Любовник леди Чаттерлей / Lady Chatterley's Lover. Книга для чтения на английском языке

And how they enjoyed the various kicks they got at him! And how he hated them!

Nevertheless he travelled with his manservant and his very neat car, this Dublin mongrel.

There was something about him that Connie liked. He didn’t put on airs to himself, he had no illusions about himself. He talked to Clifford sensibly, briefly, practically, about all the things Clifford wanted to know. He didn’t expand or let himself go. He knew he had been asked down to Wragby to be made use of, and like an old, shrewd, almost indifferent business man, or big-business man, he let himself be asked questions, and he answered with as little waste of feeling as possible.

“Money!” he said. “Money is a sort of instinct. It’s a sort of property of nature in a man to make money. It’s nothing you do. It’s no trick you play. It’s a sort of permanent accident of your own nature; once you start, you make money, and you go on; up to a point, I suppose.”

“But you’ve got to begin,” said Clifford.

“Oh, quite! You’ve got to get in. You can do nothing if you are kept outside. You’ve got to beat your way in. Once you’ve done that, you can’t help it.”

“But could you have made money except by plays?” asked Clifford.

“Oh, probably not! I may be a good writer or I may be a bad one, but a writer and a writer of plays is what I am, and I’ve got to be. There’s no question of that.”

“And you think it’s a writer of popular plays that you’ve got to be?” asked Connie.

“There, exactly!” he said, turning to her in a sudden flash. “There’s nothing in it! There’s nothing in popularity. There’s nothing in the public, if it comes to that. There’s nothing really in my plays to make them popular. It’s not that. They just are like the weather…the sort that will have to be…for the time being.”

He turned his slow, rather full eyes, that had been drowned in such fathomless disillusion, on Connie, and she trembled a little.

He seemed so old…endlessly old, built up of layers of disillusion, going down in him generation after generation, like geological strata; and at the same time he was forlorn like a child. An outcast, in a certain sense; but with the desperate bravery of his rat-like existence.

“At least it’s wonderful what you’ve done at your time of life,” said Clifford contemplatively.