked into Herbert's room and made sure that the front door was locked and that the only way to get to the stairs was through the room where we were talking, I asked my guest if he wanted to lie down now. He answered in the affirmative, but added that in the morning he would like to put on a change of my “gentleman’s” underwear. I took out the linen and put it near the bed, and again a chill ran through my skin when, saying goodbye to me for the night, he again began to shake my hands.

Finally, I somehow got rid of him, and then threw some coal on the fire and sat down by the fireplace, not daring to go to bed. For another hour, maybe more, complete stupor prevented me from thinking; and only when I began to think, it gradually became clear to me that I had died and that the ship on which I was sailing had been smashed into pieces.

Miss Havisham's intentions regarding me are a mere figment of the imagination; Estella is not meant for me at all; at Satis House they only tolerated me, in defiance of the greedy relatives, like a doll with a wind-up heart, to be practiced on in the absence of other victims - these were the first burning pricks that I felt. But the deepest, the most sharp pain the thought came to me that for the sake of a convict, guilty of God knows what crimes, and running the risk of being taken from this room where I sat and thought, and hanged at the gates of the Old Bailey - for such a man I left Joe.

Now nothing could force me to return to Joe, to return to Biddy, because, probably, the consciousness of how shamefully I had behaved towards them was stronger than any reason. All the wisdom in the world could not have given me the consolation that their devotion and simplicity of soul promised; but never, never, never will I atone for my guilt before them.

In the howling of the wind, in the sound of the rain, every now and then I imagined a chase. Twice I could have sworn I heard knocking and whispering front door. Succumbing to these fears, I either remembered or imagined that the appearance of my guest was preceded by mysterious signs. That over the past month I have come across people on the street in whom I found similarities with him. That these cases became more frequent as he approached the shores of England. That somehow his sinful soul sent these messengers to me, and now, on this stormy night, he kept his word and came to me.

Into these thoughts burst into memories of how frantic he once seemed to my childhood eyes; how the second convict repeated again and again that this man wanted to kill him; how scary he was during the fight in the ditch, when he tormented his opponent, how wild beast. In the dim light of the fireplace, from these memories a vague fear was born - is it safe to stay locked up with him alone on this dead, stormy night. Fear spread until it filled the entire room, and finally I could not stand it - I took a candle and went to look at my creepy guest.

He tied a scarf around his head, and his face in his sleep was stern and gloomy. But although there was a pistol on the pillow next to him, he slept, and slept peacefully. Once I was sure of this, I quietly took the key from the door and locked it from the outside before sitting down again by the fire. Gradually I slid out of the chair and found myself on the floor. When I woke up after short nap, in which the feeling of my misfortune did not leave me for a minute, the church clock in the City struck five, the candles burned out, the fire in the fireplace went out, and the rain and wind made the impenetrable darkness outside the window seem even blacker.

This ends the second season of Pip's hopes.

