Chapter 1
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. 
我们根本就生活在一个悲剧的时代，因此我们不愿惊惶自忧。大灾难已经来临，我们处于废墟之中，我们开始建立一些新的小小的栖息地，怀抱一些新的微小的希望。这是一种颇为艰难的工作。现在没有一条通向未来的康庄大道，但是我们却迂回前进，或攀援障碍而过。不管天翻地覆，我们都得生活。 
这大概就是康士丹斯·查太莱夫人的处境了。她曾亲尝世界大战的灾难，因此她了解了一个人必要生活，必要求知。
她在一九一七年大战中和克利福·查太莱结婚，那时他请了一个月的假回到英国来。他们度了一个月的蜜月后，克利福回到佛兰大斯前线去。六个月后，他一身破碎地被运返英国来，那时康士丹斯二十三岁，他是二十九岁。
他有一种惊奇的生命力。他并没有死。他的一身破碎似乎重台了。医生把他医治了两年了，结果仅以身免。可是腰部以下的半身，从此永久成了疯瘫。
一九二零年，克利福和康士丹斯回到他的世代者家勒格贝去。他的父亲已死了；克利福承袭了爵位，他是克利福男爵，康士丹斯便是查太莱男爵夫人了。他们来到这有点零丁的查太莱老家里，开始共同的生活，收入是不太充裕的。克利福除了一个不在一起住的姊妹外，并没有其他的近亲，他的长兄在大战中阵亡了。克利福明知自己半身残疾，生育的希望是绝灭了，因此回到烟雾沉沉的米德兰家里来，尽人事地使查泰莱家的烟火维持下去。
他实在并不颓丧。他可以坐在一轮椅里，来去优游。他还有一个装了发动机的自动椅，这一来，他可以自己驾驶着，慢慢地绕过花园而到那美丽的凄清的大林园里去；他对于这个大林园，虽然表示得满不在乎的样子，其实他是非常得意的。
他曾饱经苦难，致他受苦的能力都有点穷乏了。可是他却依然这样奇特、活泼、愉快，红润的健康的脸容，挑拨人的闪光的灰蓝眼睛，他简直可说是个乐天安命的人。他有宽大强壮的肩膊，两只有力的手。他穿的是华贵的衣服，结的是帮德街买来的讲究的领带。可是他的脸上却仍然表示着一个残废者的呆视的状态和有点空虚的样子。
他因为曾离死只间一发，所以这剩下的生命，于他是十分可贵的。他的不安地闪着光的眼睛，流露着死里生还的非常得意的神情，但是他受的伤是太重了，他里面的什么东西已经死灭了，某种感情已经没有了，剩下的只是个无知觉的空洞。
康士丹斯是个健康的村姑佯儿的女子，软软的褐色的头发，强壮的身体，迟缓的举止，但是富有非常的精力。她有两只好奇的大眼睛。温软的声音，好象是个初出乡庐的人，其实不然。她的父亲麦尔·勒德爵士，是个曾经享有鼎鼎大名的皇家艺术学会的会员。母亲是个有教养的费边社社员。在艺术家与社会主义者的谊染中，康士丹斯和她的婉妹希尔达，受了一种可以称为美育地非传统的教养。她们到过巴黎、罗马、佛罗伦斯呼吸艺术的空气，她们也到过海牙、柏林去参加社会主义者的大会，在这些大会里，演说的人用着所有的文明语言，毫无羞愧。
这样，这婉妹俩从小就尽情地生活在美术和政治的氛围中，她们已习损了。她们一方面是世界的，一方面又是乡土的。她们这种世界而又乡土的美术主义，是和纯洁的社会理想相吻合的。
她们十五岁的时候，到德国德累斯顿学习音乐。她们在那里过的是快活的日子。她们无园无束地生活在学生中间，她们和男子们争论着哲学、社会学和艺术上的种种问题。她们的学识并不下于男子；因为是女子，所以更胜于他们了。强壮的青年男子们，带着六弦琴和她们到林中漫游。她们歌唱着，歌喉动人的青年们，在旷野间，在清晨的林中奔窜，自由地为所欲为，尤其是自由地谈所欲谈。最要紧的还是谈话，热情的谈话，爱情不过是件小小的陪衬品。
希尔达和康士丹斯婉妹俩，都曾在十八岁的时候初试爱情。那些热情地和她们交谈，欢快地和她们歌唱，自由自在地和她们在林中野宿的男子们，不用说都欲望勃勃地想更进一步。她们起初是踌躇着；但是爱情这问题已经过许多的讨论，而且被认为是最重要的东西了，况且男子们又是这样低声下气地央求。为什么一个少女不能以身相就，象一个王后似的赐予思惠呢？
于是她们都赐身与平素最微妙、最亲密在一起讨论的男子了。辩论是重要的事情，恋爱和性交不过是一种原始的本能；一种反应，事后，她们对于对手的爱情冷挑了，而且有点憎很他们的倾向，仿佛他们侵犯了她们的秘密和自由似的。因为一个少女的尊严，和她的生存意义，全在获得绝对的、完全的、纯粹的、高尚的自由。要不是摆脱了从前的污秽的两性关系和可耻的主奴状态，一个少女的生命还有什么意义。
无论人怎样感情用事，性爱总是各种最古老、最宿秽的结合和从属状态之一。歌颂性爱的诗人们大都是男子。女子们‘向就知道有更好更高尚的东西。现在她们知之更确了。一个人的美丽纯洁的自由，是比任何性爱都可爱的。不过男子对于这点的看法太落后了，她们象狗似的坚要性的满足。
可是女人不得不退让，男于是象孩子般的嘴馋的，他要什么女人便得绘什么，否则他便孩子似的讨厌起来，暴躁起来把好事弄糟。，但是个女人可以顺从男子，而不恨让她内在的、自由的自我。那些高谈性爱的诗人和其他的人好象不大注意到这点。一个女人是可以有个男子，而不真正委身r让他支配的。反之，她可以利用这性爱去支配他。在性交的时候，她自己忍持着，让男子尽先尽情地发泄完了，然而她便可以把性交延长，而把他当作工具去满足她自目的性欲。
当大战爆发，她们急忙回家的时候，婉妹俩都有了爱情的经验了。她们所以恋爱，全是因为对手是可以亲切地、热烈地谈心的男子。和真正聪明的青年男子，一点钟又一点钟地，一天又一天地，热情地谈话，这种惊人的、深刻的、意想不到的美妙，是她们在经验以前所不知道的，天国的诺言：“您将有可以谈心的男子。”还没有吐露，而这奇妙的诺言却在她们明白其意义之前实现了。
在这些生动的、毫无隐讳的、亲密的谈心过后，性行为成为不可避免的了，那只好忍受。那象是一章的结尾，它本身也是令人情热的；那是肉体深处的一种奇特的、美妙的震颤，最后是一种自我决定的痉挛。宛如最后—个奋激的宇，和一段文字后一行表示题意中断的小点子一样。
一九一三年暑假她们回家的时候，那时希尔达二十岁，康妮①十八岁，她们的父亲便看出这婉妹俩已有了爱的经验了。
①康妮，康士丹斯的呢称。 
好象谁说的：“爱情已在那儿经历过了。”但是他自已是个过来人，所以他听其自然。至于她们的母亲呢，那时她患着神经上的疯疾，离死不过几月了，她但愿她的女儿们能够“自由”，能够“成就”。但是她自己从没有成就过什么，她简直不能。上代知道那是什么缘故，因为她是个人进款和意志坚强的人。她埋怨她的丈夫。其实只是因为她不能摆脱心灵上的某种强有力的压制罢了。那和麦尔肯爵士是无关的，他不理她的埋怨和仇视，他们各行其事。所以妹妹俩是“自由”的。她们回到德累斯顿，重度往日学习音乐，在大学听讲，与年青男子们交际的生活。她们各自恋着她们的男子，她们的男子也热恋着她们。所有青年男子所能想，所能说所能写的美妙的东西，他们都为这两个少妇而想、而说、而写。康妮的情人是爱音乐的，希尔达的情人是技术家。至少在精神方面，他们全为这两个少妇生活着。另外的什么方面，他们是被人厌恶的；但是他们自己并不知道。
狠明显；爱情——肉体的爱——已在他们身上经过了。肉体的爱，使男子身体发生奇异的、微妙的、显然的变化。女子是更艳丽了，更微妙地圆满了，少女时代的粗糙处全消失了，脸上露出渴望的或胜利的情态。男子是更沉静了，更深刻了，即肩膊和臀部也不象从前硬直了。
这姊妹俩在性的快感中，几乎在男性的奇异的权力下面屈服了。但是很快她们便自拨了，把性的快感看作一种感觉，而保持了她们的自由。至于她们的情人呢，因为感激她们所赐与的性的满足，便把灵魂交给她们。但是不久，他们又有点觉得得不尝失了。康妮的男子开始有点负气的样子，希尔达的对手也渐渐态度轻蔑起来。但是男子们就是这样的；忘恩负义而永不满足！你要他们的时候，他们憎恨你，因为你要他们。你不睬他们的时候，他们还是憎恨你，因为旁的什么理由。或者毫无理由。他们是不知足的孩子，无论得到什么，无论女子怎样，都不满意的。
大战爆发了。希尔达和康妮又匆匆回家——她们在五月已经回家一次，那时是为了母亲的丧事。她们的两个德国情人，在一九一四年圣诞节都死了，姊妹俩恋恋地痛哭了一场，但是心里却把他们忘掉了，他们再也不存在了。
她们都住在新根洞她们父亲的——其实是她们母亲的家里。她们和那些拥护“自由”，穿法兰绒裤和法兰绒开领衬衣的剑桥大学学生们往来。这些学生是一种上流的感情的无政府主义者，说起话来，声音又低又浊，仪态力求讲究。希尔达突然和一个比她大十岁的人结了婚。她是这剑桥学生团体的一个者前辈，家财富有，而且在政府里有个好差事，他也写点哲学上的文章。她和他住在威士明斯泰的一所小屋里，来往的是政府人物，他们虽不是了不起的人，却是——或希望是——国中有权威的知识分子。他们知道自己所说的是什么或者装做知道。
康妮得了个战时轻易的工作，和那些嘲笑一切的，穿法兰绒裤的剑桥学生常在一块。她的朋友是克利福·查太莱，一个二十二岁的青年。他原在德国被恩研究煤矿技术，那时他刚从德国匆匆赶回来，他以前也在剑桥大学待过两年，现在，他是个堂堂的陆军中尉，穿上了军服，更可以目空一切了。
在社会地位上看来，克利福·查太莱是比康妮高的，康妮是属于小康的知识阶级；但他却是个贵族。虽不是大贵族，但总是贵族。他的父亲是个男爵，母亲是个子爵的女儿。
克利福虽比康妮出身高贵，更其上流，但却没有她磊落大方。在地主贵族的狭小的上流社会里，他便觉得安适，但在其他的中产阶级、民众和外国人所组合的大社会里，他却觉得怯懦不安了。说实话，他对于中下层阶级的大众和与自己不同阶级的外国人，是有点惧怕的。他自己觉得麻木了似的毫无保障；其实他有着所有优先权的保障。这是可怪的，但这是我们时代的一种稀有的现象。
这是为什么，一个雍容自在的少女康士丹斯·勒德使他颠倒了。她在那复杂浑沌的社会上，比他自然得多了。
然而，他却是个叛徒，甚至反叛他自己的阶级。也许反叛这字用得过火了，太过火了。他只是跟着普通一般青年的愤恨潮流，反对旧习惯，反对任何权势罢了。父辈的人都是可笑的，他自己的顽固的父亲，尤其可笑。一切政府都是可笑的，投机主义的英国政府，特别可笑，车队是可笑的，尤其是那些老而不死的将军们，至于那红脸的吉治纳将军②更是可笑之至了。甚至战争也是可笑的，虽然战争要杀不少人。
②吉治纳K(itchener)一九一四一一六年英国陆军部长。 
总之，一切都有点可笑，或十分可笑，一切有权威的东西，无论军队、政府或可笑到绝点。自命有统治能力的统治阶级，也可笑。佐佛来男爵，克利福的父亲，尤其可笑。砍伐着他园里的树木，调拨着他煤矿场里的矿工，和败草一般地送到战场上去，他自己便安然在后方，高喊救国，可是他却人不敷出地为国花钱。
当克利福的姊妹爱玛·查太莱小姐从米德兰到伦敦去做看护工作的时候，她暗地里嘲笑着佐佛来男爵和他的刚愎的爱国主义。至于他的长于哈白呢，却公然大笑，虽然砍给战壕里用的树木是他自己的。但是克利福只是有点不安的微笑。一切都可笑，那是真的；但这可笑若挨到自己身上来的时候？其他阶级的人们，如康妮，是郑重其事的；他们是有所信仰的。
他们对于军队，对于征兵的恐吓，对于儿童们的糖与糖果的缺乏，是颇郑重其事的。这些事情，当然，都是当局的罪过。但是克利福却不关心，在他看来，当局本身就是可笑的，而不是因为糖果或军队问题。
当局者自己也觉得可笑，却有点可笑地行动着，一时紊乱得一塌糊涂。直至前方战事严重起来，路易·佐治出来救了国内的局面，这是超乎可笑的，于是目空一切的青年们不再嘲笑了。
一九—六年，克利福的哥哥哈白阵亡了。因此克利福成了唯一的继承人。甚至这个也使他害怕起来。他早就深知生在这查太莱世家的勒格贝，作佐佛来男爵儿子，是多么重要的，他决不能逃避他的命运。可是他知道在这沸腾的外面世界的人看来，也是可笑的。现在他是继承人，是勒格贝世代老家的负责人，这可不是骇人的事？这可不是显赫而同时也许是十分荒唐的事？
佐佛来男爵却不以为有什么荒唐的地方。他脸色苍白地、紧张地固执着要救他的祖国和他的地位，不管在位的是路易·佐治或任何人。他拥护英国和路易。佐治，正如他的祖先们拥护英国和圣佐治一样；他永不明白那儿有什么不同的地方。所以佐佛来男爵吹伐他的树木，拥护英国和路易·佐治。
他要克利福结婚，好生个嗣于，克利福觉得他的父亲是个不可救药的者顽固。但是他自己，除了会嘲笑一切，和极端嘲笑他自己的处境外，还有什么比他父亲更新颖的呢？因为不管他心愿与否，他是十分郑重其事地接受这爵衔和勒格贝家产了。
太战起初时的狂热消失了。死灭了。因为死的人太多了，恐怖太大了。男子需要扶持和安慰，需要一个铁锚把他碇泊在安全地下，需要一个妻子。
从前，查太莱兄弟姊妹三人，虽然认识的人多，却怪孤独地住在勒格贝家里，他们三人的关系是很密切的，因为他们三人觉得孤独，虽然有爵位和土地(也许正因为这个)，他们却觉得地位不坚，毫无保障。他们和生长地的米德兰工业区完全隔绝；他们甚至和同阶级的人也隔绝了，因为佐佛来男爵的性情是古怪的，”固执的，不喜与人交往的。他们嘲笑他们的父亲，但是他们却不愿人嘲笑他。
他们说过要永久的住在一块，但是现在哈白已死了。而佐佛来男爵又要克利福成婚。父亲这欲望并不正式表示，i他是很少说话的人，但是他的无言的、静默地坚持，是使克利福难以反抗的。
但是，爱玛却反对这事！她比克利福大十岁，她觉得克利福如果结婚，那便是离叛他们往日的约言。
然而，克利福终于娶了康妮，和她过了一个月的蜜月生活。那正在可怕的一九一七那一年；夫妇俩亲切得恰如正在沉没的船上的两个难人。结婚的时候，他还是个童男，所以性的方面，于他是没有多大意义的。他们只知相亲相爱，康妮觉得这种超乎性欲的男子不求“满足”的相亲相爱，是可喜的。而克利福也不象别的男子般的追求“满足”。不，亲情是比性交更深刻，更直接的。性交不过是偶然的、附带的事，不过是一种笨拙地坚持着的官能作用，并不是真正需要的东西。可是康妮却希翼着生些孩子，好使自己的地位强国起来，去反抗爱玛。
然而，一九一八年开始的时候，克利福伤得一身破碎。被运了回来，孩子没有生成。佐佛来男爵也忧愤中死去了。
Chapter 2
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. 
一九二零年的秋天，康妮和克利福回勒格贝老家来，爱玛因为仍然憎恶她弟弟的失信，已到伦敦租了间小房子住去下。 
勒格贝是个褐色石筑的长而低的老屋。建筑于十八世纪中期，后来时加添补，直至成了一座无甚出色的大房屋，它坐落在一高丘上，在一个够优美的满是橡树的老林园中。可惜得很，从这儿看见附近煤矿场的烟雾成云的烟囱，和远处湿雾朦胧中的小山上的达娃斯哈村落，这村落差不多挨着园门开始，极其丑恶地蔓延一里之长，一行行的寒酸肌脏的砖墙小屋，黑石板的屋顶，尖锐的屋角，带着无限悲他的气概。
康妮是住惯了根新洞，看惯了苏格兰的小山，和苏色克斯的海岸沙丘的人，那便是她心目中的英格兰，她用年轻的忍耐精神，把这无灵魂的、丑恶的煤铁区的米德兰浏览了一遍，便撇开不顾了，那是令人难信的可怕的环境，是不必加以思索的。以勒格贝那些阴森的房屋里，她听得见矿坑里筛子机的轹轹声，起重机的喷气声。载重车换轨时的响声，和火车头粗哑的汽笛声。达娃斯哈的煤堤在燃烧着，已经燃烧好几年了，要熄灭它非一宗大款不可，所以只好任它烧着。风从那边吹来的时候——这是常事——屋里便充满了腐土经焚烧后的硫磺臭味。甚至无风的时候，空气里也带着一种地窖下的什么恶味。甚至在毛黄花上，也铺着一层煤灰，好象是恶天降下的黑甘露。
然而，世事就是这样，一切都是命定的！这是有点可怕的，但是为什么要反抗呢？反抗是无用的，事情还是一样继续下去。这便是生活，和其它一切一样！在晚上，那低低的黝黑的云天，浮动着一些斑斑的红点，肿涨着，收缩着，好象令人痛苦的火伤；那是煤地的一些高炉。起初，这种景色使康妮深深恐怖，她觉得自己生活在地窖里。以后，她渐渐习惯了。早晨的时候，天又下起雨来。
克利福自称勒格贝比伦敦可爱。这地方有一种特有的坚强的意志，居民有一种强大的欲望，康妮奇怪着，他们除此以外，还有什么尝试的东西。无论如何，见解和思想他们是没有的。这些居民和这地方一样，形容枯搞，丑陋，阴森而不和睦。不过在他们的含糊不清的土话里和他们在沥青路上曳着钉底鞍。一群一群的散工回家时候的嘈杂声里，却有些什么可怕而有点神秘的东西。
当这年轻的贵族归家时，谁也没有来欢迎他。没有宴会，没有代表，甚至一朵花也没有。只是当他的汽车在阴森的林中的潮湿空气里开过，经过那有些灰色绵羊在那里吃着草的园圃斜坡，来到那高丘上黑褐色的屋门前时，一个女管家和她的丈夫在那里等着，预备支吾几句欢迎的话。
勒格贝和达娃斯哈村落是毫无来往的。村里人见了他们，也不脱帽，也不鞠躬。矿工们见了只是眼睁地望着。商人见了康妮举举帽子，和对一个任何熟人一样，对克利福相通的深渊，双方都抱着一种沉静的仇恨。起初，康妮对于村人这种淫雨似的下个不尽的仇恨，很觉痛苦。后来她忍耐下来了，反而觉得那是一服强身剂，是予人以一种生趣的什么东西，这并不是因为她和克利福不孚众望，仅仅是因为他们和矿工是完全不同的两种人罢了。在特兰以南的地方，这种人与人之间的极端隔绝也许是不存在的。但是在中部和北部的工业区，他们间的隔绝是言语所难形容的。你走你的。我走我的！奇怪的相克的人类感情！
虽然，在无形中，村人对于克利福和康妮还有点同情，但是在骨子里，双方都抱着“别管我们罢”的态度。
这儿的牧师，是个勤于职务的约模六十岁的和蔼的人。村人的“别管我们罢”的无言态度把他克服了，差不多成了无足轻重的人物，矿工的妻子们几乎都是监理会教徒，面矿工们却是无所信仰的，但是即使这牧师所穿的那套制服，也就够使村人把他看成一个异常的人了。是的，他是个异常的人，他是亚士比先生，一种传道和祈祷的机械。
“管你是什么查太莱男爵夫人，我们并不输你！”村人的这种固执的本能的态度，起初是很使康妮十分不安而沮丧的。当她对矿工的妻子们表示好感的时候，她们那种奇怪的、猜疑的、虚伪的亲热，使她不觉得真难忍受。她常常听见这些女人们用着半阿谀的鼻音说：“啊！别小看我，查太莱男爵夫人和我说话来着呢！可是她却不必以为因此我便不如此！”这种奇异的冒犯的态度，也使康妮觉得怪难忍受。这是不能避免的。这些都是不可救药的离叛国教的人。
克利福并不留心他们，康妮也不学样。她经过村里时，目不旁视，村人呆望着她，好象她是会走的蜡人一样。当克利福有事和他们交谈的时候，他的态度是很高傲的，很轻蔑的，这不是讲亲爱的时候了，事实上，他对于任何不是同一阶级的人，总是很傲慢而轻蔑的。坚守着他的地位，一点也不想与人修好。他们不喜欢他。也不讨厌他，他只是世事的一部分，象煤矿场和勒格贝屋予一样。
但是自从半躯残废以来，克利福实在是很胆怯的。他除了自己的仆人外，谁也不愿见。因为他得坐在轮椅或小车里，可是他的高价的裁缝师，依旧把他穿得怪讲究的。他和往日一样，系着帮德街买来的讲究的领带。他的上半截和从前一样的时髦动人。他一向就没有近代青年们的那种女性模样；他的红润的脸色，阔大的肩膊，反而有牧人的粗壮神气。但是他的宁静而犹豫的声音，和他的勇敢却又惧怕，果断却又疑惑的眼睛，却显示着他的天真性。他的态度常常起初是敌对地傲慢的，跟着又谦逊、自卑而几乎畏缩下来。
康妮和他互相依恋，但和近代夫妻一样，各自守着相当的距离。他因为终身残废的打击，给他的内心的刨伤过重，所以失去了他的轻快和自然，他是个负伤的人，因此康妮热情地怜爱他。
但是康妮总觉得他和民间的来往太少了。矿工们在某种意义上是他的用人，但是在他看来，他们是物件，而不是人；他们是煤矿的一部分，而不是生命的一部分；他们是一些粗卑的怪物，而不是象他自己一样的人类。在某种情境上，他却惧怕他们，怕他们看见自己的这种残废。他们的奇怪的粗鄙的生活，在他看来，仿佛象刺猖的生活一样反乎自然。
他远远地关心着他们，象一个人在显微镜里或望远镜里望着一样。他和他们是没有直接接触的。除了因为习惯关系和勒格贝接触。因为家族关系和爱玛接触外，他和谁也没有真正的接触。什么也不能真正接触他。康妮自己也觉得没有真正地接触他。也许他根本就没有什么可以接触的东西，他是否定人类的交接的。
然而他是绝对地依赖于她的，他是无时无刻不需要她的。他虽魁伟壮健，可是却不能自己照顾自己，他虽可以坐在轮椅里把自己滚来滚去，他虽有一种小自动车，可以到林园里慢慢地兜兜圈子，但是独自的时候，他便象个无主宰的东西了。他需要康妮在一块，以使他相信自己是生存着的。
可是他是雄心勃勃的。他写些小说，写些关于他所知道的人的奇怪特别的小说。这些小说写得又刁又巧，又恶辣，可是神秘得没有什么深意。他的观察是异于常人的，奇特的，可是却没有使人能接触、能真正地接触的东西。一切都好象在虚无缥缈中发生。而且，因为我们今日的生活场面大都是人工地照亮起来的一个舞台，所以他的小说都是怪忠实于现代化生活的。说恰切些，是怪忠实现代心理的。
克利福对于他的小说毁誊，差不多是病态地易感的。他要人人都说他的小说好，是无出其右的最上作品。他的小说都在最摩登的杂志上发表，因此照例地受人赞美和非难。但是非难于克利福。是如刀刺肉般的酷刑。仿佛他的生命都在他的小说里。
康妮极力地帮助他。起初，她觉得很兴奋，他单调地、坚持地给她解说一切的事情，她得用全力去回答和了解。仿佛她整个的灵魂、肉体和性欲都得苏醒而穿过他的小说里。这使她兴奋而忘我。
他们的物质生活是很少的。她得监督家务。那多年服侍过佐佛来男爵的女管家是个干枯了的毫无苟且的老东西。她不但不象个女仆，连女人都不象。她在这里侍候餐事已经四十年了。就是其他的女仆也不年轻了。真可怖！在这样的地方，你除了听其自然以外；还有什么法子呢？所有这些数不尽的无人住的空房子，所有这些德米兰的习惯，机械式的整齐清洁！一切都很的秩序地、很清洁地、很精密地、甚至很真正的进行着。然而在康妮看来，这只是有秩序的无政府状态罢了。那儿并没有感情的热力的互相联系。整处屋子阴森得象一条冷清的街道。
她除了听其自然以外，还有什么方法？……于是她便听其自然了。爱玛·查太莱小姐，脸孔清瘦而傲慢，有时也上这儿来看望他们。看见一切都没有变动，觉得很是得意。她永远不能宽恕康妮，因为康妮拆散了她和她弟弟的深切的团结。是她——爱玛，才应该帮助克利福写他的小说，写他的书的。查太莱的小说，‘世界上一种新颖的东西，由他们姓查泰莱的人经手产生出来。这和从前的思想言论，是毫无共通，毫无有机的联系的。世界上只有查太莱的书，是新颖的，纯粹地个人的。
康妮的父亲，当他到勒格贝作短促的逗留的时候，对康妮说：“克利福的作品是巧妙的，但是底子里空无一物。那是不能长久的！……”康妮望着这老于世故的魁伟的苏格兰的老爵士，她的眼睛，她的两只老是惊异的蓝色的大眼睛，变得模糊起来。“空无一物！”这是什么意思？批评家们赞美他的作品，克利福差不多要出名了，而且他的作品还能赚一笔钱呢。……她的父亲却说克利福的作品空无一物，这是什么意思？他要他的作品里有什么东西？
因为康妮的观点是和一般青年一样的：眼前便是一切，将来与现在的相接，是不必彼此相属的。
那是她在勒格贝的第二个冬天了，她的父亲对她说：
“康妮，我希望你不要因环境的关系而守活寡。”
“守活寡！为什么呢？为什么不呢？”康妮漠然地答道。
“除非你愿意，那便没有话说了！”她的父亲忙说。
当他和克利福在一起而没有旁人的时候，他把同样的话对他说：
“我恐怕守活寡的生活不太适合康妮。”
“活活守寡！”克利福答道，把这短语讲得更明确了。
他沉思了一会后，脸孔通红起来，发怒了。
“怎么不适合她？”他强硬会问道。
“她渐渐地清瘦了……憔悴了。这并不是她一向的样子。她并不象那瘦小的沙丁，她是动人的苏格兰白鲈鱼。”
“毫无斑点的自鲈鱼，当然了！”，克利福说。
过后，他想把守活寡这桩事对康妮谈谈。但是他总不能开口。他和她同时是太亲密而又不够亲密了，在精神上，他们是合一的；但在肉体上，他们是隔绝的；关于肉体事件的讨论，两人都要觉得难堪。他们是太亲密了同时又太疏远了。
然而康妮却猜出了她的父亲对无利福说过了什么，而克利福缄默地把它守在心里，她知道，她是否守活寡，或是与人私通，克利福是不关切的，只要他不确切地知道，和不必一定去知道。眼所不见，心所不知的事情，是不存在的。
康妮和克利福在勒格贝差不多两年了，他们度着一种漠然地生活，全神贯注在克利福和他的著作上。他们对于这种工作的共同兴趣不断的浓厚。他们谈论着，争执着行文结构，仿佛在那空虚之中有什么东西在发生，在真正发生似的。
他们已在共同工作着，这便是生活——一种空虚中的生活。
除此之外，其他一切都不存在了。勒格贝，仆人们……都是些鬼影。而不是现实。康妮也常到园和与园圃相连的林中去散步，欣赏着那里的孤僻和神秘，脚踢着秋天和落叶，或采摘着春天的莲馨花。这一切都是梦，真实的幻影。橡树的叶子，在她看来，仿佛是镜子里摇动着的叶子，她自己是书本里的人物，采着莲馨花，而这些花儿也不过是些影子，或是记忆，或是一些宇。她觉得什么也没有，没有实质，没有接触，没有联系！只有这与克利福的共同生活，只有这些无穷无尽的长谈和心理分析，只有这些麦尔肯爵士所谓的底子里一无所有而不能长久的小说。为什么底子里要有什么东西？为什么要传之久远？我们始且得过且过，直至不能再过之日。我们姑且得过且过，直至现在“出现”之日。
克利福的朋友——实际上只是些相识——很不少，他常把他们请到勒格贝来。他请的是各种各样的人，批评家，著作家，一些颂赞他的作品的人们。这些人都觉得被请到勒格贝来是荣幸的，于是他们歌颂他。康妮心里明白这一切，为什么不呢？这是镜中游影之一。她并不觉得有什么不好的地方。
她款待着这些客人——其中大部分是些男子。她也款待着克利福的不常来的贵族亲戚们。因为她长得温柔，脸色红润而带村对的风态，有着那易生色斑的嫩自的皮肤，大大的蓝眼睛，褐色卷发，温和的声音和微嫌坚强的腰部。所以人家把她看成一个不太时髦，而太“妇人”的女子。她并不是男孩似的象一条“小沙丁鱼”，她胸部扁平，臀部细小。她太女性了，所以不能十分时髦。
因此男子们，尤其是年纪不轻的男子们，都对她很献殷勤。他是，她知道如果她对他们稍微表示一点轻桃，那便要使可怜的克利福深感痛苦，所以她从不让这些男子们胆大起来。她守关那闲静而淡漠的态度，她和他们毫无密交，而且毫无这个意思。因此克利福是觉得非常自得的。
克利福的亲戚们，对她也很和蔼。她知道这种和蔼的原因，是因为她不使人惧怕。她也知道，如果你不使这些人有点怕你，他们是不会尊敬你的。但是她和他们也是毫无密交。她接受他们的和蔼和轻蔑，她让他们知道用不着剑拨弩张。她和他们是毫无真正的关系的。
时间便是这样过着。无论有了什么事。都象不是真正地’有那么回事，因为她和一切是太没有接触了。她和克利福在他们的理想里，在他们的著作里生活着。她款待着客人……家里是常常有客的。时间象钟一样地进行着，七点半过了是八点，八点过了是几点半。
Chapter 3
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 hes, 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 throug亠? And how they enjoyed the various kicks , 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 stupideand 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. 
 
