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- Дэвид Герберт Лоуренс
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- Любовник леди Чаттерлей
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- Стр. 151/388
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He
thought
of
his
boyhood
in
Tevershall
,
and
of
his
five
or
six
years
of
married
life
.
He
thought
of
his
wife
,
and
always
bitterly
.
She
had
seemed
so
brutal
.
But
he
had
not
seen
her
now
since
1915
,
in
the
spring
when
he
joined
up
.
Yet
there
she
was
,
not
three
miles
away
,
and
more
brutal
than
ever
.
He
hoped
never
to
see
her
again
while
he
lived
.
He
thought
of
his
life
abroad
,
as
a
soldier
.
India
,
Egypt
,
then
India
again
:
the
blind
,
thoughtless
life
with
the
horses
:
the
colonel
who
had
loved
him
and
whom
he
had
loved
:
the
several
years
that
he
had
been
an
officer
,
a
lieutenant
with
a
very
fair
chance
of
being
a
captain
.
Then
the
death
of
the
colonel
from
pneumonia
,
and
his
own
narrow
escape
from
death
:
his
damaged
health
:
his
deep
restlessness
:
his
leaving
the
army
and
coming
back
to
England
to
be
a
working
man
again
.
He
was
temporizing
with
life
.
He
had
thought
he
would
be
safe
,
at
least
for
a
time
,
in
this
wood
.
There
was
no
shooting
as
yet
:
he
had
to
rear
the
pheasants
.
He
would
have
no
guns
to
serve
.
He
would
be
alone
,
and
apart
from
life
,
which
was
all
he
wanted
.
He
had
to
have
some
sort
of
a
background
.
And
this
was
his
native
place
.
There
was
even
his
mother
,
though
she
had
never
meant
very
much
to
him
.
And
he
could
go
on
in
life
,
existing
from
day
to
day
,
without
connexion
and
without
hope
.
For
he
did
not
know
what
to
do
with
himself
.
He
did
not
know
what
to
do
with
himself
.
Since
he
had
been
an
officer
for
some
years
,
and
had
mixed
among
the
other
officers
and
civil
servants
,
with
their
wives
and
families
,
he
had
lost
all
ambition
to
’
get
on
’
.
There
was
a
toughness
,
a
curious
rubbernecked
toughness
and
unlivingness
about
the
middle
and
upper
classes
,
as
he
had
known
them
,
which
just
left
him
feeling
cold
and
different
from
them
.
So
,
he
had
come
back
to
his
own
class
.
To
find
there
,
what
he
had
forgotten
during
his
absence
of
years
,
a
pettiness
and
a
vulgarity
of
manner
extremely
distasteful
.
He
admitted
now
at
last
,
how
important
manner
was
.
He
admitted
,
also
,
how
important
it
was
even
to
pretend
not
to
care
about
the
halfpence
and
the
small
things
of
life
.
But
among
the
common
people
there
was
no
pretence
.
A
penny
more
or
less
on
the
bacon
was
worse
than
a
change
in
the
Gospel
.
He
could
not
stand
it
.
And
again
,
there
was
the
wage
-
squabble
.
Having
lived
among
the
owning
classes
,
he
knew
the
utter
futility
of
expecting
any
solution
of
the
wage
-
squabble
.
There
was
no
solution
,
short
of
death
.
The
only
thing
was
not
to
care
,
not
to
care
about
the
wages
.
Yet
,
if
you
were
poor
and
wretched
you
had
to
care
.
Anyhow
,
it
was
becoming
the
only
thing
they
did
care
about
.
The
care
about
money
was
like
a
great
cancer
,
eating
away
the
individuals
of
all
classes
.
He
refused
to
care
about
money
.
And
what
then
?
What
did
life
offer
apart
from
the
care
of
money
?
Nothing
.
Yet
he
could
live
alone
,
in
the
wan
satisfaction
of
being
alone
,
and
raise
pheasants
to
be
shot
ultimately
by
fat
men
after
breakfast
.
It
was
futility
,
futility
to
the
nth
power
.