Chapter I
My father's surname was Pirrip, I was given the name Philip at baptism, and since from both my infant tongue could not form anything more intelligible than Pip, I called myself Pip, and then everyone began to call me that.
I know for certain that my father was named Pirrip from the inscription on his tombstone, and also from the words of my sister Mrs. Jo Gargery, who married a blacksmith. Because I had never seen either my father or my mother, or any portraits of them (photography was unheard of in those days), my first idea of ​​my parents was strangely associated with their gravestones. For some reason, based on the shape of the letters on my father’s grave, I decided that he was thick-set and broad-shouldered, dark-skinned, with black curly hair. The inscription “And also Georgiana, wife of the above” evoked in my childhood imagination the image of my mother - a frail, freckled woman. Carefully placed in a row near their grave, five narrow stone tombstones, each a foot and a half long, under which rested five of my little brothers, who early gave up trying to survive in the general struggle, gave rise to the firm belief in me that they were all born lying on their backs and hiding his hands in the pockets of his pants, from where he did not take them out during his entire stay on earth.
We lived in a swampy area near a large river, twenty miles from its confluence with the sea. Probably, I received my first conscious impression of the wide world around me on one memorable winter day, already in the evening. It was then that it first became clear to me that this sad place, surrounded by a fence and densely overgrown with nettles, was a cemetery; that Philip Pirrip, a resident of this parish, and Georgiana, the wife of the above, died and were buried; that their young sons, the infants Alexander, Bartholomew, Abraham, Tobias and Roger, also died and were buried; that the flat dark distance beyond the fence, all cut up by dams, dams and sluices, among which cattle graze here and there, is a swamp; that the lead strip closing them is a river; a distant lair where a fierce wind is born - the sea; and the little trembling creature that is lost among all this and cries with fear is Pip.
- Well, shut up! - a menacing shout rang out, and among the graves, near the porch, a man suddenly grew up. - Don't yell, little devil, or I'll cut your throat!
A scary man in rough gray clothes, with a heavy chain on his leg! A man without a hat, in broken shoes, his head tied with some kind of rag. A man who, apparently, was soaked in water and crawled through the mud, knocked down and injured his legs on stones, who was stung by nettles and torn by thorns! He limped and shook, stared and wheezed, and suddenly, his teeth chattering loudly, he grabbed me by the chin.
- Oh, don't cut me, sir! - I begged in horror. - Please, sir, don't!
- What is your name? - asked the man. - Well, lively!
- Pip, sir.
- How, how? - the man asked, piercing me with his eyes. - Repeat.
- Pip. Pip, sir.
- Where do you live? - asked the man. - Show me!
I pointed my finger to where, on a flat coastal lowland, a good mile from the church, our village nestled among alder and willow trees.
After looking at me for a minute, the man turned me upside down and shook out my pockets. There was nothing in them except a piece of bread. When the church fell into place - and he was so deft and strong that he knocked it upside down at once, so that the bell tower was under my feet - so, when the church fell into place, it turned out that I was sitting on a high gravestone stone, and it devours my bread.
“Wow, puppy,” the man said, licking his lips. - Wow, what thick cheeks!
It is possible that they really were fat, although at that time I was small for my age and did not have a strong build.
“I wish I could eat them,” the man said and shook his head furiously, “or maybe, damn it, I’ll actually eat them.”
I very seriously asked him not to do this and grabbed tighter the gravestone on which he had placed me, partly in order not to fall, partly in order to hold back my tears.
“Listen,” said the man. - Where is your mother?
“Here, sir,” I said.
He shuddered and started to run, then stopped and looked over his shoulder.
“Right here, sir,” I explained timidly. - “Also Georgiana.” This is my mother.
“Ah,” he said, returning. - And this, next to your mother, is your father?
“Yes, sir,” I said. “He’s here too: “A resident of this parish.”
“Yes,” he drawled and paused. - Who do you live with, or rather, who did you live with, because I haven’t decided yet whether to leave you alive or not.
- With my sister, sir. Mrs Joe Gargery. She's the blacksmith's wife, sir.
- Blacksmith, you say? - he asked again. And he looked at his leg.
He looked from his leg to me and back several times, then he came close to me, took me by the shoulders and threw me back as far as he could, so that his eyes looked searchingly down at me, and mine looked up at him in confusion.
“Now listen to me,” he said, “and remember that I have not yet decided whether to let you live or not.” What is a file, do you know?
- Yes, sir.
- Do you know what grub is?
- Yes, sir.
After each question, he shook me gently so that I could better feel the danger threatening me and my complete helplessness.
- You'll get me some filing. - He shook me. - And you will get grub. - He shook me again. - And bring everything here. - He shook me again. - Otherwise I’ll rip your heart and liver out. - He shook me again.
I was scared to death, and my head was so spinning that I grabbed him with both hands and said:
“Please, sir, don’t shake me, then maybe I won’t feel sick and I’ll understand better.”
He threw me back so much that the church jumped over its weathervane. Then he straightened it up with one jerk and, still holding him by the shoulders, spoke more terribly than before:
- Tomorrow, at first light, you will bring me some sawdust and grub. Over there, to the old battery. If you bring it and don’t say a word to anyone, and don’t show that you met me or anyone else, then so be it, live. If you don’t bring it or deviate from my words even this much, then they will tear out your heart and liver, fry it and eat it. And don't think that there is no one to help me. I have one friend hidden here, so compared to him I’m just an angel. This friend of mine hears everything I tell you. This friend of mine has his own secret, how to get to the boy, both to his heart and to his liver. The boy can’t hide from him, even if he doesn’t try. The boy and the door is locked, and he will climb into bed, and cover his head with a blanket, and will think that, they say, he is warm and good and no one will touch him, but my friend will quietly creep up to him and kill him!.. I and now, you know how difficult it is to prevent him from rushing at you. I can barely hold him, he’s so eager to grab you. Well, what do you say now?
I said that I would get him some sawing and food, as much as I could find, and bring it to the battery early in the morning.
“Repeat after me: “God bless me if I’m lying,” said the man.
I repeated, and he took me off the stone.
“And now,” he said, “don’t forget what you promised, and don’t forget about that friend of mine, and run home.”
“G-good night, sir,” I stammered.
- Dead! - he said, looking around the cold wet plain. - Where is it? I wish I could turn into a frog or something. Or in eel.
He grabbed his trembling body tightly with both hands, as if afraid that it would fall apart, and hobbled towards the low church fence. He made his way through the nettles, through the burrs that bordered the green hills, and my childish imagination imagined that he was dodging the dead, who were silently reaching out from their graves to grab him and drag him to themselves, underground.
He reached the low church fence, climbed heavily over it - it was clear that his legs were numb and numb - and then looked back at me. Then I turned towards the house and took off running. But, after running a little, I looked back: he was walking towards the river, still hugging himself by the shoulders and carefully stepping with his knuckled feet between the stones thrown in the swamps so that he could walk along them after prolonged rains or during high tide.
I looked after him: the swamps stretched in front of me as a long black stripe; and the river behind them also stretched in a stripe, only narrower and lighter; and in the sky long blood-red stripes alternated with deep black ones. On the bank of the river, my eye could barely discern the only two black objects in the entire landscape, directed upward: the lighthouse along which the ships were heading - very ugly, if you come closer to it, like a barrel put on a pole; and a gallows with pieces of chains on which a pirate was once hanged. The man hobbled straight to the gallows, as if the same pirate had risen from the dead and, having taken a walk, was now returning to reattach himself to his old place. This thought made me shudder; noticing that the cows raised their heads and looked thoughtfully after him, I asked myself if it seemed the same to them. I looked around, looking for my stranger’s bloodthirsty friend, but did not find anything suspicious. However, fear took possession of me again, and I, without stopping any longer, ran home.