 
然而，康妮感着一种日见增大的不安的感觉。因为她与一切隔绝，所以不安的感觉便疯狂似地把她占据。当她要宁静时，这种不安便牵动着她的四肢；当她要舒适地休息时，这种不安便挺直着她的脊骨。它在她的身内，子宫里，和什么地方跳动着，直至她觉得非跳进水里去游泳以摆脱它不可。这是一种疯狂的不安。它使她的心毫无理由地狂跳起来。她渐渐地消瘦了。 

这种不安，有时使她狂奔着穿过林园，丢开了克利福，在羊齿草丛中俯卧着。这样她便可以摆脱她的家……她得摆脱她的家和一切的人。树林象是她唯一的安身处，她的避难地。

但是树林却不是一个真正的安身避难的地方，因为她和树林并没有真正的接触。这只是她可以摆脱其他一切的一个地方罢了。她从来没有接触树林本身的精神……假如树林真有这种怪诞的东西的话。

朦胧地，她知道自己是渐渐地萎靡凋谢了；朦胧地，她知道自己和一切都没有联系，她已与实质的、有生命的世界脱离关系。她只有克利福和他的书，而这些书是没有生命的……里面是空无一物的，只是一个一个的空洞罢了。她朦胧地知道，她虽然朦胧地知道，但是她却觉得好象自己的头碰在石头上一样。

她的父亲又惊醒地说：“康妮，你为什么不找个情人呢？那于你是大有益处的。”

那年冬天，蔑克里斯来这儿住了几天，他是个年轻的爱尔兰人，他写的剧本在美国上演，赚过一笔大钱。曾经有一个时候，他受过伦敦时髦社会很热烈的欢迎；因为他所写的都是时髦社会的剧本。后来，这般时髦社会的人们，渐渐地明白了自己实在被这达布林的流氓所嘲弄了，于是来了一个反动。蔑克里斯这个字成为最下流、最被轻视的宇了。他们发觉他是反对英国的，这一点，在发觉的人看来，是罪大恶极的。从此，伦敦和时髦社会把他诟骂得体无完肤，把他象一件脏东西似的丢在垃圾桶里。

可是蔑克里斯却住在贵族助梅惠区里，而且走过帮德街时，竟是仪表堂堂，俨然贵绅；因为只要你有钱，纵令你是个下流人。最好的裁缝师也不会拒绝你的光顾的。”

这个三十岁的青年，虽然正在走着倒霉运气，但是克利福却不犹豫地把他请到勒格贝来。蔑克里斯大概拥有几百万的听众；而正当他现在被时髦社会所遗弃不时，居然被请到勒格贝来，他无疑地是要感激的。既然他心中感激，那么他无疑地便要帮助克利福在美国成名起来，不露马脚的吹嘘，是可以使人赫然出名的，不管出的是什么名——尤其是在美国，克利福是个未来的作家，而且是个很慕虚名的人。还有一层便是蔑克里斯曾把他在一出剧本里描写得伟大高贵，使克利福成了一种大众的英雄——直至他发觉了自己实在是受人嘲弄了的时候为止。

克利福这种盲目的、迫切的沽名钓誉的天性，他这种要使那浮游无定的大干世界——其实这种世界是他自己所不认识而且惧怕的——知道他，知道他是一个作家，一个第一流的新作家的天性，是有点使康妮惊异的。从她的强壮的、善于引答人彀的老父亲麦尔肯爵士本身，康妮知道艺术家们也是用吹牛方法使自己的货色抬高的。但是她的父亲用的是些老方法，这些老方法是其他皇家艺术学会的会员们兜售他们的作品时所通用的。至于克利福呢，他发现各种各样的新宣传方法。他把各种各样的人请到勒格贝来，他虽则不至于奴颜婶膝，但是他因为急于成名，所以凡是可用的手段都采用了。

蔑克里斯坐着一部漂亮的汽车，带了一个车夫和一个男仆来到了，他穿得漂亮极了；但是一看见了他，克利福的乡绅的心里便感到一种退缩。这蔑克里斯并不是……不确是……其实一点也不是……表里一致的。这一点在克利福看来是毫无疑义了，可是克利福对他是很有礼貌的；对他的惊人的成功是含着无限羡慕的。所谓“成功”的财神，在半谦卑半傲慢的蔑克里斯的脚跟边，张牙舞爪地徘徊着，保护着他。把克利福整个威吓着了；因为他自己也是想卖身与财神，也想成功的，如果她肯接受他的话。

不管伦敦最阔绰的的区域里裁缝师、帽子商人、理发匠、鞋匠怎样打扮蔑克里斯，他都显然地不是一个英国人。不，不，他显然地不是英国人；他的平板而苍白的脸孔；他的高兴举止和他的怨恨，都不是一个英国人所有的。他抱着怨恨，愤懑，让这种感情在举止上流露出来，这是一个真正的英国绅士所不齿为的。可怜的蔑克里斯，因为他受过的冷眼和攻击太多了，所以现在还是处处留神，时时担心，有点象狗似的尾巴藏在两腿间。他全凭着他的本能，尤其是他真厚脸皮，用他的戏剧在社会上层替自己打开了一条路，直至赫然成名。他的剧本得到了观众的欢心。他以为受人冷眼和攻击的日子过去了。唉，那知道这种日子没有过去……而且永不会过去呢！因为这玲眼和攻击之来，在某种意义上说，是他咎由自取的。他渴望着到不属于他的英国上流社会里去生活。但是他们多么写意地给他以种种攻击！而他是多么痛恨他们！

然而这达布林的杂种狗，却带着仆人，乘着漂亮的汽车，处到旅行。

他有的地方使康妮喜欢，他并不摆架感，他对自己不抱幻想。克利福所要知道的事情，他说得又有理，又简洁，又实际。他并不夸张或任性。他知道克利福请他到勒格贝来为的是要利用他，因此他象—个狡猾老练的大腹贾似的，态度差不多冷静地让人盘问种种问题，而他也从容大方地回答。

“金钱！”他说。“金钱是一种天性，弄钱是一个男子所有的天赋本能。不论你干什么：都是为钱；不论你弄什么把戏，也是为钱，这是你的天性中一种永久的事。你一旦开始了赚钱，你便继续赚下去；直至某种地步，我想。”

“但是你得会开始才行。”克利福说。

“啊，当然呀，你得进到里面去，如果你不能进去，便什么也不行，你得打出一条进路；一旦有了进路，你就可以前行无阻了。”

“但是除了写剧本外，还有弄钱的方法么？”克利福问道。

“啊，大概没有了！我也许是个好作家，或者是个坏作家，但我总是一个戏剧作家，我不能成为别的东西。这是毫无疑义的。”

“你以为你必定要成为一个成功的戏剧作家么？”康妮问道。

“对了，的确！”他突然地回转头去向她说：“那是没有什么的！成功没有什么，甚至大众也没有什么。我的戏剧里，实在没有什么可使戏剧成功的东西。没有的。它们简直就是成功的戏剧罢了，和天气一样……是一种不得不这样的东西……至少目前是这样。”

他的沉溺在无底的幻灭中的迟钝而微突的眼睛，转向康妮望着，她觉得微微战栗起来。他的样于是这样的老……无限的老；他似乎是个一代一代的幻灭累积而成的东西，和地层一样；而同时他又象个孤零的小孩子。在某种意义上，他是个被社会唾弃的人，但是他却象一只老鼠似的竭力挣扎地生活着。

“总之，在你这样年纪已有这种成就。是可惊的。”克利福沉思着说。’

“我今年三十岁了……是的，三十岁了！”蔑克里斯一边锐敏地说，一边怪异地笑着，这笑是空洞的，得意的，而又带苦味的。

“你还是独身一个人么？”康妮问道。

“你问的是什么意思？你问我独自生活着么？我却有个仆人。据她自己说，她是个希腊人，这是个什么也不会做的家伙。但是我却留着他，而我呢，我要结婚了。啊，是的，我定要结婚了。”

“你把结婚说得好象你要割掉你的扁桃腺似的。”康妮笑着说，“难道结婚是这样困难的么？”

他景慕地望着她，“是人，查太莱夫人，那是有点困难的！我觉得……请你原谅我这句话……我觉得我不能跟一个英国女子，甚至不能跟一个爱尔兰女于结婚……”

“那么娶—个美国女子！”克利福说。

“啊，美国女子！”他空洞地笑了起来，“不，我会叫我的仆人替我找个土耳其女人，或者一个……一个什么近于东方的女人。”

这个奇特的、沮丧的、大成大就的人，真使康妮觉得奇怪。人说，单在美国方面，他就有五万金元的进款。有时他是漂亮的，当他向地下或向旁边注视时，光线照在他的上面，他象一个象牙雕刻的黑人似的，有着一种沉静持久的美。他的眼睛有点突出，眉毛浓厚而奇异地糨曲着，嘴部紧缩而固定，这种暂时的但是显露的镇静，是佛所有意追求而黑人有时超自然流露出来的，是一种很老的、种族所默认的东西！多少世代以来，它就为种族的命运所默认，而不顾我们个别的反抗。然后，悄悄地浮游而度，象一只老鼠在一条黑暗的河里一样。

康妮突然奇异地对他同情起来。她的同情里有怜悯，却也带点憎恶，这种同情差不多近于爱情了。这个受人排挤、受人唾弃的人！人们说他浅薄无聊！但是克利福比他显得浅薄无聊得多，自作聪明得多！而且蠢笨得多呢。

蔑克里斯立刻知道她对他有了一种印象。他那有点浮突的褐色的眼睛，怪不经意地望着她。他打量着她，打量着她对于他的印象的深浅。他和英国人在一起的时候，是永远受人冷待的。甚至有爱情也不中用。可是女子们却有时为他颠倒……是的，甚至于英国女子们呢。

他分明知道他和克利福的关系如何。他们俩象是一对异种的狗，原应互相张牙舞爪的，而因情境所迫，便不得不挂着一副笑脸。但是和一个女人的关系如何，他却不太摸得着头脑了。

早餐是开在各人寝室里的。克利福在午餐以前从不出来，饭厅里总是有点忧闷。喝过咖啡后，蔑克里斯恍恍惚惚地烦燥起来，不知做什么好。这是十一月的一个美丽的日子……在勒格贝，这算是美丽的了。他望了那凄凉的园林。上帝哟！什么一块地方！

他叫仆人去问查太莱夫人要他帮什么忙不，因为他打算乘火车到雪非尔德走走。仆人回来说，查太莱夫人请他上她的起坐室里坐坐。

康妮的起坐室是三楼，这是屋座中部的最高层楼。克利福的住所，不待言是在楼下了。他觉得很荣耀的被请到查太莱夫人的私人客室里去。他盲目地跟着仆人……他是从不注意外界事物或与他的四周的事物有所接触的。可是在她的小客室里，他却模糊地望了一望那些美丽的德国复制的勒瓦和塞扎纳①的作品。


①勒努瓦(Rbnoir)塞扎纳(Cexanne)颤是法国近代印象源大画家． 


“这房子真是可爱。”他一边说一边奇异地微笑，露着牙齿，仿佛这的，“住在这样的高楼上，你真是聪明啊。”

“可不是吗？”她说。

她的房子，是这大厅里唯一的华丽新式的房子，在勒格贝，只有这个地方能够表现点她的个性。克利福是从来没有看过这房子的，而她也很少请人上这儿来。

现在，她和蔑克里斯在火炉边相对坐着谈话。她问他关于他自己、他的父母；他的兄弟的事情……他人的事情，康妮总是觉得有趣而神秘的，而当她有了同情的时候，阶级的成见便全没有了。蔑克里斯爽直地说着他自己的事，爽直地、诚实地披露着他那痛苦的、冷淡的、丧家狗的心情，然后流露着他的成功后的复仇的高傲。

“但是你为什么还是这么孤寂呢？”康妮问道。

他的微突的、刺探的、褐色的眼睛，又向她望着。

“有的人是这样的。”他答道。然后他用着一种利落的，讽刺的口气说：“但是，你自己呢？你自己不是个孤寂的人么？”康妮听了有点吃惊，沉思了一会，然后答道：“也许有点儿；但并不是全然孤寂着，和你一样！”

“我是全然地孤寂的人么？”他一边问，一边苦笑着，好象他牙痛似的，多么做作的微笑！他的眼睛带着十分忧郁的、忍痛的、幻灭的和惧怕的神气。

“但是，”她说，看见了他的神气，有点喘气起来：“你的确是孤寂的，不是么？”

她觉得从他那里发出了一种急迫的求援，她差不多颠倒了。

“是的，的确！”他说着，把头转了过去，向旁边地下望着，静默着，好象古代人类般的那种奇异的静默，看见了他冷淡她的这种神气，使康妮气馁了。

他抬起头直望着她，他看见一切，而且记住一切。同时，象一个深夜哭喊的小孩，他从他的内心向她哭喊着，直使她的子宫深处都感动了。

“你这样关心我，你真是太好了。”他简括地说。

“为什么我不关心你呢？”他发着那种强勉的、疾嘶的、常嘶声的苦笑。

“啊，那么……我可以握一下你的手吗？”他突然问道，两眼差不多用催眠力似地疑视着她。他用这恳求；直感动到她的子宫深处。

她神魂颠倒地呆望着他，他定了过来，在她旁边跪下。两手紧紧地扭着她的两脚，他的脸伏在她的膝上，一动也不动。她已完他地迷感着了，在一种惊骇中俯望着他的柔嫩的颈背，觉着他的脸孔紧压着她的大腿。她茫然自失了，不由得把她的手，温柔地，伶悯地放在他的无抵抗的颓背上。他全身战栗起来。

跟着，他始起头，用那闪光的，带着可怖的恳求的两眼望着她；她完全地不能自主了，她的胸怀里泛流着一种对他回答的无限的欲望，她可以给他一切的一切。

他是个奇怪而娇弱的情人，对女人很是娇弱，不能自制地战栗着，而同时，却又冷静地默听着外界的一切动静。

在她呢，她除了知道自己的委身与他以外，其他一初都不在意了。惭渐地，他不战栗了，安静起来了，十分安静起来了。她怜悯地爱抚着他依在她胸前的头。

当他站起来的时候，他吻着她的双手，吻着她的穿着羔羊皮拖鞋的双脚。默默地走开到房子的那一边，背向着她站着。两个人都静默了一会。然后，他转身向她回来，她依旧坐在火炉旁边的那个老地方。

“现在，我想你要恨我了。”他温和地，无可奈何地说道。她迅速地向他仰望着。

“为什么要恨你呢？”她问道。

“女子们多数是这样的。”他说，然后又改正说：“我的意思是说……，人家认为女于是这样的。”

“我即使要根你，也决不在此刻恨你。”她捧捧地说。

“我知道的！我知道的！应该是这样的！你对我真是太好了……。”他悲惨地叫道。

她奇怪着为什么他要这样的悲惨。“你不再坐下么？”她说。他向门边望了一望。

“克利福男爵！”他说，“他，他不会……？”她沉思了一会，说道；“也许！”然后她仰望着他，“我不愿意克利福知道……，甚至不愿让他猜疑什么，那定要使他太痛苦了。但是我并不以为那有什么错处，你说是不是？”

“错处！好天爷呀，决没有的，你只是对我太好罢了……好到使我有点受不了罢了，这有什么错处？”

他转过身去，她看见他差不多要哭了。

“但是我们不必让克利福知道，是不是？”她恳求着说，“那一来定要使他太痛苦了。假如他永不知道，永不猜疑，那么大家都好。”

“我！”他差不多凶暴地说，“我不会让他知道什么的！你看罢。我，我自己去泄露！哈！哈！”想到这个，他不禁空洞地冷笑起来。她惊异地望着他。他对她说：“我可以吻吻你的手再走吗？我想到雪非尔德走一趟，在那儿午餐，如果你喜欢的话，午后我将回这里来喝茶，我可以替你做点什么事么？我可以确信你不恨我么——你不会恨我罢？”他用着一种不顾一切口气说完这些话。

“不，我不恨你。”她说，“我觉得你可爱。”

“啊！”他兴奋地对她说：“我听你说这话，比听你说你爱我更喜欢！这里面的意思深得多呢……那么下午再会罢，我现在要想的事情多着呢。”他谦恭的吻了她的两手，然后走了。

在午餐的时候．克利福说：“这青年我真看不惯。”

“为什么？”康妮问道。

“他是个金玉其外，败絮其中的家伙……他时时准备着向我们攻击。”

“我想大家都对他太坏了。”康妮说。

“你惊怪这个么？难道你以为他天天干的是些好事么？”

“我相信他是有某种宽宏慷慨的气量的。”

“对谁宽宏慷慨？”

“我倒不知道。”

“当然你不知道啊，我恐怕你把任性妄为认作宽宏慷慨了。”

康妮不做声，这是真的么？也许。可是蔑克里斯的任性妄为，有着某种使她迷惑的地方。他已经飞黄腾达了，而克利福只在匍匐地开始。他已用他的方式把世界征服了，这是克利福所求之不得的。说到方法和手段吗？难道蔑克里斯的方法和手段，比克利福的更卑下么？难道克利福的自吹自擂的登台术，比那可怜无助的人以自力狰扎前进的方法更高明么？“成功”的财神后面，跟着成千的张嘴垂舌的狗儿。那个先得到她的便是狗中之真狗！所以蔑克里斯是可以高举着他的尾巴的。

奇怪的是他并不这样做。他在午后茶点的时候，拿着一柬紫罗兰和百合花回来，依旧带着那丧家狗神气。康妮有时自问着，他这种神气，这种不变的神气，是不是拿来克敌的一种假面具，他真是一条可怜的狗吗？

他整个晚上坚持着那种用以掩藏自己的丧家狗的神气，虽然克利福已看穿了这神气里面的厚颜无耻。康妮却看不出来，也许因为他这种厚颜无耻并不是对付女人的，而是对付男子和他们的傲慢专横的。蔑克里斯这种不可毁灭的内在的厚颜无耻，便是使男子们憎恶他的原因。只要他一出现，不管他装得多么斯文得体，上流人便要引以为耻了。

康妮是爱上他了。但是她却没法自抑着真情，坐在那儿刺着绣，让他们去谈话。至于蔑克里斯呢，他毫不露出破绽，完全和昨天晚上一样，忧郁，专心，而又冷漠，和主人主妇象远隔得几百万里路似的，只和他们礼尚往来着，却不愿自献殷勤。康妮觉得他一定忘掉了早上的事了。但是他并没有忘掉。他知道他所处的境地……他仍旧是在外面的老地方，在那些天生成而被摈弃的人所处的那个地方。这回的恋爱，他毫不重视。因为他知道这恋爱是不会把他从一只无主的狗——从一只带着金颈圈而受人怨骂的无主狗，变成一只享福的上流家的狗的。

在他的灵魂深处，他的确是个反对社会的、局外的人、他内心里也承认这个，虽然他外表上穿得多么人时，他的离众孤立，在他看来，是必需的；正如他表面上是力求从众，奔走高门，也是必须一样。

但是偶然的恋爱一下，藉以安慰舒神，也是件好事，而且他并不是个忘思负义的人；反之，他对于一切自然的，出自心愿的恩爱，是热切的感激，感激到几乎流泪的。在他的苍白的、固定的、幻灭的脸孔后面，他的童子的灵魂，对那女人感恩地啜泣着，他焦急地要去亲近她；同时，他的被人摈弃的灵魂，却知道他实在是不愿与她纠缠的。

当他们在客厅里点着蜡烛要就寝的时候，他得了个机会对她说。

“我可以找你吗？”

“不，我来找你。”她说。

“啊，好罢！，，

他等了好久……但是她终于来了。

他是一种颤战而兴奋的情人，快感很快地来到，一会儿便完了。他的赤裸裸的身体，有一种象孩子似的无抵抗的希奇的东西：他象一个赤裸裸的孩童。他的抵抗力全在他的机智和狡猾之中，在他的狡猾的本能深处，而当这本能假寐着的时候，他显得加倍的赤裸，加倍地象一个孩子，皮肉松懈无力，却在拼命地挣扎着。

他引起了康妮的一种狂野的怜爱和温情，引起了她的一种狂野的渴望的肉欲。但是他没有满足他的肉欲，他的快感来得太快了。然后他萎缩在她的胸膛上，他的无耻的本能苏醒着，而她这时，却昏迷地，失望地，麻木地躺在那儿。

但是过了一会，她立刻觉得要紧紧地搂着他，使它留在她那里面，一任她动作着……一任她疯狂地热烈地动作着，直至她得到了她的最高快感。当地觉着她的疯狂的极度快感，是由他硬直的固守中得来的时候，他不禁奇异地觉得自得和满足。

“啊！多么好。”她颤战地低语着。她紧贴着他，现在她完全镇定下来了，而他呢，却孤寂地躺在那儿，可是带着骄傲神气。

他这次只住了三天，他对克利福的态度，和第一天晚上一样：对康妮也是一样，他的外表是毫无改变的。

他用着平时那种不平而忧郁的语调和康妮通信，有时写得很精彩。但总是渲染着一种奇异的无性爱的爱情。他好象觉得对她的爱情是一种无望的爱情，他们间原来的隔阂是不变的。他的深心处是没有希望的，而他也不愿有希望。他对于希望存有一种恨心。他在什么地方读过这句话：“一个庞大的希望穿过了大地。”他添了一个注说：“这希望把一切有价值的东西都扫荡无余了。”

康妮实在并不了解他；但是她自己觉得爱他。她的心里时时都感觉到他的失望。她是不能深深地、深深地爱而不存在希望的。而他呢，因为没有希望在心里，所以决不能深爱。

这样，他们继续了好久，互相通着信，偶尔也在伦敦相会。她依旧喜欢在他的极度快感完毕后，用自力得到的那种强烈的肉的快感。他也依旧喜欢去满足她。只这一点便足以维持他们间的关系。

她在勒格贝非常地快活。她用这种快活和满意去激励克利福，所以他在这时的作品写得最好，而且他几乎奇异地、盲目的觉得快活。其实，他是收获着她从蔑克里斯坚挺在她里面时，用自力得到的性的满足的果子。但是，他当然不知道这个的，要是知道了，他是决不会道谢的！

