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- Дэвид Герберт Лоуренс
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- Любовник леди Чаттерлей
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- Стр. 387/388
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As
everybody
says
,
the
Notts
-
Derby
miners
have
got
their
hearts
in
the
right
place
.
But
the
rest
of
their
anatomy
must
be
in
the
wrong
place
,
in
a
world
that
has
no
use
for
them
.
I
like
them
,
but
they
don
’
t
cheer
me
much
:
not
enough
of
the
old
fighting
-
cock
in
them
.
They
talk
a
lot
about
nationalization
,
nationalization
of
royalties
,
nationalization
of
the
whole
industry
.
But
you
can
’
t
nationalize
coal
and
leave
all
the
other
industries
as
they
are
.
They
talk
about
putting
coal
to
new
uses
,
like
Sir
Clifford
is
trying
to
do
.
It
may
work
here
and
there
,
but
not
as
a
general
thing
,
I
doubt
.
Whatever
you
make
you
’
ve
got
to
sell
it
.
The
men
are
very
apathetic
.
They
feel
the
whole
damned
thing
is
doomed
,
and
I
believe
it
is
.
And
they
are
doomed
along
with
it
.
Some
of
the
young
ones
spout
about
a
Soviet
,
but
there
’
s
not
much
conviction
in
them
.
There
’
s
no
sort
of
conviction
about
anything
,
except
that
it
’
s
all
a
muddle
and
a
hole
.
Even
under
a
Soviet
you
’
ve
still
got
to
sell
coal
:
and
that
’
s
the
difficulty
.
We
’
ve
got
this
great
industrial
population
,
and
they
’
ve
got
to
be
fed
,
so
the
damn
show
has
to
be
kept
going
somehow
.
The
women
talk
a
lot
more
than
the
men
,
nowadays
,
and
they
are
a
sight
more
cock
-
sure
.
The
men
are
limp
,
they
feel
a
doom
somewhere
,
and
they
go
about
as
if
there
was
nothing
to
be
done
.
Anyhow
,
nobody
knows
what
should
be
done
in
spite
of
all
the
talk
,
the
young
ones
get
mad
because
they
’
ve
no
money
to
spend
.
Their
whole
life
depends
on
spending
money
,
and
now
they
’
ve
got
none
to
spend
.
That
’
s
our
civilization
and
our
education
:
bring
up
the
masses
to
depend
entirely
on
spending
money
,
and
then
the
money
gives
out
.
The
pits
are
working
two
days
,
two
and
a
half
days
a
week
,
and
there
’
s
no
sign
of
betterment
even
for
the
winter
.
It
means
a
man
bringing
up
a
family
on
twenty
-
five
and
thirty
shillings
.
The
women
are
the
maddest
of
all
.
But
then
they
’
re
the
maddest
for
spending
,
nowadays
.
If
you
could
only
tell
them
that
living
and
spending
isn
’
t
the
same
thing
!
But
it
’
s
no
good
.
If
only
they
were
educated
to
live
instead
of
earn
and
spend
,
they
could
manage
very
happily
on
twenty
-
five
shillings
.
If
the
men
wore
scarlet
trousers
as
I
said
,
they
wouldn
’
t
think
so
much
of
money
:
if
they
could
dance
and
hop
and
skip
,
and
sing
and
swagger
and
be
handsome
,
they
could
do
with
very
little
cash
.
And
amuse
the
women
themselves
,
and
be
amused
by
the
women
.
They
ought
to
learn
to
be
naked
and
handsome
,
and
to
sing
in
a
mass
and
dance
the
old
group
dances
,
and
carve
the
stools
they
sit
on
,
and
embroider
their
own
emblems
.
Then
they
wouldn
’
t
need
money
.
And
that
’
s
the
only
way
to
solve
the
industrial
problem
:
train
the
people
to
be
able
to
live
and
live
in
handsomeness
,
without
needing
to
spend
.
But
you
can
’
t
do
it
.
They
’
re
all
one
-
track
minds
nowadays
.
Whereas
the
mass
of
people
oughtn
’
t
even
to
try
to
think
,
because
they
can
’
t
.
They
should
be
alive
and
frisky
,
and
acknowledge
the
great
god
Pan
.
He
’
s
the
only
god
for
the
masses
,
forever
.
The
few
can
go
in
for
higher
cults
if
they
like
.
But
let
the
mass
be
forever
pagan
.
But
the
colliers
aren
’
t
pagan
,
far
from
it
.
They
’
re
a
sad
lot
,
a
deadened
lot
of
men
:
dead
to
their
women
,
dead
to
life
.
The
young
ones
scoot
about
on
motor
-
bikes
with
girls
,
and
jazz
when
they
get
a
chance
,
But
they
’
re
very
dead
.
And
it
needs
money
.
Money
poisons
you
when
you
’
ve
got
it
,
and
starves
you
when
you
haven
’
t
.
I
’
m
sure
you
’
re
sick
of
all
this
.
But
I
don
’
t
want
to
harp
on
myself
,
and
I
’
ve
nothing
happening
to
me
.
