DOMBEY AND SON（ISBN=9780812967432）pdf/txt下载_在线阅读全文

编辑推荐

　　Frederick Davidson gives such a splendid dramatization of this family saga, set in London in the 1840's, that it's almost like watching theater. Davidson matches his versatile voice to each one of the principals. He also manages to distinguish with equal elasticity among a host of vivid and disparate supporting characters. Thanks to Davidson's seamless delivery, the narrative sweeps the listener through more than 40 hours of sustained drama. J.H.L. An AUDIOFILE Earphones Award winner. (c)AudioFile, Portland, Maine --This text refers to the Audio Cassette edition.
　　There?s no writing against such power as this?one has no chance.??William Makepeace Thackeray --This text refers to the Paperback edition.

内容简介

　　"Dombey and Son," Charles Dickens's story of a powerful man whose callous neglect of his family triggers his professional and personal downfall, showcases the author's gift for vivid characterization and unfailingly realistic de*ion. As Jonathan Lethem contends in his Introduction, Dickens's "genius . . . is at one with the genius of the form of the novel itself: Dickens willed into existence the most capacious and elastic and versatile kind of novel that could be, one big enough for his vast sentimental yearnings and for every impulse and fear and hesitation in him that countervailed those yearnings too. Never parsimonious and frequently contradictory, he always gives us everything he can, everything he's planned to give, and then more." This Modern Library Paperback Classic was set from the 1867 "Charles Dickens" edition.

作者简介

　　Charles Dickens (1812-1870) was born in Portsmouth, England, and grew up in poverty, one of eight children. He became the preeminent writer of Victorian England, with most of his novels appearing in serial form before being published as books.

媒体评论

　　“There’s no writing against such power as this—one has no chance.”—William Makepeace Thackeray

在线试读部分章节

　　CHAPTER I.
　　Dombey and Son.
　　Dombey sat in the corner of the darkened room in the greatarm-chair by the bedside, and Son lay tucked up warm in a littlebasket bedstead, carefully disposed on a low settee immediately infront of the fire and close to it, as if his constitution wereanalogous to that of a muffin, and it was essential to toast himbrown while he was very new.
　　Dombey was about eight-and-forty years of age. Son abouteight-and-forty minutes. Dombey was rather bald, rather red, andthough a handsome well-made man, too stern and pompous inappearance, to be prepossessing. Son was very bald, and very red,and though (of course) an undeniably fine infant, somewhat crushedand spotty in his general effect, as yet. On the brow of Dombey,Time and his brother Care had set some marks, as on a tree that wasto come down in good time—remorseless twins they are for stridingthrough their human forests, notching as they go—while thecountenance of Son was crossed and recrossed with a thousand littlecreases, which the same deceitful Time would take delight insmoothing out and wearing away with the flat part of his scythe, asa preparation of the surface for his deeper operations.
　　Dombey, exulting in the long-looked-for event, jingled andjingled the heavy gold watch-chain that depended from below histrim blue coat, whereof the buttons sparkled phosphorescently inthe feeble rays of the distant fire. Son, with his little fistscurled up and clenched, seemed, in his feeble way, to be squaringat existence for having come upon him so unexpectedly.
　　“The house will once again, Mrs. Dombey,” said Mr. Dombey, “benot only in name but in fact Dombey and Son; Dom-bey andSon!”
　　The words had such a softening influence, that he appended a termof endearment to Mrs. Dombey’s name (though not without somehesitation, as being a man but little used to that form ofaddress): and said, “Mrs. Dombey, my—my dear.”
　　A transient flush of faint surprise overspread the sick lady’sface as she raised her eyes towards him.
　　“He will be christened Paul, my—Mrs. Dombey—of course.”