然而，当她的心花怒放地快乐而使人激励的日子过去了时，完全过去了时，她变成颓丧而易怒时，克利福是多么晦气啊！要是他知道个中因果，也许他还愿意她和蔑克里斯重新相聚呢。
Chapter 4
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!' 
康妮常常预感到她和蔑克——人们这样叫他——的关系是不会有什么结果的。可是其他的男子好象不在她的眼里。她牵系着克利福。他需要她的大部分生命，而她也给他。但是她也需要一个男子给她大部分的生命，这是克利福没有给也不能给的。于是她不时地和蔑克里斯幽会。但是，她已经预知这是要完结的。和蔑克斯没有什么东西可以长久的。他的天性是要迫使他破坏一切关系而重新成为自由的、孤独的、寂寞的野狗的。在他看来，这是他的大需要，虽然他总是说：她把我丢弃了！ 
人们以为世界上是充满着可能的事的。但是在多数的个人经验上，可能的事却这样的少。大海里有许多的好色……也许……但是大多数似乎只是些沙丁鱼和鲱鱼。如果你自己不是沙鲱鱼，你大概便要觉得在这大海里好鱼是很少的。
克利福的名声日噪起来，甚至赚着钱了。许多人来勒格贝看他。康妮差不多天天要招待客人。但是这些都是些沙丁鱼或鲱鱼，偶尔地也有一尾较稀罕的鲇鱼或海鳗。
有几个是常来的客，他们都是克利福在剑桥大学的同学。有一个是唐米·督克斯，他是服务军界的人，一个旅长，他说：“军队生活使我有余暇去思想，而且免得我加人生活的争斗。”
还有查理·梅，他是个爱尔兰人，他写些关于星辰的科学著作。还有一位也是作家，他叫韩蒙。他们都和克利福年纪相仿，都是当时的青年知识分子。他们都信仰精神生活。在精神生活范围以外的行为，是私事，是无关重要的。你什么时候上厕所，谁也不想打听，这种事除了自己外，谁也不感兴趣的。
就是日常生活上大部分的事情也是这样。你怎样弄钱，你是不是爱你的太太，你有没有外遇，所有这一切只是你自己的事，和上厕所一样，对他人是没有兴趣的。
韩蒙是个身材高瘦的人，他有妻子和两个孩子，但是他和一个女打字员亲密得多了。他说：“性问题的要点，便是里面并没有什么要点。严格地说，那就不是个问题。我们不想跟他人上厕所，那么为什么我们要理睬他人的床第间事？问题就是这儿。假如我们把床第间事看成和上厕所一样，那便没有什么问题了。这完全是无意义无要点的事；这仅仅是个不正当的好奇心的问题罢了。”
“说得对，韩蒙，你说得真对！但是如果有什么人跟朱丽亚求爱，你便要沸腾起来；如果他再追求下去，那你便要发作了……。”朱丽亚是韩蒙的妻子。
“咳，当然呀！要是什么人在我的客厅里撤起尿来，我定要发作的。每个东西有每个东西的位置。”
“这是说要是有人和朱丽亚躲在壁龛里恋爱起来，你便不介意么？”
查理·梅的态度是有点嘲弄的，因为他和朱丽亚曾有过点眉目传情的事，而给韩蒙严峻地破坏了。
“那我自然要介意。性爱是我和朱丽亚两人间的私事；如果谁想插进来，自然我要介意的。”
那清瘦而有雀斑的唐米·督克斯，比起苍白而肥胖的查理·梅来，更带爱尔兰色彩。他说：“总而言之，韩蒙，你有一种很强的占有性和一种很强的自负的意志，而且你老想成功。自从我决意投身军界以来，我已经罕与世俗接触，现在我才知道人们是多么切望着成功和出人头地，我们的个性在这方面发展的多么过火！当然，象你这样的人，是以为得了一个女子的帮助是易于成功押。这便是你所以这样嫉的缘故。所以性爱在你看来是……你和朱丽亚之间的一种关系重大的发电机，是应该使你成功的东西。如果你不成功，你便要同失意的查里一样，开始向女人眉来眼去起来。象你和朱丽亚这种结过婚的人，都标着一种旅客手蕈上一样的标签，朱丽亚的标签上写的‘韩蒙太太’，好象属于某人的箱子似的。你的标签上写是‘韩蒙，由韩蒙太太转交’。啊，你是很对的，你是很对的！精神生活也需要舒适的家庭和可口的饭菜。你是很对的。精神生活还需要子孙兴眨呢！这一切都以成功与否为转移，成功便是一切事情的中轴。”
韩蒙听了似乎有点生气。他对自己的心地清白、不随俗浮沉是有点自负的。虽然这样，他确实是希望成功的。
“那是真的，你没有钱便不能生活。”查理梅说，“你得有相当的钱才能生活下去……没有钱，甚至思想都不能自由，否则你的肚子是不答应地的。但是在我看来，在性爱上，你尽可以把标签除去。我们既可以自由地向任何人谈话，那么为什么我们不能向任何我们所喜欢的女子求爱呢？”
“好色的色尔特人的说法。”克利福说。
“好色！哼！为什么不可以？我不明白炎什么同一个女人睡觉，比同她跳舞……如谈天气的好坏，对有什么更大的害处，那不过是感觉的交换代替思想的交换罢了。那为什么不可以？”
“象兔子一样的苟合？”韩蒙说。
“为什么不可以？兔子有什么不对？难道兔子比那神经病的，革命的，充湖仇恨的人类更坏么？”
“可是我们并不是兔子呀。”韩蒙说。
“不错，我们有个心灵。我有些关于天文的问题要计算，这问题于我差不多比生死还重要。有时消化不良妨碍我的工作，饮饿的时候妨碍得更厉害。同样，性的饮饿也妨碍我，怎么办呢？”
“我想你受的是性欲过度后的消化不良的苦罢。”韩蒙讥讽地说。
“不是！我吃也不过度。性交也不过度。过度是可以自由制止的。但是钢钢笔便没有办法，你想叫我饿死么？
“一点也不！你可以结婚呀？”
“你怎么知道我可以结婚？结婚也许不宜于我的精神结构。结婚也许要把我的精神变成荒谬”我是不适于结婚的……那么我便应该象和尚似的关在狗笼里么？没有这样狂妄的事，我的朋友，我必要生活和弄我的计算。我有时也需要女人。这并不是什么了不起的事，谁要发什么道德风化的议论，我都不睬。如果有个女人，象个箱子似的带着我的名字和住下场的标签，到处乱跑，我定要觉得羞耻的。”
因为和朱丽亚调情的事，这两个人自抱着怨恨。
“查理，你这意思倒很有趣。”督克斯说，“性交不过是谈话的加一种形式，不过谈话是把字句说出来，而性交却是把宇各项做出来罢了。我觉得这是很对的。我以为我们既可以和女子们交换时好时坏的意见。也尽可以和她们交换性欲的感觉和情绪。性交可以说是男女间肉体的正常的谈话，谈起来也会是索然无味的。同样的道理，假如你和一个女子没有共通的情欲或同情，你便不跟她睡觉。但你是若有了……
“你若对一个女人共有了相当的情绪或同情时，你便该和她睡觉。”查里梅说，“和她睡去，这唯一可干的正经画。同样的道理，要是你和谁谈得有味时，你便谈个痛快。这是唯一可干的下经事。你并不假惺惺地咬着舌头不说。那时你是欲罢不能的。和女人睡觉也是这个道理。”
“不，”韩蒙道，“这话不对。拿你自己来说罢，老梅，你一半的精力浪费在女人身上。你固然有才能，但你决不会干你应该干的事情。你的才能在那另一方面用得太多了。”
“也许……不过，亲爱的韩蒙，不管你结过婚没有，你的才能却在这一方面用得太少了。你的心灵也许保持着纯洁正直，但是你的心耿是干枯下去的。在我看来，你那纯洁的心灵却干核得和木竿一样。你愈说愈干。”
唐米·督克斯不禁大笑起来。
“算了罢，你们两个心灵！”他说，“你们看我……。我并不干什么高尚纯洁的心灵工作，我只记取点他人的意见。然而我既不结婚，也不追逐女人。我觉得查里是很对的；要是他想去追逐女人，他很自由地可以不追逐得过火。但是我决不禁止他去追逐。至于韩蒙呢，他有的是占有的天性，因此那迳直的路和狭隘的门自然是适合他的了。你们瞧瞧着罢，他不久便要成为真正的英国文豪，从头到脚都是ABC的。至于我自己呢，我什么都说不上，我只是个好花舌的人，你的意见怎样，克利福？你以为性爱是帮助一个男子在世上成功的发电机么？”
在这种情境里，克利福是不太说话的。他一向是不当众演说的，他的思想实在缺少力量，他太摸不清头脑而且太易感动了。督克斯的问题使他不安地脸红起来。
“晤！”克利福讷讷着说，“无论怎样我想我没有多大的意见……我想，‘结婚罢，不要多说了’，这大概便是我的意见。虽然，在一对相爱的男女之间，房事是一件重要的事，这是当然的了。”
“怎样重要呢？”督克斯问道。
“啊……那可以促进亲密。”克利福说，这种谈话使他不安得象一个女子一样。
“好，查里和我都相信性交是一种互通声气的方法，象说话一样。要是一个女子开始同我作性的谈话，自然时机一到，我便要把这种谈话同她到床上去完成。不幸的是没有女子同我开始谈这种话，所以我只好独自上床去，而我的身子也不见得有什么更坏……至少我这佯希望，因为我怎么知道呢？无论如何，我没有什么天文计算要被妨碍，也没有什么不朽的著作要写，我只是个隐匿在军队里的懒汉罢了。”
房子里沉静下来了。四个男子在吸烟。康妮坐在那儿，一针一针地做活……是人，她坐在那儿，她得一声不响地坐在那儿。她得象一个耗子似的静坐在那儿，不去打扰这些知识高超的贵绅们路每项重要的争论。她不得不坐在那儿；没有她，他们的谈话便没有这么起劲；他们的意见便不能这么自由发挥了。没有康妮，克利福便要变成更局促，更不安，更易烦躁，谈话便无生气。唐米·督免斯是最健谈的；康妮的在场，有点使他觉得兴致勃然。她不大喜欢韩蒙，她觉得他在心灵上是个自私自利的人，至于查理·梅，她虽然觉得他有的地方可喜，却有点讨厌他，管他的什么星象。
多少晚上，康妮坐在那儿听这四个人或其他一二个人的讨论！他们的讨论从来没有什么结果，她也不觉得多大的烦恼。她喜欢听他们的心曲，特别是唐米在座的时候，那是有趣的。他们并不吻你，摸触你，便是他们却把心灵向你盘托出。那是很有趣的。不过他们的心是多么冷酷啊；
然而有时也有点令她觉得讨厌。他们一提起蔑克里斯的名，便盛气凌人地骂他是杂种的幸进者，是无教育的最贱的下流人，但是康妮却比较尊重他。不论他是不是杂种的下流人，他却一直向目的地走去。他并不仅仅用无限的言词，到处去夸耀精神生活。
康妮并不讨太原市精神生活；并且她还从中得到奋激，但是她觉得人们把精神生活的好处说得太过于铺张扬历了。她很喜欢那香烟的烟雾参加这些“密友夜聚”——这是她私下起的名字，她觉得很有趣，而且觉得自得，因为没有她默默地座的时候，他们连谈话都不起劲。但无论如何、那儿有个深不可解的神秘，他们空洞地、无结果地谈论着，但是谈论的究竟是什么，她怎么也不能知道。而蔑克里斯也弄不明白。但蔑克并不想做什么，他只求胆哲保身，蝎力哄骗人家，正如人家之竭力哄骗他一样。他实在是反对社会的，这是克利福的他的密支们都反对他的缘故。克利福和他的密友们是拥护社会的；他们多少是在拯救人类，至少是想开导人类的。
星期日的晚上，有个起劲的聚谈，话柄又转到爱情上。
“祝福把我们的心结合为一的联系，……”唐米·督克斯说，“我很知道这联系究竟是什么……此刻把我们结合起来的联系，是我们的精神的交触。除此以外，我们间的联系的确少极了。我们一转过了背，梗互相底毁起来，象所有其他的该死的知识分子一样，象所有的该死的人一样，因为所有的人都这么干。不然的话，我们便把这些互相底毁的话，用甜言蜜语隐藏起来。说也奇怪，精神生活，若不植于怨恨里和不可名状的无底的深恨里，不好象便不会欣欣向荣似的。这是一向就这样的！看看苏格拉底和拍拉图一类人罢！那种深假如大恨，那种以诽谤他人为无上快乐的态度，不论是他们的敌人普罗塔哥拉斯(Proagoras)或是任何人！亚尔西比亚得斯(Alcibides)和其他所有的狐群狗党的弟子们都加入作乱！这使我们宁可选择那默默地坐在菩提树下的佛，或是那毫无诡谲狡猾的心而和平地向弟子们说教的耶酥”不，精神生活在根本上就有什么毛病。它是植根于仇恨与嫉、嫉与仇恨之中的。你看了果子便知道树是什么了。”
“我就不相信我们大家都这样仇恨的。”克利福抗仪说。
我亲爱的克利福，想想我们大家互相品评的样子罢。我自己比任何人都坏。因为我宁愿那自然而然的执根，而不愿那做作的甜言蜜语。傲作的甜言蜜语就是毒药。当我们开始说克利福是个好人这一类的恭维话时，那是因为克利福太可怜了的缘故。天呀，请你们说我的坏话罢，这一来我却知道你们还看得起我。千万别甜言蜜语，否则我便完了！”
“啊！但是我相信我们彼此上诚实地相爱的。”韩蒙说。
“我告诉你，我们安得不相爱……因为我们在背地里都说彼此的坏话！我自己便是一个顶坏的人。”
“我相信你把精神生活和批评活动混在一起了。苏格拉底在批评活动上给了一个大大的推动，这点我是和你的意见一致的，但是他的工作并不尽于此。”查里·梅煞有介事地说。他们这班密友们，表面上假装谦虚，实在都是怪自命不凡的。他们骨子里是目空一切。却地装出那低首下气的神气。
督克斯不愿再谈苏格拉底了。
“的确，批评和学问是两回事。”韩蒙说。
“当然，那是两回事。”巴里附和说。巴里是个褐色头发的羞怯的青年，他来这儿访督克斯，晚上便在这儿过夜了。
大家都望着分，仿佛听见驴子说了话似的。
“我并不是在讨论学问……我是在讨论精神生活。”督克斯笑着说，“真正的学问是从全部的有总识的肉体产生出来的；不但从你的脑里和精神里产生出来，而且也从你的肚里和生殖器钳制其他一切。这两种东西便只好批评而抹煞一切了。这两种东西只好这样做。这是很重要的问题。我的上帝，我们现在的世界需要批评……致命的批评。所以还是让我们过着精神的生活，’尽量的仇恨，而把腐旧的西洋镜戳穿罢。但是你注意这一点：当你过着你的生活时，你至少是参与全生活的机构的一部分。但是你一开始了精神生活后，你就等于把苹果从树上摘了下来；你把树和苹果的关系——固有的关系截断了。如果你在生命里只有精神生活，那么你是从树上掉下来了……你自己就是一个摘下赤的苹果了。这一来，你便逻辑地不得不要仇恨起来，正如一个摘下来的苹果，自然地不得不要腐坏一样。”
克利福睁着两眼，这些活对他是毫无意义的。康妮对自己暗笑着。
“好，那么我们都是摘下赤的苹果了。”韩蒙有点恼怒地说。
“既是这燕，让我们把自己来酿成苹果酒好了。”查量说。
“但是你觉得波尔雪维克主义怎样？”那褐色头发的巴里问道，仿佛这些讨论应庐归结到这上面似的；
“妙哪！”查里高叫道，“你觉得波尔雪维克主义怎样？”
“算了罢！让我们把波尔雪维克主义切成肉酱罢！”督克斯说。
“我恐怕波尔雪维克主义是个太大的问题。”韩蒙摇着头郑重地说。
“在我看来，”查理说，“波尔雪维克主义就是对于他们所谓的布尔乔亚的一种极端的仇屈服主义；至于布尔乔亚是什么？却没有确实的界说。它偷旬资本主义，这是界说之一。感情和情绪是决然地布尔乔亚的，所以你得发明一个无感情无情绪的人。”
“其次谈到个人主义，尤其是个人，那也布尔乔亚，所以定要铲除。你得淹没在更伟大的东西下面。在苏维埃社会主义下面。甚至有机体也是布尔乔亚，所以。归高理想机械。机械是唯一个体的、无机体的东西。由许多不同的但都是基要的部分组合而成。每个人都是机械的一部分。这机器的推动力是仇恨……对布尔乔亚的仇恨。‘在我看来，波尔雪维克主义便是之样。”
“的确！”康米说，“但是你这篇话，我觉得也可以作为工业理想的确切写照；简言之，那便是工厂主人的理想，不过他定要否认推动力是仇恨罢了。然而推动力的确是仇恨；驿于生命本身的仇恨。瞧瞧米德兰这些地方罢，不是到处都是仇恨么，但那是精神生活的一部分；那是台乎逻辑的发展。”
“我否认波尔雪维克主义是合乎逻辑的，它根本就反对前提上的大前提。”韩蒙说道。
“但是，亲爱的朋友，它却不反对物质的前提；纯粹的精神主义也不反对这物质的前提……甚至只有这物质的前提它才接受呢。”
“无论如何，波尔雪维克主义已经达到事物的绝底了。”查里说。
“绝底！那是无底的底！波尔雪维克主义者不久便要有世界上最精的、机械设备最佳的军队了。”
“但是这种仇恨的状态是不能持久下去的，那定要引起反动的……。”韩蒙说。
“那，我们已经等候多年了……我们还要再等呢．。份恨是和别的东西一样日见滋长的。那是我们的最深固的天性受了强暴的必然结果；我们强迫我们的最深固的感情，去适合某种理想。我们用一种公式推动我们自己，象推动一部机械一样，逻辑的精神自以为可以领导一切，而一节却变成纯粹的·仇恨了。我们都是波尔雪维克主义者，不过我们假仁假交罢了。俄国人是不假仁假义的波尔雪维克主义者。”
“但是除了苏维埃这条路外，还有许多其他的路呀。”韩蒙说，“波尔雪维克主义者们实在是不聪明的。”
“当然不，但是如果你想达到某种目的，有时候愚蠢是一种聪明方法。我个人认为波尔雪维主义者，不过我们另起一个名称罢了。我们相信我们是神……象神一样的人！波尔雪维克主义者，我们便得有人性，有心，有生殖器……因为神和波尔雪维克主义者都是一样的：他们太好了，所以就不真实了。”
大家正在不满意的沉默着，巴里突然不安地问道：
“那么你相信爱情罢，唐米，是不是？”
“可爱的孩子！”唐米说，“不，我的小天使，十有九我不相信；爱情在今日也不过有许多愚蠢的把戏中之一种罢了。那些娇媚态的登徒于们，和那些喜欢‘爵士’舞，屁股小得象领钮般的小妮于们苟合，你是说这种爱情呢？还是那种财产共有，指望成功，我的丈夫我的太太的爱情呢？不，我的好朋友，‘我一点儿也不相信！”
“但是你总相信点什么东西罢？”
“我？啊，理智地说来，我相信要有一个好心，一条生动的阳具，一个锐利的智慧，和在一位高尚的妇女面前说‘妈的屎’的勇气。”
“那么这种种你都具有了。”巴里说。
唐米·督克斯狂笑起来。“你这个好孩子！要是我真具有这种种，那就好了！不，我的心麻木得象马铃薯一样，我的阳具萎垂不振，若要我在我的母亲和姑母面前说‘好的屎！’，我宁可干脆地把这阳具割了……她们都是真正的高尚妇女，请你注意；而且我实在是没有什么智慧，我只是个附庸精神生活的人。有智慧，这是多么美好的事情！有了智慧，一个人全身的各部分——便或不便说出的各部分，都要活泼起来。阳具对于任何真正有智慧的人都要指正起头来说：你好？勒努瓦说过，他的画是用他的阳具画出来的……的确的，他的画是多么美！我真想也用我的阳具作些什么事情。上帝奈何一个人只能这么说！这是地狱里添多了一种酷刑！那是苏格拉底发端的。”
“但是世界上也有好女子呢。”康妮终于拾起头来说。大家听了都有些怨她……她应该装聋作哑才是。这第一种谈话她竟细细地听，那使他们大不高兴了。
“我的上帝？‘要是她们对我来说不好，她们好又与我何干？’”
“不，那是没有办法的，我简直不能和一个女子共鸣起来、没有一个女子使我在她面前的时候觉得真正需要她，而我也不打算勉强我自己……上帝，不』我将依然故我的度我的精神生活。这是我所能做的唯一的正经事。我可以和女子们谈天，而得到很大的乐趣！你以为怎样，我的小朋友？”
“要是一个人能够保持着这种纯洁的生活，是就可以少掉许多麻烦了。”巴里说。
“是的，生活是太单调了！”
Chapter 5
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! 


一个二月的有淡淡阳光的降霜的早晨，克利福和康妮出去散步，穿过大花园向树林里走去，克利福驶着他的小自动车，康妮在他旁边步行。 

严冷的空气里依然带着硫磺气味，但是他们俩都已习惯于这种气味了。近处的天边，笼罩着一种蛋白石色的霜和烟混成雾，顶上便是一块小小的青天。因此；使人觉得是被磁禁在一个围子里，老是在围子里。生命老是象个梦幻或疯狂，被关禁在一个围子里。

一些绵羊在园中的干枯的乱草丛里嗤喘着，那儿的草窝里积着一些带蓝色的霜，一条浅红色的小路，象一条美丽的带子似的。婉蜒地横过大花园直至树林门口。克利福新近才叫人在这小路上铺了一层从煤坑边取来的筛过的沙砾。这些焚烧过而没有硫磺传的沙砾。在天气干燥的时候，呈着鲜明的浅红的虾色，在天气阴湿的时候，便呈着更浓的蟹色。现在这条小路是呈着淡谈的虾色，上面铺着灰白带蓝的薄霜、康妮很喜欢这条铺着细沙的鲜玫瑰色的路径。天下事有时是有弊亦有利的。

克利福小心地从他们的房屋所在的小山丘上，向着斜坡驶了下去。康妮在旁边用手扶着车子。树林在他们的面前展开着，最近处是擦树丛林，稍远处便是带紫色的浓密的橡树林。树林的边缘，一些兔子在那儿跳跃着或咀嚼着，一群小乌鸦突然地飞了起来，在那小小的天空里翱翔而过。

康妮把树林的门开了，克利福慢慢地驶了过去，到了一条宽大的马路。这马路向着一个斜坡上去，两旁是修剪得很整齐的擦林。这树林是从前罗宾汉打猎的大森林的残余，而这条马路是从前横经这个乡野的很古很古的大道。但是现在，这只是一条私人树林里的马路了。从曼斯非尔德来的的路，至此往北折转。

树林里，一切都静息着。地上千叶子的背面藏着一层范霜。一只鸟粗哑地叫着，许多小鸟震着翼。但是这儿已没有供人狞猎的野兽，也没有雄鸡。因为在大战时都给人杀光了。树林也荒着没人看管，一直到现在，克利福才再雇了一个守猎的人。

克利福深爱这个树林，他深爱那些老橡树。他觉得它们经过了许多世代都是属于他的，他要保护它们，他要使这个地方不为人所侵犯，紧紧地关闭着，使之与世界隔绝。

小车子馒慢地驶上斜坡，在冰陈了的泥块上颠簸着前进，忽然左边现出一块空地，是儿只有一丛枯稿了的蕨草，四下杂布着一些斜倾的细长的小树，几根锯断了的大树桩，毫无生气地露着顶和根；还有几处乌黑的地方，那是樵夫们焚烧树枝乱草和废物过后的痕迹。

这是大战中佐费来男爵伐木以供战壕之用的一个地方，在马路的右边渐次隆起的圆丘，一片光溜溜，怪荒芜的。圆丘的顶上，从前有的话多橡树，现在一株也没有了。在那儿，你从树梢上望去，可以看见煤矿场的铁道和史曲门的新工厂。康妮站在那儿远眺着。这几是与世界隔绝的树林中的一个开口。从这开口咱使可与世相通。但是她并不告诉克利福。

这块光地，常常便克利福觉得非常地忿怒。他曾参与大战，他知道战争是怎么一回事，但是大战并没有使他忿怒，直至他看见了这光溜溜的小山之后，才真正地忿怒起来。他现在正叫人重新植些树木。不过这小山使他看了便怨恨他的父亲。

小车儿徐徐地向上前进，克利福坐在车里，呆板地向前望着。当他们到了最高处时，他把车停住，他不肯向那不平的斜坡冒险下去了。他望着那条马路向下降落里在蕨草和橡树中间形成的一个开口。这马路在小山脚下拐弯而淹没，但是它的迂回是这样的美好而自然，令人联想起往日的骑士们和乘马的贵妇们在这儿行乐的情形。

“我认为这儿是真正的英格兰的心。”在二月谈淡的阳光下坐着的克利福对康妮这样说。

“是吗？”康妮说着，却听见了史德门煤矿场发来的十一点钟的气笛声。克利福是太习惯于这声音了，他一点也没有注意。

“我要使这个树林完整……无疆。谁也不许侵犯它。”克利福说。

克利福这话里，带着某种愤慨悲伤的情绪。这树林还保存着一点荒野的老英格兰时代的什么神秘东西，但是大战时候佐佛来罗爵的伐木却把它损伤了。那些树木是多么静穆，无数弯曲的树枝向天空上伸，灰色的树干，倔强地从棕争的蕨草丛中直立！鸟雀在这些树木间飞翻着，多么安稳！从前，这儿有过鹿，有过弓手，也有过骑驴得得地经过的道士。这地方还没有忘记，还追忆着呢。

巨利福静坐着，灰白和阳光照着他的光滑的近全栗色的头发，照着他的圆满红润的、不可思仪的脸孔。

“当我来到这儿时，我比平时尤其觉得无后的缺感。”他说。

“但是这树林比你的家族还要老呢。”康妮温和地说。

“的确！”克利福说。“但这是我们把它保存的。没有我们，它定已消灭了，象其余的森林似的早巳消灭了，我们定要保存点老英格兰的东西。”

