Любовник леди Чаттерлей / Lady Chatterley's Lover. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Дэвид Герберт Лоуренс
he was right, really. Yet it left her feeling so forlorn, so forlorn and stray. Like a chip on a dreary pond, she felt. What was the point, of her or anything?
It was her youth which rebelled. These men seemed so old and cold. Everything seemed old and cold. And Michaelis let one down so; he was no good. The men didn’t want one; they just didn’t really want a woman, even Michaelis didn’t.
And the bounders who pretended they did, and started working the sex game, they were worse than ever.
It was just dismal, and one had to put up with it. It was quite true, men had no real glamour for a woman: if you could fool yourself into thinking they had, even as she had fooled herself over Michaelis, that was the best you could do. Meanwhile you just lived on and there was nothing to it. She understood perfectly well why people had cocktail parties, and jazzed, and charlestoned till they were ready to drop. You had to take it out some way or other, your youth, or it ate you up. But what a ghastly thing, this youth! You felt as old as Methuselah[36], and yet the thing fizzed somehow, and didn’t let you be comfortable. A mean sort of life! And no prospect! She almost wished she had gone off with Mick, and made her life one long cocktail party, and jazz evening. Anyhow that was better than just mooning yourself into the grave.
On one of her bad days she went out alone to walk in the wood, ponderously, heeding nothing, not even noticing where she was. The report of a gun not far off startled and angered her.
Then, as she went, she heard voices, and recoiled. People! She didn’t want people. But her quick ear caught another sound, and she roused; it was a child sobbing. At once she attended; someone was ill-treating a child. She strode swinging down the wet drive, her sullen resentment uppermost. She felt just prepared to make a scene.
Turning the corner, she saw two figures in the drive beyond her: the keeper, and a little girl in a purple coat and moleskin cap, crying.
“Ah, shut it up, tha false little bitch!” came the man’s angry voice, and the child sobbed louder.
Constance strode nearer, with blazing eyes. The man turned and looked at her, saluting coolly, but he was pale with anger.
“What’s the matter? Why is she crying?” demanded Constance, peremptory but a little breathless.
A faint smile like a sneer came on the man’s face. “Nay, yo mun ax’ er,” he replied callously, in broad vernacular.
Connie felt as if he had hit her in the face, and she changed colour. Then she gathered her defiance, and looked at him, her dark blue eyes blazing rather vaguely.
“I asked you,” she panted.
He gave a queer little bow, lifting his hat. “You did, your Ladyship,” he said; then, with a return to the vernacular: “but I canna tell yer.” And he became a soldier, inscrutable, only pale with annoyance.
Connie turned to the child, a ruddy, black-haired thing of nine or ten. “What is it, dear? Tell me why you’re crying!” she said, with the conventionalized sweetness suitable. More violent sobs, self-conscious. Still more sweetness on Connie’s part.
“There, there, don’t you cry! Tell me what they’ve done to you!”…an intense tenderness of tone. At the same time she felt in the pocket of her knitted jacket, and luckily found a sixpence.
“Don’t you cry then!” she said, bending in front of the child. “See what I’ve got for you!”
Sobs, snuffles, a fist taken from a blubbered face, and a black shrewd eye cast for a second on the sixpence. Then more sobs, but subduing. “There, tell me what’s the matter, tell me!” said Connie, putting the coin into the child’s chubby hand, which closed over it.
“It’s the…it’s the…pussy!”
Shudders of subsiding sobs.
“What pussy, dear?”
After a silence the shy fist, clenching on sixpence, pointed into the bramble brake.
“There!”
Connie looked, and there, sure enough, was a big black cat, stretched out grimly, with a bit of blood on it.
“Oh!” she said in repulsion.
“A poacher, your Ladyship,” said the man satirically.
She glanced at him angrily. “No wonder the child cried,” she said, “if you shot it when she was there. No wonder she cried!”
He looked into Connie’s eyes, laconic, contemptuous, not hiding his feelings. And again Connie flushed; she felt she had been making a scene, the man did not respect her.
“What is your name?” she said playfully to the child. “Won’t you tell me your name?”
Sniffs; then very affectedly in a piping voice: “Connie Mellors!”
“Connie Mellors! Well, that’s a nice name! And did you come out with your Daddy, and he shot a pussy? But it was a bad pussy!”
The child looked at her, with bold, dark eyes of scrutiny, sizing her up, and her condolence.
“I wanted to stop with my Gran,” said the little girl.
“Did you? But where is your Gran?”
The child lifted an arm, pointing down the drive. “At th’ cottidge.”
“At the cottage! And would you like to go back to her?”
Sudden, shuddering quivers of reminiscent sobs. “Yes!”
“Come then, shall I take you? Shall I take you to your Gran? Then your Daddy can do what he has to do.” She turned to the man. “It is your little girl, isn’t it?”
He saluted, and made a slight movement of the head in affirmation.
“I suppose I can take her to the cottage?” asked Connie.
“If your Ladyship wishes.”
Again he looked into her eyes, with that calm, searching detached glance. A man very much alone, and on his own.
“Would you like to come with me to the cottage, to your Gran, dear?”
The child peeped up again. “Yes!” she simpered.
Connie disliked her; the spoilt, false little female. Nevertheless she wiped her face and took her hand. The keeper saluted in silence.
“Good morning!” said Connie.
It was nearly a mile to the cottage, and Connie senior was well bored by Connie junior by the time the game-keeper’s picturesque little home was in sight. The child was already as full to the brim with tricks as a little monkey, and so self-assured.
At the cottage the door stood open, and there was a rattling heard inside. Connie lingered, the child slipped her hand, and ran indoors.
“Gran! Gran!”
“Why, are yer back a’ready!”
The grandmother had been blackleading the stove, it was Saturday morning. She came to the door in her sacking apron, a blacklead-brush in her hand, and a black smudge on her nose. She was a little, rather dry woman.
“Why, whatever?” she said, hastily wiping her arm across her face as she saw Connie standing outside.
“Good morning!” said Connie. “She was crying, so I just brought her home.”
The grandmother looked around swiftly at the child:
“Why, wheer was yer Dad?”
The little girl clung to her grandmother’s skirts and simpered.
“He was there,” said Connie, “but he’d shot a poaching cat, and the child was upset.”
“Oh, you’d no right t’ave bothered, Lady Chatterley, I’m sure! I’m sure it was very good of you, but you shouldn’t ’ave bothered. Why, did ever you see!” – and the old woman turned to the child: “Fancy Lady Chatterley takin’ all that trouble over yer! Why, she shouldn’t ’ave bothered!”
“It