CHAPTER I. 
　　Dombey and Son. 
　　Dombey sat in the corner of the darkened room in the great
arm-chair by the bedside, and Son lay tucked up warm in a little
basket bedstead, carefully disposed on a low settee immediately in
front of the fire and close to it, as if his constitution were
analogous to that of a muffin, and it was essential to toast him
brown while he was very new. 
　　Dombey was about eight-and-forty years of age. Son about
eight-and-forty minutes. Dombey was rather bald, rather red, and
though a handsome well-made man, too stern and pompous in
appearance, to be prepossessing. Son was very bald, and very red,
and though (of course) an undeniably fine infant, somewhat crushed
and spotty in his general effect, as yet. On the brow of Dombey,
Time and his brother Care had set some marks, as on a tree that was
to come down in good time—remorseless twins they are for striding
through their human forests, notching as they go—while the
countenance of Son was crossed and recrossed with a thousand little
creases, which the same deceitful Time would take delight in
smoothing out and wearing away with the flat part of his scythe, as
a preparation of the surface for his deeper operations. 
　　Dombey, exulting in the long-looked-for event, jingled and
jingled the heavy gold watch-chain that depended from below his
trim blue coat, whereof the buttons sparkled phosphorescently in
the feeble rays of the distant fire. Son, with his little fists
curled up and clenched, seemed, in his feeble way, to be squaring
at existence for having come upon him so unexpectedly. 
　　“The house will once again, Mrs. Dombey,” said Mr. Dombey, “be
not only in name but in fact Dombey and Son; Dom-bey and
Son!” 
　　The words had such a softening influence, that he appended a term
of endearment to Mrs. Dombey’s name (though not without some
hesitation, as being a man but little used to that form of
address): and said, “Mrs. Dombey, my—my dear.” 
　　A transient flush of faint surprise overspread the sick lady’s
face as she raised her eyes towards him. 
　　“He will be christened Paul, my—Mrs. Dombey—of course.” 
　　She feebly echoed, “Of course,” or rather expressed it by the
motion of her lips, and closed her eyes again. 
　　“His father’s name, Mrs. Dombey, and his grandfather’s! I wish
his grandfather were alive this day!” And again he said “Dom-bey
and Son,” in exactly the same tone as before. 
　　Those three words conveyed the one idea of Mr. Dombey’s life. The
earth was made for Dombey and Son to trade in, and the sun and moon
were made to give them light. Rivers and seas were formed to float
their ships; rainbows gave them promise of fair weather; winds blew
for or against their enterprises; stars and planets circled in
their orbits, to preserve inviolate a system of which they were the
centre. Common abbreviations took new meanings in his eyes, and had
sole reference to them: A. D. had no concern with anno Domini, but
stood for anno Dombei—and Son. 
　　He had risen, as his father had before him, in the course of life
and death, from Son to Dombey, and for nearly twenty years had been
the sole representative of the firm. Of those years he had been
married, ten—married, as some said, to a lady with no heart to give
him; whose happiness was in the past, and who was content to bind
her broken spirit to the dutiful and meek endurance of the present.
Such idle talk was little likely to reach the ears of Mr. Dombey,
whom it nearly concerned; and probably no one in the world would
have received it with such utter incredulity as he, if it had
reached him. Dombey and Son had often dealt in hides, but never in
hearts. They left that fancy ware to boys and girls, and
boarding-schools and books. Mr. Dombey would have reasoned: That a
matrimonial alliance with himself must, in the nature of things, be
gratifying and honourable to any woman of common sense. That the
hope of giving birth to a new partner in such a house, could not
fail to awaken a glorious and stirring ambition in the breast of
the least ambitious of her sex. That Mrs. Dombey had entered on
that social contract of matrimony: almost necessarily part of a
genteel and wealthy station, even without reference to the
perpetuation of family firms: with her eyes fully open to these
advantages. That Mrs. Dombey had had daily practical knowledge of
his position in society. That Mrs. Dombey had always sat at the
head of his table, and done the honours of his house in a
remarkably lady-like and becoming manner. That Mrs. Dombey must
have been happy. That she couldn’t help it. 
　　Or, at all events, with one drawback. Yes. That he would have
allowed. With only one; but that one certainly involving much. They
had been married ten years, and until this present day on which Mr.
