David Herbert Lawrence. Lady Chatterley's Lover
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Origin: http://www.seductionpalace.com
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Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically.
The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new
little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is
now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the
obstacles. We've got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.
This was more or less Constance Chatterley's position. The war had
brought the roof down over her head. And she had realized that one must live
and learn.
She married Clifford Chatterley in 1917, when he was home for a month
on leave. They had a month's honeymoon. Then he went back to Flanders: to be
shipped over to England again six months later, more or less in bits.
Constance, his wife, was then twenty-three years old, and he was
twenty-nine.
His hold on life was marvellous. He didn't die, and the bits seemed to
grow together again. For two years he remained in the doctor's hands. Then
he was pronounced a cure, and could return to life again, with the lower
half of his body, from the hips down, paralysed for ever.
This was in 1920. They returned, Clifford and Constance, to his home,
Wragby Hall, the family `seat'. His father had died, Clifford was now a
baronet, Sir Clifford, and Constance was Lady Chatterley. They came to start
housekeeping and married life in the rather forlorn home of the Chatterleys
on a rather inadequate income. Clifford had a sister, but she had departed.
Otherwise there were no near relatives. The elder brother was dead in the
war. Crippled for ever, knowing he could never have any children, Clifford
came home to the smoky Midlands to keep the Chatterley name alive while he
could.
He was not really downcast. He could wheel himself about in a wheeled
chair, and he had a bath-chair with a small motor attachment, so he could
drive himself slowly round the garden and into the line melancholy park, of
which he was really so proud, though he pretended to be flippant about it.
Having suffered so much, the capacity for suffering had to some extent
left him. He remained strange and bright and cheerful, almost, one might
say, chirpy, with his ruddy, healthy-looking face, arid his pale-blue,
challenging bright eyes. His shoulders were broad and strong, his hands were
very strong. He was expensively dressed, and wore handsome neckties from
Bond Street. Yet still in his face one saw the watchful look, the slight
vacancy of a cripple.
He had so very nearly lost his life, that what remained was wonderfully
precious to him. It was obvious in the anxious brightness of his eyes, how
proud he was, after the great shock, of being alive. But he had been so much
hurt that something inside him had perished, some of his feelings had gone.
There was a blank of insentience.
Constance, his wife, was a ruddy, country-looking girl with soft brown
hair and sturdy body, and slow movements, full of unusual energy. She had
big, wondering eyes, and a soft mild voice, and seemed just to have come
from her native village. It was not so at all. Her father was the once
well-known R. A., old Sir Malcolm Reid. Her mother had been one of the
cultivated Fabians in the palmy, rather pre-Raphaelite days. Between artists
and cultured socialists, Constance and her sister Hilda had had what might
be called an aesthetically unconventional upbringing. They had been taken to
Paris and Florence and Rome to breathe in art, and they had been taken also
in the other direction, to the Hague and Berlin, to great Socialist
conventions, where the speakers spoke in every civilized tongue, and no one
was abashed.
The two girls, therefore, were from an early age not the least daunted
by either art or ideal politics. It was their natural atmosphere. They were
at once cosmopolitan and provincial, with the cosmopolitan provincialism of
art that goes with pure social ideals.
They had been sent to Dresden at the age of fifteen, for music among
other things. And they had had a good time there. They lived freely among
the students, they argued with the men over philosophical, sociological and
artistic matters, they were just as good as the men themselves: only better,
since they were women. And they tramped off to the forests with sturdy
youths bearing guitars, twang-twang! They sang the Wandervogel songs, and
they were free. Free! That was the great word. Out in the open world, out in
the forests of the morning, with lusty and splendid-throated young fellows,
free to do as they liked, and---above all---to say what they liked. It was
the talk that mattered supremely: the impassioned interchange of talk. Love
was only a minor accompaniment.
Both Hilda and Constance had had their tentative love-affairs by the
time they were eighteen. The young men with whom they talked so passionately
and sang so lustily and camped under the trees in such freedom wanted, of
course, the love connexion. The girls were doubtful, but then the thing was
so much talked about, it was supposed to be so important. And the men were
so humble and craving. Why couldn't a girl be queenly, and give the gift of
herself?
So they had given the gift of themselves, each to the youth with whom
she had the most subtle and intimate arguments. The arguments, the
discussions were the great thing: the love-making and connexion were only a
sort of primitive reversion and a bit of an anti-climax. One was less in
love with the boy afterwards, and a little inclined to hate him, as if he
had trespassed on one's privacy and inner freedom. For, of course, being a
girl, one's whole dignity and meaning in life consisted in the achievement
of an absolute, a perfect, a pure and noble freedom. What else did a girl's
life mean? To shake off the old and sordid connexions and subjections.
And however one might sentimentalize it, this sex business was one of
the most ancient, sordid connexions and subjections. Poets who glorified it
were mostly men. Women had always known there was something better,
something higher. And now they knew it more definitely than ever. The
beautiful pure freedom of a woman was infinitely more wonderful than any
sexual love. The only unfortunate thing was that men lagged so far behind
women in the matter. They insisted on the sex thing like dogs.
And a woman had to yield. A man was like a child with his appetites. A
woman had to yield him what he wanted, or like a child he would probably
turn nasty and flounce away and spoil what was a very pleasant connexion.
But a woman could yield to a man without yielding her inner, free self. That
the poets and talkers about sex did not seem to have taken sufficiently into
account. A woman could take a man without really giving herself away.
Certainly she could take him without giving herself into his power. Rather
she could use this sex thing to have power over him. For she only had to
hold herself back in sexual intercourse, and let him finish and expend
himself without herself coming to the crisis: and then she could prolong the
connexion and achieve her orgasm and her crisis while he was merely her
tool.
Both sisters had had their love experience by the time the war came,
and they were hurried home. Neither was ever in love with a young man unless
he and she were verbally very near: that is unless they were profoundly
interested, TALKING to one another. The amazing, the profound, the
unbelievable thrill there was in passionately talking to some really clever
young man by the hour, resuming day after day for months...this they had
never realized till it happened! The paradisal promise: Thou shalt have men
to talk to!---had never been uttered. It was fulfilled before they knew what
a promise it was.
And if after the roused intimacy of these vivid and soul-enlightened
discussions the sex thing became more or less inevitable, then let it. It
marked the end of a chapter. It had a thrill of its own too: a queer
vibrating thrill inside the body, a final spasm of self-assertion, like the
last word, exciting, and very like the row of asterisks that can be put to
show the end of a paragraph, and a break in the theme.
When the girls came home for the summer holidays of 1913, when Hilda
was twenty and Connie eighteen, their father could see plainly that they had
had the love experience.
L'amour avait possÉ par lÀ, as somebody puts it. But he was a man of
experience himself, and let life take its course. As for the mot a nervous
invalid in the last few months of her life, she wanted her girls to be
`free', and to `fulfil themselves'. She herself had never been able to be
altogether herself: it had been denied her. Heaven knows why, for she was a
woman who had her own income and her own way. She blamed her husband. But as
a matter of fact, it was some old impression of authority on her own mind or
soul that she could not get rid of. It had nothing to do with Sir Malcolm,
who left his nervously hostile, high-spirited wife to rule her own roost,
while he went his own way.
So the girls were `free', and went back to Dresden, and their music,
and the university and the young men. They loved their respective young men,
and their respective young men loved them with all the passion of mental
attraction. All the wonderful things the young men thought and expressed and
wrote, they thought and expressed and wrote for the young women. Connie's
young man was musical, Hilda's was technical. But they simply lived for
their young women. In their minds and their mental excitements, that is.
Somewhere else they were a little rebuffed, though they did not know it.
It was obvious in them too that love had gone through them: that is,
the physical experience. It is curious what a subtle but unmistakable
transmutation it makes, both in the body of men and women: the woman more
blooming, more subtly rounded, her young angularities softened, and her
expression either anxious or triumphant: the man much quieter, more inward,
the very shapes of his shoulders and his buttocks less assertive, more
hesitant.
In the actual sex-thrill within the body, the sisters nearly succumbed
to the strange male power. But quickly they recovered themselves, took the
sex-thrill as a sensation, and remained free. Whereas the men, in gratitude
to the woman for the sex experience, let their souls go out to her. And
afterwards looked rather as if they had lost a shilling and found sixpence.
Connie's man could be a bit sulky, and Hilda's a bit jeering. But that is
how men are! Ungrateful and never satisfied. When you don't have them they
hate you because you won't; and when you do have them they hate you again,
for some other reason. Or for no reason at all, except that they are
discontented children, and can't be satisfied whatever they get, let a woman
do what she may.
However, came the war, Hilda and Connie were rushed home again after
having been home already in May, to their mother's funeral. Before Christmas
of 1914 both their German young men were dead: whereupon the sisters wept,
and loved the young men passionately, but underneath forgot them. They
didn't exist any more.
Both sisters lived in their father's, really their mother's, Kensington
housemixed with the young Cambridge group, the group that stood for
`freedom' and flannel trousers, and flannel shirts open at the neck, and a
well-bred sort of emotional anarchy, and a whispering, murmuring sort of
voice, and an ultra-sensitive sort of manner. Hilda, however, suddenly
married a man ten years older than herself, an elder member of the same
Cambridge group, a man with a fair amount of money, and a comfortable family
job in the government: he also wrote philosophical essays. She lived with
him in a smallish house in Westminster, and moved in that good sort of
society of people in the government who are not tip-toppers, but who are, or
would be, the real intelligent power in the nation: people who know what
they're talking about, or talk as if they did.
Connie did a mild form of war-work, and consorted with the
flannel-trousers Cambridge intransigents, who gently mocked at everything,
so far. Her `friend' was a Clifford Chatterley, a young man of twenty-two,
who had hurried home from Bonn, where he was studying the technicalities of
coal-mining. He had previously spent two years at Cambridge. Now he had
become a first lieutenant in a smart regiment, so he could mock at
everything more becomingly in uniform.
Clifford Chatterley was more upper-class than Connie. Connie was
well-to-do intelligentsia, but he was aristocracy. Not the big sort, but
still it. His father was a baronet, and his mother had been a viscount's
daughter.
But Clifford, while he was better bred than Connie, and more `society',
was in his own way more provincial and more timid. He was at his ease in the
narrow `great world', that is, landed aristocracy society, but he was shy
and nervous of all that other big world which consists of the vast hordes of
the middle and lower classes, and foreigners. If the truth must be told, he
was just a little bit frightened of middle-and lower-class humanity, and of
foreigners not of his own class. He was, in some paralysing way, conscious
of his own defencelessness, though he had all the defence of privilege.
Which is curious, but a phenomenon of our day.
Therefore the peculiar soft assurance of a girl like Constance Reid
fascinated him. She was so much more mistress of herself in that outer world
of chaos than he was master of himself.
Nevertheless he too was a rebel: rebelling even against his class. Or
perhaps rebel is too strong a word; far too strong. He was only caught in
the general, popular recoil of the young against convention and against any
sort of real authority. Fathers were ridiculous: his own obstinate one
supremely so. And governments were ridiculous: our own wait-and-see sort
especially so. And armies were ridiculous, and old buffers of generals
altogether, the red-faced Kitchener supremely. Even the war was ridiculous,
though it did kill rather a lot of people.
In fact everything was a little ridiculous, or very ridiculous:
certainly everything connected with authority, whether it were in the army
or the government or the universities, was ridiculous to a degree. And as
far as the governing class made any pretensions to govern, they were
ridiculous too. Sir Geoffrey, Clifford's father, was intensely ridiculous,
chopping down his trees, and weeding men out of his colliery to shove them
into the war; and himself being so safe and patriotic; but, also, spending
more money on his country than he'd got.
When Miss Chatterley---Emma---came down to London from the Midlands to
do some nursing work, she was very witty in a quiet way about Sir Geoffrey
and his determined patriotism. Herbert, the elder brother and heir, laughed
outright, though it was his trees that were falling for trench props. But
Clifford only smiled a little uneasily. Everything was ridiculous, quite
true. But when it came too close and oneself became ridiculous too...? At
least people of a different class, like Connie, were earnest about
something. They believed in something.
They were rather earnest about the Tommies, and the threat of
conscription, and the shortage of sugar and toffee for the children. In all
these things, of course, the authorities were ridiculously at fault. But
Clifford could not take it to heart. To him the authorities were ridiculous
ab ovo, not because of toffee or Tommies.
And the authorities felt ridiculous, and behaved in a rather ridiculous
fashion, and it was all a mad hatter's tea-party for a while. Till things
developed over there, and Lloyd George came to save the situation over here.
And this surpassed even ridicule, the flippant young laughed no more.
In 1916 Herbert Chatterley was killed, so Clifford became heir. He was
terrified even of this. His importance as son of Sir Geoffrey, and child of
Wragby, was so ingrained in him, he could never escape it. And yet he knew
that this too, in the eyes of the vast seething world, was ridiculous. Now
he was heir and responsible for Wragby. Was that not terrible? and also
splendid and at the same time, perhaps, purely absurd?
Sir Geoffrey would have none of the absurdity. He was pale and tense,
withdrawn into himself, and obstinately determined to save his country and
his own position, let it be Lloyd George or who it might. So cut off he was,
so divorced from the England that was really England, so utterly incapable,
that he even thought well of Horatio Bottomley. Sir Geoffrey stood for
England and Lloyd George as his forebears had stood for England and St
George: and he never knew there was a difference. So Sir Geoffrey felled
timber and stood for Lloyd George and England, England and Lloyd George.
And he wanted Clifford to marry and produce an heir. Clifford felt his
father was a hopeless anachronism. But wherein was he himself any further
ahead, except in a wincing sense of the ridiculousness of everything, and
the paramount ridiculousness of his own position? For willy-nilly he took
his baronetcy and Wragby with the last seriousness.
The gay excitement had gone out of the war...dead. Too much death and
horror. A man needed support arid comfort. A man needed to have an anchor in
the safe world. A man needed a wife.
The Chatterleys, two brothers and a sister, had lived curiously
isolated, shut in with one another at Wragby, in spite of all their
connexions. A sense of isolation intensified the family tie, a sense of the
weakness of their position, a sense of defencelessness, in spite of, or
because of, the title and the land. They were cut off from those industrial
Midlands in which they passed their lives. And they were cut off from their
own class by the brooding, obstinate, shut-up nature of Sir Geoffrey, their
father, whom they ridiculed, but whom they were so sensitive about.
The three had said they would all live together always. But now Herbert
was dead, and Sir Geoffrey wanted Clifford to marry. Sir Geoffrey barely
mentioned it: he spoke very little. But his silent, brooding insistence that
it should be so was hard for Clifford to bear up against.
But Emma said No! She was ten years older than Clifford, and she felt
his marrying would be a desertion and a betrayal of what the young ones of
the family had stood for.
Clifford married Connie, nevertheless, and had his month's honeymoon
with her. It was the terrible year 1917, and they were intimate as two
people who stand together on a sinking ship. He had been virgin when he
married: and the sex part did not mean much to him. They were so close, he
and she, apart from that. And Connie exulted a little in this intimacy which
was beyond sex, and beyond a man's `satisfaction`. Clifford anyhow was not
just keen on his `satisfaction', as so many men seemed to be. No, the
intimacy was deeper, more personal than that. And sex was merely an
accident, or an adjunct, one of the curious obsolete, organic processes
which persisted in its own clumsiness, but was not really necessary. Though
Connie did want children: if only to fortify her against her sister-in-law
Emma.
But early in 1918 Clifford was shipped home smashed, and there was no
child. And Sir Geoffrey died of chagrin.
Connie and Clifford came home to Wragby in the autumn of 1920. Miss
Chatterley, still disgusted at her brother's defection, had departed and was
living in a little flat in London.
Wragby was a long low old house in brown stone, begun about the middle
of the eighteenth century, and added on to, till it was a warren of a place
without much distinction. It stood on an eminence in a rather line old park
of oak trees, but alas, one could see in the near distance the chimney of
Tevershall pit, with its clouds of steam and smoke, and on the damp, hazy
distance of the hill the raw straggle of Tevershall village, a village which
began almost at the park gates, and trailed in utter hopeless ugliness for a
long and gruesome mile: houses, rows of wretched, small, begrimed, brick
houses, with black slate roofs for lids, sharp angles and wilful, blank
dreariness.
Connie was accustomed to Kensington or the Scotch hills or the Sussex
downs: that was her England. With the stoicism of the young she took in the
utter, soulless ugliness of the coal-and-iron Midlands at a glance, and left
it at what it was: unbelievable and not to be thought about. From the rather
dismal rooms at Wragby she heard the rattle-rattle of the screens at the
pit, the puff of the winding-engine, the clink-clink of shunting trucks, and
the hoarse little whistle of the colliery locomotives. Tevershall pit-bank
was burning, had been burning for years, and it would cost thousands to put
it out. So it had to burn. And when the wind was that way, which was often,
the house was full of the stench of this sulphurous combustion of the
earth's excrement. But even on windless days the air always smelt of
something under-earth: sulphur, iron, coal, or acid. And even on the
Christmas roses the smuts settled persistently, incredible, like black manna
from the skies of doom.
Well, there it was: fated like the rest of things! It was rather awful,
but why kick? You couldn't kick it away. It just went on. Life, like all the
rest! On the low dark ceiling of cloud at night red blotches burned and
quavered, dappling and swelling and contracting, like burns that give pain.
It was the furnaces. At first they fascinated Connie with a sort of horror;
she felt she was living underground. Then she got used to them. And in the
morning it rained.
Clifford professed to like Wragby better than London. This country had
a grim will of its own, and the people had guts. Connie wondered what else
they had: certainly neither eyes nor minds. The people were as haggard,
shapeless, and dreary as the countryside, and as unfriendly. Only there was
something in their deep-mouthed slurring of the dialect, and the
thresh-thresh of their hob-nailed pit-boots as they trailed home in gangs on
the asphalt from work, that was terrible and a bit mysterious.
There had been no welcome home for the young squire, no festivities, no
deputation, not even a single flower. Only a dank ride in a motor-car up a
dark, damp drive, burrowing through gloomy trees, out to the slope of the
park where grey damp sheep were feeding, to the knoll where the house spread
its dark brown facade, and the housekeeper and her husband were hovering,
like unsure tenants on the face of the earth, ready to stammer a welcome.
There was no communication between Wragby Hall and Tevershall village,
none. No caps were touched, no curtseys bobbed. The colliers merely stared;
the tradesmen lifted their caps to Connie as to an acquaintance, and nodded
awkwardly to Clifford; that was all. Gulf impassable, and a quiet sort of
resentment on either side. At first Connie suffered from the steady drizzle
of resentment that came from the village. Then she hardened herself to it,
and it became a sort of tonic, something to live up to. It was not that she
and Clifford were unpopular, they merely belonged to another species
altogether from the colliers. Gulf impassable, breach indescribable, such as
is perhaps nonexistent south of the Trent. But in the Midlands and the
industrial North gulf impassable, across which no communication could take
place. You stick to your side, I'll stick to mine! A strange denial of the
common pulse of humanity.
Yet the village sympathized with Clifford and Connie in the abstract.
In the flesh it was---You leave me alone!---on either side.
The rector was a nice man of about sixty, full of his duty, and
reduced, personally, almost to a nonentity by the silent---You leave me
alone!---of the village. The miners' wives were nearly all Methodists. The
miners were nothing. But even so much official uniform as the clergyman wore
was enough to obscure entirely the fact that he was a man like any other
man. No, he was Mester Ashby, a sort of automatic preaching and praying
concern.
This stubborn, instinctive---We think ourselves as good as you, if you
are Lady Chatterley!---puzzled and baffled Connie at first extremely. The
curious, suspicious, false amiability with which the miners' wives met her
overtures; the curiously offensive tinge of---Oh dear me! I am somebody now,
with Lady Chatterley talking to me! But she needn't think I'm not as good as
her for all that!---which she always heard twanging in the women's
half-fawning voices, was impossible. There was no getting past it. It was
hopelessly and offensively nonconformist.
Clifford left them alone, and she learnt to do the same: she just went
by without looking at them, and they stared as if she were a walking wax
figure. When he had to deal with them, Clifford was rather haughty and
contemptuous; one could no longer afford to be friendly. In fact he was
altogether rather supercilious and contemptuous of anyone not in his own
class. He stood his ground, without any attempt at conciliation. And he was
neither liked nor disliked by the people: he was just part of things, like
the pit-bank and Wragby itself.
But Clifford was really extremely shy and self-conscious now he was
lamed. He hated seeing anyone except just the personal servants. For he had
to sit in a wheeled chair or a sort of bath-chair. Nevertheless he was just
as carefully dressed as ever, by his expensive tailors, and he wore the
careful Bond Street neckties just as before, and from the top he looked just
as smart and impressive as ever. He had never been one of the modern
ladylike young men: rather bucolic even, with his ruddy face and broad
shoulders. But his very quiet, hesitating voice, and his eyes, at the same
time bold and frightened, assured and uncertain, revealed his nature. His
manner was often offensively supercilious, and then again modest and
self-effacing, almost tremulous.
Connie and he were attached to one another, in the aloof modern way. He
was much too hurt in himself, the great shock of his maiming, to be easy and
flippant. He was a hurt thing. And as such Connie stuck to him passionately.
But she could not help feeling how little connexion he really had with
people. The miners were, in a sense, his own men; but he saw them as objects
rather than men, parts of the pit rather than parts of life, crude raw
phenomena rather than human beings along with him. He was in some way afraid
of them, he could not bear to have them look at him now he was lame. And
their queer, crude life seemed as unnatural as that of hedgehogs.
He was remotely interested; but like a man looking down a microscope,
or up a telescope. He was not in touch. He was not in actual touch with
anybody, save, traditionally, with Wragby, and, through the close bond of
family defence, with Emma. Beyond this nothing really touched him. Connie
felt that she herself didn't really, not really touch him; perhaps there was
nothing to get at ultimately; just a negation of human contact.
Yet he was absolutely dependent on her, he needed her every moment. Big
and strong as he was, he was helpless. He could wheel himself about in a
wheeled chair, and he had a sort of bath-chair with a motor attachment, in
which he could puff slowly round the park. But alone he was like a lost
thing. He needed Connie to be there, to assure him he existed at all.
Still he was ambitious. He had taken to writing stories; curious, very
personal stories about people he had known. Clever, rather spiteful, and
yet, in some mysterious way, meaningless. The observation was extraordinary
and peculiar. But there was no touch, no actual contact. It was as if the
whole thing took place in a vacuum. And since the field of life is largely
an artificially-lighted stage today, the stories were curiously true to
modern life, to the modern psychology, that is.
Clifford was almost morbidly sensitive about these stories. He wanted
everyone to think them good, of the best, ne plus ultra. They appeared in
the most modern magazines, and were praised and blamed as usual. But to
Clifford the blame was torture, like knives goading him. It was as if the
whole of his being were in his stories.
Connie helped him as much as she could. At first she was thrilled. He
talked everything over with her monotonously, insistently, persistently, and
she had to respond with all her might. It was as if her whole soul and body
and sex had to rouse up and pass into theme stories of his. This thrilled
her and absorbed her.
Of physical life they lived very little. She had to superintend the
house. But the housekeeper had served Sir Geoffrey for many years, arid the
dried-up, elderly, superlatively correct female you could hardly call her a
parlour-maid, or even a woman...who waited at table, had been in the house
for forty years. Even the very housemaids were no longer young. It was
awful! What could you do with such a place, but leave it alone! All these
endless rooms that nobody used, all the Midlands routine, the mechanical
cleanliness and the mechanical order! Clifford had insisted on a new cook,
an experienced woman who had served him in his rooms in London. For the rest
the place seemed run by mechanical anarchy. Everything went on in pretty
good order, strict cleanliness, and strict punctuality; even pretty strict
honesty. And yet, to Connie, it was a methodical anarchy. No warmth of
feeling united it organically. The house seemed as dreary as a disused
street.
What could she do but leave it alone? So she left it alone. Miss
Chatterley came sometimes, with her aristocratic thin face, and triumphed,
finding nothing altered. She would never forgive Connie for ousting her from
her union in consciousness with her brother. It was she, Emma, who should be
bringing forth the stories, these books, with him; the Chatterley stories,
something new in the world, that they, the Chatterleys, had put there. There
was no other standard. There was no organic connexion with the thought and
expression that had gone before. Only something new in the world: the
Chatterley books, entirely personal.
Connie's father, where he paid a flying visit to Wragby, and in private
to his daughter: As for Clifford's writing, it's smart, but there's nothing
in it. It won't last! Connie looked at the burly Scottish knight who had
done himself well all his life, and her eyes, her big, still-wondering blue
eyes became vague. Nothing in it! What did he mean by nothing in it? If the
critics praised it, and Clifford's name was almost famous, and it even
brought in money...what did her father mean by saying there was nothing in
Clifford's writing? What else could there be?
For Connie had adopted the standard of the young: what there was in the
moment was everything. And moments followed one another without necessarily
belonging to one another.
It was in her second winter at Wragby her father said to her: `I hope,
Connie, you won't let circumstances force you into being a demi-vierge.'
`A demi-vierge!' replied Connie vaguely. `Why? Why not?'
`Unless you like it, of course!' said her father hastily. To Clifford
he said the same, when the two men were alone: `I'm afraid it doesn't quite
suit Connie to be a demi-vierge.'
`A half-virgin!' replied Clifford, translating the phrase to be sure of
it.
He thought for a moment, then flushed very red. He was angry and
offended.
`In what way doesn't it suit her?' he asked stiffly.
`She's getting thin...angular. It's not her style. She's not the
pilchard sort of little slip of a girl, she's a bonny Scotch trout.'
`Without the spots, of course!' said Clifford.
He wanted to say something later to Connie about the demi-vierge
business...the half-virgin state of her affairs. But he could not bring
himself to do it. He was at once too intimate with her and not intimate
enough. He was so very much at one with her, in his mind and hers, but
bodily they were non-existent to one another, and neither could bear to drag
in the corpus delicti. They were so intimate, and utterly out of touch.
Connie guessed, however, that her father had said something, and that
something was in Clifford's mind. She knew that he didn't mind whether she
were demi-vierge or demi-monde, so long as he didn't absolutely know, and
wasn't made to see. What the eye doesn't see and the mind doesn't know,
doesn't exist.
Connie and Clifford had now been nearly two years at Wragby, living
their vague life of absorption in Clifford and his work. Their interests had
never ceased to flow together over his work. They talked and wrestled in the
throes of composition, and felt as if something were happening, really
happening, really in the void.
And thus far it was a life: in the void. For the rest it was
non-existence. Wragby was there, the servants...but spectral, not really
existing. Connie went for walks in the park, and in the woods that joined
the park, and enjoyed the solitude and the mystery, kicking the brown leaves
of autumn, and picking the primroses of spring. But it was all a dream; or
rather it was like the simulacrum of reality. The oak-leaves were to her
like oak-leaves seen ruffling in a mirror, she herself was a figure somebody
had read about, picking primroses that were only shadows or memories, or
words. No substance to her or anything...no touch, no contact! Only this
life with Clifford, this endless spinning of webs of yarn, of the minutiae
of consciousness, these stories Sir Malcolm said there was nothing in, and
they wouldn't last. Why should there be anything in them, why should they
last? Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. Sufficient unto the
moment is the appearance of reality.
Clifford had quite a number of friends, acquaintances really, and he
invited them to Wragby. He invited all sorts of people, critics and writers,
people who would help to praise his books. And they were flattered at being
asked to Wragby, and they praised. Connie understood it all perfectly. But
why not? This was one of the fleeting patterns in the mirror. What was wrong
with it?
She was hostess to these people...mostly men. She was hostess also to
Clifford's occasional aristocratic relations. Being a soft, ruddy,
country-looking girl, inclined to freckles, with big blue eyes, and curling,
brown hair, and a soft voice, and rather strong, female loins she was
considered a little old-fashioned and `womanly'. She was not a `little
pilchard sort of fish', like a boy, with a boy's flat breast and little
buttocks. She was too feminine to be quite smart.
So the men, especially those no longer young, were very nice to her
indeed. But, knowing what torture poor Clifford would feel at the slightest
sign of flirting on her part, she gave them no encouragement at all. She was
quiet and vague, she had no contact with them and intended to have none.
Clifford was extraordinarily proud of himself.
His relatives treated her quite kindly. She knew that the kindliness
indicated a lack of fear, and that these people had no respect for you
unless you could frighten them a little. But again she had no contact. She
let them be kindly and disdainful, she let them feel they had no need to
draw their steel in readiness. She had no real connexion with them.
Time went on. Whatever happened, nothing happened, because she was so
beautifully out of contact. She and Clifford lived in their ideas and his
books. She entertained...there were always people in the house. Time went on
as the clock does, half past eight instead of half past seven.
Connie was aware, however, of a growing restlessness. Out of her
disconnexion, a restlessness was taking possession of her like madness. It
twitched her limbs when she didn't want to twitch them, it jerked her spine
when she didn't want to jerk upright but preferred to rest comfortably. It
thrilled inside her body, in her womb, somewhere, till she felt she must
jump into water and swim to get away from it; a mad restlessness. It made
her heart beat violently for no reason. And she was getting thinner.
It was just restlessness. She would rush off across the park, abandon
Clifford, and lie prone in the bracken. To get away from the house...she
must get away from the house and everybody. The work was her one refuge, her
sanctuary.
But it was not really a refuge, a sanctuary, because she had no
connexion with it. It was only a place where she could get away from the
rest. She never really touched the spirit of the wood itself...if it had any
such nonsensical thing.
Vaguely she knew herself that she was going to pieces in some way.
Vaguely she knew she was out of connexion: she had lost touch with the
substantial and vital world. Only Clifford and his books, which did not
exist...which had nothing in them! Void to void. Vaguely she knew. But it
was like beating her head against a stone.
Her father warned her again: `Why don't you get yourself a beau,
Connie? Do you all the good in the world.'
That winter Michaelis came for a few days. He was a young Irishman who
had already made a large fortune by his plays in America. He had been taken
up quite enthusiastically for a time by smart society in London, for he
wrote smart society plays. Then gradually smart society realized that it had
been made ridiculous at the hands of a down-at-heel Dublin street-rat, and
revulsion came. Michaelis was the last word in what was caddish and
bounderish. He was discovered to be anti-English, and to the class that made
this discovery this was worse than the dirtiest crime. He was cut dead, and
his corpse thrown into the refuse can.
Nevertheless Michaelis had his apartment in Mayfair, and walked down
Bond Street the image of a gentleman, for you cannot get even the best
tailors to cut their low-down customers, when the customers pay.
Clifford was inviting the young man of thirty at an inauspicious moment
in thyoung man's career. Yet Clifford did not hesitate. Michaelis had the
ear of a few million people, probably; and, being a hopeless outsider, he
would no doubt be grateful to be asked down to Wragby at this juncture, when
the rest of the smart world was cutting him. Being grateful, he would no
doubt do Clifford `good' over there in America. Kudos! A man gets a lot of
kudos, whatever that may be, by being talked about in the right way,
especially `over there'. Clifford was a coming man; and it was remarkable
what a sound publicity instinct he had. In the end Michaelis did him most
nobly in a play, and Clifford was a sort of popular hero. Till the reaction,
when he found he had been made ridiculous.
Connie wondered a little over Clifford's blind, imperious instinct to
become known: known, that is, to the vast amorphous world he did not himself
know, and of which he was uneasily afraid; known as a writer, as a
first-class modern writer. Connie was aware from successful, old, hearty,
bluffing Sir Malcolm, that artists did advertise themselves, and exert
themselves to put their goods over. But her father used channels ready-made,
used by all the other R. A.s who sold their pictures. Whereas Clifford
discovered new channels of publicity, all kinds. He had all kinds of people
at Wragby, without exactly lowering himself. But, determined to build
himself a monument of a reputation quickly, he used any handy rubble in the
making.
Michaelis arrived duly, in a very neat car, with a chauffeur and a
manservant. He was absolutely Bond Street! But at right of him something in
Clifford's county soul recoiled. He wasn't exactly... not exactly...in fact,
he wasn't at all, well, what his appearance intended to imply. To Clifford
this was final and enough. Yet he was very polite to the man; to the amazing
success in him. The bitch-goddess, as she is called, of Success, roamed,
snarling and protective, round the half-humble, half-defiant Michaelis'
heels, and intimidated Clifford completely: for he wanted to prostitute
himself to the bitch-goddess, Success also, if only she would have him.
Michaelis obviously wasn't an Englishman, in spite of all the tailors,
hatters, barbers, booters of the very best quarter of London. No, no, he
obviously wasn't an Englishman: the wrong sort of flattish, pale face and
bearing; and the wrong sort of grievance. He had a grudge and a grievance:
that was obvious to any true-born English gentleman, who would scorn to let
such a thing appear blatant in his own demeanour. Poor Michaelis had been
much kicked, so that he had a slightly tail-between-the-legs look even now.
He had pushed his way by sheer instinct and sheerer effrontery on to the
stage and to the front of it, with his plays. He had caught the public. And
he had thought the kicking days were over. Alas, they weren't... They never
would be. For he, in a sense, asked to be kicked. He pined to be where he
didn't belong...among the English upper classes. 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.
`I'm thirty...yes, I'm thirty!' said Michaelis, sharply and suddenly,
with a curious laugh; hollow, triumphant, and bitter.
`And are you alone?' asked Connie.
`How do you mean? Do I live alone? I've got my servant. He's a Greek,
so he says, and quite incompetent. But I keep him. And I'm going to marry.
Oh, yes, I must marry.'
`It sounds like going to have your tonsils cut,' laughed Connie. `Will
it be an effort?'
He looked at her admiringly. `Well, Lady Chatterley, somehow it will! I
find... excuse me... I find I can't marry an Englishwoman, not even an
Irishwoman...'
`Try an American,' said Clifford.
`Oh, American!' He laughed a hollow laugh. `No, I've asked my man if he
will find me a Turk or something...something nearer to the Oriental.'
Connie really wondered at this queer, melancholy specimen of
extraordinary success; it was said he had an income of fifty thousand
dollars from America alone. Sometimes he was handsome: sometimes as he
looked sideways, downwards, and the light fell on him, he had the silent,
enduring beauty of a carved ivory Negro mask, with his rather full eyes, and
the strong queerly-arched brows, the immobile, compressed mouth; that
momentary but revealed immobility, an immobility, a timelessness which the
Buddha aims at, and which Negroes express sometimes without ever aiming at
it; something old, old, and acquiescent in the race! Aeons of acquiescence
in race destiny, instead of our individual resistance. And then a swimming
through, like rats in a dark river. Connie felt a sudden, strange leap of
sympathy for him, a leap mingled with compassion, and tinged with repulsion,
amounting almost to love. The outsider! The outsider! And they called him a
bounder! How much more bounderish and assertive Clifford looked! How much
stupider!
Michaelis knew at once he had made an impression on her. He turned his
full, hazel, slightly prominent eyes on her in a look of pure detachment. He
was estimating her, and the extent of the impression he had made. With the
English nothing could save him from being the eternal outsider, not even
love. Yet women sometimes fell for him...Englishwomen too.
He knew just where he was with Clifford. They were two alien dogs which
would have liked to snarl at one another, but which smiled instead,
perforce. But with the woman he was not quite so sure.
Breakfast was served in the bedrooms; Clifford never appeared before
lunch, and the dining-room was a little dreary. After coffee Michaelis,
restless and ill-sitting soul, wondered what he should do. It was a fine
November...day fine for Wragby. He looked over the melancholy park. My God!
What a place!
He sent a servant to ask, could he be of any service to Lady
Chatterley: he thought of driving into Sheffield. The answer came, would he
care to go up to Lady Chatterley's sitting-room.
Connie had a sitting-room on the third floor, the top floor of the
central portion of the house. Clifford's rooms were on the ground floor, of
course. Michaelis was flattered by being asked up to Lady Chatterley's own
parlour. He followed blindly after the servant...he never noticed things, or
had contact with Isis surroundings. In her room he did glance vaguely round
at the fine German reproductions of Renoir and CÉzanne.
`It's very pleasant up here,' he said, with his queer smile, as if it
hurt him to smile, showing his teeth. `You are wise to get up to the top.'
`Yes, I think so,' she said.
Her room was the only gay, modern one in the house, the only spot in
Wragby where her personality was at all revealed. Clifford had never seen
it, and she asked very few people up.
Now she and Michaelis sit on opposite sides of the fire and talked. She
asked him about himself, his mother and father, his brothers...other people
were always something of a wonder to her, and when her sympathy was awakened
she was quite devoid of class feeling. Michaelis talked frankly about
himself, quite frankly, without affectation, simply revealing his bitter,
indifferent, stray-dog's soul, then showing a gleam of revengeful pride in
his success.
`But why are you such a lonely bird?' Connie asked him; and again he
looked at her, with his full, searching, hazel look.
`Some birds are that way,' he replied. Then, with a touch of familiar
irony: `but, look here, what about yourself? Aren't you by way of being a
lonely bird yourself?' Connie, a little startled, thought about it for a few
moments, and then she said: `Only in a way! Not altogether, like you!'
`Am I altogether a lonely bird?' he asked, with his queer grin of a
smile, as if he had toothache; it was so wry, and his eyes were so perfectly
unchangingly melancholy, or stoical, or disillusioned or afraid.
`Why?' she said, a little breathless, as she looked at him. `You are,
aren't you?'
She felt a terrible appeal coming to her from him, that made her almost
lose her balance.
`Oh, you're quite right!' he said, turning his head away, and looking
sideways, downwards, with that strange immobility of an old race that is
hardly here in our present day. It was that that really made Connie lose her
power to see him detached from herself.
He looked up at her with the full glance that saw everything,
registered everything. At the same time, the infant crying in the night was
crying out of his breast to her, in a way that affected her very womb.
`It's awfully nice of you to think of me,' he said laconically.
`Why shouldn't I think of you?' she exclaimed, with hardly breath to
utter it.
He gave the wry, quick hiss of a laugh.
`Oh, in that way!...May I hold your hand for a minute?' he asked
suddenly, fixing his eyes on her with almost hypnotic power, and sending out
an appeal that affected her direct in the womb.
She stared at him, dazed and transfixed, and he went over and kneeled
beside her, and took her two feet close in his two hands, and buried his
face in her lap, remaining motionless. She was perfectly dim and dazed,
looking down in a sort of amazement at the rather tender nape of his neck,
feeling his face pressing her thighs. In all her burning dismay, she could
not help putting her hand, with tenderness and compassion, on the
defenceless nape of his neck, and he trembled, with a deep shudder.
Then he looked up at her with that awful appeal in his full, glowing
eyes. She was utterly incapable of resisting it. From her breast flowed the
answering, immense yearning over him; she must give him anything, anything.
He was a curious and very gentle lover, very gentle with the woman,
trembling uncontrollably, and yet at the same time detached, aware, aware of
every sound outside.
To her it meant nothing except that she gave herself to him. And at
length he ceased to quiver any more, and lay quite still, quite still. Then,
with dim, compassionate fingers, she stroked his head, that lay on her
breast.
When he rose, he kissed both her hands, then both her feet, in their
suÈde slippers, and in silence went away to the end of the room, where he
stood with his back to her. There was silence for some minutes. Then he
turned and came to her again as she sat in her old place by the fire.
`And now, I suppose you'll hate me!' he said in a quiet, inevitable
way. She looked up at him quickly.
`Why should I?' she asked.
`They mostly do,' he said; then he caught himself up. `I mean...a woman
is supposed to.'
`This is the last moment when I ought to hate you,' she said
resentfully.
`I know! I know! It should be so! You're frightfully good to me...' he
cried miserably.
She wondered why he should be miserable. `Won't you sit down again?'
she said. He glanced at the door.
`Sir Clifford!' he said, `won't he...won't he be...?' She paused a
moment to consider. `Perhaps!' she said. And she looked up at him. `I don't
want Clifford to know not even to suspect. It would hurt him so much. But I
don't think it's wrong, do you?'
`Wrong! Good God, no! You're only too infinitely good to me...I can
hardly bear it.'
He turned aside, and she saw that in another moment he would be
sobbing.
`But we needn't let Clifford know, need we?' she pleaded. `It would
hurt him so. And if he never knows, never suspects, it hurts nobody.'
`Me!' he said, almost fiercely; `he'll know nothing from me! You see if
he does. Me give myself away! Ha! Ha!' he laughed hollowly, cynically, at
such an idea. She watched him in wonder. He said to her: `May I kiss your
hand arid go? I'll run into Sheffield I think, and lunch there, if I may,
and be back to tea. May I do anything for you? May I be sure you don't hate
me?---and that you won't?'---he ended with a desperate note of cynicism.
`No, I don't hate you,' she said. `I think you're nice.'
`Ah!' he said to her fiercely, `I'd rather you said that to me than
said you love me! It means such a lot more...Till afternoon then. I've
plenty to think about till then.' He kissed her hands humbly and was gone.
`I don't think I can stand that young man,' said Clifford at lunch.
`Why?' asked Connie.
`He's such a bounder underneath his veneer...just waiting to bounce
us.'
`I think people have been so unkind to him,' said Connie.
`Do you wonder? And do you think he employs his shining hours doing
deeds of kindness?'
`I think he has a certain sort of generosity.'
`Towards whom?'
`I don't quite know.'
`Naturally you don't. I'm afraid you mistake unscrupulousness for
generosity.'
Connie paused. Did she? It was just possible. Yet the unscrupulousness
of Michaelis had a certain fascination for her. He went whole lengths where
Clifford only crept a few timid paces. In his way he had conquered the
world, which was what Clifford wanted to do. Ways and means...? Were those
of Michaelis more despicable than those of Clifford? Was the way the poor
outsider had shoved and bounced himself forward in person, and by the back
doors, any worse than Clifford's way of advertising himself into prominence?
The bitch-goddess, Success, was trailed by thousands of gasping, dogs with
lolling tongues. The one that got her first was the real dog among dogs, if
you go by success! So Michaelis could keep his tail up.
The queer thing was, he didn't. He came back towards tea-time with a
large handful of violets and lilies, and the same hang-dog expression.
Connie wondered sometimes if it were a sort of mask to disarm opposition,
because it was almost too fixed. Was he really such a sad dog?
His sad-dog sort of extinguished self persisted all the evening, though
through it Clifford felt the inner effrontery. Connie didn't feel it,
perhaps because it was not directed against women; only against men, and
their presumptions and assumptions. That indestructible, inward effrontery
in the meagre fellow was what made men so down on Michaelis. His very
presence was an affront to a man of society, cloak it as he might in an
assumed good manner.
Connie was in love with him, but she managed to sit with her embroidery
and let the men talk, and not give herself away. As for Michaelis, he was
perfect; exactly the same melancholic, attentive, aloof young fellow of the
previous evening, millions of degrees remote from his hosts, but laconically
playing up to them to the required amount, and never coming forth to them
for a moment. Connie felt he must have forgotten the morning. He had not
forgotten. But he knew where he was...in the same old place outside, where
the born outsiders are. He didn't take the love-making altogether
personally. He knew it would not change him from an ownerless dog, whom
everybody begrudges its golden collar, into a comfortable society dog.
The final fact being that at the very bottom of his soul he was an
outsider, and anti-social, and he accepted the fact inwardly, no matter how
Bond-Streety he was on the outside. His isolation was a necessity to him;
just as the appearance of conformity and mixing-in with the smart people was
also a necessity.
But occasional love, as a comfort arid soothing, was also a good thing,
and he was not ungrateful. On the contrary, he was burningly, poignantly
grateful for a piece of natural, spontaneous kindness: almost to tears.
Beneath his pale, immobile, disillusioned face, his child's soul was sobbing
with gratitude to the woman, and burning to come to her again; just as his
outcast soul was knowing he would keep really clear of her.
He found an opportunity to say to her, as they were lighting the
candles in the hall:
`May I come?'
`I'll come to you,' she said.
`Oh, good!'
He waited for her a long time...but she came.
He was the trembling excited sort of lover, whose crisis soon came, and
was finished. There was something curiously childlike and defenceless about
his naked body: as children are naked. His defences were all in his wits and
cunning, his very instincts of cunning, and when these were in abeyance he
seemed doubly naked and like a child, of unfinished, tender flesh, and
somehow struggling helplessly.
He roused in the woman a wild sort of compassion and yearning, and a
wild, craving physical desire. The physical desire he did not satisfy in
her; he was always come and finished so quickly, then shrinking down on her
breast, and recovering somewhat his effrontery while she lay dazed,
disappointed, lost.
But then she soon learnt to hold him, to keep him there inside her when
his crisis was over. And there he was generous and curiously potent; he
stayed firm inside her, giving to her, while she was active...wildly,
passionately active, coming to her own crisis. And as he felt the frenzy of
her achieving her own orgasmic satisfaction from his hard, erect passivity,
he had a curious sense of pride and satisfaction.
`Ah, how good!' she whispered tremulously, and she became quite still,
clinging to him. And he lay there in his own isolation, but somehow proud.
He stayed that time only the three days, and to Clifford was exactly
the same as on the first evening; to Connie also. There was no breaking down
his external man.
He wrote to Connie with the same plaintive melancholy note as ever,
sometimes witty, and touched with a queer, sexless affection. A kind of
hopeless affection he seemed to feel for her, and the essential remoteness
remained the same. He was hopeless at the very core of him, and he wanted to
be hopeless. He rather hated hope. `Une immense espÉrance a traversÉ la
terre', he read somewhere, and his comment was:`---and it's darned-well
drowned everything worth having.'
Connie never really understood him, but, in her way, she loved him. And
all the time she felt the reflection of his hopelessness in her. She
couldn't quite, quite love in hopelessness. And he, being hopeless, couldn't
ever quite love at all.
So they went on for quite a time, writing, and meeting occasionally in
London. She still wanted the physical, sexual thrill she could get with him
by her own activity, his little orgasm being over. And he still wanted to
give it her. Which was enough to keep them connected.
And enough to give her a subtle sort of self-assurance, something blind
and a little arrogant. It was an almost mechanical confidence in her own
powers, and went with a great cheerfulness.
She was terrifically cheerful at Wragby. And she used all her aroused
cheerfulness and satisfaction to stimulate Clifford, so that he wrote his
best at this time, and was almost happy in his strange blind way. He really
reaped the fruits of the sensual satisfaction she got out of Michaelis' male
passivity erect inside her. But of course he never knew it, and if he had,
he wouldn't have said thank you!
Yet when those days of her grand joyful cheerfulness and stimulus were
gone, quite gone, and she was depressed and irritable, how Clifford longed
for them again! Perhaps if he'd known he might even have wished to get her
and Michaelis together again.
Connie always had a foreboding of the hopelessness of her affair with
Mick, as people called him. Yet other men seemed to mean nothing to her. She
was attached to Clifford. He wanted a good deal of her life and she gave it
to him. But she wanted a good deal from the life of a man, and this Clifford
did not give her; could not. There were occasional spasms of Michaelis. But,
as she knew by foreboding, that would come to an end. Mick couldn't keep
anything up. It was part of his very being that he must break off any
connexion, and be loose, isolated, absolutely lone dog again. It was his
major necessity, even though he always said: She turned me down!
The world is supposed to be full of possibilities, but they narrow down
to pretty few in most personal experience. There's lots of good fish in the
sea...maybe...but the vast masses seem to be mackerel or herring, and if
you're not mackerel or herring yourself you are likely to find very few good
fish in the sea.
Clifford was making strides into fame, and even money. People came to
see him. Connie nearly always had somebody at Wragby. But if they weren't
mackerel they were herring, with an occasional cat-fish, or conger-eel.
There were a few regular men, constants; men who had been at Cambridge
with Clifford. There was Tommy Dukes, who had remained in the army, and was
a Brigadier-General. `The army leaves me time to think, and saves me from
having to face the battle of life,' he said.
There was Charles May, an Irishman, who wrote scientifically about
stars. There was Hammond, another writer. All were about the same age as
Clifford; the young intellectuals of the day. They all believed in the life
of the mind. What you did apart from that was your private affair, and
didn't much matter. No one thinks of inquiring of another person at what
hour he retires to the privy. It isn't interesting to anyone but the person
concerned.
And so with most of the matters of ordinary life...how you make your
money, or whether you love your wife, or if you have `affairs'. All these
matters concern only the person concerned, and, like going to the privy,
have no interest for anyone else.
`The whole point about the sexual problem,' said Hammond, who was a
tall thin fellow with a wife and two children, but much more closely
connected with a typewriter, `is that there is no point to it. Strictly
there is no problem. We don't want to follow a man into the w.c., so why
should we want to follow him into bed with a woman? And therein liehe
problem. If we took no more notice of the one thing than the other, there'd
be no problem. It's all utterly senseless and pointless; a matter of
misplaced curiosity.'
`Quite, Hammond, quite! But if someone starts making love to Julia, you
begin to simmer; and if he goes on, you are soon at boiling point.'...Julia
was Hammond's wife.
`Why, exactly! So I should be if he began to urinate in a corner of my
drawing-room. There's a place for all these things.'
`You mean you wouldn't mind if he made love to Julia in some discreet
alcove?'
Charlie May was slightly satirical, for he had flirted a very little
with Julia, and Hammond had cut up very roughly.
`Of course I should mind. Sex is a private thing between me and Julia;
and of course I should mind anyone else trying to mix in.'
`As a matter of fact,' said the lean and freckled Tommy Dukes, who
looked much more Irish than May, who was pale and rather fat: `As a matter
of fact, Hammond, you have a strong property instinct, and a strong will to
self-assertion, and you want success. Since I've been in the army
definitely, I've got out of the way of the world, and now I see how
inordinately strong the craving for self-assertion and success is in men. It
is enormously overdeveloped. All our individuality has run that way. And of
course men like you think you'll get through better with a woman's backing.
That's why you're so jealous. That's what sex is to you...a vital little
dynamo between you and Julia, to bring success. If you began to be
unsuccessful you'd begin to flirt, like Charlie, who isn't successful.
Married people like you and Julia have labels on you, like travellers'
trunks. Julia is labelled Mrs Arnold B. Hammond---just like a trunk on the
railway that belongs to somebody. And you are labelled Arnold B. Hammond,
c/o Mrs Arnold B. Hammond. Oh, you're quite right, you're quite right! The
life of the mind needs a comfortable house and decent cooking. You're quite
right. It even needs posterity. But it all hinges on the instinct for
success. That is the pivot on which all things turn.'
Hammond looked rather piqued. He was rather proud of the integrity of
his mind, and of his not being a time-server. None the less, he did want
success.
`It's quite true, you can't live without cash,' said May. `You've got
to have a certain amount of it to be able to live and get along...even to be
free to think you must have a certain amount of money, or your stomach stops
you. But it seems to me you might leave the labels off sex. We're free to
talk to anybody; so why shouldn't we be free to make love to any woman who
inclines us that way?'
`There speaks the lascivious Celt,' said Clifford.
`Lascivious! well, why not---? I can't see I do a woman any more harm
by sleeping with her than by dancing with her...or even talking to her about
the weather. It's just an interchange of sensations instead of ideas, so why
not?'
`Be as promiscuous as the rabbits!' said Hammond.
`Why not? What's wrong with rabbits? Are they any worse than a
neurotic, revolutionary humanity, full of nervous hate?'
`But we're not rabbits, even so,' said Hammond.
`Precisely! I have my mind: I have certain calculations to make in
certain astronomical matters that concern me almost more than life or death.
Sometimes indigestion interferes with me. Hunger would interfere with me
disastrously. In the same way starved sex interferes with me. What then?'
`I should have thought sexual indigestion from surfeit would have
interfered with you more seriously,' said Hammond satirically.
`Not it! I don't over-eat myself and I don't over-fuck myself. One has
a choice about eating too much. But you would absolutely starve me.'
`Not at all! You can marry.'
`How do you know I can? It may not suit the process of my mind.
Marriage might...and would...stultify my mental processes. I'm not properly
pivoted that way...and so must I be chained in a kennel like a monk? All rot
and funk, my boy. I must live and do my calculations. I need women
sometimes. I refuse to make a mountain of it, and I refuse anybody's moral
condemnation or prohibition. I'd be ashamed to see a woman walking around
with my name-label on her, address and railway station, like a wardrobe
trunk.'
These two men had not forgiven each other about the Julia flirtation.
`It's an amusing idea, Charlie,' said Dukes, `that sex is just another
form of talk, where you act the words instead of saying them. I suppose it's
quite true. I suppose we might exchange as many sensations and emotions with
women as we do ideas about the weather, and so on. Sex might be a sort of
normal physical conversation between a man and a woman. You don't talk to a
woman unless you have ideas in common: that is you don't talk with any
interest. And in the same way, unless you had some emotion or sympathy in
common with a woman you wouldn't sleep with her. But if you had...'
`If you have the proper sort of emotion or sympathy with a woman, you
ought to sleep with her,' said May. `It's the only decent thing, to go to
bed with her. Just as, when you are interested talking to someone, the Only
decent thing is to have the talk out. You don't prudishly put your tongue
between your teeth and bite it. You just say out your say. And the same the
other way.'
`No,' said Hammond. `It's wrong. You, for example, May, you squander
half your force with women. You'll never really do what you should do, with
a fine mind such as yours. Too much of it goes the other way.'
`Maybe it does...and too little of you goes that way, Hammond, my boy,
married or not. You can keep the purity and integrity of your mind, but it's
going damned dry. Your pure mind is going as dry as fiddlesticks, from what
I see of it. You're simply talking it down.'
Tommy Dukes burst into a laugh.
`Go it, you two minds!' he said. `Look at me...I don't do any high and
pure mental work, nothing but jot down a few ideas. And yet I neither marry
nor run after women. I think Charlie's quite right; if he wants to run after
the women, he's quite free not to run too often. But I wouldn't prohibit him
from running. As for Hammond, he's got a property instinct, so naturally the
straight road and the narrow gate are right for him. You'll see he'll be an
English Man of Letters before he's done. A.B.C. from top to toe. Then
there's me. I'm nothing. Just a squib. And what about you, Clifford? Do you
think sex is a dynamo to help a man on to success in the world?'
Clifford rarely talked much at these times. He never held forth; his
ideas were really not vital enough for it, he was too confused and
emotional. Now he blushed and looked uncomfortable.
`Well!' he said, `being myself hors de combat, I don't see I've
anything to say on the matter.'
`Not at all,' said Dukes; `the top of you's by no means hors de combat.
You've got the life of the mind sound and intact. So let us hear your
ideas.'
`Well,' stammered Clifford, `even then I don't suppose I have much
idea...I suppose marry-and-have-done-with-it would pretty well stand for
what I think. Though of course between a man and woman who care for one
another, it is a great thing.'
`What sort of great thing?' said Tommy.
`Oh...it perfects the intimacy,' said Clifford, uneasy as a woman in
such talk.
`Well, Charlie and I believe that sex is a sort of communication like
speech. Let any woman start a sex conversation with me, and it's natural for
me to go to bed with her to finish it, all in due season. Unfortunately no
woman makes any particular start with me, so I go to bed by myself; and am
none the worse for it...I hope so, anyway, for how should I know? Anyhow
I've no starry calculations to be interfered with, and no immortal works to
write. I'm merely a fellow skulking in the army...'
Silence fell. The four men smoked. And Connie sat there and put another
stitch in her sewing...Yes, she sat there! She had to sit mum. She had to be
quiet as a mouse, not to interfere with the immensely important speculations
of these highly-mental gentlemen. But she had to be there. They didn't get
on so well without her; their ideas didn't flow so freely. Clifford was much
more hedgy and nervous, he got cold feet much quicker in Connie's absence,
and the talk didn't run. Tommy Dukes came off best; he was a little inspired
by her presence. Hammond she didn't really like; he seemed so selfish in a
mental way. And Charles May, though she liked something about him, seemed a
little distasteful and messy, in spite of his stars.
How many evenings had Connie sat and listened to the manifestations of
these four men! these, and one or two others. That they never seemed to get
anywhere didn't trouble her deeply. She liked to hear what they had to say,
especially when Tommy was there. It was fun. Instead of men kissing you, and
touching you with their bodies, they revealed their minds to you. It was
great fun! But what cold minds!
And also it was a little irritating. She had more respect for
Michaelis, on whose name they all poured such withering contempt, as a
little mongrel arriviste, and uneducated bounder of the worst sort. Mongrel
and bounder or not, he jumped to his own conclusions. He didn't merely walk
round them with millions of words, in the parade of the life of the mind.
Connie quite liked the life of the mind, and got a great thrill out of
it. But she did think it overdid itself a little. She loved being there,
amidst the tobacco smoke of those famous evenings of the cronies, as she
called them privately to herself. She was infinitely amused, and proud too,
that even their talking they could not do, without her silent presence. She
had an immense respect for thought...and these men, at least, tried to think
honestly. But somehow there was a cat, and it wouldn't jump. They all alike
talked at something, though what it was, for the life of her she couldn't
say. It was something that Mick didn't clear, either.
But then Mick wasn't trying to do anything, but just get through his
life, and put as much across other people as they tried to put across him.
He was really anti-social, which was what Clifford and his cronies had
against him. Clifford and his cronies were not anti-social; they were more
or less bent on saving mankind, or on instructing it, to say the least.
There was a gorgeous talk on Sunday evening, when the conversation
drifted again to love.
`Blest be the tie that binds
Our hearts in kindred something-or-other'---
said Tommy Dukes. `I'd like to know what the tie is...The tie that
binds us just now is mental friction on one another. And, apart from that,
there's damned little tie between us. We bust apart, and say spiteful things
about one another, like all the other damned intellectuals in the world.
Damned everybodies, as far as that goes, for they all do it. Else we bust
apart, and cover up the spiteful things we feel against one another by
saying false sugaries. It's a curious thing that the mental life seems to
flourish with its roots in spite, ineffable and fathomless spite. Always has
been so! Look at Socrates, in Plato, and his bunch round him! The sheer
spite of it all, just sheer joy in pulling somebody else to
bits...Protagoras, or whoever it was! And Alcibiades, and all the other
little disciple dogs joining in the fray! I must say it makes one prefer
Buddha, quietly sitting under a bo-tree, or Jesus, telling his disciples
little Sunday stories, peacefully, and without any mental fireworks. No,
there's something wrong with the mental life, radically. It's rooted in
spite and envy, envy and spite. Ye shall know the tree by its fruit.'
`I don't think we're altogether so spiteful,' protested Clifford.
`My dear Clifford, think of the way we talk each other over, all of us.
I'm rather worse than anybody else, myself. Because I infinitely prefer the
spontaneous spite to the concocted sugaries; now they are poison; when I
begin saying what a fine fellow Clifford is, etc., etc., then poor Clifford
is to be pitied. For God's sake, all of you, say spiteful things about me,
then I shall know I mean something to you. Don't say sugaries, or I'm done.'
`Oh, but I do think we honestly like one another,' said Hammond.
`I tell you we must...we say such spiteful things to one another, about
one another, behind our backs! I'm the worst.'
`And I do think you confuse the mental life with the critical activity.
I agree with you, Socrates gave the critical activity a grand start, but he
did more than that,' said Charlie May, rather magisterially. The cronies had
such a curious pomposity under their assumed modesty. It was all so ex
cathedra, and it all pretended to be so humble.
Dukes refused to be drawn about Socrates.
`That's quite true, criticism and knowledge are not the same thing,'
said Hammond.
`They aren't, of course,' chimed in Berry, a brown, shy young man, who
had called to see Dukes, and was staying the night.
They all looked at him as if the ass had spoken.
`I wasn't talking about knowledge...I was talking about the mental
life,' laughed Dukes. `Real knowledge comes out of the whole corpus of the
consciousness; out of your belly and your penis as much as out of your brain
and mind. The mind can only analyse and rationalize. Set the mind and the
reason to cock it over the rest, and all they can do is to criticize, and
make a deadness. I say all they can do. It is vastly important. My God, the
world needs criticizing today...criticizing to death. Therefore let's live
the mental life, and glory in our spite, and strip the rotten old show. But,
mind you, it's like this: while you live your life, you are in some way an
Organic whole with all life. But once you start the mental life you pluck
the apple. You've severed the connexion between, the apple and the tree: the
organic connexion. And if you've got nothing in your life but the mental
life, then you yourself are a plucked apple...you've fallen off the tree.
And then it is a logical necessity to be spiteful, just as it's a natural
necessity for a plucked apple to go bad.'
Clifford made big eyes: it was all stuff to him. Connie secretly
laughed to herself.
`Well then we're all plucked apples,' said Hammond, rather acidly and
petulantly.
`So let's make cider of ourselves,' said Charlie.
`But what do you think of Bolshevism?' put in the brown Berry, as if
everything had led up to it.
`Bravo!' roared Charlie. `What do you think of Bolshevism?'
`Come on! Let's make hay of Bolshevism!' said Dukes.
`I'm afraid Bolshevism is a large question,' said Hammond, shaking his
head seriously.
`Bolshevism, it seems to me,' said Charlie, `is just a superlative
hatred of the thing they call the bourgeois; and what the bourgeois is,
isn't quite defined. It is Capitalism, among other things. Feelings and
emotions are also so decidedly bourgeois that you have to invent a man
without them.
`Then the individual, especially the personal man, is bourgeois: so he
must be suppressed. You must submerge yourselves in the greater thing, the
Soviet-social thing. Even an organism is bourgeois: so the ideal must be
mechanical. The only thing that is a unit, non-organic, composed of many
different, yet equally essential parts, is the machine. Each man a
machine-part, and the driving power of the machine, hate...hate of the
bourgeois. That, to me, is Bolshevism.'
`Absolutely!' said Tommy. `But also, it seems to me a perfect
description of the whole of the industrial ideal. It's the factory-owner's
ideal in a nut-shell; except that he would deny that the driving power was
hate. Hate it is, all the same; hate of life itself. Just look at these
Midlands, if it isn't plainly written up...but it's all part of the life of
the mind, it's a logical development.'
`I deny that Bolshevism is logical, it rejects the major part of the
premisses,' said Hammond.
`My dear man, it allows the material premiss; so does the pure
mind...exclusively.'
`At least Bolshevism has got down to rock bottom,' said Charlie.
`Rock bottom! The bottom that has no bottom! The Bolshevists will have
the finest army in the world in a very short time, with the finest
mechanical equipment.
`But this thing can't go on...this hate business. There must be a
reaction...' said Hammond.
`Well, we've been waiting for years...we wait longer. Hate's a growing
thing like anything else. It's the inevitable outcome of forcing ideas on to
life, of forcing one's deepest instincts; our deepest feelings we force
according to certain ideas. We drive ourselves with a formula, like a
machine. The logical mind pretends to rule the roost, and the roost turns
into pure hate. We're all Bolshevists, only we are hypocrites. The Russians
are Bolshevists without hypocrisy.'
`But there are many other ways,' said Hammond, `than the Soviet way.
The Bolshevists aren't really intelligent.'
`Of course not. But sometimes it's intelligent to be half-witted: if
you want to make your end. Personally, I consider Bolshevism half-witted;
but so do I consider our social life in the west half-witted. So I even
consider our far-famed mental life half-witted. We're all as cold as
cretins, we're all as passionless as idiots. We're all of us Bolshevists,
only we give it another name. We think we're gods...men like gods! It's just
the same as Bolshevism. One has to be human, and have a heart and a penis if
one is going to escape being either a god or a Bolshevist...for they are the
same thing: they're both too good to be true.'
Out of the disapproving silence came Berry's anxious question:
`You do believe in love then, Tommy, don't you?'
`You lovely lad!' said Tommy. `No, my cherub, nine times out of ten,
no! Love's another of those half-witted performances today. Fellows with
swaying waists fucking little jazz girls with small boy buttocks, like two
collar studs! Do you mean that sort of love? Or the joint-property,
make-a-success-of-it, My-husband-my-wife sort of love? No, my fine fellow, I
don't believe in it at all!'
`But you do believe in something?'
`Me? Oh, intellectually I believe in having a good heart, a chirpy
penis, a lively intelligence, and the courage to say "shit!" in front of a
lady.'
`Well, you've got them all,' said Berry.
Tommy Dukes roared with laughter. `You angel boy! If only I had! If
only I had! No; my heart's as numb as a potato, my penis droops and never
lifts its head up, I dare rather cut him clean off than say "shit!" in front
of my mother or my aunt...they are real ladies, mind you; and I'm not really
intelligent, I'm only a "mental-lifer". It would be wonderful to be
intelligent: then one would be alive in all the parts mentioned and
unmentionable. The penis rouses his head and says: How do you do?---to any
really intelligent person. Renoir said he painted his pictures with his
penis...he did too, lovely pictures! I wish I did something with mine. God!
when one can only talk! Another torture added to Hades! And Socrates started
it.'
`There are nice women in the world,' said Connie, lifting her head up
and speaking at last.
The men resented it...she should have pretended to hear nothing. They
hated her admitting she had attended so closely to such talk.
`My God! "If they be not nice to me What care I how nice they be?"
`No, it's hopeless! I just simply can't vibrate in unison with a woman.
There's no woman I can really want when I'm faced with her, and I'm not
going to start forcing myself to it...My God, no! I'll remain as I am, and
lead the mental life. It's the only honest thing I can do. I can be quite
happy talking to women; but it's all pure, hopelessly pure. Hopelessly pure!
What do you say, Hildebrand, my chicken?'
`It's much less complicated if one stays pure,' said Berry.
`Yes, life is all too simple!'
On a frosty morning with a little February sun, Clifford and Connie
went for a walk across the park to the wood. That is, Clifford chuffed in
his motor-chair, and Connie walked beside him.
The hard air was still sulphurous, but they were both used to it. Round
the near horizon went the haze, opalescent with frost and smoke, and on the
top lay the small blue sky; so that it was like being inside an enclosure,
always inside. Life always a dream or a frenzy, inside an enclosure.
The sheep coughed in the rough, sere grass of the park, where frost lay
bluish in the sockets of the tufts. Across the park ran a path to the
wood-gate, a fine ribbon of pink. Clifford had had it newly gravelled with
sifted gravel from the pit-bank. When the rock and refuse of the underworld
had burned and given off its sulphur, it turned bright pink, shrimp-coloured
on dry days, darker, crab-coloured on wet. Now it was pale shrimp-colour,
with a bluish-white hoar of frost. It always pleased Connie, this underfoot
of sifted, bright pink. It's an ill wind that brings nobody good.
Clifford steered cautiously down the slope of the knoll from the hall,
and Connie kept her hand on the chair. In front lay the wood, the hazel
thicket nearest, the purplish density of oaks beyond. From the wood's edge
rabbits bobbed and nibbled. Rooks suddenly rose in a black train, and went
trailing off over the little sky.
Connie opened the wood-gate, and Clifford puffed slowly through into
the broad riding that ran up an incline between the clean-whipped thickets
of the hazel. The wood was a remnant of the great forest where Robin Hood
hunted, and this riding was an old, old thoroughfare coming across country.
But now, of course, it was only a riding through the private wood. The road
from Mansfield swerved round to the north.
In the wood everything was motionless, the old leaves on the ground
keeping the frost on their underside. A jay called harshly, many little
birds fluttered. But there was no game; no pheasants. They had been killed
off during the war, and the wood had been left unprotected, till now
Clifford had got his game-keeper again.
