Дэвид Лоуренс - Lady Chatterley's Lover [С англо-русским словарем]

“Is it time to wake up?” she said.

“Half past six.”

She had to be at the lane-end at eight. Always, always, always this compulsion on one!

“I might make the breakfast and bring it up here; should I?” he said.

“Oh yes!”

Flossie whimpered gently below. He got up and threw off his pyjamas, and rubbed himself with a towel. When the human being is full of courage and full of life, how beautiful it is! So she thought, as she watched him in silence.

“Draw the curtain, will you?”

The sun was shining already on the tender green leaves of morning, and the wood stood bluey-fresh, in the nearness. She sat up in bed, looking dreamily out through the dormer window, her naked arms pushing her naked breasts together. He was dressing himself. She was half-dreaming of life, a life together with him: just a life.

He was going, fleeing from her dangerous, crouching nakedness.

“Have I lost my nightie altogether?” she said.

He pushed his hand down in the bed, and pulled out the bit of flimsy silk.

“I knowed I felt silk at my ankles,” he said.

But the night-dress was slit almost in two.

“Never mind!” she said. “It belongs here, really. I’ll leave it.”

“Ay, leave it, I can put it between my legs at night, for company. There’s no name nor mark on it, is there?”

She slipped on the torn thing, and sat dreamily looking out of the window. The window was open, the air of morning drifted in, and the sound of birds. Birds flew continuously past. Then she saw Flossie roaming out. It was morning.

Downstairs she heard him making the fire, pumping water, going out at the back door. By and by came the smell of bacon, and at length he came upstairs with a huge black tray that would only just go through the door. He set the tray on the bed, and poured out the tea. Connie squatted in her torn nightdress, and fell on her food hungrily. He sat on the one chair, with his plate on his knees.

“How good it is!” she said. “How nice to have breakfast together.”

He ate in silence, his mind on the time that was quickly passing. That made her remember.

“Oh, how I wish I could stay here with you, and Wragby were a million miles away! It’s Wragby I’m going away from really. You know that, don’t you?”

“Ay!”

“And you promise we will live together and have a life together, you and me! You promise me, don’t you?”

“Ay! When we can.”

“Yes! And we will! we will, won’t we?” she leaned over, making the tea spill, catching his wrist.

“Ay!” he said, tidying up the tea.

“We can’t possibly not live together now, can we?” she said appealingly.

He looked up at her with his flickering grin.

“No!” he said. “Only you’ve got to start in twenty-five minutes.”

“Have I?” she cried. Suddenly he held up a warning finger, and rose to his feet.

Flossie had given a short bark, then three loud sharp yaps of warning.

Silent, he put his plate on the tray and went downstairs. Constance heard him go down the garden path. A bicycle bell tinkled outside there.

“Morning, Mr Mellors! Registered letter!”

“Oh ay! Got a pencil?”

“Here y’are!”

There was a pause.

“Canada!” said the stranger’s voice.

“Ay! That’s a mate o’ mine out there in British Columbia. Dunno what he’s got to register.”

“‘Appen sent y’a fortune, like.”

“More like wants summat.”

Pause.

“Well! Lovely day again!”

“Ay!”

“Morning!”

“Morning!”

After a time he came upstairs again, looking a little angry.

“Postman,” he said.

“Very early!” she replied.

“Rural round; he’s mostly here by seven, when he does come.

“Did your mate send you a fortune?”

“No! Only some photographs and papers about a place out there in British Columbia.”

“Would you go there?”

“I thought perhaps we might.”

“Oh yes! I believe it’s lovely!” But he was put out by the postman’s coming.

“Them damn bikes, they’re on you afore you know where you are. I hope he twigged nothing.”

“After all, what could he twig!”

“You must get up now, and get ready. I’m just goin’ ter look round outside.”

She saw him go reconnoitring into the lane, with dog and gun. She went downstairs and washed, and was ready by the time he came back, with the few things in the little silk bag.

He locked up, and they set off, but through the wood, not down the lane. He was being wary.

“Don’t you think one lives for times like last night?” she said to him.

“Ay! But there’s the rest o’times to think on,” he replied, rather short.

They plodded on down the overgrown path, he in front, in silence.

“And we will live together and make a life together, won’t we?” she pleaded.

“Ay!” he replied, striding on without looking round. “When t’ time comes! Just now you’re off to Venice or somewhere.”

She followed him dumbly, with sinking heart. Oh, now she was wae to go!

At last he stopped.

“I’ll just strike across here,” he said, pointing to the right.

But she flung her arms round his neck, and clung to him.

“But you’ll keep the tenderness for me, won’t you?” she whispered. “I loved last night. But you’ll keep the tenderness for me, won’t you?”

He kissed her and held her close for a moment. Then he sighed, and kissed her again.

“I must go an’ look if th’ car’s there.”

He strode over the low brambles and bracken, leaving a trail through the fern. For a minute or two he was gone. Then he came striding back.

“Car’s not there yet,” he said. “But there’s the baker’s cart on t’ road.”

He seemed anxious and troubled.

“Hark!”

They heard a car softly hoot as it came nearer. It slowed up on the bridge.

She plunged with utter mournfulness in his track through the fern, and came to a huge holly hedge. He was just behind her.

“Here! Go through there!” he said, pointing to a gap. “I shan’t come out.

She looked at him in despair. But he kissed her and made her go. She crept in sheer misery through the holly and through the wooden fence, stumbled down the little ditch and up into the lane, where Hilda was just getting out of the car in vexation.

“Why you’re there!” said Hilda. “Where’s he?”

“He’s not coming.”

Connie’s face was running with tears as she got into the car with her little bag. Hilda snatched up the motoring helmet with the disfiguring goggles.

“Put it on!” she said. And Connie pulled on the disguise, then the long motoring coat, and she sat down, a goggling inhuman, unrecognizable creature. Hilda started the car with a businesslike motion. They heaved out of the lane, and were away down the road. Connie had looked round, but there was no sight of him. Away! Away! She sat in bitter tears. The parting had come so suddenly, so unexpectedly. It was like death.

“Thank goodness you’ll be away from him for some time!” said Hilda, turning to avoid Crosshill village.

“You see, Hilda,” said Connie after lunch, when they were nearing London, “you have never known either real tenderness or real sensuality: and if you do know them, with the same person, it makes a great difference.”

“For mercy’s sake don’t brag about your experiences!” said Hilda. “I’ve never met the man yet who was capable of intimacy with a woman, giving himself up to her. That was what I wanted. I’m not keen on their self-satisfied tenderness, and their sensuality. I’m not content to be any man’s little petsy-wetsy, [115] Насмешливое разговорное выражение: petsy — глупышка; wetsy — лишенное смысла слово, добавленное в рифму. nor his chair a plaisir [116] Chair a Plaisir ( фр. ) — удовольствия плоти. either. I wanted a complete intimacy, and I didn’t get it. That’s enough for me.