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- Дэвид Герберт Лоуренс
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- Любовник леди Чаттерлей
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- Стр. 326/388
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She
was
glad
to
drive
on
.
It
was
suddenly
hot
weather
,
so
Hilda
was
going
through
Switzerland
and
over
the
Brenner
,
then
through
the
Dolomites
down
to
Venice
.
Hilda
loved
all
the
managing
and
the
driving
and
being
mistress
of
the
show
.
Connie
was
quite
content
to
keep
quiet
.
And
the
trip
was
really
quite
nice
.
Only
Connie
kept
saying
to
herself
:
Why
don
’
t
I
really
care
!
Why
am
I
never
really
thrilled
?
How
awful
,
that
I
don
’
t
really
care
about
the
landscape
any
more
!
But
I
don
’
t
.
It
’
s
rather
awful
.
I
’
m
like
Saint
Bernard
,
who
could
sail
down
the
lake
of
Lucerne
without
ever
noticing
that
there
were
even
mountain
and
green
water
.
I
just
don
’
t
care
for
landscape
any
more
.
Why
should
one
stare
at
it
?
Why
should
one
?
I
refuse
to
.
No
,
she
found
nothing
vital
in
France
or
Switzerland
or
the
Tyrol
or
Italy
.
She
just
was
carted
through
it
all
.
And
it
was
all
less
real
than
Wragby
.
Less
real
than
the
awful
Wragby
!
She
felt
she
didn
’
t
care
if
she
never
saw
France
or
Switzerland
or
Italy
again
.
They
’
d
keep
.
Wragby
was
more
real
.
As
for
people
!
people
were
all
alike
,
with
very
little
difference
.
They
all
wanted
to
get
money
out
of
you
:
or
,
if
they
were
travellers
,
they
wanted
to
get
enjoyment
,
perforce
,
like
squeezing
blood
out
of
a
stone
.
Poor
mountains
!
poor
landscape
!
it
all
had
to
be
squeezed
and
squeezed
and
squeezed
again
,
to
provide
a
thrill
,
to
provide
enjoyment
.
What
did
people
mean
,
with
their
simply
determined
enjoying
of
themselves
?
No
!
said
Connie
to
herself
I
’
d
rather
be
at
Wragby
,
where
I
can
go
about
and
be
still
,
and
not
stare
at
anything
or
do
any
performing
of
any
sort
.
This
tourist
performance
of
enjoying
oneself
is
too
hopelessly
humiliating
:
it
’
s
such
a
failure
.
She
wanted
to
go
back
to
Wragby
,
even
to
Clifford
,
even
to
poor
crippled
Clifford
.
He
wasn
’
t
such
a
fool
as
this
swarming
holidaying
lot
,
anyhow
.
But
in
her
inner
consciousness
she
was
keeping
touch
with
the
other
man
.
She
mustn
’
t
let
her
connexion
with
him
go
:
oh
,
she
mustn
’
t
let
it
go
,
or
she
was
lost
,
lost
utterly
in
this
world
of
riff
-
raffy
expensive
people
and
joy
-
hogs
.
Oh
,
the
joy
-
hogs
!
Oh
’
enjoying
oneself
’
!
Another
modern
form
of
sickness
.
They
left
the
car
in
Mestre
,
in
a
garage
,
and
took
the
regular
steamer
over
to
Venice
.
It
was
a
lovely
summer
afternoon
,
the
shallow
lagoon
rippled
,
the
full
sunshine
made
Venice
,
turning
its
back
to
them
across
the
water
,
look
dim
.
At
the
station
quay
they
changed
to
a
gondola
,
giving
the
man
the
address
.
