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- Дэвид Герберт Лоуренс
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- Любовник леди Чаттерлей
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- Стр. 165/388
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But
that
didn
’
t
count
any
more
.
The
vast
plumes
of
smoke
and
vapour
rose
from
the
new
works
up
above
,
and
this
was
now
Stacks
Gate
:
no
chapels
,
no
pubs
,
even
no
shops
.
Only
the
great
works
’
,
which
are
the
modern
Olympia
with
temples
to
all
the
gods
;
then
the
model
dwellings
:
then
the
hotel
.
The
hotel
in
actuality
was
nothing
but
a
miners
’
pub
though
it
looked
first
-
classy
.
Even
since
Connie
’
s
arrival
at
Wragby
this
new
place
had
arisen
on
the
face
of
the
earth
,
and
the
model
dwellings
had
filled
with
riff
-
raff
drifting
in
from
anywhere
,
to
poach
Clifford
’
s
rabbits
among
other
occupations
.
The
car
ran
on
along
the
uplands
,
seeing
the
rolling
county
spread
out
.
The
county
!
It
had
once
been
a
proud
and
lordly
county
.
In
front
,
looming
again
and
hanging
on
the
brow
of
the
sky
-
line
,
was
the
huge
and
splendid
bulk
of
Chadwick
Hall
,
more
window
than
wall
,
one
of
the
most
famous
Elizabethan
houses
.
Noble
it
stood
alone
above
a
great
park
,
but
out
of
date
,
passed
over
.
It
was
still
kept
up
,
but
as
a
show
place
.
’
Look
how
our
ancestors
lorded
it
!
’
That
was
the
past
.
The
present
lay
below
.
God
alone
knows
where
the
future
lies
.
The
car
was
already
turning
,
between
little
old
blackened
miners
’
cottages
,
to
descend
to
Uthwaite
.
And
Uthwaite
,
on
a
damp
day
,
was
sending
up
a
whole
array
of
smoke
plumes
and
steam
,
to
whatever
gods
there
be
.
Uthwaite
down
in
the
valley
,
with
all
the
steel
threads
of
the
railways
to
Sheffield
drawn
through
it
,
and
the
coal
-
mines
and
the
steel
-
works
sending
up
smoke
and
glare
from
long
tubes
,
and
the
pathetic
little
corkscrew
spire
of
the
church
,
that
is
going
to
tumble
down
,
still
pricking
the
fumes
,
always
affected
Connie
strangely
.
It
was
an
old
market
-
town
,
centre
of
the
dales
.
One
of
the
chief
inns
was
the
Chatterley
Arms
.
There
,
in
Uthwaite
,
Wragby
was
known
as
Wragby
,
as
if
it
were
a
whole
place
,
not
just
a
house
,
as
it
was
to
outsiders
:
Wragby
Hall
,
near
Tevershall
:
Wragby
,
a
’
seat
’
.
The
miners
’
cottages
,
blackened
,
stood
flush
on
the
pavement
,
with
that
intimacy
and
smallness
of
colliers
’
dwellings
over
a
hundred
years
old
.
They
lined
all
the
way
.
The
road
had
become
a
street
,
and
as
you
sank
,
you
forgot
instantly
the
open
,
rolling
country
where
the
castles
and
big
houses
still
dominated
,
but
like
ghosts
.
Now
you
were
just
above
the
tangle
of
naked
railway
-
lines
,
and
foundries
and
other
’
works
’
rose
about
you
,
so
big
you
were
only
aware
of
walls
.
And
iron
clanked
with
a
huge
reverberating
clank
,
and
huge
lorries
shook
the
earth
,
and
whistles
screamed
.
Yet
again
,
once
you
had
got
right
down
and
into
the
twisted
and
crooked
heart
of
the
town
,
behind
the
church
,
you
were
in
the
world
of
two
centuries
ago
,
in
the
crooked
streets
where
the
Chatterley
Arms
stood
,
and
the
old
pharmacy
,
streets
which
used
to
lead
Out
to
the
wild
open
world
of
the
castles
and
stately
couchant
houses
.
But
at
the
corner
a
policeman
held
up
his
hand
as
three
lorries
loaded
with
iron
rolled
past
,
shaking
the
poor
old
church
.
And
not
till
the
lorries
were
past
could
he
salute
her
ladyship
.
So
it
was
.
Upon
the
old
crooked
burgess
streets
hordes
of
oldish
blackened
miners
’
dwellings
crowded
,
lining
the
roads
out
.
And
immediately
after
these
came
the
newer
,
pinker
rows
of
rather
larger
houses
,
plastering
the
valley
:
the
homes
of
more
modern
workmen
.
And
beyond
that
again
,
in
the
wide
rolling
regions
of
the
castles
,
smoke
waved
against
steam
,
and
patch
after
patch
of
raw
reddish
brick
showed
the
newer
mining
settlements
,
sometimes
in
the
hollows
,
sometimes
gruesomely
ugly
along
the
sky
-
line
of
the
slopes
.
And
between
,
in
between
,
were
the
tattered
remnants
of
the
old
coaching
and
cottage
England
,
even
the
England
of
Robin
Hood
,
where
the
miners
prowled
with
the
dismalness
of
suppressed
sporting
instincts
,
when
they
were
not
at
work
.
