"D. H. Lawrence - Sons And Lovers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lawrence D. H)

The world seemed a dreary place, where nothing else would happen
for her--at least until William grew up. But for herself,
nothing but this dreary endurance--till the children grew up.
And the children! She could not afford to have this third.
She did not want it. The father was serving beer in a public house,
swilling himself drunk. She despised him, and was tied to him.
This coming child was too much for her. If it were not for William
and Annie, she was sick of it, the struggle with
poverty and ugliness and meanness.

She went into the front garden, feeling too heavy to take
herself out, yet unable to stay indoors. The heat suffocated her.
And looking ahead, the prospect of her life made her feel as if she
were buried alive.

The front garden was a small square with a privet hedge.
There she stood, trying to soothe herself with the scent of flowers
and the fading, beautiful evening. Opposite her small gate was the
stile that led uphill, under the tall hedge between the burning glow
of the cut pastures. The sky overhead throbbed and pulsed with light.
The glow sank quickly off the field; the earth and the hedges
smoked dusk. As it grew dark, a ruddy glare came out on the hilltop,
and out of the glare the diminished commotion of the fair.

Sometimes, down the trough of darkness formed by the path
under the hedges, men came lurching home. One young man lapsed
into a run down the steep bit that ended the hill, and went with a
crash into the stile. Mrs. Morel shuddered. He picked himself up,
swearing viciously, rather pathetically, as if he thought the stile
had wanted to hurt him.

She went indoors, wondering if things were never going to alter.
She was beginning by now to realise that they would not. She seemed
so far away from her girlhood, she wondered if it were the same
person walking heavily up the back garden at the Bottoms as had run
so lightly up the breakwater at Sheerness ten years before.

"What have I to do with it?" she said to herself. "What have
I to do with all this? Even the child I am going to have!
It doesn't seem as if I were taken into account."

Sometimes life takes hold of one, carries the body along,
accomplishes one's history, and yet is not real, but leaves oneself
as it were slurred over.

"I wait," Mrs. Morel said to herself--"I wait, and what I wait
for can never come."

Then she straightened the kitchen, lit the lamp, mended the fire,
looked out the washing for the next day, and put it to soak.