Любовник леди Чаттерлей / Lady Chatterley's Lover

Connie considered this. “It isn’t true,” she said. “Men can love women and talk to them. I don’t see how they can love them without talking, and being friendly and intimate. How can they?”

“Well,” he said, “I don’t know. What’s the use of my generalizing? I only know my own case. I like women, but I don’t desire them. I like talking to them; but talking to them, though it makes me intimate in one direction, sets me poles apart from them as far as kissing is concerned. So there you are! But don’t take me as a general example, probably I’m just a special case: one of the men who like women, but don’t love women, and even hate them if they force me into a pretence of love, or an entangled appearance.

“But doesn’t it make you sad?”

“Why should it? Not a bit! I look at Charlie May, and the rest of the men who have affairs… No, I don’t envy them a bit! If fate sent me a woman I wanted, well and good. Since I don’t know any woman I want, and never see one… why, I presume I’m cold, and really like some women very much.”

“Do you like me?”

“Very much! And you see there’s no question of kissing between us, is there?”

“None at all!” said Connie. “But oughtn’t there to be?”

“Why, in God’s name? I like Clifford, but what would you say if I went and kissed him?”

“But isn’t there a difference?”

“Where does it lie, as far as we’re concerned? We’re all intelligent human beings, and the male and female business is in abeyance. Just in abeyance. How would you like me to start acting up like a continental[42 - Англичане называли «континентальной» культуру Западной Европы.] male at this moment, and parading the sex thing?”

“I should hate it.”

“Well then! I tell you, if I’m really a male thing at all, I never run across the female of my species. And I don’t miss her, I just like women. Who’s going to force me into loving or pretending to love them, working up the sex game?”

“No, I’m not. But isn’t something wrong?”

“You may feel it, I don’t.”

“Yes, I feel something is wrong between men and women. A woman has no glamour for a man any more.”

“Has a man for a woman?”

She pondered the other side of the question.

“Not much,” she said truthfully.

“Then let’s leave it all alone, and just be decent and simple, like proper human beings with one another. Be damned to the artificial sex-compulsion! I refuse it!”

Connie knew 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[43 - To Charlestone – танцевать чарльстон – популярный ритмичный танец с элементами импровизации, получивший распространение в 1920-х гг.] 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, 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.[44 - Broad vernacular – шотландский просторечный диалект.]

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!”