Clifford loved the wood; he loved the old oak-trees. He felt they were
his own through generations. He wanted to protect them. He wanted this place
inviolate, shut off from the world.
The chair chuffed slowly up the incline, rocking and jolting on the
frozen clods. And suddenly, on the left, came a clearing where there was
nothing but a ravel of dead bracken, a thin and spindly sapling leaning here
and there, big sawn stumps, showing their tops and their grasping roots,
lifeless. And patches of blackness where the woodmen had burned the
brushwood and rubbish.
This was one of the places that Sir Geoffrey had cut during the war for
trench timber. The whole knoll, which rose softly on the right of the
riding, was denuded and strangely forlorn. On the crown of the knoll where
the oaks had stood, now was bareness; and from there you could look out over
the trees to the colliery railway, and the new works at Stacks Gate. Connie
had stood and looked, it was a breach in the pure seclusion of the wood. It
let in the world. But she didn't tell Clifford.
This denuded place always made Clifford curiously angry. He had been
through the war, had seen what it meant. But he didn't get really angry till
he saw this bare hill. He was having it replanted. But it made him hate Sir
Geoffrey.
Clifford sat with a fixed face as the chair slowly mounted. When they
came to the top of the rise he stopped; he would not risk the long and very
jolty down-slope. He sat looking at the greenish sweep of the riding
downwards, a clear way through the bracken and oaks. It swerved at the
bottom of the hill and disappeared; but it had such a lovely easy curve, of
knights riding and ladies on palfreys.
`I consider this is really the heart of England,' said Clifford to
Connie, as he sat there in the dim February sunshine.
`Do you?' she said, seating herself in her blue knitted dress, on a
stump by the path.
`I do! this is the old England, the heart of it; and I intend to keep
it intact.'
`Oh yes!' said Connie. But, as she said it she heard the eleven-o'clock
hooters at Stacks Gate colliery. Clifford was too used to the sound to
notice.
`I want this wood perfect...untouched. I want nobody to trespass in
it,' said Clifford.
There was a certain pathos. The wood still had some of the mystery of
wild, old England; but Sir Geoffrey's cuttings during the war had given it a
blow. How still the trees were, with their crinkly, innumerable twigs
against the sky, and their grey, obstinate trunks rising from the brown
bracken! How safely the birds flitted among them! And once there had been
deer, and archers, and monks padding along on asses. The place remembered,
still remembered.
Clifford sat in the pale sun, with the light on his smooth, rather
blond hair, his reddish full face inscrutable.
`I mind more, not having a son, when I come here, than any other time,'
he said.
`But the wood is older than your family,' said Connie gently.
`Quite!' said Clifford. `But we've preserved it. Except for us it would
go...it would be gone already, like the rest of the forest. One must
preserve some of the old England!'
`Must one?' said Connie. `If it has to be preserved, and preserved
against the new England? It's sad, I know.'
`If some of the old England isn't preserved, there'll be no England at
all,' said Clifford. `And we who have this kind of property, and the feeling
for it, must preserve it.'
There was a sad pause. `Yes, for a little while,' said Connie.
`For a little while! It's all we can do. We can only do our bit. I feel
every man of my family has done his bit here, since we've had the place. One
may go against convention, but one must keep up tradition.' Again there was
a pause.
`What tradition?' asked Connie.
`The tradition of England! of this!'
`Yes,' she said slowly.
`That's why having a son helps; one is only a link in a chain,' he
said.
Connie was not keen on chains, but she said nothing. She was thinking
of the curious impersonality of his desire for a son.
`I'm sorry we can't have a son,' she said.
He looked at her steadily, with his full, pale-blue eyes.
`It would almost be a good thing if you had a child by another man, he
said. `If we brought it up at Wragby, it would belong to us and to the
place. I don't believe very intensely in fatherhood. If we had the child to
rear, it would be our own, and it would carry on. Don't you think it's worth
considering?'
Connie looked up at him at last. The child, her child, was just an `it'
to him. It...it...it!
`But what about the other man?' she asked.
`Does it matter very much? Do these things really affect us very
deeply?...You had that lover in Germany...what is it now? Nothing almost. It
seems to me that it isn't these little acts and little connexions we make in
our lives that matter so very much. They pass away, and where are they?
Where...Where are the snows of yesteryear?...It's what endures through one's
life that matters; my own life matters to me, in its long continuance and
development. But what do the occasional connexions matter? And the
occasional sexual connexions especially! If people don't exaggerate them
ridiculously, they pass like the mating of birds. And so they should. What
does it matter? It's the life-long companionship that matters. It's the
living together from day to day, not the sleeping together once or twice.
You and I are married, no matter what happens to us. We have the habit of
each other. And habit, to my thinking, is more vital than any occasional
excitement. The long, slow, enduring thing...that's what we live by...not
the occasional spasm of any sort. Little by little, living together, two
people fall into a sort of unison, they vibrate so intricately to one
another. That's the real secret of marriage, not sex; at least not the
simple function of sex. You and I are interwoven in a marriage. If we stick
to that we ought to be able to arrange this sex thing, as we arrange going
to the dentist; since fate has given us a checkmate physically there.'
Connie sat and listened in a sort of wonder, and a sort of fear. She
did not know if he was right or not. There was Michaelis, whom she loved; so
she said to herself. But her love was somehow only an excursion from her
marriage with Clifford; the long, slow habit of intimacy, formed through
years of suffering and patience. Perhaps the human soul needs excursions,
and must not be denied them. But the point of an excursion is that you come
home again.
`And wouldn't you mind what man's child I had?' she asked.
`Why, Connie, I should trust your natural instinct of decency and
selection. You just wouldn't let the wrong sort of fellow touch you.'
She thought of Michaelis! He was absolutely Clifford's idea of the
wrong sort of fellow.
`But men and women may have different feelings about the wrong sort of
fellow,' she said.
`No,' he replied. `You care for me. I don't believe you would ever care
for a man who was purely antipathetic to me. Your rhythm wouldn't let you.'
She was silent. Logic might be unanswerable because it was so
absolutely wrong.
`And should you expect me to tell you?' she asked, glancing up at him
almost furtively.
`Not at all, I'd better not know...But you do agree with me, don't you,
that the casual sex thing is nothing, compared to the long life lived
together? Don't you think one can just subordinate the sex thing to the
necessities of a long life? Just use it, since that's what we're driven to?
After all, do these temporary excitements matter? Isn't the whole problem of
life the slow building up of an integral personality, through the years?
living an integrated life? There's no point in a disintegrated life. If lack
of sex is going to disintegrate you, then go out and have a love-affair. If
lack of a child is going to disintegrate you, then have a child if you
possibly can. But only do these things so that you have an integrated life,
that makes a long harmonious thing. And you and I can do that
together...don't you think?...if we adapt ourselves to the necessities, and
at the same time weave the adaptation together into a piece with our
steadily-lived life. Don't you agree?'
Connie was a little overwhelmed by his words. She knew he was right
theoretically. But when she actually touched her steadily-lived life with
him she...hesitated. Was it actually her destiny to go on weaving herself
into his life all the rest of her life? Nothing else?
Was it just that? She was to be content to weave a steady life with
him, all one fabric, but perhaps brocaded with the occasional flower of an
adventure. But how could she know what she would feel next year? How could
one ever know? How could one say Yes? for years and years? The little yes,
gone on a breath! Why should one be pinned down by that butterfly word? Of
course it had to flutter away and be gone, to be followed by other yes's and
no's! Like the straying of butterflies.
`I think you're right, Clifford. And as far as I can see I agree with
you. Only life may turn quite a new face on it all.'
`But until life turns a new face on it all, you do agree?'
`Oh yes! I think I do, really.'
She was watching a brown spaniel that had run out of a side-path, and
was looking towards them with lifted nose, making a soft, fluffy bark. A man
with a gun strode swiftly, softly out after the dog, facing their way as if
about to attack them; then stopped instead, saluted, and was turning
downhill. It was only the new game-keeper, but he had frightened Connie, he
seemed to emerge with such a swift menace. That was how she had seen him,
like the sudden rush of a threat out of nowhere.
He was a man in dark green velveteens and gaiters...the old style, with
a red face and red moustache and distant eyes. He was going quickly
downhill.
`Mellors!' called Clifford.
The man faced lightly round, and saluted with a quick little gesture, a
soldier!
`Will you turn the chair round and get it started? That makes it
easier,' said Clifford.
The man at once slung his gun over his shoulder, and came forward with
the same curious swift, yet soft movements, as if keeping invisible. He was
moderately tall and lean, and was silent. He did not look at Connie at all,
only at the chair.
`Connie, this is the new game-keeper, Mellors. You haven't spoken to
her ladyship yet, Mellors?'
`No, Sir!' came the ready, neutral words.
The man lifted his hat as he stood, showing his thick, almost fair
hair. He stared straight into Connie's eyes, with a perfect, fearless,
impersonal look, as if he wanted to see what she was like. He made her feel
shy. She bent her head to him shyly, and he changed his hat to his left hand
and made her a slight bow, like a gentleman; but he said nothing at all. He
remained for a moment still, with his hat in his hand.
`But you've been here some time, haven't you?' Connie said to him.
`Eight months, Madam...your Ladyship!' he corrected himself calmly.
`And do you like it?'
She looked him in the eyes. His eyes narrowed a little, with irony,
perhaps with impudence.
`Why, yes, thank you, your Ladyship! I was reared here...'
He gave another slight bow, turned, put his hat on, and strode to take
hold of the chair. His voice on the last words had fallen into the heavy
broad drag of the dialect...perhaps also in mockery, because there had been
no trace of dialect before. He might almost be a gentleman. Anyhow, he was a
curious, quick, separate fellow, alone, but sure of himself.
Clifford started the little engine, the man carefully turned the chair,
and set it nose-forwards to the incline that curved gently to the dark hazel
thicket.
`Is that all then, Sir Clifford?' asked the man.
`No, you'd better come along in case she sticks. The engine isn't
really strong enough for the uphill work.' The man glanced round for his
dog...a thoughtful glance. The spaniel looked at him and faintly moved its
tail. A little smile, mocking or teasing her, yet gentle, came into his eyes
for a moment, then faded away, and his face was expressionless. They went
fairly quickly down the slope, the man with his hand on the rail of the
chair, steadying it. He looked like a free soldier rather than a servant.
And something about him reminded Connie of Tommy Dukes.
When they came to the hazel grove, Connie suddenly ran forward, and
opened the gate into the park. As she stood holding it, the two men looked
at her in passing, Clifford critically, the other man with a curious, cool
wonder; impersonally wanting to see what she looked like. And she saw in his
blue, impersonal eyes a look of suffering and detachment, yet a certain
warmth. But why was he so aloof, apart?
Clifford stopped the chair, once through the gate, and the man came
quickly, courteously, to close it.
`Why did you run to open?' asked Clifford in his quiet, calm voice,
that showed he was displeased. `Mellors would have done it.'
`I thought you would go straight ahead,' said Connie. `And leave you to
run after us?' said Clifford.
`Oh, well, I like to run sometimes!'
Mellors took the chair again, looking perfectly unheeding, yet Connie
felt he noted everything. As he pushed the chair up the steepish rise of the
knoll in the park, he breathed rather quickly, through parted lips. He was
rather frail really. Curiously full of vitality, but a little frail and
quenched. Her woman's instinct sensed it.
Connie fell back, let the chair go on. The day had greyed over; the
small blue sky that had poised low on its circular rims of haze was closed
in again, the lid was down, there was a raw coldness. It was going to snow.
All grey, all grey! the world looked worn out.
The chair waited at the top of the pink path. Clifford looked round for
Connie.
`Not tired, are you?' he said.
`Oh, no!' she said.
But she was. A strange, weary yearning, a dissatisfaction had started
in her. Clifford did not notice: those were not things he was aware of. But
the stranger knew. To Connie, everything in her world and life seemed worn
out, and her dissatisfaction was older than the hills.
They came to the house, and around to the back, where there were no
steps. Clifford managed to swing himself over on to the low, wheeled
house-chair; he was very strong and agile with his arms. Then Connie lifted
the burden of his dead legs after him.
The keeper, waiting at attention to be dismissed, watched everything
narrowly, missing nothing. He went pale, with a sort of fear, when he saw
Connie lifting the inert legs of the man in her arms, into the other chair,
Clifford pivoting round as she did so. He was frightened.
`Thanks, then, for the help, Mellors,' said Clifford casually, as he
began to wheel down the passage to the servants' quarters.
`Nothing else, Sir?' came the neutral voice, like one in a dream.
`Nothing, good morning!'
`Good morning, Sir.'
`Good morning! it was kind of you to push the chair up that hill...I
hope it wasn't heavy for you,' said Connie, looking back at the keeper
outside the door.
His eyes came to hers in an instant, as if wakened up. He was aware of
her.
`Oh no, not heavy!' he said quickly. Then his voice dropped again into
the broad sound of the vernacular: `Good mornin' to your Ladyship!'
`Who is your game-keeper?' Connie asked at lunch.
`Mellors! You saw him,' said Clifford.
`Yes, but where did he come from?'
`Nowhere! He was a Tevershall boy...son of a collier, I believe.'
`And was he a collier himself?'
`Blacksmith on the pit-bank, I believe: overhead smith. But he was
keeper here for two years before the war...before he joined up. My father
always had a good Opinion of him, so when he came back, and went to the pit
for a blacksmith's job, I just took him back here as keeper. I was really
very glad to get him...its almost impossible to find a good man round here
for a gamekeeper...and it needs a man who knows the people.'
`And isn't he married?'
`He was. But his wife went off with...with various men...but finally
with a collier at Stacks Gate, and I believe she's living there still.'
`So this man is alone?'
`More or less! He has a mother in the village...and a child, I
believe.'
Clifford looked at Connie, with his pale, slightly prominent blue eyes,
in which a certain vagueness was coming. He seemed alert in the foreground,
but the background was like the Midlands atmosphere, haze, smoky mist. And
the haze seemed to be creeping forward. So when he stared at Connie in his
peculiar way, giving her his peculiar, precise information, she felt all the
background of his mind filling up with mist, with nothingness. And it
frightened her. It made him seem impersonal, almost to idiocy.
And dimly she realized one of the great laws of the human soul: that
when the emotional soul receives a wounding shock, which does not kill the
body, the soul seems to recover as the body recovers. But this is only
appearance. It is really only the mechanism of the re-assumed habit. Slowly,
slowly the wound to the soul begins to make itself felt, like a bruise,
which Only slowly deepens its terrible ache, till it fills all the psyche.
And when we think we have recovered and forgotten, it is then that the
terrible after-effects have to be encountered at their worst.
So it was with Clifford. Once he was `well', once he was back at
Wragby, and writing his stories, and feeling sure of life, in spite of all,
he seemed to forget, and to have recovered all his equanimity. But now, as
the years went by, slowly, slowly, Connie felt the bruise of fear and horror
coming up, and spreading in him. For a time it had been so deep as to be
numb, as it were non-existent. Now slowly it began to assert itself in a
spread of fear, almost paralysis. Mentally he still was alert. But the
paralysis, the bruise of the too-great shock, was gradually spreading in his
affective self.
And as it spread in him, Connie felt it spread in her. An inward dread,
an emptiness, an indifference to everything gradually spread in her soul.
When Clifford was roused, he could still talk brilliantly and, as it were,
command the future: as when, in the wood, he talked about her having a
child, and giving an heir to Wragby. But the day after, all the brilliant
words seemed like dead leaves, crumpling up and turning to powder, meaning
really nothing, blown away on any gust of wind. They were not the leafy
words of an effective life, young with energy and belonging to the tree.
They were the hosts of fallen leaves of a life that is ineffectual.
So it seemed to her everywhere. The colliers at Tevershall were talking
again of a strike, and it seemed to Connie there again it was not a
manifestation of energy, it was the bruise of the war that had been in
abeyance, slowly rising to the surface and creating the great ache of
unrest, and stupor of discontent. The bruise was deep, deep, deep...the
bruise of the false inhuman war. It would take many years for the living
blood of the generations to dissolve the vast black clot of bruised blood,
deep inside their souls and bodies. And it would need a new hope.
Poor Connie! As the years drew on it was the fear of nothingness In her
life that affected her. Clifford's mental life and hers gradually began to
feel like nothingness. Their marriage, their integrated life based on a
habit of intimacy, that he talked about: there were days when it all became
utterly blank and nothing. It was words, just so many words. The only
reality was nothingness, and over it a hypocrisy of words.
There was Clifford's success: the bitch-goddess! It was true he was
almost famous, and his books brought him in a thousand pounds. His
photograph appeared everywhere. There was a bust of him in one of the
galleries, and a portrait of him in two galleries. He seemed the most modern
of modern voices. With his uncanny lame instinct for publicity, he had
become in four or five years one of the best known of the young
`intellectuals'. Where the intellect came in, Connie did not quite see.
Clifford was really clever at that slightly humorous analysis of people and
motives which leaves everything in bits at the end. But it was rather like
puppies tearing the sofa cushions to bits; except that it was not young and
playful, but curiously old, and rather obstinately conceited. It was weird
and it was nothing. This was the feeling that echoed and re-echoed at the
bottom of Connie's soul: it was all flag, a wonderful display of
nothingness; At the same time a display. A display! a display! a display!
Michaelis had seized upon Clifford as the central figure for a play;
already he had sketched in the plot, and written the first act. For
Michaelis was even better than Clifford at making a display of nothingness.
It was the last bit of passion left in these men: the passion for making a
display. Sexually they were passionless, even dead. And now it was not money
that Michaelis was after. Clifford had never been primarily out for money,
though he made it where he could, for money is the seal and stamp of
success. And success was what they wanted. They wanted, both of them, to
make a real display...a man's own very display of himself that should
capture for a time the vast populace.
It was strange...the prostitution to the bitch-goddess. To Connie,
since she was really outside of it, and since she had grown numb to the
thrill of it, it was again nothingness. Even the prostitution to the
bitch-goddess was nothingness, though the men prostituted themselves
innumerable times. Nothingness even that.
Michaelis wrote to Clifford about the play. Of course she knew about it
long ago. And Clifford was again thrilled. He was going to be displayed
again this time, somebody was going to display him, and to advantage. He
invited Michaelis down to Wragby with Act I.
Michaelis came: in summer, in a pale-coloured suit and white suede
gloves, with mauve orchids for Connie, very lovely, and Act I was a great
success. Even Connie was thrilled...thrilled to what bit of marrow she had
left. And Michaelis, thrilled by his power to thrill, was really
wonderful...and quite beautiful, in Connie's eyes. She saw in him that
ancient motionlessness of a race that can't be disillusioned any more, an
extreme, perhaps, of impurity that is pure. On the far side of his supreme
prostitution to the bitch-goddess he seemed pure, pure as an African ivory
mask that dreams impurity into purity, in its ivory curves and planes.
His moment of sheer thrill with the two Chatterleys, when he simply
carried Connie and Clifford away, was one of the supreme moments of
Michaelis' life. He had succeeded: he had carried them away. Even Clifford
was temporarily in love with him...if that is the way one can put it.
So next morning Mick was more uneasy than ever; restless, devoured,
with his hands restless in his trousers pockets. Connie had not visited him
in the night...and he had not known where to find her. Coquetry!...at his
moment of triumph.
He went up to her sitting-room in the morning. She knew he would come.
And his restlessness was evident. He asked her about his play...did she
think it good? He had to hear it praised: that affected him with the last
thin thrill of passion beyond any sexual orgasm. And she praised it
rapturously. Yet all the while, at the bottom of her soul, she knew it was
nothing.
`Look here!' he said suddenly at last. `Why don't you and I make a
clean thing of it? Why don't we marry?'
`But I am married,' she said, amazed, and yet feeling nothing.
`Oh that!...he'll divorce you all right...Why don't you and I marry? I
want to marry. I know it would be the best thing for me...marry and lead a
regular life. I lead the deuce of a life, simply tearing myself to pieces.
Look here, you and I, we're made for one another...hand and glove. Why don't
we marry? Do you see any reason why we shouldn't?'
Connie looked at him amazed: and yet she felt nothing. These men, they
were all alike, they left everything out. They just went off from the top of
their heads as if they were squibs, and expected you to be carried
heavenwards along with their own thin sticks.
`But I am married already,' she said. `I can't leave Clifford, you
know.'
`Why not? but why not?' he cried. `He'll hardly know you've gone, after
six months. He doesn't know that anybody exists, except himself. Why the man
has no use for you at all, as far as I can see; he's entirely wrapped up in
himself.'
Connie felt there was truth in this. But she also felt that Mick was
hardly making a display of selflessness.
`Aren't all men wrapped up in themselves?' she asked.
`Oh, more or less, I allow. A man's got to be, to get through. But
that's not the point. The point is, what sort of a time can a man give a
woman? Can he give her a damn good time, or can't he? If he can't he's no
right to the woman...' He paused and gazed at her with his full, hazel eyes,
almost hypnotic. `Now I consider,' he added, `I can give a woman the
darndest good time she can ask for. I think I can guarantee myself.'
`And what sort of a good time?' asked Connie, gazing on him still with
a sort of amazement, that looked like thrill; and underneath feeling nothing
at all.
`Every sort of a good time, damn it, every sort! Dress, jewels up to a
point, any nightclub you like, know anybody you want to know, live the
pace...travel and be somebody wherever you go...Darn it, every sort of good
time.'
He spoke it almost in a brilliancy of triumph, and Connie looked at him
as if dazzled, and really feeling nothing at all. Hardly even the surface of
her mind was tickled at the glowing prospects he offered her. Hardly even
her most outside self responded, that at any other time would have been
thrilled. She just got no feeling from it, she couldn't `go off'. She just
sat and stared and looked dazzled, and felt nothing, only somewhere she
smelt the extraordinarily unpleasant smell of the bitch-goddess.
Mick sat on tenterhooks, leaning forward in his chair, glaring at her
almost hysterically: and whether he was more anxious out of vanity for her
to say Yes! or whether he was more panic-stricken for fear she should say
Yes!---who can tell?
`I should have to think about it,' she said. `I couldn't say now. It
may seem to you Clifford doesn't count, but he does. When you think how
disabled he is...'
`Oh damn it all! If a fellow's going to trade on his disabilities, I
might begin to say how lonely I am, and always have been, and all the rest
of the my-eye-Betty-Martin sob-stuff! Damn it all, if a fellow's got nothing
but disabilities to recommend him...'
He turned aside, working his hands furiously in his trousers pockets.
That evening he said to her:
`You're coming round to my room tonight, aren't you? I don't darn know
where your room is.'
`All right!' she said.
He was a more excited lover that night, with his strange, small boy's
frail nakedness. Connie found it impossible to come to her crisis before he
had really finished his. And he roused a certain craving passion in her,
with his little boy's nakedness and softness; she had to go on after he had
finished, in the wild tumult and heaving of her loins, while he heroically
kept himself up, and present in her, with all his will and self-offering,
till she brought about her own crisis, with weird little cries.
When at last he drew away from her, he said, in a bitter, almost
sneering little voice:
`You couldn't go off at the same time as a man, could you? You'd have
to bring yourself off! You'd have to run the show!'
This little speech, at the moment, was one of the shocks of her life.
Because that passive sort of giving himself was so obviously his only real
mode of intercourse.
`What do you mean?' she said.
`You know what I mean. You keep on for hours after I've gone off...and
I have to hang on with my teeth till you bring yourself off by your own
exertions.'
She was stunned by this unexpected piece of brutality, at the moment
when she was glowing with a sort of pleasure beyond words, and a sort of
love for him. Because, after all, like so many modern men, he was finished
almost before he had begun. And that forced the woman to be active.
`But you want me to go on, to get my own satisfaction?' she said.
He laughed grimly: `I want it!' he said. `That's good! I want to hang
on with my teeth clenched, while you go for me!'
`But don't you?' she insisted.
He avoided the question. `All the darned women are like that,' he said.
`Either they don't go off at all, as if they were dead in there...or else
they wait till a chap's really done, and then they start in to bring
themselves off, and a chap's got to hang on. I never had a woman yet who
went off just at the same moment as I did.'
Connie only half heard this piece of novel, masculine information. She
was only stunned by his feeling against her...his incomprehensible
brutality. She felt so innocent.
`But you want me to have my satisfaction too, don't you?' she repeated.
`Oh, all right! I'm quite willing. But I'm darned if hanging on waiting
for a woman to go off is much of a game for a man...'
This speech was one of the crucial blows of Connie's life. It killed
something in her. She had not been so very keen on Michaelis; till he
started it, she did not want him. It was as if she never positively wanted
him. But once he had started her, it seemed only natural for her to come to
her own crisis with him. Almost she had loved him for it...almost that night
she loved him, and wanted to marry him.
Perhaps instinctively he knew it, and that was why he had to bring down
the whole show with a smash; the house of cards. Her whole sexual feeling
for him, or for any man, collapsed that night. Her life fell apart from his
as completely as if he had never existed.
And she went through the days drearily. There was nothing now but this
empty treadmill of what Clifford called the integrated life, the long living
together of two people, who are in the habit of being in the same house with
one another.
Nothingness! To accept the great nothingness of life seemed to be the
one end of living. All the many busy and important little things that make
up the grand sum-total of nothingness!
`Why don't men and women really like one another nowadays?' Connie
asked Tommy Dukes, who was more or less her oracle.
`Oh, but they do! I don't think since the human species was invented,
there has ever been a time when men and women have liked one another as much
as they do today. Genuine liking! Take myself. I really like women better
than men; they are braver, one can be more frank with them.'
Connie pondered this.
`Ah, yes, but you never have anything to do with them!' she said.
`I? What am I doing but talking perfectly sincerely to a woman at this
moment?'
`Yes, talking...'
`And what more could I do if you were a man, than talk perfectly
sincerely to you?'
`Nothing perhaps. But a woman...'
`A woman wants you to like her and talk to her, and at the same time
love her and desire her; and it seems to me the two things are mutually
exclusive.'
`But they shouldn't be!'
`No doubt water ought not to be so wet as it is; it overdoes it in
wetness. But there it is! I like women and talk to them, and therefore I
don't love them and desire them. The two things don't happen at the same
time in me.'
`I think they ought to.'
`All right. The fact that things ought to be something else than what
they are, is not my department.
Connie considered this. `It isn't true,' she said. `Men can love women
and talk to them. I don't see how they can love them without talking, and
being friendly and intimate. How can they?'
`Well,' he said, `I don't know. What's the use of my generalizing? I
only know my own case. I like women, but I don't desire them. I like talking
to them; but talking to them, though it makes me intimate in one direction,
sets me poles apart from them as far as kissing is concerned. So there you
are! But don't take me as a general example, probably I'm just a special
case: one of the men who like women, but don't love women, and even hate
them if they force me into a pretence of love, or an entangled appearance.
`But doesn't it make you sad?'
`Why should it? Not a bit! I look at Charlie May, and the rest of the
men who have affairs...No, I don't envy them a bit! If fate sent me a woman
I wanted, well and good. Since I don't know any woman I want, and never see
one...why, I presume I'm cold, and really like some women very much.'
`Do you like me?'
`Very much! And you see there's no question of kissing between us, is
there?'
`None at all!' said Connie. `But oughtn't there to be?'
`Why, in God's name? I like Clifford, but what would you say if I went
and kissed him?'
`But isn't there a difference?'
`Where does it lie, as far as we're concerned? We're all intelligent
human beings, and the male and female business is in abeyance. Just in
abeyance. How would you like me to start acting up like a continental male
at this moment, and parading the sex thing?'
`I should hate it.'
`Well then! I tell you, if I'm really a male thing at all, I never run
across the female of my species. And I don't miss her, I just like women.
Who's going to force me into loving or pretending to love them, working up
the sex game?'
`No, I'm not. But isn't something wrong?'
`You may feel it, I don't.'
`Yes, I feel something is wrong between men and women. A woman has no
glamour for a man any more.'
`Has a man for a woman?'
She pondered the other side of the question.
`Not much,' she said truthfully.
`Then let's leave it all alone, and just be decent and simple, like
proper human beings with one another. Be damned to the artificial
sex-compulsion! I refuse it!'
Connie knew he was right, really. Yet it left her feeling so forlorn,
so forlorn and stray. Like a chip on a dreary pond, she felt. What was the
point, of her or anything?
It was her youth which rebelled. These men seemed so old and cold.
Everything seemed old and cold. And Michaelis let one down so; he was no
good. The men didn't want one; they just didn't really want a woman, even
Michaelis didn't.
And the bounders who pretended they did, and started working the sex
game, they were worse than ever.
It was just dismal, and one had to put up with it. It was quite true,
men had no real glamour for a woman: if you could fool yourself into
thinking they had, even as she had fooled herself over Michaelis, that was
the best you could do. Meanwhile you just lived on and there was nothing to
it. She understood perfectly well why people had cocktail parties, and
jazzed, and Charlestoned till they were ready to drop. You had to take it
out some way or other, your youth, or it ate you up. But what a ghastly
thing, this youth! You felt as old as Methuselah, and yet the thing fizzed
somehow, and didn't let you be comfortable. A mean sort of life! And no
prospect! She almost wished she had gone off with Mick, and made her life
one long cocktail party, and jazz evening. Anyhow that was better than just
mooning yourself into the grave.
On one of her bad days she went out alone to walk in the wood,
ponderously, heeding nothing, not even noticing where she was. The report of
a gun not far off startled and angered her.
Then, as she went, she heard voices, and recoiled. People! She didn't
want people. But her quick ear caught another sound, and she roused; it was
a child sobbing. At once she attended; someone was ill-treating a child. She
strode swinging down the wet drive, her sullen resentment uppermost. She
felt just prepared to make a scene.
Turning the corner, she saw two figures in the drive beyond her: the
keeper, and a little girl in a purple coat and moleskin cap, crying.
`Ah, shut it up, tha false little bitch!' came the man's angry voice,
and the child sobbed louder.
Constance strode nearer, with blazing eyes. The man turned and looked
at her, saluting coolly, but he was pale with anger.
`What's the matter? Why is she crying?' demanded Constance, peremptory
but a little breathless.
A faint smile like a sneer came on the man's face. `Nay, yo mun ax
'er,' he replied callously, in broad vernacular.
Connie felt as if he had hit her in the face, and she changed colour.
Then she gathered her defiance, and looked at him, her dark blue eyes
blazing rather vaguely.
`I asked you,' she panted.
He gave a queer little bow, lifting his hat. `You did, your Ladyship,'
he said; then, with a return to the vernacular: `but I canna tell yer.' And
he became a soldier, inscrutable, only pale with annoyance.
Connie turned to the child, a ruddy, black-haired thing of nine or ten.
`What is it, dear? Tell me why you're crying!' she said, with the
conventionalized sweetness suitable. More violent sobs, self-conscious.
Still more sweetness on Connie's part.
`There, there, don't you cry! Tell me what they've done to you!'...an
intense tenderness of tone. At the same time she felt in the pocket of her
knitted jacket, and luckily found a sixpence.
`Don't you cry then!' she said, bending in front of the child. `See
what I've got for you!'
Sobs, snuffles, a fist taken from a blubbered face, and a black shrewd
eye cast for a second on the sixpence. Then more sobs, but subduing. `There,
tell me what's the matter, tell me!' said Connie, putting the coin into the
child's chubby hand, which closed over it.
`It's the...it's the...pussy!'
Shudders of subsiding sobs.
`What pussy, dear?'
After a silence the shy fist, clenching on sixpence, pointed into the
bramble brake.
`There!'
Connie looked, and there, sure enough, was a big black cat, stretched
out grimly, with a bit of blood on it.
`Oh!' she said in repulsion.
`A poacher, your Ladyship,' said the man satirically.
She glanced at him angrily. `No wonder the child cried,' she said, `if
you shot it when she was there. No wonder she cried!'
He looked into Connie's eyes, laconic, contemptuous, not hiding his
feelings. And again Connie flushed; she felt she had been making a scene,
the man did not respect her.
`What is your name?' she said playfully to the child. `Won't you tell
me your name?'
Sniffs; then very affectedly in a piping voice: `Connie Mellors!'
`Connie Mellors! Well, that's a nice name! And did you come out with
your Daddy, and he shot a pussy? But it was a bad pussy!'
The child looked at her, with bold, dark eyes of scrutiny, sizing her
up, and her condolence.
`I wanted to stop with my Gran,' said the little girl.
`Did you? But where is your Gran?'
The child lifted an arm, pointing down the drive. `At th' cottidge.'
`At the cottage! And would you like to go back to her?'
Sudden, shuddering quivers of reminiscent sobs. `Yes!'
`Come then, shall I take you? Shall I take you to your Gran? Then your
Daddy can do what he has to do.' She turned to the man. `It is your little
girl, isn't it?'
He saluted, and made a slight movement of the head in affirmation.
`I suppose I can take her to the cottage?' asked Connie.
`If your Ladyship wishes.'
Again he looked into her eyes, with that calm, searching detached
glance. A man very much alone, and on his own.
`Would you like to come with me to the cottage, to your Gran, dear?'
The child peeped up again. `Yes!' she simpered.
Connie disliked her; the spoilt, false little female. Nevertheless she
wiped her face and took her hand. The keeper saluted in silence.
`Good morning!' said Connie.
It was nearly a mile to the cottage, and Connie senior was well red by
Connie junior by the time the game-keeper's picturesque little home was in
sight. The child was already as full to the brim with tricks as a little
monkey, and so self-assured.
At the cottage the door stood open, and there was a rattling heard
inside. Connie lingered, the child slipped her hand, and ran indoors.
`Gran! Gran!'
`Why, are yer back a'ready!'
The grandmother had been blackleading the stove, it was Saturday
morning. She came to the door in her sacking apron, a blacklead-brush in her
hand, and a black smudge on her nose. She was a little, rather dry woman.
`Why, whatever?' she said, hastily wiping her arm across her face as
she saw Connie standing outside.
`Good morning!' said Connie. `She was crying, so I just brought her
home.'
The grandmother looked around swiftly at the child:
`Why, wheer was yer Dad?'
The little girl clung to her grandmother's skirts and simpered.
`He was there,' said Connie, `but he'd shot a poaching cat, and the
child was upset.'
`Oh, you'd no right t'ave bothered, Lady Chatterley, I'm sure! I'm sure
it was very good of you, but you shouldn't 'ave bothered. Why, did ever you
see!'---and the old woman turned to the child: `Fancy Lady Chatterley takin'
all that trouble over yer! Why, she shouldn't 'ave bothered!'
`It was no bother, just a walk,' said Connie smiling.
`Why, I'm sure 'twas very kind of you, I must say! So she was crying! I
knew there'd be something afore they got far. She's frightened of 'im,
that's wheer it is. Seems 'e's almost a stranger to 'er, fair a stranger,
and I don't think they're two as'd hit it off very easy. He's got funny
ways.'
Connie didn't know what to say.
`Look, Gran!' simpered the child.
The old woman looked down at the sixpence in the little girl's hand.
`An' sixpence an' all! Oh, your Ladyship, you shouldn't, you shouldn't.
Why, isn't Lady Chatterley good to yer! My word, you're a lucky girl this
morning!'
She pronounced the name, as all the people did: Chat'ley.---Isn't Lady
Chat'ley good to you!'---Connie couldn't help looking at the old woman's
nose, and the latter again vaguely wiped her face with the back of her
wrist, but missed the smudge.
Connie was moving away `Well, thank you ever so much, Lady Chat'ley,
I'm sure. Say thank you to Lady Chat'ley!'---this last to the child.
`Thank you,' piped the child.
`There's a dear!' laughed Connie, and she moved away, saying `Good
morning', heartily relieved to get away from the contact.
Curious, she thought, that that thin, proud man should have that
little, sharp woman for a mother!
And the old woman, as soon as Connie had gone, rushed to the bit of
mirror in the scullery, and looked at her face. Seeing it, she stamped her
foot with impatience. `Of course she had to catch me in my coarse apron, and
a dirty face! Nice idea she'd get of me!'
Connie went slowly home to Wragby. `Home!'...it was a warm word to use
for that great, weary warren. But then it was a word that had had its day.
It was somehow cancelled. All the great words, it seemed to Connie, were
cancelled for her generation: love, joy, happiness, home, mother, father,
husband, all these great, dynamic words were half dead now, and dying from
day to day. Home was a place you lived in, love was a thing you didn't fool
yourself about, joy was a word you applied to a good Charleston, happiness
was a term of hypocrisy used to bluff other people, a father was an
individual who enjoyed his own existence, a husband was a man you lived with
and kept going in spirits. As for sex, the last of the great words, it was
just a cocktail term for an excitement that bucked you up for a while, then
left you more raggy than ever. Frayed! It was as if the very material you
were made of was cheap stuff, and was fraying out to nothing.
All that really remained was a stubborn stoicism: and in that there was
a certain pleasure. In the very experience of the nothingness of life, phase
after phase, Étape after Étape, there was a certain grisly satisfaction. So
that's that! Always this was the last utterance: home, love, marriage,
Michaelis: So that's that! And when one died, the last words to life would
be: So that's that!
Money? Perhaps one couldn't say the same there. Money one always
wanted. Money, Success, the bitch-goddess, as Tommy Dukes persisted in
calling it, after Henry James, that was a permanent necessity. You couldn't
spend your last sou, and say finally: So that's that! No, if you lived even
another ten minutes, you wanted a few more sous for something or other. Just
to keep the business mechanically going, you needed money. You had to have
it. Money you have to have. You needn't really have anything else. So that's
that!
Since, of course, it's not your own fault you are alive. Once you are
alive, money is a necessity, and the only absolute necessity. All the rest
you can get along without, at a pinch. But not money. Emphatically, that's
that!
She thought of Michaelis, and the money she might have had with him;
and even that she didn't want. She preferred the lesser amount which she
helped Clifford to make by his writing. That she actually helped to
make.---`Clifford and I together, we make twelve hundred a year out of
writing'; so she put it to herself. Make money! Make it! Out of nowhere.
Wring it out of the thin air! The last feat to be humanly proud of! The rest
all-my-eye-Betty-Martin.
So she plodded home to Clifford, to join forces with him again, to make
another story out of nothingness: and a story meant money. Clifford seemed
to care very much whether his stories were considered first-class literature
or not. Strictly, she didn't care. Nothing in it! said her father. Twelve
hundred pounds last year! was the retort simple and final.
If you were young, you just set your teeth, and bit on and held on,
till the money began to flow from the invisible; it was a question of power.
It was a question of will; a subtle, subtle, powerful emanation of will out
of yourself brought back to you the mysterious nothingness of money a word
on a bit of paper. It was a sort of magic, certainly it was triumph. The
bitch-goddess! Well, if one had to prostitute oneself, let it be to a
bitch-goddess! One could always despise her even while one prostituted
oneself to her, which was good.
Clifford, of course, had still many childish taboos and fetishes. He
wanted to be thought `really good', which was all cock-a-hoopy nonsense.
What was really good was what actually caught on. It was no good being
really good and getting left with it. It seemed as if most of the `really
good' men just missed the bus. After all you only lived one life, and if you
missed the bus, you were just left on the pavement, along with the rest of
the failures.
Connie was contemplating a winter in London with Clifford, next winter.
He and she had caught the bus all right, so they might as well ride on top
for a bit, and show it.
The worst of it was, Clifford tended to become vague, absent, and to
fall into fits of vacant depression. It was the wound to his psyche coming
out. But it made Connie want to scream. Oh God, if the mechanism of the
consciousness itself was going to go wrong, then what was one to do? Hang it
all, one did one's bit! Was one to be let down absolutely?
Sometimes she wept bitterly, but even as she wept she was saying to
herself: Silly fool, wetting hankies! As if that would get you anywhere!
Since Michaelis, she had made up her mind she wanted nothing. That
seemed the simplest solution of the otherwise insoluble. She wanted nothing
more than what she'd got; only she wanted to get ahead with what she'd got:
Clifford, the stories, Wragby, the Lady-Chatterley business, money and fame,
such as it was...she wanted to go ahead with it all. Love, sex, all that
sort of stuff, just water-ices! Lick it up and forget it. If you don't hang
on to it in your mind, it's nothing. Sex especially...nothing! Make up your
mind to it, and you've solved the problem. Sex and a cocktail: they both
lasted about as long, had the same effect, and amounted to about the same
thing.
But a child, a baby! That was still one of the sensations. She would
venture very gingerly on that experiment. There was the man to consider, and
it was curious, there wasn't a man in the world whose children you wanted.
Mick's children! Repulsive thought! As lief have a child to a rabbit! Tommy
Dukes? he was very nice, but somehow you couldn't associate him with a baby,
another generation. He ended in himself. And out of all the rest of
Clifford's pretty wide acquaintance, there was not a man who did not rouse
her contempt, when she thought of having a child by him. There were several
who would have been quite possible as lover, even Mick. But to let them
breed a child on you! Ugh! Humiliation and abomination.
So that was that!
Nevertheless, Connie had the child at the back of her mind. Wait! wait!
She would sift the generations of men through her sieve, and see if she
couldn't find one who would do.---`Go ye into the streets and by ways of
Jerusalem, and see if you can find a man.' It had been impossible to find a
man in the Jerusalem of the prophet, though there were thousands of male
humans. But a man! C'est une autre chose!
She had an idea that he would have to be a foreigner: not an
Englishman, still less an Irishman. A real foreigner.
But wait! wait! Next winter she would get Clifford to London; the
following winter she would get him abroad to the South of France, Italy.
Wait! She was in no hurry about the child. That was her own private affair,
and the one point on which, in her own queer, female way, she was serious to
the bottom of her soul. She was not going to risk any chance comer, not she!
One might take a lover almost at any moment, but a man who should beget a
child on one...wait! wait! it's a very different matter.---`Go ye into the
streets and byways of Jerusalem...' It was not a question of love; it was a
question of a man. Why, one might even rather hate him, personally. Yet if
he was the man, what would one's personal hate matter? This business
concerned another part of oneself.
It had rained as usual, and the paths were too sodden for Clifford's
chair, but Connie would go out. She went out alone every day now, mostly in
the wood, where she was really alone. She saw nobody there.
This day, however, Clifford wanted to send a message to the keeper, and
as the boy was laid up with influenza, somebody always seemed to have
influenza at Wragby, Connie said she would call at the cottage.
The air was soft and dead, as if all the world were slowly dying. Grey
and clammy and silent, even from the shuffling of the collieries, for the
pits were working short time, and today they were stopped altogether. The
end of all things!
In the wood all was utterly inert and motionless, only great drops fell
from the bare boughs, with a hollow little crash. For the rest, among the
old trees was depth within depth of grey, hopeless inertia, silence,
nothingness.
Connie walked dimly on. From the old wood came an ancient melancholy,
somehow soothing to her, better than the harsh insentience of the outer
world. She liked the inwardness of the remnant of forest, the unspeaking
reticence of the old trees. They seemed a very power of silence, and yet a
vital presence. They, too, were waiting: obstinately, stoically waiting, and
giving off a potency of silence. Perhaps they were only waiting for the end;
to be cut down, cleared away, the end of the forest, for them the end of all
things. But perhaps their strong and aristocratic silence, the silence of
strong trees, meant something else.
As she came out of the wood on the north side, the keeper's cottage, a
rather dark, brown stone cottage, with gables and a handsome chimney, looked
uninhabited, it was so silent and alone. But a thread of smoke rose from the
chimney, and the little railed-in garden in the front of the house was dug
and kept very tidy. The door was shut.
Now she was here she felt a little shy of the man, with his curious
far-seeing eyes. She did not like bringing him orders, and felt like going
away again. She knocked softly, no one came. She knocked again, but still
not loudly. There was no answer. She peeped through the window, and saw the
dark little room, with its almost sinister privacy, not wanting to be
invaded.
She stood and listened, and it seemed to her she heard sounds from the
back of the cottage. Having failed to make herself heard, her mettle was
roused, she would not be defeated.
So she went round the side of the house. At the back of the cottage the
land rose steeply, so the back yard was sunken, and enclosed by a low stone
wall. She turned the corner of the house and stopped. In the little yard two
paces beyond her, the man was washing himself, utterly unaware. He was naked
to the hips, his velveteen breeches slipping down over his slender loins.
And his white slim back was curved over a big bowl of soapy water, in which
he ducked his head, shaking his head with a queer, quick little motion,
lifting his slender white arms, and pressing the soapy water from his ears,
quick, subtle as a weasel playing with water, and utterly alone. Connie
backed away round the corner of the house, and hurried away to the wood. In
spite of herself, she had had a shock. After all, merely a man washing
himself, commonplace enough, Heaven knows!
Yet in some curious way it was a visionary experience: it had hit her
in the middle of the body. She saw the clumsy breeches slipping down over
the pure, delicate, white loins, the bones showing a little, and the sense
of aloneness, of a creature purely alone, overwhelmed her. Perfect, white,
solitary nudity of a creature that lives alone, and inwardly alone. And
beyond that, a certain beauty of a pure creature. Not the stuff of beauty,
not even the body of beauty, but a lambency, the warm, white flame of a
single life, revealing itself in contours that one might touch: a body!
Connie had received the shock of vision in her womb, and she knew it;
it lay inside her. But with her mind she was inclined to ridicule. A man
washing himself in a back yard! No doubt with evil-smelling yellow soap! She
was rather annoyed; why should she be made to stumble on these vulgar
privacies?
So she walked away from herself, but after a while she sat down on a
stump. She was too confused to think. But in the coil of her confusion, she
was determined to deliver her message to the fellow. She would not he
balked. She must give him time to dress himself, but not time to go out. He
was probably preparing to go out somewhere.
So she sauntered slowly back, listening. As she came near, the cottage
looked just the same. A dog barked, and she knocked at the door, her heart
beating in spite of herself.
She heard the man coming lightly downstairs. He opened the door
quickly, and startled her. He looked uneasy himself, but instantly a laugh
came on his face.
`Lady Chatterley!' he said. `Will you come in?'
His manner was so perfectly easy and good, she stepped over the
threshold into the rather dreary little room.
`I only called with a message from Sir Clifford,' she said in her soft,
rather breathless voice.
The man was looking at her with those blue, all-seeing eyes of his,
which made her turn her face aside a little. He thought her comely, almost
beautiful, in her shyness, and he took command of the situation himself at
once.
`Would you care to sit down?' he asked, presuming she would not. The
door stood open.
`No thanks! Sir Clifford wondered if you would and she delivered her
message, looking unconsciously into his eyes again. And now his eyes looked
warm and kind, particularly to a woman, wonderfully warm, and kind, and at
ease.
`Very good, your Ladyship. I will see to it at once.'
Taking an order, his whole self had changed, glazed over with a sort of
hardness and distance. Connie hesitated, she ought to go. But she looked
round the clean, tidy, rather dreary little sitting-room with something like
dismay.
`Do you live here quite alone?' she asked.
`Quite alone, your Ladyship.'
`But your mother...?'
`She lives in her own cottage in the village.'
`With the child?' asked Connie.
`With the child!'
And his plain, rather worn face took on an indefinable look of
derision. It was a face that changed all the time, baking.
`No,' he said, seeing Connie stand at a loss, `my mother comes and
cleans up for me on Saturdays; I do the rest myself.'
Again Connie looked at him. His eyes were smiling again, a little
mockingly, but warm and blue, and somehow kind. She wondered at him. He was
in trousers and flannel shirt and a grey tie, his hair soft and damp, his
face rather pale and worn-looking. When the eyes ceased to laugh they looked
as if they had suffered a great deal, still without losing their warmth. But
a pallor of isolation came over him, she was not really there for him.
She wanted to say so many things, and she said nothing. Only she looked
up at him again, and remarked:
`I hope I didn't disturb you?'
The faint smile of mockery narrowed his eyes.
`Only combing my hair, if you don't mind. I'm sorry I hadn't a coat on,
but then I had no idea who was knocking. Nobody knocks here, and the
unexpected sounds ominous.'
He went in front of her down the garden path to hold the gate. In his
shirt, without the clumsy velveteen coat, she saw again how slender he was,
thin, stooping a little. Yet, as she passed him, there was something young
and bright in his fair hair, and his quick eyes. He would be a man about
thirty-seven or eight.
She plodded on into the wood, knowing he was looking after her; he
upset her so much, in spite of herself.
And he, as he went indoors, was thinking: `She's nice, she's real!
She's nicer than she knows.'
She wondered very much about him; he seemed so unlike a game-keeper, so
unlike a working-man anyhow; although he had something in common with the
local people. But also something very uncommon.
`The game-keeper, Mellors, is a curious kind of person,' she said to
Clifford; `he might almost be a gentleman.'
`Might he?' said Clifford. `I hadn't noticed.'
`But isn't there something special about him?' Connie insisted.
`I think he's quite a nice fellow, but I know very little about him. He
only came out of the army last year, less than a year ago. From India, I
rather think. He may have picked up certain tricks out there, perhaps he was
an officer's servant, and improved on his position. Some of the men were
like that. But it does them no good, they have to fall back into their old
places when they get home again.'
Connie gazed at Clifford contemplatively. She saw in him the peculiar
tight rebuff against anyone of the lower classes who might be really
climbing up, which she knew was characteristic of his breed.
`But don't you think there is something special about him?' she asked.
`Frankly, no! Nothing I had noticed.'
He looked at her curiously, uneasily, half-suspiciously. And she felt
he wasn't telling her the real truth; he wasn't telling himself the real
truth, that was it. He disliked any suggestion of a really exceptional human
being. People must be more or less at his level, or below it.
Connie felt again the tightness, niggardliness of the men of her
generation. They were so tight, so scared of life!
When Connie went up to her bedroom she did what she had not done for a
long time: took off all her clothes, and looked at herself naked in the huge
mirror. She did not know what she was looking for, or at, very definitely,
yet she moved the lamp till it shone full on her.
And she thought, as she had thought so often, what a frail, easily
hurt, rather pathetic thing a human body is, naked; somehow a little
unfinished, incomplete!
She had been supposed to have rather a good figure, but now she was out
of fashion: a little too female, not enough like an adolescent boy. She was
not very tall, a bit Scottish and short; but she had a certain fluent,
down-slipping grace that might have been beauty. Her skin was faintly tawny,
her limbs had a certain stillness, her body should have had a full,
down-slipping richness; but it lacked something.
Instead of ripening its firm, down-running curves, her body was
flattening and going a little harsh. It was as if it had not had enough sun
and warmth; it was a little greyish and sapless.
Disappointed of its real womanhood, it had not succeeded in becoming
boyish, and unsubstantial, and transparent; instead it had gone opaque.
Her breasts were rather small, and dropping pear-shaped. But they were
unripe, a little bitter, without meaning hanging there. And her belly had
lost the fresh, round gleam it had had when she was young, in the days of
her German boy, who really loved her physically. Then it was young and
expectant, with a real look of its own. Now it was going slack, and a little
flat, thinner, but with a slack thinness. Her thighs, too, they used to look
so quick and glimpsy in their female roundness, somehow they too were going
flat, slack, meaningless.
Her body was going meaningless, going dull and opaque, so much
insignificant substance. It made her feel immensely depressed and hopeless.
What hope was there? She was old, old at twenty-seven, with no gleam and
sparkle in the flesh. Old through neglect and denial, yes, denial.
Fashionable women kept their bodies bright like delicate porcelain, by
external attention. There was nothing inside the porcelain; but she was not
even as bright as that. The mental life! Suddenly she hated it with a
rushing fury, the swindle!
She looked in the other mirror's reflection at her back, her waist, her
loins. She was getting thinner, but to her it was not becoming. The crumple
of her waist at the back, as she bent back to look, was a little weary; and
it used to be so gay-looking. And the longish slope of her haunches and her
buttocks had lost its gleam and its sense of richness. Gone! Only the German
boy had loved it, and he was ten years dead, very nearly. How time went by!
Ten years dead, and she was only twenty-seven. The healthy boy with his
fresh, clumsy sensuality that she had then been so scornful of! Where would
she find it now? It was gone out of men. They had their pathetic,
two-seconds spasms like Michaelis; but no healthy human sensuality, that
warms the blood and freshens the whole being.
Still she thought the most beautiful part of her was the long-sloping
fall of the haunches from the socket of the back, and the slumberous, round
stillness of the buttocks. Like hillocks of sand, the Arabs say, soft and
downward-slipping with a long slope. Here the life still lingered hoping.
But here too she was thinner, and going unripe, astringent.
But the front of her body made her miserable. It was already beginning
to slacken, with a slack sort of thinness, almost withered, going old before
it had ever really lived. She thought of the child she might somehow bear.
Was she fit, anyhow?
She slipped into her nightdress, and went to bed, where she sobbed
bitterly. And in her bitterness burned a cold indignation against Clifford,
and his writings and his talk: against all the men of his sort who defrauded
a woman even of her own body.
Unjust! Unjust! The sense of deep physical injustice burned to her very
soul.
But in the morning, all the same, she was up at seven, and going
downstairs to Clifford. She had to help him in all the intimate things, for
he had no man, and refused a woman-servant. The housekeeper's husband, who
had known him as a boy, helped him, and did any heavy lifting; but Connie
did the personal things, and she did them willingly. It was a demand on her,
but she had wanted to do what she could.
So she hardly ever went away from Wragby, and never for more than a day
or two; when Mrs Betts, the housekeeper, attended to Clifford. He, as was
inevitable in the course of time, took all the service for granted. It was
natural he should.
And yet, deep inside herself, a sense of injustice, of being defrauded,
had begun to burn in Connie. The physical sense of injustice is a dangerous
feeling, once it is awakened. It must have outlet, or it eats away the one
in whom it is aroused. Poor Clifford, he was not to blame. His was the
greater misfortune. It was all part of the general catastrophe.
And yet was he not in a way to blame? This lack of warmth, this lack of
the simple, warm, physical contact, was he not to blame for that? He was
never really warm, nor even kind, only thoughtful, considerate, in a
well-bred, cold sort of way! But never warm as a man can be warm to a woman,
as even Connie's father could be warm to her, with the warmth of a man who
did himself well, and intended to, but who still could comfort it woman with
a bit of his masculine glow.
But Clifford was not like that. His whole race was not like that. They
were all inwardly hard and separate, and warmth to them was just bad taste.
You had to get on without it, and hold your own; which was all very well if
you were of the same class and race. Then you could keep yourself cold and
be very estimable, and hold your own, and enjoy the satisfaction of holding
it. But if you were of another class and another race it wouldn't do; there
was no fun merely holding your own, and feeling you belonged to the ruling
class. What was the point, when even the smartest aristocrats had really
nothing positive of their own to hold, and their rule was really a farce,
not rule at all? What was the point? It was all cold nonsense.
A sense of rebellion smouldered in Connie. What was the good of it all?
What was the good of her sacrifice, her devoting her life to Clifford? What
was she serving, after all? A cold spirit of vanity, that had no warm human
contacts, and that was as corrupt as any low-born Jew, in craving for
prostitution to the bitch-goddess, Success. Even Clifford's cool and
contactless assurance that he belonged to the ruling class didn't prevent
his tongue lolling out of his mouth, as he panted after the bitch-goddess.
After all, Michaelis was really more dignified in the matter, and far, far
more successful. Really, if you looked closely at Clifford, he was a
buffoon, and a buffoon is more humiliating than a bounder.
As between the two men, Michaelis really had far more use for her than
Clifford had. He had even more need of her. Any good nurse can attend to
crippled legs! And as for the heroic effort, Michaelis was a heroic rat, and
Clifford was very much of a poodle showing off.
There were people staying in the house, among them Clifford's Aunt Eva,
Lady Bennerley. She was a thin woman of sixty, with a red nose, a widow, and
still something of a grande dame. She belonged to one of the best families,
and had the character to carry it off. Connie liked her, she was so
perfectly simple and [rank, as far as she intended to be frank, and
superficially kind. Inside herself she was a past-mistress in holding her
own, and holding other people a little lower. She was not at all a snob: far
too sure of herself. She was perfect at the social sport of coolly holding
her own, and making other people defer to her.
She was kind to Connie, and tried to worm into her woman's soul with
the sharp gimlet of her well-born observations.
`You're quite wonderful, in my opinion,' she said to Connie. `You've
done wonders for Clifford. I never saw any budding genius myself, and there
he is, all the rage.' Aunt Eva was quite complacently proud of Clifford's
success. Another feather in the family cap! She didn't care a straw about
his books, but why should she?
`Oh, I don't think it's my doing,' said Connie.
`It must be! Can't be anybody else's. And it seems to me you don't get
enough out of it.'
`How?'
`Look at the way you are shut up here. I said to Clifford: If that
child rebels one day you'll have yourself to thank!'
`But Clifford never denies me anything,' said Connie.
`Look here, my dear child'---and Lady Bennerley laid her thin hand on
Connie's arm. `A woman has to live her life, or live to repent not having
lived it. Believe me!' And she took another sip of brandy, which maybe was
her form of repentance.
`But I do live my life, don't I?'
`Not in my idea! Clifford should bring you to London, and let you go
about. His sort of friends are all right for him, but what are they for you?
If I were you I should think it wasn't good enough. You'll let your youth
slip by, and you'll spend your old age, and your middle age too, repenting
it.'
Her ladyship lapsed into contemplative silence, soothed by the brandy.
But Connie was not keen on going to London, and being steered into the
smart world by Lady Bennerley. She didn't feel really smart, it wasn't
interesting. And she did feel the peculiar, withering coldness under it all;
like the soil of Labrador, which his gay little flowers on its surface, and
a foot down is frozen.
Tommy Dukes was at Wragby, and another man, Harry Winterslow, and Jack
Strangeways with his wife Olive. The talk was much more desultory than when
only the cronies were there, and everybody was a bit bored, for the weather
was bad, and there was only billiards, and the pianola to dance to.
Olive was reading a book about the future, when babies would be bred in
bottles, and women would be `immunized'.
`Jolly good thing too!' she said. `Then a woman can live her own life.'
Strangeways wanted children, and she didn't.
`How'd you like to be immunized?' Winterslow asked her, with an ugly
smile.
`I hope I am; naturally,' she said. `Anyhow the future's going to have
more sense, and a woman needn't be dragged down by her functions.'
`Perhaps she'll float off into space altogether,' said Dukes.
`I do think sufficient civilization ought to eliminate a lot of the
physical disabilities,' said Clifford. `All the love-business for example,
it might just as well go. I suppose it would if we could breed babies in
bottles.'
`No!' cried Olive. `That might leave all the more room for fun.'
`I suppose,' said Lady Bennerley, contemplatively, `if the
love-business went, something else would take its place. Morphia, perhaps. A
little morphine in all the air. It would be wonderfully refreshing for
everybody.'
`The government releasing ether into the air on Saturdays, for a
cheerful weekend!' said Jack. `Sounds all right, but where should we be by
Wednesday?'
`So long as you can forget your body you are happy,' said Lady
Bennerley. `And the moment you begin to be aware of your body, you are
wretched. So, if civilization is any good, it has to help us to forget our
bodies, and then time passes happily without our knowing it.'
`Help us to get rid of our bodies altogether,' said Winterslow. `It's
quite time man began to improve on his own nature, especially the physical
side of it.'
`Imagine if we floated like tobacco smoke,' said Connie.
`It won't happen,' said Dukes. `Our old show will come flop; our
civilization is going to fall. It's going down the bottomless pit, down the
chasm. And believe me, the only bridge across the chasm will be the
phallus!'
`Oh do! do be impossible, General!' cried Olive.
`I believe our civilization is going to collapse,' said Aunt Eva.
`And what will come after it?' asked Clifford.
`I haven't the faintest idea, but something, I suppose,' said the
elderly lady.
`Connie says people like wisps of smoke, and Olive says immunized
women, and babies in bottles, and Dukes says the phallus is the bridge to
what comes next. I wonder what it will really be?' said Clifford.
`Oh, don't bother! let's get on with today,' said Olive. `Only hurry up
with the breeding bottle, and let us poor women off.'
`There might even be real men, in the next phase,' said Tommy. `Real,
intelligent, wholesome men, and wholesome nice women! Wouldn't that be a
change, an enormous change from us? We're not men, and the women aren't
women. We're only cerebrating make-shifts, mechanical and intellectual
experiments. There may even come a civilization of genuine men and women,
instead of our little lot of clever-jacks, all at the intelligence-age of
seven. It would be even more amazing than men of smoke or babies in
bottles.'
`Oh, when people begin to talk about real women, I give up,' said
Olive.
`Certainly nothing but the spirit in us is worth having,' said
Winterslow.
`Spirits!' said Jack, drinking his whisky and soda.
`Think so? Give me the resurrection of the body!' said Dukes.
`But it'll come, in time, when we've shoved the cerebral stone away a
bit, the money and the rest. Then we'll get a democracy of touch, instead of
a democracy of pocket.'
Something echoed inside Connie: `Give me the democracy of touch, the
resurrection of the body!' She didn't at all know what it meant, but it
comforted her, as meaningless things may do.
Anyhow everything was terribly silly, and she was exasperatedly bored
by it all, by Clifford, by Aunt Eva, by Olive and Jack, and Winterslow, and
even by Dukes. Talk, talk, talk! What hell it was, the continual rattle of
it!
Then, when all the people went, it was no better. She continued
plodding on, but exasperation and irritation had got hold of her lower body,
she couldn't escape. The days seemed to grind by, with curious painfulness,
yet nothing happened. Only she was getting thinner; even the housekeeper
noticed it, and asked her about herself Even Tommy Dukes insisted she was
not well, though she said she was all right. Only she began to be afraid of
the ghastly white tombstones, that peculiar loathsome whiteness of Carrara
marble, detestable as false teeth, which stuck up on the hillside, under
Tevershall church, and which she saw with such grim painfulness from the
park. The bristling of the hideous false teeth of tombstones on the hill
affected her with a grisly kind of horror. She felt the time not far off
when she would be buried there, added to the ghastly host under the
tombstones and the monuments, in these filthy Midlands.
She needed help, and she knew it: so she wrote a little cri du coeur to
her sister, Hilda. `I'm not well lately, and I don't know what's the matter
with me.'
Down posted Hilda from Scotland, where she had taken up her abode. She
came in March, alone, driving herself in a nimble two-seater. Up the drive
she came, tooting up the incline, then sweeping round the oval of grass,
where the two great wild beech-trees stood, on the flat in front of the
house.
Connie had run out to the steps. Hilda pulled up her car, got out, and
kissed her sister.
`But Connie!' she cried. `Whatever is the matter?'
`Nothing!' said Connie, rather shamefacedly; but she knew how she had
suffered in contrast to Hilda. Both sisters had the same rather golden,
glowing skin, and soft brown hair, and naturally strong, warm physique. But
now Connie was thin and earthy-looking, with a scraggy, yellowish neck, that
stuck out of her jumper.
`But you're ill, child!' said Hilda, in the soft, rather breathless
voice that both sisters had alike. Hilda was nearly, but not quite, two
years older than Connie.
`No, not ill. Perhaps I'm bored,' said Connie a little pathetically.
The light of battle glowed in Hilda's face; she was a woman, soft and
still as she seemed, of the old amazon sort, not made to fit with men.
`This wretched place!' she said softly, looking at poor, old, lumbering
Wragby with real hate. She looked soft and warm herself, as a ripe pear, and
she was an amazon of the real old breed.
She went quietly in to Clifford. He thought how handsome she looked,
but also he shrank from her. His wife's family did not have his sort of
manners, or his sort of etiquette. He considered them rather outsiders, but
once they got inside they made him jump through the hoop.
He sat square and well-groomed in his chair, his hair sleek and blond,
and his face fresh, his blue eyes pale, and a little prominent, his
expression inscrutable, but well-bred. Hilda thought it sulky and stupid,
and he waited. He had an air of aplomb, but Hilda didn't care what he had an
air of; she was up in arms, and if he'd been Pope or Emperor it would have
been just the same.
`Connie's looking awfully unwell,' she said in her soft voice, fixing
him with her beautiful, glowering grey eyes. She looked so maidenly, so did
Connie; but he well knew the tone of Scottish obstinacy underneath.
`She's a little thinner,' he said.
`Haven't you done anything about it?'
`Do you think it necessary?' he asked, with his suavest English
stiffness, for the two things often go together.
Hilda only glowered at him without replying; repartee was not her
forte, nor Connie's; so she glowered, and he was much more uncomfortable
than if she had said things.
`I'll take her to a doctor,' said Hilda at length. `Can you suggest a
good one round here?'
`I'm afraid I can't.'
`Then I'll take her to London, where we have a doctor we trust.'
Though boiling with rage, Clifford said nothing.
`I suppose I may as well stay the night,' said Hilda, pulling off her
gloves, `and I'll drive her to town tomorrow.'
Clifford was yellow at the gills with anger, and at evening the whites
of his eyes were a little yellow too. He ran to liver. But Hilda was
consistently modest and maidenly.
`You must have a nurse or somebody, to look after you personally. You
should really have a manservant,' said Hilda as they sat, with apparent
calmness, at coffee after dinner. She spoke in her soft, seemingly gentle
way, but Clifford felt she was hitting him on the head with a bludgeon.
`You think so?' he said coldly.
`I'm sure! It's necessary. Either that, or Father and I must take
Connie away for some months. This can't go on.'
`What can't go on?'
`Haven't you looked at the child!' asked Hilda, gazing at him full
stare. He looked rather like a huge, boiled crayfish at the moment; or so
she thought.
`Connie and I will discuss it,' he said.
`I've already discussed it with her,' said Hilda.
Clifford had been long enough in the hands of nurses; he hated them,
because they left him no real privacy. And a manservant!...he couldn't stand
a man hanging round him. Almost better any woman. But why not Connie?
The two sisters drove off in the morning, Connie looking rather like an
Easter lamb, rather small beside Hilda, who held the wheel. Sir Malcolm was
away, but the Kensington house was open.
The doctor examined Connie carefully, and asked her all about her life.
`I see your photograph, and Sir Clifford's, in the illustrated papers
sometimes. Almost notorieties, aren't you? That's how the quiet little girls
grow up, though you're only a quiet little girl even now, in spite of the
illustrated papers. No, no! There's nothing organically wrong, but it won't
do! It won't do! Tell Sir Clifford he's got to bring you to town, or take
you abroad, and amuse you. You've got to be amused, got to! Your vitality is
much too low; no reserves, no reserves. The nerves of the heart a bit queer
already: oh, yes! Nothing but nerves; I'd put you right in a month at Cannes
or Biarritz. But it mustn't go on, mustn't, I tell you, or I won't be
answerable for consequences. You're spending your life without renewing it.
You've got to be amused, properly, healthily amused. You're spending your
vitality without making any. Can't go on, you know. Depression! Avoid
depression!'
Hilda set her jaw, and that meant something.
Michaelis heard they were in town, and came running with roses. `Why,
whatever's wrong?' he cried. `You're a shadow of yourself. Why, I never saw
such a change! Why ever didn't you let me know? Come to Nice with me! Come
down to Sicily! Go on, come to Sicily with me. It's lovely there just now.
You want sun! You want life! Why, you're wasting away! Come away with me!
Come to Africa! Oh, hang Sir Clifford! Chuck him, and come along with me.