“一定要么？”康妮说，“甚至这老英格兰不能自几存在，甚至这老英格兰是反对新英格兰的东西，连英格兰本身都要没有了。”克利福说。“我们已有着这块土，而且我们爱它，那么锭要保存它。”

两人忧郁地静默了一会。

“是人，在一个短时间内。”康妮说。

“在一个短时间内！这是我他仅能做到的，我们只能尽我们的职份。我觉得自从我们有这块地以来，我们家族中每个男子都曾在这儿尽过他的职份，一个人可以超越习俗之处，但是传统馈例是定要维持的。”

他们又静默了一会。

“什么传统惯例？”康妮问。

“英格兰的传统惯例！就是这个！

“啊！”她徐徐地说。

“这是不得不有个儿子的原因，一个人不过是一条链索中的一环啊。”他说。

康妮并不喜欢这链索的话，但是她并不说什么，她觉得他那种求于的欲望是怪异地不尽人情的。

“可惜我们不能有个儿子。”他说。

他的淡蓝色的眼睛凝视着她。

“要是你能和另一个男人生个儿子，那也许是件好事。”他说，“要是我们把这孩子在勒格贝养大，他便要成为我们和的这块地方的。我不太相信什么父道，要是我们养他，他便是我们的，而继承我们。你不觉得这是件值得考虑的事么？”

．康妮终于指起眼睛向他望着。孩子，她的孩子，于他渤是个物件似的，是个物件似的！

“但是另一个什么男人呢？”她问道。

“那有什么大关系？难道这种事情和我们有什么很大的影响么？……你在德国时不是有过情人么？……现在怎么了？不是差不多什么都没有了么？我觉得在生命里，我们所做的那些小动作，和我们与他人发生的那些小关系，并不怎么重要。那—切都要消逝。而且谁知道那一切都消逝到哪儿去了呢，哪儿是旧年的自雪……在一个人生命中能持久的东西，这才是重要的东西。我自己的生命，在她的长久的持续与发展里，于我是重要的，但是与人发生的偶尔关系，特别是那偶尔的性的关系，有什么重要呢？这种种关系，如果人不把它们可笑的张大起来，事情便象鸟交尾似地过去。事情本来应该这样，那有什么重要呢？重要的是终身的结合，重要的是一天一天的共同生活并不是那一两次的苟合。你和我，无论发生怎样的事情，我们终是夫妻。我们彼此习惯着在一块。我觉得习惯是比任何偶尔的兴奋都重要的。我们所凭以生活的，是那长久的、缓慢的、持续的东西，并不是什么偶然的瞬息的快感。两个人住在一块，一步一步地达到一致。他们的感觉密切地交贯着。结婚的真谛便是这个，并不是性行为，尤其不是那简单的性作用。你和我由结婚而互相联系着。命运已经不幸地把我们的肉体关系斩断了，我们只要能够维持着结婚的基本东西，这性的问题我想中可以容易解结的——不见得比找牙种医生治牙更难解决的。”

康妮坐在那儿，在士种惊愕和恐怖的情绪中听着，她不知道他说得究竟有理还是无理。她爱蔑克里斯，至少她自己这样想。但是她的爱不过是她和克利福的结婚生活中的一种开心的小旅行罢了。她和克利福的结婚生活，那便是由多年的苦痛和忍耐所造成的又长又慢的亲密的习惯。也许人类的灵魂是需要些开心的小旅行的，而且不可去拒绝这个需要的。但是所谓旅行，那是终得归家来的。

“无论什么男人使我生的孩子你都不介意么”她问道。

“用得着么，康妮？我相信你的选择的本能是高尚的。你决不会让一人坏男人接触你的。”

她想起了蔑克里斯！他是克利福所认为坏男人的那种人。

“但是，男人和女人对于坏男人的看法也许是不同的。”她说。

“不见得。”他答道，“你是看重我的。我不相信你要找个我所绝不喜欢的男人，你一定不会那样做的。

她静默着，逻辑谬误到绝点时，是不容人答辨的。

“我要是有了个男人，你要我告诉你么？”她偷偷地向他望了一望。

“一点也不要。我还是不知道的好……不过，偶尔的性行为，和长久的共同生活比起来，科不算什么，这一点你和我意见一致，不是不？你相信长久的共同生滔比性欲的事里董要吧？我们已到了不得不如此的地步，那么以性欲上只好请便罢，是不是？总之，那些一瞬的兴奋有什么重要关系呢？难道生命的整个问题，不是在累车积月地、慢慢地、创造一个完备的人格么？不是生活于一种完备的生活中么？一种不完备的生活是没有意义的。如果缺少性的满足使你不完备，那么找一个对手去。如果没有儿子使你不完备，那么，只要你能够，生个孩子罢，不过，做这种事要以获得一个完备的生活为目的。要以获得一个长久而和谐的完备生活为目的。这，你和我是可以共同去做的……你说是不是……我们是能够，如果我们能使自己适应于需要，而同时把这种适应和我们持久的共同生活打成一片。你的意见是不是这样？”

康妮觉得有点给这些话语压倒了。她知道他在理论上是对的。但是在事实上，当她考虑到和他过着那种持续的生活时……她不禁犹豫了。难道真是她的命中注定了，要把她今后的一生都断送给这个人么？就这样完全绍了么？

只这样就完结了么？她只好知足地去和他组成一种持续的共同生活，组成一块布似的，也许偶尔地，在这布上绣上一朵浪漫的花。但是她怎能知道明年她又要如何感觉呢？谁能知道？谁能说一个年年有效的“是”宇？这个小小的“是”，是一出气便溜出来的！一个人为什么定要对这轻如蝴蝶的一个安负长久的责任呢？这个小宇儿，当然要象蝴蝶似地飘飘飞逝，好让其他的“是”和“不”替上的！

“我相信你是对的，克利福。就我所能判断的说，我和你意见相同，不过生活也许要完全改变面目的。”

“但是生活没有完全改变面目以前，你是同意罢？”

“呵，是的！我相信我的确同意。”

她看见了头棕色的猎犬，从路穷的小径里跑了出来，向他们望着，举着嘴，轻轻吠着，一个带着枪的人，轨快地跟着猩犬，向他们走来．仿佛要向他们攻击的样子。但是他突然站住了，向他们行了一个礼，然后回转头向山下走去，这不过是个新来的守猎人，但是他却把康妮吓了一跳，他出现得这样的突然，象是一种骤然的威吓，从虚无中跑出来。

这人穿着深绿色的线绒衣，带着脚绊……老式的样子，红润的脸孔，红的髭须，和冷淡的眼睛。他正迅速地向山下走土

“梅乐士！”克利福喊道。

那人轻快地回转了身，迅速地用一种姿势，行了个兵士的礼。

“你可以把我的车子转过来，再把它推动吗？这样比较好走一些。”克利福说。

那人马上把枪挂在肩上，用那种同样的奇异的姿态定了上来，又敏捷又从容好象他要使自己不能人看见似的。他是中等的身材，有点消瘦，很缄默，他一点也不看康妮，只望着那车子。

“康妮，这是新来的守猎人，叫梅乐士。你还没有和太太说过话罢，梅乐士？”

没有，先生。”这回答又快又冷淡。

这人脱下了他的帽子，露着他的浓密的近金栗色的头发。他用那种充分的，无惧的、平淡的视线，向康妮的眼里直望着，好象他要看看她是怎样一个人似的，他使她觉得羞怯。她羞怯地低下了头。他把帽子放在左手里，微微地向她鞠了一个躬，象个绅士似的。但是他一句话也不说，他手里拿着帽子，站在那儿静默了一会。

“你在这儿有些日子了吧，是不是？”康妮问他道。

“八个月了，太太……男爵夫人！”他镇静地改正了称呼说。

“你喜欢在这儿吗？”

她地望着他的眼睛，他带着讥讽的，也许是鲁莽的神气，把眼睛闭了一半。

“啊，是的，谢谢你，夫人！我是在这儿生长的……”他又轻轻地鞠了一个躬，然后回转身去，把帽子带上，走过去握着车子，他的声调，说到最后几个字时，带着沉重的拖连的音……也许这也是由于侮慢罢，因为他开头说话时，并不带一点儿土音的。他差不多可说是个绅士呢，无论如何，他是一个奇异的、灵敏的、孤独的人，虽然孤独，但他却有自信心。

克利福把机器开动了，那人小心地把车子移转过来；使它面向着那渐次地向着幽间的榛林下去的山直线。

“还有什么事么，克利福男爵？”他问道。

“是人，你还是跟我们去好，万一车子地走不动了的话，这机器上山用实在是不够力的。”

那人的眼睛，接心地探望着他的猎犬望着他，微微地摇着尾巴，一种轻轻的微笑，嘲讽的或戏弄的但是和蔼的微笑，显现在那人的眼里，一会儿便消失了，他的脸上也毫无了表情了。他们下着山坡，车子走得有点快，那人扶着车背，使它安稳地前进，他的神气，与其说是仆役，不如说是个自由的兵士。他有点什么地方使康妮想起了唐米•督克斯。

当他们赤到擦树丛林时，康妮突然跑到前头去把窗门打开了。康妮扶着那扇开着的门，两个男人经过时都向她望着，克利福带着非难的神气，另一个是带着一种冷静的惊异的样子，想看看她究竟是怎样一个人，她看见他的蓝色的平淡的眼睛里，带着一种苦痛的超脱的神情，但是这眼睛里有着一种什么热力，但是他为什么这样的孤高，这样的远隔呢？

当他们通过园门后，克利福把车子停住了，那个人赶忙跑了回去，谦恭地把园门关好。

“你为什么那样忙着开门呢？这事梅乐士会做的。”克利福问道，他的镇静泰然的声音，表示着他是不高兴的。

“我想这样你可以一直开进去，不必停着等。”康妮说。

“那么让你在质面跑着赶上来么？”克利福问道。

呵！我人时倒喜欢跑一跑呢？”

梅乐十回来重新扶着车子，好象什么都没有听见的样子，可民康妮却觉得他留意着一切，当他在林园里推着车子上那有点峻峭的山丘财，他嘴唇张着，呼吸有点急了起来。他并不怎样强壮呵”虽然他是奇异地充满着生气，但是他是有点脆弱和干涸的。她的妇人的本能感知这个。

康妮蹬在后边，让车子继续前行，天色变成了灰暗了，雾环绕着的那块小青天合拢了，好象盖上了盖子似的。这时天气严冷起来，雪就要下了，一切都是灰色，全是灰色！世界好象是衰疲了。

车子在那浅红色的路尽头等着，克利福转头来看康妮来了没有。

“不累吗？”他问道。

“啊，不！”她说。

但是她实在是累了。一种奇异的疲乏的感觉，一种渴慕着什么，不满着什么的感觉，充满着她。克利福并没有注意到：这种事情不是他所能知觉的。但是那个生疏的人却觉晓着，闪妮觉得在她的环境和她的生命里，一切都衰败了，她觉得她的不满的心情，比那些小山还要古老。

他们到了屋前，车子绕到后门去，那儿是没有阶沿的。好容易克利福她从那小车里把自己投到家里用的轮椅里。他的两臂是又敏捷又有力的。然后康妮把他那沉重的两条死了的‘腿搬了了过去。

那守猎人，一边等待着主人的辞退，一边端详地、无遗地注视着这一切，当他看见康妮把克利福的两条死腿抱起来放到轮椅里去时，他恐怖得脸色苍白起来。他觉得惊骇了。

“梅乐士，谢谢你的帮忙。”克利福漠然地说，说着把椅子向走郎里滚去。

“没有别的事情了么，先生？”那平淡、旬在做梦的声音说道。

“没有了，早安！”

“早安。先生。”

“早安！谢谢你把车子上山来……我想你不觉得太重吧？”康妮望着门外的那个守猎的人说道。

他的眼睛立刻和他的相遇了，好象梦中醒转的样子。他的心里已有了她了。’

“呵，不，中重J他迅速地说。然后人的声音又带了那沉重的土腔：“夫人，早安！”

午餐的时候，康妮问道：“你的守猎人是谁？”

“梅乐十！你已经见过他了。”克利福说。

“是的，但是他是从哪儿来的？”

“从虚无中来的。这是达娃斯哈人……一个煤矿工厂的儿子，我相信。”

“他自己也曾做过矿工吗？”

做过矿场的铁匠，—我相信，做过铁匠的工头。在大战前……在他没有去投这国以前，他曾在这儿当过两年守猎人。我的父亲很看得超他；所以当他回来要在矿场里再当铁匠的时候，我叫他地这儿再当守猎人，我实在很喜欢得到他……在边儿要找个好的守猎人，差不多是件不可能的事……那非要一个熟识附近居民的人不行的。”

“他结了婚没有？”

“他曾结过婚。不过他的女人跟了几个不同的男子……最后是跟了一个史德门的矿工走了。我相信她现在还在史德门罢。”

“那么他现在是孤身一个人了？”

“多少是！他有个母亲任在村里……他还有一个孩子，我相信。”

克利福用他那无光彩的稍为突出的蓝眼睛望着她，这眼睛里显现着某种暗昧的东西。在外表上看来，他好象是精明活泼的，但是在背面，他便同米德兰一带的气氛似的，烟雾沉沉。这烟雾好象蔓延起来，所以当他用那奇特的样子注视着康妮，一边简明地回答着她的问话时，她觉得克利福的心灵的背后，给烟雾和虚无充满了。这使她害怕起来，这种神气使他似乎失去了人性，而差不多成为一个白痴了。

模糊地，她感悟了人类灵魂的一条伟大的法则，那便是当一个人受了刨伤的打南昌，而肉体没有被击死的时候，灵魂便好象和肉体一样痊愈起来，但这只是外表罢了，实在那不过是习惯恢复过来的一种机械作用。慢慢地，馒慢地，灵魂的创伤开始显露，好象一个伤痕，起极是轻微的，但是慢慢地它的痛楚加重起来，直至把灵魂的全部充满了。正当我们相信自己是痊愈了，而且把它忘记了的时候，那可怖的反应才最难忍受是被人觉察出来。

克利福正外在这种情境中，当他觉得“痊愈”时，当他回到勒格贝时，他写着小说，相信着无论怎样他的生命是安全了，他好象把过去不幸的遭遇忘记了，而精神的均衡也恢‘复了。但是现在，一年一年地过去了，侵慢地，慢慢地，康妮觉得那可惊可怖的创伤回复起来，把他布满了。好些日子以来，那创伤是深伏着，好象没有那回事似地不被人觉察，现在，这创伤徐徐地在惊悸的、几乎是疯痪的开展中使人觉着了。精神上，他仍然是安好的，但是那疯瘫——那太大的打击过后的创伤——渐渐地开展在他的感觉之中了。

虽然那创伤中在他身上开展，康妮却觉得开展到她身上来了。一种对于所有事物的内在的惊怖，空虎、冷淡，一步一步地开展在她的灵魂里了，当克利福好的时候，他还能兴致勃勃地谈论，或可以说是，他还能支配将来，譬如在树林里时，他还对她说着要有个孩子给勒格贝一个继承的人。但是第二天，这一切漂亮话只象是些枯死的树叶，绉缩着而成为碎粉，毫无意义，一阵风便给吹散了。这些话并不是有真生命的苍经的树上叶子，富有青春力量。它们只是一个无目的的生命的一阵落叶。

她不觉得一切都是无目的的。这娃斯哈的矿工又说着要罢工了，而康妮觉得那不是力量的表现，那不过是大战留下的一个创伤，隐伏了一些时日后，慢慢浮现出来，而产生了这种不安的大痛苦和不满现状的恐怖。那虚伪的不人道的大战所留下的创伤是太深了，太深了……那定要好些时日，才能使后代人的活血去把深藏在他们的灵魂和肉里面的无限的创伤的黑白块溶解。那定要有一个新的希望才行。

可怜的康妮！岁月悠悠地过去，她在她的生命的空虚之前战栗着。克利福和她自己的精神生活，渐渐地觉得变为空虚了。他们的结婚生活，克利福所常说的那种基于亲密习惯的完备生活，有些日子竟成为完全的空洞。纯粹的虚无了。那只是些漂亮的言词。全是些漂亮的言词。在这些虚伪的言词上面，唯一的真实但是空虚。

当然，那儿也有克利福的成功，那成功的财运，他差不多是著名了，他的书一年可以赚一千镑，他的像片随处都是；在一个画展里有一幅他的半身像，还有其它两处画展也有他的肖像在。他的作品似乎是最人时中最人时的东西。凭他的宣传的本能，那残废者的奇异的本能，在四五年之间，他已成为青年”知识界”中最出名的一个了。康妮就不太清楚究竟才智在哪里。的确，克利福幽默地对于人的分析，动机的考究，未了把一节弄成碎片，在这一点上，他的技巧是很出色的‘但是那的些象小狗儿的戏滤，把沙发上的垫枕撕了个破碎的样子，不同的便是克利福并不是那样天真，那样戏谑，而是奇异地老成持重，和固执地夸张自大罢了。“那是悼异的，空虚的。”这便是康妮的灵魂深处所反复地觉着的：“那一切都是空虚，一个空虚的、令人惊异的熔耀。”然而，那终是一个炫耀！一个炫耀！一个炫耀啊！

蔑克里斯把克利福拿来做他的一个剧本的中心人物；剧情已经拟好，第一幕也已经写完了。因为蔑克里斯对于空虚的弦耀。比克利福更高明。他们这些人的所有的热情只剩下这个熔耀的热情，在性欲上，他们是没有热情的，甚至是死的。现在，蔑克里斯所欲望的不是金钱了，克利福呢，他从来就没有把金钱看得最重要，但是他能够弄钱时还是不肯放松的。因为金钱是成功的象征。成功，这便是他们所欲望的。他们俩都想弄个美丽的核耀，凡一个人所能做到的自我的熔耀全做出来，以博得民众一时欢心。

奇怪哟，这种对于财运的买身。自从康妮跳出了这圈套以来，自从她惊愕得麻木了以来，这一切只是空虚。甚至这种对于财运的卖身，克利福快活得很，他又要在焙耀之中了，而这一次，却是他人把他来焙耀，而且是有利于自己的熔耀呢。他请蔑克里斯把写就了的第一幕带到地勒格贝来。

蔑克里斯来了：那是夏天，他穿着一套灰白的衣裳，戴着羔皮的手套。他带了些可爱的浅紫色的兰花给康妮。第一幕的读出是个大大的成功。甚至康妮也迷醉了……迷醉到骨髓里了。蔑克里斯呢，他也迷醉了——为了他自已有这样迷醉入的能力。在康妮的眼睛里，他这时真上卓越非凡，而且十分漂亮。她从他身上，看出了一种再不迷于幻景的人类的古老的滞息情态，一种极端的不纯洁，而这不纯洁到了极端，也许说是纯洁的。在他的至高无上的卖身于财运的远处看来，他似乎是纯洁的，纯洁得象非洲的象牙面具似的。那象牙面具上的阴处和阳处的不纯洁，都给梦幻变为纯洁了。

当他使查太莱夫妇神迷惊服的时候，这是蔑克里斯生命中最可贵的片刻，他已经成功了，他使他们惊报了，甚至克利福一时都钟情于他了……如果我们可以这样说的话。

第二天，蔑克显得比一向更不安：躁急着，自抑着，两只不安的手插在裤袋里，康妮在夜间没有去找他；而他又不知到哪间屋去找她。正值他在得意的时候，这种撩人的风情真好苦人呵！

他跑到楼上她的起坐室里去。她知道他要来的。她看出了他的不安。他问她对于那幕剧的意见……她是否觉得好！他需要受人赞美，那可以给他一种微妙的热情的颤战，这颤战比性欲极度满足时的颤战更甚。她对他的剧本是空虚无物的。

“喂！”他最后突然地说道：“你和我为什么不把事情干脆地做去呢？为什么我们不结婚呢？”

．“但是我已经结婚了。”她惊愕地说，但是她并不感觉着什么。

“呵！那有什么关系！他可以和你离婚的。你问我为什么不结婚呢？我是想结婚的。我知道这对我是最好的事情……结婚而过个正常生活。我现在过的是一种非人的生活，这种生活简直把我的精神和肉体都撕碎了。喂，你看，你和我，我们真是天生一对……好象手和手套一样。我们为什么不结婚呢？你有什么理由不让我们结婚呢？”

康妮望着他，惊愕着，但是并不感觉着什么。男从都是一个样儿：他们是不顾一切的。他们象火箭似地向天上冒，而希望你跟着他们的小竿儿同上天去。

“但是我已经结了婚的人了。”她说，“你知道我是不能丢弃克利福的。”

“为什么不能？为什么不能？他叫道，“半年一过，他便不觉得你没有了，除了他自己的存在以外，别人的存在于他是无关紧要的。依我所知道，你于他是无用的，他只想着他自己。”

康妮觉得这话很真切。但是她也觉得蔑克不过是个自私自利的人罢了。

“难道所有的男人不都是只想着他自己么？”她问道。

“是的，多少是的，我承认。一个人不得不如此达到他的目的。不过问题并不在这里。问题是一个男人所能给与女人的是什么：他能否使他快乐？要是他不能的疾，他对这女人使没有权利……”他停着，用他那几乎催眠的，褐色的圆眼睛望着她，“我，我认为我能够给一个女人她所要求的一切幸福。我可以保证这个。”

“什么样的幸福呢？”康妮问着，总是以那种甸是热情，其实宛无感觉的惊愕神气望着他。

“各种各样的幸福和快乐，衣裳，珠宝，无论哪个夜总会，只要你愿意去，无论哪个人，只要你愿意认识；所有的时髦东西……旅行，和到处受人尊重；……总之，各种各样的幸福和快乐。”

他佯洋得意地说着，康妮望着他，象是被迷惑着，而实际她却毫无感觉，所有这些金碧辉煌的允诺，连她的心的外表都感动。在其他的时候，她的自我的最外的部分，要是听了蔑克这番话，是要感到颤战的，现在甚至一点感应都没有了。她简直不觉得有任何感觉，她不能“动”。她只是端坐着，象是被迷惑着，实在毫无所感，她不过觉得什么地方有一种钱财的臭味。

蔑克如坐针毯似的，在椅子里身子向前倾图，用一种歇斯底里病者似的神气向她注视着，他究竟是由于虚荣心而期望着她说“是”呢，不是惊悸着她真的说了出来？谁能知道？

“我得想一想。”她说，“现在我不能回答你，你可以把克利福看着不算什么，但是他是紧要的。如果你想一想他是多么需要……”

“老天爷啊，如果一个人细看起我们所需要的东西，我很可以说我是多么孤独无依，一向就是孤独无依而需要跳出这种情态哟。老天爷！如果一个人什么东西都没有，只有拿自己的无能去乞人怜爱……”

他转过身去，两只手愤怒地在裤袋里乱动。那天晚上他对她说：

“今夜你到我的房里来吧，是不是？我不知道你的睡房在哪里。”

“好罢！”她说。

那晚上，他的奇异的、象孩子似的、脆弱的裸体，比一向更显得他是一个兴奋的人。在他还没有完毕以前，康妮觉得她简直不能得到终极的快感。他的裸体和他的孩子似的软嫩，引起了她的炽热的情欲。他完毕了以后，她在一种狂田的骚动中，摇摆起伏着她的腰部继续下去，而他呢，用着毅力和物牺牲的精神，英武地挺直着在她的里面，直等到她带着奇异的细微的呼喊而得到了她的最高度的快感的时候。

最后，当他从她那儿抽退时，他用一种苦味的，几乎是嘲讽的细声说道：

“你难道不能和男人一起完毕吗？难道你定要在你觉得喜欢的时刻，一个人自己干着完毕么？”

这短短的几句话，在那种时候，是她有生以来少有过的打击。原来他献身与人的那种被动的态度，很显然地便有他交媾的唯一的真样子。

“你这话是什么意思？”她说。

“你知道是什么意思。我完毕了以后你还是继续着。尽是继续着……我不得不倒悬在那儿，咬紧着牙关，直等到你用你自己的力量干完了才休！”

正当她给一种不能以言语形容的快乐燃烧着，正当她滋生着一种对他的爱情的这个时候，这种意外的粗野的话把她惊呆了。毕竟他是象许多现代的男人们一样，差不多一开始就要完毕，因此使妇人不得不以自力活动着。

“但是，你愿意我继续下去而得到我自己的满足么？”她说。

他阴沉地笑着，说：“我愿意！你真好！你以为我愿意悬在那儿，咬紧着牙关，等你向我冲撞！”

“但是你不愿意么？”她坚持着说。

他回避着这个问题。“所有的女人都是一样，”他说，要不是她一点儿也不享受，象是死了的样子，便是等男子完了，才来开始使自己享受，男人只好悬在那里等。我还不没有碰到一个和我一起享受完毕的女人。”

这种新奇的关于男性的知识，康妮只听着一半。她被他那种反对她的感情和他那种不可思议的粗野惊呆了。她觉得真是无辜。

“但是你愿意我也得到我的快感吧，是不是？”她重复地说。

“啊，算了！我很愿意的。但是一动不动地悬在那儿，等着女人享受，那决不是好玩的事哟。……”

这话是康妮有生以来所受到的最残酷的打击。她心里的什么东西被毁灭了。她并不怎样要蔑克；在她没有开头以前，她并不想要他。她好象从来没有真正地想要他。但是，他既然开头了，她觉得那是很自然的要使自己也从他那儿得到快感。为了这个，她几乎爱他了……那晚上，她差不多爱他了，而且想和他结婚了。

也许他本能地知道这个，所以他才那样的粗野，而把一切、一切的海市蜃楼全都破坏了。所有她对他的性感，以至对任何男子的性感，在那晚上都崩毁了。她的生命和他的生命完全地分开了，好象他这个人是从来没有存在过似的。