Dombey sat jingling and jingling his heavy gold watch-chain in the
great arm-chair by the side of the bed, had had no issue. 
　　—To speak of; none worth mentioning. There had been a girl some
six years before, and the child, who had stolen into the chamber
unobserved, was now crouching timidly, in a corner whence she could
see her mother’s face. But what was a girl to Dombey and Son! In
the capital of the House’s name and dignity, such a child was
merely a piece of base coin that couldn’t be invested—a bad
Boy—nothing more. 
　　Mr. Dombey’s cup of satisfaction was so full at this moment,
however, that he felt he could afford a drop or two of its
contents, even to sprinkle on the dust in the by-path of his little
daughter. 
　　So he said, “Florence, you may go and look at your pretty
brother, if you like, I dare say. Don’t touch him!” 
　　The child glanced keenly at the blue coat and stiff white cravat,
which, with a pair of creaking boots and a very loud ticking watch,
embodied her idea of a father; but her eyes returned to her
mother’s face immediately, and she neither moved nor
answered. 
　　Next moment, the lady had opened her eyes and seen the child; and
the child had run towards her; and, standing on tiptoe, the better
to hide her face in her embrace, had clung about her with a
desperate affection very much at variance with her years. 
　　“Oh Lord bless me!” said Mr. Dombey, rising testily. “A very
ill-advised and feverish proceeding this, I am sure. I had better
ask Doctor Peps if he’ll have the goodness to step up stairs again
perhaps. I’ll go down. I’ll go down. I needn’t beg you,” he added,
pausing for a moment at the settee before the fire, “to take
particular care of this young gentleman, Mrs.—” 
　　“Blockitt, Sir?” suggested the nurse, a simpering piece of faded
gentility, who did not presume to state her name as a fact, but
merely offered it as a mild suggestion. 
　　“Of this young gentleman, Mrs. Blockitt.” 
　　“No, Sir, indeed. I remember when Miss Florence was born—” 
　　“Ay, ay, ay,” said Mr. Dombey, bending over the basket bedstead,
and slightly bending his brows at the same time. “Miss Florence was
all very well, but this is another matter. This young gentleman has
to accomplish a destiny. A destiny, little fellow!” As he thus
apostrophised the infant he raised one of his hands to his lips,
and kissed it; then, seeming to fear that the action involved some
compromise of his dignity, went, awkwardly enough, away. 
　　Doctor Parker Peps, one of the Court Physicians, and a man of
immense reputation for assisting at the increase of great families,
was walking up and down the drawing-room with his hands behind him,
to the unspeakable admiration of the family Surgeon, who had
regularly puffed the case for the last six weeks, among all his
patients, friends, and acquaintances, as one to which he was in
hourly expectation day and night of being summoned, in conjunction
with Doctor Parker Peps. 
　　“Well, Sir,” said Doctor Parker Peps in a round, deep, sonorous
voice, muffled for the occasion, like the knocker; “do you find
that your dear lady is at all roused by your visit?” 
　　“Stimulated as it were?” said the family practitioner faintly:
bowing at the same time to the Doctor, as much as to say, “Excuse
my putting in a word, but this is a valuable connexion.” 
　　Mr. Dombey was quite discomfited by the question. He had thought
so little of the patient, that he was not in a condition to answer
it. He said that it would be a satisfaction to him, if Doctor
Parker Peps would walk up stairs again. 
　　“Good! We must not disguise from you, Sir,” said Doctor Parker
Peps, “that there is a want of power in Her Grace the Duchess—I beg
your pardon; I confound names; I should say, in your amiable lady.
That there is a certain degree of languor, and a general absence of
elasticity, which we would rather—not—” 
　　“See,” interposed the family practitioner with another
inclination of the head. 
　　“Quite so,” said Doctor Parker Peps, “which we would rather not
see. It would appear that the system of Lady Cankaby—excuse me: I
should say of Mrs. Dombey: I confuse the names of cases—” 
　　“So very numerous,” murmured the family practitioner—“can’t be
expected I’m sure—quite wonderful if otherwise—Doctor Parker Peps’s
West End practice—” 
　　“Thank you,” said the Doctor, “quite so. It would appear, I was
observing, that the system of our patient has sustained a shock,
from which it can only hope to rally by a great and strong—” 
　　“And vigorous,” murmured the family practitioner. 
　　“Quite so,” assented the Doctor—“and vigorous effort. Mr. Pilkins
here, who from his position of medical adviser in this family—no
one better qual...

显示全部信息

DOMBEY AND SON（ISBN=9780812967432）下载

DOMBEY AND SON（ISBN=9780812967432）

发布书评

相关图书推荐