I'll marry you the minute he divorces you. Come along and try a life! God's
love! That place Wragby would kill anybody. Beastly place! Foul place! Kill
anybody! Come away with me into the sun! It's the sun you want, of course,
and a bit of normal life.'
But Connie's heart simply stood still at the thought of abandoning
Clifford there and then. She couldn't do it. No...no! She just couldn't. She
had to go back to Wragby.
Michaelis was disgusted. Hilda didn't like Michaelis, but she almost
preferred him to Clifford. Back went the sisters to the Midlands.
Hilda talked to Clifford, who still had yellow eyeballs when they got
back. He, too, in his way, was overwrought; but he had to listen to all
Hilda said, to all the doctor had said, not what Michaelis had said, of
course, and he sat mum through the ultimatum.
`Here is the address of a good manservant, who was with an invalid
patient of the doctor's till he died last month. He is really a good man,
and fairly sure to come.'
`But I'm not an invalid, and I will not have a manservant,' said
Clifford, poor devil.
`And here are the addresses of two women; I saw one of them, she would
do very well; a woman of about fifty, quiet, strong, kind, and in her way
cultured...'
Clifford only sulked, and would not answer.
`Very well, Clifford. If we don't settle something by to-morrow, I
shall telegraph to Father, and we shall take Connie away.'
`Will Connie go?' asked Clifford.
`She doesn't want to, but she knows she must. Mother died of cancer,
brought on by fretting. We're not running any risks.'
So next day Clifford suggested Mrs Bolton, Tevershall parish nurse.
Apparently Mrs Betts had thought of her. Mrs Bolton was just retiring from
her parish duties to take up private nursing jobs. Clifford had a queer
dread of delivering himself into the hands of a stranger, but this Mrs
Bolton had once nursed him through scarlet fever, and he knew her.
The two sisters at once called on Mrs Bolton, in a newish house in a
row, quite select for Tevershall. They found a rather good-looking woman of
forty-odd, in a nurse's uniform, with a white collar and apron, just making
herself tea in a small crowded sitting-room.
Mrs Bolton was most attentive and polite, seemed quite nice, spoke with
a bit of a broad slur, but in heavily correct English, and from having
bossed the sick colliers for a good many years, had a very good opinion of
herself, and a fair amount of assurance. In short, in her tiny way, one of
the governing class in the village, very much respected.
`Yes, Lady Chatterley's not looking at all well! Why, she used to be
that bonny, didn't she now? But she's been failing all winter! Oh, it's
hard, it is. Poor Sir Clifford! Eh, that war, it's a lot to answer for.'
And Mrs Bolton would come to Wragby at once, if Dr Shardlow would let
her off. She had another fortnight's parish nursing to do, by rights, but
they might get a substitute, you know.
Hilda posted off to Dr Shardlow, and on the following Sunday Mrs Bolton
drove up in Leiver's cab to Wragby with two trunks. Hilda had talks with
her; Mrs Bolton was ready at any moment to talk. And she seemed so young!
The way the passion would flush in her rather pale cheek. She was
forty-seven.
Her husband, Ted Bolton, had been killed in the pit, twenty-two years
ago, twenty-two years last Christmas, just at Christmas time, leaving her
with two children, one a baby in arms. Oh, the baby was married now, Edith,
to a young man in Boots Cash Chemists in Sheffield. The other one was a
schoolteacher in Chesterfield; she came home weekends, when she wasn't asked
out somewhere. Young folks enjoyed themselves nowadays, not like when she,
Ivy Bolton, was young.
Ted Bolton was twenty-eight when lie was killed in an explosion down
th' pit. The butty in front shouted to them all to lie down quick, there
were four of them. And they all lay down in time, only Ted, and it killed
him. Then at the inquiry, on the masters' side they said Ted had been
frightened, and trying to run away, and not obeying orders, so it was like
his fault really. So the compensation was only three hundred pounds, and
they made out as if it was more of a gift than legal compensation, because
it was really the man's own fault. And they wouldn't let her have the money
down; she wanted to have a little shop. But they said she'd no doubt
squander it, perhaps in drink! So she had to draw it thirty shillings a
week. Yes, she had to go every Monday morning down to the offices, and stand
there a couple of hours waiting her turn; yes, for almost four years she
went every Monday. And what could she do with two little children on her
hands? But Ted's mother was very good to her. When the baby could toddle
she'd keep both the children for the day, while she, Ivy Bolton, went to
Sheffield, and attended classes in ambulance, and then the fourth year she
even took a nursing course and got qualified. She was determined to be
independent and keep her children. So she was assistant at Uthwaite
hospital, just a little place, for a while. But when the Company, the
Tevershall Colliery Company, really Sir Geoffrey, saw that she could get on
by herself, they were very good to her, gave her the parish nursing, and
stood by her, she would say that for them. And she'd done it ever since,
till now it was getting a bit much for her; she needed something a bit
lighter, there was such a lot of traipsing around if you were a district
nurse.
`Yes, the Company's been very good to me, I always say it. But I should
never forget what they said about Ted, for he was as steady and fearless a
chap as ever set foot on the cage, and it was as good as branding him a
coward. But there, he was dead, and could say nothing to none of 'em.'
It was a queer mixture of feelings the woman showed as she talked. She
liked the colliers, whom she had nursed for so long; but she felt very
superior to them. She felt almost upper class; and at the same time a
resentment against the ruling class smouldered in her. The masters! In a
dispute between masters and men, she was always for the men. But when there
was no question of contest, she was pining to be superior, to be one of the
upper class. The upper classes fascinated her, appealing to her peculiar
English passion for superiority. She was thrilled to come to Wragby;
thrilled to talk to Lady Chatterley, my word, different from the common
colliers' wives! She said so in so many words. Yet one could see a grudge
against the Chatterleys peep out in her; the grudge against the masters.
`Why, yes, of course, it would wear Lady Chatterley out! It's a mercy
she had a sister to come and help her. Men don't think, high and low-alike,
they take what a woman does for them for granted. Oh, I've told the colliers
off about it many a time. But it's very hard for Sir Clifford, you know,
crippled like that. They were always a haughty family, standoffish in a way,
as they've a right to be. But then to be brought down like that! And it's
very hard on Lady Chatterley, perhaps harder on her. What she misses! I only
had Ted three years, but my word, while I had him I had a husband I could
never forget. He was one in a thousand, and jolly as the day. Who'd ever
have thought he'd get killed? I don't believe it to this day somehow, I've
never believed it, though I washed him with my own hands. But he was never
dead for me, he never was. I never took it in.'
This was a new voice in Wragby, very new for Connie to hear; it roused
a new ear in her.
For the first week or so, Mrs Bolton, however, was very quiet at
Wragby, her assured, bossy manner left her, and she was nervous. With
Clifford she was shy, almost frightened, and silent. He liked that, and soon
recovered his self-possession, letting her do things for him without even
noticing her.
`She's a useful nonentity!' he said. Connie opened her eyes in wonder,
but she did not contradict him. So different are impressions on two
different people!
And he soon became rather superb, somewhat lordly with the nurse. She
had rather expected it, and he played up without knowing. So susceptible we
are to what is expected of us! The colliers had been so like children,
talking to her, and telling her what hurt them, while she bandaged them, or
nursed them. They had always made her feel so grand, almost super-human in
her administrations. Now Clifford made her feel small, and like a servant,
and she accepted it without a word, adjusting herself to the upper classes.
She came very mute, with her long, handsome face, and downcast eyes, to
administer to him. And she said very humbly: `Shall I do this now, Sir
Clifford? Shall I do that?'
`No, leave it for a time. I'll have it done later.'
`Very well, Sir Clifford.'
`Come in again in half an hour.'
`Very well, Sir Clifford.'
`And just take those old papers out, will you?'
`Very well, Sir Clifford.'
She went softly, and in half an hour she came softly again. She was
bullied, but she didn't mind. She was experiencing the upper classes. She
neither resented nor disliked Clifford; he was just part of a phenomenon,
the phenomenon of the high-class folks, so far unknown to her, but now to be
known. She felt more at home with Lady Chatterley, and after all it's the
mistress of the house matters most.
Mrs Bolton helped Clifford to bed at night, and slept across the
passage from his room, and came if he rang for her in the night. She also
helped him in the morning, and soon valeted him completely, even shaving
him, in her soft, tentative woman's way. She was very good and competent,
and she soon knew how to have him in her power. He wasn't so very different
from the colliers after all, when you lathered his chin, and softly rubbed
the bristles. The stand-offishness and the lack of frankness didn't bother
her; she was having a new experience.
Clifford, however, inside himself, never quite forgave Connie for
giving up her personal care of him to a strange hired woman. It killed, he
said to himself, the real flower of the intimacy between him and her. But
Connie didn't mind that. The fine flower of their intimacy was to her rather
like an orchid, a bulb stuck parasitic on her tree of life, and producing,
to her eyes, a rather shabby flower.
Now she had more time to herself she could softly play the piano, up in
her room, and sing: `Touch not the nettle, for the bonds of love are ill to
loose.' She had not realized till lately how ill to loose they were, these
bonds of love. But thank Heaven she had loosened them! She was so glad to be
alone, not always to have to talk to him. When he was alone he
tapped-tapped-tapped on a typewriter, to infinity. But when he was not
`working', and she was there, he talked, always talked; infinite small
analysis of people and motives, and results, characters and personalities,
till now she had had enough. For years she had loved it, until she had
enough, and then suddenly it was too much. She was thankful to be alone.
It was as if thousands and thousands of little roots and threads of
consciousness in him and her had grown together into a tangled mass, till
they could crowd no more, and the plant was dying. Now quietly, subtly, she
was unravelling the tangle of his consciousness and hers, breaking the
threads gently, one by one, with patience and impatience to get clear. But
the bonds of such love are more ill to loose even than most bonds; though
Mrs Bolton's coming had been a great help.
But he still wanted the old intimate evenings of talk with Connie: talk
or reading aloud. But now she could arrange that Mrs Bolton should come at
ten to disturb them. At ten o'clock Connie could go upstairs and be alone.
Clifford was in good hands with Mrs Bolton.
Mrs Bolton ate with Mrs Betts in the housekeeper's room, since they
were all agreeable. And it was curious how much closer the servants'
quarters seemed to have come; right up to the doors of Clifford's study,
when before they were so remote. For Mrs Betts would sometimes sit in Mrs
Bolton's room, and Connie heard their lowered voices, and felt somehow the
strong, other vibration of the working people almost invading the
sitting-room, when she and Clifford were alone. So changed was Wragby merely
by Mrs Bolton's coming.
And Connie felt herself released, in another world, she felt she
breathed differently. But still she was afraid of how many of her roots,
perhaps mortal ones, were tangled with Clifford's. Yet still, she breathed
freer, a new phase was going to begin in her life.
Mrs Bolton also kept a cherishing eye on Connie, feeling she must
extend to her her female and professional protection. She was always urging
her ladyship to walk out, to drive to Uthwaite, to be in the air. For Connie
had got into the habit of sitting still by the fire, pretending to read; or
to sew feebly, and hardly going out at all.
It was a blowy day soon after Hilda had gone, that Mrs Bolton said:
`Now why don't you go for a walk through the wood, and look at the daffs
behind the keeper's cottage? They're the prettiest sight you'd see in a
day's march. And you could put some in your room; wild daffs are always so
cheerful-looking, aren't they?'
Connie took it in good part, even daffs for daffodils. Wild daffodils!
After all, one could not stew in one's own juice. The spring came
back...`Seasons return, but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of
Ev'n or Morn.'
And the keeper, his thin, white body, like a lonely pistil of an
invisible flower! She had forgotten him in her unspeakable depression. But
now something roused...`Pale beyond porch and portal'...the thing to do was
to pass the porches and the portals.
She was stronger, she could walk better, and iii the wood the wind
would not be so tiring as it was across the bark, flatten against her. She
wanted to forget, to forget the world, and all the dreadful, carrion-bodied
people. `Ye must be born again! I believe in the resurrection of the body!
Except a grain of wheat fall into the earth and die, it shall by no means
bring forth. When the crocus cometh forth I too will emerge and see the
sun!' In the wind of March endless phrases swept through her consciousness.
Little gusts of sunshine blew, strangely bright, and lit up the
celandines at the wood's edge, under the hazel-rods, they spangled out
bright and yellow. And the wood was still, stiller, but yet gusty with
crossing sun. The first windflowers were out, and all the wood seemed pale
with the pallor of endless little anemones, sprinkling the shaken floor.
`The world has grown pale with thy breath.' But it was the breath of
Persephone, this time; she was out of hell on a cold morning. Cold breaths
of wind came, and overhead there was an anger of entangled wind caught among
the twigs. It, too, was caught and trying to tear itself free, the wind,
like Absalom. How cold the anemones looked, bobbing their naked white
shoulders over crinoline skirts of green. But they stood it. A few first
bleached little primroses too, by the path, and yellow buds unfolding
themselves.
The roaring and swaying was overhead, only cold currents came down
below. Connie was strangely excited in the wood, and the colour flew in her
cheeks, and burned blue in her eyes. She walked ploddingly, picking a few
primroses and the first violets, that smelled sweet and cold, sweet and
cold. And she drifted on without knowing where she was.
Till she came to the clearing, at the end of the wood, and saw the
green-stained stone cottage, looking almost rosy, like the flesh underneath
a mushroom, its stone warmed in a burst of sun. And there was a sparkle of
yellow jasmine by the door; the closed door. But no sound; no smoke from the
chimney; no dog barking.
She went quietly round to the back, where the bank rose up; she had an
excuse, to see the daffodils.
And they were there, the short-stemmed flowers, rustling and fluttering
and shivering, so bright and alive, but with nowhere to hide their faces, as
they turned them away from the wind.
They shook their bright, sunny little rags in bouts of distress. But
perhaps they liked it really; perhaps they really liked the tossing.
Constance sat down with her back to a young pine-tree, that wayed
against her with curious life, elastic, and powerful, rising up. The erect,
alive thing, with its top in the sun! And she watched the daffodils turn
golden, in a burst of sun that was warm on her hands and lap. Even she
caught the faint, tarry scent of the flowers. And then, being so still and
alone, she seemed to bet into the current of her own proper destiny. She had
been fastened by a rope, and jagging and snarring like a boat at its
moorings; now she was loose and adrift.
The sunshine gave way to chill; the daffodils were in shadow, dipping
silently. So they would dip through the day and the long cold night. So
strong in their frailty!
She rose, a little stiff, took a few daffodils, and went down. She
hated breaking the flowers, but she wanted just one or two to go with her.
She would have to go back to Wragby and its walls, and now she hated it,
especially its thick walls. Walls! Always walls! Yet one needed them in this
wind.
When she got home Clifford asked her:
`Where did you go?'
`Right across the wood! Look, aren't the little daffodils adorable? To
think they should come out of the earth!'
`Just as much out of air and sunshine,' he said.
`But modelled in the earth,' she retorted, with a prompt contradiction,
that surprised her a little.
The next afternoon she went to the wood again. She followed the broad
riding that swerved round and up through the larches to a spring called
John's Well. It was cold on this hillside, and not a flower in the darkness
of larches. But the icy little spring softly pressed upwards from its tiny
well-bed of pure, reddish-white pebbles. How icy and clear it was!
Brilliant! The new keeper had no doubt put in fresh pebbles. She heard the
faint tinkle of water, as the tiny overflow trickled over and downhill. Even
above the hissing boom of the larchwood, that spread its bristling,
leafless, wolfish darkness on the down-slope, she heard the tinkle as of
tiny water-bells.
This place was a little sinister, cold, damp. Yet the well must have
been a drinking-place for hundreds of years. Now no more. Its tiny cleared
space was lush and cold and dismal.
She rose and went slowly towards home. As she went she heard a faint
tapping away on the right, and stood still to listen. Was it hammering, or a
woodpecker? It was surely hammering.
She walked on, listening. And then she noticed a narrow track between
young fir-trees, a track that seemed to lead nowhere. But she felt it had
been used. She turned down it adventurously, between the thick young firs,
which gave way soon to the old oak wood. She followed the track, and the
hammering grew nearer, in the silence of the windy wood, for trees make a
silence even in their noise of wind.
She saw a secret little clearing, and a secret little hot made of
rustic poles. And she had never been here before! She realized it was the
quiet place where the growing pheasants were reared; the keeper in his
shirt-sleeves was kneeling, hammering. The dog trotted forward with a short,
sharp bark, and the keeper lifted his face suddenly and saw her. He had a
startled look in his eyes.
He straightened himself and saluted, watching her in silence, as she
came forward with weakening limbs. He resented the intrusion; he cherished
his solitude as his only and last freedom in life.
`I wondered what the hammering was,' she said, feeling weak and
breathless, and a little afraid of him, as he looked so straight at her.
`Ah'm gettin' th' coops ready for th' young bods,' he said, in broad
vernacular.
She did not know what to say, and she felt weak. `I should like to sit
down a bit,' she said.
`Come and sit 'ere i' th' 'ut,' he said, going in front of her to the
hut, pushing aside some timber and stuff, and drawing out a rustic chair,
made of hazel sticks.
`Am Ah t' light yer a little fire?' he asked, with the curious naÏvetÉ
of the dialect.
`Oh, don't bother,' she replied.
But he looked at her hands; they were rather blue. So he quickly took
some larch twigs to the little brick fire-place in the corner, and in a
moment the yellow flame was running up the chimney. He made a place by the
brick hearth.
`Sit 'ere then a bit, and warm yer,' he said.
She obeyed him. He had that curious kind of protective authority she
obeyed at once. So she sat and warmed her hands at the blaze, and dropped
logs on the fire, whilst outside he was hammering again. She did not really
want to sit, poked in a corner by the fire; she would rather have watched
from the door, but she was being looked after, so she had to submit.
The hut was quite cosy, panelled with unvarnished deal, having a little
rustic table and stool beside her chair, and a carpenter's bench, then a big
box, tools, new boards, nails; and many things hung from pegs: axe, hatchet,
traps, things in sacks, his coat. It had no window, the light came in
through the open door. It was a jumble, but also it was a sort of little
sanctuary.
She listened to the tapping of the man's hammer; it was not so happy.
He was oppressed. Here was a trespass on his privacy, and a dangerous one! A
woman! He had reached the point where all he wanted on earth was to be
alone. And yet he was powerless to preserve his privacy; he was a hired man,
and these people were his masters.
Especially he did not want to come into contact with a woman again. He
feared it; for he had a big wound from old contacts. He felt if he could not
be alone, and if he could not be left alone, he would die. His recoil away
from the outer world was complete; his last refuge was this wood; to hide
himself there!
Connie grew warm by the fire, which she had made too big: then she grew
hot. She went and sat on the stool in the doorway, watching the man at work.
He seemed not to notice her, but he knew. Yet he worked on, as if
absorbedly, and his brown dog sat on her tail near him, and surveyed the
untrustworthy world.
Slender, quiet and quick, the man finished the coop he was making,
turned it over, tried the sliding door, then set it aside. Then he rose,
went for an old coop, and took it to the chopping log where he was working.
Crouching, he tried the bars; some broke in his hands; he began to draw the
nails. Then he turned the coop over and deliberated, and he gave absolutely
no sign of awareness of the woman's presence.
So Connie watched him fixedly. And the same solitary aloneness she had
seen in him naked, she now saw in him clothed: solitary, and intent, like an
animal that works alone, but also brooding, like a soul that recoils away,
away from all human contact. Silently, patiently, he was recoiling away from
her even now. It was the stillness, and the timeless sort of patience, in a
man impatient and passionate, that touched Connie's womb. She saw it in his
bent head, the quick quiet hands, the crouching of his slender, sensitive
loins; something patient and withdrawn. She felt his experience had been
deeper and wider than her own; much deeper and wider, and perhaps more
deadly. And this relieved her of herself; she felt almost irresponsible.
So she sat in the doorway of the hut in a dream, utterly unaware of
time and of particular circumstances. She was so drifted away that he
glanced up at her quickly, and saw the utterly still, waiting look on her
face. To him it was a look of waiting. And a little thin tongue of fire
suddenly flickered in his loins, at the root of his back, and he groaned in
spirit. He dreaded with a repulsion almost of death, any further close human
contact. He wished above all things she would go away, and leave him to his
own privacy. He dreaded her will, her female will, and her modern female
insistency. And above all he dreaded her cool, upper-class impudence of
having her own way. For after all he was only a hired man. He hated her
presence there.
Connie came to herself with sudden uneasiness. She rose. The afternoon
was turning to evening, yet she could not go away. She went over to the man,
who stood up at attention, his worn face stiff and blank, his eyes watching
her.
`It is so nice here, so restful,' she said. `I have never been here
before.'
`No?'
`I think I shall come and sit here sometimes.
`Yes?'
`Do you lock the hut when you're not here?'
`Yes, your Ladyship.'
`Do you think I could have a key too, so that I could sit here
sometimes? Are there two keys?'
`Not as Ah know on, ther' isna.'
He had lapsed into the vernacular. Connie hesitated; he was putting up
an opposition. Was it his hut, after all?
`Couldn't we get another key?' she asked in her soft voice, that
underneath had the ring of a woman determined to get her way.
`Another!' he said, glancing at her with a flash of anger, touched with
derision.
`Yes, a duplicate,' she said, flushing.
`'Appen Sir Clifford 'ud know,' he said, putting her off.
`Yes!' she said, `he might have another. Otherwise we could have one
made from the one you have. It would only take a day or so, I suppose. You
could spare your key for so long.'
`Ah canna tell yer, m'Lady! Ah know nob'dy as ma'es keys round 'ere.'
Connie suddenly flushed with anger.
`Very well!' she said. `I'll see to it.'
`All right, your Ladyship.'
Their eyes met. His had a cold, ugly look of dislike and contempt, and
indifference to what would happen. Hers were hot with rebuff.
But her heart sank, she saw how utterly he disliked her, when she went
against him. And she saw him in a sort of desperation.
`Good afternoon!'
`Afternoon, my Lady!' He saluted and turned abruptly away. She had
wakened the sleeping dogs of old voracious anger in him, anger against the
self-willed female. And he was powerless, powerless. He knew it!
And she was angry against the self-willed male. A servant too! She
walked sullenly home.
She found Mrs Bolton under the great beech-tree on the knoll, looking
for her.
`I just wondered if you'd be coming, my Lady,' the woman said brightly.
`Am I late?' asked Connie.
`Oh only Sir Clifford was waiting for his tea.'
`Why didn't you make it then?'
`Oh, I don't think it's hardly my place. I don't think Sir Clifford
would like it at all, my Lady.'
`I don't see why not,' said Connie.
She went indoors to Clifford's study, where the old brass kettle was
simmering on the tray.
`Am I late, Clifford?' she said, putting down the few flowers and
taking up the tea-caddy, as she stood before the tray in her hat and scarf.
`I'm sorry! Why didn't you let Mrs Bolton make the tea?'
`I didn't think of it,' he said ironically. `I don't quite see her
presiding at the tea-table.'
`Oh, there's nothing sacrosanct about a silver tea-pot,' said Connie.
He glanced up at her curiously.
`What did you do all afternoon?' he said.
`Walked and sat in a sheltered place. Do you know there are still
berries on the big holly-tree?'
She took off her scarf, but not her hat, and sat down to make tea. The
toast would certainly be leathery. She put the tea-cosy over the tea-pot,
and rose to get a little glass for her violets. The poor flowers hung over,
limp on their stalks.
`They'll revive again!' she said, putting them before him in their
glass for him to smell.
`Sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes,' he quoted.
`I don't see a bit of connexion with the actual violets,' she said.
`The Elizabethans are rather upholstered.'
She poured him his tea.
`Do you think there is a second key to that little hut not far from
John's Well, where the pheasants are reared?' she said.
`There may be. Why?'
`I happened to find it today---and I'd never seen it before. I think
it's a darling place. I could sit there sometimes, couldn't I?'
`Was Mellors there?'
`Yes! That's how I found it: his hammering. He didn't seem to like my
intruding at all. In fact he was almost rude when I asked about a second
key.'
`What did he say?'
`Oh, nothing: just his manner; and he said he knew nothing about keys.'
`There may be one in Father's study. Betts knows them all, they're all
there. I'll get him to look.'
`Oh do!' she said.
`So Mellors was almost rude?'
`Oh, nothing, really! But I don't think he wanted me to have the
freedom of the castle, quite.'
`I don't suppose he did.'
`Still, I don't see why he should mind. It's not his home, after all!
It's not his private abode. I don't see why I shouldn't sit there if I want
to.'
`Quite!' said Clifford. `He thinks too much of himself, that man.'
`Do you think he does?'
`Oh, decidedly! He thinks he's something exceptional. You know he had a
wife he didn't get on with, so he joined up in 1915 and was sent to India, I
believe. Anyhow he was blacksmith to the cavalry in Egypt for a time; always
was connected with horses, a clever fellow that way. Then some Indian
colonel took a fancy to him, and he was made a lieutenant. Yes, they gave
him a commission. I believe he went back to India with his colonel, and up
to the north-west frontier. He was ill; he was a pension. He didn't come out
of the army till last year, I believe, and then, naturally, it isn't easy
for a man like that to get back to his own level. He's bound to flounder.
But he does his duty all right, as far as I'm concerned. Only I'm not having
any of the Lieutenant Mellors touch.'
`How could they make him an officer when he speaks broad Derbyshire?'
`He doesn't...except by fits and starts. He can speak perfectly well,
for him. I suppose he has an idea if he's come down to the ranks again, he'd
better speak as the ranks speak.'
`Why didn't you tell me about him before?'
`Oh, I've no patience with these romances. They're the ruin of all
order. It's a thousand pities they ever happened.'
Connie was inclined to agree. What was the good of discontented people
who fitted in nowhere?
In the spell of fine weather Clifford, too, decided to go to the wood.
The wind was cold, but not so tiresome, and the sunshine was like life
itself, warm and full.
`It's amazing,' said Connie, `how different one feels when there's a
really fresh fine day. Usually one feels the very air is half dead. People
are killing the very air.'
`Do you think people are doing it?' he asked.
`I do. The steam of so much boredom, and discontent and anger out of
all the people, just kills the vitality in the air. I'm sure of it.'
`Perhaps some condition of the atmosphere lowers the vitality of the
people?' he said.
`No, it's man that poisons the universe,' she asserted.
`Fouls his own nest,' remarked Clifford.
The chair puffed on. In the hazel copse catkins were hanging pale gold,
and in sunny places the wood-anemones were wide open, as if exclaiming with
the joy of life, just as good as in past days, when people could exclaim
along with them. They had a faint scent of apple-blossom. Connie gathered a
few for Clifford.
He took them and looked at them curiously.
`Thou still unravished bride of quietness,' he quoted. `It seems to fit
flowers so much better than Greek vases.'
`Ravished is such a horrid word!' she said. `It's only people who
ravish things.'
`Oh, I don't know...snails and things,' he said.
`Even snails only eat them, and bees don't ravish.'
She was angry with him, turning everything into words. Violets were
Juno's eyelids, and windflowers were on ravished brides. How she hated
words, always coming between her and life: they did the ravishing, if
anything did: ready-made words and phrases, sucking all the life-sap out of
living things.
The walk with Clifford was not quite a success. Between him and Connie
there was a tension that each pretended not to notice, but there it was.
Suddenly, with all the force of her female instinct, she was shoving him
off. She wanted to be clear of him, and especially of his consciousness, his
words, his obsession with himself, his endless treadmill obsession with
himself, and his own words.
The weather came rainy again. But after a day or two she went out in
the rain, and she went to the wood. And once there, she went towards the
hut. It was raining, but not so cold, and the wood felt so silent and
remote, inaccessible in the dusk of rain.
She came to the clearing. No one there! The hut was locked. But she sat
on the log doorstep, under the rustic porch, and snuggled into her own
warmth. So she sat, looking at the rain, listening to the many noiseless
noises of it, and to the strange soughings of wind in upper branches, when
there seemed to be no wind. Old oak-trees stood around, grey, powerful
trunks, rain-blackened, round and vital, throwing off reckless limbs. The
ground was fairly free of undergrowth, the anemones sprinkled, there was a
bush or two, elder, or guelder-rose, and a purplish tangle of bramble: the
old russet of bracken almost vanished under green anemone ruffs. Perhaps
this was one of the unravished places. Unravished! The whole world was
ravished.
Some things can't be ravished. You can't ravish a tin of sardines. And
so many women are like that; and men. But the earth...!
The rain was abating. It was hardly making darkness among the oaks any
more. Connie wanted to go; yet she sat on. But she was getting cold; yet the
overwhelming inertia of her inner resentment kept her there as if paralysed.
Ravished! How ravished one could be without ever being touched.
Ravished by dead words become obscene, and dead ideas become obsessions.
A wet brown dog came running and did not bark, lifting a wet feather of
a tail. The man followed in a wet black oilskin jacket, like a chauffeur,
and face flushed a little. She felt him recoil in his quick walk, when he
saw her. She stood up in the handbreadth of dryness under the rustic porch.
He saluted without speaking, coming slowly near. She began to withdraw.
`I'm just going,' she said.
`Was yer waitin' to get in?' he asked, looking at the hut, not at her.
`No, I only sat a few minutes in the shelter,' she said, with quiet
dignity.
He looked at her. She looked cold.
`Sir Clifford 'adn't got no other key then?' he asked.
`No, but it doesn't matter. I can sit perfectly dry under this porch.
Good afternoon!' She hated the excess of vernacular in his speech.
He watched her closely, as she was moving away. Then he hitched up his
jacket, and put his hand in his breeches pocket, taking out the key of the
hut.
`'Appen yer'd better 'ave this key, an' Ah min fend for t' bods some
other road.'
She looked at him.
`What do you mean?' she asked.
`I mean as 'appen Ah can find anuther pleece as'll du for rearin' th'
pheasants. If yer want ter be 'ere, yo'll non want me messin' abaht a' th'
time.'
She looked at him, getting his meaning through the fog of the dialect.
`Why don't you speak ordinary English?' she said coldly.
`Me! Ah thowt it wor ordinary.'
She was silent for a few moments in anger.
`So if yer want t' key, yer'd better tacit. Or 'appen Ah'd better gi'e
't yer termorrer, an' clear all t' stuff aht fust. Would that du for yer?'
She became more angry.
`I didn't want your key,' she said. `I don't want you to clear anything
out at all. I don't in the least want to turn you out of your hut, thank
you! I only wanted to be able to sit here sometimes, like today. But I can
sit perfectly well under the porch, so please say no more about it.'
He looked at her again, with his wicked blue eyes.
`Why,' he began, in the broad slow dialect. `Your Ladyship's as welcome
as Christmas ter th' hut an' th' key an' iverythink as is. On'y this time O'
th' year ther's bods ter set, an' Ah've got ter be potterin' abaht a good
bit, seein' after 'em, an' a'. Winter time Ah ned 'ardly come nigh th'
pleece. But what wi' spring, an' Sir Clifford wantin' ter start th'
pheasants...An' your Ladyship'd non want me tinkerin' around an' about when
she was 'ere, all the time.'
She listened with a dim kind of amazement.
`Why should I mind your being here?' she asked.
He looked at her curiously.
`T'nuisance on me!' he said briefly, but significantly. She flushed.
`Very well!' she said finally. `I won't trouble you. But I don't think I
should have minded at all sitting and seeing you look after the birds. I
should have liked it. But since you think it interferes with you, I won't
disturb you, don't be afraid. You are Sir Clifford's keeper, not mine.'
The phrase sounded queer, she didn't know why. But she let it pass.
`Nay, your Ladyship. It's your Ladyship's own 'ut. It's as your
Ladyship likes an' pleases, every time. Yer can turn me off at a wik's
notice. It wor only...'
`Only what?' she asked, baffled.
He pushed back his hat in an odd comic way.
`On'y as 'appen yo'd like the place ter yersen, when yer did come, an'
not me messin' abaht.'
`But why?' she said, angry. `Aren't you a civilized human being? Do you
think I ought to be afraid of you? Why should I take any notice of you and
your being here or not? Why is it important?'
He looked at her, all his face glimmering with wicked laughter.
`It's not, your Ladyship. Not in the very least,' he said.
`Well, why then?' she asked.
`Shall I get your Ladyship another key then?'
`No thank you! I don't want it.'
`Ah'll get it anyhow. We'd best 'ave two keys ter th' place.'
`And I consider you are insolent,' said Connie, with her colour up,
panting a little.
`Nay, nay!' he said quickly. `Dunna yer say that! Nay, nay! I niver
meant nuthink. Ah on'y thought as if yo' come 'ere, Ah s'd ave ter clear
out, an' it'd mean a lot of work, settin' up somewheres else. But if your
Ladyship isn't going ter take no notice O' me, then...it's Sir Clifford's
'ut, an' everythink is as your Ladyship likes, everythink is as your
Ladyship likes an' pleases, barrin' yer take no notice O' me, doin' th' bits
of jobs as Ah've got ter do.'
Connie went away completely bewildered. She was not sure whether she
had been insulted and mortally of fended, or not. Perhaps the man really
only meant what he said; that he thought she would expect him to keep away.
As if she would dream of it! And as if he could possibly be so important, he
and his stupid presence.
She went home in confusion, not knowing what she thought or felt.
Chapters 9
Connie was surprised at her own feeling of aversion from Clifford. What
is more, she felt she had always really disliked him. Not hate: there was no
passion in it. But a profound physical dislike. Almost, it seemed to her,
she had married him because she disliked him, in a secret, physical sort of
way. But of course, she had married him really because in a mental way he
attracted her and excited her. He had seemed, in some way, her master,
beyond her.
Now the mental excitement had worn itself out and collapsed, and she
was aware only of the physical aversion. It rose up in her from her depths:
and she realized how it had been eating her life away.
She felt weak and utterly forlorn. She wished some help would come from
outside. But in the whole world there was no help. Society was terrible
because it was insane. Civilized society is insane. Money and so-called love
are its two great manias; money a long way first. The individual asserts
himself in his disconnected insanity in these two modes: money and love.
Look at Michaelis! His life and activity were just insanity. His love was a
sort of insanity.
And Clifford the same. All that talk! All that writing! All that wild
struggling to push himself forwards! It was just insanity. And it was
getting worse, really maniacal.
Connie felt washed-out with fear. But at least, Clifford was shifting
his grip from her on to Mrs Bolton. He did not know it. Like many insane
people, his insanity might be measured by the things he was not aware of the
great desert tracts in his consciousness.
Mrs Bolton was admirable in many ways. But she had that queer sort of
bossiness, endless assertion of her own will, which is one of the signs of
insanity in modern woman. She thought she was utterly subservient and living
for others. Clifford fascinated her because he always, or so of ten,
frustrated her will, as if by a finer instinct. He had a finer, subtler will
of self-assertion than herself. This was his charm for her.
Perhaps that had been his charm, too, for Connie.
`It's a lovely day, today!' Mrs Bolton would say in her caressive,
persuasive voice. `I should think you'd enjoy a little run in your chair
today, the sun's just lovely.'
`Yes? Will you give me that book---there, that yellow one. And I think
I'll have those hyacinths taken out.'
`Why they're so beautiful!' She pronounced it with the `y' sound:
be-yutiful! `And the scent is simply gorgeous.'
`The scent is what I object to,' he said. `It's a little funereal.'
`Do you think so!' she exclaimed in surprise, just a little offended,
but impressed. And she carried the hyacinths out of the room, impressed by
his higher fastidiousness.
`Shall I shave you this morning, or would you rather do it yourself?'
Always the same soft, caressive, subservient, yet managing voice.
`I don't know. Do you mind waiting a while. I'll ring when I'm ready.'
`Very good, Sir Clifford!' she replied, so soft and submissive,
withdrawing quietly. But every rebuff stored up new energy of will in her.
When he rang, after a time, she would appear at once. And then he would
say:
`I think I'd rather you shaved me this morning.'
Her heart gave a little thrill, and she replied with extra softness:
`Very good, Sir Clifford!'
She was very deft, with a soft, lingering touch, a little slow. At
first he had resented the infinitely soft touch of her lingers on his face.
But now he liked it, with a growing voluptuousness. He let her shave him
nearly every day: her face near his, her eyes so very concentrated, watching
that she did it right. And gradually her fingertips knew his cheeks and
lips, his jaw and chin and throat perfectly. He was well-fed and
well-liking, his face and throat were handsome enough and he was a
gentleman.
She was handsome too, pale, her face rather long and absolutely still,
her eyes bright, but revealing nothing. Gradually, with infinite softness,
almost with love, she was getting him by the throat, and he was yielding to
her.
She now did almost everything for him, and he felt more at home with
her, less ashamed of accepting her menial offices, than with Connie. She
liked handling him. She loved having his body in her charge, absolutely, to
the last menial offices. She said to Connie one day: `All men are babies,
when you come to the bottom of them. Why, I've handled some of the toughest
customers as ever went down Tevershall pit. But let anything ail them so
that you have to do for them, and they're babies, just big babies. Oh,
there's not much difference in men!'
At first Mrs Bolton had thought there really was something different in
a gentleman, a real gentleman, like Sir Clifford. So Clifford had got a good
start of her. But gradually, as she came to the bottom of him, to use her
own term, she found he was like the rest, a baby grown to man's proportions:
but a baby with a queer temper and a fine manner and power in its control,
and all sorts of odd knowledge that she had never dreamed of, with which he
could still bully her.
Connie was sometimes tempted to say to him:
`For God's sake, don't sink so horribly into the hands of that woman!'
But she found she didn't care for him enough to say it, in the long run.
It was still their habit to spend the evening together, till ten
o'clock. Then they would talk, or read together, or go over his manuscript.
But the thrill had gone out of it. She was bored by his manuscripts. But she
still dutifully typed them out for him. But in time Mrs Bolton would do even
that.
For Connie had suggested to Mrs Bolton that she should learn to use a
typewriter. And Mrs Bolton, always ready, had begun at once, and practised
assiduously. So now Clifford would sometimes dictate a letter to her, and
she would take it down rather slowly, but correctly. And he was very
patient, spelling for her the difficult words, or the occasional phrases in
French. She was so thrilled, it was almost a pleasure to instruct her.
Now Connie would sometimes plead a headache as an excuse for going up
to her room after dinner.
`Perhaps Mrs Bolton will play piquet with you,' she said to Clifford.
`Oh, I shall be perfectly all right. You go to your own room and rest,
darling.'
But no sooner had she gone, than he rang for Mrs Bolton, and asked her
to take a hand at piquet or bezique, or even chess. He had taught her all
these games. And Connie found it curiously objectionable to see Mrs Bolton,
flushed and tremulous like a little girl, touching her queen or her knight
with uncertain fingers, then drawing away again. And Clifford, faintly
smiling with a half-teasing superiority, saying to her:
`You must say j'adoube!'
She looked up at him with bright, startled eyes, then murmured shyly,
obediently:
`J'adoube!'
Yes, he was educating her. And he enjoyed it, it gave him a sense of
power. And she was thrilled. She was coming bit by bit into possession of
all that the gentry knew, all that made them upper class: apart from the
money. That thrilled her. And at the same time, she was making him want to
have her there with him. It was a subtle deep flattery to him, her genuine
thrill.
To Connie, Clifford seemed to be coming out in his true colours: a
little vulgar, a little common, and uninspired; rather fat. Ivy Bolton's
tricks and humble bossiness were also only too transparent. But Connie did
wonder at the genuine thrill which the woman got out of Clifford. To say she
was in love with him would be putting it wrongly. She was thrilled by her
contact with a man of the upper class, this titled gentleman, this author
who could write books and poems, and whose photograph appeared in the
illustrated newspapers. She was thrilled to a weird passion. And his
`educating' her roused in her a passion of excitement and response much
deeper than any love affair could have done. In truth, the very fact that
there could be no love affair left her free to thrill to her very marrow
with this other passion, the peculiar passion of knowing, knowing as he
knew.
There was no mistake that the woman was in some way in love with him:
whatever force we give to the word love. She looked so handsome and so
young, and her grey eyes were sometimes marvellous. At the same time, there
was a lurking soft satisfaction about her, even of triumph, and private
satisfaction. Ugh, that private satisfaction. How Connie loathed it!
But no wonder Clifford was caught by the woman! She absolutely adored
him, in her persistent fashion, and put herself absolutely at his service,
for him to use as he liked. No wonder he was flattered!
Connie heard long conversations going on between the two. Or rather, it
bas mostly Mrs Bolton talking. She had unloosed to him the stream of gossip
about Tevershall village. It was more than gossip. It was Mrs Gaskell and
George Eliot and Miss Mitford all rolled in one, with a great deal more,
that these women left out.' Once started, Mrs Bolton was better than any
book, about the lives of the people. She knew them all so intimately, and
had such a peculiar, flamey zest in all their affairs, it was wonderful, if
just a trifle humiliating to listen to her. At first she had not ventured to
`talk Tevershall', as she called it, to Clifford. But once started, it went
on. Clifford was listening for `material', and he found it in plenty. Connie
realized that his so-called genius was just this: a perspicuous talent for
personal gossip, clever and apparently detached. Mrs Bolton, of course, was
very warm when she `talked Tevershall'. Carried away, in fact. And it was
marvellous, the things that happened and that she knew about. She would have
run to dozens of volumes.
Connie was fascinated, listening to her. But afterwards always a little
ashamed. She ought not to listen with this queer rabid curiosity. After all,
one may hear the most private affairs of other people, but only in a spirit
of respect for the struggling, battered thing which any human soul is, and
in a spirit of fine, discriminative sympathy. For even satire is a form of
sympathy. It is the way our sympathy flows and recoils that really
determines our lives. And here lies the vast importance of the novel,
properly handled. It can inform and lead into new places the flow of our
sympathetic consciousness, and it can lead our sympathy away in recoil from
things gone dead. Therefore, the novel, properly handled, can reveal the
most secret places of life: for it is in the passional secret places of
life, above all, that the tide of sensitive awareness needs to ebb and flow,
cleansing and freshening.
But the novel, like gossip, can also excite spurious sympathies and
recoils, mechanical and deadening to the psyche. The novel can glorify the
most corrupt feelings, so long as they are conventionally `pure'. Then the
novel, like gossip, becomes at last vicious, and, like gossip, all the more
vicious because it is always ostensibly on the side of the angels. Mrs
Bolton's gossip was always on the side of the angels. `And he was such a bad
fellow, and she was such a nice woman.' Whereas, as Connie could see even
from Mrs Bolton's gossip, the woman had been merely a mealy-mouthed sort,
and the man angrily honest. But angry honesty made a `bad man' of him, and
mealy-mouthedness made a `nice woman' of her, in the vicious, conventional
channelling of sympathy by Mrs Bolton.
For this reason, the gossip was humiliating. And for the same reason,
most novels, especially popular ones, are humiliating too. The public
responds now only to an appeal to its vices.
Nevertheless, one got a new vision of Tevershall village from Mrs
Bolton's talk. A terrible, seething welter of ugly life it seemed: not at
all the flat drabness it looked from outside. Clifford of course knew by
sight most of the people mentioned, Connie knew only one or two. But it
sounded really more like a Central African jungle than an English village.
`I suppose you heard as Miss Allsopp was married last week! Would you
ever! Miss Allsopp, old James' daughter, the boot-and-shoe Allsopp. You know
they built a house up at Pye Croft. The old man died last year from a fall;
eighty-three, he was, an' nimble as a lad. An' then he slipped on Bestwood
Hill, on a slide as the lads 'ad made last winter, an' broke his thigh, and
that finished him, poor old man, it did seem a shame. Well, he left all his
money to Tattie: didn't leave the boys a penny. An' Tattie, I know, is five
years---yes, she's fifty-three last autumn. And you know they were such
Chapel people, my word! She taught Sunday school for thirty years, till her
father died. And then she started carrying on with a fellow from Kinbrook, I
don't know if you know him, an oldish fellow with a red nose, rather
dandified, Willcock, as works in Harrison's woodyard. Well he's sixty-five,
if he's a day, yet you'd have thought they were a pair of young
turtle-doves, to see them, arm in arm, and kissing at the gate: yes, an' she
sitting on his knee right in the bay window on Pye Croft Road, for anybody
to see. And he's got sons over forty: only lost his wife two years ago. If
old James Allsopp hasn't risen from his grave, it's because there is no
rising: for he kept her that strict! Now they're married and gone to live
down at Kinbrook, and they say she goes round in a dressing-gown from
morning to night, a veritable sight. I'm sure it's awful, the way the old
ones go on! Why they're a lot worse than the young, and a sight more
disgusting. I lay it down to the pictures, myself. But you can't keep them
away. I was always saying: go to a good instructive film, but do for
goodness sake keep away from these melodramas and love films. Anyhow keep
the children away! But there you are, grown-ups are worse than the children:
and the old ones beat the band. Talk about morality! Nobody cares a thing.
Folks does as they like, and much better off they are for it, I must say.
But they're having to draw their horns in nowadays, now th' pits are working
so bad, and they haven't got the money. And the grumbling they do, it's
awful, especially the women. The men are so good and patient! What can they
do, poor chaps! But the women, oh, they do carry on! They go and show off,
giving contributions for a wedding present for Princess Mary, and then when
they see all the grand things that's been given, they simply rave: who's
she, any better than anybody else! Why doesn't Swan & Edgar give me one fur
coat, instead of giving her six. I wish I'd kept my ten shillings! What's
she going to give me, I should like to know? Here I can't get a new spring
coat, my dad's working that bad, and she gets van-loads. It's time as poor
folks had some money to spend, rich ones 'as 'ad it long enough. I want a
new spring coat, I do, an' wheer am I going to get it? I say to them, be
thankful you're well fed and well clothed, without all the new finery you
want! And they fly back at me: "Why isn't Princess Mary thankful to go about
in her old rags, then, an' have nothing! Folks like her get van-loads, an' I
can't have a new spring coat. It's a damned shame. Princess! Bloomin' rot
about Princess! It's munney as matters, an' cos she's got lots, they give
her more! Nobody's givin' me any, an' I've as much right as anybody else.
Don't talk to me about education. It's munney as matters. I want a new
spring coat, I do, an' I shan't get it, cos there's no munney..." That's all
they care about, clothes. They think nothing of giving seven or eight
guineas for a winter coat---colliers' daughters, mind you---and two guineas
for a child's summer hat. And then they go to the Primitive Chapel in their
two-guinea hat, girls as would have been proud of a three-and-sixpenny one
in my day. I heard that at the Primitive Methodist anniversary this year,
when they have a built-up platform for the Sunday School children, like a
grandstand going almost up to th' ceiling, I heard Miss Thompson, who has
the first class of girls in the Sunday School, say there'd be over a
thousand pounds in new Sunday clothes sitting on that platform! And times
are what they are! But you can't stop them. They're mad for clothes. And
boys the same. The lads spend every penny on themselves, clothes, smoking,
drinking in the Miners' Welfare, jaunting off to Sheffield two or three
times a week. Why, it's another world. And they fear nothing, and they
respect nothing, the young don't. The older men are that patient and good,
really, they let the women take everything. And this is what it leads to.
The women are positive demons. But the lads aren't like their dads. They're
sacrificing nothing, they aren't: they're all for self. If you tell them
they ought to be putting a bit by, for a home, they say: That'll keep, that
will, I'm goin' t' enjoy myself while I can. Owt else'll keep! Oh, they're
rough an' selfish, if you like. Everything falls on the older men, an' it's
a bad outlook all round.'
Clifford began to get a new idea of his own village. The place had
always frightened him, but he had thought it more or less stable. Now---?
`Is there much Socialism, Bolshevism, among the people?' he asked.
`Oh!' said Mrs Bolton, `you hear a few loud-mouthed ones. But they're
mostly women who've got into debt. The men take no notice. I don't believe
you'll ever turn our Tevershall men into reds. They're too decent for that.
But the young ones blether sometimes. Not that they care for it really. They
only want a bit of money in their pocket, to spend at the Welfare, or go
gadding to Sheffield. That's all they care. When they've got no money,
they'll listen to the reds spouting. But nobody believes in it, really.'
`So you think there's no danger?'
`Oh no! Not if trade was good, there wouldn't be. But if things were
bad for a long spell, the young ones might go funny. I tell you, they're a
selfish, spoilt lot. But I don't see how they'd ever do anything. They
aren't ever serious about anything, except showing off on motor-bikes and
dancing at the Palais-de-danse in Sheffield. You can't make them serious.
The serious ones dress up in evening clothes and go off to the Pally to show
off before a lot of girls and dance these new Charlestons and what not. I'm
sure sometimes the bus'll be full of young fellows in evening suits, collier
lads, off to the Pally: let alone those that have gone with their girls in
motors or on motor-bikes. They don't give a serious thought to a
thing---save Doncaster races, and the Derby: for they all of them bet on
every race. And football! But even football's not what it was, not by a long
chalk. It's too much like hard work, they say. No, they'd rather be off on
motor-bikes to Sheffield or Nottingham, Saturday afternoons.'
`But what do they do when they get there?'
`Oh, hang around---and have tea in some fine tea-place like the
Mikado---and go to the Pally or the pictures or the Empire, with some girl.
The girls are as free as the lads. They do just what they like.'
`And what do they do when they haven't the money for these things?'
`They seem to get it, somehow. And they begin talking nasty then. But I
don't see how you're going to get bolshevism, when all the lads want is just
money to enjoy themselves, and the girls the same, with fine clothes: and
they don't care about another thing. They haven't the brains to be
socialists. They haven't enough seriousness to take anything really serious,
and they never will have.'
Connie thought, how extremely like all the rest of the classes the
lower classes sounded. Just the same thing over again, Tevershall or Mayfair
or Kensington. There was only one class nowadays: moneyboys. The moneyboy
and the moneygirl, the only difference was how much you'd got, and how much
you wanted.
Under Mrs Bolton's influence, Clifford began to take a new interest in
the mines. He began to feel he belonged. A new sort of self-assertion came
into him. After all, he was the real boss in Tevershall, he was really the
pits. It was a new sense of power, something he had till now shrunk from
with dread.
Tevershall pits were running thin. There were only two collieries:
Tevershall itself, and New London. Tevershall had once been a famous mine,
and had made famous money. But its best days were over. New London was never
very rich, and in ordinary times just got along decently. But now times were
bad, and it was pits like New London that got left.
`There's a lot of Tevershall men left and gone to Stacks Gate and
Whiteover,' said Mrs Bolton. `You've not seen the new works at Stacks Gate,
opened after the war, have you, Sir Clifford? Oh, you must go one day,
they're something quite new: great big chemical works at the pit-head,
doesn't look a bit like a colliery. They say they get more money out of the
chemical by-products than out of the coal---I forget what it is. And the
grand new houses for the men, fair mansions! of course it's brought a lot of
riff-raff from all over the country. But a lot of Tevershall men got on
there, and doin' well, a lot better than our own men. They say Tevershall's
done, finished: only a question of a few more years, and it'll have to shut
down. And New London'll go first. My word, won't it be funny when there's no
Tevershall pit working. It's bad enough during a strike, but my word, if it
closes for good, it'll be like the end of the world. Even when I was a girl
it was the best pit in the country, and a man counted himself lucky if he
could on here. Oh, there's been some money made in Tevershall. And now the
men say it's a sinking ship, and it's time they all got out. Doesn't it
sound awful! But of course there's a lot as'll never go till they have to.
They don't like these new fangled mines, such a depth, and all machinery to
work them. Some of them simply dreads those iron men, as they call them,
those machines for hewing the coal, where men always did it before. And they
say it's wasteful as well. But what goes in waste is saved in wages, and a
lot more. It seems soon there'll be no use for men on the face of the earth,
it'll be all machines. But they say that's what folks said when they had to
give up the old stocking frames. I can remember one or two. But my word, the
more machines, the more people, that's what it looks like! They say you
can't get the same chemicals out of Tevershall coal as you can out of Stacks
Gate, and that's funny, they're not three miles apart. But they say so. But
everybody says it's a shame something can't be started, to keep the men
going a bit better, and employ the girls. All the girls traipsing off to
Sheffield every day! My word, it would be something to talk about if
Tevershall Collieries took a new lease of life, after everybody saying
they're finished, and a sinking ship, and the men ought to leave them like
rats leave a sinking ship. But folks talk so much, of course there was a
boom during the war. When Sir Geoffrey made a trust of himself and got the
money safe for ever, somehow. So they say! But they say even the masters and
the owners don't get much out of it now. You can hardly believe it, can you!
Why I always thought the pits would go on for ever and ever. Who'd have
thought, when I was a girl! But New England's shut down, so is Colwick Wood:
yes, it's fair haunting to go through that coppy and see Colwick Wood
standing there deserted among the trees, and bushes growing up all over the
pit-head, and the lines red rusty. It's like death itself, a dead colliery.
Why, whatever should we do if Tevershall shut down---? It doesn't bear
thinking of. Always that throng it's been, except at strikes, and even then
the fan-wheels didn't stand, except when they fetched the ponies up. I'm
sure it's a funny world, you don't know where you are from year to year, you
really don't.'
It was Mrs Bolton's talk that really put a new fight into Clifford. His
income, as she pointed out to him, was secure, from his father's trust, even
though it was not large. The pits did not really concern him. It was the
other world he wanted to capture, the world of literature and fame; the
popular world, not the working world.
Now he realized the distinction between popular success and working
success: the populace of pleasure and the populace of work. He, as a private
individual, had been catering with his stories for the populace of pleasure.
And he had caught on. But beneath the populace of pleasure lay the populace
of work, grim, grimy, and rather terrible. They too had to have their
providers. And it was a much grimmer business, providing for the populace of
work, than for the populace of pleasure. While he was doing his stories, and
`getting on' in the world, Tevershall was going to the wall.
He realized now that the bitch-goddess of Success had two main
appetites: one for flattery, adulation, stroking and tickling such as
writers and artists gave her; but the other a grimmer appetite for meat and
bones. And the meat and bones for the bitch-goddess were provided by the men
who made money in industry.
Yes, there were two great groups of dogs wrangling for the
bitch-goddess: the group of the flatterers, those who offered her amusement,
stories, films, plays: and the other, much less showy, much more savage
breed, those who gave her meat, the real substance of money. The
well-groomed showy dogs of amusement wrangled and snarled among themselves
for the favours of the bitch-goddess. But it was nothing to the silent
fight-to-the-death that went on among the indispensables, the bone-bringers.
But under Mrs Bolton's influence, Clifford was tempted to enter this
other fight, to capture the bitch-goddess by brute means of industrial
production. Somehow, he got his pecker up.
In one way, Mrs Bolton made a man of him, as Connie never did. Connie
kept him apart, and made him sensitive and conscious of himself and his own
states. Mrs Bolton made hint aware only of outside things. Inwardly he began
to go soft as pulp. But outwardly he began to be effective.
He even roused himself to go to the mines once more: and when he was
there, he went down in a tub, and in a tub he was hauled out into the
workings. Things he had learned before the war, and seemed utterly to have
forgotten, now came back to him. He sat there, crippled, in a tub, with the
underground manager showing him the seam with a powerful torch. And he said
little. But his mind began to work.
He began to read again his technical works on the coal-mining industry,
he studied the government reports, and he read with care the latest things
on mining and the chemistry of coal and of shale which were written in
German. Of course the most valuable discoveries were kept secret as far as
possible. But once you started a sort of research in the field of
coal-mining, a study of methods and means, a study of by-products and the
chemical possibilities of coal, it was astounding the ingenuity and the
almost uncanny cleverness of the modern technical mind, as if really the
devil himself had lent fiend's wits to the technical scientists of industry.
It was far more interesting than art, than literature, poor emotional
half-witted stuff, was this technical science of industry. In this field,
men were like gods, or demons, inspired to discoveries, and fighting to
carry them out. In this activity, men were beyond atty mental age
calculable. But Clifford knew that when it did come to the emotional and
human life, these self-made men were of a mental age of about thirteen,
feeble boys. The discrepancy was enormous and appalling.
But let that be. Let man slide down to general idiocy in the emotional
and `human' mind, Clifford did not care. Let all that go hang. He was
interested in the technicalities of modern coal-mining, and in pulling
Tevershall out of the hole.
He went down to the pit day after day, he studied, he put the general
manager, and the overhead manager, and the underground manager, and the
engineers through a mill they had never dreamed of. Power! He felt a new
sense of power flowing through him: power over all these men, over the
hundreds and hundreds of colliers. He was finding out: and he was getting
things into his grip.
And he seemed verily to be re-born. Now life came into him! He had been
gradually dying, with Connie, in the isolated private life of the artist and
the conscious being. Now let all that go. Let it sleep. He simply felt life
rush into him out of the coal, out of the pit. The very stale air of the
colliery was better than oxygen to him. It gave him a sense of power, power.
He was doing something: and he was going to do something. He was going to
win, to win: not as he had won with his stories, mere publicity, amid a
whole sapping of energy and malice. But a man's victory.
At first he thought the solution lay in electricity: convert the coal
into electric power. Then a new idea came. The Germans invented a new
locomotive engine with a self feeder, that did not need a fireman. And it
was to be fed with a new fuel, that burnt in small quantities at a great
heat, under peculiar conditions.
The idea of a new concentrated fuel that burnt with a hard slowness at
a fierce heat was what first attracted Clifford. There must be some sort of
external stimulus of the burning of such fuel, not merely air supply. He
began to experiment, and got a clever young fellow, who had proved brilliant
in chemistry, to help him.
And he felt triumphant. He had at last got out of himself. He had
fulfilled his life-long secret yearning to get out of himself. Art had not
done it for him. Art had only made it worse. But now, now he had done it.
He was not aware how much Mrs Bolton was behind him. He did not know
how much he depended on her. But for all that, it was evident that when he
was with her his voice dropped to an easy rhythm of intimacy, almost a
trifle vulgar.
With Connie, he was a little stiff. He felt he owed her everything, and
he showed her the utmost respect and consideration, so long as she gave him
mere outward respect. But it was obvious he had a secret dread of her. The
new Achilles in hint had a heel, and in this heel the woman, the woman like
Connie, his wife, could lame him fatally. He went in a certain
half-subservient dread of her, and was extremely nice to her. But his voice
was a little tense when he spoke to her, and he began to be silent whenever
she was present.
Only when he was alone with Mrs Bolton did he really feel a lord and a
master, and his voice ran on with her almost as easily and garrulously as
her own could run. And he let her shave him or sponge all his body as if he
were a child, really as if he were a child.
Connie was a good deal alone now, fewer people came to Wragby. Clifford
no longer wanted them. He had turned against even the cronies. He was queer.
He preferred the radio, which he had installed at some expense, with a good
deal of success at last. He could sometimes get Madrid or Frankfurt, even
there in the uneasy Midlands.
And he would sit alone for hours listening to the loudspeaker bellowing
forth. It amazed and stunned Connie. But there he would sit, with a blank
entranced expression on his face, like a person losing his mind, and listen,
or seem to listen, to the unspeakable thing.
Was he really listening? Or was it a sort of soporific he took, whilst
something else worked on underneath in him? Connie did now know. She fled up
to her room, or out of doors to the wood. A kind of terror filled her
sometimes, a terror of the incipient insanity of the whole civilized
species.
But now that Clifford was drifting off to this other weirdness of
industrial activity, becoming almost a creature, with a hard, efficient
shell of an exterior and a pulpy interior, one of the amazing crabs and
lobsters of the modern, industrial and financial world, invertebrates of the
crustacean order, with shells of steel, like machines, and inner bodies of
soft pulp, Connie herself was really completely stranded.
She was not even free, for Clifford must have her there. He seemed to
have a nervous terror that she should leave him. The curious pulpy part of
him, the emotional and humanly-individual part, depended on her with terror,
like a child, almost like an idiot. She must be there, there at Wragby, a
Lady Chatterley, his wife. Otherwise he would be lost like an idiot on a
moor.
This amazing dependence Connie realized with a sort of horror. She
heard him with his pit managers, with the members of his Board, with young
scientists, and she was amazed at his shrewd insight into things, his power,
his uncanny material power over what is called practical men. He had become
a practical man himself and an amazingly astute and powerful one, a master.
Connie attributed it to Mrs Bolton's influence upon him, just at the crisis
in his life.
But this astute and practical man was almost an idiot when left alone
to his own emotional life. He worshipped Connie. She was his wife, a higher
being, and he worshipped her with a queer, craven idolatry, like a savage, a
worship based on enormous fear, and even hate of the power of the idol, the
dread idol. All he wanted was for Connie to swear, to swear not to leave
him, not to give him away.
`Clifford,' she said to him---but this was after she had the key to the
hut---`Would you really like me to have a child one day?'
He looked at her with a furtive apprehension in his rather prominent
pale eyes.
`I shouldn't mind, if it made no difference between us,' he said.
`No difference to what?' she asked.
`To you and me; to our love for one another. If it's going to affect
that, then I'm all against it. Why, I might even one day have a child of my
own!'
She looked at him in amazement.
`I mean, it might come back to me one of these days.'
She still stared in amazement, and he was uncomfortable.
`So you would not like it if I had a child?' she said.
`I tell you,' he replied quickly, like a cornered dog, `I am quite
willing, provided it doesn't touch your love for me. If it would touch that,
I am dead against it.'
Connie could only be silent in cold fear and contempt. Such talk was
really the gabbling of an idiot. He no longer knew what he was talking
about.
`Oh, it wouldn't make any difference to my feeling for you,' she said,
with a certain sarcasm.
`There!' he said. `That is the point! In that case I don't mind in the
least. I mean it would be awfully nice to have a child running about the
house, and feel one was building up a future for it. I should have something
to strive for then, and I should know it was your child, shouldn't I, dear?
And it would seem just the same as my own. Because it is you who count in
these matters. You know that, don't you, dear? I don't enter, I am a cypher.
You are the great I-am! as far as life goes. You know that, don't you? I
mean, as far as I am concerned. I mean, but for you I am absolutely nothing.
I live for your sake and your future. I am nothing to myself'
Connie heard it all with deepening dismay and repulsion. It was one of
the ghastly half-truths that poison human existence. What man in his senses
would say such things to a woman! But men aren't in their senses. What man
with a spark of honour would put this ghastly burden of life-responsibility
upon a woman, and leave her there, in the void?
Moreover, in half an hour's time, Connie heard Clifford talking to Mrs
Bolton, in a hot, impulsive voice, revealing himself in a sort of
passionless passion to the woman, as if she were half mistress, half
foster-mother to him. And Mrs Bolton was carefully dressing him in evening
clothes, for there were important business guests in the house.
Connie really sometimes felt she would die at this time. She felt she
was being crushed to death by weird lies, and by the amazing cruelty of
idiocy. Clifford's strange business efficiency in a way over-awed her, and
his declaration of private worship put her into a panic. There was nothing
between them. She never even touched him nowadays, and he never touched her.
He never even took her hand and held it kindly. No, and because they were so
utterly out of touch, he tortured her with his declaration of idolatry. It
was the cruelty of utter impotence. And she felt her reason would give way,
or she would die.
She fled as much as possible to the wood. One afternoon, as she sat
brooding, watching the water bubbling coldly in John's Well, the keeper had
strode up to her.
`I got you a key made, my Lady!' he said, saluting, and he offered her
the key.
`Thank you so much!' she said, startled.
`The hut's not very tidy, if you don't mind,' he said. `I cleared it
what I could.'
`But I didn't want you to trouble!' she said.
`Oh, it wasn't any trouble. I am setting the hens in about a week. But
they won't be scared of you. I s'll have to see to them morning and night,
but I shan't bother you any more than I can help.'
`But you wouldn't bother me,' she pleaded. `I'd rather not go to the
hut at all, if I am going to be in the way.'
He looked at her with his keen blue eyes. He seemed kindly, but
distant. But at least he was sane, and wholesome, if even he looked thin and
ill. A cough troubled him.
`You have a cough,' she said.
`Nothing---a cold! The last pneumonia left me with a cough, but it's
nothing.'
He kept distant from her, and would not come any nearer.
She went fairly often to the hut, in the morning or in the afternoon,
but he was never there. No doubt he avoided her on purpose. He wanted to
keep his own privacy.
He had made the hut tidy, put the little table and chair near the
fireplace, left a little pile of kindling and small logs, and put the tools
and traps away as far as possible, effacing himself. Outside, by the
clearing, he had built a low little roof of boughs and straw, a shelter for
the birds, and under it stood the live coops. And, one day when she came,
she found two brown hens sitting alert and fierce in the coops, sitting on
pheasants' eggs, and fluffed out so proud and deep in all the heat of the
pondering female blood. This almost broke Connie's heart. She, herself was
so forlorn and unused, not a female at all, just a mere thing of terrors.
Then all the live coops were occupied by hens, three brown and a grey
and a black. All alike, they clustered themselves down on the eggs in the
soft nestling ponderosity of the female urge, the female nature, fluffing
out their feathers. And with brilliant eyes they watched Connie, as she
crouched before them, and they gave short sharp clucks of anger and alarm,
but chiefly of female anger at being approached.
Connie found corn in the corn-bin in the hut. She offered it to the
hens in her hand. They would not eat it. Only one hen pecked at her hand
with a fierce little jab, so Connie was frightened. But she was pining to
give them something, the brooding mothers who neither fed themselves nor
drank. She brought water in a little tin, and was delighted when one of the
hens drank.
Now she came every day to the hens, they were the only things in the
world that warmed her heart. Clifford's protestations made her go cold from
head to foot. Mrs Bolton's voice made her go cold, and the sound of the
business men who came. An occasional letter from Michaelis affected her with
the same sense of chill. She felt she would surely die if it lasted much
longer.
Yet it was spring, and the bluebells were coming in the wood, and the
leaf-buds on the hazels were opening like the spatter of green rain. How
terrible it was that it should be spring, and everything cold-hearted,
cold-hearted. Only the hens, fluffed so wonderfully on the eggs, were warm
with their hot, brooding female bodies! Connie felt herself living on the
brink of fainting all the time.
Then, one day, a lovely sunny day with great tufts of primroses under
the hazels, and many violets dotting the paths, she came in the afternoon to
the coops and there was one tiny, tiny perky chicken tinily prancing round
in front of a coop, and the mother hen clucking in terror. The slim little
chick was greyish brown with dark markings, and it was the most alive little
spark of a creature in seven kingdoms at that moment. Connie crouched to
watch in a sort of ecstasy. Life, life! pure, sparky, fearless new life! New
life! So tiny and so utterly without fear! Even when it scampered a little,
scrambling into the coop again, and disappeared under the hen's feathers in
answer to the mother hen's wild alarm-cries, it was not really frightened,
it took it as a game, the game of living. For in a moment a tiny sharp head
was poking through the gold-brown feathers of the hen, and eyeing the
Cosmos.
Connie was fascinated. And at the same time, never had she felt so
acutely the agony of her own female forlornness. It was becoming unbearable.
She had only one desire now, to go to the clearing in the wood. The
rest was a kind of painful dream. But sometimes she was kept all day at
Wragby, by her duties as hostess. And then she felt as if she too were going
blank, just blank and insane.
One evening, guests or no guests, she escaped after tea. It was late,
and she fled across the park like one who fears to be called back. The sun
was setting rosy as she entered the wood, but she pressed on among the
flowers. The light would last long overhead.
