Тяжёлые времена

Stephen Blackpool

           Hehadknown,tousehiswords,apeckoftrouble.HewasusuallycalledOldStephen,inakindofroughhomagetothefact.

           Aratherstoopingman,withaknittedbrow,aponderingexpressionofface,andahard-lookingheadsufficientlycapacious,onwhichhisiron-greyhairlaylongandthin,OldStephenmighthavepassedforaparticularlyintelligentmaninhiscondition.Yethewasnot.Hetooknoplaceamongthoseremarkable‘Hands,’who,piecingtogethertheirbrokenintervalsofleisurethroughmanyyears,hadmastereddifficultsciences,andacquiredaknowledgeofmostunlikelythings.HeheldnostationamongtheHandswhocouldmakespeechesandcarryondebates.Thousandsofhiscompeerscouldtalkmuchbetterthanhe,atanytime.Hewasagoodpower-loomweaver,andamanofperfectintegrity.Whatmorehewas,orwhatelsehehadinhim,ifanything,lethimshowforhimself.

           Thelightsinthegreatfactories,whichlooked,whentheywereilluminated,likeFairypalacesorthetravellersbyexpress-trainsaidsowereallextinguished;andthebellshadrungforknockingoffforthenight,andhadceasedagain;andtheHands,menandwomen,boyandgirl,wereclatteringhome.OldStephenwasstandinginthestreet,withtheoldsensationuponhimwhichthestoppageofthemachineryalwaysproducedthesensationofitshavingworkedandstoppedinhisownhead.

           ‘YetIdon’tseeRachael,still!’saidhe.

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