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- Дэвид Герберт Лоуренс
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- Любовник леди Чаттерлей
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- Стр. 335/388
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I
am
assiduously
,
admirably
looked
after
by
Mrs
Bolton
.
She
is
a
queer
specimen
.
The
more
I
live
,
the
more
I
realize
what
strange
creatures
human
beings
are
.
Some
of
them
might
just
as
well
have
a
hundred
legs
,
like
a
centipede
,
or
six
,
like
a
lobster
.
The
human
consistency
and
dignity
one
has
been
led
to
expect
from
one
’
s
fellow
-
men
seem
actually
nonexistent
.
One
doubts
if
they
exist
to
any
startling
degree
even
is
oneself
.
The
scandal
of
the
keeper
continues
and
gets
bigger
like
a
snowball
.
Mrs
Bolton
keeps
me
informed
.
She
reminds
me
of
a
fish
which
,
though
dumb
,
seems
to
be
breathing
silent
gossip
through
its
gills
,
while
ever
it
lives
.
All
goes
through
the
sieve
of
her
gills
,
and
nothing
surprises
her
.
It
is
as
if
the
events
of
other
people
’
s
lives
were
the
necessary
oxygen
of
her
own
.
She
is
preoccupied
with
the
Mellors
scandal
,
and
if
I
will
let
her
begin
,
she
takes
me
down
to
the
depths
.
Her
great
indignation
,
which
even
then
is
like
the
indignation
of
an
actress
playing
a
role
,
is
against
the
wife
of
Mellors
,
whom
she
persists
in
calling
Bertha
Courts
.
I
have
been
to
the
depths
of
the
muddy
lies
of
the
Bertha
Couttses
of
this
world
,
and
when
,
released
from
the
current
of
gossip
,
I
slowly
rise
to
the
surface
again
,
I
look
at
the
daylight
its
wonder
that
it
ever
should
be
.
It
seems
to
me
absolutely
true
,
that
our
world
,
which
appears
to
us
the
surface
of
all
things
,
is
really
the
bottom
of
a
deep
ocean
:
all
our
trees
are
submarine
growths
,
and
we
are
weird
,
scaly
-
clad
submarine
fauna
,
feeding
ourselves
on
offal
like
shrimps
.
Only
occasionally
the
soul
rises
gasping
through
the
fathomless
fathoms
under
which
we
live
,
far
up
to
the
surface
of
the
ether
,
where
there
is
true
air
.
I
am
convinced
that
the
air
we
normally
breathe
is
a
kind
of
water
,
and
men
and
women
are
a
species
of
fish
.
But
sometimes
the
soul
does
come
up
,
shoots
like
a
kittiwake
into
the
light
,
with
ecstasy
,
after
having
preyed
on
the
submarine
depths
.
It
is
our
mortal
destiny
,
I
suppose
,
to
prey
upon
the
ghastly
subaqueous
life
of
our
fellow
-
men
,
in
the
submarine
jungle
of
mankind
.
But
our
immortal
destiny
is
to
escape
,
once
we
have
swallowed
our
swimmy
catch
,
up
again
into
the
bright
ether
,
bursting
out
from
the
surface
of
Old
Ocean
into
real
light
.
Then
one
realizes
one
’
s
eternal
nature
.
When
I
hear
Mrs
Bolton
talk
,
I
feel
myself
plunging
down
,
down
,
to
the
depths
where
the
fish
of
human
secrets
wriggle
and
swim
.
Carnal
appetite
makes
one
seize
a
beakful
of
prey
:
then
up
,
up
again
,
out
of
the
dense
into
the
ethereal
,
from
the
wet
into
the
dry
.
To
you
I
can
tell
the
whole
process
.
But
with
Mrs
Bolton
I
only
feel
the
downward
plunge
,
down
,
horribly
,
among
the
sea
-
weeds
and
the
pallid
monsters
of
the
very
bottom
.
I
am
afraid
we
are
going
to
lose
our
game
-
keeper
.
The
scandal
of
the
truant
wife
,
instead
of
dying
down
,
has
reverberated
to
greater
and
greater
dimensions
.
He
is
accused
of
all
unspeakable
things
and
curiously
enough
,
the
woman
has
managed
to
get
the
bulk
of
the
colliers
’
wives
behind
her
,
gruesome
fish
,
and
the
village
is
putrescent
with
talk
.
I
hear
this
Bertha
Coutts
besieges
Mellors
in
his
mother
’
s
house
,
having
ransacked
the
cottage
and
the
hut
.
She
seized
one
day
upon
her
own
daughter
,
as
that
chip
of
the
female
block
was
returning
from
school
;
but
the
little
one
,
instead
of
kissing
the
loving
mother
’
s
hand
,
bit
it
firmly
,
and
so
received
from
the
other
hand
a
smack
in
the
face
which
sent
her
reeling
into
the
gutter
:
whence
she
was
rescued
by
an
indignant
and
harassed
grandmother
.