她继续度着她毫无生气的日子。现在什么也没有了。只有那克利福所谓的完备生活的空壳子，那种两个人彼此习惯着在一个屋顶下面的长日漫漫的共同生涯。

空虚！接受这生命的庞大空虚好象便是生活的唯一目的了。所有那些忙碌的和重要的琐事，组成了空虚的全体！
Chapter 6
`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! 
“为什么我们现在，男人和女人都不真正相爱子？”康妮问着唐米·督克斯他多少象是她的问道之神。 
“啊，谁说他们不相爱！我相信自人类被创造以来，男女的相爱没有更甚于我们今日了，他们是真情相爱的，拿我们自己来说……我实在觉得女人比男人更可爱。她们的勇气比男人大，我们可以开诚布公地对待她们。”
康妮沉思着
“呵，是的，但是你从来就还没有和她们有过什么关系哟！”
“我？那么我此刻正在做什么？我不是正和一位女人诚恳地谈着话吗？”
“是的，谈着话……”
“假如你是一个男子，你想，除了和你诚恳地谈话以外，我还能和你怎样？”
“也许不能怎样，但是一个女人……”
“一个女人要你去喜欢她，和她谈话，而同时又要你去爱她，追求她。我觉得这两件事是不能同时并行的。”
“但是这两件事应该可以并行才是！”
“无疑地，水不应该这样湿才是呵，水未免太湿了。但是水就是这样湿的！我喜欢女人，和她们谈话，所以我就不爱她们，不追求她们。在我，这两件事是不能同时发生的。”
“我觉得这两件事是应该可以同时发生的。”
“好吧。但是事情才就是这样，若定要事情成为别样，这我可没有法子。”
康妮默想着。“这不见得是真的，”她说，“男人是可以爱女人，并且和她们谈话的。我不明白男人怎么能够爱她们而不和她们谈话，不和她们亲热。他们怎么能够？”
“晤，这个我可不知道。”他说，“为什么要一概而论呢？我只知道我自己是这样。我喜欢女人，但是我不追求她们，我喜欢和她们谈话，但是谈话虽然使我在某一种说法上和她们发生亲密，但是一点也不使我想和他们接吻。你看我就是这样！但是不要拿我当作一个一般的例子，也许我正是一个特殊的例子。我是一个喜欢女人但是不爱女人的男人之一，如果她们要迫我装模作样地讲爱情，或做出如胶似漆的样子，我还要恨她们呢。”
“但是那不使你觉得悲哀吗？”
“为什么要悲哀？一点也不！当我看见查里·梅和其他许多与女人有关系的男人时……不，我一点也不羡慕他们！如果命运送给我一个我能爱而追求的女人，那好极了。但是我从来就没有碰到过这样的女人……我想我是冷淡的；但是有些女人却是我非常喜欢的。”
“你喜欢我吗？”
“很喜欢。而你可以看出，在我们之间是没有接吻的问题的，可不是吗？”
“不错，”康妮说。“但是也许我们之间应该要有这问题吧？”
“为什么，请问？我喜欢克利福，但是假如我走去抱吻他，你要作何感想？”
“但是其间没有不同的地方么？”
“不同的地方在哪里，拿我们来说吧？我们都是没有智慧的人类，男女的关系是放在度外的，放在度外的，如果我突然在此刻玩起那大陆上的男性的把戏，向你显示着性欲，你要觉得怎样？”
“那我一定要觉得可恨。”
你瞧！我告诉你如果我真是个有男性的人，我是永远不会遇着一个和我相投的女人的，可是我并不芥蒂于心。我喜欢女人，那就完了。谁还去迫我爱她们。或假装爱她们，而玩那性的把戏吗？”
“我决不这样迫你，但是这其中恐怕有些谬误的地方吧？”
“你也许这样觉得，我却不。”
“是的，我觉得男女之间有什么不对劲的东西。女人对男人再也没有魔力了。”
“而男人对女人呢，有没有？”
她考虑了问题的那一面。
“不甚有。”她诚实地说。
“那么好，我们不要再说这个了。只要我们做好人，互相坦直而合礼便得了，至于那不自然的讲爱情，我是绝对地拒绝的！”
康妮知道他确是对的。但是他的一番话，使她觉得这样的无主宰，这样的迷悯，她觉得自己好象一枝草梗似地迷失在一个荒凉的池泽上，她的和一切事物的要点在哪里？
那是她的青春反叛了。这些男子仿佛是这样的老，这样的冷淡。一切都仿佛是而老冷淡。蔑克里斯是这样令人失望，他是毫无用处的。男子们不要你，他们实在不需要一个女人，甚至蔑克里斯也不需要。
而那些坏蛋们，假装着他们需要女人，而发动那性的把戏，这种人比一切更坏。多么悲惨呵！可是一个人不得不忍痛迁就。
那是非常真实的：男从对于女人已没有真正的魔力了，假如你能瞒着你自己去幻想蚌他们还有魔力，正如康妮瞒着她自己去幻想着蔑克里斯还有魔力一体，那是最好的一件事。同时你只是敷衍着生活下去，那是毫无什么的。她很明白人们为什么要有醇酒宴会、爵士音乐和却尔斯登舞……这些宴安毒的东西。原来你得让青春沉醉。否则青春要把你吞掉。但是，多么可憎呵，这青春！你觉得象麦修彻拉一样老，而这青春却沸腾着，使你坐寐不安。多么卑贱的一种生活！而毫无希望！她几乎真想跟蔑克去，而把她的生活变成一个不尽的醉酒宴会，一个爵士音乐的长夜。无论如何那总比打着哈欠等死为上呢。
一个她觉得不愉快的早晨，她一个人到树林里去散步，沉郁地走着，不留心着什么，甚至不知道她自己在何处，不远处的一声枪响吓了她一跳，而激起她的怒气。
她向前走着，她听见了些声音，退缩了。有人在这儿呢！她是不愿意遇着什么人的。但是她的灵敏的耳朵呼着了另一种声响，她惊悸着，原来是一个孩子的哭声。她再听着，听见什么人在骂孩子。她迅速地向那湿路上下去，阴郁的感情的怒气充满着她。她觉得自己已准备了了要去向谁发脾气了。
转过一个弯，她看见两个人在她面前的路上，守猎人和一个穿着紫色外磋商，带着鼹鼠皮帽的女孩，女孩正在哭泣。
“喂，不要哭了，你这小鬼子。”那人怒叫道。
孩子哭得更厉害了。康妮走上前去，眼睛发着光，那人回转身来望着她，冷淡地行了一个礼，他的脸正气得发白。
“什么事？她哭什么？”康妮问道，很坚决的，但是有点喘不过气来。
一个轻轻的微笑，好象嘲弄人似的，显现在那人的脸上。“那，你得问她去。”他用他的沉浊的土音冷淡地答道。
康妮觉得好象被他在脸上打了一下似的，气得脸色都变了，她抖擞着精神，望着他，她那深蓝色的眼睛茫然地发着亮。
“我是问你。”她喘着气说。
他举着帽子向她行了个奇特的鞠躬。——“对的，男爵夫人，”他说。然后他又带着土音说“但是我不能告诉你。”他变成了一个士兵似的，令人不可捉摸的态度，脸孔烦恼得发青。
康妮转过身到孩子那里去。这是一个九岁或十岁的女孩，红赤的脸，黑头发。——“什么事呀，亲爱的？告诉我你哭什么？”康妮在这种情境中路着那人之常情的温情说道。孩子故意的呜咽得更厉害了。康妮更温柔地对待她。
“好了，好了，不要再哭了！告诉我别人殷你怎么欺负了！”……声音中带着无限地温慰。同时她在绒编织的短衣袋里摸着，恰好找到了一个六辨士。
“不要哭了！”她向孩子弯着身说，“你看看我给你什么东西！”
呜咽着，吸着鼻涕，掩着哭肿了的脸的一只拳头移开了，一只灵动的黑色的眼睛向六辨士瞥了一瞥。她还中鸣咽着，但是轻了许多——“好，好，告诉我什么事，告诉我！”康妮说着把钱放在孩子的肥厚的小手里，这只小手把钱接着。
“那是……那是……为了猫猫！。”
呜咽减低了，抽噎着。
“什么猫猫，亲爱的？”
等了一会，那握着六辨十的羞缩的小手伸了出来，指着一丛荆棘。
“在那儿！”
康妮望着那儿。不错，她看见了一只大黑猫，身上染着血。狞恶地躺在那儿。
“啊！”她憎恶地叫道。
“这是一只野猫，夫人。”那人嘲讽地说。
他向康妮眼里望着，猛捷地，傲慢地，一点也不隐藏着他的感觉：康妮的脸色变红了，她觉得她刚才发了他的脾气，这个人并不尊敬她了。
“你叫什么名字？”她和气地向孩子问道，“你肯告诉我你的名字吗？”
孩子吸着鼻涕；然后用一种矫揉造作的尖声道：“康妮·梅乐士！”
“康妮·梅乐士！呵，这是个美丽的名字呢！你是和爸爸一同出来的吗？他向那猫猫开枪是吗？但那是一只坏猫猫吗？”
孩子用她那勇敢的黑眼睛望着她，探究着她，打量着康妮这个人和她的怜爱的态度。
“我本来要跟奶奶留在家里的”女孩说。
“是吗？但是你的奶奶在那儿？”
孩子举起手臂，向马路下边指着：“在村舍里。”
“在村舍里？你要回到她那里去么？”
想起了刚才的哭泣，突然发抖地抽噎起来。——“是的，我要去！”
“那么来吧，我带你去好么？”把你带到你奶奶那里去好么？这样你爸爸便可以做仙所要做的事情了。”——她转过脸去向那人说道：“这是你的女孩，是不是？”
他行了一个礼。轻轻地点了点头。
“我想我可以带她到村舍里去吧？”康妮问道。
“如果夫人愿意的话。”
他重新向她的眼睛望望着，用他那种冷静的、探究的、不在乎的眼光望着她。这是一个很孤独的人。只管着他自己的事的人。
“你喜欢同我到村舍里，到你奶奶那里去么，亲爱的？”
那孩子又通告着那尖锐的声音，娇媚地说：“是的！”
康妮并不喜欢她，这，个娇养坏了的阴险的小女性，但是她却替她揩了脸，拉着她的手，守猎人行了个礼，不说什么。
“早安！”康妮说。
到村舍里差不多有一英里路。还没有到那守猎的人富有风趣的村舍以前，康妨已经觉得太讨厌那女孩了。那孩子是猴子创造的狡猾，而且是这样的泰然。
村舍的门开着，听得着里面的声响。康妮犹豫着，孩子撤开了手，向屋里跑去。
“奶奶！奶奶！”
“怎么，你已经回来了！”
祖母刚把火炉用黑铅油过，那天是星期六的早晨。她穿着粗布的围裙，手里拿着一个黑刷子，鼻子上染着黑灰，走到门边来。她是有点干枯了的小妇人。
“啊，怎么！她叫道，当她看见了康妮在门口站着，急忙地用手臂擦着脸；
“早安！”康妮说，“她哭了，所以我把她带回来的。”
祖母向孩子迅速地瞥了一瞥。
“但是，你爹爹在哪儿？”
女孩牵着她祖母的裙，痴笑着。
“他在那边，”康妮说，他把一只野猫打死了，把小孩吓慌了。”
“呵，那不应该这样麻烦你的，查太莱夫人；你太好了，但是真不应该这样的麻烦夫人呀！”
“没有什么麻烦，这还可使我散散步呢。”康妮微笑着说。
“你太好了！你真太好了！呵，她哭了么？我早知道他们俩走不了多远就要生事的。这女孩子怕他，她就是怕他。他好象是她的陌生人似的。完全陌生人，这父女俩。我看他们是不容易会得来的，她爸爸是个古怪的人。
康妨不知道说什么好。
“你瞧，奶奶！”孩子作媚态说。
那老妇女望着孩子手中的六辨士。
“还有六辨十！呵，夫人啊，你真不应该，真不应该。你瞧，查太莱夫人对你多好！你今卑真是运气哟！”
她把“查太莱”这个字象一般平民似的读成“查莱”。——“你瞧，查太莱夫人对你好不好！”——康妮不由得望了望那老妇人的黑鼻子，老妇女重新用着腕背擦着脸，但是没有擦着那黑灰。
康妮正要离开她们……“啊，多谢得很，查莱夫人！一一说谢谢查莱夫人？——最后这句话是向小孩说的。
“谢谢你。”孩子尖声地说。
“好孩子！”康妮笑着说。她说着“早安”走了。走远了以后，心里觉得很高兴已经离开她们了。她觉得有些奇怪，那清瘦而骄傲的人的母亲，但是这个干枯的小妇人。
当康妮走了以后，那老妇人连忙跑到厨房后间里，向一块小镜子照着。她看见了自己的脸孔，忍不住顿起脚来。“自然啦，穿着这围售裙，肮脏着这个脸鼻，便给她碰着了！她定要说我是多漂亮了！”
康妮慢慢地走回家去。“家！……用这个温暖的字眼去称这所愁闷的大房子。但是这是一个过了时的宇了，没有什么意义了。康妮觉得所有伟大的字眼，对于她的同代人，好象都失掉了意义了：爱情、欢乐、幸福、父、母、丈夫，报有为纛有权利威的伟大字眼央今日都是半死了而且一天一天地死下去了。家不过是一个生活的地方，爱情是一个不能再愚弄人的东西，欢乐是个“却尔斯登”舞酣时用的词幸福是一个人用来欺骗他人的虚伪的语调。父亲是一个享受他自己的生涯的人，丈夫是一个你和他同任而要忍心静气和他住下去的人。至于”性爱”呢，这最后而最伟大的字眼，只是一个轻挑的名称，
用来指那肉体的片刻销魂——销魂后使你更感破碎——的名称，破碎！好象你是一块廉价的粗布做成的。这块布渐渐地破碎到无物了。
剩下的唯一的东西，便是倔强的忍耐。而倔强的忍耐中，却有某种乐趣。在生命之空虚的经验本身中，一段一段地，一程一程地，有着某种可惊的满足，不过就是这样！这常常是最后一句话；家庭、爱情、结婚，蔑克里斯，不过就是这样！一个人到瞑目长眠的时候，向生命分别时的最后一句话也是：不过就是这样！
至于金钱呢？也许我们使不能这样说。人总是需要金钱的。金钱，成功，这“财神”——这名字是唐米·督克斯依照亨利·詹姆士的说话，常常拿来象征成功的——那是永久需要的东西。你不能把你最后的一枚铜子花光了，结尾说：不过就是这样！不，甚至你还有十分钟生命，你还是需要几个铜子。若要使生命的机械运转不停，你便需要金钱，你得有钱。钱你得有。其他的什么东西你实在不需要。不过就是这样！
当然，你在世上生活着，这并不是你的过错，你既生活着，你便需要金钱，这是唯一的绝对的需要品，其余一切都可以不要，你看，不过就是这样！
她想着蔑克里斯，杨着她要是跟他时所能有的金钱，甚至这个，她还是不想要他，她宁愿帮助克利福用著作去内部矛盾来的小钱。因为这个钱实在是她帮助他赚来的。下—“克利福和我，我们用著作一年赚一千二百金镑。”她对自己这样说。赚钱！赚钱！从无中赚得！从稀薄的空气中赚得！这是一个人可以自夸的唯一的秣！此外一切都管它的！
这样。她缓缓地回到克利福那里去，重新和他合力一，从虚无中找出篇把小说：所谓小说，那便是金钱。克利袜好象很关心着他的小说是否被人认为第一流的文学，但是她，她却满不在乎。虽然她的父亲常说：“克利福的作品里空洞无物。”但是她的简单坚决的回答是：“去年赚了一千二百英解放军！”
要是你年轻，你只要咬紧着牙；忍耐着，等到金钱从无中开始拥来，这是力量的问题，这是志愿的问题，一种微妙的、有力量的南愿从你身体里进发出来，使你感觉得金钱之神秘的空虚：一张纸上的一个宇，它是一种魔术，无疑地它是一个胜利。财神！要是一个人不得不出卖自身的话，还是卖给财神去好！我们甚至正在献身与他的时候，还可以轻蔑着她以求自慰。
克利福当然还有许多孩子气的想头。他要人家视他为“真正好作家”，这是愚蠢的想头。真正好作家，是个能攫着许多读者的人。做一个“真正好作家”而没有读者，那有什么用？大部分的“真正好作家”都象赶不上搭公共汽车的人，究竟呢，你不过活一回要是你赶不上搭公共汽车，你便只好留在街头，和其他没有赶上车的失败者们在一起。
康妮计划着冬天来了时，要和克利福到伦敦去过一个冬。她和他都是好好地赶上了公共汽车的人。所以他们很可以骄傲地坐在上层焙耀一番。
最不幸的就是克利福日见趋于不着实，分心，而陷于空洞抑郁的病态中。这是他的灵魂的创伤外发了的缘故。可是这却使康妮觉得穷迫。啊，上帝呀！要是意识的运用不灵活了，这怎么好呢？由它罢，我们尽力做去好了，难道我们就这样让自己失尽了勇气么？
有时她悲痛地哭着，但是，她一边哭着，一边对自己说：“傻子把一些手绢哭湿了；好象哭了就有什么用处似的！”
自从她和蔑克里斯发生关系以后，她已下了决心不再需要什么东西了。没有办法解决时，这似乎是最蠢的解决方法。除了她自己已得到的东西外，她不再需要什么东西了。她只愿把她已得到的东西好好地料理下去。克利福，小说，勒格贝，查泰莱男爵夫人的地位，金钱，名誉。她要把这一切好好地料理下去！爱情、性欲这一类的东西，只是糖水！吞了它而把它忘记就是。如果你心里不牵挂着它，它是没有什么的，尤其是性欲……更没有什么！决心忍耐着，问题便解决了，性欲和一杯醉酒，都是一样地不能持久的东西，它们的效力是一样，它们的意义也差不多。
但是一个孩子！一个婴儿j那却是令人兴奋的事情。她决不能冒昧从事。首先得要找到那个男子。说来也奇怪，世界上竞没有一个男子是她喜欢跟她生个孩子的。和蔑克生孩子吗？这是多么可憎的想法！那等于想我兔子生孩子一样！唐米，督克斯？……他是一个在自己身上完结的人。此外，在克利福的许多友人中，没有一个人不使她想到要和他生孩子便使她感到可鄙。其中虽然也有几个，如果拿来做情人还算可以过去，甚至和蔑克！但是若要和他们生个孩子，咳！那是屈辱而可憎的！
就是这样！
虽然，康妮的心灵深处，却想着孩子。等待吧！她要把这些同代的男子们，在她的筛子上细筛一烟，看看有没有一个合用的。——“到耶路撒冷的街头巷角走走看，看你能找到一个‘男子’不。”在这预言者的耶路撤冷，找不着一个男子，虽然那么雄性的人类多着，但是一个“男子”，那是不同的东西呵！
她想，也许，那得要一个外国人：不是英国人，更不是爱尔兰人，得要一个真正的外国人
但是等待吧！等待吧！冬天来了她要带克利福到伦敦去，下一个冬天，她要带他到法国南部，或意大利去。等待罢！孩子和问题是不着急的。这是她的私事。对晕事她是怪女性的，她是十分郑重其事的。她决不会冒险、随便，她决不！一个人差不多随时都可以找到一个情人；但是找个使你生孩子的男人……那得等一等！等一等！那是很不同的事情。——“那耶路撤冷的街头巷角走走看……”这并不是爱情的问题，那是找一个？男子”的问题。呵，你私下也许要恨这相男子。但是，如果他是个你所要的男子，那么一点私人的恨有什么重要！这并不是恨与爱的问题哟。
天下着雨，和通常一样，园里的路太湿了，克利福不便坐着车子出去，但是康妮还是想出去。现在她天天一个人出去，大部分是在树林里。那儿，她是真正的孤寂。愚不见半人影。
这千，克利福有什么话要吩咐守猎的人，而仆人却因患着流行感冒，不能起来——在勒格贝好象总有谁在患流行感冒似的——康妮说她可以到村舍那边去。
空气是软的，死的，好象世界就要断气了。一切都是灰色的。滑湿、静寂。煤矿场的声音也听不着，因为今天停工了，好象世界之末日到了！
树林里，一切都是毫无生命似地静息着。仅有无叶的树枝上落下来的雨滴，发着空洞的微音，在老树丛中，只有无边的灰色，绝望的静止，寂默，虚无。
康妮原朦胧向前走着。这古老的树林发出一种古代的忧郁，这却使她觉得有点安慰。因为这忧郁比之外面世界的那种顽固的麻痹状态还要好些。她喜欢这残余的森林的“内在性”和那些老树的列盲的陈忍。它们象是一种静默的力量，却又是一种有生命的现实。它们也是等待着，固执着，含忍着，等待着而发挥着一种斯默的权能。也许它们只等着他们的末日——被人所伐，被人运走！森林之末日，对于它们是一切之末日！但是，也许它们的高傲的有力的静默，那大树的静默，是含有其它的意义的。
当她从树林的北边出去时，她看见了守猎人的村台。这是一个有些灰暗的、棕争的石砌的屋，有着尖角的屋翼和雅致的烟囱，冷静孤僻，好象是没有人住似的。但是烟囱里却冒着一缕轻烟，而屋晨前的围着栏杆的小花园，也修理得很是清洁。门关闭着。
现在她到门前了，她觉得那人，那有着奇的锐敏的眼睛的人，使她有些羞缩。她不喜欢对他传达命令，她轻轻地再拍着，也没有人答应，她从窗口向内窥视，看见了里面的阴沉沉的小房子；那种差不多不祥的隐秘情形，好象不愿被人侵犯似的。
她站在那里听着，好象听见了屋后有些专声响。因为没有人听见她，所以她气忿起来，她不愿就此干休。她绕着屋子定了过去，在村舍后边，地面是高凸的，所以后院子是陷在里面，四周围着矮矮的石墙，她再绕过去，站着了，在那小院子里，离她有两步远的地方，那人正在洗着他自己，一点儿也不知道有外人来了。他的上身全裸着，那棉裤子在他的瘦小的腰际悬着，他的细长的自哲的背部，在一盆盛着肥皂水的盆上弯曲着，他把头浸在水里，用一种奇异的迅捷的小动作摇动着他的头，举起他瘦长的白皙的两臂，把耳朵里的肥皂水挤出来。又迅捷又灵敏，好象一只鼬鼠在玩着水似的，完全地孤独着。，康妮绕着回到村舍前面去，急忙地向树林里走开了。她不由自主地，很为感动。毕竟这只是一个男子在洗身罢了，一点也不值得惊怪的。
但是那种印象，于她却是一个奇异的经验：她和身体的中部好象受了打击似的，她看见了那沉重的裤子在他腰际悬着，那纯洁的、白皙的、细弱的腰，骨路在那儿微徽显露着，这样一种纯粹地寂寞着的男子的孤独的感觉，使她改正仲不安。那是一个妹居着而内心也孤独着的人的完全的、纯洁的、孤独的裸体，不单这样那是一个纯洁的人的美。那不是美的物质，更不是美的肉体，而是一种光芒，一个寂寞生活的温暖的白光，显现而成的一种可从触膜的轮廓：肉体！
这种印象深入到了康妮的肺腑里，她知道的，这印象嵌在她的心里面了，但是她的心里却觉得有点可笑：一个在后院里洗身体的男子！无疑地他还用着恶臭的黄色的肥皂呢！——她觉得有点讨厌；为什么她偏偏碰着了这种不高尚的私事！
她一步一下地走开，忘记了自己在走着。过了十会，她坐在一棵树桩上。她的心太乱了，不能思索什么了，但是在迷乱之中，她仍然决意要去把克利福的话送给那人。无论如何她得送去。不过还得让那人穿衣服的时间。只是不要让他出去就得了，因为大概是准备着出去的。她向着村舍慢慢地走回去，耳朵探听着。当她走近了村舍时，那村舍还是和刚才一样。一只狗吠了起来，她拍了拍门，心里不由自主地跳着。
她听见了那轻轻地下楼的声音。他敏疾地把门打开了，使她吃了一惊。他自己也好象不安的样子，但是他立刻露出了笑容。
“查太莱夫人！”他说，“请进来吗？”
他的样子是这样的斯文而自然，她只好跨过了门槛。而进到那间有点沉郁的小屋里。
“克利福男爵有点话吩咐你，我就是为这个来的”她用她的温柔的、有点喘急的声音说道。
他用他那蓝色的、洞视一切的眼睛望着她，这使她的脸微微地向旁边躲开。在她的羞惧中，他觉得她是可爱的，而且可以说是美丽的。他马上占了上风。
“请坐坐好吗？”他问道，心里想着她是不会坐下的。门还是开着。
“不坐了，谢谢，克利福男爵想问你，如果……”她把吩咐的话对他说，无意地向他的眼睛望着，现在，他的眼睛是温暖的，仁慈的，一种特别地对妇人而有的仁慈，无限的温暖，仁慈，而且泰然。
“好的，夫人，我就去看去。”
答应着她吩咐的话时，他完全变了，他给一种坚硬和冷淡的神气笼罩着了，康妮犹豫着。她应该走了，但是她用着一种颓丧的样子，向这所整洁的，有点忧郁的小屋子四下打量着。
“你只一个人住在这儿吗？”她问道。
“是人，夫人，只一个人。”
“但是你的母亲呢？”
“她住在村中她自己的村舍里。”
“和孩子在一起么？”康妮问道。
“和孩子在一起！”
他的平凡的、有点衰老的脸孔，显着一种不可解的嘲笑的神气。这是一个难于捉摸的、不住地变换的脸孔。
当他看见了康妮的莫名其妙的样子时，他说道：
“晤，我的母亲每星期六上这儿来收拾一次。其余的时间都是我自己料理。”
康妮再望着他。他的眼睛重新笑着。虽然带点嘲讽的神气，但是很蓝，很温暖，而且慈祥。她惊异地望着他。他穿着长裤和法兰绒的衬衣，结着灰白色的领带，他的头发柔软而润湿，他的脸孔有点苍白而憔悴。当他的眼睛不带笑的时候，显得很苦痛前的样子，但是总不会把热力失掉了。突然地，一种孤独的苍白色呈现在他的脸上：她在那儿并不是为了他呵。
她有许多话想说，可是说不出来，她只向他望着，说：
“我希望没有打扰你吧？”
一个轻轻的讥讽的微笑，把他的眼睛缩小了。
“不，我刚才正在梳头发，请你愿怨我没有穿上外衣，但是我并不知道是谁在敲门。这儿是从来没有人来敲门的意外的声音是使人觉得不祥的。”
他在她面前走着，到了园路的尽头，把门打开了。他只穿着衬衣，没有那笨重的棉绒外衣，她更看出了他是多么的细瘦，而有点向前颂曲，但是，当她在他面前走过的时候，她觉得他的生动的眼睛和浅褐色的头发，有点什么年轻南昌活泼的地方，他大约是个三十七八的人了。”
她局促地走到了树林里，她心里知道他正在后面望着她。她使他这样的不安而不能自抑。
他呢，当他走进屋里时，他的样子不象是一个守猎的人，无论如何不象是一个工人，虽然他有些地方象本地的平民，但他也有些和他们很不相同的地方。
那个守猎人，梅乐士，是一个奇怪的人。”她对克利福说，“他差不多象一个上流阶级的人。”
“真的吗？克利福说，“我倒没有注意。”
“但是他不是有点特别的地方么？”康妮坚持着说。
“我想他还不坏，但是我不太知道他。他是旧年才离开军队的一还没有到一年。我相信他是从印度归来对，他也许在那边得了一些什么怪癖。他也许是一个军官的传令兵，这把他的地位弄好了一些。许多士兵都是这样的。但是这于他们是没有好处的。当他们回到了老家的时候，他们便只好恢复旧态下”
康妮凝望着克利福，心里沉思着。她看见了他对较下阶级的稍有上升希望的人所生的那种狭窄的反感，她知道这是他那一类人的特性。
“但是，你觉得他是有点什么特别的地方么？”她问道。
“老实说，我不觉得，我毫没有注意到什么。”
他奇异地，不安地，半猜疑地望着她。她觉得他并没有对她说真话。说真切点，他并没有对他自己说真话。他厌恶人家提起什么有特别地方的人。人得站在他的水平线边，或以下，而不应该超出。
康妮又感觉到她同代的男子们的狭隘和鄙吝。他们上这样地狭隘，这样地惧怕生命！
Chapter 7
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. 


