第十一章（第5/17页）

“我想重游威尼斯，”她说，“到泻湖对面的砂石海滩上畅泳。但你知道的，我讨厌利多岛（注：威尼斯附近一小岛，旅游胜地）！我恐怕也很难与亚历山大·库伯夫妇交好。如果希尔达能一起去，再有条凤尾船，没错，那肯定会有意思得多。我真的希望你也能去。”她真诚地说。她希望出去散散心能让他快活起来。

"Ah, but think of me, though, at the Gare du Nord: at Calais quay!” "But why not? I see other men carried in litter-chairs, who have been wounded in the war. Besides, we'd motor all the way.” "We should need to take two men." "Oh no! We'd manage with Field. There would always be another man there.” But Clifford shook his head.

“啊，可想想我在巴黎北站和加莱码头的情形吧！”“为什么不呢？我见过其他伤兵，被用轿椅抬着旅行。再说，我们乘汽车去。”“我们得带两名随从。”“哦，不用！菲尔德自己就应付得来。意大利那边总会有仆从的。”但克利福德还是不肯接受。

"Not this year, dear! Not this year! Next year probably I'll try.” She went away gloomily. Next year! What would next year bring? She herself did not really want to go to Venice: not now, now there was the other man. But she was going as a sort of discipline: and also because, if she had a child, Clifford could think she had a lover in Venice.

“今年就算了，亲爱的！今年就算了！明年我或许愿意试试看。”她心中不悦，转身离开。明年！明年又会有怎样的变化？她自己也不太想去威尼斯，至少现在不想去，因为另一个男人会让她牵肠挂肚。但她还是要去，毕竟要言出必行。而另一个理由是，如果怀上孩子，克利福德准会认为她是在威尼斯找的情郎。

It was already May, and in June they were supposed to start. Always these arrangements! Always one's life arranged for one! Wheels that worked one and drove one, and over which one had no real control!

如今已是五月，按计划六月就要动身。总要依照安排行事！人生总是计划好的！时间的车轮驱人奋进，而人往往身不由己。

It was May, but cold and wet again. A cold wet May, good for corn and hay! Much the corn and hay matter nowadays! Connie had to go into Uthwaite, which was their little town, where the Chatterleys were still THE Chatterleys. She went alone, Field driving her.

如今是五月，天气又湿又冷。五月阴寒，谷草繁然。今时今日，谷物和牧草变得至关重要！康妮得去趟乌斯维特，那是他们荫蔽下的小镇，在那里，查泰莱依然是威名赫赫的姓氏。她独自前往，菲尔德为她开车。

In spite of May and a new greenness, the country was dismal. It was rather chilly, and there was smoke on the rain, and a certain sense of exhaust vapour in the air. One just had to live from one's resistance. No wonder these people were ugly and tough.

虽然已是五月，绿意盎然，但乡间的景致依然阴霾。春寒料峭，烟雨朦胧，空气中弥漫着倦意。人们必须竭力抗争，才能求得生存。难怪这里的百姓形貌丑陋，颇能吃苦耐劳。

The car ploughed uphill through the long squalid straggle of Tevershall, the blackened brick dwellings, the black slate roofs glistening their sharp edges, the mud black with coal-dust, the pavements wet and black. It was as if dismalness had soaked through and through everything. The utter negation of natural beauty, the utter negation of the gladness of life, the utter absence of the instinct for shapely beauty which every bird and beast has, the utter death of the human intuitive faculty was appalling. The stacks of soap in the grocers'shops, the rhubarb and lemons in the greengrocers! the awful hats in the milliners! all went by ugly, ugly, ugly, followed by the plaster-and-gilt horror of the cinema with its wet picture announcements, "A Woman's Love!”

汽车费力地爬坡，穿过特弗沙尔拖沓散落的肮脏村落，到处都是变黑的砖房，棱角分明的黑石板屋顶闪耀着光芒，混着煤灰的黑泥把路面弄得潮湿脏乱。似乎阴霾已经将一切浸透。自然的美感全无，生命的愉悦不在，鸟兽对形态美的敏感仅失，人类的直觉力荡然无存，更是令人震惊。杂货店里层层叠叠摆着肥皂，菜蔬摊上零零散散搁着大黄和柠檬！女帽店里的帽子难看极了！掠过的一幕幕都丑陋不堪，灰泥和镀金材料盖建的剧院俗不可耐，湿漉漉的海报上写着“女人之爱”！

And the new big Primitive chapel, primitive enough in its stark brick and big panes of greenish and raspberry glass in the windows. The Wesleyan chapel, higher up, was of blackened brick and stood behind iron railings and blackened shrubs. The Congregational chapel, which thought itself superior, was built of rusticated sandstone and had a steeple, but not a very high one. Just beyond were the new school buildings, expensivink brick, and gravelled playground inside iron railings, all very imposing, and fixing the suggestion of a chapel and a prison. Standard Five girls were having a singing lesson, just finishing the la-me-doh-la exercises and beginning a "sweet children's song”. Anything more unlike song, spontaneous song, would be impossible to imagine: a strange bawling yell that followed the outlines of a tune. It was not like savages: savages have subtle rhythms. It was not like animals: animals mean something when they yell. It was like nothing on earth, and it was called singing. Connie sat and listened with her heart in her boots, as Field was filling petrol. What could possibly become of such a people, a people in whom the living intuitive faculty was dead as nails, and only queer mechanical yells and uncanny will-power remained? A coal-cart was coming downhill, clanking in the rain. Field started upwards, past the big but weary-looking drapers and clothing shops, the post-office, into the little market-place of forlorn space, where Sam Black was peering out of the door of the Sun, that called itself an inn, not a pub, and where the commercial travellers stayed, and was bowing to Lady Chatterley's car.