She arrived at the clearing flushed and semi-conscious. The keeper was
there, in his shirt-sleeves, just closing up the coops for the night, so the
little occupants would be safe. But still one little trio was pattering
about on tiny feet, alert drab mites, under the straw shelter, refusing to
be called in by the anxious mother.
`I had to come and see the chickens!' she said, panting, glancing shyly
at the keeper, almost unaware of him. `Are there any more?'
`Thurty-six so far!' he said. `Not bad!'
He too took a curious pleasure in watching the young things come out.
Connie crouched in front of the last coop. The three chicks had run in.
But still their cheeky heads came poking sharply through the yellow
feathers, then withdrawing, then only one beady little head eyeing forth
from the vast mother-body.
`I'd love to touch them,' she said, putting her lingers gingerly
through the bars of the coop. But the mother-hen pecked at her hand
fiercely, and Connie drew back startled and frightened.
`How she pecks at me! She hates me!' she said in a wondering voice.
`But I wouldn't hurt them!'
The man standing above her laughed, and crouched down beside her, knees
apart, and put his hand with quiet confidence slowly into the coop. The old
hen pecked at him, but not so savagely. And slowly, softly, with sure gentle
lingers, he felt among the old bird's feathers and drew out a
faintly-peeping chick in his closed hand.
`There!' he said, holding out his hand to her. She took the little drab
thing between her hands, and there it stood, on its impossible little stalks
of legs, its atom of balancing life trembling through its almost weightless
feet into Connie's hands. But it lifted its handsome, clean-shaped little
head boldly, and looked sharply round, and gave a little `peep'. `So
adorable! So cheeky!' she said softly.
The keeper, squatting beside her, was also watching with an amused face
the bold little bird in her hands. Suddenly he saw a tear fall on to her
wrist.
And he stood up, and stood away, moving to the other coop. For suddenly
he was aware of the old flame shooting and leaping up in his loins, that he
had hoped was quiescent for ever. He fought against it, turning his back to
her. But it leapt, and leapt downwards, circling in his knees.
He turned again to look at her. She was kneeling and holding her two
hands slowly forward, blindly, so that the chicken should run in to the
mother-hen again. And there was something so mute and forlorn in her,
compassion flamed in his bowels for her.
Without knowing, he came quickly towards her and crouched beside her
again, taking the chick from her hands, because she was afraid of the hen,
and putting it back in the coop. At the back of his loins the lire suddenly
darted stronger.
He glanced apprehensively at her. Her face was averted, and she was
crying blindly, in all the anguish of her generation's forlornness. His
heart melted suddenly, like a drop of fire, and he put out his hand and laid
his lingers on her knee.
`You shouldn't cry,' he said softly.
But then she put her hands over her face and felt that really her heart
was broken and nothing mattered any more.
He laid his hand on her shoulder, and softly, gently, it began to
travel down the curve of her back, blindly, with a blind stroking motion, to
the curve of her crouching loins. And there his hand softly, softly, stroked
the curve of her flank, in the blind instinctive caress.
She had found her scrap of handkerchief and was blindly trying to dry
her face.
`Shall you come to the hut?' he said, in a quiet, neutral voice.
And closing his hand softly on her upper arm, he drew her up and led
her slowly to the hut, not letting go of her till she was inside. Then he
cleared aside the chair and table, and took a brown, soldier's blanket from
the tool chest, spreading it slowly. She glanced at his face, as she stood
motionless.
His face was pale and without expression, like that of a man submitting
to fate.
`You lie there,' he said softly, and he shut the door, so that it was
dark, quite dark.
With a queer obedience, she lay down on the blanket. Then she felt the
soft, groping, helplessly desirous hand touching her body, feeling for her
face. The hand stroked her face softly, softly, with infinite soothing and
assurance, and at last there was the soft touch of a kiss on her cheek.
She lay quite still, in a sort of sleep, in a sort of dream. Then she
quivered as she felt his hand groping softly, yet with queer thwarted
clumsiness, among her `clothing. Yet the hand knew, too, how to unclothe her
where it wanted. He drew down the thin silk sheath, slowly, carefully, right
down and over her feet. Then with a quiver of exquisite pleasure he touched
the warm soft body, and touched her navel for a moment in a kiss. And he had
to come in to her at once, to enter the peace on earth of her soft,
quiescent body. It was the moment of pure peace for him, the entry into the
body of the woman.
She lay still, in a kind of sleep, always in a kind of sleep. The
activity, the orgasm was his, all his; she could strive for herself no more.
Even the tightness of his arms round her, even the intense movement of his
body, and the springing of his seed in her, was a kind of sleep, from which
she did not begin to rouse till he had finished and lay softly panting
against her breast.
Then she wondered, just dimly wondered, why? Why was this necessary?
Why had it lifted a great cloud from her and given her peace? Was it real?
Was it real?
Her tormented modern-woman's brain still had no rest. Was it real? And
she knew, if she gave herself to the man, it was real. But if she kept
herself for herself it was nothing. She was old; millions of years old, she
felt. And at last, she could bear the burden of herself no more. She was to
be had for the taking. To be had for the taking.
The man lay in a mysterious stillness. What was he feeling? What was he
thinking? She did not know. He was a strange man to her, she did not know
him. She must only wait, for she did not dare to break his mysterious
stillness. He lay there with his arms round her, his body on hers, his wet
body touching hers, so close. And completely unknown. Yet not unpeaceful.
His very stillness was peaceful.
She knew that, when at last he roused and drew away from her. It was
like an abandonment. He drew her dress in the darkness down over her knees
and stood a few moments, apparently adjusting his own clothing. Then he
quietly opened the door and went out.
She saw a very brilliant little moon shining above the afterglow over
the oaks. Quickly she got up and arranged herself she was tidy. Then she
went to the door of the hut.
All the lower wood was in shadow, almost darkness. Yet the sky overhead
was crystal. But it shed hardly any light. He came through the lower shadow
towards her, his face lifted like a pale blotch.
`Shall we go then?' he said.
`Where?'
`I'll go with you to the gate.'
He arranged things his own way. He locked the door of the hut and came
after her.
`You aren't sorry, are you?' he asked, as he went at her side.
`No! No! Are you?' she said.
`For that! No!' he said. Then after a while he added: `But there's the
rest of things.'
`What rest of things?' she said.
`Sir Clifford. Other folks. All the complications.'
`Why complications?' she said, disappointed.
`It's always so. For you as well as for me. There's always
complications.' He walked on steadily in the dark.
`And are you sorry?' she said.
`In a way!' he replied, looking up at the sky. `I thought I'd done with
it all. Now I've begun again.'
`Begun what?'
`Life.'
`Life!' she re-echoed, with a queer thrill.
`It's life,' he said. `There's no keeping clear. And if you do keep
clear you might almost as well die. So if I've got to be broken open again,
I have.'
She did not quite see it that way, but still `It's just love,' she said
cheerfully.
`Whatever that may be,' he replied.
They went on through the darkening wood in silence, till they were
almost at the gate.
`But you don't hate me, do you?' she said wistfully.
`Nay, nay,' he replied. And suddenly he held her fast against his
breast again, with the old connecting passion. `Nay, for me it was good, it
was good. Was it for you?'
`Yes, for me too,' she answered, a little untruthfully, for she had not
been conscious of much.
He kissed her softly, softly, with the kisses of warmth.
`If only there weren't so many other people in the world,' he said
lugubriously.
She laughed. They were at the gate to the park. He opened it for her.
`I won't come any further,' he said.
`No!' And she held out her hand, as if to shake hands. But he took it
in both his.
`Shall I come again?' she asked wistfully.
`Yes! Yes!'
She left him and went across the park.
He stood back and watched her going into the dark, against the pallor
of the horizon. Almost with bitterness he watched her go. She had connected
him up again, when he had wanted to be alone. She had cost him that bitter
privacy of a man who at last wants only to be alone.
He turned into the dark of the wood. All was still, the moon had set.
But he was aware of the noises of the night, the engines at Stacks Gate, the
traffic on the main road. Slowly he climbed the denuded knoll. And from the
top he could see the country, bright rows of lights at Stacks Gate, smaller
lights at Tevershall pit, the yellow lights of Tevershall and lights
everywhere, here and there, on the dark country, with the distant blush of
furnaces, faint and rosy, since the night was clear, the rosiness of the
outpouring of white-hot metal. Sharp, wicked electric lights at Stacks Gate!
An undefinable quick of evil in them! And all the unease, the ever-shifting
dread of the industrial night in the Midlands. He could hear the
winding-engines at Stacks Gate turning down the seven-o'clock miners. The
pit worked three shifts.
He went down again into the darkness and seclusion of the wood. But he
knew that the seclusion of the wood was illusory. The industrial noises
broke the solitude, the sharp lights, though unseen, mocked it. A man could
no longer be private and withdrawn. The world allows no hermits. And now he
had taken the woman, and brought on himself a new cycle of pain and doom.
For he knew by experience what it meant.
It was not woman's fault, nor even love's fault, nor the fault of sex.
The fault lay there, out there, in those evil electric lights and diabolical
rattlings of engines. There, in the world of the mechanical greedy, greedy
mechanism and mechanized greed, sparkling with lights and gushing hot metal
and roaring with traffic, there lay the vast evil thing, ready to destroy
whatever did not conform. Soon it would destroy the wood, and the bluebells
would spring no more. All vulnerable things must perish under the rolling
and running of iron.
He thought with infinite tenderness of the woman. Poor forlorn thing,
she was nicer than she knew, and oh! so much too nice for the tough lot she
was in contact with. Poor thing, she too had some of the vulnerability of
the wild hyacinths, she wasn't all tough rubber-goods and platinum, like the
modern girl. And they would do her in! As sure as life, they would do her
in, as they do in all naturally tender life. Tender! Somewhere she was
tender, tender with a tenderness of the growing hyacinths, something that
has gone out of the celluloid women of today. But he would protect her with
his heart for a little while. For a little while, before the insentient iron
world and the Mammon of mechanized greed did them both in, her as well as
him.
He went home with his gun and his dog, to the dark cottage, lit the
lamp, started the fire, and ate his supper of bread and cheese, young onions
and beer. He was alone, in a silence he loved. His room was clean and tidy,
but rather stark. Yet the fire was bright, the hearth white, the petroleum
lamp hung bright over the table, with its white oil-cloth. He tried to read
a book about India, but tonight he could not read. He sat by the fire in his
shirt-sleeves, not smoking, but with a mug of beer in reach. And he thought
about Connie.
To tell the truth, he was sorry for what had happened, perhaps most for
her sake. He had a sense of foreboding. No sense of wrong or sin; he was
troubled by no conscience in that respect. He knew that conscience was
chiefly tear of society, or fear of oneself. He was not afraid of himself.
But he was quite consciously afraid of society, which he knew by instinct to
be a malevolent, partly-insane beast.
The woman! If she could be there with him, arid there were nobody else
in the world! The desire rose again, his penis began to stir like a live
bird. At the same time an oppression, a dread of exposing himself and her to
that outside Thing that sparkled viciously in the electric lights, weighed
down his shoulders. She, poor young thing, was just a young female creature
to him; but a young female creature whom he had gone into and whom he
desired again.
Stretching with the curious yawn of desire, for he had been alone and
apart from man or woman for four years, he rose and took his coat again, and
his gun, lowered the lamp and went out into the starry night, with the dog.
Driven by desire and by dread of the malevolent Thing outside, he made his
round in the wood, slowly, softly. He loved the darkness arid folded himself
into it. It fitted the turgidity of his desire which, in spite of all, was
like a riches; the stirring restlessness of his penis, the stirring fire in
his loins! Oh, if only there were other men to be with, to fight that
sparkling electric Thing outside there, to preserve the tenderness of life,
the tenderness of women, and the natural riches of desire. If only there
were men to fight side by side with! But the men were all outside there,
glorying in the Thing, triumphing or being trodden down in the rush of
mechanized greed or of greedy mechanism.
Constance, for her part, had hurried across the park, home, almost
without thinking. As yet she had no afterthought. She would be in time for
dinner.
She was annoyed to find the doors fastened, however, so that she had to
ring. Mrs Bolton opened.
`Why there you are, your Ladyship! I was beginning to wonder if you'd
gone lost!' she said a little roguishly. `Sir Clifford hasn't asked for you,
though; he's got Mr Linley in with him, talking over something. It looks as
if he'd stay to dinner, doesn't it, my Lady?'
`It does rather,' said Connie.
`Shall I put dinner back a quarter of an hour? That would give you time
to dress in comfort.'
`Perhaps you'd better.'
Mr Linley was the general manager of the collieries, an elderly man
from the north, with not quite enough punch to suit Clifford; not up to
post-war conditions, nor post-war colliers either, with their `ca' canny'
creed. But Connie liked Mr Linley, though she was glad to be spared the
toadying of his wife.
Linley stayed to dinner, and Connie was the hostess men liked so much,
so modest, yet so attentive and aware, with big, wide blue eyes arid a soft
repose that sufficiently hid what she was really thinking. Connie had played
this woman so much, it was almost second nature to her; but still, decidedly
second. Yet it was curious how everything disappeared from her consciousness
while she played it.
She waited patiently till she could go upstairs and think her own
thoughts. She was always waiting, it seemed to be her forte.
Once in her room, however, she felt still vague and confused. She
didn't know what to think. What sort of a man was he, really? Did he really
like her? Not much, she felt. Yet he was kind. There was something, a sort
of warm naive kindness, curious and sudden, that almost opened her womb to
him. But she felt he might be kind like that to any woman. Though even so,
it was curiously soothing, comforting. And he was a passionate man,
wholesome and passionate. But perhaps he wasn't quite individual enough; he
might be the same with any woman as he had been with her. It really wasn't
personal. She was only really a female to him.
But perhaps that was better. And after all, he was kind to the female
in her, which no man had ever been. Men were very kind to the person she
was, but rather cruel to the female, despising her or ignoring her
altogether. Men were awfully kind to Constance Reid or to Lady Chatterley;
but not to her womb they weren't kind. And he took no notice of Constance or
of Lady Chatterley; he just softly stroked her loins or her breasts.
She went to the wood next day. It was a grey, still afternoon, with the
dark-green dogs-mercury spreading under the hazel copse, and all the trees
making a silent effort to open their buds. Today she could almost feel it in
her own body, the huge heave of the sap in the massive trees, upwards, up,
up to the bud-a, there to push into little flamey oak-leaves, bronze as
blood. It was like a ride running turgid upward, and spreading on the sky.
She came to the clearing, but he was not there. She had only half
expected him. The pheasant chicks were running lightly abroad, light as
insects, from the coops where the fellow hens clucked anxiously. Connie sat
and watched them, and waited. She only waited. Even the chicks she hardly
saw. She waited.
The time passed with dream-like slowness, and he did not come. She had
only half expected him. He never came in the afternoon. She must go home to
tea. But she had to force herself to leave.
As she went home, a fine drizzle of rain fell.
`Is it raining again?' said Clifford, seeing her shake her hat.
`Just drizzle.'
She poured tea in silence, absorbed in a sort of obstinacy. She did
want to see the keeper today, to see if it were really real. If it were
really real.
`Shall I read a little to you afterwards?' said Clifford.
She looked at him. Had he sensed something?
`The spring makes me feel queer---I thought I might rest a little,' she
said.
`Just as you like. Not feeling really unwell, are you?'
`No! Only rather tired---with the spring. Will you have Mrs Bolton to
play something with you?'
`No! I think I'll listen in.'
She heard the curious satisfaction in his voice. She went upstairs to
her bedroom. There she heard the loudspeaker begin to bellow, in an
idiotically velveteen-genteel sort of voice, something about a series of
street-cries, the very cream of genteel affectation imitating old criers.
She pulled on her old violet coloured mackintosh, and slipped out of the
house at the side door.
The drizzle of rain was like a veil over the world, mysterious, hushed,
not cold. She got very warm as she hurried across the park. She had to open
her light waterproof.
The wood was silent, still and secret in the evening drizzle of rain,
full of the mystery of eggs and half-open buds, half unsheathed flowers. In
the dimness of it all trees glistened naked and dark as if they had
unclothed themselves, and the green things on earth seemed to hum with
greenness.
There was still no one at the clearing. The chicks had nearly all gone
under the mother-hens, only one or two last adventurous ones still dibbed
about in the dryness under the straw roof shelter. And they were doubtful of
themselves.
So! He still had not been. He was staying away on purpose. Or perhaps
something was wrong. Perhaps she should go to the cottage and see.
But she was born to wait. She opened the hut with her key. It was all
tidy, the corn put in the bin, the blankets folded on the shelf, the straw
neat in a corner; a new bundle of straw. The hurricane lamp hung on a nail.
The table and chair had been put back where she had lain.
She sat down on a stool in the doorway. How still everything was! The
fine rain blew very softly, filmily, but the wind made no noise. Nothing
made any sound. The trees stood like powerful beings, dim, twilit, silent
and alive. How alive everything was!
Night was drawing near again; she would have to go. He was avoiding
her.
But suddenly he came striding into the clearing, in his black oilskin
jacket like a chauffeur, shining with wet. He glanced quickly at the hut,
half-saluted, then veered aside and went on to the coops. There he crouched
in silence, looking carefully at everything, then carefully shutting the
hens and chicks up safe against the night.
At last he came slowly towards her. She still sat on her stool. He
stood before her under the porch.
`You come then,' he said, using the intonation of the dialect.
`Yes,' she said, looking up at him. `You're late!'
`Ay!' he replied, looking away into the wood.
She rose slowly, drawing aside her stool.
`Did you want to come in?' she asked.
He looked down at her shrewdly.
`Won't folks be thinkin' somethink, you comin' here every night?' he
said.
`Why?' She looked up at him, at a loss. `I said I'd come. Nobody
knows.'
`They soon will, though,' he replied. `An' what then?'
She was at a loss for an answer.
`Why should they know?' she said.
`Folks always does,' he said fatally.
Her lip quivered a little.
`Well I can't help it,' she faltered.
`Nay,' he said. `You can help it by not comin'---if yer want to,' he
added, in a lower tone.
`But I don't want to,' she murmured.
He looked away into the wood, and was silent.
`But what when folks finds out?' he asked at last. `Think about it!
Think how lowered you'll feel, one of your husband's servants.'
She looked up at his averted face.
`Is it,' she stammered, `is it that you don't want me?'
`Think!' he said. `Think what if folks find out Sir Clifford an'
a'---an' everybody talkin'---'
`Well, I can go away.'
`Where to?'
`Anywhere! I've got money of my own. My mother left me twenty thousand
pounds in trust, and I know Clifford can't touch it. I can go away.'
`But 'appen you don't want to go away.'
`Yes, yes! I don't care what happens to me.'
`Ay, you think that! But you'll care! You'll have to care, everybody
has. You've got to remember your Ladyship is carrying on with a game-keeper.
It's not as if I was a gentleman. Yes, you'd care. You'd care.'
`I shouldn't. What do I care about my ladyship! I hate it really. I
feel people are jeering every time they say it. And they are, they are! Even
you jeer when you say it.'
`Me!'
For the first time he looked straight at her, and into her eyes. `I
don't jeer at you,' he said.
As he looked into her eyes she saw his own eyes go dark, quite dark,
the pupils dilating.
`Don't you care about a' the risk?' he asked in a husky voice. `You
should care. Don't care when it's too late!'
There was a curious warning pleading in his voice.
`But I've nothing to lose,' she said fretfully. `If you knew what it
is, you'd think I'd be glad to lose it. But are you afraid for yourself?'
`Ay!' he said briefly. `I am. I'm afraid. I'm afraid. I'm afraid O'
things.'
`What things?' she asked.
He gave a curious backward jerk of his head, indicating the outer
world.
`Things! Everybody! The lot of 'em.'
Then he bent down and suddenly kissed her unhappy face.
`Nay, I don't care,' he said. `Let's have it, an' damn the rest. But if
you was to feel sorry you'd ever done it---!'
`Don't put me off,' she pleaded.
He put his fingers to her cheek and kissed her again suddenly.
`Let me come in then,' he said softly. `An' take off your mackintosh.'
He hung up his gun, slipped out of his wet leather jacket, and reached
for the blankets.
`I brought another blanket,' he said, `so we can put one over us if you
like.'
`I can't stay long,' she said. `Dinner is half-past seven.'
He looked at her swiftly, then at his watch.
`All right,' he said.
He shut the door, and lit a tiny light in the hanging hurricane lamp.
`One time we'll have a long time,' he said.
He put the blankets down carefully, one folded for her head. Then he
sat down a moment on the stool, and drew her to him, holding her close with
one arm, feeling for her body with his free hand. She heard the catch of his
intaken breath as he found her. Under her frail petticoat she was naked.
`Eh! what it is to touch thee!' he said, as his finger caressed the
delicate, warm, secret skin of her waist and hips. He put his face down and
rubbed his cheek against her belly and against her thighs again and again.
And again she wondered a little over the sort of rapture it was to him. She
did not understand the beauty he found in her, through touch upon her living
secret body, almost the ecstasy of beauty. For passion alone is awake to it.
And when passion is dead, or absent, then the magnificent throb of beauty is
incomprehensible and even a little despicable; warm, live beauty of contact,
so much deeper than the beauty of vision. She felt the glide of his cheek on
her thighs and belly and buttocks, and the close brushing of his moustache
and his soft thick hair, and her knees began to quiver. Far down in her she
felt a new stirring, a new nakedness emerging. And she was half afraid. Half
she wished he would not caress her so. He was encompassing her somehow. Yet
she was waiting, waiting.
And when he came into her, with an intensification of relief and
consummation that was pure peace to him, still she was waiting. She felt
herself a little left out. And she knew, partly it was her own fault. She
willed herself into this separateness. Now perhaps she was condemned to it.
She lay still, feeling his motion within her, his deep-sunk intentness, the
sudden quiver of him at the springing of his seed, then the slow-subsiding
thrust. That thrust of the buttocks, surely it was a little ridiculous. If
you were a woman, and a part in all the business, surely that thrusting of
the man's buttocks was supremely ridiculous. Surely the man was intensely
ridiculous in this posture and this act!
But she lay still, without recoil. Even when he had finished, she did
not rouse herself to get a grip on her own satisfaction, as she had done
with Michaelis; she lay still, and the tears slowly filled and ran from her
eyes.
He lay still, too. But he held her close and tried to cover her poor
naked legs with his legs, to keep them warm. He lay on her with a close,
undoubting warmth.
`Are yer cold?' he asked, in a soft, small voice, as if she were close,
so close. Whereas she was left out, distant.
`No! But I must go,' she said gently.
He sighed, held her closer, then relaxed to rest again.
He had not guessed her tears. He thought she was there with him.
`I must go,' she repeated.
He lifted himself kneeled beside her a moment, kissed the inner side of
her thighs, then drew down her skirts, buttoning his own clothes unthinking,
not even turning aside, in the faint, faint light from the lantern.
`Tha mun come ter th' cottage one time,' he said, looking down at her
with a warm, sure, easy face.
But she lay there inert, and was gazing up at him thinking: Stranger!
Stranger! She even resented him a little.
He put on his coat and looked for his hat, which had fallen, then he
slung on his gun.
`Come then!' he said, looking down at her with those warm, peaceful
sort of eyes.
She rose slowly. She didn't want to go. She also rather resented
staying. He helped her with her thin waterproof and saw she was tidy.
Then he opened the door. The outside was quite dark. The faithful dog
under the porch stood up with pleasure seeing him. The drizzle of rain
drifted greyly past upon the darkness. It was quite dark.
`Ah mun ta'e th' lantern,' he said. `The'll be nob'dy.'
He walked just before her in the narrow path, swinging the hurricane
lamp low, revealing the wet grass, the black shiny tree-roots like snakes,
wan flowers. For the rest, all was grey rain-mist and complete darkness.
`Tha mun come to the cottage one time,' he said, `shall ta? We might as
well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb.'
It puzzled her, his queer, persistent wanting her, when there was
nothing between them, when he never really spoke to her, and in spite of
herself she resented the dialect. His `tha mun come' seemed not addressed to
her, but some common woman. She recognized the foxglove leaves of the riding
and knew, more or less, where they were.
`It's quarter past seven,' he said, `you'll do it.' He had changed his
voice, seemed to feel her distance. As they turned the last bend in the
riding towards the hazel wall and the gate, he blew out the light. `We'll
see from here,' be said, taking her gently by the arm.
But it was difficult, the earth under their feet was a mystery, but he
felt his way by tread: he was used to it. At the gate he gave her his
electric torch. `It's a bit lighter in the park,' he said; `but take it for
fear you get off th' path.'
It was true, there seemed a ghost-glimmer of greyness in the open space
of the park. He suddenly drew her to him and whipped his hand under her
dress again, feeling her warm body with his wet, chill hand.
`I could die for the touch of a woman like thee,' he said in his
throat. `If tha' would stop another minute.'
She felt the sudden force of his wanting her again.
`No, I must run,' she said, a little wildly.
`Ay,' he replied, suddenly changed, letting her go.
She turned away, and on the instant she turned back to him saying:
`Kiss me.'
He bent over her indistinguishable and kissed her on the left eye. She
held her mouth and he softly kissed it, but at once drew away. He hated
mouth kisses.
`I'll come tomorrow,' she said, drawing away; `if I can,' she added.
`Ay! not so late,' he replied out of the darkness. Already she could
not see him at all.
`Goodnight,' she said.
`Goodnight, your Ladyship,' his voice.
She stopped and looked back into the wet dark. She could just see the
bulk of him. `Why did you say that?' she said.
`Nay,' he replied. `Goodnight then, run!'
She plunged on in the dark-grey tangible night. She found the side-door
open, and slipped into her room unseen. As she closed the door the gong
sounded, but she would take her bath all the same---she must take her bath.
`But I won't be late any more,' she said to herself; `it's too annoying.'
The next day she did not go to the wood. She went instead with Clifford
to Uthwaite. He could occasionally go out now in the car, and had got a
strong young man as chauffeur, who could help him out of the car if need be.
He particularly wanted to see his godfather, Leslie Winter, who lived at
Shipley Hall, not far from Uthwaite. Winter was an elderly gentleman now,
wealthy, one of the wealthy coal-owners who had had their hey-day in King
Edward's time. King Edward had stayed more than once at Shipley, for the
shooting. It was a handsome old stucco hall, very elegantly appointed, for
Winter was a bachelor and prided himself on his style; but the place was
beset by collieries. Leslie Winter was attached to Clifford, but personally
did not entertain a great respect for him, because of the photographs in
illustrated papers and the literature. The old man was a buck of the King
Edward school, who thought life was life and the scribbling fellows were
something else. Towards Connie the Squire was always rather gallant; he
thought her an attractive demure maiden and rather wasted on Clifford, and
it was a thousand pities she stood no chance of bringing forth an heir to
Wragby. He himself had no heir.
Connie wondered what he would say if he knew that Clifford's
game-keeper had been having intercourse with her, and saying to her `tha mun
come to th' cottage one time.' He would detest and despise her, for he had
come almost to hate the shoving forward of the working classes. A man of her
own class he would not mind, for Connie was gifted from nature with this
appearance of demure, submissive maidenliness, and perhaps it was part of
her nature. Winter called her `dear child' and gave her a rather lovely
miniature of an eighteenth-century lady, rather against her will.
But Connie was preoccupied with her affair with the keeper. After all,
Mr Winter, who was really a gentleman and a man of the world, treated her as
a person and a discriminating individual; he did not lump her together with
all the rest of his female womanhood in his `thee' and `tha'.
She did not go to the wood that day nor the next, nor the day
following. She did not go so long as she felt, or imagined she felt, the man
waiting for her, wanting her. But the fourth day she was terribly unsettled
and uneasy. She still refused to go to the wood and open her thighs once
more to the man. She thought of all the things she might do---drive to
Sheffield, pay visits, and the thought of all these things was repellent. At
last she decided to take a walk, not towards the wood, but in the opposite
direction; she would go to Marehay, through the little iron gate in the
other side of the park fence. It was a quiet grey day of spring, almost
warm. She walked on unheeding, absorbed in thoughts she was not even
conscious of She was not really aware of anything outside her, till she was
startled by the loud barking of the dog at Marehay Farm. Marehay Farm! Its
pastures ran up to Wragby park fence, so they were neighbours, but it was
some time since Connie had called.
`Bell!' she said to the big white bull-terrier. `Bell! have you
forgotten me? Don't you know me?' She was afraid of dogs, and Bell stood
back and bellowed, and she wanted to pass through the farmyard on to the
warren path.
Mrs Flint appeared. She was a woman of Constance's own age, had been a
school-teacher, but Connie suspected her of being rather a false little
thing.
`Why, it's Lady Chatterley! Why!' And Mrs Flint's eyes glowed again,
and she flushed like a young girl. `Bell, Bell. Why! barking at Lady
Chatterley! Bell! Be quiet!' She darted forward and slashed at the dog with
a white cloth she held in her hand, then came forward to Connie.
`She used to know me,' said Connie, shaking hands. The Flints were
Chatterley tenants.
`Of course she knows your Ladyship! She's just showing off,' said Mrs
Flint, glowing and looking up with a sort of flushed confusion, `but it's so
long since she's seen you. I do hope you are better.'
`Yes thanks, I'm all right.'
`We've hardly seen you all winter. Will you come in and look at the
baby?'
`Well!' Connie hesitated. `Just for a minute.'
Mrs Flint flew wildly in to tidy up, and Connie came slowly after her,
hesitating in the rather dark kitchen where the kettle was boiling by the
fire. Back came Mrs Flint.
`I do hope you'll excuse me,' she said. `Will you come in here?'
They went into the living-room, where a baby was sitting on the rag
hearth rug, and the table was roughly set for tea. A young servant-girl
backed down the passage, shy and awkward.
The baby was a perky little thing of about a year, with red hair like
its father, and cheeky pale-blue eyes. It was a girl, and not to be daunted.
It sat among cushions and was surrounded with rag dolls and other toys in
modern excess.
`Why, what a dear she is!' said Connie, `and how she's grown! A big
girl! A big girl!'
She had given it a shawl when it was born, and celluloid ducks for
Christmas.
`There, Josephine! Who's that come to see you? Who's this, Josephine?
Lady Chatterley---you know Lady Chatterley, don't you?'
The queer pert little mite gazed cheekily at Connie. Ladyships were
still all the same to her.
`Come! Will you come to me?' said Connie to the baby.
The baby didn't care one way or another, so Connie picked her up and
held her in her lap. How warm and lovely it was to hold a child in one's
lap, and the soft little arms, the unconscious cheeky little legs.
`I was just having a rough cup of tea all by myself. Luke's gone to
market, so I can have it when I like. Would you care for a cup, Lady
Chatterley? I don't suppose it's what you're used to, but if you would...'
Connie would, though she didn't want to be reminded of what she was
used to. There was a great relaying of the table, and the best cups brought
and the best tea-pot.
`If only you wouldn't take any trouble,' said Connie.
But if Mrs Flint took no trouble, where was the fun! So Connie played
with the child and was amused by its little female dauntlessness, and got a
deep voluptuous pleasure out of its soft young warmth. Young life! And so
fearless! So fearless, because so defenceless. All the other people, so
narrow with fear!
She had a cup of tea, which was rather strong, and very good bread and
butter, and bottled damsons. Mrs Flint flushed and glowed and bridled with
excitement, as if Connie were some gallant knight. And they had a real
female chat, and both of them enjoyed it.
`It's a poor little tea, though,' said Mrs Flint.
`It's much nicer than at home,' said Connie truthfully.
`Oh-h!' said Mrs Flint, not believing, of course.
But at last Connie rose.
`I must go,' she said. `My husband has no idea where I am. He'll be
wondering all kinds of things.'
`He'll never think you're here,' laughed Mrs Flint excitedly. `He'll be
sending the crier round.'
`Goodbye, Josephine,' said Connie, kissing the baby and ruffling its
red, wispy hair.
Mrs Flint insisted on opening the locked and barred front door. Connie
emerged in the farm's little front garden, shut in by a privet hedge. There
were two rows of auriculas by the path, very velvety and rich.
`Lovely auriculas,' said Connie.
`Recklesses, as Luke calls them,' laughed Mrs Flint. `Have some.'
And eagerly she picked the velvet and primrose flowers.
`Enough! Enough!' said Connie.
They came to the little garden gate.
`Which way were you going?' asked Mrs Flint.
`By the Warren.'
`Let me see! Oh yes, the cows are in the gin close. But they're not up
yet. But the gate's locked, you'll have to climb.'
`I can climb,' said Connie.
`Perhaps I can just go down the close with you.'
They went down the poor, rabbit-bitten pasture. Birds were whistling in
wild evening triumph in the wood. A man was calling up the last cows, which
trailed slowly over the path-worn pasture.
`They're late, milking, tonight,' said Mrs Flint severely. `They know
Luke won't be back till after dark.'
They came to the fence, beyond which the young fir-wood bristled dense.
There was a little gate, but it was locked. In the grass on the inside stood
a bottle, empty.
`There's the keeper's empty bottle for his milk,' explained Mrs Flint.
`We bring it as far as here for him, and then he fetches it himself'
`When?' said Connie.
`Oh, any time he's around. Often in the morning. Well, goodbye Lady
Chatterley! And do come again. It was so lovely having you.'
Connie climbed the fence into the narrow path between the dense,
bristling young firs. Mrs Flint went running back across the pasture, in a
sun-bonnet, because she was really a schoolteacher. Constance didn't like
this dense new part of the wood; it seemed gruesome and choking. She hurried
on with her head down, thinking of the Flints' baby. It was a dear little
thing, but it would be a bit bow-legged like its father. It showed already,
but perhaps it would grow out of it. How warm and fulfilling somehow to have
a baby, and how Mrs Flint had showed it off! She had something anyhow that
Connie hadn't got, and apparently couldn't have. Yes, Mrs Flint had flaunted
her motherhood. And Connie had been just a bit, just a little bit jealous.
She couldn't help it.
She started out of her muse, and gave a little cry of fear. A man was
there.
It was the keeper. He stood in the path like Balaam's ass, barring her
way.
`How's this?' he said in surprise.
`How did you come?' she panted.
`How did you? Have you been to the hut?'
`No! No! I went to Marehay.'
He looked at her curiously, searchingly, and she hung her head a little
guiltily.
`And were you going to the hut now?' he asked rather sternly. `No! I
mustn't. I stayed at Marehay. No one knows where I am. I'm late. I've got to
run.'
`Giving me the slip, like?' he said, with a faint ironic smile. `No!
No. Not that. Only---'
`Why, what else?' he said. And he stepped up to her and put his arms
around her. She felt the front of his body terribly near to her, and alive.
`Oh, not now, not now,' she cried, trying to push him away.
`Why not? It's only six o'clock. You've got half an hour. Nay! Nay! I
want you.'
He held her fast and she felt his urgency. Her old instinct was to
fight for her freedom. But something else in her was strange and inert and
heavy. His body was urgent against her, and she hadn't the heart any more to
fight.
He looked around.
`Come---come here! Through here,' he said, looking penetratingly into
the dense fir-trees, that were young and not more than half-grown.
He looked back at her. She saw his eyes, tense and brilliant, fierce,
not loving. But her will had left her. A strange weight was on her limbs.
She was giving way. She was giving up.
He led her through the wall of prickly trees, that were difficult to
come through, to a place where was a little space and a pile of dead boughs.
He threw one or two dry ones down, put his coat and waistcoat over them, and
she had to lie down there under the boughs of the tree, like an animal,
while he waited, standing there in his shirt and breeches, watching her with
haunted eyes. But still he was provident---he made her lie properly,
properly. Yet he broke the band of her underclothes, for she did not help
him, only lay inert.
He too had bared the front part of his body and she felt his naked
flesh against her as he came into her. For a moment he was still inside her,
turgid there and quivering. Then as he began to move, in the sudden helpless
orgasm, there awoke in her new strange thrills rippling inside her.
Rippling, rippling, rippling, like a flapping overlapping of soft flames,
soft as feathers, running to points of brilliance, exquisite, exquisite and
melting her all molten inside. It was like bells rippling up and up to a
culmination. She lay unconscious of the wild little cries she uttered at the
last. But it was over too soon, too soon, and she could no longer force her
own conclusion with her own activity. This was different, different. She
could do nothing. She could no longer harden and grip for her own
satisfaction upon him. She could only wait, wait and moan in spirit as she
felt him withdrawing, withdrawing and contracting, coming to the terrible
moment when he would slip out of her and be gone. Whilst all her womb was
open and soft, and softly clamouring, like a sea-anemone under the tide,
clamouring for him to come in again and make a fulfilment for her. She clung
to him unconscious iii passion, and he never quite slipped from her, and she
felt the soft bud of him within her stirring, and strange rhythms flushing
up into her with a strange rhythmic growing motion, swelling and swelling
till it filled all her cleaving consciousness, and then began again the
unspeakable motion that was not really motion, but pure deepening whirlpools
of sensation swirling deeper and deeper through all her tissue and
consciousness, till she was one perfect concentric fluid of feeling, and she
lay there crying in unconscious inarticulate cries. The voice out of the
uttermost night, the life! The man heard it beneath him with a kind of awe,
as his life sprang out into her. And as it subsided, he subsided too and lay
utterly still, unknowing, while her grip on him slowly relaxed, and she lay
inert. And they lay and knew nothing, not even of each other, both lost.
Till at last he began to rouse and become aware of his defenceless
nakedness, and she was aware that his body was loosening its clasp on her.
He was coming apart; but in her breast she felt she could not bear him to
leave her uncovered. He must cover her now for ever.
But he drew away at last, and kissed her and covered her over, and
began to cover himself She lay looking up to the boughs of the tree, unable
as yet to move. He stood and fastened up his breeches, looking round. All
was dense and silent, save for the awed dog that lay with its paws against
its nose. He sat down again on the brushwood and took Connie's hand in
silence.
She turned and looked at him. `We came off together that time,' he
said.
She did not answer.
`It's good when it's like that. Most folks live their lives through and
they never know it,' he said, speaking rather dreamily.
She looked into his brooding face.
`Do they?' she said. `Are you glad?'
He looked back into her eyes. `Glad,' he said, `Ay, but never mind.' He
did not want her to talk. And he bent over her and kissed her, and she felt,
so he must kiss her for ever.
At last she sat up.
`Don't people often come off together?' she asked with naive curiosity.
`A good many of them never. You can see by the raw look of them.' He
spoke unwittingly, regretting he had begun.
`Have you come off like that with other women?'
He looked at her amused.
`I don't know,' he said, `I don't know.'
And she knew he would never tell her anything he didn't want to tell
her. She watched his face, and the passion for him moved in her bowels. She
resisted it as far as she could, for it was the loss of herself to herself.
He put on his waistcoat and his coat, and pushed a way through to the
path again.
The last level rays of the sun touched the wood. `I won't come with
you,' he said; `better not.'
She looked at him wistfully before she turned. His dog was waiting so
anxiously for him to go, and he seemed to have nothing whatever to say.
Nothing left.
Connie went slowly home, realizing the depth of the other thing in her.
Another self was alive in her, burning molten and soft in her womb and
bowels, and with this self she adored him. She adored him till her knees
were weak as she walked. In her womb and bowels she was flowing and alive
now and vulnerable, and helpless in adoration of him as the most naive
woman. It feels like a child, she said to herself it feels like a child in
me. And so it did, as if her womb, that had always been shut, had opened and
filled with new life, almost a burden, yet lovely.
`If I had a child!' she thought to herself; `if I had him inside me as
a child!'---and her limbs turned molten at the thought, and she realized the
immense difference between having a child to oneself and having a child to a
man whom one's bowels yearned towards. The former seemed in a sense
ordinary: but to have a child to a man whom one adored in one's bowels and
one's womb, it made her feel she was very different from her old self and as
if she was sinking deep, deep to the centre of all womanhood and the sleep
of creation.
It was not the passion that was new to her, it was the yearning
adoration. She knew she had always feared it, for it left her helpless; she
feared it still, lest if she adored him too much, then she would lose
herself become effaced, and she did not want to be effaced, a slave, like a
savage woman. She must not become a slave. She feared her adoration, yet she
would not at once fight against it. She knew she could fight it. She had a
devil of self-will in her breast that could have fought the full soft
heaving adoration of her womb and crushed it. She could even now do it, or
she thought so, and she could then take up her passion with her own will.
Ah yes, to be passionate like a Bacchante, like a Bacchanal fleeing
through the woods, to call on Iacchos, the bright phallos that had no
independent personality behind it, but was pure god-servant to the woman!
The man, the individual, let him not dare intrude. He was but a
temple-servant, the bearer and keeper of the bright phallos, her own.
So, in the flux of new awakening, the old hard passion flamed in her
for a time, and the man dwindled to a contemptible object, the mere
phallos-bearer, to be torn to pieces when his service was performed. She
felt the force of the Bacchae in her limbs and her body, the woman gleaming
and rapid, beating down the male; but while she felt this, her heart was
heavy. She did not want it, it was known and barren, birthless; the
adoration was her treasure.
It was so fathomless, so soft, so deep and so unknown. No, no, she
would give up her hard bright female power; she was weary of it, stiffened
with it; she would sink in the new bath of life, in the depths of her womb
and her bowels that sang the voiceless song of adoration. It was early yet
to begin to fear the man.
`I walked over by Marehay, and I had tea with Mrs Flint,' she said to
Clifford. `I wanted to see the baby. It's so adorable, with hair like red
cobwebs. Such a dear! Mr Flint had gone to market, so she and I and the baby
had tea together. Did you wonder where I was?'
`Well, I wondered, but I guessed you had dropped in somewhere to tea,'
said Clifford jealously. With a sort of second sight he sensed something new
in her, something to him quite incomprehensible, hut he ascribed it to the
baby. He thought that all that ailed Connie was that she did not have a
baby, automatically bring one forth, so to speak.
`I saw you go across the park to the iron gate, my Lady,' said Mrs
Bolton; `so I thought perhaps you'd called at the Rectory.'
`I nearly did, then I turned towards Marehay instead.'
The eyes of the two women met: Mrs Bolton's grey and bright and
searching; Connie's blue and veiled and strangely beautiful. Mrs Bolton was
almost sure she had a lover, yet how could it be, and who could it be? Where
was there a man?
`Oh, it's so good for you, if you go out and see a bit of company
sometimes,' said Mrs Bolton. `I was saying to Sir Clifford, it would do her
ladyship a world of good if she'd go out among people more.'
`Yes, I'm glad I went, and such a quaint dear cheeky baby, Clifford,'
said Connie. `It's got hair just like spider-webs, and bright orange, and
the oddest, cheekiest, pale-blue china eyes. Of course it's a girl, or it
wouldn't be so bold, bolder than any little Sir Francis Drake.'
`You're right, my Lady---a regular little Flint. They were always a
forward sandy-headed family,' said Mrs Bolton.
`Wouldn't you like to see it, Clifford? I've asked them to tea for you
to see it.'
`Who?' he asked, looking at Connie in great uneasiness. `Mrs Flint and
the baby, next Monday.'
`You can have them to tea up in your room,' he said.
`Why, don't you want to see the baby?' she cried.
`Oh, I'll see it, but I don't want to sit through a tea-time with
them.'
`Oh,' cried Connie, looking at him with wide veiled eyes.
She did not really see him, he was somebody else.
`You can have a nice cosy tea up in your room, my Lady, and Mrs Flint
will be more comfortable than if Sir Clifford was there,' said Mrs Bolton.
She was sure Connie had a lover, and something in her soul exulted. But
who was he? Who was he? Perhaps Mrs Flint would provide a clue.
Connie would not take her bath this evening. The sense of his flesh
touching her, his very stickiness upon her, was dear to her, and in a sense
holy.
Clifford was very uneasy. He would not let her go after dinner, and she
had wanted so much to be alone. She looked at him, but was curiously
submissive.
`Shall we play a game, or shall I read to you, or what shall it be?' he
asked uneasily.
`You read to me,' said Connie.
`What shall I read---verse or prose? Or drama?'
`Read Racine,' she said.
It had been one of his stunts in the past, to read Racine in the real
French grand manner, but he was rusty now, and a little self-conscious; he
really preferred the loudspeaker. But Connie was sewing, sewing a little
frock silk of primrose silk, cut out of one of her dresses, for Mrs Flint's
baby. Between coming home and dinner she had cut it out, and she sat in the
soft quiescent rapture of herself sewing, while the noise of the reading
went on.
Inside herself she could feel the humming of passion, like the
after-humming of deep bells.
Clifford said something to her about the Racine. She caught the sense
after the words had gone.
`Yes! Yes!' she said, looking up at him. `It is splendid.'
Again he was frightened at the deep blue blaze of her eyes, and of her
soft stillness, sitting there. She had never been so utterly soft and still.
She fascinated him helplessly, as if some perfume about her intoxicated him.
So he went on helplessly with his reading, and the throaty sound of the
French was like the wind in the chimneys to her. Of the Racine she heard not
one syllable.
She was gone in her own soft rapture, like a forest soughing with the
dim, glad moan of spring, moving into bud. She could feel in the same world
with her the man, the nameless man, moving on beautiful feet, beautiful in
the phallic mystery. And in herself in all her veins, she felt him and his
child. His child was in all her veins, like a twilight.
`For hands she hath none, nor eyes, nor feet, nor golden Treasure of
hair...'
She was like a forest, like the dark interlacing of the oakwood,
humming inaudibly with myriad unfolding buds. Meanwhile the birds of desire
were asleep in the vast interlaced intricacy of her body.
But Clifford's voice went on, clapping and gurgling with unusual
sounds. How extraordinary it was! How extraordinary he was, bent there over
the book, queer and rapacious and civilized, with broad shoulders and no
real legs! What a strange creature, with the sharp, cold inflexible will of
some bird, and no warmth, no warmth at all! One of those creatures of the
afterwards, that have no soul, but an extra-alert will, cold will. She
shuddered a little, afraid of him. But then, the soft warm flame of life was
stronger than he, and the real things were hidden from him.
The reading finished. She was startled. She looked up, and was more
startled still to see Clifford watching her with pale, uncanny eyes, like
hate.
`Thank you so much! You do read Racine beautifully!' she said softly.
`Almost as beautifully as you listen to him,' he said cruelly. `What
are you making?' he asked.
`I'm making a child's dress, for Mrs Flint's baby.'
He turned away. A child! A child! That was all her obsession.
`After all,' he said in a declamatory voice, `one gets all one wants
out of Racine. Emotions that are ordered and given shape are more important
than disorderly emotions.
She watched him with wide, vague, veiled eyes. `Yes, I'm sure they
are,' she said.
`The modern world has only vulgarized emotion by letting it loose. What
we need is classic control.'
`Yes,' she said slowly, thinking of him listening with vacant face to
the emotional idiocy of the radio. `People pretend to have emotions, and
they really feel nothing. I suppose that is being romantic.'
`Exactly!' he said.
As a matter of fact, he was tired. This evening had tired him. He would
rather have been with his technical books, or his pit-manager, or
listening-in to the radio.
Mrs Bolton came in with two glasses of malted milk: for Clifford, to
make him sleep, and for Connie, to fatten her again. It was a regular
night-cap she had introduced.
Connie was glad to go, when she had drunk her glass, and thankful she
needn't help Clifford to bed. She took his glass and put it on the tray,
then took the tray, to leave it outside.
`Goodnight Clifford! Do sleep well! The Racine gets into one like a
dream. Goodnight!'
She had drifted to the door. She was going without kissing him
goodnight. He watched her with sharp, cold eyes. So! She did not even kiss
him goodnight, after he had spent an evening reading to her. Such depths of
callousness in her! Even if the kiss was but a formality, it was on such
formalities that life depends. She was a Bolshevik, really. Her instincts
were Bolshevistic! He gazed coldly and angrily at the door whence she had
gone. Anger!
And again the dread of the night came on him. He was a network of
nerves, anden he was not braced up to work, and so full of energy: or when
he was not listening-in, and so utterly neuter: then he was haunted by
anxiety and a sense of dangerous impending void. He was afraid. And Connie
could keep the fear off him, if she would. But it was obvious she wouldn't,
she wouldn't. She was callous, cold and callous to all that he did for her.
He gave up his life for her, and she was callous to him. She only wanted her
own way. `The lady loves her will.'
Now it was a baby she was obsessed by. Just so that it should be her
own, all her own, and not his!
Clifford was so healthy, considering. He looked so well and ruddy in
the face, his shoulders were broad and strong, his chest deep, he had put on
flesh. And yet, at the same time, he was afraid of death. A terrible hollow
seemed to menace him somewhere, somehow, a void, and into this void his
energy would collapse. Energyless, he felt at times he was dead, really
dead.
So his rather prominent pale eyes had a queer look, furtive, and yet a
little cruel, so cold: and at the same time, almost impudent. It was a very
odd look, this look of impudence: as if he were triumphing over life in
spite of life. `Who knoweth the mysteries of the will---for it can triumph
even against the angels---'
But his dread was the nights when he could not sleep. Then it was awful
indeed, when annihilation pressed in on him on every side. Then it was
ghastly, to exist without having any life: lifeless, in the night, to exist.
But now he could ring for Mrs Bolton. And she would always come. That
was a great comfort. She would come in her dressing gown, with her hair in a
plait down her back, curiously girlish and dim, though the brown plait was
streaked with grey. And she would make him coffee or camomile tea, and she
would play chess or piquet with him. She had a woman's queer faculty of
playing even chess well enough, when she was three parts asleep, well enough
to make her worth beating. So, in the silent intimacy of the night, they
sat, or she sat and he lay on the bed, with the reading-lamp shedding its
solitary light on them, she almost gone in sleep, he almost gone in a sort
of fear, and they played, played together---then they had a cup of coffee
and a biscuit together, hardly speaking, in the silence of night, but being
a reassurance to one another.
And this night she was wondering who Lady Chatterley's lover was. And
she was thinking of her own Ted, so long dead, yet for her never quite dead.
And when she thought of him, the old, old grudge against the world rose up,
but especially against the masters, that they had killed him. They had not
really killed him. Yet, to her, emotionally, they had. And somewhere deep in
herself because of it, she was a nihilist, and really anarchic.
In her half-sleep, thoughts of her Ted and thoughts of Lady
Chatterley's unknown lover commingled, and then she felt she shared with the
other woman a great grudge against Sir Clifford and all he stood for. At the
same time she was playing piquet with him, and they were gambling sixpences.
And it was a source of satisfaction to be playing piquet with a baronet, and
even losing sixpences to him.
When they played cards, they always gambled. It made him forget
himself. And he usually won. Tonight too he was winning. So he would not go
to sleep till the first dawn appeared. Luckily it began to appear at half
past four or thereabouts.
Connie was in bed, and fast asleep all this time. But the keeper, too,
could not rest. He had closed the coops and made his round of the wood, then
gone home and eaten supper. But he did not go to bed. Instead he sat by the
fire and thought.
He thought of his boyhood in Tevershall, and of his five or six years
of married life. He thought of his wife, and always bitterly. She had seemed
so brutal. But he had not seen her now since 1915, in the spring when he
joined up. Yet there she was, not three miles away, and more brutal than
ever. He hoped never to see her again while he lived.
He thought of his life abroad, as a soldier. India, Egypt, then India
again: the blind, thoughtless life with the horses: the colonel who had
loved him and whom he had loved: the several years that he had been an
officer, a lieutenant with a very fair chance of being a captain. Then the
death of the colonel from pneumonia, and his own narrow escape from death:
his damaged health: his deep restlessness: his leaving the army and coming
back to England to be a working man again.
He was temporizing with life. He had thought he would be safe, at least
for a time, in this wood. There was no shooting as yet: he had to rear the
pheasants. He would have no guns to serve. He would be alone, and apart from
life, which was all he wanted. He had to have some sort of a background. And
this was his native place. There was even his mother, though she had never
meant very much to him. And he could go on in life, existing from day to
day, without connexion and without hope. For he did not know what to do with
himself.
He did not know what to do with himself. Since he had been an officer
for some years, and had mixed among the other officers and civil servants,
with their wives and families, he had lost all ambition to `get on'. There
was a toughness, a curious rubbernecked toughness and unlivingness about the
middle and upper classes, as he had known them, which just left him feeling
cold and different from them.
So, he had come back to his own class. To find there, what he had
forgotten during his absence of years, a pettiness and a vulgarity of manner
extremely distasteful. He admitted now at last, how important manner was. He
admitted, also, how important it was even to pretend not to care about the
halfpence and the small things of life. But among the common people there
was no pretence. A penny more or less on the bacon was worse than a change
in the Gospel. He could not stand it.
And again, there was the wage-squabble. Having lived among the owning
classes, he knew the utter futility of expecting any solution of the
wage-squabble. There was no solution, short of death. The only thing was not
to care, not to care about the wages.
Yet, if you were poor and wretched you had to care. Anyhow, it was
becoming the only thing they did care about. The care about money was like a
great cancer, eating away the individuals of all classes. He refused to care
about money.
And what then? What did life offer apart from the care of money?
Nothing.
Yet he could live alone, in the wan satisfaction of being alone, and
raise pheasants to be shot ultimately by fat men after breakfast. It was
futility, futility to the nth power.
But why care, why bother? And he had not cared nor bothered till now,
when this woman had come into his life. He was nearly ten years older than
she. And he was a thousand years older in experience, starting from the
bottom. The connexion between them was growing closer. He could see the day
when it would clinch up and they would have to make a life together. `For
the bonds of love are ill to loose!'
And what then? What then? Must he start again, with nothing to start
on? Must he entangle this woman? Must he have the horrible broil with her
lame husband? And also some sort of horrible broil with his own brutal wife,
who hated him? Misery! Lots of misery! And he was no longer young and merely
buoyant. Neither was he the insouciant sort. Every bitterness and every
ugliness would hurt him: and the woman!
But even if they got clear of Sir Clifford and of his own wife, even if
they got clear, what were they going to do? What was he, himself going to
do? What was he going to do with his life? For he must do something. He
couldn't be a mere hanger-on, on her money and his own very small pension.
It was the insoluble. He could only think of going to America, to try a
new air. He disbelieved in the dollar utterly. But perhaps, perhaps there
was something else.
He could not rest nor even go to bed. After sitting in a stupor of
bitter thoughts until midnight, he got suddenly from his chair and reached
for his coat and gun.
`Come on, lass,' he said to the dog. `We're best outside.'
It was a starry night, but moonless. He went on a slow, scrupulous,
soft-stepping and stealthy round. The only thing he had to contend with was
the colliers setting snares for rabbits, particularly the Stacks Gate
colliers, on the Marehay side. But it was breeding season, and even colliers
respected it a little. Nevertheless the stealthy beating of the round in
search of poachers soothed his nerves and took his mind off his thoughts.
But when he had done his slow, cautious beating of his bounds---it was
nearly a five-mile walk---he was tired. He went to the top of the knoll and
looked out. There was no sound save the noise, the faint shuffling noise
from Stacks Gate colliery, that never ceased working: and there were hardly
any lights, save the brilliant electric rows at the works. The world lay
darkly and fumily sleeping. It was half past two. But even in its sleep it
was an uneasy, cruel world, stirring with the noise of a train or some great
lorry on the road, and flashing with some rosy lightning flash from the
furnaces. It was a world of iron and coal, the cruelty of iron and the smoke
of coal, and the endless, endless greed that drove it all. Only greed, greed
stirring in its sleep.
It was cold, and he was coughing. A fine cold draught blew over the
knoll. He thought of the woman. Now he would have given all he had or ever
might have to hold her warm in his arms, both of them wrapped in one
blanket, and sleep. All hopes of eternity and all gain from the past he
would have given to have her there, to be wrapped warm with him in one
blanket, and sleep, only sleep. It seemed the sleep with the woman in his
arms was the only necessity.
He went to the hut, and wrapped himself in the blanket and lay on the
floor to sleep. But he could not, he was cold. And besides, he felt cruelly
his own unfinished nature. He felt his own unfinished condition of aloneness
cruelly. He wanted her, to touch her, to hold her fast against him in one
moment of completeness and sleep.
He got up again and went out, towards the park gates this time: then
slowly along the path towards the house. It was nearly four o'clock, still
clear and cold, but no sign of dawn. He was used to the dark, he could see
well.
Slowly, slowly the great house drew him, as a magnet. He wanted to be
near her. It was not desire, not that. It was the cruel sense of unfinished
aloneness, that needed a silent woman folded in his arms. Perhaps he could
find her. Perhaps he could even call her out to him: or find some way in to
her. For the need was imperious.
He slowly, silently climbed the incline to the hall. Then he came round
the great trees at the top of the knoll, on to the drive, which made a grand
sweep round a lozenge of grass in front of the entrance. He could already
see the two magnificent beeches which stood in this big level lozenge in
front of the house, detaching themselves darkly in the dark air.
There was the house, low and long and obscure, with one light burning
downstairs, in Sir Clifford's room. But which room she was in, the woman who
held the other end of the frail thread which drew him so mercilessly, that
he did not know.
He went a little nearer, gun in hand, and stood motionless on the
drive, watching the house. Perhaps even now he could find her, come at her
in some way. The house was not impregnable: he was as clever as burglars
are. Why not come to her?
He stood motionless, waiting, while the dawn faintly and imperceptibly
paled behind him. He saw the light in the house go out. But he did not see
Mrs Bolton come to the window and draw back the old curtain of dark-blue
silk, and stand herself in the dark room, looking out on the half-dark of
the approaching day, looking for the longed-for dawn, waiting, waiting for
Clifford to be really reassured that it was daybreak. For when he was sure
of daybreak, he would sleep almost at once.
She stood blind with sleep at the window, waiting. And as she stood,
she started, and almost cried out. For there was a man out there on the
drive, a black figure in the twilight. She woke up greyly, and watched, but
without making a sound to disturb Sir Clifford.
The daylight began to rustle into the world, and the dark figure seemed
to go smaller and more defined. She made out the gun and gaiters and baggy
jacket---it would be Oliver Mellors, the keeper. `Yes, for there was the dog
nosing around like a shadow, and waiting for him'!
And what did the man want? Did he want to rouse the house? What was he
standing there for, transfixed, looking up at the house like a love-sick
male dog outside the house where the bitch is?
Goodness! The knowledge went through Mrs Bolton like a shot. He was
Lady Chatterley's lover! He! He!
To think of it! Why, she, Ivy Bolton, had once been a tiny bit in love
with him herself. When he was a lad of sixteen and she a woman of
twenty-six. It was when she was studying, and he had helped her a lot with
the anatomy and things she had had to learn. He'd been a clever boy, had a
scholarship for Sheffield Grammar School, and learned French and things: and
then after all had become an overhead blacksmith shoeing horses, because he
was fond of horses, he said: but really because he was frightened to go out
and face the world, only he'd never admit it.
But he'd been a nice lad, a nice lad, had helped her a lot, so clever
at making things clear to you. He was quite as clever as Sir Clifford: and
always one for the women. More with women than men, they said.
Till he'd gone and married that Bertha Coutts, as if to spite himself.
Some people do marry to spite themselves, because they're disappointed of
something. And no wonder it had been a failure.---For years he was gone, all
the time of the war: and a lieutenant and all: quite the gentleman, really
quite the gentleman!---Then to come back to Tevershall and go as a
game-keeper! Really, some people can't take their chances when they've got
them! And talking broad Derbyshire again like the worst, when she, Ivy
Bolton, knew he spoke like any gentleman, really.
Well, well! So her ladyship had fallen for him! Well her ladyship
wasn't the first: there was something about him. But fancy! A Tevershall lad
born and bred, and she her ladyship in Wragby Hall! My word, that was a slap
back at the high-and-mighty Chatterleys!
But he, the keeper, as the day grew, had realized: it's no good! It's
no good trying to get rid of your own aloneness. You've got to stick to it
all your life. Only at times, at times, the gap will be filled in. At times!
But you have to wait for the times. Accept your own aloneness and stick to
it, all your life. And then accept the times when the gap is filled in, when
they come. But they've got to come. You can't force them.
With a sudden snap the bleeding desire that had drawn him after her
broke. He had broken it, because it must be so. There must be a coming
together on both sides. And if she wasn't coming to him, he wouldn't track
her down. He mustn't. He must go away, till she came.
He turned slowly, ponderingly, accepting again the isolation. He knew
it was better so. She must come to him: it was no use his trailing after
her. No use!
Mrs Bolton saw him disappear, saw his dog run after him.
`Well, well!' she said. `He's the one man I never thought of; and the
one man I might have thought of. He was nice to me when he was a lad, after
I lost Ted. Well, well! Whatever would he say if he knew!'
And she glanced triumphantly at the already sleeping Clifford, as she
stepped softly from the room.
Connie was sorting out one of the Wragby lumber rooms. There were
several: the house was a warren, and the family never sold anything. Sir
Geoffery's father had liked pictures and Sir Geoffery's mother had liked
cinquecento furniture. Sir Geoffery himself had liked old carved oak chests,
vestry chests. So it went on through the generations. Clifford collected
very modern pictures, at very moderate prices.
So in the lumber room there were bad Sir Edwin Landseers and pathetic
William Henry Hunt birds' nests: and other Academy stuff, enough to frighten
the daughter of an R.A. She determined to look through it one day, and clear
it all. And the grotesque furniture interested her.
Wrapped up carefully to preserve it from damage and dry-rot was the old
family cradle, of rosewood. She had to unwrap it, to look at it. It had a
certain charm: she looked at it a longtime.
`It's thousand pities it won't be called for,' sighed Mrs Bolton, who
was helping. `Though cradles like that are out of date nowadays.'
`It might be called for. I might have a child,' said Connie casually,
as if saying she might have a new hat.
`You mean if anything happened to Sir Clifford!' stammered Mrs Bolton.
`No! I mean as things are. It's only muscular paralysis with Sir
Clifford---it doesn't affect him,' said Connie, lying as naturally as
breathing.
Clifford had put the idea into her head. He had said: `Of course I may
have a child yet. I'm not really mutilated at all. The potency may easily
come back, even if the muscles of the hips and legs are paralysed. And then
the seed may be transferred.'
He really felt, when he had his periods of energy and worked so hard at
the question of the mines, as if his sexual potency were returning. Connie
had looked at him in terror. But she was quite quick-witted enough to use
his suggestion for her own preservation. For she would have a child if she
could: but not his.
Mrs Bolton was for a moment breathless, flabbergasted. Then she didn't
believe it: she saw in it a ruse. Yet doctors could do such things nowadays.
They might sort of graft seed.
`Well, my Lady, I only hope and pray you may. It would be lovely for
you: and for everybody. My word, a child in Wragby, what a difference it
would make!'
`Wouldn't it!' said Connie.
And she chose three R. A. pictures of sixty years ago, to send to the
Duchess of Shortlands for that lady's next charitable bazaar. She was called
`the bazaar duchess', and she always asked all the county to send things for
her to sell. She would be delighted with three framed R. A.s. She might even
call, on the strength of them. How furious Clifford was when she called!
But oh my dear! Mrs Bolton was thinking to herself. Is it Oliver
Mellors' child you're preparing us for? Oh my dear, that would be a
Tevershall baby in the Wragby cradle, my word! Wouldn't shame it, neither!
Among other monstrosities in this lumber room was a largish
blackjapanned box, excellently and ingeniously made some sixty or seventy
years ago, and fitted with every imaginable object. On top was a
concentrated toilet set: brushes, bottles, mirrors, combs, boxes, even three
beautiful little razors in safety sheaths, shaving-bowl and all. Underneath
came a sort of escritoire outfit: blotters, pens, ink-bottles, paper,
envelopes, memorandum books: and then a perfect sewing-outfit, with three
different sized scissors, thimbles, needles, silks and cottons, darning egg,
all of the very best quality and perfectly finished. Then there was a little
medicine store, with bottles labelled Laudanum, Tincture of Myrrh, Ess.
Cloves and so on: but empty. Everything was perfectly new, and the whole
thing, when shut up, was as big as a small, but fat weekend bag. And inside,
it fitted together like a puzzle. The bottles could not possibly have
spilled: there wasn't room.
The thing was wonderfully made and contrived, excellent craftsmanship
of the Victorian order. But somehow it was monstrous. Some Chatterley must
even have felt it, for the thing had never been used. It had a peculiar
soullessness.
Yet Mrs Bolton was thrilled.
`Look what beautiful brushes, so expensive, even the shaving brushes,
three perfect ones! No! and those scissors! They're the best that money
could buy. Oh, I call it lovely!'
`Do you?' said Connie. `Then you have it.'
`Oh no, my Lady!'
`Of course! It will only lie here till Doomsday. If you won't have it,
I'll send it to the Duchess as well as the pictures, and she doesn't deserve
so much. Do have it!'
`Oh, your Ladyship! Why, I shall never be able to thank you.'
`You needn't try,' laughed Connie.
And Mrs Bolton sailed down with the huge and very black box in her
arms, flushing bright pink in her excitement.
Mr Betts drove her in the trap to her house in the village, with the
box. And she had to have a few friends in, to show it: the school-mistress,
the chemist's wife, Mrs Weedon the undercashier's wife. They thought it
marvellous. And then started the whisper of Lady Chatterley's child.
`Wonders'll never cease!' said Mrs Weedon.
But Mrs Bolton was convinced, if it did come, it would be Sir
Clifford's child. So there!
Not long after, the rector said gently to Clifford:
`And may we really hope for an heir to Wragby? Ah, that would be the
hand of God in mercy, indeed!'
`Well! We may hope,' said Clifford, with a faint irony, and at the same
time, a certain conviction. He had begun to believe it really possible it
might even be his child.
Then one afternoon came Leslie Winter, Squire Winter, as everybody
called him: lean, immaculate, and seventy: and every inch a gentleman, as
Mrs Bolton said to Mrs Betts. Every millimetre indeed! And with his
old-fashioned, rather haw-haw! manner of speaking, he seemed more out of
date than bag wigs. Time, in her flight, drops these fine old feathers.
They discussed the collieries. Clifford's idea was, that his coal, even
the poor sort, could be made into hard concentrated fuel that would burn at
great heat if fed with certain damp, acidulated air at a fairly strong
pressure. It had long been observed that in a particularly strong, wet wind
the pit-bank burned very vivid, gave off hardly any fumes, and left a fine
powder of ash, instead of the slow pink gravel.
`But where will you find the proper engines for burning your fuel?'
asked Winter.
`I'll make them myself. And I'll use my fuel myself. And I'll sell
electric power. I'm certain I could do it.'
`If you can do it, then splendid, splendid, my dear boy. Haw! Splendid!
If I can be of any help, I shall be delighted. I'm afraid I am a little out
of date, and my collieries are like me. But who knows, when I'm gone, there
may be men like you. Splendid! It will employ all the men again, and you
won't have to sell your coal, or fail to sell it. A splendid idea, and I
hope it will be a success. If I had sons of my own, no doubt they would have
up-to-date ideas for Shipley: no doubt! By the way, dear boy, is there any
foundation to the rumour that we may entertain hopes of an heir to Wragby?'
`Is there a rumour?' asked Clifford.
`Well, my dear boy, Marshall from Fillingwood asked me, that's all I
can say about a rumour. Of course I wouldn't repeat it for the world, if
there were no foundation.'
