Любовник леди Чаттерлей

           Fortherest,amongtheoldtreeswasdepthwithindepthofgrey,hopelessinertia,silence,nothingness.

           Conniewalkeddimlyon.Fromtheoldwoodcameanancientmelancholy,somehowsoothingtoher,betterthantheharshinsentienceoftheouterworld.Shelikedtheinwardnessoftheremnantofforest,theunspeakingreticenceoftheoldtrees.Theyseemedaverypowerofsilence,andyetavitalpresence.They,too,werewaiting:obstinately,stoicallywaiting,andgivingoffapotencyofsilence.Perhapstheywereonlywaitingfortheend;tobecutdown,clearedaway,theendoftheforest,forthemtheendofallthings.Butperhapstheirstrongandaristocraticsilence,thesilenceofstrongtrees,meantsomethingelse.

           Asshecameoutofthewoodonthenorthside,thekeeper’scottage,aratherdark,brownstonecottage,withgablesandahandsomechimney,lookeduninhabited,itwassosilentandalone.Butathreadofsmokerosefromthechimney,andthelittlerailed-ingardeninthefrontofthehousewasdugandkeptverytidy.Thedoorwasshut.

           Nowshewashereshefeltalittleshyoftheman,withhiscuriousfar-seeingeyes.Shedidnotlikebringinghimorders,andfeltlikegoingawayagain.Sheknockedsoftly,noonecame.Sheknockedagain,butstillnotloudly.Therewasnoanswer.Shepeepedthroughthewindow,andsawthedarklittleroom,withitsalmostsinisterprivacy,notwantingtobeinvaded.

           Shestoodandlistened,anditseemedtohersheheardsoundsfromthebackofthecottage.Havingfailedtomakeherselfheard,hermettlewasroused,shewouldnotbedefeated.