当康妮回到楼上她寝室里去时，做了一件很久以来没有做的事：她把衣服都脱光了，在一面很大的镜子面前，照着自己的裸体。她不太知道究竟她看什么，找什么，但是她把粉光移转到使光线满照在她的身上。 

她想到她常常想着的事：一个赤裸着的人体，是多么地脆弱，易伤而有点可怜！那是多么地欠缺而这完备的东西！

往昔，她的容貌是被人认为美好的，但是现在她是过时了，有点太女性而不太有单男的样式了。她不很高大，这种风韵也许可以说便是美。她的皮肤微微地带点褐色，她的四肢充满着某种安胸的风致，她是身躯应有饱满的流畅下附的华丽，不过现在却欠缺着什么东西。

她的肉体的坚定而下奔的曲线，本应成熟下去的，现在它却平板起来，而且变成有点粗糙了，仿佛这身体是欠缺着阳光和热力，它有点苍白面无生气了。

在完成一个真正的女性上，这身体是挫败了，它没有成就一个童男似的透明无理的身体；反之，它显得暗晦不清了。

她的乳房有点瘦小，象梨予似的垂着。它们是没有成熟的，带点苦味，而没有意义地吊在那儿。她在青春时期所有的一一当她年轻的德国情人真正爱她的肉体的时候所有的，那小腹的圆滑鲜明的光辉，已经失掉了。那时候，她的小腹是幼嫩的，含着希望的、有着它所特有的真面目。现在呢，它成为驰松的了，有点平板而比以前消瘦了，那是一种驰松的瘦态。她的大腿也是一样，从前富着女性的圆满的时候，是那样的灵活而光辉，现在却是平板、驰松而无意义了。

她的身体日见失掉意义，成为沉闷而赠晦，现在只是一个无意义的物质了。这使她觉得无限的颓丧的失望。还人什么希望呢？她老了，二十七岁便老了。是啊，为着牺牲而老了。时髦的妇从们，用外表的摄养法，把肉体保持得象一个脆嫩的瓷器似的放着光辉。瓷器的内面自然是什么都没有的。但是，康妮却连这种假借的光彩都没有。啊，精神生活！她突然觉得狂愤地憎恨这精神生活！这欺骗的精神生活！

他向后边那面镜子照着，望着她的腰身。她是日见纤瘦了，而这种纤瘦的样子于她是不台适的。当她扭转身去时，她看见她腰部的皱折是疲乏的，但是从前却是很轻盈愉快的！臀部两旁和臀尖的下倾，已失掉了它的光辉和富丽的神态了。失掉了！只有她那年轻的德国情人曾爱过这一切。而他却已经死去近十年了。时间过得多快！他死去已经十年了，而她现在只有二十岁！她曾貌视过的，那壮健青年的新鲜的印拙的性欲！现在她何处可以找到呢？男子们再也不会有了。他们只有那可怜的两秒钟的一阵抽搐，如蔑克里斯……再也没有真正的人性的性欲，再也没有那使人的血液沸腾，使人的全身全心清爽的性欲了。

虽然，她觉得她身体归美的部分，是从她背窝处开始的那臀部的悠长的下坠，和那两靡臀面的幽静思睡的圆满。如阿胶伯人说的，那象是些沙丘，柔和地、成长坡地下降。生命在这儿还带着一些希望，但是这儿也一样，她是比以前消瘦了，不成熟了，而且有点涩苦了。

但是她的前身却使她悲伤起来。这部分已经开始驰松了，现着一种差不多衰萎的松懈的消瘦，没有真正生活就已经老了。她想到她将来也许要有的孩子，她究竟配不配呢？

她穿上了睡衣，倒在床上苦痛地哭淬。在她的苦痛里，她对克利福，他的写作，和他的谈话，对所有期罔妇人和欺罔她们的肉体的男子们，燃烧着一种冷酷的愤懑！

这是不公平的，不平的！那肉体的深深不平的感觉，燃烧到了她灵魂的深处。但是，虽然如此，翌日早晨的七点钟。她还是照样起来，到楼下克利福那里去。她得帮助他梳洗更衣的一切私事，因为他已没有用男仆。而他又本愿意一个女仆人来帮助他。女管家的丈夫——他是当克利福还是孩童的时候便认识他的。帮助着他做些粗笨的事情。但是康妮却管理着一切私事，而且出于心愿。那是无可标何的，但是愿意尽她所能地傲去。

所以她几乎从不离开勒格贝，就是离开也不过一二天，那时是女管家白蒂斯太太照料着克利福，他呢，日子久了自然而然地觉得康妮替他所做的事情是当然的，而他这种感觉毕竟也是自然的呵。

虽然，在康妮的深心里，、却开始燃烧着一种不平的和彼人欺圈的感觉，肉体一旦感觉到了不平，这种感觉是危险的。这种感觉要发泄出来，否则它便要把怀着这感觉的人吞食的。可怜的克利福！那并不是他的过错。他比康妮更是不幸呢。这一切都是人间整个灾祸的一部分啊。

然而，他真是没有一点儿可以责备的地方么？那热力的欠缺，那温暖的肉体的简单接触的欠缺，不是他地过错么？他从来不温热，甚至也不慈和，他只有一种冷淡、受过高等教养的人对人的恳切与尊重。但是他从来没有过一个男子对于妇人所有的那种温热。甚至如康妮的父亲对她所有的那种温热他都没有。那种男子的温热，虽只为着男子自己，而男子也只这样作想，无论怎样，一点男性的热烈是可以把一个妇人温暖起来的。

但是克利福并不这样，他那一灯的人并不这样，他们的内心都是坚钝无情，他们以为热情是卑劣的东西。你得冷酷下去，守着你便可以守着的地位。但是，如果你不是那一阶级那和囊类的人，这便不行了死守着你的地位，觉着你自己是属于统治阶级的人，那不是好玩的事，那有什么意义？因为甚至最高贵的贵族，事实上已没有什么地佼可守，而他们的所谓统治，实际只是滑稽把戏，全不能说是统治了，那有什么意交？这一切只是无聊的胡闹罢了。

康妮的反抗的感觉，潜然地滋生了。那一切究竟有什么用处？她的牺牲，以她的生命牺牲于克利福，究竟有什么用处？毕竟，她有什么于人有用的地方？那儿只有那种冷酷的虚荣心，没有温热的人道的接触，正如任何最下流的犹太人般的缺德，欲望着卖身与成功的财神。甚至克利福，那样的冷淡，那样的远引，那样的相信自已是属于统治的阶级，尚且不禁垂着舌头，喘着气息，追逐于财神之后，实在，在这种事中。蔑克里斯是尊严些的，他的成功是大得多的，真的，细看起来，克利福只是个丑角；而一个丑角是比一个光棍更卑下的。

在这两个男人中间，她对于蔑克里斯是较有用处的。而他比克利福也更需要她，因为任何一个好看护都能看护一个两腿风瘫的人！如果拿他们所做的英雄事业来说。蔑克里斯是个英雄的老鼠，而克利福只是个玩把戏的小狗。

家里现在来了些客人，其中一个是克利福的站母爱娃本纳利爵士夫人。这是一位六十岁的、有个红鼻子的瘦小的妇人，她是一个寡妇，依旧还有点贵妇的派判断，她出身名门，并且有名门的气性。康妮很喜欢她。当她愿意的时候，她是这样的简单率直，而且外表上是这样慈蔼。其实她对于守着她的地位，而且守到比他人高一点的它术上，她是个能手。她一点也不是个热利的人，她太相信自己了。在社交上，她是这样地善于冷静地守着自己的地位，而使他人向她让步。

她对康妮很是亲切，用着她的出身高门的人的观察，象尖锐的钻予一样，努力地把也的妇人的灵魂的秘密刺穿。

“我觉得你真可钦佩。”她对康妮说。“你替克利福真是出了惊人的力。他的天才的焕发，我是从不怀疑的。现在他是惊天动地了。”一……爱娃妨母对于克利福的成功，是十分得意的骄傲的。因为那是有光门据的！至于他的著作嘛，她倒是毫不关心的，关心干什么呢？

“啊，我不相信我出了。什么力。”康妮说。

“那一定是你的力。除了你以外，还有谁能出力呢？我觉得你得出报酬实在不够呢。”

“怎么说的？”

“你扯你怎样的关闭在这里！我对克利福说过：要是这孩子那天反叛起来，你是活该哟。”

“但是克利福从来没有拒绝我什么的。”康妮说。

“你听我说吧，我亲爱的孩子，”本纳利夫人说着；把她的瘦小的手放在康妮的臂上，“一个女子得过她的生活，否则，，她使要后悔没有生活过，相信我吧！”她再啜了一日白兰地，那她也许就是后悔的形式吧。

“但是，我不是正在过我的生活么？”

“不，我不这样想。克利福应该把你带到伦敦去。让你走动走动。他所有的那一类的朋友们，对于他自己是很好的，但是对于你呢，假如我是你的话，我却不能满意。将空度了你的青春；你将在后悔中度你的老年生活。甚至中年生活。”

这贵妇人给白兰地的力量镇静着，渐渐地陷在沉思的静默中了。

便是康妮并不很想到伦敦而给本纳利夫人引导到那时髦的社会里去。她觉得她和那种社会是不合不来的。并且那种社会是不能使她发生兴趣的。她很觉得那种社会的下去，有一种怪异的令人畏缩的冷酷；象拉布拉多地土壤一般，地面上生长着一些愉快的小花朵，可是一尺以下却是冰冻的。

唐米•督克斯也在勒格贝，此外还有哈里•文达斯罗；贾。克•司登治魏和他的妻奥莉芜。他们间的谈话是不连贯的，不象知友们在一块时那们地一泻千里，大家都有点发闷，因为天气既不好，而消遣的东西又只不过打打牌子和开着留声机跳跳舞罢了。

奥莉芜正在念着一本描写将来世界的书，说将来孩子们是要在瓶子里用人工培养出来的，妇于们是可以“超脱”的。

“那是件美妙的事哟。”她说，“那时妇女们便可以享受她们的生活了。”原来她的丈夫同登治魏是希望生个孩子的；她呢，却不。

“你喜欢怎样的超脱呢？”文达斯罗狞笑着问她。

“我希望我自然地超脱出来。”她说，无论如何，将来是要比现在更台理的，而妇女们不会再给她们的‘天职’累坏了”

“也许她们都要飘飘欲仙了。”督克斯说。

“我实在觉得如果文明是名副其实的话，便应该把肉体的弱点大加排除。”克利福说，拿性爱不说，这便是很可以不必有的东西。我想，假如我们可以用人工在孩子里培养孩子，这种东西是要消灭的。”

“不！”奥莉芙叫道：“那也许要给我们更多好玩的东西呢。”

“我想，”本纳利夫人带着一种沉思的样子说：“假如性爱这东西消灭了，定会有旁的什么东西来代替的。吗啡，也许。整个空气中浮散着一点吗啡，那时人人定要觉得了不得的爽快呢。”

“每到星期六，政府便在社会散布些以太，这一来星期天全国人民准快活！”贾克说：“那似乎好得很；但是星期三，我们又怎样呢？”

“只要你给忘却你的肉体，你便快活。”本纳利夫人说，“你一想起了你的肉体，你使苦痛。所以，假如文明有点什么用处的话，它便要帮助我们忘掉肉体，那时候时间便可以优哉游哉地过去了。”

还要帮助我们把肉体完全除掉呢。”文达斯罗说，“现在正是时候了，人类得开始把分的本性改良了，尤其是肉体方面人本性。”

“想想看，假如，我们象香烟的烟似地漂浮着，那就妙了！”康妮说。

“那是不会有的事。”督克斯说，“我们的老把戏就要完了；我们的文明就要崩毁了！我们文明正向着无底的井中、深渊中崩毁下去。相信我，将来深渊上唯一的桥梁便是一条‘法乐士’”

“唉呀，将军，请你不要胡说乱道了！”奥莉英叫道。

“是的，我相信我们的文明是要倒塌了。”爱娃姑母说。

“倒塌了以后要来些什么呢？”克利福问道。

“我一点儿也不知道，但是我想总会来些东西的。”老夫人道。

“康妮说，来些象是烟波似的人，奥莉英说，来些超脱的妇女，和瓶子里养的孩子。达克斯说，‘法乐士’便是渡到将来去的桥梁。我奇怪究竟要来些什么东西？”克利福说。

“呵，不要担心这个！”奥莉芜说，“但请赶快制造些养孩子的瓶子，而社我们这些可怜的妇女们清静好了。”

“在将来的时代，也许要来些真正的人。”唐米说：“真正的，有智慧的，健全的男人，和一些健全的可爱的女人！这可不是一个转变，一个大转变么？我信今日的男子并不是真男子，而妇人们并不是妇人。我们只演着权宜之计的把戏，做着机械的智慧和实验罢了。将来也许要来一个真男真女的文明。这些真男真女将代替我们这一小群聪明的小丑——只有七岁孩童的智慧的我们。那一定要比虚无缥缈的人和瓶子里养的孩子更其奇观。”

“呵，男人们如果开始讲什么真正的妇人的话，我不谈了。”奥独笑说。

“当然啊，我们所有的唯一可贵的东西，便是精神。”文达斯罗说。

“精神！”。贾克一边说，一边饮着他的威士忌苏打。

“你以为那样么？我呢，我以为最可贵的是肉体的复活！达克斯说，“但是肉体的复活总会到来的，假如我们能把精神上的重载；金钱及其他，推开一些，那时我们便要有接触的德漠克拉西，是肉体的复活！”她实在一点都不知道那是什么意思，但是那使她得到安慰，好象其他不知意义的东西有时使人得到安慰一样。

然而一切事物都是可怖的愚蠢。这一切，克利福、爱娃姑母、奥莉芙、贾克及文达斯罗，甚至督克斯，都使她厌烦不堪。空话‘空话，只是些空话！这不尽的空谈，令人难受得象人地狱一般。

但是，当客人都走了时，她也不觉得好过些。她继续着作她的忧郁的散步，但是愤懑的激怒，占据着她的全身，她不能逃避。日子好象发着咬牙声似地过去，使她痛苦，却毫无新的东西来到，她渐渐地消瘦了。甚至又管家也注意到了，问她是不是有什么不舒服，甚至唐米•督克斯也重复说她的身体日见不好，虽然她并承认。只是那达娃斯哈教堂下的小山旁直立着的那些不祥的白色墓石，开始使她惧怕了。这些墓石有一种奇特的、惨白的颜色，象加拿拉的大理石一样，象假牙齿一样的可憎，她可发从园中清楚地望见。这些假牙似的丑恶的墓石，耸立在那小山上，难她一种阴森的恐怖，她觉得她不久便要被埋葬在那儿，加入那墓石和墓碑下的鬼群中，在这污秽的米德兰地方。

她知道她是需要帮助的。于是她写了一封信给她的姊姊希尔达，露了一点她的心的呼喊：“我近来觉得不好，我不知道是怎么回事。”

希尔达从苏格兰赶了来。那是三月时候，她自己驶着一部两入座的轻便小汽车。响着喇叭，沿着马路驶了上来，然后绕着屋前面的有两株山毛榉树的那块椭圆形的草坪。

康妮忙赶到门口台阶上去接她。希尔达把四停了，走了出来抱吻了她的妹妹。

“啊，康妮哟！”她说，“怎么样了？”

“没有怎么！”康妮有点难过地说，但是她知道她自己和她姊姊是恰恰地相反的，这一点使她痛苦着。从前，这姊妹俩，有着同样的光辉而带点金黄的肉色，同样的棕色的柔软的头发，同样的天然地强壮丽温热的体质。但是现在呢，康，妮瘦了，颜容惨淡，她的颈项从胸衣上挺出来，又瘦又带点黄色。

“但是你是病了，孩子哟！”希尔达用那种从前婶妹俩同有的温柔而有点气怒的声音说。希尔达比康妮差不多大两岁。

“不，没有什么病。也许是我烦恼的缘故”，康妮说，她的声音有点可怜。

希尔达的脸上，焕发着一种战斗的光芒。虽然她的样子看起来温柔而肃静，查她是一个有古代女弄士的风度的女子，和男子们是合不来的。

“多可怕的地方！”她深恨地望着这所可怜的残败的老勒格贝，轻轻地说。她的外貌是温柔而温热的，象一个成熟了的梨于一样，其实她却是一个道地的古代的女武士。

她静默地进去见克利福。克利福心里想，她长得真漂亮，但同时她却使他惧怕。他的妻家的人没有和他一样的举止仪态。他认为他们是有点外边人的样子，但是既已成了亲家，便只好以另眼相看了。

“他堂皇地、谈蓝色的眼睛有些凸出；他的表情是不可思仪的，但是很斯文。不过希尔达哪里管他态度怎样镇定，她已准备战斗了。他就是教里或皇帝，她也不怕。

“康妮的样子太不健康了。”她用柔软的声音说道。她华丽的灰色的眼睛，不转瞬的望着他。她和康妮一样，有着那种很处女的神气，但是克利福很知道那里面却隐藏着多么坚强的苏格兰人的固执性。

“她瘦了一点。”他说。

“你没有想什么法子？”

“你相信想法子有什么用处么？”他问道。他的声音是很英国式的，又坚定又柔和。这两种东西常常是混在一起的。

希尔达直望着他没有回答。她同康妮一样，随曰答话不是她的能事。她只是不转瞬地望着他，这使他觉得很难受，比她说什么都更难受。

“我得把她带去看看医生。”过了一会希尔达说，“你知道这附近有好医生吗？”

“我不太知道。”

“那么我要把她到伦敦去，那儿我们有一位可靠的医生。”

“克利福虽然怒火中烧，但是不说什么。

‘我想我还是在这儿过夜吧。”希尔达一面脱下手套一面说，“明天早晨我再把她带到伦敦去。”

克利福愤怒得脸色发黄。到了晚上，他的眼睛的白膜也有点发黄了。他的肝脏是有毛病的，但是希尔达依旧是这样地温逊如处女。

晚饭过后，当大家似乎安静地喝着咖啡时，希尔达说。“你得找个看护妇或什么人来料理你的私事才好，最好还是找个男仆。”

她的声音是那样的缓和，听起来差不多是温雅的。但是克利福却觉得她在他的头上用棍子击着似的。

“你相信那是必要的么？”他冷淡地说。

“当然呵！那是必要的，否则父亲和我得把康妮带开去位几个月才行，事情不能照这样子继续下去的。”

什么事情不能照这样子继续下去？”

“难道你没有看见这可怜的孩子怎么样了么？”‘希尔达问道，两眼固视着他。她觉得他这时候有点象是煮过了的大虾。

“康妮和我会商量这事的。”他说。

“我已经和她商量过了。”希尔达说。

克利福曾经给看护们看护过不少时间，他憎恶他们，因为她们把他的一切私密都知道了，至于一个男仆！……他就忍受不了一个男子在他的身边，那还不如任何一个妇人的好。但是为个么康妮不能看护他呢？

姊妹俩在次日的早晨一同出发。康妮有点象复活节的羔羊似的。在驶着车的希尔达旁边坐着，的点细微，麦尔肯爵士不在伦敦，但是根新洞的房子是开着门的。

医生很细心地诊验康妮，询问着她的生活的各种屑事。

“在画报上我有时看见过你的。”和克利福男爵的像片，你们差不多都是名人了，可不是？好温静的女孩子们都长大了，但是画报上虽然刊着你的像片，你却还是个温静的女孩子呢，不要紧的，不要紧的，各个器官都毫无病状。但是却不能这样继续下去！告诉克利福男爵，他得把你带到伦敦，或带到外国去，给你点娱乐消遣的东西。你得要娱乐娱乐才行。那是不可少的，你的元气太衰了，没有一点儿底蓄。心的神经状况已经有点异状了，是的，是的，就是这神经太不好了！到于纳或比亚力治去玩一个月，准保你复原起来，但是一定不能，一定不能这样继续下去。否则将来怎样了，我是不敢说的。你消耗着你的生命力，而不使它再生。你得要散散心，找些适当的有益的健康的娱乐！你只消耗着你的元气，而授有递补些新的元乞。你知道那是不能继续下去的。伤神的事！避免伤神的事！”

希尔达紧咬着牙关，那是含有意思的。

蔑克里斯听见她们都在伦敦，赶快带着玫瑰花来。

“为什么，怎么样不好了？”他叫道，“你只剩下一个影子了。咳，我从来没有见过变得这么厉害的！为什么你全不让我知道？和我到尼斯去哪！到西西里去吧！去吧、和到西西里去，那儿此刻正是最可爱的时候。你需要阳光！你需要好好的生活！啊，你是日见衰萎下去了！跟我去！到非洲去！咳，该死的克利福，丢了他跟我去罢。你们一离婚我便要马上娶你，来吧，试一试新的生活吧！天哟，勒格贝那种地方是无论谁都要闷死的！肮脏的地方！鬼地方！无论谁都要闷死的！跟我到有阳光的地方去吧！你需要的是阳光，阳光和一点常态的生活。”

但是，就这样干脆地抛弃了克利福，康妮却过意不去。她不能那佯做。不……不！……她简直不能。她得回勒格贝去。

蔑克里斯厌根析了，希尔达并不喜欢蔑克里斯，但是她觉得他似乎比克利福好一点。她们妹妹俩又回到米德兰去了。

希尔达向克利福交叔叔。克利福的眼睛还是黄的。他也是一样。他有他的焦虑过头的地方。但是他不得不听希尔达的一番话和医生的一番话；他却不听——当然啦——蔑克里斯的那番话的。他听着这个最后通隙，麻木地不做一声。

“这儿是一个好男仆的地址，他服侍过那个医生诊治的一个残废人，那病人是前月死了的，这是一个很好的用人、他一定肯来的。”

“但是我并不是一个病人，而且我不要一个男仆。”克利福这可怜的家伙说。

“这儿还有两个妇人的地址，其中一个是我见过的，她很合适，她是一个五十上下的妇人，安静、壮健、和蔼，而且也受过相当的教养……”

克利福只是倔怒着，不答应什么。

“好吧，克利福，要是到明天还没有什么决定，我便打电话报给父亲，我们便把康妮带走。”

“康妮愿意走么？”克利福问道。

“她是产愿意走的，但是，她知道这是不得不的事。我们的母亲是癌症死的，她这病是神经耗损后得来的，我们不要再冒同样的险了。”

到了次日。克利福出主意雇用波尔敦太太，她是达娃斯哈教区内的一个着护妇。显然这是女管家白蒂斯太太想起。波尔敦太太正在辞去教区里的职务而成为一个私人看护。克利福有一种怪癣，他很怕把自己委身于一个不相识的人。但是，当他的一次患了猩红热的时候，这位波尔敦太太曾经服侍过他，他是认识她的。

妹妹俩立刻去见波尔敦太太。她住在一条街上的一所新房子里，这条街在达娃斯哈是算得高雅的。她是一个四十多岁的样子够好着的妇人，穿着看护妇的制服，白色的衣领和白色的围裙。她正在一个壅塞的小起坐室里煮着茶。

波尔敦太太是顶殷勤顶客气的，看起来似乎很可爱。她说话时带着点土音，但说的是很正确的英语，因为她多年琐看护过那些矿工病人，并且他们都贴服地服从她，所以她对她自己是很自尊而且很自信的。简言之，在她的小环境里，她是村中领导阶级的一个代表，很受人尊敬。

“真的，查太莱男爵夫人的脸色真不好！是哟，她从前是那样丰美的，可不是吗？但是一个冬天来她就瘦弱了！啊，那是难堪的，真的可怜的克利福男爵！唉，那大战，好多的痛苦都是大战的啡恶啊！”

波尔敦太太答应了如果沙德罗医生可以让她去的话，她马上就可以到勒格贝去。她在教区里还要尽半个月的职务，但是他们也许可以找到一个替手的。

希尔达忙跑过去见沙德罗医生。到了下个星期日，波尔敦太太便带了两口箱子，乘着马车到勒格贝来了。希尔达和她谈过几番话。波太太是无论何时都准备着和人谈话的。她看起来是宋的年青！热情来了时，是要把她的有点苍白的两颊潮红起来的。她是四十七岁了。

她的丈夫德底•波尔敦，是在矿坑里出事死的。那是二十二年前的事了，那时正圣诞切，他抛下了她和两个女，其中一个还是襁褓之中，呵，这小女孩爱蒂斯现在已和雪非尔德的一个青年药剂师结了婚了。名他一个是在齐斯脱非尔德当教员，她每星期末了便回家来看望母亲，如果波太太不到旁地方去的话。年轻人今日是根写意的了，不象她——爱微•波尔敦——年轻的时候了。