`Well, Sir,' said Clifford uneasily, but with strange bright eyes.
`There is a hope. There is a hope.'
Winter came across the room and wrung Clifford's hand.
`My dear boy, my dear lad, can you believe what it means to me, to hear
that! And to hear you are working in the hopes of a son: and that you may
again employ every man at Tevershall. Ah, my boy! to keep up the level of
the race, and to have work waiting for any man who cares to work!---'
The old man was really moved.
Next day Connie was arranging tall yellow tulips in a glass vase.
`Connie,' said Clifford, `did you know there was a rumour that you are
going to supply Wragby with a son and heir?'
Connie felt dim with terror, yet she stood quite still, touching the
flowers.
`No!' she said. `Is it a joke? Or malice?'
He paused before he answered:
`Neither, I hope. I hope it may be a prophecy.'
Connie went on with her flowers.
`I had a letter from Father this morning,' She said. `He wants to know
if I am aware he has accepted Sir Alexander Cooper's Invitation for me for
July and August, to the Villa Esmeralda in Venice.'
`July and August?' said Clifford.
`Oh, I wouldn't stay all that time. Are you sure you wouldn't come?'
`I won't travel abroad,' said Clifford promptly. She took her flowers
to the window.
`Do you mind if I go?' she said. You know it was promised, for this
summer.
`For how long would you go?'
`Perhaps three weeks.'
There was silence for a time.
`Well,' said Clifford slowly, and a little gloomily. `I suppose I could
stand it for three weeks: if I were absolutely sure you'd want to come
back.'
`I should want to come back,' she said, with a quiet simplicity, heavy
with conviction. She was thinking of the other man.
Clifford felt her conviction, and somehow he believed her, he believed
it was for him. He felt immensely relieved, joyful at once.
`In that case,' he said,
`I think it would be all right, don't you?'
`I think so,' she said.
`You'd enjoy the change?' She looked up at him with strange blue eyes.
`I should like to see Venice again,' she said, `and to bathe from one
of the shingle islands across the lagoon. But you know I loathe the Lido!
And I don't fancy I shall like Sir Alexander Cooper and Lady Cooper. But if
Hilda is there, and we have a gondola of our own: yes, it will be rather
lovely. I do wish you'd come.'
She said it sincerely. She would so love to make him happy, in these
ways.
`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.
`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.
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!
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.
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.
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!', 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.
The church was away to the left among black trees. The car slid on
downhill, past the Miners' Arms. It had already passed the Wellington, the
Nelson, the Three Tuns, and the Sun, now it passed the Miners' Arms, then
the Mechanics' Hall, then the new and almost gaudy Miners' Welfare and so,
past a few new `villas', out into the blackened road between dark hedges and
dark green fields, towards Stacks Gate.
Tevershall! That was Tevershall! Merrie England! Shakespeare's England!
No, but the England of today, as Connie had realized since she had come to
live in it. It was producing a new race of mankind, over-conscious in the
money and social and political side, on the spontaneous, intuitive side
dead, but dead. Half-corpses, all of them: but with a terrible insistent
consciousness in the other half. There was something uncanny and underground
about it all. It was an under-world. And quite incalculable. How shall we
understand the reactions in half-corpses? When Connie saw the great lorries
full of steel-workers from Sheffield, weird, distorted smallish beings like
men, off for an excursion to Matlock, her bowels fainted and she thought: Ah
God, what has man done to man? What have the leaders of men been doing to
their fellow men? They have reduced them to less than humanness; and now
there can be no fellowship any more! It is just a nightmare.
She felt again in a wave of terror the grey, gritty hopelessness of it
all. With such creatures for the industrial masses, and the upper classes as
she knew them, there was no hope, no hope any more. Yet she was wanting a
baby, and an heir to Wragby! An heir to Wragby! She shuddered with dread.
Yet Mellors had come out of all this!---Yes, but he was as apart from
it all as she was. Even in him there was no fellowship left. It was dead.
The fellowship was dead. There was only apartness and hopelessness, as far
as all this was concerned. And this was England, the vast bulk of England:
as Connie knew, since she had motored from the centre of it.
The car was rising towards Stacks Gate. The rain was holding off, and
in the air came a queer pellucid gleam of May. The country rolled away in
long undulations, south towards the Peak, east towards Mansfield and
Nottingham. Connie was travelling South.
As she rose on to the high country, she could see on her left, on a
height above the rolling land, the shadowy, powerful bulk of Warsop Castle,
dark grey, with below it the reddish plastering of miners' dwellings,
newish, and below those the plumes of dark smoke and white steam from the
great colliery which put so many thousand pounds per annum into the pockets
of the Duke and the other shareholders. The powerful old castle was a ruin,
yet it hung its bulk on the low sky-line, over the black plumes and the
white that waved on the damp air below.
A turn, and they ran on the high level to Stacks Gate. Stacks Gate, as
seen from the highroad, was just a huge and gorgeous new hotel, the
Coningsby Arms, standing red and white and gilt in barbarous isolation off
the road. But if you looked, you saw on the left rows of handsome `modern'
dwellings, set down like a game of dominoes, with spaces and gardens, a
queer game of dominoes that some weird `masters' were playing on the
surprised earth. And beyond these blocks of dwellings, at the back, rose all
the astonishing and frightening overhead erections of a really modern mine,
chemical works and long galleries, enormous, and of shapes not before known
to man. The head-stock and pit-bank of the mine itself were insignificant
among the huge new installations. And in front of this, the game of dominoes
stood forever in a sort of surprise, waiting to be played.
This was Stacks Gate, new on the face of the earth, since the war. But
as a matter of fact, though even Connie did not know it, downhill half a
mile below the `hotel' was old Stacks Gate, with a little old colliery and
blackish old brick dwellings, and a chapel or two and a shop or two and a
little pub or two.
But that didn't count any more. The vast plumes of smoke and vapour
rose from the new works up above, and this was now Stacks Gate: no chapels,
no pubs, even no shops. Only the great works', which are the modern Olympia
with temples to all the gods; then the model dwellings: then the hotel. The
hotel in actuality was nothing but a miners' pub though it looked
first-classy.
Even since Connie's arrival at Wragby this new place had arisen on the
face of the earth, and the model dwellings had filled with riff-raff
drifting in from anywhere, to poach Clifford's rabbits among other
occupations.
The car ran on along the uplands, seeing the rolling county spread out.
The county! It had once been a proud and lordly county. In front, looming
again and hanging on the brow of the sky-line, was the huge and splendid
bulk of Chadwick Hall, more window than wall, one of the most famous
Elizabethan houses. Noble it stood alone above a great park, but out of
date, passed over. It was still kept up, but as a show place. `Look how our
ancestors lorded it!'
That was the past. The present lay below. God alone knows where the
future lies. The car was already turning, between little old blackened
miners' cottages, to descend to Uthwaite. And Uthwaite, on a damp day, was
sending up a whole array of smoke plumes and steam, to whatever gods there
be. Uthwaite down in the valley, with all the steel threads of the railways
to Sheffield drawn through it, and the coal-mines and the steel-works
sending up smoke and glare from long tubes, and the pathetic little
corkscrew spire of the church, that is going to tumble down, still pricking
the fumes, always affected Connie strangely. It was an old market-town,
centre of the dales. One of the chief inns was the Chatterley Arms. There,
in Uthwaite, Wragby was known as Wragby, as if it were a whole place, not
just a house, as it was to outsiders: Wragby Hall, near Tevershall: Wragby,
a `seat'.
The miners' cottages, blackened, stood flush on the pavement, with that
intimacy and smallness of colliers' dwellings over a hundred years old. They
lined all the way. The road had become a street, and as you sank, you forgot
instantly the open, rolling country where the castles and big houses still
dominated, but like ghosts. Now you were just above the tangle of naked
railway-lines, and foundries and other `works' rose about you, so big you
were only aware of walls. And iron clanked with a huge reverberating clank,
and huge lorries shook the earth, and whistles screamed.
Yet again, once you had got right down and into the twisted and crooked
heart of the town, behind the church, you were in the world of two centuries
ago, in the crooked streets where the Chatterley Arms stood, and the old
pharmacy, streets which used to lead Out to the wild open world of the
castles and stately couchant houses.
But at the corner a policeman held up his hand as three lorries loaded
with iron rolled past, shaking the poor old church. And not till the lorries
were past could he salute her ladyship.
So it was. Upon the old crooked burgess streets hordes of oldish
blackened miners' dwellings crowded, lining the roads out. And immediately
after these came the newer, pinker rows of rather larger houses, plastering
the valley: the homes of more modern workmen. And beyond that again, in the
wide rolling regions of the castles, smoke waved against steam, and patch
after patch of raw reddish brick showed the newer mining settlements,
sometimes in the hollows, sometimes gruesomely ugly along the sky-line of
the slopes. And between, in between, were the tattered remnants of the old
coaching and cottage England, even the England of Robin Hood, where the
miners prowled with the dismalness of suppressed sporting instincts, when
they were not at work.
England, my England! But which is my England? The stately homes of
England make good photographs, and create the illusion of a connexion with
the Elizabethans. The handsome old halls are there, from the days of Good
Queen Anne and Tom Jones. But smuts fall and blacken on the drab stucco,
that has long ceased to be golden. And one by one, like the stately homes,
they were abandoned. Now they are being pulled down. As for the cottages of
England---there they are---great plasterings of brick dwellings on the
hopeless countryside.
`Now they are pulling down the stately homes, the Georgian halls are
going. Fritchley, a perfect old Georgian mansion, was even now, as Connie
passed in the car, being demolished. It was in perfect repair: till the war
the Weatherleys had lived in style there. But now it was too big, too
expensive, and the country had become too uncongenial. The gentry were
departing to pleasanter places, where they could spend their money without
having to see how it was made.'
This is history. One England blots out another. The mines had made the
halls wealthy. Now they were blotting them out, as they had already blotted
out the cottages. The industrial England blots out the agricultural England.
One meaning blots out another. The new England blots out the old England.
And the continuity is not Organic, but mechanical.
Connie, belonging to the leisured classes, had clung to the remnants of
the old England. It had taken her years to realize that it was really
blotted out by this terrifying new and gruesome England, and that the
blotting out would go on till it was complete. Fritchley was gone, Eastwood
was gone, Shipley was going: Squire Winter's beloved Shipley.
Connie called for a moment at Shipley. The park gates, at the back,
opened just near the level crossing of the colliery railway; the Shipley
colliery itself stood just beyond the trees. The gates stood open, because
through the park was a right-of-way that the colliers used. They hung around
the park.
The car passed the ornamental ponds, in which the colliers threw their
newspapers, and took the private drive to the house. It stood above, aside,
a very pleasant stucco building from the middle of the eighteenth century.
It had a beautiful alley of yew trees, that had approached an older house,
and the hall stood serenely spread out, winking its Georgian panes as if
cheerfully. Behind, there were really beautiful gardens.
Connie liked the interior much better than Wragby. It was much lighter,
more alive, shapen and elegant. The rooms were panelled with creamy painted
panelling, the ceilings were touched with gilt, and everything was kept in
exquisite order, all the appointments were perfect, regardless of expense.
Even the corridors managed to be ample and lovely, softly curved and full of
life.
But Leslie Winter was alone. He had adored his house. But his park was
bordered by three of his own collieries. He had been a generous man in his
ideas. He had almost welcomed the colliers in his park. Had the miners not
made him rich! So, when he saw the gangs of unshapely men lounging by his
ornamental waters---not in the private part of the park, no, he drew the
line there---he would say: `the miners are perhaps not so ornamental as
deer, but they are far more profitable.'
But that was in the golden---monetarily---latter half of Queen
Victoria's reign. Miners were then `good working men'.
Winter had made this speech, half apologetic, to his guest, the then
Prince of Wales. And the Prince had replied, in his rather guttural English:
`You are quite right. If there were coal under Sandringham, I would
open a mine on the lawns, and think it first-rate landscape gardening. Oh, I
am quite willing to exchange roe-deer for colliers, at the price. Your men
are good men too, I hear.'
But then, the Prince had perhaps an exaggerated idea of the beauty of
money, and the blessings of industrialism.
However, the Prince had been a King, and the King had died, and now
there was another King, whose chief function seemed to be to open
soup-kitchens.
And the good working men were somehow hemming Shipley in. New mining
villages crowded on the park, and the squire felt somehow that the
population was alien. He used to feel, in a good-natured but quite grand
way, lord of his own domain and of his own colliers. Now, by a subtle
pervasion of the new spirit, he had somehow been pushed out. It was he who
did not belong any more. There was no mistaking it. The mines, the industry,
had a will of its own, and this will was against the gentleman-owner. All
the colliers took part in the will, and it was hard to live up against it.
It either shoved you out of the place, or out of life altogether.
Squire Winter, a soldier, had stood it out. But he no longer cared to
walk in the park after dinner. He almost hid, indoors. Once he had walked,
bare-headed, and in his patent-leather shoes and purple silk socks, with
Connie down to the gate, talking to her in his well-bred rather haw-haw
fashion. But when it came to passing the little gangs of colliers who stood
and stared without either salute or anything else, Connie felt how the lean,
well-bred old man winced, winced as an elegant antelope stag in a cage
winces from the vulgar stare. The colliers were not personally hostile: not
at all. But their spirit was cold, and shoving him out. And, deep down,
there was a profound grudge. They `worked for him'. And in their ugliness,
they resented his elegant, well-groomed, well-bred existence. `Who's he!' It
was the difference they resented.
And somewhere, in his secret English heart, being a good deal of a
soldier, he believed they were right to resent the difference. He felt
himself a little in the wrong, for having all the advantages. Nevertheless
he represented a system, and he would not be shoved out.
Except by death. Which came on him soon after Connie's call, suddenly.
And he remembered Clifford handsomely in his will.
The heirs at once gave out the order for the demolishing of Shipley. It
cost too much to keep up. No one would live there. So it was broken up. The
avenue of yews was cut down. The park was denuded of its timber, and divided
into lots. It was near enough to Uthwaite. In the strange, bald desert of
this still-one-more no-man's-land, new little streets of semi-detacheds were
run up, very desirable! The Shipley Hall Estate!
Within a year of Connie's last call, it had happened. There stood
Shipley Hall Estate, an array of red-brick semi-detached `villas' in new
streets. No one would have dreamed that the stucco hall had stood there
twelve months before.
But this is a later stage of King Edward's landscape gardening, the
sort that has an ornamental coal-mine on the lawn.
One England blots out another. The England of the Squire Winters and
the Wragby Halls was gone, dead. The blotting out was only not yet complete.
What would come after? Connie could not imagine. She could only see the
new brick streets spreading into the fields, the new erections rising at the
collieries, the new girls in their silk stockings, the new collier lads
lounging into the Pally or the Welfare. The younger generation were utterly
unconscious of the old England. There was a gap in the continuity of
consciousness, almost American: but industrial really. What next?
Connie always felt there was no next. She wanted to hide her head in
the sand: or, at least, in the bosom of a living man.
The world was so complicated and weird and gruesome! The common people
were so many, and really so terrible. So she bought as she was going home,
and saw the colliers trailing from the pits, grey-black, distorted, one
shoulder higher than the other, slurring their heavy ironshod boots.
Underground grey faces, whites of eyes rolling, necks cringing from the pit
roof, shoulders Out of shape. Men! Men! Alas, in some ways patient and good
men. In other ways, non-existent. Something that men should have was bred
and killed out of them. Yet they were men. They begot children. One might
bear a child to them. Terrible, terrible thought! They were good and kindly.
But they were only half, Only the grey half of a human being. As yet, they
were `good'. But even that was the goodness of their halfness. Supposing the
dead in them ever rose up! But no, it was too terrible to think of. Connie
was absolutely afraid of the industrial masses. They seemed so weird to her.
A life with utterly no beauty in it, no intuition, always `in the pit'.
Children from such men! Oh God, oh God!
Yet Mellors had come from such a father. Not quite. Forty years had
made a difference, an appalling difference in manhood. The iron and the coal
had eaten deep into the bodies and souls of the men.
Incarnate ugliness, and yet alive! What would become of them all?
Perhaps with the passing of the coal they would disappear again, off the
face of the earth. They had appeared out of nowhere in their thousands, when
the coal had called for them. Perhaps they were only weird fauna of the
coal-seams. Creatures of another reality, they were elementals, serving the
elements of coal, as the metal-workers were elementals, serving the element
of iron. Men not men, but animas of coal and iron and clay. Fauna of the
elements, carbon, iron, silicon: elementals. They had perhaps some of the
weird, inhuman beauty of minerals, the lustre of coal, the weight and
blueness and resistance of iron, the transparency of glass. Elemental
creatures, weird and distorted, of the mineral world! They belonged to the
coal, the iron, the clay, as fish belong to the sea and worms to dead wood.
The anima of mineral disintegration!
Connie was glad to be home, to bury her head in the sand. She was glad
even to babble to Clifford. For her fear of the mining and iron Midlands
affected her with a queer feeling that went all over her, like influenza.
`Of course I had to have tea in Miss Bentley's shop,' she said.
`Really! Winter would have given you tea.'
`Oh yes, but I daren't disappoint Miss Bentley.' Miss Bentley was a
shallow old maid with a rather large nose and romantic disposition who
served tea with a careful intensity worthy of a sacrament.
`Did she ask after me?' said Clifford.
`Of course!---. May I ask your Ladyship how Sir Clifford is!---I
believe she ranks you even higher than Nurse Cavell!'
`And I suppose you said I was blooming.'
`Yes! And she looked as rapt as if I had said the heavens had opened to
you. I said if she ever came to Tevershall she was to come to see you.'
`Me! Whatever for! See me!'
`Why yes, Clifford. You can't be so adored without making some slight
return. Saint George of Cappadocia was nothing to you, in her eyes.'
`And do you think she'll come?'
`Oh, she blushed! and looked quite beautiful for a moment, poor thing!
Why don't men marry the women who would really adore them?'
`The women start adoring too late. But did she say she'd come?'
`Oh!' Connie imitated the breathless Miss Bentley, `your Ladyship, if
ever I should dare to presume!'
`Dare to presume! how absurd! But I hope to God she won't turn up. And
how was her tea?'
`Oh, Lipton's and very strong. But Clifford, do you realize you are the
Roman de la rose of Miss Bentley and lots like her?'
`I'm not flattered, even then.'
`They treasure up every one of your pictures in the illustrated papers,
and probably pray for you every night. It's rather wonderful.'
She went upstairs to change.
That evening he said to her:
`You do think, don't you, that there is something eternal in marriage?'
She looked at him.
`But Clifford, you make eternity sound like a lid or a long, long chain
that trailed after one, no matter how far one went.'
He looked at her, annoyed.
`What I mean,' he said, `is that if you go to Venice, you won't go in
the hopes of some love affair that you can take au grand sÉrieux, will you?'
`A love affair in Venice au grand sÉrieux? No. I assure you! No, I'd
never take a love affair in Venice more than au trÈs petit sÉrieux.'
She spoke with a queer kind of contempt. He knitted his brows, looking
at her.
Coming downstairs in the morning, she found the keeper's dog Flossie
sitting in the corridor outside Clifford's room, and whimpering very
faintly.
`Why, Flossie!' she said softly. `What are you doing here?'
And she quietly opened Clifford's door. Clifford was sitting up in bed,
with the bed-table and typewriter pushed aside, and the keeper was standing
at attention at the foot of the bed. Flossie ran in. With a faint gesture of
head and eyes, Mellors ordered her to the door again, and she slunk out.
`Oh, good morning, Clifford!' Connie said. `I didn't know you were
busy.' Then she looked at the keeper, saying good morning to him. He
murmured his reply, looking at her as if vaguely. But she felt a whiff of
passion touch her, from his mere presence.
`Did I interrupt you, Clifford? I'm sorry.'
`No, it's nothing of any importance.'
She slipped out of the room again, and up to the blue boudoir on the
first floor. She sat in the window, and saw him go down the drive, with his
curious, silent motion, effaced. He had a natural sort of quiet distinction,
an aloof pride, and also a certain look of frailty. A hireling! One of
Clifford's hirelings! `The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in
ourselves, that we are underlings.'
Was he an underling? Was he? What did he think of her?
It was a sunny day, and Connie was working in the garden, and Mrs
Bolton was helping her. For some reason, the two women had drawn together,
in one of the unaccountable flows and ebbs of sympathy that exist between
people. They were pegging down carnations, and putting in small plants for
the summer. It was work they both liked. Connie especially felt a delight in
putting the soft roots of young plants into a soft black puddle, and
cradling them down. On this spring morning she felt a quiver in her womb
too, as if the sunshine had touched it and made it happy.
`It is many years since you lost your husband?' she said to Mrs Bolton
as she took up another little plant and laid it in its hole.
`Twenty-three!' said Mrs Bolton, as she carefully separated the young
columbines into single plants. `Twenty-three years since they brought him
home.'
Connie's heart gave a lurch, at the terrible finality of it. `Brought
him home!'
`Why did he get killed, do you think?' she asked. `He was happy with
you?'
It was a woman's question to a woman. Mrs Bolton put aside a strand of
hair from her face, with the back of her hand.
`I don't know, my Lady! He sort of wouldn't give in to things: he
wouldn't really go with the rest. And then he hated ducking his head for
anything on earth. A sort of obstinacy, that gets itself killed. You see he
didn't really care. I lay it down to the pit. He ought never to have been
down pit. But his dad made him go down, as a lad; and then, when you're over
twenty, it's not very easy to come out.'
`Did he say he hated it?'
`Oh no! Never! He never said he hated anything. He just made a funny
face. He was one of those who wouldn't take care: like some of the first
lads as went off so blithe to the war and got killed right away. He wasn't
really wezzle-brained. But he wouldn't care. I used to say to him: "You care
for nought nor nobody!" But he did! The way he sat when my first baby was
born, motionless, and the sort of fatal eyes he looked at me with, when it
was over! I had a bad time, but I had to comfort him. "It's all right, lad,
it's all right!" I said to him. And he gave me a look, and that funny sort
of smile. He never said anything. But I don't believe he had any right
pleasure with me at nights after; he'd never really let himself go. I used
to say to him: Oh, let thysen go, lad!---I'd talk broad to him sometimes.
And he said nothing. But he wouldn't let himself go, or he couldn't. He
didn't want me to have any more children. I always blamed his mother, for
letting him in th' room. He'd no right t'ave been there. Men makes so much
more of things than they should, once they start brooding.'
`Did he mind so much?' said Connie in wonder.
`Yes, he sort of couldn't take it for natural, all that pain. And it
spoilt his pleasure in his bit of married love. I said to him: If I don't
care, why should you? It's my look-out!---But all he'd ever say was: It's
not right!'
`Perhaps he was too sensitive,' said Connie.
`That's it! When you come to know men, that's how they are: too
sensitive in the wrong place. And I believe, unbeknown to himself he hated
the pit, just hated it. He looked so quiet when he was dead, as if he'd got
free. He was such a nice-looking lad. It just broke my heart to see him, so
still and pure looking, as if he'd wanted to die. Oh, it broke my heart,
that did. But it was the pit.'
She wept a few bitter tears, and Connie wept more. It was a warm spring
day, with a perfume of earth and of yellow flowers, many things rising to
bud, and the garden still with the very sap of sunshine.
`It must have been terrible for you!' said Connie.
`Oh, my Lady! I never realized at first. I could only say: Oh my lad,
what did you want to leave me for!---That was all my cry. But somehow I felt
he'd come back.'
`But he didn't want to leave you,' said Connie.
`Oh no, my Lady! That was only my silly cry. And I kept expecting him
back. Especially at nights. I kept waking up thinking: Why he's not in bed
with me!---It was as if my feelings wouldn't believe he'd gone. I just felt
he'd have to come back and lie against me, so I could feel him with me. That
was all I wanted, to feel him there with me, warm. And it took me a thousand
shocks before I knew he wouldn't come back, it took me years.'
`The touch of him,' said Connie.
`That's it, my Lady, the touch of him! I've never got over it to this
day, and never shall. And if there's a heaven above, he'll be there, and
will lie up against me so I can sleep.'
Connie glanced at the handsome, brooding face in fear. Another
passionate one out of Tevershall! The touch of him! For the bonds of love
are ill to loose!
`It's terrible, once you've got a man into your blood!' she said. `Oh,
my Lady! And that's what makes you feel so bitter. You feel folks wanted him
killed. You feel the pit fair wanted to kill him. Oh, I felt, if it hadn't
been for the pit, an' them as runs the pit, there'd have been no leaving me.
But they all want to separate a woman and a man, if they're together.'
`If they're physically together,' said Connie.
`That's right, my Lady! There's a lot of hard-hearted folks in the
world. And every morning when he got up and went to th' pit, I felt it was
wrong, wrong. But what else could he do? What can a man do?'
A queer hate flared in the woman.
`But can a touch last so long?' Connie asked suddenly. `That you could
feel him so long?'
`Oh my Lady, what else is there to last? Children grows away from you.
But the man, well! But even that they'd like to kill in you, the very
thought of the touch of him. Even your own children! Ah well! We might have
drifted apart, who knows. But the feeling's something different. It's 'appen
better never to care. But there, when I look at women who's never really
been warmed through by a man, well, they seem to me poor doolowls after all,
no matter how they may dress up and gad. No, I'll abide by my own. I've not
much respect for people.'
Connie went to the wood directly after lunch. It was really a lovely
day, the first dandelions making suns, the first daisies so white. The hazel
thicket was a lace-work, of half-open leaves, and the last dusty
perpendicular of the catkins. Yellow celandines now were in crowds, flat
open, pressed back in urgency, and the yellow glitter of themselves. It was
the yellow, the powerful yellow of early summer. And primroses were broad,
and full of pale abandon, thick-clustered primroses no longer shy. The lush,
dark green of hyacinths was a sea, with buds rising like pale corn, while in
the riding the forget-me-nots were fluffing up, and columbines were
unfolding their ink-purple ruches, and there were bits of blue bird's
eggshell under a bush. Everywhere the bud-knots and the leap of life!
The keeper was not at the hut. Everything was serene, brown chickens
running lustily. Connie walked on towards the cottage, because she wanted to
find him.
The cottage stood in the sun, off the wood's edge. In the little garden
the double daffodils rose in tufts, near the wide-open door, and red double
daisies made a border to the path. There was the bark of a dog, and Flossie
came running.
The wide-open door! so he was at home. And the sunlight falling on the
red-brick floor! As she went up the path, she saw him through the window,
sitting at the table in his shirt-sleeves, eating. The dog wuffed softly,
slowly wagging her tail.
He rose, and came to the door, wiping his mouth with a red handkerchief
still chewing.
`May I come in?' she said.
`Come in!'
The sun shone into the bare room, which still smelled of a mutton chop,
done in a dutch oven before the fire, because the dutch oven still stood on
the fender, with the black potato-saucepan on a piece of paper, beside it on
the white hearth. The fire was red, rather low, the bar dropped, the kettle
singing.
On the table was his plate, with potatoes and the remains of the chop;
also bread in a basket, salt, and a blue mug with beer. The table-cloth was
white oil-cloth, he stood in the shade.
`You are very late,' she said. `Do go on eating!'
She sat down on a wooden chair, in the sunlight by the door.
`I had to go to Uthwaite,' he said, sitting down at the table but not
eating.
`Do eat,' she said. But he did not touch the food.
`Shall y'ave something?' he asked her. `Shall y'ave a cup of tea? t'
kettle's on t' boil'---he half rose again from his chair.
`If you'll let me make it myself,' she said, rising. He seemed sad, and
she felt she was bothering him.
`Well, tea-pot's in there'---he pointed to a little, drab corner
cupboard; 'an' cups. An' tea's on t' mantel ower yer 'ead,'
She got the black tea-pot, and the tin of tea from the mantel-shelf.
She rinsed the tea-pot with hot water, and stood a moment wondering where to
empty it.
`Throw it out,' he said, aware of her. `It's clean.'
She went to the door and threw the drop of water down the path. How
lovely it was here, so still, so really woodland. The oaks were putting out
ochre yellow leaves: in the garden the red daisies were like red plush
buttons. She glanced at the big, hollow sandstone slab of the threshold, now
crossed by so few feet.
`But it's lovely here,' she said. `Such a beautiful stillness,
everything alive and still.'
He was eating again, rather slowly and unwillingly, and she could feel
he was discouraged. She made the tea in silence, and set the tea-pot on the
hob, as she knew the people did. He pushed his plate aside and went to the
back place; she heard a latch click, then he came back with cheese on a
plate, and butter.
She set the two cups on the table; there were only two. `Will you have
a cup of tea?' she said.
`If you like. Sugar's in th' cupboard, an' there's a little cream jug.
Milk's in a jug in th' pantry.'
`Shall I take your plate away?' she asked him. He looked up at her with
a faint ironical smile.
`Why...if you like,' he said, slowly eating bread and cheese. She went
to the back, into the pent-house scullery, where the pump was. On the left
was a door, no doubt the pantry door. She unlatched it, and almost smiled at
the place he called a pantry; a long narrow white-washed slip of a cupboard.
But it managed to contain a little barrel of beer, as well as a few dishes
and bits of food. She took a little milk from the yellow jug.
`How do you get your milk?' she asked him, when she came back to the
table.
`Flints! They leave me a bottle at the warren end. You know, where I
met you!'
But he was discouraged. She poured out the tea, poising the cream-jug.
`No milk,' he said; then he seemed to hear a noise, and looked keenly
through the doorway.
`'Appen we'd better shut,' he said.
`It seems a pity,' she replied. `Nobody will come, will they?'
`Not unless it's one time in a thousand, but you never know.'
`And even then it's no matter,' she said. `It's only a cup of tea.'
`Where are the spoons?'
He reached over, and pulled open the table drawer. Connie sat at the
table in the sunshine of the doorway.
`Flossie!' he said to the dog, who was lying on a little mat at the
stair foot. `Go an' hark, hark!'
He lifted his finger, and his `hark!' was very vivid. The dog trotted
out to reconnoitre.
`Are you sad today?' she asked him.
He turned his blue eyes quickly, and gazed direct on her.
`Sad! no, bored! I had to go getting summonses for two poachers I
caught, and, oh well, I don't like people.'
He spoke cold, good English, and there was anger in his voice. `Do you
hate being a game-keeper?' she asked.
`Being a game-keeper, no! So long as I'm left alone. But when I have to
go messing around at the police-station, and various other places, and
waiting for a lot of fools to attend to me...oh well, I get mad...' and he
smiled, with a certain faint humour.
`Couldn't you be really independent?' she asked.
`Me? I suppose I could, if you mean manage to exist on my pension. I
could! But I've got to work, or I should die. That is, I've got to have
something that keeps me occupied. And I'm not in a good enough temper to
work for myself. It's got to be a sort of job for somebody else, or I should
throw it up in a month, out of bad temper. So altogether I'm very well off
here, especially lately...'
He laughed at her again, with mocking humour.
`But why are you in a bad temper?' she asked. `Do you mean you are
always in a bad temper?'
`Pretty well,' he said, laughing. `I don't quite digest my bile.'
`But what bile?' she said.
`Bile!' he said. `Don't you know what that is?' She was silent, and
disappointed. He was taking no notice of her.
`I'm going away for a while next month,' she said.
`You are! Where to?'
`Venice! With Sir Clifford? For how long?'
`For a month or so,' she replied. `Clifford won't go.'
`He'll stay here?' he asked.
`Yes! He hates to travel as he is.'
`Ay, poor devil!' he said, with sympathy. There was a pause.
`You won't forget me when I'm gone, will you?' she asked. Again he
lifted his eyes and looked full at her.
`Forget?' he said. `You know nobody forgets. It's not a question of
memory;'
She wanted to say: `When then?' but she didn't. Instead, she said in a
mute kind of voice: `I told Clifford I might have a child.'
Now he really looked at her, intense and searching.
`You did?' he said at last. `And what did he say?'
`Oh, he wouldn't mind. He'd be glad, really, so long as it seemed to be
his.' She dared not look up at him.
He was silent a long time, then he gazed again on her face.
`No mention of me, of course?' he said.
`No. No mention of you,' she said.
`No, he'd hardly swallow me as a substitute breeder. Then where are you
supposed to be getting the child?'
`I might have a love-affair in Venice,' she said.
`You might,' he replied slowly. `So that's why you're going?'
`Not to have the love-affair,' she said, looking up at him, pleading.
`Just the appearance of one,' he said.
There was silence. He sat staring out the window, with a faint grin,
half mockery, half bitterness, on his face. She hated his grin.
`You've not taken any precautions against having a child then?' he
asked her suddenly. `Because I haven't.'
`No,' she said faintly. `I should hate that.'
He looked at her, then again with the peculiar subtle grin out of the
window. There was a tense silence.
At last he turned his head and said satirically:
`That was why you wanted me, then, to get a child?'
She hung her head.
`No. Not really,' she said. `What then, really?' he asked rather
bitingly.
She looked up at him reproachfully, saying: `I don't know.'
He broke into a laugh.
`Then I'm damned if I do,' he said.
There was a long pause of silence, a cold silence.
`Well,' he said at last. `It's as your Ladyship likes. If you get the
baby, Sir Clifford's welcome to it. I shan't have lost anything. On the
contrary, I've had a very nice experience, very nice indeed!'---and he
stretched in a half-suppressed sort of yawn. `If you've made use of me,' he
said, `it's not the first time I've been made use of; and I don't suppose
it's ever been as pleasant as this time; though of course one can't feel
tremendously dignified about it.'---He stretched again, curiously, his
muscles quivering, and his jaw oddly set.
`But I didn't make use of you,' she said, pleading.
`At your Ladyship's service,' he replied.
`No,' she said. `I liked your body.'
`Did you?' he replied, and he laughed. `Well, then, we're quits,
because I liked yours.'
He looked at her with queer darkened eyes.
`Would you like to go upstairs now?' he asked her, in a strangled sort
of voice.
`No, not here. Not now!' she said heavily, though if he had used any
power over her, she would have gone, for she had no strength against him.
He turned his face away again, and seemed to forget her. `I want to
touch you like you touch me,' she said. `I've never really touched your
body.'
He looked at her, and smiled again. `Now?' he said. `No! No! Not here!
At the hut. Would you mind?'
`How do I touch you?' he asked.
`When you feel me.'
He looked at her, and met her heavy, anxious eyes.
`And do you like it when I feel you?' he asked, laughing at her still.
`Yes, do you?' she said.
`Oh, me!' Then he changed his tone. `Yes,' he said. `You know without
asking.' Which was true.
She rose and picked up her hat. `I must go,' she said.
`Will you go?' he replied politely.
She wanted him to touch her, to say something to her, but he said
nothing, only waited politely.
`Thank you for the tea,' she said.
`I haven't thanked your Ladyship for doing me the honours of my
tea-pot,' he said.
She went down the path, and he stood in the doorway, faintly grinning.
Flossie came running with her tail lifted. And Connie had to plod dumbly
across into the wood, knowing he was standing there watching her, with that
incomprehensible grin on his face.
She walked home very much downcast and annoyed. She didn't at all like
his saying he had been made use of because, in a sense, it was true. But he
oughtn't to have said it. Therefore, again, she was divided between two
feelings: resentment against him, and a desire to make it up with him.
She passed a very uneasy and irritated tea-time, and at once went up to
her room. But when she was there it was no good; she could neither sit nor
stand. She would have to do something about it. She would have to go back to
the hut; if he was not there, well and good.
She slipped out of the side door, and took her way direct and a little
sullen. When she came to the clearing she was terribly uneasy. But there he
was again, in his shirt-sleeves, stooping, letting the hens out of the
coops, among the chicks that were now growing a little gawky, but were much
more trim than hen-chickens.
She went straight across to him. `You see I've come!' she said.
`Ay, I see it!' he said, straightening his back, and looking at her
with a faint amusement.
`Do you let the hens out now?' she asked.
`Yes, they've sat themselves to skin and bone,' he said. `An' now
they're not all that anxious to come out an' feed. There's no self in a
sitting hen; she's all in the eggs or the chicks.'
The poor mother-hens; such blind devotion! even to eggs not their own!
Connie looked at them in compassion. A helpless silence fell between the man
and the woman.
`Shall us go i' th' 'ut?' he asked.
`Do you want me?' she asked, in a sort of mistrust.
`Ay, if you want to come.'
She was silent.
`Come then!' he said.
And she went with him to the hut. It was quite dark when he had shut
the door, so he made a small light in the lantern, as before.
`Have you left your underthings off?' he asked her.
`Yes!'
`Ay, well, then I'll take my things off too.'
He spread the blankets, putting one at the side for a coverlet. She
took off her hat, and shook her hair. He sat down, taking off his shoes and
gaiters, and undoing his cord breeches.
`Lie down then!' he said, when he stood in his shirt. She obeyed in
silence, and he lay beside her, and pulled the blanket over them both.
`There!' he said.
And he lifted her dress right back, till he came even to her breasts.
He kissed them softly, taking the nipples in his lips in tiny caresses.
`Eh, but tha'rt nice, tha'rt nice!' he said, suddenly rubbing his face
with a snuggling movement against her warm belly.
And she put her arms round him under his shirt, but she was afraid,
afraid of his thin, smooth, naked body, that seemed so powerful, afraid of
the violent muscles. She shrank, afraid.
And when he said, with a sort of little sigh: `Eh, tha'rt nice!'
something in her quivered, and something in her spirit stiffened in
resistance: stiffened from the terribly physical intimacy, and from the
peculiar haste of his possession. And this time the sharp ecstasy of her own
passion did not overcome her; she lay with her ends inert on his striving
body, and do what she might, her spirit seemed to look on from the top of
her head, and the butting of his haunches seemed ridiculous to her, and the
sort of anxiety of his penis to come to its little evacuating crisis seemed
farcical. Yes, this was love, this ridiculous bouncing of the buttocks, and
the wilting of the poor, insignificant, moist little penis. This was the
divine love! After all, the moderns were right when they felt contempt for
the performance; for it was a performance. It was quite true, as some poets
said, that the God who created man must have had a sinister sense of humour,
creating him a reasonable being, yet forcing him to take this ridiculous
posture, and driving him with blind craving for this ridiculous performance.
Even a Maupassant found it a humiliating anti-climax. Men despised the
intercourse act, and yet did it.
Cold and derisive her queer female mind stood apart, and though she lay
perfectly still, her impulse was to heave her loins, and throw the man out,
escape his ugly grip, and the butting over-riding of his absurd haunches.
His body was a foolish, impudent, imperfect thing, a little disgusting in
its unfinished clumsiness. For surely a complete evolution would eliminate
this performance, this `function'.
And yet when he had finished, soon over, and lay very very still,
receding into silence, and a strange motionless distance, far, farther than
the horizon of her awareness, her heart began to weep. She could feel him
ebbing away, ebbing away, leaving her there like a stone on a shore. He was
withdrawing, his spirit was leaving her. He knew.
And in real grief, tormented by her own double consciousness and
reaction, she began to weep. He took no notice, or did not even know. The
storm of weeping swelled and shook her, and shook him.
`Ay!' he said. `It was no good that time. You wasn't there.'---So he
knew! Her sobs became violent.
`But what's amiss?' he said. `It's once in a while that way.'
`I...I can't love you,' she sobbed, suddenly feeling her heart
breaking.
`Canna ter? Well, dunna fret! There's no law says as tha's got to. Ta'e
it for what it is.'
He still lay with his hand on her breast. But she had drawn both her
hands from him.
His words were small comfort. She sobbed aloud.
`Nay, nay!' he said. `Ta'e the thick wi' th' thin. This wor a bit o'
thin for once.'
She wept bitterly, sobbing. `But I want to love you, and I can't. It
only seems horrid.'
He laughed a little, half bitter, half amused.
`It isna horrid,' he said, `even if tha thinks it is. An' tha canna
ma'e it horrid. Dunna fret thysen about lovin' me. Tha'lt niver force thysen
to `t. There's sure to be a bad nut in a basketful. Tha mun ta'e th' rough
wi' th' smooth.'
He took his hand away from her breast, not touching her. And now she
was untouched she took an almost perverse satisfaction in it. She hated the
dialect: the thee and the tha and the thysen. He could get up if he liked,
and stand there, above her, buttoning down those absurd corduroy breeches,
straight in front of her. After all, Michaelis had had the decency to turn
away. This man was so assured in himself he didn't know what a clown other
people found him, a half-bred fellow.
Yet, as he was drawing away, to rise silently and leave her, she clung
to him in terror.
`Don't! Don't go! Don't leave me! Don't be cross with me! Hold me! Hold
me fast!' she whispered in blind frenzy, not even knowing what she said, and
clinging to him with uncanny force. It was from herself she wanted to be
saved, from her own inward anger and resistance. Yet how powerful was that
inward resistance that possessed her!
He took her in his arms again and drew her to him, and suddenly she
became small in his arms, small and nestling. It was gone, the resistance
was gone, and she began to melt in a marvellous peace. And as she melted
small and wonderful in his arms, she became infinitely desirable to him, all
his blood-vessels seemed to scald with intense yet tender desire, for her,
for her softness, for the penetrating beauty of her in his arms, passing
into his blood. And softly, with that marvellous swoon-like caress of his
hand in pure soft desire, softly he stroked the silky slope of her loins,
down, down between her soft warm buttocks, coming nearer and nearer to the
very quick of her. And she felt him like a flame of desire, yet tender, and
she felt herself melting in the flame. She let herself go. She felt his
penis risen against her with silent amazing force and assertion and she let
herself go to him She yielded with a quiver that was like death, she went
all open to him. And oh, if he were not tender to her now, how cruel, for
she was all open to him and helpless!
She quivered again at the potent inexorable entry inside her, so
strange and terrible. It might come with the thrust of a sword in her
softly-opened body, and that would be death. She clung in a sudden anguish
of terror. But it came with a strange slow thrust of peace, the dark thrust
of peace and a ponderous, primordial tenderness, such as made the world in
the beginning. And her terror subsided in her breast, her breast dared to be
gone in peace, she held nothing. She dared to let go everything, all herself
and be gone in the flood.
And it seemed she was like the sea, nothing but dark waves rising and
heaving, heaving with a great swell, so that slowly her whole darkness was
in motion, and she was Ocean rolling its dark, dumb mass. Oh, and far down
inside her the deeps parted and rolled asunder, in long, fair-travelling
billows, and ever, at the quick of her, the depths parted and rolled
asunder, from the centre of soft plunging, as the plunger went deeper and
deeper, touching lower, and she was deeper and deeper and deeper disclosed,
the heavier the billows of her rolled away to some shore, uncovering her,
and closer and closer plunged the palpable unknown, and further and further
rolled the waves of herself away from herself leaving her, till suddenly, in
a soft, shuddering convulsion, the quick of all her plasm was touched, she
knew herself touched, the consummation was upon her, and she was gone. She
was gone, she was not, and she was born: a woman.
Ah, too lovely, too lovely! In the ebbing she realized all the
loveliness. Now all her body clung with tender love to the unknown man, and
blindly to the wilting penis, as it so tenderly, frailly, unknowingly
withdrew, after the fierce thrust of its potency. As it drew out and left
her body, the secret, sensitive thing, she gave an unconscious cry of pure
loss, and she tried to put it back. It had been so perfect! And she loved it
so!
And only now she became aware of the small, bud-like reticence and
tenderness of the penis, and a little cry of wonder and poignancy escaped
her again, her woman's heart crying out over the tender frailty of that
which had been the power.
`It was so lovely!' she moaned. `It was so lovely!' But he said
nothing, only softly kissed her, lying still above her. And she moaned with
a sort Of bliss, as a sacrifice, and a newborn thing.
And now in her heart the queer wonder of him was awakened.
A man! The strange potency of manhood upon her! Her hands strayed over
him, still a little afraid. Afraid of that strange, hostile, slightly
repulsive thing that he had been to her, a man. And now she touched him, and
it was the sons of god with the daughters of men. How beautiful he felt, how
pure in tissue! How lovely, how lovely, strong, and yet pure and delicate,
such stillness of the sensitive body! Such utter stillness of potency and
delicate flesh. How beautiful! How beautiful! Her hands came timorously down
his back, to the soft, smallish globes of the buttocks. Beauty! What beauty!
a sudden little flame of new awareness went through her. How was it
possible, this beauty here, where she had previously only been repelled? The
unspeakable beauty to the touch of the warm, living buttocks! The life
within life, the sheer warm, potent loveliness. And the strange weight of
the balls between his legs! What a mystery! What a strange heavy weight of
mystery, that could lie soft and heavy in one's hand! The roots, root of all
that is lovely, the primeval root of all full beauty.
She clung to him, with a hiss of wonder that was almost awe, terror. He
held her close, but he said nothing. He would never say anything. She crept
nearer to him, nearer, only to be near to the sensual wonder of him. And out
of his utter, incomprehensible stillness, she felt again the slow momentous,
surging rise of the phallus again, the other power. And her heart melted out
with a kind of awe.
And this time his being within her was all soft and iridescent, purely
soft and iridescent, such as no consciousness could seize. Her whole self
quivered unconscious and alive, like plasm. She could not know what it was.
She could not remember what it had been. Only that it had been more lovely
than anything ever could be. Only that. And afterwards she was utterly
still, utterly unknowing, she was not aware for how long. And he was still
with her, in an unfathomable silence along with her. And of this, they would
never speak.
When awareness of the outside began to come back, she clung to his
breast, murmuring `My love! My love!' And he held her silently. And she
curled on his breast, perfect.
But his silence was fathomless. His hands held her like flowers, so
still aid strange. `Where are you?' she whispered to him.
`Where are you? Speak to me! Say something to me!'
He kissed her softly, murmuring: `Ay, my lass!'
But she did not know what he meant, she did not know where he was. In
his silence he seemed lost to her.
`You love me, don't you?' she murmured.
`Ay, tha knows!' he said. `But tell me!' she pleaded.
`Ay! Ay! 'asn't ter felt it?' he said dimly, but softly and surely. And
she clung close to him, closer. He was so much more peaceful in love than
she was, and she wanted him to reassure her.
`You do love me!' she whispered, assertive. And his hands stroked her
softly, as if she were a flower, without the quiver of desire, but with
delicate nearness. And still there haunted her a restless necessity to get a
grip on love.
`Say you'll always love me!' she pleaded.
`Ay!' he said, abstractedly. And she felt her questions driving him
away from her.
`Mustn't we get up?' he said at last.
`No!' she said.
But she could feel his consciousness straying, listening to the noises
outside.
`It'll be nearly dark,' he said. And she heard the pressure of
circumstances in his voice. She kissed him, with a woman's grief at yielding
up her hour.
He rose, and turned up the lantern, then began to pull on his clothes,
quickly disappearing inside them. Then he stood there, above her, fastening
his breeches and looking down at her with dark, wide-eyes, his face a little
flushed and his hair ruffled, curiously warm and still and beautiful in the
dim light of the lantern, so beautiful, she would never tell him how
beautiful. It made her want to cling fast to him, to hold him, for there was
a warm, half-sleepy remoteness in his beauty that made her want to cry out
and clutch him, to have him. She would never have him. So she lay on the
blanket with curved, soft naked haunches, and he had no idea what she was
thinking, but to him too she was beautiful, the soft, marvellous thing he
could go into, beyond everything.
`I love thee that I call go into thee,' he said.
`Do you like me?' she said, her heart beating.
`It heals it all up, that I can go into thee. I love thee that tha
opened to me. I love thee that I came into thee like that.'
He bent down and kissed her soft flank, rubbed his cheek against it,
then covered it up.
`And will you never leave me?' she said.
`Dunna ask them things,' he said.
`But you do believe I love you?' she said.
`Tha loved me just now, wider than iver tha thout tha would. But who
knows what'll 'appen, once tha starts thinkin' about it!'
`No, don't say those things!---And you don't really think that I wanted
to make use of you, do you?'
`How?'
`To have a child---?'
`Now anybody can 'ave any childt i' th' world,' he said, as he sat down
fastening on his leggings.
`Ah no!' she cried. `You don't mean it?'
`Eh well!' he said, looking at her under his brows. `This wor t' best.'
She lay still. He softly opened the door. The sky was dark blue, with
crystalline, turquoise rim. He went out, to shut up the hens, speaking
softly to his dog. And she lay and wondered at the wonder of life, and of
being.
When he came back she was still lying there, glowing like a gipsy. He
sat on the stool by her.
`Tha mun come one naight ter th' cottage, afore tha goos; sholl ter?'
he asked, lifting his eyebrows as he looked at her, his hands dangling
between his knees.
`Sholl ter?' she echoed, teasing.
He smiled. `Ay, sholl ter?' he repeated.
`Ay!' she said, imitating the dialect sound.
`Yi!' he said.
`Yi!' she repeated.
`An' slaip wi' me,' he said. `It needs that. When sholt come?'
`When sholl I?' she said.
`Nay,' he said, `tha canna do't. When sholt come then?'
`'Appen Sunday,' she said.
`'Appen a' Sunday! Ay!'
He laughed at her quickly.
`Nay, tha canna,' he protested.
On Sunday Clifford wanted to go into the wood. It was a lovely morning,
the pear-blossom and plum had suddenly appeared in the world in a wonder of
white here and there.
It was cruel for Clifford, while the world bloomed, to have to be
helped from chair to bath-chair. But he had forgotten, and even seemed to
have a certain conceit of himself in his lameness. Connie still suffered,
having to lift his inert legs into place. Mrs Bolton did it now, or Field.
She waited for him at the top of the drive, at the edge of the screen
of beeches. His chair came puffing along with a sort of valetudinarian slow
importance. As he joined his wife he said:
`Sir Clifford on his roaming steed!'
`Snorting, at least!' she laughed.
He stopped and looked round at the facade of the long, low old brown
house.
`Wragby doesn't wink an eyelid!' he said. `But then why should it! I
ride upon the achievements of the mind of man, and that beats a horse.'
`I suppose it does. And the souls in Plato riding up to heaven in a
two-horse chariot would go in a Ford car now,' she said.
`Or a Rolls-Royce: Plato was an aristocrat!'
`Quite! No more black horse to thrash and maltreat. Plato never thought
we'd go one better than his black steed and his white steed, and have no
steeds at all, only an engine!'
`Only an engine and gas!' said Clifford.
`I hope I can have some repairs done to the old place next year. I
think I shall have about a thousand to spare for that: but work costs so
much!' he added.
`Oh, good!' said Connie. `If only there aren't more strikes!'
`What would be the use of their striking again! Merely ruin the
industry, what's left of it: and surely the owls are beginning to see it!'
`Perhaps they don't mind ruining the industry,' said Connie.
`Ah, don't talk like a woman! The industry fills their bellies, even if
it can't keep their pockets quite so flush,' he said, using turns of speech
that oddly had a twang of Mrs Bolton.
`But didn't you say the other day that you were a
conservative-anarchist,' she asked innocently.
`And did you understand what I meant?' he retorted. `All I meant is,
people can be what they like and feel what they like and do what they like,
strictly privately, so long as they keep the form of life intact, and the
apparatus.'
Connie walked on in silence a few paces. Then she said, obstinately:
`It sounds like saying an egg may go as addled as it likes, so long as
it keeps its shell on whole. But addled eggs do break of themselves.'
`I don't think people are eggs,' he said. `Not even angels' eggs, my
dear little evangelist.'
He was in rather high feather this bright morning. The larks were
trilling away over the park, the distant pit in the hollow was fuming silent
steam. It was almost like old days, before the war. Connie didn't really
want to argue. But then she did not really want to go to the wood with
Clifford either. So she walked beside his chair in a certain obstinacy of
spirit.
`No,' he said. `There will be no more strikes, it. The thing is
properly managed.'
`Why not?'
`Because strikes will be made as good as impossible.'
`But will the men let you?' she asked.
`We shan't ask them. We shall do it while they aren't looking: for
their own good, to save the industry.'
`For your own good too,' she said.
`Naturally! For the good of everybody. But for their good even more
than mine. I can live without the pits. They can't. They'll starve if there
are no pits. I've got other provision.'
They looked up the shallow valley at the mine, and beyond it, at the
black-lidded houses of Tevershall crawling like some serpent up the hill.
From the old brown church the bells were ringing: Sunday, Sunday, Sunday!
`But will the men let you dictate terms?' she said. `My dear, they will
have to: if one does it gently.'
`But mightn't there be a mutual understanding?'
`Absolutely: when they realize that the industry comes before the
individual.'
`But must you own the industry?' she said.
`I don't. But to the extent I do own it, yes, most decidedly. The
ownership of property has now become a religious question: as it has been
since Jesus and St Francis. The point is not: take all thou hast and give to
the poor, but use all thou hast to encourage the industry and give work to
the poor. It's the only way to feed all the mouths and clothe all the
bodies. Giving away all we have to the poor spells starvation for the poor
just as much as for us. And universal starvation is no high aim. Even
general poverty is no lovely thing. Poverty is ugly.'
`But the disparity?'
`That is fate. Why is the star Jupiter bigger than the star Neptune?
You can't start altering the make-up of things!'
`But when this envy and jealousy and discontent has once started,' she
began.
`Do, your best to stop it. Somebody's got to be boss of the show.'
`But who is boss of the show?' she asked.
`The men who own and run the industries.'
There was a long silence.
`It seems to me they're a bad boss,' she said.
`Then you suggest what they should do.'
`They don't take their boss-ship seriously enough,' she said.
`They take it far more seriously than you take your ladyship,' he said.
`That's thrust upon me. I don't really want it,' she blurted out. He
stopped the chair and looked at her.
`Who's shirking their responsibility now!' he said. `Who is trying to
get away now from the responsibility of their own boss-ship, as you call
it?'
`But I don't want any boss-ship,' she protested.
`Ah! But that is funk. You've got it: fated to it. And you should live
up to it. Who has given the colliers all they have that's worth having: all
their political liberty, and their education, such as it is, their
sanitation, their health-conditions, their books, their music, everything.
Who has given it them? Have colliers given it to colliers? No! All the
Wragbys and Shipleys in England have given their part, and must go on
giving. There's your responsibility.'
Connie listened, and flushed very red.
`I'd like to give something,' she said. `But I'm not allowed.
Everything is to be sold and paid for now; and all the things you mention
now, Wragby and Shipley sells them to the people, at a good prof it.
Everything is sold. You don't give one heart-beat of real sympathy. And
besides, who has taken away from the people their natural life and manhood,
and given them this industrial horror? Who has done that?'
`And what must I do?' he asked, green. `Ask them to come and pillage
me?'
`Why is Tevershall so ugly, so hideous? Why are their lives so
hopeless?'
`They built their own Tevershall, that's part of their display of
freedom. They built themselves their pretty Tevershall, and they live their
own pretty lives. I can't live their lives for them. Every beetle must live
its own life.'
`But you make them work for you. They live the life of your coal-mine.'
`Not at all. Every beetle finds its own food. Not one man is forced to
work for me.
`Their lives are industrialized and hopeless, and so are ours,' she
cried.
`I don't think they are. That's just a romantic figure of speech, a
relic of the swooning and die-away romanticism. You don't look at all a
hopeless figure standing there, Connie my dear.'
Which was true. For her dark-blue eyes were flashing, her colour was
hot in her cheeks, she looked full of a rebellious passion far from the
dejection of hopelessness. She noticed, ill the tussocky places of the
grass, cottony young cowslips standing up still bleared in their down. And
she wondered with rage, why it was she felt Clifford was so wrong, yet she
couldn't say it to him, she could not say exactly where he was wrong.
`No wonder the men hate you,' she said.
`They don't!' he replied. `And don't fall into errors: in your sense of
the word, they are not men. They are animals you don't understand, and never
could. Don't thrust your illusions on other people. The masses were always
the same, and will always be the same. Nero's slaves were extremely little
different from our colliers or the Ford motor-car workmen. I mean Nero's
mine slaves and his field slaves. It is the masses: they are the
unchangeable. An individual may emerge from the masses. But the emergence
doesn't alter the mass. The masses are unalterable. It is one of the most
momentous facts of social science. Panem et circenses! Only today education
is one of the bad substitutes for a circus. What is wrong today is that
we've made a profound hash of the circuses part of the programme, and
poisoned our masses with a little education.'
When Clifford became really roused in his feelings about the common
people, Connie was frightened. There was something devastatingly true in
what he said. But it was a truth that killed.
Seeing her pale and silent, Clifford started the chair again, and no
more was said till he halted again at the wood gate, which she opened.
`And what we need to take up now,' he said, `is whips, not swords. The
masses have been ruled since time began, and till time ends, ruled they will
have to be. It is sheer hypocrisy and farce to say they can rule
themselves.'
`But can you rule them?' she asked.
`I? Oh yes! Neither my mind nor my will is crippled, and I don't rule
with my legs. I can do my share of ruling: absolutely, my share; and give me
a son, and he will be able to rule his portion after me.'
`But he wouldn't be your own son, of your own ruling class; or perhaps
not,' she stammered.
`I don't care who his father may be, so long as he is a healthy man not
below normal intelligence. Give me the child of any healthy, normally
intelligent man, and I will make a perfectly competent Chatterley of him. It
is not who begets us, that matters, but where fate places us. Place any
child among the ruling classes, and he will grow up, to his own extent, a
ruler. Put kings' and dukes' children among the masses, and they'll be
little plebeians, mass products. It is the overwhelming pressure of
environment.'
`Then the common people aren't a race, and the aristocrats aren't
blood,' she said.
`No, my child! All that is romantic illusion. Aristocracy is a
function, a part of fate. And the masses are a functioning of another part
of fate. The individual hardly matters. It is a question of which function
you are brought up to and adapted to. It is not the individuals that make an
aristocracy: it is the functioning of the aristocratic whole. And it is the
functioning of the whole mass that makes the common man what he is.'
`Then there is no common humanity between us all!'
`Just as you like. We all need to fill our bellies. But when it comes
to expressive or executive functioning, I believe there is a gulf and an
absolute one, between the ruling and the serving classes. The two functions
are opposed. And the function determines the individual.'
Connie looked at him with dazed eyes.
`Won't you come on?' she said.
And he started his chair. He had said his say. Now he lapsed into his
peculiar and rather vacant apathy, that Connie found so trying. In the wood,
anyhow, she was determined not to argue.
In front of them ran the open cleft of the riding, between the hazel
walls and the gay grey trees. The chair puffed slowly on, slowly surging
into the forget-me-nots that rose up in the drive like milk froth, beyond
the hazel shadows. Clifford steered the middle course, where feet passing
had kept a channel through the flowers. But Connie, walking behind, had
watched the wheels jolt over the wood-ruff and the bugle, and squash the
little yellow cups of the creeping-jenny. Now they made a wake through the
forget-me-nots.
All the flowers were there, the first bluebells in blue pools, like
standing water.
`You are quite right about its being beautiful,' said Clifford. `It is
so amazingly. What is quite so lovely as an English spring!'
Connie thought it sounded as if even the spring bloomed by act of
Parliament. An English spring! Why not an Irish one? or Jewish? The chair
moved slowly ahead, past tufts of sturdy bluebells that stood up like wheat
and over grey burdock leaves. When they came to the open place where the
trees had been felled, the light flooded in rather stark. And the bluebells
made sheets of bright blue colour, here and there, sheering off into lilac
and purple. And between, the bracken was lifting its brown curled heads,
like legions of young snakes with a new secret to whisper to Eve. Clifford
kept the chair going till he came to the brow of the hill; Connie followed
slowly behind. The oak-buds were opening soft and brown. Everything came
tenderly out of the old hardness. Even the snaggy craggy oak-trees put out
the softest young leaves, spreading thin, brown little wings like young
bat-wings in the light. Why had men never any newness in them, any freshness
to come forth with! Stale men!
Clifford stopped the chair at the top of the rise and looked down. The
bluebells washed blue like flood-water over the broad riding, and lit up the
downhill with a warm blueness.
`It's a very fine colour in itself,' said Clifford, `but useless for
making a painting.'
`Quite!' said Connie, completely uninterested.
`Shall I venture as far as the spring?' said Clifford.
`Will the chair get up again?' she said.
`We'll try; nothing venture, nothing win!'
And the chair began to advance slowly, joltingly down the beautiful
broad riding washed over with blue encroaching hyacinths. O last of all
ships, through the hyacinthian shallows! O pinnace on the last wild waters,
sailing in the last voyage of our civilization! Whither, O weird wheeled
ship, your slow course steering. Quiet and complacent, Clifford sat at the
wheel of adventure: in his old black hat and tweed jacket, motionless and
cautious. O Captain, my Captain, our splendid trip is done! Not yet though!
Downhill, in the wake, came Constance in her grey dress, watching the chair
jolt downwards.
They passed the narrow track to the hut. Thank heaven it was not wide
enough for the chair: hardly wide enough for one person. The chair reached
the bottom of the slope, and swerved round, to disappear. And Connie heard a
low whistle behind her. She glanced sharply round: the keeper was striding
downhill towards her, his dog keeping behind him.
`Is Sir Clifford going to the cottage?' he asked, looking into her
eyes.
`No, only to the well.'
`Ah! Good! Then I can keep out of sight. But I shall see you tonight. I
shall wait for you at the park-gate about ten.'
He looked again direct into her eyes.
`Yes,' she faltered.
They heard the Papp! Papp! of Clifford's horn, tooting for Connie. She
`Coo-eed!' in reply. The keeper's face flickered with a little grimace, and
with his hand he softly brushed her breast upwards, from underneath. She
looked at him, frightened, and started running down the hill, calling
Coo-ee! again to Clifford. The man above watched her, then turned, grinning
faintly, back into his path.
She found Clifford slowly mounting to the spring, which was halfway up
the slope of the dark larch-wood. He was there by the time she caught him
up.
`She did that all right,' he said, referring to the chair.
Connie looked at the great grey leaves of burdock that grew out ghostly
from the edge of the larch-wood. The people call it Robin Hood's Rhubarb.
How silent and gloomy it seemed by the well! Yet the water bubbled so
bright, wonderful! And there were bits of eye-bright and strong blue
bugle...And there, under the bank, the yellow earth was moving. A mole! It
emerged, rowing its pink hands, and waving its blind gimlet of a face, with
the tiny pink nose-tip uplifted.
`It seems to see with the end of its nose,' said Connie.
`Better than with its eyes!' he said. `Will you drink?'
`Will you?'
She took an enamel mug from a twig on a tree, and stooped to fill it
for him. He drank in sips. Then she stooped again, and drank a little
herself.
`So icy!' she said gasping.
`Good, isn't it! Did you wish?'
`Did you?'
`Yes, I wished. But I won't tell.'
She was aware of the rapping of a woodpecker, then of the wind, soft
and eerie through the larches. She looked up. White clouds were crossing the
blue.
`Clouds!' she said.
`White lambs only,' he replied.
A shadow crossed the little clearing. The mole had swum out on to the
soft yellow earth.
`Unpleasant little beast, we ought to kill him,' said Clifford.
`Look! he's like a parson in a pulpit,' she said.
She gathered some sprigs of woodruff and brought them to him.
`New-mown hay!' he said. `Doesn't it smell like the romantic ladies of
the last century, who had their heads screwed on the right way after all!'
She was looking at the white clouds.
`I wonder if it will rain,' she said.
`Rain! Why! Do you want it to?'
They started on the return journey, Clifford jolting cautiously
downhill. They came to the dark bottom of the hollow, turned to the right,
and after a hundred yards swerved up the foot of the long slope, where
bluebells stood in the light.
`Now, old girl!' said Clifford, putting the chair to it.
It was a steep and jolty climb. The chair pugged slowly, in a
struggling unwilling fashion. Still, she nosed her way up unevenly, till she
came to where the hyacinths were all around her, then she balked, struggled,
jerked a little way out of the flowers, then stopped
`We'd better sound the horn and see if the keeper will come,' said
Connie. `He could push her a bit. For that matter, I will push. It helps.'
`We'll let her breathe,' said Clifford. `Do you mind putting a scotch
under the wheel?'
Connie found a stone, and they waited. After a while Clifford started
his motor again, then set the chair in motion. It struggled and faltered
like a sick thing, with curious noises.
`Let me push!' said Connie, coming up behind.
`No! Don't push!' he said angrily. `What's the good of the damned
thing, if it has to be pushed! Put the stone under!'
There was another pause, then another start; but more ineffectual than
before.
`You must let me push,' said she. `Or sound the horn for the keeper.'
`Wait!'
She waited; and he had another try, doing more harm than good.
`Sound the horn then, if you won't let me push,' she said. `Hell! Be
quiet a moment!'
She was quiet a moment: he made shattering efforts with the little
motor.
`You'll only break the thing down altogether, Clifford,' she
remonstrated; `besides wasting your nervous energy.'
`If I could only get out and look at the damned thing!' he said,
exasperated. And he sounded the horn stridently. `Perhaps Mellors can see
what's wrong.'
They waited, among the mashed flowers under a sky softly curdling with
cloud. In the silence a wood-pigeon began to coo roo-hoo hoo! roo-hoo hoo!
Clifford shut her up with a blast on the horn.
The keeper appeared directly, striding inquiringly round the corner. He
saluted.
`Do you know anything about motors?' asked Clifford sharply.
`I am afraid I don't. Has she gone wrong?'
`Apparently!' snapped Clifford.
The man crouched solicitously by the wheel, and peered at the little
engine.
`I'm afraid I know nothing at all about these mechanical things, Sir
Clifford,' he said calmly. `If she has enough petrol and oil---'
`Just look carefully and see if you can see anything broken,' snapped
Clifford.
The man laid his gun against a tree, took oil his coat, and threw it
beside it. The brown dog sat guard. Then he sat down on his heels and peered
under the chair, poking with his finger at the greasy little engine, and
resenting the grease-marks on his clean Sunday shirt.
`Doesn't seem anything broken,' he said. And he stood up, pushing back
his hat from his forehead, rubbing his brow and apparently studying.
`Have you looked at the rods underneath?' asked Clifford. `See if they
are all right!'
The man lay flat on his stomach on the floor, his neck pressed back,
wriggling under the engine and poking with his finger. Connie thought what a
pathetic sort of thing a man was, feeble and small-looking, when he was
lying on his belly on the big earth.
`Seems all right as far as I can see,' came his muffled voice.
`I don't suppose you can do anything,' said Clifford.
`Seems as if I can't!' And he scrambled up and sat on his heels,
collier fashion. `There's certainly nothing obviously broken.'
Clifford started his engine, then put her in gear. She would not move.
`Run her a bit hard, like,' suggested the keeper.
Clifford resented the interference: but he made his engine buzz like a
blue-bottle. Then she coughed and snarled and seemed to go better.
`Sounds as if she'd come clear,' said Mellors.
But Clifford had already jerked her into gear. She gave a sick lurch
and ebbed weakly forwards.
`If I give her a push, she'll do it,' said the keeper, going behind.
`Keep off!' snapped Clifford. `She'll do it by herself.'
`But Clifford!' put in Connie from the bank, `you know it's too much
for her. Why are you so obstinate!'
Clifford was pale with anger. He jabbed at his levers. The chair gave a
sort of scurry, reeled on a few more yards, and came to her end amid a
particularly promising patch of bluebells.
`She's done!' said the keeper. `Not power enough.'
