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- Дэвид Герберт Лоуренс
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- Любовник леди Чаттерлей
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- Стр. 163/388
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’
Oh
no
!
We
’
d
manage
with
Field
.
There
would
always
be
another
man
there
.
’
But
Clifford
shook
his
head
.
’
Not
this
year
,
dear
!
Not
this
year
!
Next
year
probably
I
’
ll
try
.
’
She
went
away
gloomily
.
Next
year
!
What
would
next
year
bring
?
She
herself
did
not
really
want
to
go
to
Venice
:
not
now
,
now
there
was
the
other
man
.
But
she
was
going
as
a
sort
of
discipline
:
and
also
because
,
if
she
had
a
child
,
Clifford
could
think
she
had
a
lover
in
Venice
.
It
was
already
May
,
and
in
June
they
were
supposed
to
start
.
Always
these
arrangements
!
Always
one
’
s
life
arranged
for
one
!
Wheels
that
worked
one
and
drove
one
,
and
over
which
one
had
no
real
control
!
It
was
May
,
but
cold
and
wet
again
.
A
cold
wet
May
,
good
for
corn
and
hay
!
Much
the
corn
and
hay
matter
nowadays
!
Connie
had
to
go
into
Uthwaite
,
which
was
their
little
town
,
where
the
Chatterleys
were
still
the
Chatterleys
.
She
went
alone
,
Field
driving
her
.
In
spite
of
May
and
a
new
greenness
,
the
country
was
dismal
.
It
was
rather
chilly
,
and
there
was
smoke
on
the
rain
,
and
a
certain
sense
of
exhaust
vapour
in
the
air
.
One
just
had
to
live
from
one
’
s
resistance
.
No
wonder
these
people
were
ugly
and
tough
.
The
car
ploughed
uphill
through
the
long
squalid
straggle
of
Tevershall
,
the
blackened
brick
dwellings
,
the
black
slate
roofs
glistening
their
sharp
edges
,
the
mud
black
with
coal
-
dust
,
the
pavements
wet
and
black
.
It
was
as
if
dismalness
had
soaked
through
and
through
everything
.
The
utter
negation
of
natural
beauty
,
the
utter
negation
of
the
gladness
of
life
,
the
utter
absence
of
the
instinct
for
shapely
beauty
which
every
bird
and
beast
has
,
the
utter
death
of
the
human
intuitive
faculty
was
appalling
.
The
stacks
of
soap
in
the
grocers
’
shops
,
the
rhubarb
and
lemons
in
the
greengrocers
!
the
awful
hats
in
the
milliners
!
all
went
by
ugly
,
ugly
,
ugly
,
followed
by
the
plaster
-
and
-
gilt
horror
of
the
cinema
with
its
wet
picture
announcements
,
’
A
Woman
’
s
Love
!
’
,
and
the
new
big
Primitive
chapel
,
primitive
enough
in
its
stark
brick
and
big
panes
of
greenish
and
raspberry
glass
in
the
windows
.
The
Wesleyan
chapel
,
higher
up
,
was
of
blackened
brick
and
stood
behind
iron
railings
and
blackened
shrubs
.
The
Congregational
chapel
,
which
thought
itself
superior
,
was
built
of
rusticated
sandstone
and
had
a
steeple
,
but
not
a
very
high
one
.
Just
beyond
were
the
new
school
buildings
,
expensive
pink
brick
,
and
gravelled
playground
inside
iron
railings
,
all
very
imposing
,
and
fixing
the
suggestion
of
a
chapel
and
a
prison
.
Standard
Five
girls
were
having
a
singing
lesson
,
just
finishing
the
la
-
me
-
doh
-
la
exercises
and
beginning
a
’
sweet
children
’
s
song
’
.
Anything
more
unlike
song
,
spontaneous
song
,
would
be
impossible
to
imagine
:
a
strange
bawling
yell
that
followed
the
outlines
of
a
tune
.
It
was
not
like
savages
:
savages
have
subtle
rhythms
.
It
was
not
like
animals
:
animals
mean
something
when
they
yell
.
It
was
like
nothing
on
earth
,
and
it
was
called
singing
.
Connie
sat
and
listened
with
her
heart
in
her
boots
,
as
Field
was
filling
petrol
.
What
could
possibly
become
of
such
a
people
,
a
people
in
whom
the
living
intuitive
faculty
was
dead
as
nails
,
and
only
queer
mechanical
yells
and
uncanny
will
-
power
remained
?
A
coal
-
cart
was
coming
downhill
,
clanking
in
the
rain
.
Field
started
upwards
,
past
the
big
but
weary
-
looking
drapers
and
clothing
shops
,
the
post
-
office
,
into
the
little
market
-
place
of
forlorn
space
,
where
Sam
Black
was
peering
out
of
the
door
of
the
Sun
,
that
called
itself
an
inn
,
not
a
pub
,
and
where
the
commercial
travellers
stayed
,
and
was
bowing
to
Lady
Chatterley
’
s
car
.