德底•波尔敦在煤矿穴晨发生爆炸而丧命时，是二十岁。那时，前的一个工友向他们喊着躺下，大家都及时躺下了，只有德底，他就这样丧失了性命。事后判查时，矿主方面他们说德底是慌张起来想逃走。没有服从命令，所以事实上，他是由自己的过错死的。于是赔偿费只有三百镑，他们还认为这是恩惠，因为死者是由自己的过错死的。而且这三百解放军他们也不肯一次交给她；(她是想拿这笔钱来开个小铺子的。)他们说，要是一次交了她定要花光，也许要花在醉酒上呢！她只好每星期去领三十先令。是的，她只好每个星期一的早晨上办事处去，在那里站着直等两个钟头才轮到她；是的，差不多四年中，她每星期一都去。两个孩子都是这样幼小，她能怎样呢？但是德底的母亲却对她很好。当孩子们会走路时，白天里她常把她们看管着，而她，爱微，波尔敦呢，却到雪非尔德去上战地医院的课。到了第四年，她又攻读看护的课程，而且得到了文凭。她决心不领先他人，而自己养育她的孩子。这样，她在阿斯魏特医院当了一个时期的助手。达娃斯哈煤矿公司的当事人，——事实上便是克利福男爵——看见了她能独身奋斗，却对她起了艰感，他们给了她教区看护的位了，事事从旁先后，这是她不能不说的。她在那里工作着，直至现在，她觉得这工作在些使她疲乏了，她需要找点清闲些的事了，一个教区看护的工作，是忙个不了的工作呵。

“是人，公司对我很好，我常常这样说。但是我永忘不了他们对德底所说的话，因为从来没有一个矿工是象德底那样隐健丽勇敢和，而他们所说的话，等于骂他是个懦夫。但是，他已死了，他再也不能说什么以自白了。”

她的话里奇异地显示着各种感情的交错。她喜欢那些她多年来看护过的矿工们，但是她觉得自己比他们高得多。她差不多觉得自己是上层阶级的人，而同时，她心里却潜伏着一种对于统治阶级的怨恨。老板们，在工人与老板们中间起着争论的时候，她是常常站在工人方面的，但是如果那儿并没有什么争论的话，她是热切的希望着自己比工人高，而属于上层阶级的。上层阶级盘惑她，引起她的英国人所特有的脐身于显贵的热望。她到勒格贝来真是使她心醉极了，她心醉着能够跟查太莱男爵夫人谈话，老实说，这位男爵夫人不是那些矿工的妻子们比得上的！这是她敢率直地承认的。但是，一个人却可以觉察出来，她是有着一种对查太莱家的仇恨的，有着和种对老板们的仇恨。

“啊，是的，当然哪，那一定要使查太莱夫人操劳过度的：幸得她有个婶婶来帮助她。男子们是想不到的。他们无论尊卑都一样，他们觉得一个女子对他们所做的事是当然的。啊，我常常把这话对矿工们说。但是掩饰利福男爵也有他的难处。他是个两腿残废的人呢。查太莱家里一向都是些很自尊的人，常常总站在人的上头，这倒也是他们的权利。但是现在，受着这么一打击！这对于查太莱夫人是很难受的，也许她比他人觉得更难受呢。她是多么地缺憾啊！我有德底只有了三年，但是老实说，我有了他这许久，我是有过一个我永不能忘记的丈夫，干人中也找不出他这样的一个人的，他是快活得和春天一样的人。谁能想到他要死于非命呢？直到现在我还不相信他是死了；虽然是我亲手洗净他的尸体的，但是我从不能相信他是死了。我觉得他没有死，没有死，我决不能说他是死了啊。”

在勒格贝讲这种话是新鲜的，康妮觉得很新鲜的听着，那使她发生了一种新兴趣。

起首的时候，波尔敦太太在勒格贝是很泰然的；但是渐淡地，她的安泰的样子和趾高气扬的声调失掉了，她成为惊惧不安的人了，对于克利福，她觉得害羞，差不多觉得惧怕，并且静默不敢多言。倒喜欢她这样，他不久便重整了他的威严，让她替他忙碌着而不自知。

“她是个有用的废物！”他说。康妮听了惊讶地圆睁着两眼，但她并不反驳他。两个不同的人所处的印象是这么相异呵！

不久。她对那看护的态度变为王候式的威严了。她本来就等待着这个。他却不等她知道已将所等待的做到了。他人所等待于我们的事情，我们是灵敏一感到而且做到的！当她从前看护着受伤的矿工们或者替他们敷药时，他们多么象些孩子，对她倾谈着，诉说着他们的苦痛。他们常常使她觉得自己是多么高贵，多么超人地执行着她的义务。现在克利福却使她觉得自己微小得象一个仆人，而她也只好忍气吞声地接受这种情境，以讨好上层阶级的欢心。

她来报侍他的时候，噤若寒蝉。她的长而标致的脸孔上，两只眼睛只敢向地下望。她很谦卑地说：

“这个要我现在做么，克利福男爵？那个要我做么？”

“不，现在不用管，我以后再叫你做。”

“是的，克利福男爵。”

“半点钟后你再来吧。”

“是的，克利福男爵。”

“把这些旧报纸带出去吧。”

“是的，克利福男爵。”

她温顺地走开了。半点钟后，她又温顺地回来。她给人差使着，但她并不介意。她正经验着上层阶级是怎样的一个阶级。她不抱怨克利福，也不讨厌他，他只是一个怪物，一个上层阶级的怪物——这个阶级是她今日以前所不认识的，但今日以后，她便要认识了她觉得和查太莱夫人在一起时好过得多了。在一个家庭里毕竟是女主人才算要紧呵！

波太太每天晚上帮助克利福上床就寝。她自己睡在隔着一条走廊的一间房子里，夜里如果他按铃叫她，她得去，早晨她也去帮助他。不久，她服侍他一切梳洗穿着的事了，甚至还要替他刮脸，用她的柔和而女性的动作替他刮脸。她很和蔼，很机巧，她不久便知道怎样去管束他了。当你在他的两颊上涂着肥皂的泡沫，柔和地擦着他粗硬的胡须时，他毕竟并不怎样于普通的矿工啊，那种高傲的神气和不直率的样子，并不使她难过，她正尝试着一种新的经验。

虽然，在克利福的心里，他总不太宽恕康妮，因为她把她从前替他所做的私人工作都交给一个外来的雇佣的妇人了。他对自己说，她把他们两人间的亲密之花杀害了，但是康妮对这个却满不在乎，所谓他们间的亲密之花，她觉得有点象兰花，寄生在她的生命的树上，这样生出来的花，在她看来，是够难看的。

现在，她比以前自由了，她可以在她楼上的房子里，幽雅地弹着琴，而且唱着：“不要摸触那刺人的野草……因为爱之束缚不易解开。”她直至最近不没有明白那是多么不易解开，那爱之束缚。但是我谢天，她现在把它解开了！她是这样的愉活，她现在是孤独了，不必常常和克利福说话了，当他是一个人的时候，他打，打，打，打着打字机，无穷地打着。但是当他不“工作”，而她又在他身边时，他便谈着，总是谈着，无限细微地分析着各种人手、因果、性格及人品，她已经够胺了，好几年以来，她曾经爱过这些谈话，直至她受够了，突然地，她觉得再也不能忍受了。好了，她现在清静了，她真是感恩不尽哟。

他们俩的心灵深处，好象生着成千成万的小根蒂和小丝线，互相交结着而成了一个混乱的大团，直至再也不能多生了，而这个植物便渐渐萎死下去。现在，她冷静地、细密地把他俩的心灵间的交错的毛团清理着，好好地把乱丝一条‘条地折断，忍耐而又着急地想使自己自由起来。但是这第一种爱情的束缚，比其他的束缚都难解脱，虽然波尔敦太太来了，那量个大大援助。

但是，他还是和从前一样，每个晚上他总要和康妮亲密地谈话：谈话或高声地念书。但是，现在康妮可以设法叫彼太太在十点钟的，时候来把他们中断了，于是十点钟的时候，康妮便可以到楼上去，一个人孤独着。有了波太太，不必替克利福忧虑什么了。

波太太同白蒂斯太太在女管家的房子里吃饭，这种办法是大家都方便的。真奇怪，从前仆人的地方是那么远，现在象是移近了，好象在克利福书房门口了，因为女管家白太太不时到波太太的房里去，当康妮和克利福孤独着的时候，她可以听见他们俩低声地谈着话，她好象觉得着那另一种强有力的雇佣者的生命在颤动着，而把起侍室都侵占了。这便是自从波尔敦太太来到勒格贝后的变化。