`She's been up here before,' said Clifford coldly.
`She won't do it this time,' said the keeper.
Clifford did not reply. He began doing things with his engine, running
her fast and slow as if to get some sort of tune out of her. The wood
re-echoed with weird noises. Then he put her in gear with a jerk, having
jerked off his brake.
`You'll rip her inside out,' murmured the keeper.
The chair charged in a sick lurch sideways at the ditch.
`Clifford!' cried Connie, rushing forward.
But the keeper had got the chair by the rail. Clifford, however,
putting on all his pressure, managed to steer into the riding, and with a
strange noise the chair was fighting the hill. Mellors pushed steadily
behind, and up she went, as if to retrieve herself.
`You see, she's doing it!' said Clifford, victorious, glancing over his
shoulder. There he saw the keeper's face.
`Are you pushing her?'
`She won't do it without.'
`Leave her alone. I asked you not.
`She won't do it.'
`Let her try!' snarled Clifford, with all his emphasis.
The keeper stood back: then turned to fetch his coat and gun. The chair
seemed to strange immediately. She stood inert. Clifford, seated a prisoner,
was white with vexation. He jerked at the levers with his hand, his feet
were no good. He got queer noises out of her. In savage impatience he moved
little handles and got more noises out of her. But she would not budge. No,
she would not budge. He stopped the engine and sat rigid with anger.
Constance sat on the bank arid looked at the wretched and trampled
bluebells. `Nothing quite so lovely as an English spring.' `I can do my
share of ruling.' `What we need to take up now is whips, not swords.' `The
ruling classes!'
The keeper strode up with his coat and gun, Flossie cautiously at his
heels. Clifford asked the man to do something or other to the engine.
Connie, who understood nothing at all of the technicalities of motors, and
who had had experience of breakdowns, sat patiently on the bank as if she
were a cipher. The keeper lay on his stomach again. The ruling classes and
the serving classes!
He got to his feet and said patiently:
`Try her again, then.'
He spoke in a quiet voice, almost as if to a child.
Clifford tried her, and Mellors stepped quickly behind and began to
push. She was going, the engine doing about half the work, the man the rest.
Clifford glanced round, yellow with anger.
`Will you get off there!'
The keeper dropped his hold at once, and Clifford added: `How shall I
know what she is doing!'
The man put his gun down and began to pull on his coat. He'd done.
The chair began slowly to run backwards.
`Clifford, your brake!' cried Connie.
She, Mellors, and Clifford moved at once, Connie and the keeper
jostling lightly. The chair stood. There was a moment of dead silence.
`It's obvious I'm at everybody's mercy!' said Clifford. He was yellow
with anger.
No one answered. Mellors was slinging his gun over his shoulder, his
face queer and expressionless, save for an abstracted look of patience. The
dog Flossie, standing on guard almost between her master's legs, moved
uneasily, eyeing the chair with great suspicion and dislike, and very much
perplexed between the three human beings. The tableau vivant remained set
among the squashed bluebells, nobody proffering a word.
`I expect she'll have to be pushed,' said Clifford at last, with an
affectation of sang froid.
No answer. Mellors' abstracted face looked as if he had heard nothing.
Connie glanced anxiously at him. Clifford too glanced round.
`Do you mind pushing her home, Mellors!' he said in a cool superior
tone. `I hope I have said nothing to offend you,' he added, in a tone of
dislike.
`Nothing at all, Sir Clifford! Do you want me to push that chair?'
`If you please.'
The man stepped up to it: but this time it was without effect. The
brake was jammed. They poked and pulled, and the keeper took off his gun and
his coat once more. And now Clifford said never a word. At last the keeper
heaved the back of the chair off the ground and, with an instantaneous push
of his foot, tried to loosen the wheels. He failed, the chair sank. Clifford
was clutching the sides. The man gasped with the weight.
`Don't do it!' cried Connie to him.
`If you'll pull the wheel that way, so!' he said to her, showing her
how.
`No! You mustn't lift it! You'll strain yourself,' she said, flushed
now with anger.
But he looked into her eyes and nodded. And she had to go and take hold
of the wheel, ready. He heaved and she tugged, and the chair reeled.
`For God's sake!' cried Clifford in terror.
But it was all right, and the brake was off. The keeper put a stone
under the wheel, and went to sit on the bank, his heart beat and his face
white with the effort, semi-conscious.
Connie looked at him, and almost cried with anger. There was a pause
and a dead silence. She saw his hands trembling on his thighs.
`Have you hurt yourself?' she asked, going to him.
`No. No!' He turned away almost angrily.
There was dead silence. The back of Clifford's fair head did not move.
Even the dog stood motionless. The sky had clouded over.
At last he sighed, and blew his nose on his red handkerchief.
`That pneumonia took a lot out of me,' he said.
No one answered. Connie calculated the amount of strength it must have
taken to heave up that chair and the bulky Clifford: too much, far too much!
If it hadn't killed him!
He rose, and again picked up his coat, slinging it through the handle
of the chair.
`Are you ready, then, Sir Clifford?'
`When you are!'
He stooped and took out the scotch, then put his weight against the
chair. He was paler than Connie had ever seen him: and more absent. Clifford
was a heavy man: and the hill was steep. Connie stepped to the keeper's
side.
`I'm going to push too!' she said.
And she began to shove with a woman's turbulent energy of anger. The
chair went faster. Clifford looked round.
`Is that necessary?' he said.
`Very! Do you want to kill the man! If you'd let the motor work while
it would---'
But she did not finish. She was already panting. She slackened off a
little, for it was surprisingly hard work.
`Ay! slower!' said the man at her side, with a faint smile of his eyes.
`Are you sure you've not hurt yourself?' she said fiercely.
He shook his head. She looked at his smallish, short, alive hand,
browned by the weather. It was the hand that caressed her. She had never
even looked at it before. It seemed so still, like him, with a curious
inward stillness that made her want to clutch it, as if she could not reach
it. All her soul suddenly swept towards him: he was so silent, and out of
reach! And he felt his limbs revive. Shoving with his left hand, he laid his
right on her round white wrist, softly enfolding her wrist, with a caress.
And the flame of strength went down his back and his loins, reviving him.
And she bent suddenly and kissed his hand. Meanwhile the back of Clifford's
head was held sleek and motionless, just in front of them.
At the top of the hill they rested, and Connie was glad to let go. She
had had fugitive dreams of friendship between these two men: one her
husband, the other the father of her child. Now she saw the screaming
absurdity of her dreams. The two males were as hostile as fire and water.
They mutually exterminated one another. And she realized for the first time
what a queer subtle thing hate is. For the first time, she had consciously
and definitely hated Clifford, with vivid hate: as if he ought to be
obliterated from the face of the earth. And it was strange, how free and
full of life it made her feel, to hate him and to admit it fully to
herself.---`Now I've hated him, I shall never be able to go on living with
him,' came the thought into her mind.
On the level the keeper could push the chair alone. Clifford made a
little conversation with her, to show his complete composure: about Aunt
Eva, who was at Dieppe, and about Sir Malcolm, who had written to ask would
Connie drive with him in his small car, to Venice, or would she and Hilda go
by train.
`I'd much rather go by train,' said Connie. `I don't like long motor
drives, especially when there's dust. But I shall see what Hilda wants.'
`She will want to drive her own car, and take you with her,' he said.
`Probably!---I must help up here. You've no idea how heavy this chair
is.'
She went to the back of the chair, and plodded side by side with the
keeper, shoving up the pink path. She did not care who saw.
`Why not let me wait, and fetch Field? He is strong enough for the
job,' said Clifford.
`It's so near,' she panted.
But both she and Mellors wiped the sweat from their faces when they
came to the top. It was curious, but this bit of work together had brought
them much closer than they had been before.
`Thanks so much, Mellors,' said Clifford, when they were at the house
door. `I must get a different sort of motor, that's all. Won't you go to the
kitchen and have a meal? It must be about time.'
`Thank you, Sir Clifford. I was going to my mother for dinner today,
Sunday.'
`As you like.'
Mellors slung into his coat, looked at Connie, saluted, and was gone.
Connie, furious, went upstairs.
At lunch she could not contain her feeling.
`Why are you so abominably inconsiderate, Clifford?' she said to him.
`Of whom?'
`Of the keeper! If that is what you call ruling classes, I'm sorry for
you.'
`Why?'
`A man who's been ill, and isn't strong! My word, if I were the serving
classes, I'd let you wait for service. I'd let you whistle.'
`I quite believe it.'
`If he'd been sitting in a chair with paralysed legs, and behaved as
you behaved, what would you have done for him?'
`My dear evangelist, this confusing of persons and personalities is in
bad taste.'
`And your nasty, sterile want of common sympathy is in the worst taste
imaginable. Noblesse oblige! You and your ruling class!'
`And to what should it oblige me? To have a lot of unnecessary emotions
about my game-keeper? I refuse. I leave it all to my evangelist.'
`As if he weren't a man as much as you are, my word!'
`My game-keeper to boot, and I pay him two pounds a week and give him a
house.'
`Pay him! What do you think you pay for, with two pounds a week and a
house?'
`His services.'
`Bah! I would tell you to keep your two pounds a week and your house.'
`Probably he would like to: but can't afford the luxury!'
`You, and rule!' she said. `You don't rule, don't flatter yourself. You
have only got more than your share of the money, and make people work for
you for two pounds a week, or threaten them with starvation. Rule! What do
you give forth of rule? Why, you re dried up! You only bully with your
money, like any Jew or any Schieber!'
`You are very elegant in your speech, Lady Chatterley!'
`I assure you, you were very elegant altogether out there in the wood.
I was utterly ashamed of you. Why, my father is ten times the human being
you are: you gentleman!'
He reached and rang the bell for Mrs Bolton. But he was yellow at the
gills.
She went up to her room, furious, saying to herself: `Him and buying
people! Well, he doesn't buy me, and therefore there's no need for me to
stay with him. Dead fish of a gentleman, with his celluloid soul! And how
they take one in, with their manners and their mock wistfulness and
gentleness. They've got about as much feeling as celluloid has.'
She made her plans for the night, and determined to get Clifford off
her mind. She didn't want to hate him. She didn't want to be mixed up very
intimately with him in any sort of feeling. She wanted him not to know
anything at all about herself: and especially, not to know anything about
her feeling for the keeper. This squabble of her attitude to the servants
was an old one. He found her too familiar, she found him stupidly
insentient, tough and indiarubbery where other people were concerned.
She went downstairs calmly, with her old demure bearing, at
dinner-time. He was still yellow at the gills: in for one of his liver
bouts, when he was really very queer.---He was reading a French book.
`Have you ever read Proust?' he asked her.
`I've tried, but he bores me.'
`He's really very extraordinary.'
`Possibly! But he bores me: all that sophistication! He doesn't have
feelings, he only has streams of words about feelings. I'm tired of
self-important mentalities.'
`Would you prefer self-important animalities?'
`Perhaps! But one might possibly get something that wasn't
self-important.'
`Well, I like Proust's subtlety and his well-bred anarchy.'
`It makes you very dead, really.'
`There speaks my evangelical little wife.'
They were at it again, at it again! But she couldn't help fighting him.
He seemed to sit there like a skeleton, sending out a skeleton's cold
grizzly will against her. Almost she could feel the skeleton clutching her
and pressing her to its cage of ribs. He too was really up in arms: and she
was a little afraid of him.
She went upstairs as soon as possible, and went to bed quite early. But
at half past nine she got up, and went outside to listen. There was no
sound. She slipped on a dressing-gown and went downstairs. Clifford and Mrs
Bolton were playing cards, gambling. They would probably go on until
midnight.
Connie returned to her room, threw her pyjamas on the tossed bed, put
on a thin tennis-dress and over that a woollen day-dress, put on rubber
tennis-shoes, and then a light coat. And she was ready. If she met anybody,
she was just going out for a few minutes. And in the morning, when she came
in again, she would just have been for a little walk in the dew, as she
fairly often did before breakfast. For the rest, the only danger was that
someone should go into her room during the night. But that was most
unlikely: not one chance in a hundred.
Betts had not locked up. He fastened up the house at ten o'clock, and
unfastened it again at seven in the morning. She slipped out silently and
unseen. There was a half-moon shining, enough to make a little light in the
world, not enough to show her up in her dark-grey coat. She walked quickly
across the park, not really in the thrill of the assignation, but with a
certain anger and rebellion burning in her heart. It was not the right sort
of heart to take to a love-meeting. But À la guerre comme À la guerre!
When she got near the park-gate, she heard the click of the latch. He
was there, then, in the darkness of the wood, and had seen her!
`You are good and early,' he said out of the dark. `Was everything all
right?'
`Perfectly easy.'
He shut the gate quietly after her, and made a spot of light on the
dark ground, showing the pallid flowers still standing there open in the
night. They went on apart, in silence.
`Are you sure you didn't hurt yourself this morning with that chair?'
she asked.
`No, no!'
`When you had that pneumonia, what did it do to you?'
`Oh nothing! it left my heart not so strong and the lungs not so
elastic. But it always does that.'
`And you ought not to make violent physical efforts?'
`Not often.'
She plodded on in an angry silence.
`Did you hate Clifford?' she said at last.
`Hate him, no! I've met too many like him to upset myself hating him. I
know beforehand I don't care for his sort, and I let it go at that.'
`What is his sort?'
`Nay, you know better than I do. The sort of youngish gentleman a bit
like a lady, and no balls.'
`What balls?'
`Balls! A man's balls!'
She pondered this.
`But is it a question of that?' she said, a little annoyed.
`You say a man's got no brain, when he's a fool: and no heart, when
he's mean; and no stomach when he's a funker. And when he's got none of that
spunky wild bit of a man in him, you say he's got no balls. When he's a sort
of tame.'
She pondered this.
`And is Clifford tame?' she asked.
`Tame, and nasty with it: like most such fellows, when you come up
against 'em.'
`And do you think you're not tame?'
`Maybe not quite!'
At length she saw in the distance a yellow light.
She stood still.
`There is a light!' she said.
`I always leave a light in the house,' he said.
She went on again at his side, but not touching him, wondering why she
was going with him at all.
He unlocked, and they went in, he bolting the door behind them. As if
it were a prison, she thought! The kettle was singing by the red fire, there
were cups on the table.
She sat in the wooden arm-chair by the fire. It was warm after the
chill outside.
`I'll take off my shoes, they are wet,' she said.
She sat with her stockinged feet on the bright steel fender. He went to
the pantry, bringing food: bread and butter and pressed tongue. She was
warm: she took off her coat. He hung it on the door.
`Shall you have cocoa or tea or coffee to drink?' he asked.
`I don't think I want anything,' she said, looking at the table. `But
you eat.'
`Nay, I don't care about it. I'll just feed the dog.'
He tramped with a quiet inevitability over the brick floor, putting
food for the dog in a brown bowl. The spaniel looked up at him anxiously.
`Ay, this is thy supper, tha nedna look as if tha wouldna get it!' he
said.
He set the bowl on the stairfoot mat, and sat himself on a chair by the
wall, to take off his leggings and boots. The dog instead of eating, came to
him again, and sat looking up at him, troubled.
He slowly unbuckled his leggings. The dog edged a little nearer.
`What's amiss wi' thee then? Art upset because there's somebody else
here? Tha'rt a female, tha art! Go an' eat thy supper.'
He put his hand on her head, and the bitch leaned her head sideways
against him. He slowly, softly pulled the long silky ear.
`There!' he said. `There! Go an' eat thy supper! Go!'
He tilted his chair towards the pot on the mat, and the dog meekly
went, and fell to eating.
`Do you like dogs?' Connie asked him.
`No, not really. They're too tame and clinging.'
He had taken off his leggings and was unlacing his heavy boots. Connie
had turned from the fire. How bare the little room was! Yet over his head on
the wall hung a hideous enlarged photograph of a young married couple,
apparently him and a bold-faced young woman, no doubt his wife.
`Is that you?' Connie asked him.
He twisted and looked at the enlargement above his head.
`Ay! Taken just afore we was married, when I was twenty-one.' He looked
at it impassively.
`Do you like it?' Connie asked him.
`Like it? No! I never liked the thing. But she fixed it all up to have
it done, like.'
He returned to pulling off his boots.
`If you don't like it, why do you keep it hanging there? Perhaps your
wife would like to have it,' she said.
He looked up at her with a sudden grin.
`She carted off iverything as was worth taking from th' 'ouse,' he
said. `But she left that!'
`Then why do you keep it? for sentimental reasons?'
`Nay, I niver look at it. I hardly knowed it wor theer. It's bin theer
sin' we come to this place.'
`Why don't you burn it?' she said.
He twisted round again and looked at the enlarged photograph. It was
framed in a brown-and-gilt frame, hideous. It showed a clean-shaven, alert,
very young-looking man in a rather high collar, and a somewhat plump, bold
young woman with hair fluffed out and crimped, and wearing a dark satin
blouse.
`It wouldn't be a bad idea, would it?' he said.
He had pulled off his boots, and put on a pair of slippers. He stood up
on the chair, and lifted down the photograph. It left a big pale place on
the greenish wall-paper.
`No use dusting it now,' he said, setting the thing against the wall.
He went to the scullery, and returned with hammer and pincers. Sitting
where he had sat before, he started to tear off the back-paper from the big
frame, and to pull out the sprigs that held the backboard in position,
working with the immediate quiet absorption that was characteristic of him.
He soon had the nails out: then he pulled out the backboards, then the
enlargement itself, in its solid white mount. He looked at the photograph
with amusement.
`Shows me for what I was, a young curate, and her for what she was, a
bully,' he said. `The prig and the bully!'
`Let me look!' said Connie.
He did look indeed very clean-shaven and very clean altogether, one of
the clean young men of twenty years ago. But even in the photograph his eyes
were alert and dauntless. And the woman was not altogether a bully, though
her jowl was heavy. There was a touch of appeal in her.
`One never should keep these things,' said Connie. `That one shouldn't!
One should never have them made!'
He broke the cardboard photograph and mount over his knee, and when it
was small enough, put it on the fire.
`It'll spoil the fire though,' he said.
The glass and the backboard he carefully took upstairs.
The frame he knocked asunder with a few blows of the hammer, making the
stucco fly. Then he took the pieces into the scullery.
`We'll burn that tomorrow,' he said. `There's too much plaster-moulding
on it.'
Having cleared away, he sat down.
`Did you love your wife?' she asked him.
`Love?' he said. `Did you love Sir Clifford?'
But she was not going to be put off.
`But you cared for her?' she insisted.
`Cared?' He grinned.
`Perhaps you care for her now,' she said.
`Me!' His eyes widened. `Ah no, I can't think of her,' he said quietly.
`Why?'
But he shook his head.
`Then why don't you get a divorce? She'll come back to you one day,'
said Connie.
He looked up at her sharply.
`She wouldn't come within a mile of me. She hates me a lot worse than I
hate her.'
`You'll see she'll come back to you.'
`That she never will. That's done! It would make me sick to see her.'
`You will see her. And you're not even legally separated, are you?'
`No.'
`Ah well, then she'll come back, and you'll have to take her in.'
He gazed at Connie fixedly. Then he gave the queer toss of his head.
`You might be right. I was a fool ever to come back here. But I felt
stranded and had to go somewhere. A man's a poor bit of a wastrel blown
about. But you're right. I'll get a divorce and get clear. I hate those
things like death, officials and courts and judges. But I've got to get
through with it. I'll get a divorce.'
And she saw his jaw set. Inwardly she exulted. `I think I will have a
cup of tea now,' she said. He rose to make it. But his face was set. As they
sat at table she asked him:
`Why did you marry her? She was commoner than yourself. Mrs Bolton told
me about her. She could never understand why you married her.'
He looked at her fixedly.
`I'll tell you,' he said. `The first girl I had, I began with when I
was sixteen. She was a school-master's daughter over at Ollerton, pretty,
beautiful really. I was supposed to be a clever sort of young fellow from
Sheffield Grammar School, with a bit of French and German, very much up
aloft. She was the romantic sort that hated commonness. She egged me on to
poetry and reading: in a way, she made a man of me. I read and I thought
like a house on fire, for her. And I was a clerk in Butterley offices, thin,
white-faced fellow fuming with all the things I read. And about everything I
talked to her: but everything. We talked ourselves into Persepolis and
Timbuctoo. We were the most literary-cultured couple in ten counties. I held
forth with rapture to her, positively with rapture. I simply went up in
smoke. And she adored me. The serpent in the grass was sex. She somehow
didn't have any; at least, not where it's supposed to be. I got thinner and
crazier. Then I said we'd got to be lovers. I talked her into it, as usual.
So she let me. I was excited, and she never wanted it. She just didn't want
it. She adored me, she loved me to talk to her and kiss her: in that way she
had a passion for me. But the other, she just didn't want. And there are
lots of women like her. And it was just the other that I did want. So there
we split. I was cruel, and left her. Then I took on with another girl, a
teacher, who had made a scandal by carrying on with a married man and
driving him nearly out of his mind. She was a soft, white-skinned, soft sort
of a woman, older than me, and played the fiddle. And she was a demon. She
loved everything about love, except the sex. Clinging, caressing, creeping
into you in every way: but if you forced her to the sex itself, she just
ground her teeth and sent out hate. I forced her to it, and she could simply
numb me with hate because of it. So I was balked again. I loathed all that.
I wanted a woman who wanted me, and wanted it.
`Then came Bertha Coutts. They'd lived next door to us when I was a
little lad, so I knew 'em all right. And they were common. Well, Bertha went
away to some place or other in Birmingham; she said, as a lady's companion;
everybody else said, as a waitress or something in a hotel. Anyhow just when
I was more than fed up with that other girl, when I was twenty-one, back
comes Bertha, with airs and graces and smart clothes and a sort of bloom on
her: a sort of sensual bloom that you'd see sometimes on a woman, or on a
trolly. Well, I was in a state of murder. I chucked up my job at Butterley
because I thought I was a weed, clerking there: and I got on as overhead
blacksmith at Tevershall: shoeing horses mostly. It had been my dad's job,
and I'd always been with him. It was a job I liked: handling horses: and it
came natural to me. So I stopped talking "fine", as they call it, talking
proper English, and went back to talking broad. I still read books, at home:
but I blacksmithed and had a pony-trap of my own, and was My Lord Duckfoot.
My dad left me three hundred pounds when he died. So I took on with Bertha,
and I was glad she was common. I wanted her to be common. I wanted to be
common myself. Well, I married her, and she wasn't bad. Those other "pure"
women had nearly taken all the balls out of me, but she was all right that
way. She wanted me, and made no bones about it. And I was as pleased as
punch. That was what I wanted: a woman who wanted me to fuck her. So I
fucked her like a good un. And I think she despised me a bit, for being so
pleased about it, and bringin' her her breakfast in bed sometimes. She sort
of let things go, didn't get me a proper dinner when I came home from work,
and if I said anything, flew out at me. And I flew back, hammer and tongs.
She flung a cup at me and I took her by the scruff of the neck and squeezed
the life out of her. That sort of thing! But she treated me with insolence.
And she got so's she'd never have me when I wanted her: never. Always put me
off, brutal as you like. And then when she'd put me right off, and I didn't
want her, she'd come all lovey-dovey, and get me. And I always went. But
when I had her, she'd never come off when I did. Never! She'd just wait. If
I kept back for half an hour, she'd keep back longer. And when I'd come and
really finished, then she'd start on her own account, and I had to stop
inside her till she brought herself off, wriggling and shouting, she'd
clutch clutch with herself down there, an' then she'd come off, fair in
ecstasy. And then she'd say: That was lovely! Gradually I got sick of it:
and she got worse. She sort of got harder and harder to bring off, and she'd
sort of tear at me down there, as if it was a beak tearing at me. By God,
you think a woman's soft down there, like a fig. But I tell you the old
rampers have beaks between their legs, and they tear at you with it till
you're sick. Self! Self! Self! all self! tearing and shouting! They talk
about men's selfishness, but I doubt if it can ever touch a woman's blind
beakishness, once she's gone that way. Like an old trull! And she couldn't
help it. I told her about it, I told her how I hated it. And she'd even try.
She'd try to lie still and let me work the business. She'd try. But it was
no good. She got no feeling off it, from my working. She had to work the
thing herself, grind her own coffee. And it came back on her like a raving
necessity, she had to let herself go, and tear, tear, tear, as if she had no
sensation in her except in the top of her beak, the very outside top tip,
that rubbed and tore. That's how old whores used to be, so men used to say.
It was a low kind of self-will in her, a raving sort of self-will: like in a
woman who drinks. Well in the end I couldn't stand it. We slept apart. She
herself had started it, in her bouts when she wanted to be clear of me, when
she said I bossed her. She had started having a room for herself. But the
time came when I wouldn't have her coming to my room. I wouldn't.
`I hated it. And she hated me. My God, how she hated me before that
child was born! I often think she conceived it out of hate. Anyhow, after
the child was born I left her alone. And then came the war, and I joined up.
And I didn't come back till I knew she was with that fellow at Stacks Gate.
He broke off, pale in the face.
`And what is the man at Stacks Gate like?' asked Connie.
`A big baby sort of fellow, very low-mouthed. She bullies him, and they
both drink.'
`My word, if she came back!'
`My God, yes! I should just go, disappear again.'
There was a silence. The pasteboard in the fire had turned to grey ash.
`So when you did get a woman who wanted you,' said Connie, `you got a
bit too much of a good thing.'
`Ay! Seems so! Yet even then I'd rather have her than the never-never
ones: the white love of my youth, and that other poison-smelling lily, and
the rest.'
`What about the rest?' said Connie.
`The rest? There is no rest. Only to my experience the mass of women
are like this: most of them want a man, but don't want the sex, but they put
up with it, as part of the bargain. The more old-fashioned sort just lie
there like nothing and let you go ahead. They don't mind afterwards: then
they like you. But the actual thing itself is nothing to them, a bit
distasteful. Add most men like it that way. I hate it. But the sly sort of
women who are like that pretend they're not. They pretend they're passionate
and have thrills. But it's all cockaloopy. They make it up. Then there's the
ones that love everything, every kind of feeling and cuddling and going off,
every kind except the natural one. They always make you go off when you're
not in the only place you should be, when you go off.---Then there's the
hard sort, that are the devil to bring off at all, and bring themselves off,
like my wife. They want to be the active party.---Then there's the sort
that's just dead inside: but dead: and they know it. Then there's the sort
that puts you out before you really "come", and go on writhing their loins
till they bring themselves off against your thighs. But they're mostly the
Lesbian sort. It's astonishing how Lesbian women are, consciously or
unconsciously. Seems to me they're nearly all Lesbian.'
`And do you mind?' asked Connie.
`I could kill them. When I'm with a woman who's really Lesbian, I
fairly howl in my soul, wanting to kill her.'
`And what do you do?'
`Just go away as fast as I can.'
`But do you think Lesbian women any worse than homosexual men?'
`I do! Because I've suffered more from them. In the abstract, I've no
idea. When I get with a Lesbian woman, whether she knows she's one or not, I
see red. No, no! But I wanted to have nothing to do with any woman any more.
I wanted to keep to myself: keep my privacy and my decency.'
He looked pale, and his brows were sombre.
`And were you sorry when I came along?' she asked.
`I was sorry and I was glad.'
`And what are you now?'
`I'm sorry, from the outside: all the complications and the ugliness
and recrimination that's bound to come, sooner or later. That's when my
blood sinks, and I'm low. But when my blood comes up, I'm glad. I'm even
triumphant. I was really getting bitter. I thought there was no real sex
left: never a woman who'd really "come" naturally with a man: except black
women, and somehow, well, we're white men: and they're a bit like mud.'
`And now, are you glad of me?' she asked.
`Yes! When I can forget the rest. When I can't forget the rest, I want
to get under the table and die.'
`Why under the table?'
`Why?' he laughed. `Hide, I suppose. Baby!'
`You do seem to have had awful experiences of women,' she said.
`You see, I couldn't fool myself. That's where most men manage. They
take an attitude, and accept a lie. I could never fool myself. I knew what I
wanted with a woman, and I could never say I'd got it when I hadn't.'
`But have you got it now?'
`Looks as if I might have.'
`Then why are you so pale and gloomy?'
`Bellyful of remembering: and perhaps afraid of myself.'
She sat in silence. It was growing late.
`And do you think it's important, a man and a woman?' she asked him.
`For me it is. For me it's the core of my life: if I have a right
relation with a woman.'
`And if you didn't get it?'
`Then I'd have to do without.'
Again she pondered, before she asked:
`And do you think you've always been right with women?'
`God, no! I let my wife get to what she was: my fault a good deal. I
spoilt her. And I'm very mistrustful. You'll have to expect it. It takes a
lot to make me trust anybody, inwardly. So perhaps I'm a fraud too. I
mistrust. And tenderness is not to be mistaken.'
She looked at him.
`You don't mistrust with your body, when your blood comes up,' she
said. `You don't mistrust then, do you?'
`No, alas! That's how I've got into all the trouble. And that's why my
mind mistrusts so thoroughly.'
`Let your mind mistrust. What does it matter!'
The dog sighed with discomfort on the mat. The ash-clogged fire sank.
`We are a couple of battered warriors,' said Connie.
`Are you battered too?' he laughed. `And here we are returning to the
fray!'
`Yes! I feel really frightened.'
`Ay!'
He got up, and put her shoes to dry, and wiped his own and set them
near the fire. In the morning he would grease them. He poked the ash of
pasteboard as much as possible out of the fire. `Even burnt, it's filthy,'
he said. Then he brought sticks and put them on the hob for the morning.
Then he went out awhile with the dog.
When he came back, Connie said:
`I want to go out too, for a minute.'
She went alone into the darkness. There were stars overhead. She could
smell flowers on the night air. And she could feel her wet shoes getting
wetter again. But she felt like going away, right away from him and
everybody.
It was chilly. She shuddered, and returned to the house. He was sitting
in front of the low fire.
`Ugh! Cold!' she shuddered.
He put the sticks on the fire, and fetched more, till they had a good
crackling chimneyful of blaze. The rippling running yellow flame made them
both happy, warmed their faces and their souls.
`Never mind!' she said, taking his hand as he sat silent and remote.
`One does one's best.'
`Ay!' He sighed, with a twist of a smile.
She slipped over to him, and into his arms, as he sat there before the
fire.
`Forget then!' she whispered. `Forget!'
He held her close, in the running warmth of the fire. The flame itself
was like a forgetting. And her soft, warm, ripe weight! Slowly his blood
turned, and began to ebb back into strength and reckless vigour again.
`And perhaps the women really wanted to be there and love you properly,
only perhaps they couldn't. Perhaps it wasn't all their fault,' she said.
`I know it. Do you think I don't know what a broken-backed snake that's
been trodden on I was myself!'
She clung to him suddenly. She had not wanted to start all this again.
Yet some perversity had made her.
`But you're not now,' she said. `You're not that now: a broken-backed
snake that's been trodden on.'
`I don't know what I am. There's black days ahead.'
`No!' she protested, clinging to him. `Why? Why?'
`There's black days coming for us all and for everybody,' he repeated
with a prophetic gloom.
`No! You're not to say it!'
He was silent. But she could feel the black void of despair inside him.
That was the death of all desire, the death of all love: this despair that
was like the dark cave inside the men, in which their spirit was lost.
`And you talk so coldly about sex,' she said. `You talk as if you had
only wanted your own pleasure and satisfaction.'
She was protesting nervously against him.
`Nay!' he said. `I wanted to have my pleasure and satisfaction of a
woman, and I never got it: because I could never get my pleasure and
satisfaction of her unless she got hers of me at the same time. And it never
happened. It takes two.'
`But you never believed in your women. You don't even believe really in
me,' she said.
`I don't know what believing in a woman means.'
`That's it, you see!'
She still was curled on his lap. But his spirit was grey and absent, he
was not there for her. And everything she said drove him further.
`But what do you believe in?' she insisted.
`I don't know.'
`Nothing, like all the men I've ever known,' she said.
They were both silent. Then he roused himself and said:
`Yes, I do believe in something. I believe in being warmhearted. I
believe especially in being warm-hearted in love, in fucking with a warm
heart. I believe if men could fuck with warm hearts, and the women take it
warm-heartedly, everything would come all right. It's all this cold-hearted
fucking that is death and idiocy.'
`But you don't fuck me cold-heartedly,' she protested.
`I don't want to fuck you at all. My heart's as cold as cold potatoes
just now.'
`Oh!' she said, kissing him mockingly. `Let's have them sautÉes.' He
laughed, and sat erect.
`It's a fact!' he said. `Anything for a bit of warm-heartedness. But
the women don't like it. Even you don't really like it. You like good,
sharp, piercing cold-hearted fucking, and then pretending it's all sugar.
Where's your tenderness for me? You're as suspicious of me as a cat is of a
dog. I tell you it takes two even to be tender and warm-hearted. You love
fucking all right: but you want it to be called something grand and
mysterious, just to flatter your own self-importance. Your own
self-importance is more to you, fifty times more, than any man, or being
together with a man.'
`But that's what I'd say of you. Your own self-importance is everything
to you.'
`Ay! Very well then!' he said, moving as if he wanted to rise. `Let's
keep apart then. I'd rather die than do any more cold-hearted fucking.'
She slid away from him, and he stood up.
`And do you think I want it?' she said.
`I hope you don't,' he replied. `But anyhow, you go to bed an' I'll
sleep down here.'
She looked at him. He was pale, his brows were sullen, he was as
distant in recoil as the cold pole. Men were all alike.
`I can't go home till morning,' she said.
`No! Go to bed. It's a quarter to one.'
`I certainly won't,' she said.
He went across and picked up his boots.
`Then I'll go out!' he said.
He began to put on his boots. She stared at him.
`Wait!' she faltered. `Wait! What's come between us?'
He was bent over, lacing his boot, and did not reply. The moments
passed. A dimness came over her, like a swoon. All her consciousness died,
and she stood there wide-eyed, looking at him from the unknown, knowing
nothing any more.
He looked up, because of the silence, and saw her wide-eyed and lost.
And as if a wind tossed him he got up and hobbled over to her, one shoe off
and one shoe on, and took her in his arms, pressing her against his body,
which somehow felt hurt right through. And there he held her, and there she
remained.
Till his hands reached blindly down and felt for her, and felt under
the clothing to where she was smooth and warm.
`Ma lass!' he murmured. `Ma little lass! Dunna let's light! Dunna let's
niver light! I love thee an' th' touch on thee. Dunna argue wi' me! Dunna!
Dunna! Dunna! Let's be together.'
She lifted her face and looked at him.
`Don't be upset,' she said steadily. `It's no good being upset. Do you
really want to be together with me?'
She looked with wide, steady eyes into his face. He stopped, and went
suddenly still, turning his face aside. All his body went perfectly still,
but did not withdraw.
Then he lifted his head and looked into her eyes, with his odd, faintly
mocking grin, saying: `Ay-ay! Let's be together on oath.'
`But really?' she said, her eyes filling with tears. `Ay really! Heart
an' belly an' cock.'
He still smiled faintly down at her, with the flicker of irony in his
eyes, and a touch of bitterness.
She was silently weeping, and he lay with her and went into her there
on the hearthrug, and so they gained a measure of equanimity. And then they
went quickly to bed, for it was growing chill, and they had tired each other
out. And she nestled up to him, feeling small and enfolded, and they both
went to sleep at once, fast in one sleep. And so they lay and never moved,
till the sun rose over the wood and day was beginning.
Then he woke up and looked at the light. The curtains were drawn. He
listened to the loud wild calling of blackbirds and thrushes in the wood. It
would be a brilliant morning, about half past five, his hour for rising. He
had slept so fast! It was such a new day! The woman was still curled asleep
and tender. His hand moved on her, and she opened her blue wondering eyes,
smiling unconsciously into his face.
`Are you awake?' she said to him.
He was looking into her eyes. He smiled, and kissed her. And suddenly
she roused and sat up.
`Fancy that I am here!' she said.
She looked round the whitewashed little bedroom with its sloping
ceiling and gable window where the white curtains were closed. The room was
bare save for a little yellow-painted chest of drawers, and a chair: and the
smallish white bed in which she lay with him.
`Fancy that we are here!' she said, looking down at him. He was lying
watching her, stroking her breasts with his fingers, under the thin
nightdress. When he was warm and smoothed out, he looked young and handsome.
His eyes could look so warm. And she was fresh and young like a flower.
`I want to take this off!' she said, gathering the thin batiste
nightdress and pulling it over her head. She sat there with bare shoulders
and longish breasts faintly golden. He loved to make her breasts swing
softly, like bells.
`You must take off your pyjamas too,' she said.
`Eh, nay!'
`Yes! Yes!' she commanded.
And he took off his old cotton pyjama-jacket, and pushed down the
trousers. Save for his hands and wrists and face and neck he was white as
milk, with fine slender muscular flesh. To Connie he was suddenly piercingly
beautiful again, as when she had seen him that afternoon washing himself.
Gold of sunshine touched the closed white curtain. She felt it wanted
to come in.
`Oh, do let's draw the curtains! The birds are singing so! Do let the
sun in,' she said.
He slipped out of bed with his back to her, naked and white and thin,
and went to the window, stooping a little, drawing the curtains and looking
out for a moment. The back was white and fine, the small buttocks beautiful
with an exquisite, delicate manliness, the back of the neck ruddy and
delicate and yet strong.
There was an inward, not an outward strength in the delicate fine body.
`But you are beautiful!' she said. `So pure and fine! Come!' She held
her arms out.
He was ashamed to turn to her, because of his aroused nakedness.
He caught his shirt off the floor, and held it to him, coming to her.
`No!' she said still holding out her beautiful slim arms from her
dropping breasts. `Let me see you!'
He dropped the shirt and stood still looking towards her. The sun
through the low window sent in a beam that lit up his thighs and slim belly
and the erect phallos rising darkish and hot-looking from the little cloud
of vivid gold-red hair. She was startled and afraid.
`How strange!' she said slowly. `How strange he stands there! So big!
and so dark and cock-sure! Is he like that?'
The man looked down the front of his slender white body, and laughed.
Between the slim breasts the hair was dark, almost black. But at the root of
the belly, where the phallos rose thick and arching, it was gold-red, vivid
in a little cloud.
`So proud!' she murmured, uneasy. `And so lordly! Now I know why men
are so overbearing! But he's lovely, really. Like another being! A bit
terrifying! But lovely really! And he comes to me!---' She caught her lower
lip between her teeth, in fear and excitement.
The man looked down in silence at the tense phallos, that did not
change.---`Ay!' he said at last, in a little voice. `Ay ma lad! tha're theer
right enough. Yi, tha mun rear thy head! Theer on thy own, eh? an' ta'es no
count O' nob'dy! Tha ma'es nowt O' me, John Thomas. Art boss? of me? Eh
well, tha're more cocky than me, an' tha says less. John Thomas! Dost want
her? Dost want my lady Jane? Tha's dipped me in again, tha hast. Ay, an' tha
comes up smilin'.---Ax 'er then! Ax lady Jane! Say: Lift up your heads, O ye
gates, that the king of glory may come in. Ay, th' cheek on thee! Cunt,
that's what tha're after. Tell lady Jane tha wants cunt. John Thomas, an'
th' cunt O' lady Jane!---'
`Oh, don't tease him,' said Connie, crawling on her knees on the bed
towards him and putting her arms round his white slender loins, and drawing
him to her so that her hanging, swinging breasts touched the tip of the
stirring, erect phallos, and caught the drop of moisture. She held the man
fast.
`Lie down!' he said. `Lie down! Let me come!' He was in a hurry now.
And afterwards, when they had been quite still, the woman had to
uncover the man again, to look at the mystery of the phallos.
`And now he's tiny, and soft like a little bud of life!' she said,
taking the soft small penis in her hand. `Isn't he somehow lovely! so on his
own, so strange! And so innocent! And he comes so far into me! You must
never insult him, you know. He's mine too. He's not only yours. He's mine!
And so lovely and innocent!' And she held the penis soft in her hand.
He laughed.
`Blest be the tie that binds our hearts in kindred love,' he said.
`Of course!' she said. `Even when he's soft and little I feel my heart
simply tied to him. And how lovely your hair is here! quite, quite
different!'
`That's John Thomas's hair, not mine!' he said.
`John Thomas! John Thomas!' and she quickly kissed the soft penis, that
was beginning to stir again.
`Ay!' said the man, stretching his body almost painfully. `He's got his
root in my soul, has that gentleman! An' sometimes I don' know what ter do
wi' him. Ay, he's got a will of his own, an' it's hard to suit him. Yet I
wouldn't have him killed.'
`No wonder men have always been afraid of him!' she said. `He's rather
terrible.'
The quiver was going through the man's body, as the stream of
consciousness again changed its direction, turning downwards. And he was
helpless, as the penis in slow soft undulations filled and surged and rose
up, and grew hard, standing there hard and overweening, in its curious
towering fashion. The woman too trembled a little as she watched.
`There! Take him then! He's thine,' said the man.
And she quivered, and her own mind melted out. Sharp soft waves of
unspeakable pleasure washed over her as he entered her, and started the
curious molten thrilling that spread and spread till she was carried away
with the last, blind flush of extremity.
He heard the distant hooters of Stacks Gate for seven o'clock. It was
Monday morning. He shivered a little, and with his face between her breasts
pressed her soft breasts up over his ears, to deafen him.
She had not even heard the hooters. She lay perfectly still, her soul
washed transparent.
`You must get up, mustn't you?' he muttered.
`What time?' came her colourless voice.
`Seven-o'clock blowers a bit sin'.'
`I suppose I must.'
She was resenting as she always did, the compulsion from outside.
He sat up and looked blankly out of the window. `You do love me, don't
you?' she asked calmly. He looked down at her.
`Tha knows what tha knows. What dost ax for!' he said, a little
fretfully.
`I want you to keep me, not to let me go,' she said.
His eyes seemed full of a warm, soft darkness that could not think.
`When? Now?'
`Now in your heart. Then I want to come and live with you, always,
soon.'
He sat naked on the bed, with his head dropped, unable to think.
`Don't you want it?' she asked.
`Ay!' he said.
Then with the same eyes darkened with another flame of consciousness,
almost like sleep, he looked at her.
`Dunna ax me nowt now,' he said. `Let me be. I like thee. I luv thee
when tha lies theer. A woman's a lovely thing when 'er's deep ter fuck, and
cunt's good. Ah luv thee, thy legs, an' th' shape on thee, an' th' womanness
on thee. Ah luv th' womanness on thee. Ah luv thee wi' my bas an' wi' my
heart. But dunna ax me nowt. Dunna ma'e me say nowt. Let me stop as I am
while I can. Tha can ax me iverything after. Now let me be, let me be!'
And softly, he laid his hand over her mound of Venus, on the soft brown
maiden-hair, and himself-sat still and naked on the bed, his face motionless
in physical abstraction, almost like the face of Buddha. Motionless, and in
the invisible flame of another consciousness, he sat with his hand on her,
and waited for the turn.
After a while, he reached for his shirt and put it on, dressed himself
swiftly in silence, looked at her once as she still lay naked and faintly
golden like a Gloire de Dijon rose on the bed, and was gone. She heard him
downstairs opening the door.
And still she lay musing, musing. It was very hard to go: to go out of
his arms. He called from the foot of the stairs: `Half past seven!' She
sighed, and got out of bed. The bare little room! Nothing in it at all but
the small chest of drawers and the smallish bed. But the board floor was
scrubbed clean. And in the corner by the window gable was a shelf with some
books, and some from a circulating library. She looked. There were books
about Bolshevist Russia, books of travel, a volume about the atom and the
electron, another about the composition of the earth's core, and the causes
of earthquakes: then a few novels: then three books on India. So! He was a
reader after all.
The sun fell on her naked limbs through the gable window. Outside she
saw the dog Flossie roaming round. The hazel-brake was misted with green,
and dark-green dogs-mercury under. It was a clear clean morning with birds
flying and triumphantly singing. If only she could stay! If only there
weren't the other ghastly world of smoke and iron! If only he would make her
a world.
She came downstairs, down the steep, narrow wooden stairs. Still she
would be content with this little house, if only it were in a world of its
own.
He was washed and fresh, and the fire was burning. `Will you eat
anything?' he said.
`No! Only lend me a comb.'
She followed him into the scullery, and combed her hair before the
handbreadth of mirror by the back door. Then she was ready to go.
She stood in the little front garden, looking at the dewy flowers, the
grey bed of pinks in bud already.
`I would like to have all the rest of the world disappear,' she said,
`and live with you here.'
`It won't disappear,' he said.
They went almost in silence through the lovely dewy wood. But they were
together in a world of their own.
It was bitter to her to go on to Wragby.
`I want soon to come and live with you altogether,' she said as she
left him.
He smiled, unanswering.
She got home quietly and unremarked, and went up to her room.
There was a letter from Hilda on the breakfast-tray. `Father is going
to London this week, and I shall call for you on Thursday week, June 17th.
You must be ready so that we can go at once. I don't want to waste time at
Wragby, it's an awful place. I shall probably stay the night at Retford with
the Colemans, so I should be with you for lunch, Thursday. Then we could
start at teatime, and sleep perhaps in Grantham. It is no use our spending
an evening with Clifford. If he hates your going, it would be no pleasure to
him.'
So! She was being pushed round on the chess-board again.
Clifford hated her going, but it was only because he didn't feel safe
in her absence. Her presence, for some reason, made him feel safe, and free
to do the things he was occupied with. He was a great deal at the pits, and
wrestling in spirit with the almost hopeless problems of getting out his
coal in the most economical fashion and then selling it when he'd got it
out. He knew he ought to find some way of using it, or converting it, so
that he needn't sell it, or needn't have the chagrin of failing to sell it.
But if he made electric power, could he sell that or use it? And to convert
into oil was as yet too costly and too elaborate. To keep industry alive
there must be more industry, like a madness.
It was a madness, and it required a madman to succeed in it. Well, he
was a little mad. Connie thought so. His very intensity and acumen in the
affairs of the pits seemed like a manifestation of madness to her, his very
inspirations were the inspirations of insanity.
He talked to her of all his serious schemes, and she listened in a kind
of wonder, and let him talk. Then the flow ceased, and he turned on the
loudspeaker, and became a blank, while apparently his schemes coiled on
inside him like a kind of dream.
And every night now he played pontoon, that game of the Tommies, with
Mrs Bolton, gambling with sixpences. And again, in the gambling he was gone
in a kind of unconsciousness, or blank intoxication, or intoxication of
blankness, whatever it was. Connie could not bear to see him. But when she
had gone to bed, he and Mrs Bolton would gamble on till two and three in the
morning, safely, and with strange lust. Mrs Bolton was caught in the lust as
much as Clifford: the more so, as she nearly always lost.
She told Connie one day: `I lost twenty-three shillings to Sir Clifford
last night.'
`And did he take the money from you?' asked Connie aghast.
`Why of course, my Lady! Debt of honour!'
Connie expostulated roundly, and was angry with both of them. The
upshot was, Sir Clifford raised Mrs Bolton's wages a hundred a year, and she
could gamble on that. Meanwhile, it seemed to Connie, Clifford was really
going deader.
She told him at length she was leaving on the seventeenth.
`Seventeenth!' he said. `And when will you be back?'
`By the twentieth of July at the latest.'
`Yes! the twentieth of July.'
Strangely and blankly he looked at her, with the vagueness of a child,
but with the queer blank cunning of an old man.
`You won't let me down, now, will you?' he said.
`How?'
`While you're away, I mean, you're sure to come back?'
`I'm as sure as I can be of anything, that I shall come back.'
`Yes! Well! Twentieth of July!'
He looked at her so strangely.
Yet he really wanted her to go. That was so curious. He wanted her to
go, positively, to have her little adventures and perhaps come home
pregnant, and all that. At the same time, he was afraid of her going.
She was quivering, watching her real opportunity for leaving him
altogether, waiting till the time, herself himself should be ripe.
She sat and talked to the keeper of her going abroad.
`And then when I come back,' she said, `I can tell Clifford I must
leave him. And you and I can go away. They never need even know it is you.
We can go to another country, shall we? To Africa or Australia. Shall we?'
She was quite thrilled by her plan.
`You've never been to the Colonies, have you?' he asked her.
`No! Have you?'
`I've been in India, and South Africa, and Egypt.'
`Why shouldn't we go to South Africa?'
`We might!' he said slowly.
`Or don't you want to?' she asked.
`I don't care. I don't much care what I do.'
`Doesn't it make you happy? Why not? We shan't be poor. I have about
six hundred a year, I wrote and asked. It's not much, but it's enough, isn't
it?'
`It's riches to me.'
`Oh, how lovely it will be!'
`But I ought to get divorced, and so ought you, unless we're going to
have complications.'
There was plenty to think about.
Another day she asked him about himself. They were in the hut, and
there was a thunderstorm.
`And weren't you happy, when you were a lieutenant and an officer and a
gentleman?'
`Happy? All right. I liked my Colonel.'
`Did you love him?'
`Yes! I loved him.'
`And did he love you?'
`Yes! In a way, he loved me.'
`Tell me about him.'
`What is there to tell? He had risen from the ranks. He loved the army.
And he had never married. He was twenty years older than me. He was a very
intelligent man: and alone in the army, as such a man is: a passionate man
in his way: and a very clever officer. I lived under his spell while I was
with him. I sort of let him run my life. And I never regret it.'
`And did you mind very much when he died?'
`I was as near death myself. But when I came to, I knew another part of
me was finished. But then I had always known it would finish in death. All
things do, as far as that goes.'
She sat and ruminated. The thunder crashed outside. It was like being
in a little ark in the Flood.
`You seem to have such a lot behind you,' she said.
`Do I? It seems to me I've died once or twice already. Yet here I am,
pegging on, and in for more trouble.'
She was thinking hard, yet listening to the storm.
`And weren't you happy as an officer and a gentleman, when your Colonel
was dead?'
`No! They were a mingy lot.' He laughed suddenly. `The Colonel used to
say: Lad, the English middle classes have to chew every mouthful thirty
times because their guts are so narrow, a bit as big as a pea would give
them a stoppage. They're the mingiest set of ladylike snipe ever invented:
full of conceit of themselves, frightened even if their boot-laces aren't
correct, rotten as high game, and always in the right. That's what finishes
me up. Kow-tow, kow-tow, arse-licking till their tongues are tough: yet
they're always in the right. Prigs on top of everything. Prigs! A generation
of ladylike prigs with half a ball each---'
Connie laughed. The rain was rushing down.
`He hated them!'
`No,' said he. `He didn't bother. He just disliked them. There's a
difference. Because, as he said, the Tommies are getting just as priggish
and half-balled and narrow-gutted. It's the fate of mankind, to go that
way.'
`The common people too, the working people?'
`All the lot. Their spunk is gone dead. Motor-cars and cinemas and
aeroplanes suck that last bit out of them. I tell you, every generation
breeds a more rabbity generation, with india rubber tubing for guts and tin
legs and tin faces. Tin people! It's all a steady sort of bolshevism just
killing off the human thing, and worshipping the mechanical thing. Money,
money, money! All the modern lot get their real kick out of killing the old
human feeling out of man, making mincemeat of the old Adam and the old Eve.
They're all alike. The world is all alike: kill off the human reality, a
quid for every foreskin, two quid for each pair of balls. What is cunt but
machine-fucking!---It's all alike. Pay 'em money to cut off the world's
cock. Pay money, money, money to them that will take spunk out of mankind,
and leave 'em all little twiddling machines.'
He sat there in the hut, his face pulled to mocking irony. Yet even
then, he had one ear set backwards, listening to the storm over the wood. It
made him feel so alone.
`But won't it ever come to an end?' she said.
`Ay, it will. It'll achieve its own salvation. When the last real man
is killed, and they're all tame: white, black, yellow, all colours of tame
ones: then they'll all be insane. Because the root of sanity is in the
balls. Then they'll all be insane, and they'll make their grand ~auto da fe.
You know auto da fe means act of faith? Ay, well, they'll make their own
grand little act of faith. They'll offer one another up.'
`You mean kill one another?'
`I do, duckie! If we go on at our present rate then in a hundred years'
time there won't be ten thousand people in this island: there may not be
ten. They'll have lovingly wiped each other out. The thunder was rolling
further away.
`How nice!' she said.
`Quite nice! To contemplate the extermination of the human species and
the long pause that follows before some other species crops up, it calms you
more than anything else. And if we go on in this way, with everybody,
intellectuals, artists, government, industrialists and workers all
frantically killing off the last human feeling, the last bit of their
intuition, the last healthy instinct; if it goes on in algebraical
progression, as it is going on: then ta-tah! to the human species! Goodbye!
darling! the serpent swallows itself and leaves a void, considerably messed
up, but not hopeless. Very nice! When savage wild dogs bark in Wragby, and
savage wild pit-ponies stamp on Tevershall pit-bank! te deum laudamus!'
Connie laughed, but not very happily.
`Then you ought to be pleased that they are all bolshevists,' she said.
`You ought to be pleased that they hurry on towards the end.'
`So I am. I don't stop 'em. Because I couldn't if I would.'
`Then why are you so bitter?'
`I'm not! If my cock gives its last crow, I don't mind.'
`But if you have a child?' she said.
He dropped his head.
`Why,' he said at last. `It seems to me a wrong and bitter thing to do,
to bring a child into this world.'
`No! Don't say it! Don't say it!' she pleaded. `I think I'm going to
have one. Say you'll he pleased.' She laid her hand on his.
`I'm pleased for you to be pleased,' he said. `But for me it seems a
ghastly treachery to the unborn creature.
`Ah no!' she said, shocked. `Then you can't ever really want me! You
can't want me, if you feel that!'
Again he was silent, his face sullen. Outside there was only the
threshing of the rain.
`It's not quite true!' she whispered. `It's not quite true! There's
another truth.' She felt he was bitter now partly because she was leaving
him, deliberately going away to Venice. And this half pleased her.
She pulled open his clothing and uncovered his belly, and kissed his
navel. Then she laid her cheek on his belly and pressed her arm round his
warm, silent loins. They were alone in the flood.
`Tell me you want a child, in hope!' she murmured, pressing her face
against his belly. `Tell me you do!'
`Why!' he said at last: and she felt the curious quiver of changing
consciousness and relaxation going through his body. `Why I've thought
sometimes if one but tried, here among th' colliers even! They're workin'
bad now, an' not earnin' much. If a man could say to 'em: Dunna think o'
nowt but th' money. When it comes ter wants, we want but little. Let's not
live for money---'
She softly rubbed her cheek on his belly, and gathered his balls in her
hand. The penis stirred softly, with strange life, but did not rise up. The
rain beat bruisingly outside.
`Let's live for summat else. Let's not live ter make money, neither for
us-selves nor for anybody else. Now we're forced to. We're forced to make a
bit for us-selves, an' a fair lot for th' bosses. Let's stop it! Bit by bit,
let's stop it. We needn't rant an' rave. Bit by bit, let's drop the whole
industrial life an' go back. The least little bit o' money'll do. For
everybody, me an' you, bosses an' masters, even th' king. The least little
bit o' money'll really do. Just make up your mind to it, an' you've got out
o' th' mess.' He paused, then went on:
`An' I'd tell 'em: Look! Look at Joe! He moves lovely! Look how he
moves, alive and aware. He's beautiful! An' look at Jonah! He's clumsy, he's
ugly, because he's niver willin' to rouse himself I'd tell 'em: Look! look
at yourselves! one shoulder higher than t'other, legs twisted, feet all
lumps! What have yer done ter yerselves, wi' the blasted work? Spoilt
yerselves. No need to work that much. Take yer clothes off an' look at
yourselves. Yer ought ter be alive an' beautiful, an' yer ugly an' half
dead. So I'd tell 'em. An' I'd get my men to wear different clothes: appen
close red trousers, bright red, an' little short white jackets. Why, if men
had red, fine legs, that alone would change them in a month. They'd begin to
be men again, to be men! An' the women could dress as they liked. Because if
once the men walked with legs close bright scarlet, and buttocks nice and
showing scarlet under a little white jacket: then the women 'ud begin to be
women. It's because th' men aren't men, that th' women have to be.---An' in
time pull down Tevershall and build a few beautiful buildings, that would
hold us all. An' clean the country up again. An' not have many children,
because the world is overcrowded.
`But I wouldn't preach to the men: only strip 'em an' say: Look at
yourselves! That's workin' for money!---Hark at yourselves! That's working
for money. You've been working for money! Look at Tevershall! It's horrible.
That's because it was built while you was working for money. Look at your
girls! They don't care about you, you don't care about them. It's because
you've spent your time working an' caring for money. You can't talk nor move
nor live, you can't properly be with a woman. You're not alive. Look at
yourselves!'
There fell a complete silence. Connie was half listening, and threading
in the hair at the root of his belly a few forget-me-nots that she had
gathered on the way to the hut. Outside, the world had gone still, and a
little icy.
`You've got four kinds of hair,' she said to him. `On your chest it's
nearly black, and your hair isn't dark on your head: but your moustache is
hard and dark red, and your hair here, your love-hair, is like a little
brush of bright red-gold mistletoe. It's the loveliest of all!'
He looked down and saw the milky bits of forget-me-nots in the hair on
his groin.
`Ay! That's where to put forget-me-nots, in the man-hair, or the
maiden-hair. But don't you care about the future?'
She looked up at him.
`Oh, I do, terribly!' she said.
`Because when I feel the human world is doomed, has doomed itself by
its own mingy beastliness, then I feel the Colonies aren't far enough. The
moon wouldn't be far enough, because even there you could look back and see
the earth, dirty, beastly, unsavoury among all the stars: made foul by men.
Then I feel I've swallowed gall, and it's eating my inside out, and
nowhere's far enough away to get away. But when I get a turn, I forget it
all again. Though it's a shame, what's been done to people these last
hundred years: men turned into nothing but labour-insects, and all their
manhood taken away, and all their real life. I'd wipe the machines off the
face of the earth again, and end the industrial epoch absolutely, like a
black mistake. But since I can't, an' nobody can, I'd better hold my peace,
an' try an' live my own life: if I've got one to live, which I rather
doubt.'
The thunder had ceased outside, but the rain which had abated, suddenly
came striking down, with a last blench of lightning and mutter of departing
storm. Connie was uneasy. He had talked so long now, and he was really
talking to himself not to her. Despair seemed to come down on him
completely, and she was feeling happy, she hated despair. She knew her
leaving him, which he had only just realized inside himself had plunged him
back into this mood. And she triumphed a little.
She opened the door and looked at the straight heavy rain, like a steel
curtain, and had a sudden desire to rush out into it, to rush away. She got
up, and began swiftly pulling off her stockings, then her dress and
underclothing, and he held his breath. Her pointed keen animal breasts
tipped and stirred as she moved. She was ivory-coloured in the greenish
light. She slipped on her rubber shoes again and ran out with a wild little
laugh, holding up her breasts to the heavy rain and spreading her arms, and
running blurred in the rain with the eurhythmic dance movements she had
learned so long ago in Dresden. It was a strange pallid figure lifting and
falling, bending so the rain beat and glistened on the full haunches,
swaying up again and coming belly-forward through the rain, then stooping
again so that only the full loins and buttocks were offered in a kind of
homage towards him, repeating a wild obeisance.
He laughed wryly, and threw off his clothes. It was too much. He jumped
out, naked and white, with a little shiver, into the hard slanting rain.
Flossie sprang before him with a frantic little bark. Connie, her hair all
wet and sticking to her head, turned her hot face and saw him. Her blue eyes
blazed with excitement as she turned and ran fast, with a strange charging
movement, out of the clearing and down the path, the wet boughs whipping
her. She ran, and he saw nothing but the round wet head, the wet back
leaning forward in flight, the rounded buttocks twinkling: a wonderful
cowering female nakedness in flight.
She was nearly at the wide riding when he came up and flung his naked
arm round her soft, naked-wet middle. She gave a shriek and straightened
herself and the heap of her soft, chill flesh came up against his body. He
pressed it all up against him, madly, the heap of soft, chilled female flesh
that became quickly warm as flame, in contact. The rain streamed on them
till they smoked. He gathered her lovely, heavy posteriors one in each hand
and pressed them in towards him in a frenzy, quivering motionless in the
rain. Then suddenly he tipped her up and fell with her on the path, in the
roaring silence of the rain, and short and sharp, he took her, short and
sharp and finished, like an animal.
He got up in an instant, wiping the rain from his eyes.
`Come in,' he said, and they started running back to the hut. He ran
straight and swift: he didn't like the rain. But she came slower, gathering
forget-me-nots and campion and bluebells, running a few steps and watching
him fleeing away from her.
When she came with her flowers, panting to the hut, he had already
started a fire, and the twigs were crackling. Her sharp breasts rose and
fell, her hair was plastered down with rain, her face was flushed ruddy and
her body glistened and trickled. Wide-eyed and breathless, with a small wet
head and full, trickling, naÏve haunches, she looked another creature.
He took the old sheet and rubbed her down, she standing like a child.
Then he rubbed himself having shut the door of the hut. The fire was blazing
up. She ducked her head in the other end of the sheet, and rubbed her wet
hair.
`We're drying ourselves together on the same towel, we shall quarrel!'
he said.
She looked up for a moment, her hair all odds and ends.
`No!' she said, her eyes wide. `It's not a towel, it's a sheet.' And
she went on busily rubbing her head, while he busily rubbed his.
Still panting with their exertions, each wrapped in an army blanket,
but the front of the body open to the fire, they sat on a log side by side
before the blaze, to get quiet. Connie hated the feel of the blanket against
her skin. But now the sheet was all wet.
She dropped her blanket and kneeled on the clay hearth, holding her
head to the fire, and shaking her hair to dry it. He watched the beautiful
curving drop of her haunches. That fascinated him today. How it sloped with
a rich down-slope to the heavy roundness of her buttocks! And in between,
folded in the secret warmth, the secret entrances!
He stroked her tail with his hand, long and subtly taking in the curves
and the globe-fullness.
`Tha's got such a nice tail on thee,' he said, in the throaty caressive
dialect. `Tha's got the nicest arse of anybody. It's the nicest, nicest
woman's arse as is! An' ivery bit of it is woman, woman sure as nuts. Tha'rt
not one o' them button-arsed lasses as should be lads, are ter! Tha's got a
real soft sloping bottom on thee, as a man loves in 'is guts. It's a bottom
as could hold the world up, it is!'
All the while he spoke he exquisitely stroked the rounded tail, till it
seemed as if a slippery sort of fire came from it into his hands. And his
finger-tips touched the two secret openings to her body, time after time,
with a soft little brush of fire.
`An' if tha shits an' if tha pisses, I'm glad. I don't want a woman as
couldna shit nor piss.'
Connie could not help a sudden snort of astonished laughter, but he
went on unmoved.
`Tha'rt real, tha art! Tha'art real, even a bit of a bitch. Here tha
shits an' here tha pisses: an' I lay my hand on 'em both an' like thee for
it. I like thee for it. Tha's got a proper, woman's arse, proud of itself.
It's none ashamed of itself this isna.'
He laid his hand close and firm over her secret places, in a kind of
close greeting.
`I like it,' he said. `I like it! An' if I only lived ten minutes, an'
stroked thy arse an' got to know it, I should reckon I'd lived one life, see
ter! Industrial system or not! Here's one o' my lifetimes.'
She turned round and climbed into his lap, clinging to him. `Kiss me!'
she whispered.
And she knew the thought of their separation was latent in both their
minds, and at last she was sad.
She sat on his thighs, her head against his breast, and her
ivory-gleaming legs loosely apart, the fire glowing unequally upon them.
Sitting with his head dropped, he looked at the folds of her body in the
fire-glow, and at the fleece of soft brown hair that hung down to a point
between her open thighs. He reached to the table behind, and took up her
bunch of flowers, still so wet that drops of rain fell on to her.
`Flowers stops out of doors all weathers,' he said. `They have no
houses.'
`Not even a hut!' she murmured.
With quiet fingers he threaded a few forget-me-not flowers in the fine
brown fleece of the mound of Venus.
`There!' he said. `There's forget-me-nots in the right place!'
She looked down at the milky odd little flowers among the brown
maiden-hair at the lower tip of her body.
`Doesn't it look pretty!' she said.
`Pretty as life,' he replied.
And he stuck a pink campion-bud among the hair.
`There! That's me where you won't forget me! That's Moses in the
bull-rushes.'
`You don't mind, do you, that I'm going away?' she asked wistfully,
looking up into his face.
But his face was inscrutable, under the heavy brows. He kept it quite
blank.
`You do as you wish,' he said.
And he spoke in good English.
`But I won't go if you don't wish it,' she said, clinging to him.
There was silence. He leaned and put another piece of wood on the fire.
The flame glowed on his silent, abstracted face. She waited, but he said
nothing.
`Only I thought it would be a good way to begin a break with Clifford.
I do want a child. And it would give me a chance to, to---,' she resumed.
`To let them think a few lies,' he said.
`Yes, that among other things. Do you want them to think the truth?'
`I don't care what they think.'
`I do! I don't want them handling me with their unpleasant cold minds,
not while I'm still at Wragby. They can think what they like when I'm
finally gone.'
He was silent.
`But Sir Clifford expects you to come back to him?'
`Oh, I must come back,' she said: and there was silence.
`And would you have a child in Wragby?' he asked.
She closed her arm round his neck.
`If you wouldn't take me away, I should have to,' she said.
`Take you where to?'
`Anywhere! away! But right away from Wragby.'
`When?'
`Why, when I come back.'
`But what's the good of coming back, doing the thing twice, if you're
once gone?' he said.
`Oh, I must come back. I've promised! I've promised so faithfully.
Besides, I come back to you, really.'
`To your husband's game-keeper?'
`I don't see that that matters,' she said.
`No?' He mused a while. `And when would you think of going away again,
then; finally? When exactly?'
`Oh, I don't know. I'd come back from Venice. And then we'd prepare
everything.'
`How prepare?'
`Oh, I'd tell Clifford. I'd have to tell him.'
`Would you!'
He remained silent. She put her arms round his neck.
`Don't make it difficult for me,' she pleaded.
`Make what difficult?'
`For me to go to Venice and arrange things.'
A little smile, half a grin, flickered on his face.
`I don't make it difficult,' he said. `I only want to find out just
what you are after. But you don't really know yourself. You want to take
time: get away and look at it. I don't blame you. I think you're wise. You
may prefer to stay mistress of Wragby. I don't blame you. I've no Wragbys to
offer. In fact, you know what you'll get out of me. No, no, I think you're
right! I really do! And I'm not keen on coming to live on you, being kept by
you. There's that too.'
She felt somehow as if he were giving her tit for tat.
`But you want me, don't you?' she asked.
`Do you want me?'
`You know I do. That's evident.'
`Quite! And when do you want me?'
`You know we can arrange it all when I come back. Now I'm out of breath
with you. I must get calm and clear.'
`Quite! Get calm and clear!'
She was a little offended.
`But you trust me, don't you?' she said.
`Oh, absolutely!'
She heard the mockery in his tone.
`Tell me then,' she said flatly; `do you think it would be better if I
don't go to Venice?'
`I'm sure it's better if you do go to Venice,' he replied in the cool,
slightly mocking voice.