I
don
’
t
like
to
think
too
much
about
you
,
in
my
head
,
that
only
makes
a
mess
of
us
both
.
But
,
of
course
,
what
I
live
for
now
is
for
you
and
me
to
live
together
.
I
’
m
frightened
,
really
.
I
feel
the
devil
in
the
air
,
and
he
’
ll
try
to
get
us
.
Or
not
the
devil
,
Mammon
:
which
I
think
,
after
all
,
is
only
the
mass
-
will
of
people
,
wanting
money
and
hating
life
.
Anyhow
,
I
feel
great
grasping
white
hands
in
the
air
,
wanting
to
get
hold
of
the
throat
of
anybody
who
tries
to
live
,
to
live
beyond
money
,
and
squeeze
the
life
out
.
There
’
s
a
bad
time
coming
.
There
’
s
a
bad
time
coming
,
boys
,
there
’
s
a
bad
time
coming
!
If
things
go
on
as
they
are
,
there
’
s
nothing
lies
in
the
future
but
death
and
destruction
,
for
these
industrial
masses
.
I
feel
my
inside
turn
to
water
sometimes
,
and
there
you
are
,
going
to
have
a
child
by
me
.
But
never
mind
.
All
the
bad
times
that
ever
have
been
,
haven
’
t
been
able
to
blow
the
crocus
out
:
not
even
the
love
of
women
.
So
they
won
’
t
be
able
to
blow
out
my
wanting
you
,
nor
the
little
glow
there
is
between
you
and
me
.
We
’
ll
be
together
next
year
.
And
though
I
’
m
frightened
,
I
believe
in
your
being
with
me
.
A
man
has
to
fend
and
fettle
for
the
best
,
and
then
trust
in
something
beyond
himself
.
You
can
’
t
insure
against
the
future
,
except
by
really
believing
in
the
best
bit
of
you
,
and
in
the
power
beyond
it
.
So
I
believe
in
the
little
flame
between
us
.
For
me
now
,
it
’
s
the
only
thing
in
the
world
.
I
’
ve
got
no
friends
,
not
inward
friends
.
Only
you
.
And
now
the
little
flame
is
all
I
care
about
in
my
life
.
There
’
s
the
baby
,
but
that
is
a
side
issue
.
It
’
s
my
Pentecost
,
the
forked
flame
between
me
and
you
.
The
old
Pentecost
isn
’
t
quite
right
.
Me
and
God
is
a
bit
uppish
,
somehow
.
But
the
little
forked
flame
between
me
and
you
:
there
you
are
!
That
’
s
what
I
abide
by
,
and
will
abide
by
,
Cliffords
and
Berthas
,
colliery
companies
and
governments
and
the
money
-
mass
of
people
all
notwithstanding
.
That
’
s
why
I
don
’
t
like
to
start
thinking
about
you
actually
.
It
only
tortures
me
,
and
does
you
no
good
.
I
don
’
t
want
you
to
be
away
from
me
.
But
if
I
start
fretting
it
wastes
something
.
Patience
,
always
patience
.
This
is
my
fortieth
winter
.
And
I
can
’
t
help
all
the
winters
that
have
been
.
But
this
winter
I
’
ll
stick
to
my
little
Pentecost
flame
,
and
have
some
peace
.
And
I
won
’
t
let
the
breath
of
people
blow
it
out
.
I
believe
in
a
higher
mystery
,
that
doesn
’
t
let
even
the
crocus
be
blown
out
.
And
if
you
’
re
in
Scotland
and
I
’
m
in
the
Midlands
,
and
I
can
’
t
put
my
arms
round
you
,
and
wrap
my
legs
round
you
,
yet
I
’
ve
got
something
of
you
.
My
soul
softly
flaps
in
the
little
Pentecost
flame
with
you
,
like
the
peace
of
fucking
.
We
fucked
a
flame
into
being
.
Even
the
flowers
are
fucked
into
being
between
the
sun
and
the
earth
.
But
it
’
s
a
delicate
thing
,
and
takes
patience
and
the
long
pause
.
So
I
love
chastity
now
,
because
it
is
the
peace
that
comes
of
fucking
.
I
love
being
chaste
now
.
I
love
it
as
snowdrops
love
the
snow
.
I
love
this
chastity
,
which
is
the
pause
of
peace
of
our
fucking
,
between
us
now
like
a
snowdrop
of
forked
white
fire
.
And
when
the
real
spring
comes
,
when
the
drawing
together
comes
,
then
we
can
fuck
the
little
flame
brilliant
and
yellow
,
brilliant
.
But
not
now
,
not
yet
!
Now
is
the
time
to
be
chaste
,
it
is
so
good
to
be
chaste
,
like
a
river
of
cool
water
in
my
soul
.
I
love
the
chastity
now
that
it
flows
between
us
.
It
is
like
fresh
water
and
rain
.
How
can
men
want
wearisomely
to
philander
.
What
a
misery
to
be
like
Don
Juan
,
and
impotent
ever
to
fuck
oneself
into
peace
,
and
the
little
flame
alight
,
impotent
and
unable
to
be
chaste
in
the
cool
between
-
whiles
,
as
by
a
river
.