Charles Dickens

GREAT EXPECTATIONS

My father's surname was Pirrip, I was given the name Philip at baptism, and since from both my infant tongue could not form anything more intelligible than Pip, I called myself Pip, and then everyone began to call me that.

I know for certain that my father was named Pirrip from the inscription on his tombstone, and also from the words of my sister Mrs. Jo Gargery, who married a blacksmith. Because I had never seen either my father or my mother, or any portraits of them (photography was unheard of in those days), my first idea of ​​my parents was strangely associated with their gravestones. For some reason, based on the shape of the letters on my father’s grave, I decided that he was thick-set and broad-shouldered, dark-skinned, with black curly hair. The inscription “And also Georgiana, wife of the above” evoked in my childhood imagination the image of my mother - a frail, freckled woman. Carefully placed in a row near their grave, five narrow stone tombstones, each a foot and a half long, under which rested five of my little brothers, who early gave up trying to survive in the general struggle, gave rise to the firm belief in me that they were all born lying on their backs and hiding his hands in the pockets of his pants, from where he did not take them out during his entire stay on earth.

We lived in a swampy area near a large river, twenty miles from its confluence with the sea. Probably, I received my first conscious impression of the wide world around me on one memorable winter day, already in the evening. It was then that it first became clear to me that this sad place, surrounded by a fence and densely overgrown with nettles, was a cemetery; that Philip Pirrip, a resident of this parish, and Georgiana, the wife of the above, died and were buried; that their young sons, the infants Alexander, Bartholomew, Abraham, Tobias and Roger, also died and were buried; that the flat dark distance beyond the fence, all cut up by dams, dams and sluices, among which cattle graze here and there, is a swamp; that the lead strip closing them is a river; a distant lair where a fierce wind is born - the sea; and the little trembling creature that is lost among all this and cries with fear is Pip.