`You know it's next Thursday?' she said.
`Yes!'
She now began to muse. At last she said:
`And we shall know better where we are when I come back, shan't we?'
`Oh surely!'
The curious gulf of silence between them!
`I've been to the lawyer about my divorce,' he said, a little
constrainedly.
She gave a slight shudder.
`Have you!' she said. `And what did he say?'
`He said I ought to have done it before; that may be a difficulty. But
since I was in the army, he thinks it will go through all right. If only it
doesn't bring her down on my head!'
`Will she have to know?'
`Yes! she is served with a notice: so is the man she lives with, the
co-respondent.'
`Isn't it hateful, all the performances! I suppose I'd have to go
through it with Clifford.'
There was a silence.
`And of course,' he said, `I have to live an exemplary life for the
next six or eight months. So if you go to Venice, there's temptation removed
for a week or two, at least.'
`Am I temptation!' she said, stroking his face. `I'm so glad I'm
temptation to you! Don't let's think about it! You frighten me when you
start thinking: you roll me out flat. Don't let's think about it. We can
think so much when we are apart. That's the whole point! I've been thinking,
I must come to you for another night before I go. I must come once more to
the cottage. Shall I come on Thursday night?'
`Isn't that when your sister will be there?'
`Yes! But she said we would start at tea-time. So we could start at
tea-time. But she could sleep somewhere else and I could sleep with you.
`But then she'd have to know.'
`Oh, I shall tell her. I've more or less told her already. I must talk
it all over with Hilda. She's a great help, so sensible.'
He was thinking of her plan.
`So you'd start off from Wragby at tea-time, as if you were going to
London? Which way were you going?'
`By Nottingham and Grantham.'
`And then your sister would drop you somewhere and you'd walk or drive
back here? Sounds very risky, to me.'
`Does it? Well, then, Hilda could bring me back. She could sleep at
Mansfield, and bring me back here in the evening, and fetch me again in the
morning. It's quite easy.'
`And the people who see you?'
`I'll wear goggles and a veil.'
He pondered for some time.
`Well,' he said. `You please yourself as usual.'
`But wouldn't it please you?'
`Oh yes! It'd please me all right,' he said a little grimly. `I might
as well smite while the iron's hot.'
`Do you know what I thought?' she said suddenly. `It suddenly came to
me. You are the "Knight of the Burning Pestle"!'
`Ay! And you? Are you the Lady of the Red-Hot Mortar?'
`Yes!' she said. `Yes! You're Sir Pestle and I'm Lady Mortar.'
`All right, then I'm knighted. John Thomas is Sir John, to your Lady
Jane.'
`Yes! John Thomas is knighted! I'm my-lady-maiden-hair, and you must
have flowers too. Yes!'
She threaded two pink campions in the bush of red-gold hair above his
penis.
`There!' she said. `Charming! Charming! Sir John!'
And she pushed a bit of forget-me-not in the dark hair of his breast.
`And you won't forget me there, will you?' She kissed him on the
breast, and made two bits of forget-me-not lodge one over each nipple,
kissing him again.
`Make a calendar of me!' he said. He laughed, and the flowers shook
from his breast.
`Wait a bit!' he said.
He rose, and opened the door of the hut. Flossie, lying in the porch,
got up and looked at him.
`Ay, it's me!' he said.
The rain had ceased. There was a wet, heavy, perfumed stillness.
Evening was approaching.
He went out and down the little path in the opposite direction from the
riding. Connie watched his thin, white figure, and it looked to her like a
ghost, an apparition moving away from her.
When she could see it no more, her heart sank. She stood in the door of
the hut, with a blanket round her, looking into the drenched, motionless
silence.
But he was coming back, trotting strangely, and carrying flowers. She
was a little afraid of him, as if he were not quite human. And when he came
near, his eyes looked into hers, but she could not understand the meaning.
He had brought columbines and campions, and new-mown hay, and oak-tufts
and honeysuckle in small bud. He fastened fluffy young oak-sprays round her
breasts, sticking in tufts of bluebells and campion: and in her navel he
poised a pink campion flower, and in her maiden-hair were forget-me-nots and
woodruff.
`That's you in all your glory!' he said. `Lady Jane, at her wedding
with John Thomas.'
And he stuck flowers in the hair of his own body, and wound a bit of
creeping-jenny round his penis, and stuck a single bell of a hyacinth in his
navel. She watched him with amusement, his odd intentness. And she pushed a
campion flower in his moustache, where it stuck, dangling under his nose.
`This is John Thomas marryin' Lady Jane,' he said. `An' we mun let
Constance an' Oliver go their ways. Maybe---'
He spread out his hand with a gesture, and then he sneezed, sneezing
away the flowers from his nose and his navel. He sneezed again.
`Maybe what?' she said, waiting for him to go on.
He looked at her a little bewildered.
`Eh?' he said.
`Maybe what? Go on with what you were going to say,' she insisted.
`Ay, what was I going to say?'
He had forgotten. And it was one of the disappointments of her life,
that he never finished.
A yellow ray of sun shone over the trees.
`Sun!' he said. `And time you went. Time, my Lady, time! What's that as
flies without wings, your Ladyship? Time! Time!'
He reached for his shirt.
`Say goodnight! to John Thomas,' he said, looking down at his penis.
`He's safe in the arms of creeping Jenny! Not much burning pestle about him
just now.'
And he put his flannel shirt over his head.
`A man's most dangerous moment,' he said, when his head had emerged,
`is when he's getting into his shirt. Then he puts his head in a bag. That's
why I prefer those American shirts, that you put on like a jacket.' She
still stood watching him. He stepped into his short drawers, and buttoned
them round the waist.
`Look at Jane!' he said. `In all her blossoms! Who'll put blossoms on
you next year, Jinny? Me, or somebody else? "Good-bye, my bluebell, farewell
to you!" I hate that song, it's early war days.' He then sat down, and was
pulling on his stockings. She still stood unmoving. He laid his hand on the
slope of her buttocks. `Pretty little Lady Jane!' he said. `Perhaps in
Venice you'll find a man who'll put jasmine in your maiden-hair, and a
pomegranate flower in your navel. Poor little lady Jane!'
`Don't say those things!' she said. `You only say them to hurt me.'
He dropped his head. Then he said, in dialect:
`Ay, maybe I do, maybe I do! Well then, I'll say nowt, an' ha' done
wi't. But tha mun dress thysen, all' go back to thy stately homes of
England, how beautiful they stand. Time's up! Time's up for Sir John, an'
for little Lady Jane! Put thy shimmy on, Lady Chatterley! Tha might be
anybody, standin' there be-out even a shimmy, an' a few rags o' flowers.
There then, there then, I'll undress thee, tha bob-tailed young throstle.'
And he took the leaves from her hair, kissing her damp hair, and the flowers
from her breasts, and kissed her breasts, and kissed her navel, and kissed
her maiden-hair, where he left the flowers threaded. `They mun stop while
they will,' he said. `So! There tha'rt bare again, nowt but a bare-arsed
lass an' a bit of a Lady Jane! Now put thy shimmy on, for tha mun go, or
else Lady Chatterley's goin' to be late for dinner, an' where 'ave yer been
to my pretty maid!'
She never knew how to answer him when he was in this condition of the
vernacular. So she dressed herself and prepared to go a little ignominiously
home to Wragby. Or so she felt it: a little ignominiously home.
He would accompany her to the broad riding. His young pheasants were
all right under the shelter.
When he and she came out on to the riding, there was Mrs Bolton
faltering palely towards them.
`Oh, my Lady, we wondered if anything had happened!'
`No! Nothing has happened.'
Mrs Bolton looked into the man's face, that was smooth and new-looking
with love. She met his half-laughing, half-mocking eyes. He always laughed
at mischance. But he looked at her kindly.
`Evening, Mrs Bolton! Your Ladyship will be all right now, so I can
leave you. Good-night to your Ladyship! Good-night, Mrs Bolton!'
He saluted and turned away.
Connie arrived home to an ordeal of cross-questioning. Clifford had
been out at tea-time, had come in just before the storm, and where was her
ladyship? Nobody knew, only Mrs Bolton suggested she had gone for a walk
into the wood. Into the wood, in such a storm! Clifford for once let himself
get into a state of nervous frenzy. He started at every flash of lightning,
and blenched at every roll of thunder. He looked at the icy thunder-rain as
if it dare the end of the world. He got more and more worked up.
Mrs Bolton tried to soothe him.
`She'll be sheltering in the hut, till it's over. Don't worry, her
Ladyship is all right.'
`I don't like her being in the wood in a storm like this! I don't like
her being in the wood at all! She's been gone now more than two hours. When
did she go out?'
`A little while before you came in.'
`I didn't see her in the park. God knows where she is and what has
happened to her.'
`Oh, nothing's happened to her. You'll see, she'll be home directly
after the rain stops. It's just the rain that's keeping her.'
But her ladyship did not come home directly the rain stopped. In fact
time went by, the sun came out for his last yellow glimpse, and there still
was no sign of her. The sun was set, it was growing dark, and the first
dinner-gong had rung.
`It's no good!' said Clifford in a frenzy. `I'm going to send out Field
and Betts to find her.'
`Oh don't do that!' cried Mrs Bolton. `They'll think there's a suicide
or something. Oh don't start a lot of talk going. Let me slip over to the
hut and see if she's not there. I'll find her all right.'
So, after some persuasion, Clifford allowed her to go.
And so Connie had come upon her in the drive, alone and palely
loitering.
`You mustn't mind me coming to look for you, my Lady! But Sir Clifford
worked himself up into such a state. He made sure you were struck by
lightning, or killed by a falling tree. And he was determined to send Field
and Betts to the wood to find the body. So I thought I'd better come, rather
than set all the servants agog.
She spoke nervously. She could still see on Connie's face the
smoothness and the half-dream of passion, and she could feel the irritation
against herself.
`Quite!' said Connie. And she could say no more.
The two women plodded on through the wet world, in silence, while great
drops splashed like explosions in the wood. Ben they came to the park,
Connie strode ahead, and Mrs Bolton panted a little. She was getting
plumper.
`How foolish of Clifford to make a fuss!' said Connie at length,
angrily, really speaking to herself.
`Oh, you know what men are! They like working themselves up. But he'll
be all right as soon as he sees your Ladyship.'
Connie was very angry that Mrs Bolton knew her secret: for certainly
she knew it.
Suddenly Constance stood still on the path.
`It's monstrous that I should have to be followed!' she said, her eyes
flashing.
`Oh! your Ladyship, don't say that! He'd certainly have sent the two
men, and they'd have come straight to the hut. I didn't know where it was,
really.'
Connie flushed darker with rage, at the suggestion. Yet, while her
passion was on her, she could not lie. She could not even pretend there was
nothing between herself and the keeper. She looked at the other woman, who
stood so sly, with her head dropped: yet somehow, in her femaleness, an
ally.
`Oh well!' she said. `I fit is so it is so. I don't mind!'
`Why, you're all right, my Lady! You've only been sheltering in the
hut. It's absolutely nothing.'
They went on to the house. Connie marched in to Clifford's room,
furious with him, furious with his pale, over-wrought fee and prominent
eyes.
`I must say, I don't think you need send the servants after me,' she
burst out.
`My God!' he exploded. `Where have you been, woman, You've been gone
hours, hours, and in a storm like this! What the hell do you go to
that-bloody wood for? What have you been up to? It's hours even since the
rain stopped, hours! Do you know what time it is? You're enough to drive
anybody mad. Where have you been? What in the name of hell have you been
doing?'
`And what if I don't choose to tell you?' She pulled her hat from her
head and shook her hair.
He lied at her with his eyes bulging, and yellow coming into the
whites. It was very bad for him to get into these rages: Mrs Bolton had a
weary time with him, for days after. Connie felt a sudden qualm.
But really!' she said, milder. `Anyone would think I'd been I don't
know where! I just sat in the hut during all the storm, and made myself a
little fire, and was happy.'
She spoke now easily. After all, why work him up any more!
He looked at her suspiciously.
And look at your hair!' he said; `look at yourself!'
`Yes!' she replied calmly. `I ran out in the rain with no clothes on.'
He stared at her speechless.
`You must be mad!' he said.
`Why? To like a shower bath from the rain?'
`And how did you dry yourself?'
`On an old towel and at the fire.'
He still stared at her in a dumbfounded way.
`And supposing anybody came,' he said.
`Who would come?'
`Who? Why, anybody! And Mellors. Does he come? He must come in the
evenings.'
`Yes, he came later, when it had cleared up, to feed the pheasants with
corn.'
She spoke with amazing nonchalance. Mrs Bolton, who was listening in
the next room, heard in sheer admiration. To think a woman could carry it
off so naturally!
`And suppose he'd come while you were running about in the rain with
nothing on, like a maniac?'
`I suppose he'd have had the fright of his life, and cleared out as
fast as he could.'
Clifford still stared at her transfixed. What he thought in his
under-consciousness he would never know. And he was too much taken aback to
form one clear thought in his upper consciousness. He just simply accepted
what she said, in a sort of blank. And he admired her. He could not help
admiring her. She looked so flushed and handsome and smooth: love smooth.
`At least,' he said, subsiding, `you'll be lucky if you've got off
without a severe cold.'
`Oh, I haven't got a cold,' she replied. She was thinking to herself of
the other man's words: Tha's got the nicest woman's arse of anybody! She
wished, she dearly wished she could tell Clifford that this had been said
her, during the famous thunderstorm. However! She bore herself rather like
an offended queen, and went upstairs to change.
That evening, Clifford wanted to be nice to her. He was reading one of
the latest scientific-religious books: he had a streak of a spurious sort of
religion in him, and was egocentrically concerned with the future of his own
ego. It was like his habit to make conversation to Connie about some book,
since the conversation between them had to be made, almost chemically. They
had almost chemically to concoct it in their heads.
`What do you think of this, by the way?' he said, reaching for his
book. `You'd have no need to cool your ardent body by running out in the
rain, if only we have a few more aeons of evolution behind us. Ah, here it
is!---"The universe shows us two aspects: on one side it is physically
wasting, on the other it is spiritually ascending."'
Connie listened, expecting more. But Clifford was waiting. She looked
at him in surprise.
`And if it spiritually ascends,' she said, `what does it leave down
below, in the place where its tail used to be?'
`Ah!' he said. `Take the man for what he means. Ascending is the
opposite of his wasting, I presume.'
`Spiritually blown out, so to speak!'
`No, but seriously, without joking: do you think there is anything in
it?'
She looked at him again.
`Physically wasting?' she said. `I see you getting fatter, and I'm sot
wasting myself. Do you think the sun is smaller than he used to be? He's not
to me. And I suppose the apple Adam offered Eve wasn't really much bigger,
if any, than one of our orange pippins. Do you think it was?'
`Well, hear how he goes on: "It is thus slowly passing, with a slowness
inconceivable in our measures of time, to new creative conditions, amid
which the physical world, as we at present know it, will he represented by a
ripple barely to be distinguished from nonentity."'
She listened with a glisten of amusement. All sorts of improper things
suggested themselves. But she only said:
`What silly hocus-pocus! As if his little conceited consciousness could
know what was happening as slowly as all that! It only means he's a physical
failure on the earth, so he wants to make the whole universe a physical
failure. Priggish little impertinence!'
`Oh, but listen! Don't interrupt the great man's solemn words!---"The
present type of order in the world has risen from an unimaginable part, and
will find its grave in an unimaginable future. There remains the
inexhaustive realm of abstract forms, and creativity with its shifting
character ever determined afresh by its own creatures, and God, upon whose
wisdom all forms of order depend."---There, that's how he winds up!'
Connie sat listening contemptuously.
`He's spiritually blown out,' she said. `What a lot of stuff!
Unnimaginables, and types of order in graves, and realms of abstract forms,
and creativity with a shifty character, and God mixed up with forms of
order! Why, it's idiotic!'
`I must say, it is a little vaguely conglomerate, a mixture of gases,
so to speak,' said Clifford. `Still, I think there is something in the idea
that the universe is physically wasting and spiritually ascending.'
`Do you? Then let it ascend, so long as it leaves me safely and solidly
physically here below.'
`Do you like your physique?' he asked.
`I love it!' And through her mind went the words: It's the nicest,
nicest woman's arse as is!
`But that is really rather extraordinary, because there's no denying
it's an encumbrance. But then I suppose a woman doesn't take a supreme
pleasure in the life of the mind.'
`Supreme pleasure?' she said, looking up at him. `Is that sort of
idiocy the supreme pleasure of the life of the mind? No thank you! Give me
the body. I believe the life of the body is a greater reality than the life
of the mind: when the body is really wakened to life. But so many people,
like your famous wind-machine, have only got minds tacked on to their
physical corpses.'
He looked at her in wonder.
`The life of the body,' he said, `is just the life of the animals.'
`And that's better than the life of professional corpses. But it's not
true! the human body is only just coming to real life. With the Greeks it
gave a lovely flicker, then Plato and Aristotle killed it, and Jesus
finished it off. But now the body is coming really to life, it is really
rising from the tomb. And It will be a lovely, lovely life in the lovely
universe, the life of the human body.'
`My dear, you speak as if you were ushering it all in! True, you am
going away on a holiday: but don't please be quite so indecently elated
about it. Believe me, whatever God there is is slowly eliminating the guts
and alimentary system from the human being, to evolve a higher, more
spiritual being.'
`Why should I believe you, Clifford, when I feel that whatever God
there is has at last wakened up in my guts, as you call them, and is
rippling so happily there, like dawn. Why should I believe you, when I feel
so very much the contrary?'
`Oh, exactly! And what has caused this extraordinary change in you?
running out stark naked in the rain, and playing Bacchante? desire for
sensation, or the anticipation of going to Venice?'
`Both! Do you think it is horrid of me to be so thrilled at going off?'
she said.
`Rather horrid to show it so plainly.'
`Then I'll hide it.'
`Oh, don't trouble! You almost communicate a thrill to me. I almost
feel that it is I who am going off.'
`Well, why don't you come?'
`We've gone over all that. And as a matter of fact, I suppose your
greatest thrill comes from being able to say a temporary farewell to all
this. Nothing so thrilling, for the moment, as Good-bye-to-all!---But every
parting means a meeting elsewhere. And every meeting is a new bondage.'
`I'm not going to enter any new bondages.'
`Don't boast, while the gods are listening,' he said.
She pulled up short.
`No! I won't boast!' she said.
But she was thrilled, none the less, to be going off: to feel bonds
snap. She couldn't help it.
Clifford, who couldn't sleep, gambled all night with Mrs Bolton, till
she was too sleepy almost to live.
And the day came round for Hilda to arrive. Connie had arranged with
Mellors that if everything promised well for their night together, she would
hang a green shawl out of the window. If there were frustration, a red one.
Mrs Bolton helped Connie to pack.
`It will be so good for your Ladyship to have a change.'
`I think it will. You don't mind having Sir Clifford on your hands
alone for a time, do you?'
`Oh no! I can manage him quite all right. I mean, I can do all he needs
me to do. Don't you think he's better than he used to be?'
`Oh much! You do wonders with him.'
`Do I though! But men are all alike: just babies, and you have to
flatter them and wheedle them and let them think they're having their own
way. Don't you find it so, my Lady?'
`I'm afraid I haven't much experience.'
Connie paused in her occupation.
`Even your husband, did you have to manage him, and wheedle him like a
baby?' she asked, looking at the other woman.
Mrs Bolton paused too.
`Well!' she said. `I had to do a good bit of coaxing, with him too. But
he always knew what I was after, I must say that. But he generally gave in
to me.'
`He was never the lord and master thing?'
`No! At least there'd be a look in his eyes sometimes, and then I knew
I'd got to give in. But usually he gave in to me. No, he was never lord and
master. But neither was I. I knew when I could go no further with him, and
then I gave in: though it cost me a good bit, sometimes.'
`And what if you had held out against him?'
`Oh, I don't know, I never did. Even when he was in the wrong, if he
was fixed, I gave in. You see, I never wanted to break what was between us.
And if you really set your will against a man, that finishes it. If you care
for a man, you have to give in to him once he's really determined; whether
you're in the right or not, you have to give in. Else you break something.
But I must say, Ted 'ud give in to me sometimes, when I was set on a thing,
and in the wrong. So I suppose it cuts both ways.'
`And that's how you are with all your patients?' asked Connie.
`Oh, That's different. I don't care at all, in the same way. I know
what's good for them, or I try to, and then I just contrive to manage them
for their own good. It's not like anybody as you're really fond of. It's
quite different. Once you've been really fond of a man, you can be
affectionate to almost any man, if he needs you at all. But it's not the
same thing. You don't really care. I doubt, once you've really cared, if you
can ever really care again.'
These words frightened Connie.
`Do you think one can only care once?' she asked.
`Or never. Most women never care, never begin to. They don't know what
it means. Nor men either. But when I see a woman as cares, my heart stands
still for her.'
`And do you think men easily take offence?'
`Yes! If you wound them on their pride. But aren't women the same? Only
our two prides are a bit different.'
Connie pondered this. She began again to have some misgiving about her
gag away. After all, was she not giving her man the go-by, if only for a
short time? And he knew it. That's why he was so queer and sarcastic.
Still! the human existence is a good deal controlled by the machine of
external circumstance. She was in the power of this machine. She couldn't
extricate herself all in five minutes. She didn't even want to.
Hilda arrived in good time on Thursday morning, in a nimble two-seater
car, with her suit-case strapped firmly behind. She looked as demure and
maidenly as ever, but she had the same will of her own. She had the very
hell of a will of her own, as her husband had found out. But the husband was
now divorcing her.
Yes, she even made it easy for him to do that, though she had no lover.
For the time being, she was `off' men. She was very well content to be quite
her own mistress: and mistress of her two children, whom she was going to
bring up `properly', whatever that may mean.
Connie was only allowed a suit-case, also. But she had sent on a trunk
to her father, who was going by train. No use taking a car to Venice. And
Italy much too hot to motor in, in July. He was going comfortably by train.
He had just come down from Scotland.
So, like a demure arcadian field-marshal, Hilda arranged the material
part of the journey. She and Connie sat in the upstairs room, chatting.
`But Hilda!' said Connie, a little frightened. `I want to stay near
here tonight. Not here: near here!'
Hilda fixed her sister with grey, inscrutable eyes. She seemed so calm:
and she was so often furious.
`Where, near here?' she asked softly.
`Well, you know I love somebody, don't you?'
`I gathered there was something.'
`Well he lives near here, and I want to spend this last night with him
must! I've promised.'
Connie became insistent.
Hilda bent her Minerva-like head in silence. Then she looked up.
`Do you want to tell me who he is?' she said.
`He's our game-keeper,' faltered Connie, and she flushed vividly, like
a shamed child.
`Connie!' said Hilda, lifting her nose slightly with disgust: a she had
from her mother.
`I know: but he's lovely really. He really understands tenderness,'
said Connie, trying to apologize for him.
Hilda, like a ruddy, rich-coloured Athena, bowed her head and pondered
She was really violently angry. But she dared not show it, because Connie,
taking after her father, would straight away become obstreperous and
unmanageable.
It was true, Hilda did not like Clifford: his cool assurance that he
was somebody! She thought he made use of Connie shamefully and impudently.
She had hoped her sister would leave him. But, being solid Scotch middle
class, she loathed any `lowering' of oneself or the family. She looked up at
last.
`You'll regret it,' she said,
`I shan't,' cried Connie, flushed red. `He's quite the exception. I
really love him. He's lovely as a lover.'
Hilda still pondered.
`You'll get over him quite soon,' she said, `and live to be ashamed of
yourself because of him.'
`I shan't! I hope I'm going to have a child of his.'
`Connie!' said Hilda, hard as a hammer-stroke, and pale with anger.
`I shall if I possibly can. I should be fearfully proud if I had a
child by him.'
It was no use talking to her. Hilda pondered.
`And doesn't Clifford suspect?' she said.
`Oh no! Why should he?'
`I've no doubt you've given him plenty of occasion for suspicion,' said
Hilda.
`Not it all.'
`And tonight's business seems quite gratuitous folly. Where does the
man live?'
`In the cottage at the other end of the wood.'
`Is he a bachelor?'
`No! His wife left him.'
`How old?'
`I don't know. Older than me.'
Hilda became more angry at every reply, angry as her mother used to be,
in a kind of paroxysm. But still she hid it.
`I would give up tonight's escapade if I were you,' she advised calmly.
`I can't! I must stay with him tonight, or I can't go to Venice at all.
I just can't.'
Hilda heard her father over again, and she gave way, out of mere
diplomacy. And she consented to drive to Mansfield, both of them, to dinner,
to bring Connie back to the lane-end after dark, and to fetch her from the
lane-end the next morning, herself sleeping in Mansfield, only half an hour
away, good going.
But she was furious. She stored it up against her sister, this balk in
her plans.
Connie flung an emerald-green shawl over her window-sill.
On the strength of her anger, Hilda warmed toward Clifford.
After all, he had a mind. And if he had no sex, functionally, all the
better: so much the less to quarrel about! Hilda wanted no more of that sex
business, where men became nasty, selfish little horrors. Connie really had
less to put up with than many women if she did but know it.
And Clifford decided that Hilda, after all, was a decidedly intelligent
woman, and would make a man a first-rate helpmate, if he were going in for
politics for example. Yes, she had none of Connie's silliness, Connie was
more a child: you had to make excuses for her, because she was not
altogether dependable.
There was an early cup of tea in the hall, where doors were open to let
in the sun. Everybody seemed to be panting a little.
`Good-bye, Connie girl! Come back to me safely.'
`Good-bye, Clifford! Yes, I shan't be long.' Connie was almost tender.
`Good-bye, Hilda! You will keep an eye on her, won't you?'
`I'll even keep two!' said Hilda. `She shan't go very far astray.'
`It's a promise!'
`Good-bye, Mrs Bolton! I know you'll look after Sir Clifford nobly.'
`I'll do what I can, your Ladyship.'
`And write to me if there is any news, and tell me about Sir Clifford,
how he is.'
`Very good, your Ladyship, I will. And have a good time, and come back
and cheer us up.'
Everybody waved. The car went off Connie looked back and saw Clifford,
sitting at the top of the steps in his house-chair. After all, he was her
husband: Wragby was her home: circumstance had done it.
Mrs Chambers held the gate and wished her ladyship a happy holiday. The
car slipped out of the dark spinney that masked the park, on to the highroad
where the colliers were trailing home. Hilda turned to the Crosshill Road,
that was not a main road, but ran to Mansfield. Connie put on goggles. They
ran beside the railway, which was in a cutting below them. Then they crossed
the cutting on a bridge.
`That's the lane to the cottage!' said Connie.
Hilda glanced at it impatiently.
`It's a frightful pity we can't go straight off!' she said. We could
have been in Pall Mall by nine o'clock.'
`I'm sorry for your sake,' said Connie, from behind her goggles.
They were soon at Mansfield, that once-romantic, now utterly
disheartening colliery town. Hilda stopped at the hotel named in the
motor-car book, and took a room. The whole thing was utterly uninteresting,
and she was almost too angry to talk. However, Connie had to tell her
something of the man's history.
`He! He! What name do you call him by? You only say he,' said Hilda.
`I've never called him by any name: nor he me: which is curious, when
you come to think of it. Unless we say Lady Jane and John Thomas. But his
name is Oliver Mellors.'
`And how would you like to be Mrs Oliver Mellors, instead of Lady
Chatterley?'
`I'd love it.'
There was nothing to be done with Connie. And anyhow, if the man had
been a lieutenant in the army in India for four or five years, he must be
more or less presentable. Apparently he had character. Hilda began to relent
a little.
`But you'll be through with him in awhile,' she said, `and then you'll
be ashamed of having been connected with him. One can't mix up with the
working people.'
`But you are such a socialist! you're always on the side of the working
classes.'
`I may be on their side in a political crisis, but being on their side
makes me know how impossible it is to mix one's life with theirs. Not out of
snobbery, but just because the whole rhythm is different.'
Hilda had lived among the real political intellectuals, so she was
disastrously unanswerable.
The nondescript evening in the hotel dragged out, and at last they had
a nondescript dinner. Then Connie slipped a few things into a little silk
bag, and combed her hair once more.
`After all, Hilda,' she said, `love can be wonderful: when you feel you
live, and are in the very middle of creation.' It was almost like bragging
on her part.
`I suppose every mosquito feels the same,' said Hilda. `Do you think it
does? How nice for it!'
The evening was wonderfully clear and long-lingering, even in the small
town. It would be half-light all night. With a face like a mask, from
resentment, Hilda started her car again, and the two sped back on their
traces, taking the other road, through Bolsover.
Connie wore her goggles and disguising cap, and she sat in silence.
Because of Hilda's Opposition, she was fiercely on the sidle of the man, she
would stand by him through thick and thin.
They had their head-lights on, by the time they passed Crosshill, and
the small lit-up train that chuffed past in the cutting made it seem like
real night. Hilda had calculated the turn into the lane at the bridge-end.
She slowed up rather suddenly and swerved off the road, the lights glaring
white into the grassy, overgrown lane. Connie looked out. She saw a shadowy
figure, and she opened the door.
`Here we are!' she said softly.
But Hilda had switched off the lights, and was absorbed backing, making
the turn.
`Nothing on the bridge?' she asked shortly. `You're all right,' said
the mall's voice. She backed on to the bridge, reversed, let the car run
forwards a few yards along the road, then backed into the lane, under a
wych-elm tree, crushing the grass and bracken. Then all the lights went out.
Connie stepped down. The man stood under the trees.
`Did you wait long?' Connie asked.
`Not so very,' he replied.
They both waited for Hilda to get out. But Hilda shut the door of the
car and sat tight.
`This is my sister Hilda. Won't you come and speak to her? Hilda! This
is Mr Mellors.'
The keeper lifted his hat, but went no nearer.
`Do walk down to the cottage with us, Hilda,' Connie pleaded. `It's not
far.'
`What about the car?'
`People do leave them on the lanes. You have the key.'
Hilda was silent, deliberating. Then she looked backwards down the
lane.
`Can I back round the bush?' she said.
`Oh yes!' said the keeper.
She backed slowly round the curve, out of sight of the road, locked the
car, and got down. It was night, but luminous dark. The hedges rose high and
wild, by the unused lane, and very dark seeming. There was a fresh sweet
scent on the air. The keeper went ahead, then came Connie, then Hilda, and
in silence. He lit up the difficult places with a flash-light torch, and
they went on again, while an owl softly hooted over the oaks, and Flossie
padded silently around. Nobody could speak. There was nothing to say.
At length Connie saw the yellow light of the house, and her heart beat
fast. She was a little frightened. They trailed on, still in Indian file.
He unlocked the door and preceded them into the warm but bare little
room. The fire burned low and red in the grate. The table was set with two
plates and two glasses on a proper white table-cloth for Once. Hilda shook
her hair and looked round the bare, cheerless room. Then she summoned her
courage and looked at the man.
He was moderately tall, and thin, and she thought him good-looking. He
kept a quiet distance of his own, and seemed absolutely unwilling to speak.
`Do sit down, Hilda,' said Connie.
`Do!' he said. `Can I make you tea or anything, or will you drink a
glass of beer? It's moderately cool.'
`Beer!' said Connie.
`Beer for me, please!' said Hilda, with a mock sort of shyness. He
looked at her and blinked.
He took a blue jug and tramped to the scullery. When he came back with
the beer, his face had changed again.
Connie sat down by the door, and Hilda sat in his seat, with the back
to the wall, against the window corner.
`That is his chair,' said Connie softly.' And Hilda rose as if it had
burnt her.
`Sit yer still, sit yer still! Ta'e ony cheer as yo'n a mind to, none
of us is th' big bear,' he said, with complete equanimity.
And he brought Hilda a glass, and poured her beer first from the blue
jug.
`As for cigarettes,' he said, `I've got none, but 'appen you've got
your own. I dunna smoke, mysen. Shall y' eat summat?' He turned direct to
Connie. `Shall t'eat a smite o' summat, if I bring it thee? Tha can usually
do wi' a bite.' He spoke the vernacular with a curious calm assurance, as if
he were the landlord of the Inn.
`What is there?' asked Connie, flushing.
`Boiled ham, cheese, pickled wa'nuts, if yer like.---Nowt much.'
`Yes,' said Connie. `Won't you, Hilda?'
Hilda looked up at him.
`Why do you speak Yorkshire?' she said softly.
`That! That's non Yorkshire, that's Derby.'
He looked back at her with that faint, distant grin.
`Derby, then! Why do you speak Derby? You spoke natural English at
first.'
`Did Ah though? An' canna Ah change if Ah'm a mind to 't? Nay, nay, let
me talk Derby if it suits me. If yo'n nowt against it.'
`It sounds a little affected,' said Hilda.
`Ay, 'appen so! An' up i' Tevershall yo'd sound affected.' He looked
again at her, with a queer calculating distance, along his cheek-bone: as if
to say: Yi, an' who are you?
He tramped away to the pantry for the food.
The sisters sat in silence. He brought another plate, and knife and
fork. The he said:
`An' if it's the same to you, I s'll ta'e my coat off like I allers
do.'
And he took off his coat, and hung it on the peg, then sat down to
table in his shirt-sleeves: a shirt of thin, cream-coloured flannel.
`'Elp yerselves!' he said. `'Elp yerselves! Dunna wait f'r axin'!' He
cut the bread, then sat motionless. Hilda felt, as Connie once used to, his
power of silence and distance. She saw his smallish, sensitive, loose hand
on the table. He was no simple working man, not he: he was acting! acting!
`Still!' she said, as she took a little cheese. `It would be more
natural if you spoke to us in normal English, not in vernacular.'
He looked at her, feeling her devil of a will.
`Would it?' he said in the normal English. `Would it? Would anything
that was said between you and me be quite natural, unless you said you
wished me to hell before your sister ever saw me again: and unless I said
something almost as unpleasant back again? Would anything else be natural?'
`Oh yes!' said Hilda. `Just good manners would be quite natural.'
`Second nature, so to speak!' he said: then he began to laugh. `Nay,'
he said. `I'm weary o' manners. Let me be!'
Hilda was frankly baffled and furiously annoyed. After all, he might
show that he realized he was being honoured. Instead of which, with his
play-acting and lordly airs, he seemed to think it was he who was conferring
the honour. Just impudence! Poor misguided Connie, in the man's clutches!
The three ate in silence. Hilda looked to see what his table-manners
were like. She could not help realizing that he was instinctively much more
delicate and well-bred than herself. She had a certain Scottish clumsiness.
And moreover, he had all the quiet self-contained assurance of the English,
no loose edges. It would be very difficult to get the better of him.
But neither would he get the better of her.
`And do you really think,' she said, a little more humanly, `it's worth
the risk.'
`Is what worth what risk?'
`This escapade with my sister.'
He flickered his irritating grin.
`Yo' maun ax 'er!' Then he looked at Connie.
`Tha comes o' thine own accord, lass, doesn't ter? It's non me as
forces thee?'
Connie looked at Hilda.
`I wish you wouldn't cavil, Hilda.'
`Naturally I don't want to. But someone has to think about things.
You've got to have some sort of continuity in your life. You can't just go
making a mess.'
There was a moment's pause.
`Eh, continuity!' he said. `An' what by that? What continuity ave yer
got i' your life? I thought you was gettin' divorced. What continuity's
that? Continuity o' yer own stubbornness. I can see that much. An' what
good's it goin' to do yer? You'll be sick o' yer continuity afore yer a fat
sight older. A stubborn woman an er own self-will: ay, they make a fast
continuity, they do. Thank heaven, it isn't me as `as got th' 'andlin' of
yer!'
`What right have you to speak like that to me?' said Hilda.
`Right! What right ha' yo' ter start harnessin' other folks i' your
continuity? Leave folks to their own continuities.'
`My dear man, do you think I am concerned with you?' said Hilda softly.
`Ay,' he said. `Yo' are. For it's a force-put. Yo' more or less my
sister-in-law.'
`Still far from it, I assure you.
`Not a' that far, I assure you. I've got my own sort o' continuity,
back your life! Good as yours, any day. An' if your sister there comes ter
me for a bit o' cunt an' tenderness, she knows what she's after. She's been
in my bed afore: which you 'aven't, thank the Lord, with your continuity.'
There was a dead pause, before he added: `---Eh, I don't wear me breeches
arse-forrards. An' if I get a windfall, I thank my stars. A man gets a lot
of enjoyment out o' that lass theer, which is more than anybody gets out o'
th' likes o' you. Which is a pity, for you might appen a' bin a good apple,
'stead of a handsome crab. Women like you needs proper graftin'.'
He was looking at her with an odd, flickering smile, faintly sensual
and appreciative.
`And men like you,' she said, `ought to be segregated: justifying their
own vulgarity and selfish lust.'
`Ay, ma'am! It's a mercy there's a few men left like me. But you
deserve what you get: to be left severely alone.'
Hilda had risen and gone to the door. He rose and took his coat from
the peg.
`I can find my way quite well alone,' she said.
`I doubt you can't,' he replied easily.
They tramped in ridiculous file down the lane again, in silence. An owl
still hooted. He knew he ought to shoot it.
The car stood untouched, a little dewy. Hilda got in and started the
engine. The other two waited.
`All I mean,' she said from her entrenchment, `is that I doubt if
you'll find it's been worth it, either of you!'
`One man's meat is another man's poison,' he said, out of the darkness.
`But it's meat an' drink to me.
The lights flared out.
`Don't make me wait in the morning,'
`No, I won't. Goodnight!'
The car rose slowly on to the highroad, then slid swiftly away, leaving
the night silent.
Connie timidly took his arm, and they went down the lane. He did not
speak. At length she drew him to a standstill.
`Kiss me!' she murmured.
`Nay, wait a bit! Let me simmer down,' he said.
That amused her. She still kept hold of his arm, and they went quickly
down the lane, in silence. She was so glad to be with him, just now. She
shivered, knowing that Hilda might have snatched her away. He was
inscrutably silent.
When they were in the cottage again, she almost jumped with pleasure,
that she should be free of her sister.
`But you were horrid to Hilda,' she said to him.
`She should ha' been slapped in time.'
`But why? and she's so nice.'
He didn't answer, went round doing the evening chores, with a quiet,
inevitable sort of motion. He was outwardly angry, but not with her. So
Connie felt. And his anger gave him a peculiar handsomeness, an inwardness
and glisten that thrilled her and made her limbs go molten.
Still he took no notice of her.
Till he sat down and began to unlace his boots. Then he looked up at
her from under his brows, on which the anger still sat firm.
`Shan't you go up?' he said. `There's a candle!'
He jerked his head swiftly to indicate the candle burning on the table.
She took it obediently, and he watched the full curve of her hips as she
went up the first stairs.
It was a night of sensual passion, in which she was a little startled
and almost unwilling: yet pierced again with piercing thrills of sensuality,
different, sharper, more terrible than the thrills of tenderness, but, at
the moment, more desirable. Though a little frightened, she let him have his
way, and the reckless, shameless sensuality shook her to her foundations,
stripped her to the very last, and made a different woman of her. It was not
really love. It was not voluptuousness. It was sensuality sharp and searing
as fire, burning the soul to tinder.
Burning out the shames, the deepest, oldest shames, in the most secret
places. It cost her an effort to let him have his way and his will of her.
She had to be a passive, consenting thing, like a slave, a physical slave.
Yet the passion licked round her, consuming, and when the sensual flame of
it pressed through her bowels and breast, she really thought she was dying:
yet a poignant, marvellous death.
She had often wondered what AbÉlard meant, when he said that in their
year of love he and HÉloÏse had passed through all the stages and
refinements of passion. The same thing, a thousand years ago: ten thousand
years ago! The same on the Greek vases, everywhere! The refinements of
passion, the extravagances of sensuality! And necessary, forever necessary,
to burn out false shames and smelt out the heaviest ore of the body into
purity. With the fire of sheer sensuality.
In the short summer night she learnt so much. She would have thought a
woman would have died of shame. Instead of which, the shame died. Shame,
which is fear: the deep Organic shame, the old, old physical fear which
crouches in the bodily roots of us, and can only be chased away by the
sensual fire, at last it was roused up and routed by the phallic hunt of the
man, and she came to the very heart of the jungle of herself. She felt, now,
she had come to the real bed-rock of her nature, and was essentially
shameless. She was her sensual self, naked and unashamed. She felt a
triumph, almost a vainglory. So! That was how it was! That was life! That
was how oneself really was! There was nothing left to disguise or be ashamed
of. She shared her ultimate nakedness with a man, another being.
And what a reckless devil the man was! really like a devil! One had to
be strong to bear him. But it took some getting at, the core of the physical
jungle, the last and deepest recess of organic shame. The phallos alone
could explore it. And how he had pressed in on her!
And how, in fear, she had hated it. But how she had really wanted it!
She knew now. At the bottom of her soul, fundamentally, she had needed this
phallic hunting Out, she had secretly wanted it, and she had believed that
she would never get it. Now suddenly there it was, and a man was sharing her
last and final nakedness, she was shameless.
What liars poets and everybody were! They made one think one wanted
sentiment. When what one supremely wanted was this piercing, consuming,
rather awful sensuality. To find a man who dared do it, without shame or sin
or final misgiving! If he had been ashamed afterwards, and made one feel
ashamed, how awful! What a pity most men are so doggy, a bit shameful, like
Clifford! Like Michaelis even! Both sensually a bit doggy and humiliating.
The supreme pleasure of the mind! And what is that to a woman? What is it,
really, to the man either! He becomes merely messy and doggy, even in his
mind. It needs sheer sensuality even to purify and quicken the mind. Sheer
fiery sensuality, not messiness.
Ah, God, how rare a thing a man is! They are all dogs that trot and
sniff and copulate. To have found a man who was not afraid and not ashamed!
She looked at him now, sleeping so like a wild animal asleep, gone, gone in
the remoteness of it. She nestled down, not to be away from him.
Till his rousing waked her completely. He was sitting up in bed,
looking down at her. She saw her own nakedness in his eyes, immediate
knowledge of her. And the fluid, male knowledge of herself seemed to flow to
her from his eyes and wrap her voluptuously. Oh, how voluptuous and lovely
it was to have limbs and body half-asleep, heavy and suffused with passion.
`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, nor his chair À plaisir either. I wanted a
complete intimacy, and I didn't get it. That's enough for me.
Connie pondered this. Complete intimacy! She supposed that meant
revealing everything concerning yourself to the other person, and his
revealing everything concerning himself. But that was a bore. And all that
weary self-consciousness between a man and a woman! a disease!
`I think you're too conscious of yourself all the time, with
everybody,' she said to her sister.
`I hope at least I haven't a slave nature,' said Hilda.
`But perhaps you have! Perhaps you are a slave to your own idea of
yourself.'
Hilda drove in silence for some time after this piece of unheard of
insolence from that chit Connie.
`At least I'm not a slave to somebody else's idea of me: and the
somebody else a servant of my husband's,' she retorted at last, in crude
anger.
`You see, it's not so,' said Connie calmly.
She had always let herself be dominated by her elder sister. Now,
though somewhere inside herself she was weeping, she was free of the
dominion of other women. Ah! that in itself was a relief, like being given
another life: to be free of the strange dominion and obsession of other
women. How awful they were, women!
She was glad to be with her father, whose favourite she had always
been. She and Hilda stayed in a little hotel off Pall Mall, and Sir Malcolm
was in his club. But he took his daughters out in the evening, and they
liked going with him.
He was still handsome and robust, though just a little afraid of the
new world that had sprung up around him. He had got a second wife in
Scotland, younger than himself and richer. But he had as many holidays away
from her as possible: just as with his first wife.
Connie sat next to him at the opera. He was moderately stout, and had
stout thighs, but they were still strong and well-knit, the thighs of a
healthy man who had taken his pleasure in life. His good-humoured
selfishness, his dogged sort of independence, his unrepenting sensuality, it
seemed to Connie she could see them all in his well-knit straight thighs.
Just a man! And now becoming an old man, which is sad. Because in his
strong, thick male legs there was none of the alert sensitiveness and power
of tenderness which is the very essence of youth, that which never dies,
once it is there.
Connie woke up to the existence of legs. They became more important to
her than faces, which are no longer very real. How few people had live,
alert legs! She looked at the men in the stalls. Great puddingy thighs in
black pudding-cloth, or lean wooden sticks in black funeral stuff, or
well-shaped young legs without any meaning whatever, either sensuality or
tenderness or sensitiveness, just mere leggy ordinariness that pranced
around. Not even any sensuality like her father's. They were all daunted,
daunted out of existence.
But the women were not daunted. The awful mill-posts of most females!
really shocking, really enough to justify murder! Or the poor thin pegs! or
the trim neat things in silk stockings, without the slightest look of life!
Awful, the millions of meaningless legs prancing meaninglessly around!
But she was not happy in London. The people seemed so spectral and
blank. They had no alive happiness, no matter how brisk and good-looking
they were. It was all barren. And Connie had a woman's blind craving for
happiness, to be assured of happiness.
In Paris at any rate she felt a bit of sensuality still. But what a
weary, tired, worn-out sensuality. Worn-out for lack of tenderness. Oh!
Paris was sad. One of the saddest towns: weary of its now-mechanical
sensuality, weary of the tension of money, money, money, weary even of
resentment and conceit, just weary to death, and still not sufficiently
Americanized or Londonized to hide the weariness under a mechanical
jig-jig-jig! Ah, these manly he-men, these flÂneurs, the oglers, these
eaters of good dinners! How weary they were! weary, worn-out for lack of a
little tenderness, given and taken. The efficient, sometimes charming women
knew a thing or two about the sensual realities: they had that pull over
their jigging English sisters. But they knew even less of tenderness. Dry,
with the endless dry tension of will, they too were wearing out. The human
world was just getting worn out. Perhaps it would turn fiercely destructive.
A sort of anarchy! Clifford and his conservative anarchy! Perhaps it
wouldn't be conservative much longer. Perhaps it would develop into a very
radical anarchy.
Connie found herself shrinking and afraid of the world. Sometimes she
was happy for a little while in the Boulevards or in the Bois or the
Luxembourg Gardens. But already Paris was full of Americans and English,
strange Americans in the oddest uniforms, and the usual dreary English that
are so hopeless abroad.
She was glad to drive on. It was suddenly hot weather, so Hilda was
going through Switzerland and over the Brenner, then through the Dolomites
down to Venice. Hilda loved all the managing and the driving and being
mistress of the show. Connie was quite content to keep quiet.
And the trip was really quite nice. Only Connie kept saying to herself:
Why don't I really care! Why am I never really thrilled? How awful, that I
don't really care about the landscape any more! But I don't. It's rather
awful. I'm like Saint Bernard, who could sail down the lake of Lucerne
without ever noticing that there were even mountain and green water. I just
don't care for landscape any more. Why should one stare at it? Why should
one? I refuse to.
No, she found nothing vital in France or Switzerland or the Tyrol or
Italy. She just was carted through it all. And it was all less real than
Wragby. Less real than the awful Wragby! She felt she didn't care if she
never saw France or Switzerland or Italy again. They'd keep. Wragby was more
real.
As for people! people were all alike, with very little difference. They
all wanted to get money out of you: or, if they were travellers, they wanted
to get enjoyment, perforce, like squeezing blood out of a stone. Poor
mountains! poor landscape! it all had to be squeezed and squeezed and
squeezed again, to provide a thrill, to provide enjoyment. What did people
mean, with their simply determined enjoying of themselves?
No! said Connie to herself I'd rather be at Wragby, where I can go
about and be still, and not stare at anything or do any performing of any
sort. This tourist performance of enjoying oneself is too hopelessly
humiliating: it's such a failure.
She wanted to go back to Wragby, even to Clifford, even to poor
crippled Clifford. He wasn't such a fool as this swarming holidaying lot,
anyhow.
But in her inner consciousness she was keeping touch with the other
man. She mustn't let her connexion with him go: oh, she mustn't let it go,
or she was lost, lost utterly in this world of riff-raffy expensive people
and joy-hogs. Oh, the joy-hogs! Oh `enjoying oneself'! Another modern form
of sickness.
They left the car in Mestre, in a garage, and took the regular steamer
over to Venice. It was a lovely summer afternoon, the shallow lagoon
rippled, the full sunshine made Venice, turning its back to them across the
water, look dim.
At the station quay they changed to a gondola, giving the man the
address. He was a regular gondolier in a white-and-blue blouse, not very
good-looking, not at all impressive.
`Yes! The Villa Esmeralda! Yes! I know it! I have been the gondolier
for a gentleman there. But a fair distance out!'
He seemed a rather childish, impetuous fellow. He rowed with a certain
exaggerated impetuosity, through the dark side-canals with the horrible,
slimy green walls, the canals that go through the poorer quarters, where the
washing hangs high up on ropes, and there is a slight, or strong, odour of
sewage.
But at last he came to one of the open canals with pavement on either
side, and looping bridges, that run straight, at right-angles to the Grand
Canal. The two women sat under the little awning, the man was perched above,
behind them.
`Are the signorine staying long at the Villa Esmeralda?' he asked,
rowing easy, and `wiping his perspiring face with a white-and-blue
handkerchief.
`Some twenty days: we are both married ladies,' said Hilda, in her
curious hushed voice, that made her Italian sound so foreign.
`Ah! Twenty days!' said the man. There was a pause. After which he
asked: `Do the signore want a gondolier for the twenty days or so that they
will stay at the Villa Esmeralda? Or by the day, or by the week?'
Connie and Hilda considered. In Venice, it is always preferable to have
one's own gondola, as it is preferable to have one's own car on land.
`What is there at the Villa? what boats?'
`There is a motor-launch, also a gondola. But---' The but meant: they
won't be your property.
`How much do you charge?'
It was about thirty shillings a day, or ten pounds a week.
`Is that the regular price?' asked Hilda.
`Less, Signora, less. The regular price---'
The sisters considered.
`Well,' said Hilda, `come tomorrow morning, and we will arrange it.
What is your name?'
His name was Giovanni, and he wanted to know at what time he should
come, and then for whom should he say he was waiting. Hilda had no card.
Connie gave him one of hers. He glanced at it swiftly, with his hot,
southern blue eyes, then glanced again.
`Ah!' he said, lighting up. `Milady! Milady, isn't it?'
`Milady Costanza!' said Connie.
He nodded, repeating: `Milady Costanza!' and putting the card carefully
away in his blouse.
The Villa Esmeralda was quite a long way out, on the edge of the lagoon
looking towards Chioggia. It was not a very old house, and pleasant, with
the terraces looking seawards, and below, quite a big garden with dark
trees, walled in from the lagoon.
Their host was a heavy, rather coarse Scotchman who had made a good
fortune in Italy before the war, and had been knighted for his
ultrapatriotism during the war. His wife was a thin, pale, sharp kind of
person with no fortune of her own, and the misfortune of having to regulate
her husband's rather sordid amorous exploits. He was terribly tiresome with
the servants. But having had a slight stroke during the winter, he was now
more manageable.
The house was pretty full. Besides Sir Malcolm and his two daughters,
there were seven more people, a Scotch couple, again with two daughters; a
young Italian Contessa, a widow; a young Georgian prince, and a youngish
English clergyman who had had pneumonia and was being chaplain to Sir
Alexander for his health's sake. The prince was penniless, good-looking,
would make an excellent chauffeur, with the necessary impudence, and basta!
The Contessa was a quiet little puss with a game on somewhere. The clergyman
was a raw simple fellow from a Bucks vicarage: luckily he had left his wife
and two children at home. And the Guthries, the family of four, were good
solid Edinburgh middle class, enjoying everything in a solid fashion, and
daring everything while risking nothing.
Connie and Hilda ruled out the prince at once. The Guthries were more
or less their own sort, substantial, hut boring: and the girls wanted
husbands. The chaplain was not a had fellow, but too deferential. Sir
Alexander, after his slight stroke, had a terrible heaviness his joviality,
but he was still thrilled at the presence of so many handsome young women.
Lady Cooper was a quiet, catty person who had a thin time of it, poor thing,
and who watched every other woman with a cold watchfulness that had become
her second nature, and who said cold, nasty little things which showed what
an utterly low opinion she had of all human nature. She was also quite
venomously overbearing with the servants, Connie found: but in a quiet way.
And she skilfully behaved so that Sir Alexander should think that he was
lord and monarch of the whole caboosh, with his stout, would-be-genial
paunch, and his utterly boring jokes, his humourosity, as Hilda called it.
Sir Malcolm was painting. Yes, he still would do a Venetian
lagoonscape, now and then, in contrast to his Scottish landscapes. So in the
morning he was rowed off with a huge canvas, to his `site'. A little later,
Lady Cooper would he rowed off into the heart of the city, with
sketching-block and colours. She was an inveterate watercolour painter, and
the house was full of rose-coloured palaces, dark canals, swaying bridges,
medieval facades, and so on. A little later the Guthries, the prince, the
countess, Sir Alexander, and sometimes Mr Lind, the chaplain, would go off
to the Lido, where they would bathe; coming home to a late lunch at half
past one.
The house-party, as a house-party, was distinctly boring. But this did
not trouble the sisters. They were out all the time. Their father took them
to the exhibition, miles and miles of weary paintings. He took them to all
the cronies of his in the Villa Lucchese, he sat with them on warm evenings
in the piazza, having got a table at Florian's: he took them to the theatre,
to the Goldoni plays. There were illuminated water-fÊtes, there were dances.
This was a holiday-place of all holiday-places. The Lido, with its acres of
sun-pinked or pyjamaed bodies, was like a strand with an endless heap of
seals come up for mating. Too many people in the piazza, too many limbs and
trunks of humanity on the Lido, too many gondolas, too many motor-launches,
too many steamers, too many pigeons, too many ices, too many cocktails, too
many menservants wanting tips, too many languages rattling, too much, too
much sun, too much smell of Venice, too many cargoes of strawberries, too
many silk shawls, too many huge, raw-beef slices of watermelon on stalls:
too much enjoyment, altogether far too much enjoyment!
Connie and Hilda went around in their sunny frocks. There were dozens
of people they knew, dozens of people knew them. Michaelis turned up like a
bad penny. `Hullo! Where you staying? Come and have an ice-cream or
something! Come with me somewhere in my gondola.' Even Michaelis almost
sun-burned: though sun-cooked is more appropriate to the look of the mass of
human flesh.
It was pleasant in a way. It was almost enjoyment. But anyhow, with all
the cocktails, all the lying in warmish water and sunbathing on hot sand in
hot sun, jazzing with your stomach up against some fellow in the warm
nights, cooling off with ices, it was a complete narcotic. And that was what
they all wanted, a drug: the slow water, a drug; the sun, a drug; jazz, a
drug; cigarettes, cocktails, ices, vermouth. To be drugged! Enjoyment!
Enjoyment!
Hilda half liked being drugged. She liked looking at all the women,
speculating about them. The women were absorbingly interested in the women.
How does she look! what man has she captured? what fun is she getting out of
it?---The men were like great dogs in white flannel trousers, waiting to be
patted, waiting to wallow, waiting to plaster some woman's stomach against
their own, in jazz.
Hilda liked jazz, because she could plaster her stomach against the
stomach of some so-called man, and let him control her movement from the
visceral centre, here and there across the floor, and then she could break
loose and ignore `the creature'. He had been merely made use of. Poor Connie
was rather unhappy. She wouldn't jazz, because she simply couldn't plaster
her stomach against some `creature's' stomach. She hated the conglomerate
mass of nearly nude flesh on the Lido: there was hardly enough water to wet
them all. She disliked Sir Alexander and Lady Cooper. She did not want
Michaelis or anybody else trailing her.
The happiest times were when she got Hilda to go with her away across
the lagoon, far across to some lonely shingle-bank, where they could bathe
quite alone, the gondola remaining on the inner side of the reef.
Then Giovanni got another gondolier to help him, because it was a long
way and he sweated terrifically in the sun. Giovanni was very nice:
affectionate, as the Italians are, and quite passionless. The Italians are
not passionate: passion has deep reserves. They are easily moved, and often
affectionate, but they rarely have any abiding passion of any sort.
So Giovanni was already devoted to his ladies, as he had been devoted
to cargoes of ladies in the past. He was perfectly ready to prostitute
himself to them, if they wanted hint: he secretly hoped they would want him.
They would give him a handsome present, and it would come in very handy, as
he was just going to be married. He told them about his marriage, and they
were suitably interested.
He thought this trip to some lonely bank across the lagoon probably
meant business: business being l'amore, love. So he got a mate to help him,
for it was a long way; and after all, they were two ladies. Two ladies, two
mackerels! Good arithmetic! Beautiful ladies, too! He was justly proud of
them. And though it was the Signora who paid him and gave him orders, he
rather hoped it would be the young milady who would select hint for l'amore.
She would give more money too.
The mate he brought was called Daniele. He was not a regular gondolier,
so he had none of the cadger and prostitute about him. He was a sandola man,
a sandola being a big boat that brings in fruit and produce from the
islands.
Daniele was beautiful, tall and well-shapen, with a light round head of
little, close, pale-blond curls, and a good-looking man's face, a little
like a lion, and long-distance blue eyes. He was not effusive, loquacious,
and bibulous like Giovanni. He was silent and he rowed with a strength and
ease as if he were alone on the water. The ladies were ladies, remote from
him. He did not even look at them. He looked ahead.
He was a real man, a little angry when Giovanni drank too much wine and
rowed awkwardly, with effusive shoves of the great oar. He was a man as
Mellors was a man, unprostituted. Connie pitied the wife of the
easily-overflowing Giovanni. But Daniele's wife would be one of those sweet
Venetian women of the people whom one still sees, modest and flower-like in
the back of that labyrinth of a town.
Ah, how sad that man first prostitutes woman, then woman prostitutes
man. Giovanni was pining to prostitute himself, dribbling like a dog,
wanting to give himself to a woman. And for money!
Connie looked at Venice far off, low and rose-coloured upon the water.
Built of money, blossomed of money, and dead with money. The money-deadness!
Money, money, money, prostitution and deadness.
Yet Daniele was still a man capable of a man's free allegiance. He did
not wear the gondolier's blouse: only the knitted blue jersey. He was a
little wild, uncouth and proud. So he was hireling to the rather doggy
Giovanni who was hireling again to two women. So it is! When Jesus refused
the devil's money, he left the devil like a Jewish banker, master of the
whole situation.
Connie would come home from the blazing light of the lagoon in a kind
of stupor, to lind letters from home. Clifford wrote regularly. He wrote
very good letters: they might all have been printed in a book. And for this
reason Connie found them not very interesting.
She lived in the stupor of the light of the lagoon, the lapping
saltiness of the water, the space, the emptiness, the nothingness: but
health, health, complete stupor of health. It was gratifying, and she was
lulled away in it, not caring for anything. Besides, she was pregnant. She
knew now. So the stupor of sunlight and lagoon salt and sea-bathing and
lying on shingle and finding shells and drifting away, away in a gondola,
was completed by the pregnancy inside her, another fullness of health,
satisfying and stupefying.
She had been at Venice a fortnight, and she was to stay another ten
days or a fortnight. The sunshine blazed over any count of time, and the
fullness of physical health made forgetfulness complete. She was in a sort
of stupor of well-being.
From which a letter of Clifford roused her.
We too have had our mild local excitement. It appears the truant wife
of Mellors, the keeper, turned up at the cottage and found herself
unwelcome. He packed her off, and locked the door. Report has it, however,
that when he returned from the wood he found the no longer fair lady firmly
established in his bed, in puris naturalibus; or one should say, in impuris
naturalibus. She had broken a window and got in that way. Unable to evict
the somewhat man-handled Venus from his couch, he beat a retreat and
retired, it is said, to his mother's house in Tevershall. Meanwhile the
Venus of Stacks Gate is established in the cottage, which she claims is her
home, and Apollo, apparently, is domiciled in Tevershall.
I repeat this from hearsay, as Mellors has not come to me personally. I
had this particular bit of local garbage from our garbage bird, our ibis,
our scavenging turkey-buzzard, Mrs Bolton. I would not have repeated it had
she not exclaimed: her Ladyship will go no more to the wood if that woman's
going to be about!
I like your picture of Sir Malcolm striding into the sea with white
hair blowing and pink flesh glowing. I envy you that sun. Here it rains. But
I don't envy Sir Malcolm his inveterate mortal carnality. However, it suits
his age. Apparently one grows more carnal and more mortal as one grows
older. Only youth has a taste of immortality---
This news affected Connie in her state of semi-stupefied ell being with
vexation amounting to exasperation. Now she ad got to be bothered by that
beast of a woman! Now she must start and fret! She had no letter from
Mellors. They had agreed not to write at all, but now she wanted to hear
from him personally. After all, he was the father of the child that was
coming. Let him write!
But how hateful! Now everything was messed up. How foul those low
people were! How nice it was here, in the sunshine and the indolence,
compared to that dismal mess of that English Midlands! After all, a clear
sky was almost the most important thing in life.
She did not mention the fact of her pregnancy, even to Hilda. She wrote
to Mrs Bolton for exact information.
Duncan Forbes, an artist friend of theirs, had arrived at the Villa
Esmeralda, coming north from Rome. Now he made a third in the gondola, and
he bathed with them across the lagoon, and was their escort: a quiet, almost
taciturn young man, very advanced in his art.
She had a letter from Mrs Bolton:
You will be pleased, I am sure, my Lady, when you see Sir Clifford.
He's looking quite blooming and working very hard, and very hopeful. Of
course he is looking forward to seeing you among us again. It is a dull
house without my Lady, and we shall all welcome her presence among us once
more.
About Mr Mellors, I don't know how much Sir Clifford told you. It seems
his wife came back all of a sudden one afternoon, and he found her sitting
on the doorstep when he came in from the wood. She said she was come back to
him and wanted to live with him again, as she was his legal wife, and he
wasn't going to divorce her. But he wouldn't have anything to do with her,
and wouldn't let her in the house, and did not go in himself; he went back
into the wood without ever opening the door.
But when he came back after dark, he found the house broken into, so he
went upstairs to see what she'd done, and he found her in bed without a rag
on her. He offered her money, but she said she was his wife and he must take
her back. I don't know what sort of a scene they had. His mother told me
about it, she's terribly upset. Well, he told her he'd die rather than ever
live with her again, so he took his things and went straight to his mother's
on Tevershall hill. He stopped the night and went to the wood next day
through the park, never going near the cottage. It seems he never saw his
wife that day. But the day after she was at her brother Pan's at Beggarlee,
swearing and carrying on, saying she was his legal wife, and that he'd beers
having women at the cottage, because she'd found a scent-bottle in his
drawer, and gold-tipped cigarette-ends on the ash-heap, and I don't know
what all. Then it seems the postman Fred Kirk says he heard somebody talking
in Mr Mellors' bedroom early one morning, and a motor-car had been in the
lane.
Mr Mellors stayed on with his mother, and went to the wood through the
park, and it seems she stayed on at the cottage. Well, there was no end of
talk. So at last Mr Mellors and Tom Phillips went to the cottage and fetched
away most of the furniture and bedding, and unscrewed the handle of the
pump, so she was forced to go. But instead of going back to Stacks Gate she
went and lodged with that Mrs Swain at Beggarlee, because her brother Dan's
wife wouldn't have her. And she kept going to old Mrs Mellors' house, to
catch him, and she began swearing he'd got in bed with her in the cottage
and she went to a lawyer to make him pay her an allowance. She's grown
heavy, and more common than ever, and as strong as a bull. And she goes
about saying the most awful things about him, how he has women at the
cottage, and how he behaved to her when they were married, the low, beastly
things he did to her, and I don't know what all. I'm sure it's awful, the
mischief a woman can do, once she starts talking. And no matter how low she
may be, there'll be some as will believe her, and some of the dirt will
stick. I'm sure the way she makes out that Mr Mellors was one of those low,
beastly men with women, is simply shocking. And people are only too ready to
believe things against anybody, especially things like that. She declared
she'll never leave him alone while he lives. Though what I say is, if he was
so beastly to her, why is she so anxious to go back to him? But of course
she's coming near her change of life, for she's years older than he is. And
these common, violent women always go partly insane whets the change of life
comes upon them---
This was a nasty blow to Connie. Here she was, sure as life, coming in
for her share of the lowness and dirt. She felt angry with him for not
having got clear of a Bertha Coutts: nay, for ever having married her.
Perhaps he had a certain hankering after lowness. Connie remembered the last
night she had spent with him, and shivered. He had known all that
sensuality, even with a Bertha Coutts! It was really rather disgusting. It
would be well to be rid of him, clear of him altogether. He was perhaps
really common, really low.
She had a revulsion against the whole affair, and almost envied the
Guthrie girls their gawky inexperience and crude maidenliness. And she now
dreaded the thought that anybody would know about herself and the keeper.
How unspeakably humiliating! She was weary, afraid, and felt a craving for
utter respectability, even for the vulgar and deadening respectability of
the Guthrie girls. If Clifford knew about her affair, how unspeakably
humiliating! She was afraid, terrified of society and its unclean bite. She
almost wished she could get rid of the child again, and be quite clear. In
short, she fell into a state of funk.
As for the scent-bottle, that was her own folly. She had not been able
to refrain from perfuming his one or two handkerchiefs and his shirts in the
drawer, just out of childishness, and she had left a little bottle of Coty's
Wood-violet perfume, half empty, among his things. She wanted him to
remember her in the perfume. As for the cigarette-ends, they were Hilda's.
She could not help confiding a little in Duncan Forbes. She didn't say
she had been the keeper's lover, she only said she liked him, and told
Forbes the history of the man.
`Oh,' said Forbes, `you'll see, they'll never rest till they've pulled
the man down and done him its. If he has refused to creep up into the middle
classes, when he had a chance; and if he's a man who stands up for his own
sex, then they'll do him in. It's the one thing they won't let you be,
straight and open in your sex. You can be as dirty as you like. In fact the
more dirt you do on sex the better they like it. But if you believe in your
own sex, and won't have it done dirt to: they'll down you. It's the one
insane taboo left: sex as a natural and vital thing. They won't have it, and
they'll kill you before they'll let you have it. You'll see, they'll hound
that man down. And what's he done, after all? If he's made love to his wife
all ends on, hasn't he a right to? She ought to be proud of it. But you see,
even a low bitch like that turns on him, and uses the hyena instinct of the
mob against sex, to pull him down. You have a snivel and feel sinful or
awful about your sex, before you're allowed to have any. Oh, they'll hound
the poor devil down.'
Connie had a revulsion in the opposite direction now. What had he done,
after all? what had he done to herself, Connie, but give her an exquisite
pleasure and a sense of freedom and life? He had released her warm, natural
sexual flow. And for that they would hound him down.
No no, it should not be. She saw the image of him, naked white with
tanned face and hands, looking down and addressing his erect penis as if it
were another being, the odd grin flickering on his face. And she heard his
voice again: Tha's got the nicest woman's arse of anybody! And she felt his
hand warmly and softly closing over her tail again, over her secret places,
like a benediction. And the warmth ran through her womb, and the little
flames flickered in her knees, and she said: Oh, no! I mustn't go back on
it! I must not go back on him. I must stick to him and to what I had of him,
through everything. I had no warm, flamy life till he gave it me. And I
won't go back on it.