Well, shut up! - a menacing shout rang out, and among the graves, near the porch, a man suddenly grew up. - Don't yell, little devil, or I'll cut your throat!

A scary man in rough gray clothes, with a heavy chain on his leg! A man without a hat, in broken shoes, his head tied with some kind of rag. A man who, apparently, was soaked in water and crawled through the mud, knocked down and injured his legs on stones, who was stung by nettles and torn by thorns! He limped and shook, stared and wheezed, and suddenly, his teeth chattering loudly, he grabbed me by the chin.

Oh, don't cut me, sir! - I begged in horror. - Please, sir, don't!

What's your name? - asked the man. - Well, lively!

Pip, sir.

How, how? - the man asked, piercing me with his eyes. - Repeat.

Pip. Pip, sir.

Where do you live? - asked the man. - Show me!

I pointed my finger to where, on a flat coastal lowland, a good mile from the church, our village nestled among alder and willow trees.

After looking at me for a minute, the man turned me upside down and shook out my pockets. There was nothing in them except a piece of bread. When the church fell into place - and he was so deft and strong that he knocked it upside down at once, so that the bell tower was under my feet - so, when the church fell into place, it turned out that I was sitting on a high gravestone stone, and it devours my bread.

“Wow, puppy,” the man said, licking his lips. - Wow, what thick cheeks!

It is possible that they really were fat, although at that time I was small for my age and did not have a strong build.

“I wish I could eat them,” the man said and shook his head furiously, “or maybe, damn it, I’ll actually eat them.”

I very seriously asked him not to do this and grabbed tighter the gravestone on which he had placed me, partly in order not to fall, partly in order to hold back my tears.

“Listen,” said the man. - Where is your mother?

Here, sir, I said.

He shuddered and started to run, then stopped and looked over his shoulder.

“Right here, sir,” I timidly explained. - “Also Georgiana.” This is my mother.

“Ah,” he said, returning. - And this, next to your mother, is your father?

Yes, sir, I said. “He’s here too: “A resident of this parish.”

“Yes,” he drawled and paused. - Who do you live with, or rather, who did you live with, because I haven’t decided yet whether to leave you alive or not.

With my sister, sir. Mrs Joe Gargery. She's the blacksmith's wife, sir.

Blacksmith, you say? - he asked again. And he looked at his leg.

He looked from his leg to me and back several times, then he came close to me, took me by the shoulders and threw me back as far as he could, so that his eyes looked searchingly down at me, and mine looked up at him in confusion.

Now listen to me,” he said, “and remember that I have not yet decided whether to let you live or not.” What is a file, do you know?

Do you know what grub is?

After each question, he shook me gently so that I could better feel the danger threatening me and my complete helplessness.

You will get me a file. - He shook me. - And you will get grub. - He shook me again. - And bring everything here. - He shook me again. - Otherwise I’ll rip your heart and liver out. - He shook me again.

I was scared to death, and my head was so spinning that I grabbed him with both hands and said:

Please, sir, don't shake me, then maybe I won't feel sick and I'll understand better.

He threw me back so much that the church jumped over its weathervane. Then he straightened it up with one jerk and, still holding him by the shoulders, spoke more terribly than before:

Tomorrow at first light you will bring me some sawdust and grub. Over there, to the old battery. If you bring it and don’t say a word to anyone, and don’t show that you met me or anyone else, then so be it, live. If you don’t bring it or deviate from my words even this much, then they will tear out your heart and liver, fry it and eat it. And don't think that there is no one to help me. I have one friend hidden here, so compared to him I’m just an angel. This friend of mine hears everything I tell you. This friend of mine has his own secret, how to get to the boy, both to his heart and to his liver. The boy can’t hide from him, even if he doesn’t try. The boy and the door is locked, and he will climb into bed, and cover his head with a blanket, and will think that, they say, he is warm and good and no one will touch him, but my friend will quietly creep up to him and kill him!.. I and now, you know how difficult it is to prevent him from rushing at you. I can barely hold him, he’s so eager to grab you. Well, what do you say now?