She did a rash thing. She sent a letter to Ivy Bolton, enclosing a note
to the keeper, and asking Mrs Bolton to give it him. And she wrote to him:
I am very much distressed to hear of all the trouble your wife is
making for you, but don't mind it, it is only a sort of hysteria. It will
all blow over as suddenly as it came. But I'm awfully sorry about it, and I
do hope you are not minding very much. After all, it isn't worth it. She is
only a hysterical woman who wants to hurt you. I shall be home in ten days'
time, and I do hope everything will be all right.
A few days later came a letter from Clifford. He was evidently upset.
I am delighted to hear you are prepared to leave Venice on the
sixteenth. But if you are enjoying it, don't hurry home. We miss you, Wragby
misses you. But it is essential that you should get your full amount of
sunshine, sunshine and pyjamas, as the advertisements of the Lido say. So
please do stay on a little longer, if it is cheering you up and preparing
you for our sufficiently awful winter. Even today, it rains.
I am assiduously, admirably looked after by Mrs Bolton. She is a queer
specimen. The more I live, the more I realize what strange creatures human
beings are. Some of them might Just as well have a hundred legs, like a
centipede, or six, like a lobster. The human consistency and dignity one has
been led to expect from one's fellow-men seem actually nonexistent. One
doubts if they exist to any startling degree even is oneself.
The scandal of the keeper continues and gets bigger like a snowball.
Mrs Bolton keeps me informed. She reminds me of a fish which, though dumb,
seems to be breathing silent gossip through its gills, while ever it lives.
All goes through the sieve of her gills, and nothing surprises her. It is as
if the events of other people's lives were the necessary oxygen of her own.
She is preoccupied with tie Mellors scandal, and if I will let her
begin, she takes me down to the depths. Her great indignation, which even
then is like the indignation of an actress playing a role, is against the
wife of Mellors, whom she persists in calling Bertha Courts. I have been to
the depths of the muddy lies of the Bertha Couttses of this world, and when,
released from the current of gossip, I slowly rise to the surface again, I
look at the daylight its wonder that it ever should be.
It seems to me absolutely true, that our world, which appears to us the
surface of all things, is really the bottom of a deep ocean: all our trees
are submarine growths, and we are weird, scaly-clad submarine fauna, feeding
ourselves on offal like shrimps. Only occasionally the soul rises gasping
through the fathomless fathoms under which we live, far up to the surface of
the ether, where there is true air. I am convinced that the air we normally
breathe is a kind of water, and men and women are a species of fish.
But sometimes the soul does come up, shoots like a kittiwake into the
light, with ecstasy, after having preyed on the submarine depths. It is our
mortal destiny, I suppose, to prey upon the ghastly subaqueous life of our
fellow-men, in the submarine jungle of mankind. But our immortal destiny is
to escape, once we have swallowed our swimmy catch, up again into the bright
ether, bursting out from the surface of Old Ocean into real light. Then one
realizes one's eternal nature.
When I hear Mrs Bolton talk, I feel myself plunging down, down, to the
depths where the fish of human secrets wriggle and swim. Carnal appetite
makes one seize a beakful of prey: then up, up again, out of the dense into
the ethereal, from the wet into the dry. To you I can tell the whole
process. But with Mrs Bolton I only feel the downward plunge, down,
horribly, among the sea-weeds and the pallid monsters of the very bottom.
I am afraid we are going to lose our game-keeper. The scandal of the
truant wife, instead of dying down, has reverberated to greater and greater
dimensions. He is accused of all unspeakable things and curiously enough,
the woman has managed to get the bulk of the colliers' wives behind her,
gruesome fish, and the village is putrescent with talk.
I hear this Bertha Coutts besieges Mellors in his mother's house,
having ransacked the cottage and the hut. She seized one day upon her own
daughter, as that chip of the female block was returning from school; but
the little one, instead of kissing the loving mother's hand, bit it firmly,
and so received from the other hand a smack in the face which sent her
reeling into the gutter: whence she was rescued by an indignant and harassed
grandmother.
The woman has blown off an amazing quantity of poison-gas. She has
aired in detail all those incidents of her conjugal life which are usually
buried down in the deepest grave of matrimonial silence, between married
couples. Having chosen to exhume them, after ten years of burial, she has a
weird array. I hear these details from Linley and the doctor: the latter
being amused. Of course there is really nothing in it. Humanity has always
had a strange avidity for unusual sexual postures, and if a man likes to use
his wife, as Benvenuto Cellini says, `in the Italian way', well that is a
matter of taste. But I had hardly expected our game-keeper to be up to so
many tricks. No doubt Bertha Coutts herself first put him up to them. In any
case, it is a matter of their own personal squalor, and nothing to do with
anybody else.
However, everybody listens: as I do myself. A dozen years ago, common
decency would have hushed the thing. But common decency no longer exists,
and the colliers' wives are all up in arms and unabashed in voice. One would
think every child in Tevershall, for the last fifty years, had been an
immaculate conception, and every one of our nonconformist females was a
shining Joan of Arc. That our estimable game-keeper should have about him a
touch of Rabelais seems to make him more monstrous and shocking than a
murderer like Crippen. Yet these people in Tevershall are a loose lot, if
one is to believe all accounts.
The trouble is, however, the execrable Bertha Coutts has not confined
herself to her own experiences and sufferings. She has discovered, at the
top of her voice, that her husband has been `keeping' women down at the
cottage, and has made a few random shots at naming the women. This has
brought a few decent names trailing through the mud, and the thing has gone
quite considerably too far. An injunction has been taken out against the
woman.
I have had to interview Mellors about the business, as it was
impossible to keep the woman away from the wood. He goes about as usual,
with his Miller-of-the-Dee air, I care for nobody, no not I, if nobody care
for me! Nevertheless, I shrewdly suspect he feels like a dog with a tin can
tied to its tail: though he makes a very good show of pretending the tin can
isn't there. But I heard that in the village the women call away their
children if he is passing, as if he were the Marquis de Sade in person. He
goes on with a certain impudence, but I am afraid the tin can is firmly tied
to his tail, and that inwardly he repeats, like Don Rodrigo in the Spanish
ballad: `Ah, now it bites me where I most have sinned!'
I asked him if he thought he would be able to attend to his duty in the
wood, and he said he did not think he had neglected it. I told him it was a
nuisance to have the woman trespassing: to which he replied that he had no
power to arrest her. Then I hinted at the scandal and its unpleasant course.
`Ay,' he said. `folks should do their own fuckin', then they wouldn't want
to listen to a lot of clatfart about another man's.'
He said it with some bitterness, and no doubt it contains the real germ
of truth. The mode of putting it, however, is neither delicate nor
respectful. I hinted as much, and then I heard the tin can rattle again.
`It's not for a man the shape you're in, Sir Clifford, to twit me for havin'
a cod atween my legs.'
These things, said indiscriminately to all and sundry, of course do not
help him at all, and the rector, and Finley, and Burroughs all think it
would be as well if the man left the place.
I asked him fit was true that he entertained ladies down at the
cottage, and all he said was: `Why, what's that to you, Sir Clifford?' I
told him I intended to have decency observed on my estate, to which he
replied: `Then you mun button the mouths o' a' th' women.'---When I pressed
him about his manner of life at the cottage, he said: `Surely you might ma'e
a scandal out o' me an' my bitch Flossie. You've missed summat there.' As a
matter of fact, for an example of impertinence he'd be hard to beat.
I asked him fit would be easy for him to find another job. He said: `If
you're hintin' that you'd like to shunt me out of this job, it'd be easy as
wink.' So he made no trouble at all about leaving at the end of next week,
and apparently is willing to initiate a young fellow, Joe Chambers, into as
many mysteries of the craft as possible. I told him I would give him a
month's wages extra, when he left. He said he'd rather I kept my money, as
I'd no occasion to ease my conscience. I asked him what he meant, and he
said: `You don't owe me nothing extra, Sir Clifford, so don't pay me nothing
extra. If you think you see my shirt hanging out, just tell me.'
Well, there is the end of it for the time being. The woman has gone
away: we don't know where to: but she is liable to arrest if she shows her
face in Tevershall. And I heard she is mortally afraid of gaol, because she
merits it so well. Mellors will depart on Saturday week, and the place will
soon become normal again.
Meanwhile, my dear Connie, if you would enjoy to stay in Venice or in
Switzerland till the beginning of August, I should be glad to think you were
out of all this buzz of nastiness, which will have died quite away by the
end of the month.
So you see, we arc deep-sea monsters, and when the lobster walks on
mud, he stirs it up for everybody. We must perforce take it philosophically.
The irritation, and the lack of any sympathy in any direction, of
Clifford's letter, had a bad effect on Connie. But she understood it better
when she received the following from Mellors:
The cat is out of the bag, along with various other pussies. You have
heard that my wife Bertha came back to my unloving arms, and took up her
abode in the cottage: where, to speak disrespectfully, she smelled a rat, in
the shape of a little bottle of Coty. Other evidence she did not find, at
least for some days, when she began to howl about the burnt photograph. She
noticed the glass and the back-board in the square bedroom. Unfortunately,
on the back-board somebody had scribbled little sketches, and the initials,
several times repeated: C. S. R. This, however, afforded no clue until she
broke into the hut, and found one of your books, an autobiography of the
actress Judith, with your name, Constance Stewart Reid, on the front page.
After this, for some days she went round loudly saying that my paramour was
no less a person than Lady Chatterley herself. The news came at last to the
rector, Mr Burroughs, and to Sir Clifford. They then proceeded to take legal
steps against my liege lady, who for her part disappeared, having always had
a mortal fear of the police.
Sir Clifford asked to see me, so I went to him. He talked around things
and seemed annoyed with me. Then he asked if I knew that even her ladyship's
name had been mentioned. I said I never listened to scandal, and was
surprised to hear this bit from Sir Clifford himself. He said, of course it
was a great insult, and I told him there was Queen Mary on a calendar in the
scullery, no doubt because Her Majesty formed part of my harem. But he
didn't appreciate the sarcasm. He as good as told me I was a disreputable
character also walked about with my breeches' buttons undone, and I as good
as told him he'd nothing to unbutton anyhow, so he gave me the sack, and I
leave on Saturday week, and the place thereof shall know me no more.
I shall go to London, and my old landlady, Mrs Inger, 17 Coburg Square,
will either give me a room or will find one for me.
Be sure your sins will find you out, especially if you're married and
her name's Bertha---
There was not a word about herself, or to her. Connie resented this. He
might have said some few words of consolation or reassurance. But she knew
he was leaving her free, free to go back to Wragby and to Clifford. She
resented that too. He need riot be so falsely chivalrous. She wished he had
said to Clifford: `Yes, she is my lover and my mistress and I am proud of
it!' But his courage wouldn't carry him so far.
So her name was coupled with his in Tevershall! It was a mess. But that
would soon die down.
She was angry, with the complicated and confused anger that made her
inert. She did not know what to do nor what to say, so she said and did
nothing. She went on at Venice just the same, rowing out in the gondola with
Duncan Forbes, bathing, letting the days slip by. Duncan, who had been
rather depressingly in love with her ten years ago, was in love with her
again. But she said to him: `I only want one thing of men, and that is, that
they should leave me alone.'
So Duncan left her alone: really quite pleased to be able to. All the
same, he offered her a soft stream of a queer, inverted sort of love. He
wanted to be with her.
`Have you ever thought,' he said to her one day, `how very little
people are connected with one another. Look at Daniele! He is handsome as a
son of the sun. But see how alone he looks in his handsomeness. Yet I bet he
has a wife and family, and couldn't possibly go away from them.'
`Ask him,' said Connie.
Duncan did so. Daniele said he was married, and had two children, both
male, aged seven and nine. But he betrayed no emotion over the fact.
`Perhaps only people who are capable of real togetherness have that
look of being alone in the universe,' said Connie. `The others have a
certain stickiness, they stick to the mass, like Giovanni.' `And,' she
thought to herself, `like you, Duncan.'
She had to make up her mind what to do. She would leave Venice on the
Saturday that he was leaving Wragby: in six days' time. This would bring her
to London on the Monday following, and she would then see him. She wrote to
him to the London address, asking him to send her a letter to Hartland's
hotel, and to call for her on the Monday evening at seven.
Inside herself she was curiously and complicatedly angry, and all her
responses were numb. She refused to confide even in Hilda, and Hilda,
offended by her steady silence, had become rather intimate with a Dutch
woman. Connie hated these rather stifling intimacies between women, intimacy
into which Hilda always entered ponderously.
Sir Malcolm decided to travel with Connie, and Duncan could come on
with Hilda. The old artist always did himself well: he took berths on the
Orient Express, in spite of Connie's dislike of trains de luxe, the
atmosphere of vulgar depravity there is aboard them nowadays. However, it
would make the journey to Paris shorter.
Sir Malcolm was always uneasy going back to his wife. It was habit
carried over from the first wife. But there would be a house-party for the
grouse, and he wanted to be well ahead. Connie, sunburnt and handsome, sat
in silence, forgetting all about the landscape.
`A little dull for you, going back to Wragby,' said her father,
noticing her glumness.
`I'm not sure I shall go back to Wragby,' she said, with startling
abruptness, looking into his eyes with her big blue eyes. His big blue eyes
took on the frightened look of a man whose social conscience is not quite
clear.
`You mean you'll stay on in Paris a while?'
`No! I mean never go back to Wragby.'
He was bothered by his own little problems, and sincerely hoped he was
getting none of hers to shoulder.
`How's that, all at once?' he asked.
`I'm going to have a child.'
It was the first time she had uttered the words to any living soul, and
it seemed to mark a cleavage in her life.
`How do you know?' said her father.
She smiled.
`How should I know?'
`But not Clifford's child, of course?'
`No! Another man's.'
She rather enjoyed tormenting him.
`Do I know the man?' asked Sir Malcolm.
`No! You've never seen him.'
There was a long pause.
`And what are your plans?'
`I don't know. That's the point.'
`No patching it up with Clifford?'
`I suppose Clifford would take it,' said Connie. `He told me, after
last time you talked to him, he wouldn't mind if I had a child, so long as I
went about it discreetly.'
`Only sensible thing he could say, under the circumstances. Then I
suppose it'll be all right.'
`In what way?' said Connie, looking into her father's eyes. They were
big blue eyes rather like her own, but with a certain uneasiness in them, a
look sometimes of an uneasy little boy, sometimes a look of sullen
selfishness, usually good-humoured and wary.
`You can present Clifford with an heir to all the Chatterleys, and put
another baronet in Wragby.'
Sir Malcolm's face smiled with a half-sensual smile.
`But I don't think I want to,' she said.
`Why not? Feeling entangled with the other man? Well! If you want the
truth from me, my child, it's this. The world goes on. Wragby stands and
will go on standing. The world is more or less a fixed thing and,
externally, we have to adapt ourselves to it. Privately, in my private
opinion, we can please ourselves. Emotions change. You may like one man this
year and another next. But Wragby still stands. Stick by Wragby as far as
Wragby sticks by you. Then please yourself. But you'll get very little out
of making a break. You can make a break if you wish. You have an independent
income, the only thing that never lets you down. But you won't get much out
of it. Put a little baronet in Wragby. It's an amusing thing to do.'
And Sir Malcolm sat back and smiled again. Connie did not answer.
`I hope you had a real man at last,' he said to her after a while,
sensually alert.
`I did. That's the trouble. There aren't many of them about,' she said.
`No, by God!' he mused. `There aren't! Well, my dear, to look at you,
he was a lucky man. Surely he wouldn't make trouble for you?'
`Oh no! He leaves me my own mistress entirely.'
`Quite! Quite! A genuine man would.'
Sir Malcolm was pleased. Connie was his favourite daughter, he had
always liked the female in her. Not so much of her mother in her as in
Hilda. And he had always disliked Clifford. So he was pleased, and very
tender with his daughter, as if the unborn child were his child.
He drove with her to Hartland's hotel, and saw her installed: then went
round to his club. She had refused his company for the evening.
She found a letter from Mellors.
I won't come round to your hotel, but I'll wait for you outside the
Golden Cock in Adam Street at seven.
There he stood, tall and slender, and so different, in a formal suit of
thin dark cloth. He had a natural distinction, but he had not the
cut-to-pattern look of her class. Yet, she saw at once, he could go
anywhere. He had a native breeding which was really much nicer than the
cut-to-pattern class thing.
`Ah, there you are! How well you look!'
`Yes! But not you.'
She looked in his face anxiously. It was thin, and the cheekbones
showed. But his eyes smiled at her, and she felt at home with him. There it
was: suddenly, the tension of keeping up her appearances fell from her.
Something flowed out of him physically, that made her feel inwardly at ease
and happy, at home. With a woman's now alert instinct for happiness, she
registered it at once. `I'm happy when he's there!' Not all the sunshine of
Venice had given her this inward expansion and warmth.
`Was it horrid for you?' she asked as she sat opposite him at table. He
was too thin; she saw it now. His hand lay as she knew it, with the curious
loose forgottenness of a sleeping animal. She wanted so much to take it and
kiss it. But she did not quite dare.
`People are always horrid,' he said.
`And did you mind very much?'
`I minded, as I always shall mind. And I knew I was a fool to mind.'
`Did you feel like a dog with a tin can tied to its tail? Clifford said
you felt like that.'
He looked at her. It was cruel of her at that moment: for his pride had
suffered bitterly.
`I suppose I did,' he said.
She never knew the fierce bitterness with which he resented insult.
There was a long pause.
`And did you miss me?' she asked.
`I was glad you were out of it.'
Again there was a pause.
`But did people believe about you and me?' she asked.
`No! I don't think so for a moment.'
`Did Clifford?'
`I should say not. He put it off without thinking about it. But
naturally it made him want to see the last of me.'
`I'm going to have a child.'
The expression died utterly out of his face, out of his whole body. He
looked at her with darkened eyes, whose look she could not understand at
all: like some dark-flamed spirit looking at her.
`Say you're glad!' she pleaded, groping for his hand. And she saw a
certain exultance spring up in him. But it was netted down by things she
could not understand.
`It's the future,' he said.
`But aren't you glad?' she persisted.
`I have such a terrible mistrust of the future.'
`But you needn't be troubled by any responsibility. Clifford would have
it as his own, he'd be glad.'
She saw him go pale, and recoil under this. He did not answer.
`Shall I go back to Clifford and put a little baronet into Wragby?' she
asked.
He looked at her, pale and very remote. The ugly little grin flickered
on his face.
`You wouldn't have to tell him who the father was?'
`Oh!' she said; `he'd take it even then, if I wanted him to.'
He thought for a time.
`Ay!' he said at last, to himself. `I suppose he would.'
There was silence. A big gulf was between them.
`But you don't want me to go back to Clifford, do you?' she asked him.
`What do you want yourself?' he replied.
`I want to live with you,' she said simply.
In spite of himself, little flames ran over his belly as he heard her
say it, and he dropped his head. Then he looked up at her again, with those
haunted eyes.
`If it's worth it to you,' he said. `I've got nothing.'
`You've got more than most men. Come, you know it,' she said.
`In one way, I know it.' He was silent for a time, thinking. Then he
resumed: `They used to say I had too much of the woman in me. But it's not
that. I'm not a woman not because I don't want to shoot birds, neither
because I don't want to make money, or get on. I could have got on in the
army, easily, but I didn't like the army. Though I could manage the men all
right: they liked me and they had a bit of a holy fear of me when I got mad.
No, it was stupid, dead-handed higher authority that made the army dead:
absolutely fool-dead. I like men, and men like me. But I can't stand the
twaddling bossy impudence of the people who run this world. That's why I
can't get on. I hate the impudence of money, and I hate the impudence of
class. So in the world as it is, what have I to offer a woman?'
`But why offer anything? It's not a bargain. It's just that we love one
another,' she said.
`Nay, nay! It's more than that. Living is moving and moving on. My life
won't go down the proper gutters, it just won't. So I'm a bit of a waste
ticket by myself. And I've no business to take a woman into my life, unless
my life does something and gets somewhere, inwardly at least, to keep us
both fresh. A man must offer a woman some meaning in his life, if it's going
to be an isolated life, and if she's a genuine woman. I can't be just your
male concubine.'
`Why not?' she said.
`Why, because I can't. And you would soon hate it.'
`As if you couldn't trust me,' she said.
The grin flickered on his face.
`The money is yours, the position is yours, the decisions will lie with
you. I'm not just my Lady's fucker, after all.'
`What else are you?'
`You may well ask. It no doubt is invisible. Yet I'm something to
myself at least. I can see the point of my own existence, though I can quite
understand nobody else's seeing it.'
`And will your existence have less point, if you live with me?'
He paused a long time before replying:
`It might.'
She too stayed to think about it.
`And what is the point of your existence?'
`I tell you, it's invisible. I don't believe in the world, not in
money, nor in advancement, nor in the future of our civilization. If there's
got to be a future for humanity, there'll have to be a very big change from
what now is.'
`And what will the real future have to be like?'
`God knows! I can feel something inside me, all mixed up with a lot of
rage. But what it really amounts to, I don't know.'
`Shall I tell you?' she said, looking into his face. `Shall I tell you
what you have that other men don't have, and that will make the future?
Shall I tell you?'
`Tell me then,' he replied.
`It's the courage of your own tenderness, that's what it is: like when
you put your hand on my tail and say I've got a pretty tail.'
The grin came flickering on his face.
`That!' he said.
Then he sat thinking.
`Ay!' he said. `You're right. It's that really. It's that all the way
through. I knew it with the men. I had to be in touch with them, physically,
and not go back on it. I had to be bodily aware of them and a bit tender to
them, even if I put em through hell. It's a question of awareness, as Buddha
said. But even he fought shy of the bodily awareness, and that natural
physical tenderness, which is the best, even between men; in a proper manly
way. Makes 'em really manly, not so monkeyish. Ay! it's tenderness, really;
it's cunt-awareness. Sex is really only touch, the closest of all touch. And
it's touch we're afraid of. We're only half-conscious, and half alive. We've
got to come alive and aware. Especially the English have got to get into
touch with one another, a bit delicate and a bit tender. It's our crying
need.'
She looked at him.
`Then why are you afraid of me?' she said.
He looked at her a long time before he answered.
`It's the money, really, and the position. It's the world in you.'
`But isn't there tenderness in me?' she said wistfully.
He looked down at her, with darkened, abstract eyes.
`Ay! It comes an' goes, like in me.'
`But can't you trust it between you and me?' she asked, gazing
anxiously at him.
She saw his face all softening down, losing its armour. `Maybe!' he
said. They were both silent.
`I want you to hold me in your arms,' she said. `I want you to tell me
you are glad we are having a child.'
She looked so lovely and warm and wistful, his bowels stirred towards
her.
`I suppose we can go to my room,' he said. `Though it's scandalous
again.'
But she saw the forgetfulness of the world coming over him again, his
face taking the soft, pure look of tender passion.
They walked by the remoter streets to Coburg Square, where he had a
room at the top of the house, an attic room where he cooked for himself on a
gas ring. It was small, but decent and tidy.
She took off her things, and made him do the same. She was lovely in
the soft first flush of her pregnancy.
`I ought to leave you alone,' he said.
`No!' she said. `Love me! Love me, and say you'll keep me. Say you'll
keep me! Say you'll never let me go, to the world nor to anybody.'
She crept close against him, clinging fast to his thin, strong naked
body, the only home she had ever known.
`Then I'll keep thee,' he said. `If tha wants it, then I'll keep thee.'
He held her round and fast.
`And say you're glad about the child,' she repeated.
`Kiss it! Kiss my womb and say you're glad it's there.'
But that was more difficult for him.
`I've a dread of puttin' children i' th' world,' he said. `I've such a
dread o' th' future for 'em.'
`But you've put it into me. Be tender to it, and that will be its
future already. Kiss it!'
He quivered, because it was true. `Be tender to it, and that will be
its future.'---At that moment he felt a sheer love for the woman. He kissed
her belly and her mound of Venus, to kiss close to the womb and the foetus
within the womb.
`Oh, you love me! You love me!' she said, in a little cry like one of
her blind, inarticulate love cries. And he went in to her softly, feeling
the stream of tenderness flowing in release from his bowels to hers, the
bowels of compassion kindled between them.
And he realized as he went into her that this was the thing he had to
do, to e into tender touch, without losing his pride or his dignity or his
integrity as a man. After all, if she had money and means, and he had none,
he should be too proud and honourable to hold back his tenderness from her
on that account. `I stand for the touch of bodily awareness between human
beings,' he said to himself, `and the touch of tenderness. And she is my
mate. And it is a battle against the money, and the machine, and the
insentient ideal monkeyishness of the world. And she will stand behind me
there. Thank God I've got a woman! Thank God I've got a woman who is with
me, and tender and aware of me. Thank God she's not a bully, nor a fool.
Thank God she's a tender, aware woman.' And as his seed sprang in her, his
soul sprang towards her too, in the creative act that is far more than
procreative.
She was quite determined now that there should be no parting between
him and her. But the ways and means were still to settle.
`Did you hate Bertha Coutts?' she asked him.
`Don't talk to me about her.'
`Yes! You must let me. Because once you liked her. And once you were as
intimate with her as you are with me. So you have to tell me. Isn't it
rather terrible, when you've been intimate with her, to hate her so? Why is
it?'
`I don't know. She sort of kept her will ready against me, always,
always: her ghastly female will: her freedom! A woman's ghastly freedom that
ends in the most beastly bullying! Oh, she always kept her freedom against
me, like vitriol in my face.'
`But she's not free of you even now. Does she still love you?'
`No, no! If she's not free of me, it's because she's got that mad rage,
she must try to bully me.'
`But she must have loved you.'
`No! Well, in specks she did. She was drawn to me. And I think even
that she hated. She loved me in moments. But she always took it back, and
started bullying. Her deepest desire was to bully me, and there was no
altering her. Her will was wrong, from the first.'
`But perhaps she felt you didn't really love her, and she wanted to
make you.'
`My God, it was bloody making.'
`But you didn't really love her, did you? You did her that wrong.'
`How could I? I began to. I began to love her. But somehow, she always
ripped me up. No, don't let's talk of it. It was a doom, that was. And she
was a doomed woman. This last time, I'd have shot her like I shoot a stoat,
if I'd but been allowed: a raving, doomed thing in the shape of a woman! If
only I could have shot her, and ended the whole misery! It ought to be
allowed. When a woman gets absolutely possessed by her own will, her own
will set against everything, then it's fearful, and she should be shot at
last.'
`And shouldn't men be shot at last, if they get possessed by their own
will?'
`Ay!---the same! But I must get free of her, or she'll be at me again.
I wanted to tell you. I must get a divorce if I possibly can. So we must be
careful. We mustn't really be seen together, you and I. I never, never could
stand it if she came down on me and you.'
Connie pondered this.
`Then we can't be together?' she said.
`Not for six months or so. But I think my divorce will go through in
September; then till March.'
`But the baby will probably be born at the end of February,' she said.
He was silent.
`I could wish the Cliffords and Berthas all dead,' he said.
`It's not being very tender to them,' she said.
`Tender to them? Yea, even then the tenderest thing you could do for
them, perhaps, would be to give them death. They can't live! They only
frustrate life. Their souls are awful inside them. Death ought to be sweet
to them. And I ought to be allowed to shoot them.'
`But you wouldn't do it,' she said.
`I would though! and with less qualms than I shoot a weasel. It anyhow
has a prettiness and a loneliness. But they are legion. Oh, I'd shoot them.'
`Then perhaps it is just as well you daren't.'
`Well.'
Connie had now plenty to think of. It was evident he wanted absolutely
to be free of Bertha Coutts. And she felt he was right. The last attack had
been too grim.---This meant her living alone, till spring. Perhaps she could
get divorced from Clifford. But how? If Mellors were named, then there was
an end to his divorce. How loathsome! Couldn't one go right away, to the far
ends of the earth, and be free from it all?
One could not. The far ends of the world are not five minutes from
Charing Cross, nowadays. While the wireless is active, there are no far ends
of the earth. Kings of Dahomey and Lamas of Tibet listen in to London and
New York.
Patience! Patience! The world is a vast and ghastly intricacy of
mechanism, and one has to be very wary, not to get mangled by it.
Connie confided in her father.
`You see, Father, he was Clifford's game-keeper: but he was an officer
in the army in India. Only he is like Colonel C. E. Florence, who preferred
to become a private soldier again.'
Sir Malcolm, however, had no sympathy with the unsatisfactory mysticism
of the famous C. E. Florence. He saw too much advertisement behind all the
humility. It looked just like the sort of conceit the knight most loathed,
the conceit of self-abasement.
`Where did your game-keeper spring from?' asked Sir Malcolm irritably.
`He was a collier's son in Tevershall. But he's absolutely
presentable.'
The knighted artist became more angry.
`Looks to me like a gold-digger,' he said. `And you're a pretty easy
gold-mine, apparently.'
`No, Father, it's not like that. You'd know if you saw him. He's a man.
Clifford always detested him for not being humble.'
`Apparently he had a good instinct, for once.'
What Sir Malcolm could not bear was the scandal of his daughter's
having an intrigue with a game-keeper. He did not mind the intrigue: he
minded the scandal.
`I care nothing about the fellow. He's evidently been able to get round
you all right. But, by God, think of all the talk. Think of your step-mother
how she'll take it!'
`I know,' said Connie. `Talk is beastly: especially if you live in
society. And he wants so much to get his own divorce. I thought we might
perhaps say it was another man's child, and not mention Mellors' name at
all.'
`Another man's! What other man's?'
`Perhaps Duncan Forbes. He has been our friend all his life.'
`And he's a fairly well-known artist. And he's fond of me.'
`Well I'm damned! Poor Duncan! And what's he going to get out of it?'
`I don't know. But he might rather like it, even.'
`He might, might he? Well, he's a funny man if he does. Why, you've
never even had an affair with him, have you?'
`No! But he doesn't really want it. He only loves me to be near him,
but not to touch him.'
`My God, what a generation!'
`He would like me most of all to be a model for him to paint from. Only
I never wanted to.'
`God help him! But he looks down-trodden enough for anything.'
`Still, you wouldn't mind so much the talk about him?'
`My God, Connie, all the bloody contriving!'
`I know! It's sickening! But what can I do?'
`Contriving, conniving; conniving, contriving! Makes a man think he's
lived too long.'
`Come, Father, if you haven't done a good deal of contriving and
conniving in your time, you may talk.'
`But it was different, I assure you.'
`It's always different.'
Hilda arrived, also furious when she heard of the new developments. And
she also simply could not stand the thought of a public scandal about her
sister and a game-keeper. Too, too humiliating!
`Why should we not just disappear, separately, to British Columbia, and
have no scandal?' said Connie.
But that was no good. The scandal would come out just the same. And if
Connie was going with the man, she'd better be able to marry him. This was
Hilda's opinion. Sir Malcolm wasn't sure. The affair might still blow over.
`But will you see him, Father?'
Poor Sir Malcolm! he was by no means keen on it. And poor Mellors, he
was still less keen. Yet the meeting took place: a lunch in a private room
at the club, the two men alone, looking one another up and down.
Sir Malcolm drank a fair amount of whisky, Mellors also drank. And they
talked all the while about India, on which the young man was well informed.
This lasted during the meal. Only when coffee was served, and the
waiter had gone, Sir Malcolm lit a cigar and said, heartily:
`Well, young man, and what about my daughter?'
The grin flickered on Mellors' face.
`Well, Sir, and what about her?'
`You've got a baby in her all right.'
`I have that honour!' grinned Mellors.
`Honour, by God!' Sir Malcolm gave a little squirting laugh, and became
Scotch and lewd. `Honour! How was the going, eh? Good, my boy, what?'
`Good!'
`I'll bet it was! Ha-ha! My daughter, chip of the old block, what! I
never went back on a good bit of fucking, myself. Though her mother, oh,
holy saints!' He rolled his eyes to heaven. `But you warmed her up, oh, you
warmed her up, I can see that. Ha-ha! My blood in her! You set fire to her
haystack all right. Ha-ha-ha! I was jolly glad of it, I can tell you. She
needed it. Oh, she's a nice girl, she's a nice girl, and I knew she'd be
good going, if only some damned man would set her stack on fire! Ha-ha-ha! A
game-keeper, eh, my boy! Bloody good poacher, if you ask me. Ha-ha! But now,
look here, speaking seriously, what are we going to do about it? Speaking
seriously, you know!'
Speaking seriously, they didn't get very far. Mellors, though a little
tipsy, was much the soberer of the two. He kept the conversation as
intelligent as possible: which isn't saying much.
`So you're a game-keeper! Oh, you're quite right! That sort of game is
worth a man's while, eh, what? The test of a woman is when you pinch her
bottom. You can tell just by the feel of her bottom if she's going to come
up all right. Ha-ha! I envy you, my boy. How old are you?'
`Thirty-nine.'
The knight lifted his eyebrows.
`As much as that! Well, you've another good twenty years, by the look
of you. Oh, game-keeper or not, you're a good cock. I can see that with one
eye shut. Not like that blasted Clifford! A lily-livered hound with never a
fuck in him, never had. I like you, my boy, I'll bet you've a good cod on
you; oh, you're a bantam, I can see that. You're a fighter. Game-keeper!
Ha-ha, by crikey, I wouldn't trust my game to you! But look here, seriously,
what are we going to do about it? The world's full of blasted old women.'
Seriously, they didn't do anything about it, except establish the old
free-masonry of male sensuality between them.
`And look here, my boy, if ever I can do anything for you, you can rely
on me. Game-keeper! Christ, but it's rich! I like it! Oh, I like it! Shows
the girl's got spunk. What? After all, you know, she has her own income,
moderate, moderate, but above starvation. And I'll leave her what I've got.
By God, I will. She deserves it for showing spunk, in a world of old women.
I've been struggling to get myself clear of the skirts of old women for
seventy years, and haven't managed it yet. But you're the man, I can see
that.'
`I'm glad you think so. They usually tell me, in a sideways fashion,
that I'm the monkey.'
`Oh, they would! My dear fellow, what could you be but a monkey, to all
the old women?'
They parted most genially, and Mellors laughed inwardly all the time
for the rest of the day.
The following day he had lunch with Connie and Hilda, at some discreet
place.
`It's a very great pity it's such an ugly situation all round,' said
Hilda.
`I had a lot o' fun out of it,' said he.
`I think you might have avoided putting children into the world until
you were both free to marry and have children.'
`The Lord blew a bit too soon on the spark,' said he.
`I think the Lord had nothing to do with it. Of course, Connie has
enough money to keep you both, but the situation is unbearable.'
`But then you don't have to bear more than a small corner of it, do
you?' said he.
`If you'd been in her own class.'
`Or if I'd been in a cage at the Zoo.'
There was silence.
`I think,' said Hilda, `it will be best if she names quite another man
as co-respondent and you stay out of it altogether.'
`But I thought I'd put my foot right in.'
`I mean in the divorce proceedings.'
He gazed at her in wonder. Connie had not dared mention the Duncan
scheme to him.
`I don't follow,' he said.
`We have a friend who would probably agree to be named as
co-respondent, so that your name need not appear,' said Hilda.
`You mean a man?'
`Of course!'
`But she's got no other?'
He looked in wonder at Connie.
`No, no!' she said hastily. `Only that old friendship, quite simple, no
love.'
`Then why should the fellow take the blame? If he's had nothing out of
you?'
`Some men are chivalrous and don't only count what they get out of a
woman,' said Hilda.
`One for me, eh? But who's the johnny?'
`A friend whom we've known since we were children in Scotland, an
artist.'
`Duncan Forbes!' he said at once, for Connie had talked to him. `And
how would you shift the blame on to him?'
`They could stay together in some hotel, or she could even stay in his
apartment.'
`Seems to me like a lot of fuss for nothing,' he said.
`What else do you suggest?' said Hilda. `If your name appears, you will
get no divorce from your wife, who is apparently quite an impossible person
to be mixed up with.'
`All that!' he said grimly.
There was a long silence.
`We could go right away,' he said.
`There is no right away for Connie,' said Hilda. `Clifford is too well
known.'
Again the silence of pure frustration.
`The world is what it is. If you want to live together without being
persecuted, you will have to marry. To marry, you both have to be divorced.
So how are you both going about it?'
He was silent for a long time.
`How are you going about it for us?' he said.
`We will see if Duncan will consent to figure as co-respondent: then we
must get Clifford to divorce Connie: and you must go on with your divorce,
and you must both keep apart till you are free.'
`Sounds like a lunatic asylum.'
`Possibly! And the world would look on you as lunatics: or worse.;
`What is worse?'
`Criminals, I suppose.'
`Hope I can plunge in the dagger a few more times yet,' he said,
grinning. Then he was silent, and angry.
`Well!' he said at last. `I agree to anything. The world is a raving
idiot, and no man can kill it: though I'll do my best. But you re right. We
must rescue ourselves as best we can.'
He looked in humiliation, anger, weariness and misery at Connie.
`Ma lass!' he said. `The world's goin' to put salt on thy tail.'
`Not if we don't let it,' she said.
She minded this conniving against the world less than he did.
Duncan, when approached, also insisted on seeing the delinquent
game-keeper, so there was a dinner, this time in his flat: the four of them.
Duncan was a rather short, broad, dark-skinned, taciturn Hamlet of a fellow
with straight black hair and a weird Celtic conceit of himself. His art was
all tubes and valves and spirals and strange colours, ultra-modern, yet with
a certain power, even a certain purity of form and tone: only Mellors
thought it cruel and repellent. He did not venture to say so, for Duncan was
almost insane on the point of his art: it was a personal cult, a personal
religion with him.
They were looking at the pictures in the studio, and Duncan kept his
smallish brown eyes on the other man. He wanted to hear what the game-keeper
would say. He knew already Connie's and Hilda's opinions.
`It is like a pure bit of murder,' said Mellors at last; a speech
Duncan by no means expected from a game-keeper.
`And who is murdered?' asked Hilda, rather coldly and sneeringly.
`Me! It murders all the bowels of compassion in a man.'
A wave of pure hate came out of the artist. He heard the note of
dislike in the other man's voice, and the note of contempt. And he himself
loathed the mention of bowels of compassion. Sickly sentiment!
Mellors stood rather tall and thin, worn-looking, gazing with
flickering detachment that was something like the dancing of a moth on the
wing, at the pictures.
`Perhaps stupidity is murdered; sentimental stupidity,' sneered the
artist.
`Do you think so? I think all these tubes and corrugated vibrations are
stupid enough for anything, and pretty sentimental. They show a lot of
self-pity and an awful lot of nervous self-opinion, seems to me.'
In another wave of hate the artist's face looked yellow. But with a
sort of silent hauteur he turned the pictures to the wall.
`I think we may go to the dining-room,' he said. And they trailed off,
dismally.
After coffee, Duncan said:
`I don't at all mind posing as the father of Connie's child. But only
on the condition that she'll come and pose as a model for me. I've wanted
her for years, and she's always refused.' He uttered it with the dark
finality of an inquisitor announcing an auto da fe.
`Ah!' said Mellors. `You only do it on condition, then?'
`Quite! I only do it on that condition.' The artist tried to put the
utmost contempt of the other person into his speech. He put a little too
much.
`Better have me as a model at the same time,' said Mellors. `Better do
us in a group, Vulcan and Venus under the net of art. I used to be a
blacksmith, before I was a game-keeper.'
`Thank you,' said the artist. `I don't think Vulcan has a figure that
interests me.'
`Not even if it was tubified and titivated up?'
There was no answer. The artist was too haughty for further words.
It was a dismal party, in which the artist henceforth steadily ignored
the presence of the other man, and talked only briefly, as if the words were
wrung out of the depths of his gloomy portentousness, to the women.
`You didn't like him, but he's better than that, really. He's really
kind,' Connie explained as they left.
`He's a little black pup with a corrugated distemper,' said Mellors.
`No, he wasn't nice today.'
`And will you go and be a model to him?'
`Oh, I don't really mind any more. He won't touch me. And I don't mind
anything, if it paves the way to a life together for you and me.'
`But he'll only shit on you on canvas.'
`I don't care. He'll only be painting his own feelings for me, and I
don't mind if he does that. I wouldn't have him touch me, not for anything.
But if he thinks he can do anything with his owlish arty staring, let him
stare. He can make as many empty tubes and corrugations out of me as he
likes. It's his funeral. He hated you for what you said: that his tubified
art is sentimental and self-important. But of course it's true.'
Dear Clifford, I am afraid what you foresaw has happened. I am really
in love with another man, and do hope you will divorce me. I am staying at
present with Duncan in his flat. I told you he was at Venice with us. I'm
awfully unhappy for your sake: but do try to take it quietly. You don't
really need me any more, and I can't bear to come back to Wragby. I'm
awfully sorry. But do try to forgive me, and divorce me and find someone
better. I'm not really the right person for you, I am too impatient and
selfish, I suppose. But I can't ever come back to live with you again. And I
feel so frightfully sorry about it all, for your sake. But if you don't let
yourself get worked up, you'll see you won't mind so frightfully. You didn't
really care about me personally. So do forgive me and get rid of me.
Clifford was not inwardly surprised to get this letter. Inwardly, he
had known for a long time she was leaving him. But he had absolutely refused
any outward admission of it. Therefore, outwardly, it came as the most
terrible blow and shock to him, He had kept the surface of his confidence in
her quite serene.
And that is how we are, By strength of will we cut of four inner
intuitive knowledge from admitted consciousness. This causes a state of
dread, or apprehension, which makes the blow ten times worse when it does
fall.
Clifford was like a hysterical child. He gave Mrs Bolton a terrible
shock, sitting up in bed ghastly and blank.
`Why, Sir Clifford, whatever's the matter?'
No answer! She was terrified lest he had had a stroke. She hurried and
felt his face, took his pulse.
`Is there a pain? Do try and tell me where it hurts you. Do tell me!'
No answer!
`Oh dear, oh dear! Then I'll telephone to Sheffield for Dr Carrington,
and Dr Lecky may as well run round straight away.'
She was moving to the door, when he said in a hollow tone:
`No!'
She stopped and gazed at him. His face was yellow, blank, and like the
face of an idiot.
`Do you mean you'd rather I didn't fetch the doctor?'
`Yes! I don't want him,' came the sepulchral voice.
`Oh, but Sir Clifford, you're ill, and I daren't take the
responsibility. I must send for the doctor, or I shall be blamed.'
A pause: then the hollow voice said:
`I'm not ill. My wife isn't coming back.'---It was as if an image
spoke.
`Not coming back? you mean her ladyship?' Mrs Bolton moved a little
nearer to the bed. `Oh, don't you believe it. You can trust her ladyship to
come back.'
The image in the bed did not change, but it pushed a letter over the
counterpane.
`Read it!' said the sepulchral voice.
`Why, if it's a letter from her ladyship, I'm sure her ladyship
wouldn't want me to read her letter to you, Sir Clifford. You can tell me
what she says, if you wish.'
`Read it!' repeated the voice.
`Why, if I must, I do it to obey you, Sir Clifford,' she said. And she
read the letter.
`Well, I am surprised at her ladyship,' she said. `She promised so
faithfully she'd come back!'
The face in the bed seemed to deepen its expression of wild, but
motionless distraction. Mrs Bolton looked at it and was worried. She knew
what she was up against: male hysteria. She had not nursed soldiers without
learning something about that very unpleasant disease.
She was a little impatient of Sir Clifford. Any man in his senses must
have known his wife was in love with somebody else, and was going to leave
him. Even, she was sure, Sir Clifford was inwardly absolutely aware of it,
only he wouldn't admit it to himself. If he would have admitted it, and
prepared himself for it: or if he would have admitted it, and actively
struggled with his wife against it: that would have been acting like a man.
But no! he knew it, and all the time tried to kid himself it wasn't so. He
felt the devil twisting his tail, and pretended it was the angels smiling on
him. This state of falsity had now brought on that crisis of falsity and
dislocation, hysteria, which is a form of insanity. `It comes', she thought
to herself, hating him a little, `because he always thinks of himself. He's
so wrapped up in his own immortal self, that when he does get a shock he's
like a mummy tangled in its own bandages. Look at him!'
But hysteria is dangerous: and she was a nurse, it was her duty to pull
him out. Any attempt to rouse his manhood and his pride would only make him
worse: for his manhood was dead, temporarily if not finally. He would only
squirm softer and softer, like a worm, and become more dislocated.
The only thing was to release his self-pity. Like the lady in Tennyson,
he must weep or he must die.
So Mrs Bolton began to weep first. She covered her face with her hand
and burst into little wild sobs. `I would never have believed it of her
ladyship, I wouldn't!' she wept, suddenly summoning up all her old grief and
sense of woe, and weeping the tears of her own bitter chagrin. Once she
started, her weeping was genuine enough, for she had had something to weep
for.
Clifford thought of the way he had been betrayed by the woman Connie,
and in a contagion of grief, tears filled his eyes and began to run down his
cheeks. He was weeping for himself. Mrs Bolton, as soon as she saw the tears
running over his blank face, hastily wiped her own wet cheeks on her little
handkerchief, and leaned towards him.
`Now, don't you fret, Sir Clifford!' she said, in a luxury of emotion.
`Now, don't you fret, don't, you'll only do yourself an injury!'
His body shivered suddenly in an indrawn breath of silent sobbing, and
the tears ran quicker down his face. She laid her hand on his arm, and her
own tears fell again. Again the shiver went through him, like a convulsion,
and she laid her arm round his shoulder. `There, there! There, there! Don't
you fret, then, don't you! Don't you fret!' she moaned to him, while her own
tears fell. And she drew him to her, and held her arms round his great
shoulders, while he laid his face on her bosom and sobbed, shaking and
hulking his huge shoulders, whilst she softly stroked his dusky-blond hair
and said: `There! There! There! There then! There then! Never you mind!
Never you mind, then!'
And he put his arms round her and clung to her like a child, wetting
the bib of her starched white apron, and the bosom of her pale-blue cotton
dress, with his tears. He had let himself go altogether, at last.
So at length she kissed him, and rocked him on her bosom, and in her
heart she said to herself: `Oh, Sir Clifford! Oh, high and mighty
Chatterleys! Is this what you've come down to!' And finally he even went to
sleep, like a child. And she felt worn out, and went to her own room, where
she laughed and cried at once, with a hysteria of her own. It was so
ridiculous! It was so awful! Such a come-down! So shameful! And it was so
upsetting as well.
After this, Clifford became like a child with Mrs Bolton. He would hold
her h, and rest his head on her breast, and when she once lightly kissed
him, he said! `Yes! Do kiss me! Do kiss me!' And when she sponged his great
blond body, he would say the same! `Do kiss me!' and she would lightly kiss
his body, anywhere, half in mockery.
And he lay with a queer, blank face like a child, with a bit of the
wonderment of a child. And he would gaze on her with wide, childish eyes, in
a relaxation of madonna-worship. It was sheer relaxation on his part,
letting go all his manhood, and sinking back to a childish position that was
really perverse. And then he would put his hand into her bosom and feel her
breasts, and kiss them in exultation, the exultation of perversity, of being
a child when he was a man.
Mrs Bolton was both thrilled and ashamed, she both loved and hated it.
Yet she never rebuffed nor rebuked him. And they drew into a closer physical
intimacy, an intimacy of perversity, when he was a child stricken with an
apparent candour and an apparent wonderment, that looked almost like a
religious exaltation: the perverse and literal rendering of: `except ye
become again as a little child'.---While she was the Magna Mater, full of
power and potency, having the great blond child-man under her will and her
stroke entirely.
The curious thing was that when this child-man, which Clifford was now
and which he had been becoming for years, emerged into the world, it was
much sharper and keener than the real man he used to be. This perverted
child-man was now a real business-man; when it was a question of affairs, he
was an absolute he-man, sharp as a needle, and impervious as a bit of steel.
When he was out among men, seeking his own ends, and `making good' his
colliery workings, he had an almost uncanny shrewdness, hardness, and a
straight sharp punch. It was as if his very passivity and prostitution to
the Magna Mater gave him insight into material business affairs, and lent
him a certain remarkable inhuman force. The wallowing in private emotion,
the utter abasement of his manly self, seemed to lend him a second nature,
cold, almost visionary, business-clever. In business he was quite inhuman.
And in this Mrs Bolton triumphed. `How he's getting on!' she would say
to herself in pride. `And that's my doing! My word, he'd never have got on
like this with Lady Chatterley. She was not the one to put a man forward.
She wanted too much for herself.'
At the same time, in some corner of her weird female soul, how she
despised him and hated him! He was to her the fallen beast, the squirming
monster. And while she aided and abetted him all she could, away in the
remotest corner of her ancient healthy womanhood she despised him with a
savage contempt that knew no bounds. The merest tramp was better than he.
His behaviour with regard to Connie was curious. He insisted on seeing
her again. He insisted, moreover, on her coming to Wragby. On this point he
was finally and absolutely fixed. Connie had promised to come back to
Wragby, faithfully.
`But is it any use?' said Mrs Bolton. `Can't you let her go, and be rid
of her?'
`No! She said she was coming back, and she's got to come.'
Mrs Bolton opposed him no more. She knew what she was dealing with.
I needn't tell you what effect your letter has had on me [he wrote to
Connie to London]. Perhaps you can imagine it if you try, though no doubt
you won't trouble to use your imagination on my behalf.
I can only say one thing in answer: I must see you personally, here at
Wragby, before I can do anything. You promised faithfully to come back to
Wragby, and I hold you to the promise. I don't believe anything nor
understand anything until I see you personally, here under normal
circumstances. I needn't tell you that nobody here suspects anything, so
your return would be quite normal. Then if you feel, after we have talked
things over, that you still remain in the same mind, no doubt we can come to
terms.
Connie showed this letter to Mellors.
`He wants to begin his revenge on you,' he said, handing the letter
back.
Connie was silent. She was somewhat surprised to find that she was
afraid of Clifford. She was afraid to go near him. She was afraid of him as
if he were evil and dangerous.
`What shall I do?' she said.
`Nothing, if you don't want to do anything.'
She replied, trying to put Clifford off. He answered:
If you don't come back to Wragby now, I shall consider that you are
coming back one day, and act accordingly. I shall just go on the same, and
wait for you here, if I wait for fifty years.
She was frightened. This was bullying of an insidious sort. She had no
doubt he meant what he said. He would not divorce her, and the child would
be his, unless she could find some means of establishing its illegitimacy.
After a time of worry and harassment, she decided to go to Wragby.
Hilda would go with her. She wrote this to Clifford. He replied:
I shall not welcome your sister, but I shall not deity her the door. I
have no doubt she has connived at your desertion of your duties and
responsibilities, so do not expect me to show pleasure in seeing her.
They went to Wragby. Clifford was away when they arrived. Mrs Bolton
received them.
`Oh, your Ladyship, it isn't the happy home-coming we hoped for, is
it!' she said.
`Isn't it?' said Connie.
So this woman knew! How much did the rest of the servants know or
suspect?
She entered the house, which now she hated with every fibre in her
body. The great, rambling mass of a place seemed evil to her, just a menace
over her. She was no longer its mistress, she was its victim.
`I can't stay long here,' she whispered to Hilda, terrified.
And she suffered going into her own bedroom, re-entering into
possession as if nothing had happened. She hated every minute inside the
Wragby walls.
They did not meet Clifford till they went down to dinner. He was
dressed, and with a black tie: rather reserved, and very much the superior
gentleman. He behaved perfectly politely during the meal and kept a polite
sort of conversation going: but it seemed all touched with insanity.
`How much do the servants know?' asked Connie, when the woman was out
of the room.
`Of your intentions? Nothing whatsoever.'
`Mrs Bolton knows.'
He changed colour.
`Mrs Bolton is not exactly one of the servants,' he said.
`Oh, I don't mind.'
There was tension till after coffee, when Hilda said she would go up to
her room.
Clifford and Connie sat in silence when she had gone. Neither would
begin to speak. Connie was so glad that he wasn't taking the pathetic line,
she kept him up to as much haughtiness as possible. She just sat silent and
looked down at her hands.
`I suppose you don't at all mind having gone back on your word?' he
said at last.
`I can't help it,' she murmured.
`But if you can't, who can?'
`I suppose nobody.'
He looked at her with curious cold rage. He was used to her. She was as
it were embedded in his will. How dared she now go back on him, and destroy
the fabric of his daily existence? How dared she try to cause this
derangement of his personality?
`And for what do you want to go back on everything?' he insisted.
`Love!' she said. It was best to be hackneyed.
`Love of Duncan Forbes? But you didn't think that worth having, when
you met me. Do you mean to say you now love him better than anything else in
life?'
`One changes,' she said.
`Possibly! Possibly you may have whims. But you still have to convince
me of the importance of the change. I merely don't believe in your love of
Duncan Forbes.'
`But why should you believe in it? You have only to divorce me, not to
believe in my feelings.'
`And why should I divorce you?'
`Because I don't want to live here any more. And you really don't want
me.'
`Pardon me! I don't change. For my part, since you are my wife, I
should prefer that you should stay under my roof in dignity and quiet.
Leaving aside personal feelings, and I assure you, on my part it is leaving
aside a great deal, it is bitter as death to me to have this order of life
broken up, here in Wragby, and the decent round of daily life smashed, just
for some whim of yours.'
After a time of silence she said:
`I can't help it. I've got to go. I expect I shall have a child.'
He too was silent for a time.
`And is it for the child's sake you must go?' he asked at length.
She nodded.
`And why? Is Duncan Forbes so keen on his spawn?'
`Surely keener than you would be,' she said.
`But really? I want my wife, and I see no reason for letting her go. If
she likes to bear a child under my roof, she is welcome, and the child is
welcome: provided that the decency and order of life is preserved. Do you
mean to tell me that Duncan Forbes has a greater hold over you? I don't
believe it.'
There was a pause.
`But don't you see,' said Connie. `I must go away from you, and I must
live with the man I love.'
`No, I don't see it! I don't give tuppence for your love, nor for the
man you love. I don't believe in that sort of cant.'
`But you see, I do.'
`Do you? My dear Madam, you are too intelligent, I assure you, to
believe in your own love for Duncan Forbes. Believe me, even now you really
care more for me. So why should I give in to such nonsense!'
She felt he was right there. And she felt she could keep silent no
longer.
`Because it isn't Duncan that I do love,' she said, looking up at him.
`We only said it was Duncan, to spare your feelings.'
`To spare my feelings?'
`Yes! Because who I really love, and it'll make you hate me, is Mr
Mellors, who was our game-keeper here.'
If he could have sprung out of his chair, he would have done so. His
face went yellow, and his eyes bulged with disaster as he glared at her.
Then he dropped back in the chair, gasping and looking up at the
ceiling.
At length he sat up.
`Do you mean to say you re telling me the truth?' he asked, looking
gruesome.
`Yes! You know I am.'
`And when did you begin with him?'
`In the spring.'
He was silent like some beast in a trap.
`And it was you, then, in the bedroom at the cottage?'
So he had really inwardly known all the time.
`Yes!'
He still leaned forward in his chair, gazing at her like a cornered
beast.
`My God, you ought to be wiped off the face of the earth!'
`Why?' she ejaculated faintly.
But he seemed not to hear.
`That scum! That bumptious lout! That miserable cad! And carrying on
with him all the time, while you were here and he was one of my servants! My
God, my God, is there any end to the beastly lowness of women!'
He was beside himself with rage, as she knew he would be.
`And you mean to say you want to have a child to a cad like that?'
`Yes! I'm going to.'
`You're going to! You mean you're sure! How long have you been sure?'
`Since June.'
He was speechless, and the queer blank look of a child came over him
again.
`You'd wonder,' he said at last, `that such beings were ever allowed to
be born.'
`What beings?' she asked.
He looked at her weirdly, without an answer. It was obvious, he
couldn't even accept the fact of the existence of Mellors, in any connexion
with his own life. It was sheer, unspeakable, impotent hate.
`And do you mean to say you'd marry him?---and bear his foul name?' he
asked at length.
`Yes, that's what I want.'
He was again as if dumbfounded.
`Yes!' he said at last. `That proves that what I've always thought
about you is correct: you're not normal, you're not in your right senses.
You're one of those half-insane, perverted women who must run after
depravity, the nostalgie de la boue.'
Suddenly he had become almost wistfully moral, seeing himself the
incarnation of good, and people like Mellors and Connie the incarnation of
mud, of evil. He seemed to be growing vague, inside a nimbus.
`So don't you think you'd better divorce me and have done with it?' she
said.
`No! You can go where you like, but I shan't divorce you,' he said
idiotically.
`Why not?'
He was silent, in the silence of imbecile obstinacy.
`Would you even let the child be legally yours, and your heir?' she
said.
`I care nothing about the child.'
`But if it's a boy it will be legally your son, and it will inherit
your title, and have Wragby.'
`I care nothing about that,' he said.
`But you must! I shall prevent the child from being legally yours, if I
can. I'd so much rather it were illegitimate, and mine: if it can't be
Mellors'.'
`Do as you like about that.'
He was immovable.
`And won't you divorce me?' she said. `You can use Duncan as a pretext!
There'd be no need to bring in the real name. Duncan doesn't mind.'
`I shall never divorce you,' he said, as if a nail had been driven in.
`But why? Because I want you to?'
`Because I follow my own inclination, and I'm not inclined to.'
It was useless. She went upstairs and told Hilda the upshot.
`Better get away tomorrow,' said Hilda, `and let him come to his
senses.'
So Connie spent half the night packing her really private and personal
effects. In the morning she had her trunks sent to the station, without
telling Clifford. She decided to see him only to say good-bye, before lunch.
But she spoke to Mrs Bolton.
`I must say good-bye to you, Mrs Bolton, you know why. But I can trust
you not to talk.'
`Oh, you can trust me, your Ladyship, though it's a sad blow for us
here, indeed. But I hope you'll be happy with the other gentleman.'
`The other gentleman! It's Mr Mellors, and I care for him. Sir Clifford
knobs. But don't say anything to anybody. And if one day you think Sir
Clifford may be willing to divorce me, let me know, will you? I should like
to be properly married to the man I care for.'
`I'm sure you would, my Lady. Oh, you can trust me. I'll be faithful to
Sir Clifford, and I'll be faithful to you, for I can see you're both right
in your own ways.'
`Thank you! And look! I want to give you this---may I?' So Connie left
Wragby once more, and went on with Hilda to Scotland. Mellors went into the
country and got work on a farm. The idea was, he should get his divorce, if
possible, whether Connie got hers or not. And for six months he should work
at farming, so that eventually he and Connie could have some small farm of
their own, into which he could put his energy. For he would have to have
some work, even hard work, to do, and he would have to make his own living,
even if her capital started him.
So they would have to wait till spring was in, till the baby was born,
till the early summer came round again.
The Grange Farm Old Heanor 29 September
I got on here with a bit of contriving, because I knew Richards, the
company engineer, in the army. It is a farm belonging to Butler and Smitham
Colliery Company, they use it for raising hay and oats for the pit-ponies;
not a private concern. But they've got cows and pigs and all the rest of it,
and I get thirty shillings a week as labourer. Rowley, the farmer, puts me
on to as many jobs as he can, so that I can learn as much as possible
between now and next Easter. I've not heard a thing about Bertha. I've no
idea why she didn't show up at the divorce, nor where she is nor what she's
up to. But if I keep quiet till March I suppose I shall be free. And don't
you bother about Sir Clifford. He'll want to get rid of you one of these
days. If he leaves you alone, it's a lot.
I've got lodging in a bit of an old cottage in Engine Row very decent.
The man is engine-driver at High Park, tall, with a beard, and very chapel.
The woman is a birdy bit of a thing who loves anything superior. King's
English and allow-me! all the time. But they lost their only son in the war,
and it's sort of knocked a hole in them. There's a long gawky lass of a
daughter training for a school-teacher, and I help her with her lessons
sometimes, so we're quite the family. But they're very decent people, and
only too kind to me. I expect I'm more coddled than you are.
I like farming all right. It's not inspiring, but then I don't ask to
be inspired. I'm used to horses, and cows, though they are very female, have
a soothing effect on me. When I sit with my head in her side, milking, I
feel very solaced. They have six rather fine Herefords. Oat-harvest is just
over and I enjoyed it, in spite of sore hands and a lot of rain. I don't
take much notice of people, but get on with them all right. Most things one
just ignores.
The pits are working badly; this is a colliery district like
Tevershall. only prettier. I sometimes sit in the Wellington and talk to the
men. They grumble a lot, but they're not going to alter anything. As
everybody says, the Notts-Derby miners have got their hearts in the right
place. But the rest of their anatomy must be in the wrong place, in a world
that has no use for them. I like them, but they don't cheer me much: not
enough of the old fighting-cock in them. They talk a lot about
nationalization, nationalization of royalties, nationalization of the whole
industry. But you can't nationalize coal and leave all the other industries
as they are. They talk about putting coal to new uses, like Sir Clifford is
trying to do. It may work here and there, but not as a general thing. I
doubt. Whatever you make you've got to sell it. The men are very apathetic.
They feel the whole damned thing is doomed, and I believe it is. And they
are doomed along with it. Some of the young ones spout about a Soviet, but
there's not much conviction in them. There's no sort of conviction about
anything, except that it's all a muddle and a hole. Even under a Soviet
you've still got to sell coal: and that's the difficulty.
We've got this great industrial population, and they've got to be fed,
so the damn show has to be kept going somehow. The women talk a lot more
than the men, nowadays, and they are a sight more cock-sure. The men are
limp, they feel a doom somewhere, and they go about as if there was nothing
to be done. Anyhow, nobody knows what should be done in spite of all the
talk, the young ones get mad because they've no money to spend. Their whole
life depends on spending money, and now they've got none to spend. That's
our civilization and our education: bring up the masses to depend entirely
on spending money, and then the money gives out. The pits are working two
days, two and a half days a week, and there's no sign of betterment even for
the winter. It means a man bringing up a family on twenty-five and thirty
shillings. The women are the maddest of all. But then they're the maddest
for spending, nowadays.
If you could only tell them that living and spending isn't the same
thing! But it's no good. If only they were educated to live instead of earn
and spend, they could manage very happily on twenty-five shillings. If the
men wore scarlet trousers as I said, they wouldn't think so much of money:
if they could dance and hop and skip, and sing and swagger and be handsome,
they could do with very little cash. And amuse the women themselves, and be
amused by the women. They ought to learn to be naked and handsome, and to
sing in a mass and dance the old group dances, and carve the stools they sit
on, and embroider their own emblems. Then they wouldn't need money. And
that's the only way to solve the industrial problem: train the people to be
able to live and live in handsomeness, without needing to spend. But you
can't do it. They're all one-track minds nowadays. Whereas the mass of
people oughtn't even to try to think, because they can't. They should be
alive and frisky, and acknowledge the great god Pan. He's the only god for
the masses, forever. The few can go in for higher cults if they like. But
let the mass be forever pagan.
But the colliers aren't pagan, far from it. They're a sad lot, a
deadened lot of men: dead to their women, dead to life. The young ones scoot
about on motor-bikes with girls, and jazz when they get a chance, But
they're very dead. And it needs money. Money poisons you when you've got it,
and starves you when you haven't.
I'm sure you're sick of all this. But I don't want to harp on myself,
and I've nothing happening to me. I don't like to think too much about you,
in my head, that only makes a mess of us both. But, of course, what I live
for now is for you and me to live together. I'm frightened, really. I feel
the devil in the air, and he'll try to get us. Or not the devil, Mammon:
which I think, after all, is only the mass-will of people, wanting money and
hating life. Anyhow, I feel great grasping white hands in the air, wanting
to get hold of the throat of anybody who tries to live, to live beyond
money, and squeeze the life out. There's a bad time coming. There's a bad
time coming, boys, there's a bad time coming! If things go on as they are,
there's nothing lies in the future but death and destruction, for these
industrial masses. I feel my inside turn to water sometimes, and there you
are, going to have a child by me. But never mind. All the bad times that
ever have been, haven't been able to blow the crocus out: not even the love
of women. So they won't be able to blow out my wanting you, nor the little
glow there is between you and me. We'll be together next year. And though
I'm frightened, I believe in your being with me. A man has to fend and
fettle for the best, and then trust in something beyond himself. You can't
insure against the future, except by really believing in the best bit of
you, and in the power beyond it. So I believe in the little flame between
us. For me now, it's the only thing in the world. I've got no friends, not
inward friends. Only you. And now the little flame is all I care about in my
life. There's the baby, but that is a side issue. It's my Pentecost, the
forked flame between me and you. The old Pentecost isn't quite right. Me and
God is a bit uppish, somehow. But the little forked flame between me and
you: there you are! That's what I abide by, and will abide by, Cliffords and
Berthas, colliery companies and governments and the money-mass of people all
notwithstanding.
That's why I don't like to start thinking about you actually. It only
tortures me, and does you no good. I don't want you to be away from me. But
if I start fretting it wastes something. Patience, always patience. This is
my fortieth winter. And I can't help all the winters that have been. But
this winter I'll stick to my little Pentecost flame, and have some peace.
And I won't let the breath of people blow it out. I believe in a higher
mystery, that doesn't let even the crocus be blown out. And if you're in
Scotland and I'm in the Midlands, and I can't put my arms round you, and
wrap my legs round you, yet I've got something of you. My soul softly Naps
in the little Pentecost flame with you, like the peace of fucking. We fucked
a flame into being. Even the flowers are fucked into being between the sun
and the earth. But it's a delicate thing, and takes patience and the long
pause.
So I love chastity now, because it is the peace that comes of fucking.
I love being chaste now. I love it as snowdrops love the snow. I love this
chastity, which is the pause of peace of our fucking, between us now like a
snowdrop of forked white fire. And when the real spring comes, when the
drawing together comes, then we can fuck the little flame brilliant and
yellow, brilliant. But not now, not yet! Now is the time to be chaste, it is
so good to be chaste, like a river of cool water in my soul. I love the
chastity now that it flows between us. It is like fresh water and rain. How
can men want wearisomely to philander. What a misery to be like Don Juan,
and impotent ever to fuck oneself into peace, and the little flame alight,
impotent and unable to be chaste in the cool between-whiles, as by a river.
Well, so many words, because I can't touch you. If I could sleep with
my arms round you, the ink could stay in the bottle. We could be chaste
together just as we can fuck together. But we have to be separate for a
while, and I suppose it is really the wiser way. If only one were sure.
Never mind, never mind, we won't get worked up. We really trust in the
little flame, and in the unnamed god that shields it from being blown out.
There's so much of you here with me, really, that it's a pity you aren't all
here.
Never mind about Sir Clifford. If you don't hear anything from him,
never mind. He can't really do anything to you. Wait, he will want to get
rid of you at last, to cast you out. And if he doesn't, we'll manage to keep
clear of him. But he will. In the end he will want to spew you out as the
abominable thing.
Now I can't even leave off writing to you.
But a great deal of us is together, and we can but abide by it, and
steer our courses to meet soon. John Thomas says good-night to Lady Jane, a
little droopingly, but with a hopeful heart.
ðÏÐÕÌÑÒÎÏÓÔØ: 5, Last-modified: Fri, 10 Mar 2000 18:52:58 GMT