康妮觉得自己已经解脱而进到另一个世界了，她觉得连呼吸都不同了。但是她还是惧怕，自己问着究竟她还有多少根蒂一……也许是侦关生死的根蒂，和克利福的根蒂交结着。虽然这样，她毕竟是呼吸得更自在了，她的生命要开始一个新的阶段。
Chapter 8
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 na?veté 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. 
波尔敦太太对于康妮也是很慈爱地看护的，她觉得她必要把她的女性的职业的看护，扩张到女主人的身上。她常常劝男爵夫人出去散步，乘汽车到由斯魏特走走去，到新鲜空气里去，因为康妮已经成了个习惯，整天坐在火旁边。假装着看书，或做着活计，差不多不出门了。 
希尔达走了不久以后的一个刮风天，波太太对她说：“你为什么不到树林里去散散步，到守猎人的村舍后边去看看野水仙？那是一幅不容易看到的最美丽的景色。并且你还可以采些来放在房里呢，野水仙总是带着那么愉快的风姿，可不是么？
康妮觉得这主意很不坏，看看吱水仙花去！毕竟呢，为什么这样困守愁城，摧残自己？春天回来了……”春大显身手秋冬去复回，但是那欢乐的日子，那甜蜜地前来的黄昏或清晨，却不向我回来。”
而那个守猎人！他的纤细的白皙的身体，象是一枝肉眼不能见的花朵里的孤寂的花心！她在极度的颓丧抑郁中竟把他忘记了，但是现在什么东西在醒转了……幽暗地，在门廊与大门的那边……所要做的，但是通过那些门廊与大门。
她现在更有气力了，走起路来也更轻快了，树林里的风，不象花园里的风那么紧吹着她而使人疲乏。她要忘记，忘记世界和所有可怖的行尸走肉的人们，在三月的风中，有无穷的词语在她的心中迅疾经过：“你得要投胎重生！我相信肉体之复活！假如一粒小麦落在地下面不死，它是要发牙的……当报春花生长晨，我也要露出头来看太阳！”
一阵阵的阳光乍明乍暗，奇异的光辉，林边棱树下的毛莫草，在阳光照耀下，好象金叶似的闪着黄光，树林里寂静着，这样地寂静着，但给一阵阵的阳光照得揣揣不安，新出的白头翁都在开花了，满地上布散着它们苍白的颜色。整个树林都好象苍白了。“在您的呼吸之下，世界就成苍白了”
但是这一天，那却是珀耳塞福涅的呼吸；她在一个寒冷的早晨，从地狱中走了出来，一阵阵的风呵着冷气，在头顶上，那纠缠在树枝间的乱风在愤怒着。原来风也是和押沙龙一样，被困着，但是挣扎着想把自己解脱出来，那些白头翁草看来多委怕冷的样子，在它绿色的衣裙上，耸着洁白的赤裸的肩膊。可是它们却忍得佐。在小径的旁边，还有些抉出的小莲馨花，乍开着黄色的花蕾。
狂怒的风在头顶上吼叫着，下边只有一阵阵的冷气，康妮在树林里奇异兴奋起来，她的两颊上潮红涌起，两只眼睛蓝得更深。她蹒跚地走着，一边采些莲馨花初出的紫罗兰，又香又冷的紫罗兰。她只管前进着，不知自己是在那里。
未了，她到了树林尽头的空旷处，她看见了那带绿色的石筑的村舍，远看起来差不多是淡红色的，象是一朵菌的下面的颜色，村舍的石块绘阳光温暖着。在那关闭着的门边，有些素馨花在闪着黄色的光辉。但是阗寂无声。烟囱里不冒烟，也没有狗吠声。
她静默地绕到屋后面去，那儿地势是隆起的，她有个托词，她是来看野水仙的。
它们都在那儿，那些花柄短短的野水仙，在发着沙沙的的声响，摇动着，战栗着，这样的光耀而富有生命，但是它们都在闪避着风向，而不知何处藏匿它们的脸儿。
它们在窘迫至极的时候，摇摆着那光辉的向阳小花瓣，但是事实上也放它们喜欢这样——也许它们喜欢这样地受着虐待。
康妮靠着一株小松树下，这小松树在她的背后，荡动着一种奇异的、有弹性的、有罗的、向上的生命。直耸着，流动着，它的树梢在太阳光里！她望着那些野水仙花，在太阳下变成金黄颜色，这同样的太阳，把她的手和膝疯都温暖起来，她甚至还闻着轻微的柏油昧的花香。因为是这样的静寂，这样的孤独，她觉得自己是进入到了她自己的命运之川流里去了。她曾经被一条绳索系着，颠簸着，摇动着，象一只碇泊着的船。现在呢，她可以自由飘荡了。
冷气把阳光赶走了。野水仙无言地深藏在草荫里。它们整天整夜在寒冷中这样深藏着，虽然是弱质，但是那么强悍！
她站了起来，觉得有些硬直，采了几朵野水仙便走了。她并不喜欢摘断花枝，但是她只要一两朵去伴她回去。她不得不回勒格贝去，回擂格贝的墙里去。唉！她多么恨它，尤其是它坚厚地墙壁！墙归墙！虽然，在这样的风里，人却需要这些墙壁呢。
她回到家里时，克利福问她道
“你到那儿去来？”
“一直穿过了树林，你瞧，这些小野水仙花不是很可爱么？想一想，它们是从泥土中出来的！”
“还不是从空气里和阳光里出来的。”他说。
“但是在泥土中形成的。”她反驳他说，自己有点惊异着能反驳得这么侠。
第二天午后，她又回一到树林里去。她沿着落叶松树丛中的那条弯曲而上知的大马路走去，直至一个被人叫做和约翰并的泉源。在这山坡上，冷气袭人，落叶松的树荫下，并没有一朵花儿。但是那冰冷的泉源，却在它的自里带红的纯洁的细石堆成的小井床上，幽烟地涌着。多么冰冷，清澈，而且光亮！无疑地那晰来的守猎人添放了些小石子。她听着溢出的水，流在山坡上，发着叮略的细微声。这声音甚至比那落叶松林的嘶嘶的怒号声更高，落时松林在山坡上，遍布着忿怒的、无叶的、狞恶的暗影。她听见好象一些渺小的水铃在鸣着。
这地方阴森得有些不祥的样子，冷而且潮湿。可是，几个世界以来，这井一定曾经是人民钢水的地方，现在再也没有人到这里来饮水了。阂围的小空地是油绿的，又冷又凄惨。
她站了起来，慢慢地步回家去，一边走着，她听见了右边发着轨微的敲击声，她站着静听。这是锤击声还中一只啄木鸟的啄木声？不，这一定是锤击声。
她继续走路，一边听着，她发现了在小杉树的中间，有一条狭窄的小径，一条迷失的小径。一条迷失的小径，但是她觉得这条小径是被人走过的，她冒险地沿这小径上走去，那两旁的小杉树，不久便要给老橡林淹没了，锤击的声音，在充满着风的小杉树，不久使要给老橡林淹没了。锤击的声音，在充满着风的树林之静默中——因为树木甚至在它们的风声中，也产生一种静默——愈来愈近。
她看见了一个幽秘的小小的空地，和一所粗木筑成的幽秘的小屋，她从来没有到过这儿的！她明白了这是养育幼稚的幽静的地方，那守猎的人，只穿着衬衣，正跪在地上用铁锤锤击着什么，狗儿向她走了过来，尖锐地疾疾地吠着，守猎人突然地指起头来，看见了她。他的眼睛里表现着惊愕的神气。
他站了起来向她行礼，静默地望着她，望着她四肢无力地走了近来，他埋怨她不该侵犯了他的孤独，这孤独是他所深爱，而认为是他生命里唯一的和最后的自由。
’我奇怪着迷锤声是怎么来的。”她说着，觉得自己无办，而气急。而后有点怕他因为他晕佯直直地望着她。
“我正准备些小鸟儿用的笼子。”他用沉浊的土话说。
她不知怎么说好，而且她觉得软弱无力。
“我想坐一会儿。”她说。
“到这小屋里坐坐吧。”他说着，先她走到小屋里去，把些废木树推在一边。拖出了一把榛树枝做的粗陋的椅子。
“要绘你生点吗？”她答道。
便是化望着她的两手：这两只手冷得有些蓝了。于是他迅速地拿了些松枝放在屋隅的小夸炉里，一会儿，黄色的火焰便向烟囱里直冒。他在那火炉的旁边替她安顿了一个位子。
“坐在这儿暖一暖吧。”他说。
她服从着。他有着一种慈爱的保护者的威严，使他马上听从。她坐了下来，在火焰上暖着两手，添着树枝，而他却在外边继续着工作。她实在不愿意坐在那儿，在那角落里火旁边藏匿着，她宁愿站在门边去看他的工作。但是她巳受着人家的款待，那么她只好服从。
小屋里是很舒适的，板壁是些没有上漆的松木做的。在她坐的椅子旁，有一张小桌子，一把粗陋的小凳，一条木匠用的长板凳，还有一日大木箱，一些工具，新木板，钉子和各种各样的东西挂在钩子上，大斧、小斧、几个捕兽的夹子，几袋东西和他的外衣，那儿并没有窗户，光线是从开着的门边进来的，这是一个杂物的储藏室，但同时却也是一个小小的庇护所。
她听着锤击声，这并不是一种愉快的声音，他是不高兴的。一个女人！侵犯了他的自由与孤独，这是多么危险的侵犯！他在这大地上所要的，便是孤独，他是到了这步田地的人了，但是，他没有力量去保卫他的孤独；他只是一个雇佣的人，而这些人却是他的主子。
尤其是，他不想再和一个女人接触了，他惧怕，因为过去的接触使他得了一个大大的创伤。他觉得，要是他不能孤独，要是人不让他孤独，他便要死，他已经完全与外界脱离了；他的最后藏身处便是这个树林：把他自己藏在那儿！
康妮把火生得这样的猛，她觉得温暖起来了一会儿她觉得热起来了。她走出门边从而在一张小凳上，望着那个工作着的人。他好象没有注意她，但是他是知道她在那儿的．不过他仍然工作着，似乎很专心地工作着，他的褐色的狗儿坐在他的旁边，视察着这不可信任的世界。
清瘦、沉静、而又敏捷，那人把笼子做好了，把它翻了过去，试着那扇滑门，然后把它放在一边。然后他站了起来，去取了一只旧笼子，把它放在刚才工作着的所板上。他蹲伏着，试着止面的木棒是不是坚实，他把其中的几根折断了，又开始把钉子拨出来，然后他把木笼前后翻转着考量，他一点儿也不露着他觉察了有一个女人在那儿。
康妮出神地望着他。那天当他裸体的时候她所觉得的那种孤独，她现在能在他的衣服下感觉出来：又孤独，又专心，他象一只孤独地工作着的动物。但是他也深思默虑着，象一个退避的灵魂，象一个退避一切人间关系的灵魂。即在此刻，他就静默地、忍耐地躯避着她。这么一个热情的躁急的国子的这种静默，这种无限的忍耐，使康妮的子宫都感动了。她可以从他俯着的头。他的又敏捷又姻静的两只手和他那纤细多情的弯着的腰部看出这些来，那儿有着什么忍耐着退缩着的东西，她觉得这个人的经验比她自已的深广，深广得多了。也许比她的还要残酷。想到了这个倒使她觉得轻松起来，她差不多觉得自己没有负什么责任了。
这样．，她坐在那小屋的门边，做梦似的，全失了时间和环境的知觉。她是这样地仿佛着，他突然地向她望了一望，看见了她脸上那种十分静穆和期待的神情。在他，这是一种期待的神情，骤然地，他仿佛觉得他的腰背有一支火馅在扑着，他的心里呻吟起来，他恐怖着，拒绝着一切新的密切的人间关系。他最切望的便是她能走开，而让他孤独着，他惧怕她的意志，她的女性的意志，她的新女性的固执，尤其是，他惧怕她的上流社会妇女的泰然自若、果敢无畏的您情任性。因为毕竟我只是一个佣人，他憎恨她出现在这个小屋里。
康妮忽然不安地醒转过来，她站了起来，天色已经黄昏了；但是她不能走开。她向那人走了过去，他小心翼翼地站着，他的憔悴的面孔僵硬而呆滞，他注视着她。
“这儿真舒服，真安静。”她说，“我以前还没有来过呢。”
“没来过么？”
“我看我以后不时还要到这儿来坐坐。”
“是吗？”
“你不在这儿的时候，是不是把这屋门锁起的？”
”是的，夫人”
“你认为我也可以得一片钥匙么？这样我便可以不时来坐坐。钥匙有两片没有？”
“据我知道，并没有两片。”
他又哼起他的土话来了。康妮犹豫着：他正在反对她了。但是，难道这小屋是他的么？
“我们不能多弄一片钥匙么？”她用温柔的声音问道，这是一个妇人决意要满她的要求时的声音。
“多弄一片！”他一边说，一边用一种忿怒和嘲弄的混合的眼光望着她。
“是的，多做一片同样的。”她说，脸红着。
“也许克利福男爵另有一片吧。”他用土话说。
“是的！”她说，“他也许另有一片，要不我们可以照你那片另做一片，想想那用不了一天的工夫，在这一天内你可以不那钥匙吧？”
我可不能说，夫人！我不认识这附近谁会做钥匙的。”
康妮气得通红起来。
“好吧！”她说，“我自己管去。”
“是的，夫人。”
他们的视线遇着，他的眼睛是冷酷的，险恶的，充满着厌恶和侮蔑，漠然于未来的事情。她的眼睛则含恨的，盛她的。
但是，她的心里是难过的，她看见了当她反对他时，他是多么地厌恶她。她担负了他是在一种失望的神情中。
“再会吧！”
“再会，夫人！”——他行了一个礼碎然地转身走了。
她把他心里隐忧着和狂暴的旧恨——那对于坚执的妇人的愤怒——撩醒了，而他是无力反抗的，莫可奈何的，他知道这个！
她呢，她对于男怕的固执也感到愤怒。尤其是一个仆人！她忧闷地、带恨地回到家里。
她看见波尔敦太太在那棵大山毛榉树下等着她。
“我正不知道你什么时候回来，夫人。”她快活地说。
“我回来晚了吧。”她妮问道。
“啊……不过克利福男爵等着喝茶罢了。”
“那么你为什么不替他弄呢？”
“啊，我觉得我的位子不适合那种职务哟，并且我不相信克利福男爵会喜欢的，夫人。”
“我不明白他为什么会不喜欢。”康妮说。
她进里面书房里去会克利福，那把旧的铜开水壶正在扎盘上开着。
“我来晚了吧，克利福？，”她说着，把她采的几朵花安置了，再把茶叶罐取了来，她站在扎盘旁边，帽子没有取下，围巾也还在颈上。“我真抱歉！为什么你不叫波太太弄茶呢？”
“我没有想到这个。”他冷嘲地说，“我不太觉得她在茶桌上执行主妇的职务是合适的。”
“啊，拿银茶壶来斟茶，并不见得怎么神圣。”康妮说。他奇异地望着她。
“你整个下午做什么来？”
“散散步，坐在一个背风的地方休息。你知道大冬青树上还有小果子吗？”
她把她的肩披除了，但是还戴着帽子。她坐下去弄着茶。烤的面包一定已软韧不脆了。她把茶壶套于套上茶壶，站起来去找一个小玻璃杯，把她的紫罗兰花放在，可怜的花作，在柔软的枝头低垂着。
“他们会活转来的！”她一边说，一边把杯子里的花端在他的面前让他闻。
“比朱诺的眼睑还要温馨。”他引起了这句话说。
“我觉得这句诗和这些紫罗兰一点关系也没有。”她说，“伊丽莎自时代的人都是有些空泛不着边际的。”
她替他斟着茶。
户约翰井过去不远，那个养育幼雉的小屋，你知道有第二片钥匙吗？”
“也许有吧，为什么？”
“我今天无意中发现了这个地方——以前我从不晓得有这么一个地方的，我觉得那儿真可爱，我不时可以到那里去坐坐，是不是？”
“梅乐士也在那里吗？”
“是的！就是他的铁锤声使我发现那小屋的。他似乎很不乐意我去侵犯了那个地方。当我问他有没有第二片钥匙时，他差不多唐突起来了。”
“他说了什么？”
“啊，没有什么。只是他那对人的态度，他说钥匙的事他全不知道。”
“在我父亲的书房里也许有一片吧。这些钥匙白蒂斯都认得，所有钥匙都在那里。我得叫他去找出来。”
“啊，劳驾您！”她说。
“哎，你刚才不是说梅乐士差不多唐突起来了么？”
“啊，那是值不得谈起的，真的！但是我相信他是不太喜欢我在他的宫堡里自由出入的。”
“我也这样想。”
“但是我不明白为什么不呢？毕竟那又不是他的家。那又不是他的私人住宅。我不明白为什么要是我喜欢时，我不能到那儿去坐坐？”
“的确！”克利福说，“这个人，他自视太高了。”
“你觉得他是这样的人么？”
无疑的，他是这样的一个人！他认为他是一个特别的人。你知道他曾经娶过一个女人，因为和她台不来，他便在一九一五年那年人了伍，而被派到印度去。不管怎样，他曾在埃及的马队里当过一时的蹄铁匠，他常常管着马匹，这一点他是能干的。以后，一个驻印度军的上校看上了他，把他升做一个中尉的军官，是的，他们把他升为一个军官。他跟他的上校回印度去，在西北部弄了一个位了。他在那里得了病，于是他得了一份恤金，他大概是去年才离开军队的吧。这当然喽，象他这种人要回到从前的地位去是不容易的事，但是他倒能尽他的职务，至少关于我这里的事他是能尽职的。不过，我是不喜欢看见他摆出中尉梅乐士的样子的。”’
“他讲的是一日德尔贝的话．他们怎么能把他升为一个军官呢？”
’呵，他的土话是他觉得要说晨才说的，象他这种人，他能说很正确的英语的。我想他以为自己既重陷在这种地位是，便最好说这种地位的人所说的话罢了。”
“为什么这些事你以前不对我说？”
“啊，这些浪漫史我是厌烦的，浪漫史是破坏一切秩序的，发生浪漫史是万分可借的。”
康妮觉得同意于这种说法，这些无得可以适合的、不知足的人，有什么用处？
好天气继续着，克利福也决意到树林里去走走。风欧来是冷的，但并不令人疲惫，而且阳光象是生命的本身一样，又温暖又充实。
“真奇怪，”康妮说，“在一个真正新鲜而清朗的日子里，人觉得多么的不同，普通的时候，一个人觉得甚至空气都是半死的。人们正在连空气都拿来毁灭了。”
“你这样想么？”他问道。”
“是人，我这样想，各种各样的人的许多烦恼、不满和愤怒的气氛，把空气里的生气毁灭了。这是毫无可疑的。”
“也许是空气的某种情况把人的生气削减了吧？”
“不，是人类把宇宙摧残了。”她断言道。
“他们把自己的巢窠摧残了。”克利福说。
小车子前进着，在擦树的矮林中，悬着些淡金色的花絮，在太阳晒着的地方，白头翁盛开着，仿佛在赞赏着生之欢乐，正如往日人们能够和它们一同赞赏的时候一样，它们隐约地发着苹果花香。康妮采了一些给克利福。
他接在手里，奇异地望着这些花。
“啊，您啊，您是末被奸污的幽静的新妇……”他引了这句诗说，“这句待与其用在希腊瓶上，似乎远不如且在这些花上适合。”
“奸污是个丑恶的宇！”她说，“这是人类把一切事物奸污了。”
“啊，我可不知道，但是蜗牛们……”
“甚至蜗牛们也不过只知道啮食，而蜜蜂们并不把东西奸污呢。”
她对他生气起来，他把每佯东西都变成空虚的字眼。紫罗兰拿来比未诺的眼睑，白头翁拿来比未被奸污的新妇。她多么憎恨这些空虚的字，它们常常站在她和生命之间：这些现成的字句，便是奸污者，它们吮听着一切有生命的东西的精华。
这次和克利福的散步，是不太欢挟的。他和康妮之间，有着一种紧张的情态，两个人都假装着不去留意，但是紧张的情态是存在着的。骤然地，她用着女子的本能的全力，把他摆脱，她要从他那里摆脱出来。尤其要从他的“我”从他的空虚的字句，从他的自我的魔力中，从他的无限的单调的自我的魔力中解脱出来．天又开始下雨了，但是，下了一两天后，她冒着围走到林中去，一进了树林，她便向那小屋走去。雨下着，但天气并不玲，在这朦胧的雨天中，树林是这样地寂静，这样地隔绝，这样地不可亲近。
她来到了那块空旷的地方，一个人都没有！小屋门是锁着的。她坐在那粗陋的门檐下的门槛上。蜷伏在她自己的暖气里。她这样静坐着，望着霏霏的雨，听着雨滴的无声的声，听着风在树枝上的奇异的叹息，而同时却又仿佛没有风似的，老橡树环立着，它们的灰色的有力的树干给雨湿成黑色，圆圆的，充满着生命，向四阂进发着豪放的树枝，地上并没有什么细树乱草。有的是繁衍的白头翁，一两株矮树、香木、或雪球树，和一堆淡紫色的荆棘。在白头翁的绿衣下面，衰老而焦红的地方。末被奸污！而全世界却都被奸污了。“某种东西是不能被奸污的，你不能奸污一罐沙丁鱼，许多女子象罐里的沙丁鱼，许多男子也是一样，但是她的内在的、怨恨的、不可拒抗的力量压着她，使她象麻痹了似地钉在那儿。
被奸污！唉！一个人是可以不待被人摸触而被奸污的！一个人是可以被那些淫秽的死字眼和鬼缠身似的死理想奸污的！
一只褐色的雨琳湿了的狗，跑着走了前来，它并不吠，只是举着它的湿尾巴。守猎人跟在后面，穿着一件象车夫穿的黑油布的给雨淋湿的短外衣，脸孔有点红热，她觉得当他看见了她时疾速的步伐退顿了一下，她在门搪下那块狭小的干地上站了起来，他无言地向地行个礼，馒慢地走上前来，她准备要走开了。
“我正要走了。”她说。
“你是等着要进里面去么？”他用土话说道。他望着小屋，并不望着康妮。
“不，我只坐在这儿避避雨。她尊严地、镇静地说。
他向她望着，她象是觉得冷的样子。
“那么，克利福男爵没有另一片钥匙么？”他问道。
“没有。但是没有关系。我很可以在这屋搪下避雨的，再见！”她恨他的满口的土话。
当她走开时，他紧紧地望着她，他掀起了他的外衣，从他的袋里，把小屋门的钥匙取了出来。
“你还是把这片钥匙拿去吧，我会另外找个地方养幼雉去。”
她望着他问道：“这是什么意思？”
“我说我会另外找个地方养幼雉去，要是你到这儿来，大概你不喜欢看见我在你的旁边。老是来来往往，忙这忙那的。”
她望着他，明白了他的模糊不表的土话的意思，。她冷淡地说：
“为什么你不说大家说的英语？”
“我？我以为我说的是大家说的英语呢。”
她忿怒地静默了一会。
“那么，要是你要这钥匙，你还中拿去吧。或者，我还是明天再交给你吧，让我先把这地方清理出来，你觉得好不好？”’
她更气了。
“我不要你的钥匙，”她说：“我不要你清理什么东西出来。我一点也不想把你从这小屋里赶走，谢谢你！我只要不时能到儿来坐坐，象今天一样，但是我很可以坐在这门檐下。好了，请你不要多说了。”
“他的两只狡猾的蓝眼睛又向她望着。
“但是，”他用那沉浊的迂缓的土话说，“小屋是欢迎夫人来的，钥匙是她的，其他一节都是她的。不过，在这个季节，我得饲养小雉，我得忙这忙那的。如果在冬天，我便差不多用不着到这小屋里来。但是现在是春不了，而克利福男爵要我开始养些雄鸡……夫人到这儿来时，无疑地不愿意我老是在她周围忙忙碌碌。”
她在一种朦胧的惊愕中听着他。
“你在这里于我有何关系呢？”她问道。
“这是我自己要觉得碍事！”他简单地但是意味深长地说。她的脸红了起来。
“好！”她最后说，我妨碍你好了，但是我觉得从而在这儿，看你管理着站雄鸡，于我一点也没有关系，而且我还喜欢呢，但是你既以为这是碍你的事，我便不丙妨碍你好了，你不要害怕了，你是克利福男爵的守猎而不是我的。”
这句话是奇异的，她自己也不知道她为什么说出了这样的话。
“不，夫人，这小屋于是夫人的，夫人随时喜欢怎样就怎样。你可以在一星期前通知我把我辞退了，只是……
“只是什么？”她不知所措地问道。
他怪可笑地把帽子向后推了一推。
“只是，你来这里时，尽可以要求这小屋子你一个人用，尽可以不愿意我在这儿忙这忙那的。”
“但是为什么？”她恼怒地，说“你不是个开化了的人么？”你以为我应该怕你么？为什么我定要留心你和你的在与不在？难道那有一点儿关系么？
他望着她，脸上显着乖戾的笑容。
“没有的，夫人，一点儿关系也没有的。”他说。
“那么，为什么呢？”她问道。
“那么，我叫人另做一片钥匙给夫人好吗？”
“不，谢谢！我不要。”
“无论如何我另做一片去，两片钥匙好些。”
“我订为你是个鲁莽的人！”康妮说，脸红着，有些气急了。
“啊，啊！”他忙说道，“你不要这样说！啊，啊！我是不含坏意的，我只是想，要是你要到这儿来，我便搬迁，而在旁的地方另起炉灶，那是要花好大的功夫的，但是如果夫人不要理会我，那么……小屋子是克利福男爵的，而一切都听夫人的指挥，听夫人的便，只要汉我在这儿做这做那的时候，夫人不要理会我就完了。”
康妮迷乱得莫名其妙地走开了。她不知道自己究竟是不是绘他侮辱了，是不是给他极端干了，也许他说的话并不含有什么坏意，也许他不是要说，如果她去那小屋里，她便要他避开。好象她真有这个意思似的！好象他那傻子在不在那里，有什么关系似的！
她在纷乱的屋中回家去，不知道自己在想着什么，感觉着什么。
Chapter 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. 
康妮惊讶着自己对于克利福的厌恶的感觉，尤其是，她觉得她一向就深深地讨厌他。那不是恨，因为这其中是并没有什么热情的，那是一种肉体上的深深的厌恶，她似乎觉得她所以和他结婚，正因为她厌恶他，一种不可思仪的肉体的上厌恶他，则实际上，她所以和他结婚，是因为他在精神上摄引她，兴奋她的缘故。在某种情形之下，他好象是比她高明，”是她的支配者。 
现在，精神上的摄引已经衰萎了，崩溃了，她所感到的只是肉体上的厌恶了。这种厌恶从她的心的深处升起，她体悟了她的生命曾经给这兢兢业业恶的感觉怎样地咀食着。
她觉得自己毫无力量，而且完全地孤独无诊了。她希望有什么外来的救援，但是整个世界中并没有可以救援的人。社会是可怕的，因为它是癫狂的。文明的社会产癫狂的。金钱和所谓爱情，便是这个社会的两个狂欲，其中金钱尤为第一，在混沌的疯狂里，个人在这两种狂欲中——金钱与爱情中——追逐着。看着蔑克里斯！他的生活，他活动，只是癫狂罢了。他的爱情也是一种癫狂症。
克利福也是一样，所有他的谈话，所有他的作品，所有他的使他自己飞黄腾达的狂野的挣扎！这一切都是癫狂，事情却越见坏下去，而成了真正的狂病了。
康妮觉得惊怕得麻木了。但是还好，克利福对她的操纵，改向波尔敦太太施展，她觉得轻松了许多，这一点是克利福自己不知道的，好象许多癫狂着一样，他的癫狂可以从他所不自知的事物的多少看出来，可以从他的意识的大空虚看出来。
波太太态度在许多事情上是可钦佩的，但是她有一种驾驭他人怪癣和坚持自己的意志的无限的固执，这是新妇女们的一个癫狂的标志。她相信自己是全身全心地尽忠于他人。克利福使她觉得迷惑，因为他常常或一直使她的意志挫折，好象他的本能比她的更精细似的，是的，他比她有着更精细更微妙的坚持意志的固执性，这便是克利家庭副业这惑的地方吧。
“今天天气多么美好！”有时波太太要用这种迷人的动听的声音说，“我相信你今天坐着小车子出去散散步，一定要觉得写意的，多美丽的太阳！”
“是么？给我那本书吧——那边。那本黄皮的。哎，把那些玉簪花拿开吧！”
“为什么，这样好看花！它们的香味简直是迷人的。”
“恰恰是那味道我不爱闻，我觉得有些殡葬的味道。”
“你觉得么？”她惊讶地听道，有点觉得恼怒，但是被他的威严压服了，她把玉簪花拿了出去，深觉深觉得他的难于应付。
“今天要我替你刮脸呢，还是你喜欢自己刮呢？”老是那种温柔的，阿澳的，但是调度有方的声音。
“我不知道。请你等一会吧。我准备好了再叫你。”
“是的，克利福男爵！”她温柔地、屈服地答道。然后静静地退发出去，但是每次的挫折，都增强了她的意志。
过了一会他按铃时，她马上便到他那里去。他便要说：
“我想今天还是你替我刮脸吧。”
她听了心里微微地颤动起来，她异常温柔地答道：
“是的，克利福男爵！”
她是很伶俐的，她的抚触是温柔的，缠绵的，而又有点迂缓的，起初，她的手指在他的脸上的这种无限的温柔的抚触，渐渐地她的手指尖熟悉了克利福的脸颊和嘴唇，下含和颈项了，他是个养尊处优的人，他的脸孔和咆部是够好看的，而且他是一位贵绅。
她也是个漂亮的妇人，她的苍白的有点强长的脸孔，非常肃穆；差不多是用着爱情，她可以提着他的咽喉，而他好对她驯服起来了。
她现在是什么都替他做了。他也觉得在她物里比在康妮手里更自然、更无羞赧地去接受她的卑贱的服役了。好喜欢管理他的事情，她爱担任他的身体上的所有的事情，至于最微贱的工作。有一天，她对康妮说：
“当你深深地认识他们的时候，一切男子实在都是些婴孩。啊，我看护过达娃斯哈矿里最可怕最难对付的工人，但是他们一有什么痛苦，而需要你的看护的时候，他们便成为婴陕，只是些大婴孩罢了。啊，所有的男子都是差不多的。”
起初，波尔敦太太相信，一位贸绅，一位真正的贵绅，如克利福男爵，是会有什么不同的，所以克利福开始占了上风，但是渐渐地，如她所说的，当她深深地认识了他的时候，她发觉他并不异于他人，只是一个有着大人的身体的婴孩罢了，不过这个婴孩的性情是怪异的，举止上斯文的。他富有威权，他有种种她所毫无而他能够用以驾驭她的奇异的知识。
有时康妮很想对克利福说：
“天哟！不要这样可怕地深陷在这个妇人的手里吧！”但是，她并没有说出来，因为她始终觉得她并不怎么把他放在心里。
他们俩依旧守着从前的习惯，晚上直到点钟，是要在一起度过的，他们谈着，或一起读着书，或校阅着他的草稿。但是此中的乐趣早山消失了，他的草稿使康妮烦厌，但是她还是尽她的义务，替他用打字机抄录着，不过，不要等待多时，那奖是波太太来做这工作了。
因为康妮对波太太来做这工作了。
因为康妮对疲太太提议过她应该学习打字，波太太是随时都准备着动手的人，她马上便开始了，而且勤勉地练习着，现在，克利福有时口念着一封信叫她打，她可以打出来了，虽然是有点缓慢，但是没有错了，他很有耐性地把难宇和遇着要用法文时一个个的字母念给她。她是这样的兴奋，所以教授她差不多可说是一件乐事了。现在，晚饭过后，有时康妮便借口头痛到楼上房里去了。
“啊，不要担心，你回房里去休息，亲爱的。”
但是她走了不久，他便按铃叫波太太来一玩皮克或齐克纸牌戏，甚至下象棋了，他把这些游戏都教给了她；康妮觉她波太太那种红着兴奋得象女孩子似的样子，手指怪不安地举着他的棋子又不敢动的样子，真是难看，克利福用着一种优胜者的半嘲弄的微笑，对她说：
“你应当说：我调子了！”
她的光亮的惊异的眼睛望着他，然后含郑地驯服地低声说：
“我调子了！”
是的，他正教育着她，他觉得这是一件快乐的事，这给他一种权威的感觉。而她呢，也觉她迷醉，而同时，她使他觉得需要她在身边，她的天真的迷醉，对他是一种微妙的深深的阿瘐。
康妮呢，她觉得克利福的真面目显露出来了：他有点肥胖臃肿，有点庸俗，平凡，并没有什么才气，波太太的把戏和她的谦卑的威风，也太透明了，不过康妮所奇怪的便是这个妇人从克利福那里所得到的天真的迷醉，说她是爱上了他，这是不对的，他是一位上流社会的人，一位有爵衔的贵绅，一个相片在许多画报上登着，能够写书吟诗的人。他只是觉得和这第一个人亲近，使他迷醉罢了，她迷醉到了一种怪异的热情的地步。他的“教育”她，对她所引起的一种兴奋的热情，是比恋爱所能引起的更深更大的。实际上，不可能有爱情的活动，跟另种热情——知识的热情，和他一样有知识的热情一道，使她迷醉到骨髓里。
在某一点上，毫无疑义这妇人是钟爱他了：姑无论我们把钟爱两字怎样看法，她看起来是这样漂亮，喧佯年轻，她的灰色的眼睛有时是迷人的，而同时，她还有一种隐忧的温柔的满足样子，那几乎是得意的、秘密的满足。咳！这种秘密的满足，康妮觉得多么讨厌但是克利福之深陷于这个妇人的手中，是无足惊异的！她深深地坚持地爱慕他，全心全身地服侍他，使他可以任意地使用她。他觉得被馅媚，是无可惊奇的了。
康妮详细地听着他们俩的谈话，大部分是波太太在说话，她对他说着一大堆达娃斯哈村里的闲话，那是比闲话甚的，什么格丝太太、佐治。爱里欧、美福小姐凑在一起。关于平民生活的事情，只要波太太一开口，那是比一切书本都详细的，所有这些平民都是她所深悉的，她对他们的事情是这样的感觉兴趣，这样的热心。听她说话是令人叹服的，虽然那未免有点儿屈辱，起初，她不敢对克利福“说起达娃斯哈”——这是她自己的口吻，但是一说起了就多么起劲！克利福听着，是为找“材料”，他觉得其中的材料有的是，康妮明白了他的所谓天才就是：知道利用闲话的一种伶俐的能干，聪明，而外表则装作满不在乎。波太太，当然“说起达娃斯哈”来是很起劲的。甚至酒滔不绝的，什么事情她不知道！她很可以说出十二部书的材料来呢。
康妮很迷愕地听着她。但是听了后又常常觉得有点羞耻。她不应该这样好奇地、津津有味地听着她的。不过，听他的人最秘密的故事毕竟是可以的，只要用、种尊敬的心听着，用一种体贴的锐敏的心，去同情于挣扎受苦的人的灵魂。因为，甚至笑谑也是同刁的一种形式呢，真正的定夺我们的生命的。东西，便是盾我们怎样广布或同缩我们的同情、这点便是一篇好小说之最重要的地方。它——小说，能够引导我们的同情心流向新的地境，也能够把我们同情心从腐朽的东西引退。所以，好小说能够把生命最秘密处启示出来，因为生命中之热情的秘密处，是最需要锐敏的感悟之波涛的涨落，去作一番澄清和振作的工作的。
但是小说也和闲话一样，能够兴奋起虚伪的同情，而为灵魂的机械的致翕伤。小说能够把最龌龊的感情瘭崇起来，虽然这种感情在世人的眼中是“纯洁”的，于是小说和闲话一样，终于成为腐败了。而且和闲话一样，因为常常地假装着站在道学方面说话，尤其是腐败不堪了。波外部设备太太的闲话，是常常站在道学方面说的。’他是这么一个‘坏’男子，她是这么一个‘好’女人。”这种话常常不离她的口，因此康妮从波太太的闲话里，能够看出妇人只是一个甜言蜜语的东西，男于是太忠厚的人，但是根据波太太那种错误的、世俗的同情心的指引，太忠厚使一个男子成为“坏”人，而甜言蜜语使一个妇人成为“好”人。
这便是听了闲话使人觉得耻辱的缘故，这也是多数的小说，尤其是风行的小说，使人读了觉得耻辱的缘故，现在的民众只喜欢迎合他们的腐败心理的东西了。
虽然，波太太的闲话，使人对达娃斯哈村得了一个新认识，那种丑恶的生活多么龌龊可怖！全不象从表面上所见地那么平淡所有这些闲话中的主人翁，自然都是克利福所面熟的，康妮只能知道一二。听着这些生活故事，人要觉得那是在一个中非洲的野林中，而不象在一个英国的村中。
“我想恢们已经听见爱尔苏女士在前星期结了婚吧，谁想得到！爱尔苏女士，那老鞋匠詹姆士。爱尔苏的女儿。你知道他们在源克罗起了一所房子。老头儿是去年摔发地跋死的；他八十三岁了，却精健得象一个孩子似的，分在北士乌山上一条孩子们在冬做的滑冰道上摔了一跤，把大腿折断了，那便完结了他的生命。可怜的老头儿，真是可怜，好，他把所有的钱都传给黛蒂了，他的男孩子们却一枚铜板都没有得到！黛蒂呢，我是知道的，她长五岁，……是的，她去年秋天是五十三岁。你知道他们都是些很信教的人，真人！艰险父亲死后，她开始和一个琴卜绿的男子来往，我不知道你们认识他不，他叫威尔谷，是一个红鼻子。够好看，上了年纪的人，他在哈里孙的木厂里做工，好，他至少有六十五岁了；但是如果你看见了他们俩臂挽着臂，和在大门口接吻的情形你要以为他们是一对年青的鸳鸯呢！是人，在正对着派克罗的大路的窗口上，她坐在他的膝上，谁都可以瞧得见。他是有了几个四十岁以上的儿子的人了，他的太太的死去，也不过是两年前的事呢！如果那老詹姆士·爱尔苏没有从坟墓里爬出来生她的气，那是因为他出不来；他生前对她是很严厉的！现在他们结了婚了，到琴卜绿去任了。人们说，她从早至晚都穿着一件睡衣跑来跑去，多不体面的事！真的，我敢说这些上了年纪的人的行为是不体面的！他们比年轻的人更坏，更令人厌恶呢。我常说：去看好的有益的电影戏，但是天啊，不要去看那些情剧和恋爱片，无论如何，不要让孩子们去看！但是事实上，大人比孩子更坏，而老年人尤其坏！说起什么道德不，没有人会理会你人，人们是喜欢怎样做就怎样做，我不得不说，他们是无所谓道德不道德的。但是在这样的年头儿，他们不得不把风头收敛一下了，现在矿务不景气，他们也没有我了，他们的抱怨是令人骇怕的，尤其是妇女们。男子们都是这样的好，这样的忍耐！他们可有什么办法，这些可怜虫！但是妇女们呢，啊，他们还是继续下去，她们凑着钱去绘玛丽公主的结婚送礼，但是当她们看见了公主所得的礼物都是些华贵堂皇的东西时，她们简直气疯了，她是谁，难道她比我们更值钱？为什么史磺爱格公司①给了她六件皮外套，而不给我一件？我真侮气出了十先令！我奇怪我出了十先令给她，她要给我什么东西？我的父亲的收入这样少，我甚至想一件春季外套都买不起，，而她却几车几车地收。现在是时候了，穷人们应得些钱来花，富人们是享福享得够了，我需要一件新的春季外套，我实在需要，但是我怎么才能得到呢？我对她们说：“算了，得不到你所想的这些艳丽的东西，也就算了，你能吃得饱穿得暖已经是四天之福了，而她们却驳我说：“为什么玛丽公主并不穿上她的破旧衣裳说四天之福呢？还要我们别介意！象她这样的人，收着几车几车的衣裳，我却不能得一件春季的新外套，这真是奇耻大辱，一位公主！一位公主就能这样！那都是钱作怪，因为她有的是钱，所以人便越多给她！虽没有人给我钱，但我和他人有同样的权利呢，不要对我说什么教育，钱才是好东西，我需要一件春季的新外套，我实在需要，但我不会得到的，因为我没有钱……”
她们所关心的，便是衣裳。她们觉得拿七八个金镑去买一件冬季季的外套——你要知道她们只是些矿工的女儿们哟——两个金镑去买一顶夏天的孩子帽。中很当然的，她们戴着两金镑的帽子到教堂里去。这些女儿们。要是在我年轻的时候，她们只要有一顶三先令帽子，已经要骄傲了！听说今年监理会派的教堂举行纵会时，他们要替礼拜日学校的孩子们建造一种讲坛似的太平台，高到天花板一样高，那礼拜日学校女手第一班的教员谭荪女士对我说，咳，这平台上的人穿的许多新的礼拜衣裳，价值定在一千镑以上！时候是这么不景气！但是你不能阻挡她们这么干。她们对一于衣裳装饰品颠狂的，男孩们也是一样：他们找的钱全都花在他们自己身上：衣服，烟，酒，一星期两三次跑到雪非尔德去胡闹。唉！世界变了，所有这些青年，都无所忌惮，无所尊敬了，上了年纪的男子们，便都是那么柔顺，那么顺心。真的，他们让妇女们把士切都拿去。事情所以便到了这步田地。妇女们真是些恶魔呢，但是青年儿子们都不象他们的父亲了。他们什么都不能缺少，什么都不能牺牲，他们是一要都为自己，要是你对他们说，应廖省点钱成个家，他们便说：那用着着急，我要及时享乐，其余一切都用不着着急。啊，他们是多么鲁莽，自私！一切都让老年人去干，一切都越来越糟了。”
克利福对于他的本村开始有个新认识了他常常惧怕这个地方；但是他相信安隐无事的。现在……
“村人中社会主义和波尔雪维克主义很盛行吗？”他问道
“啊，”波太太说，“听是听得见有一些人在高叫的，不过这些叫的人大都是些外部设备人钱妇女。男子们并不管这些东西的。我不相信达娃斯哈的男子会有变成赤色的一天的。他们对那种事情是太隐当了，但是年轻人有时也饶舌起来。那并不是因为他们真正有心。他们只要口袋里有点钱到酒店里去花，或到雪非尔德去胡闹，此外什么都不在他们的心上，当他们没有钱的时候，他们便去听赤党的天花乱附的宣传。但是没有人真相信。’那么你相信没有什么危险么？”’
“啊，没有。只要买卖不坏，危险是不会有的，但是如果事情长信地坏下去，年轻人便不免要头脑糊涂起来。我告诉你：这些都是自私的放纵坏了的孩子，但是，他们不见得会做出什么事情来的。他们无论什么事都不认真，除了坐在两轮摩托车上出风头，和到雪非尔德的跳舞厅去跳舞。没有事情会使他们正经的，最正经的人是穿着晚服到跳舞厅去，在一群女子的面前熔耀一番，跳着这些新出的却尔斯登舞，什么不干！有时公共汽车上，挤满着这些穿着晚服的青年，矿工的儿子们，到跳舞厅去，不要说其他带了女朋友乖汽车或双轮摩托车去的人了。他们对什么事都不认真……除了对于东加斯脱和黛比的赛马会：因为他们每次赛马都要去赌的。还有足球呢！但是甚至足球也不象以前了，差得远了。他们说，玩是足球太苦了，不，星期六的下午，他们订为不如乘双轮摩托车到雪非尔德或匿汀当玩去。”
“但是他们到那里去干什么？”
“呀，他们在那里闲荡……到讲究的茶园如美卡多一样的地方去晚上茶……带着女友到跳舞厅或电影院或皇家允院去，女孩们和男孩们一样的放流无题。她们喜欢什么便做什么的。”
“当他们没有钱去供这种种挥霍的时候又怎么样呢。”
“他们总象是有钱似的也不知道怎么来的，没有钱的时候，他们便开始说些难听的话了，但是，据我看来，既然这些青年男女们所要的只是金钱来供享乐和买衣裳，怎么会沾染着什么波尔雪维克。他们的头脑是不能使他们成为社会主义者的，他们不够正经，他们永不会够正经地把什么事情正经看待的。”
康妮听着这一番话，心里想，下层阶级和其他一切阶级相象极了，随处都是一样：达娃斯哈或伦敦的贵族区梅费或根新洞都是一样。我们现在只有一个阶级了：拜金主义者，男拜金主义蜒和女拜多主义者，唯一不同的地方，就是你有多少钱和人需要多少钱罢了。
在波太太影响之下，克利福开始对于他的矿场发生新兴趣了，他开始觉得事情是与自已有关系的，一个新的扩展自己的需要在他心里产生了。毕竟他是达娃斯哈的真主人，煤坑，便是他。这点使他重新感到权威，那是他一向惧怕着不敢想的。
在达娃斯哈只有两处煤场了：一处就叫达娃斯哈，其他一处小新伦敦。从前达健斯哈是一个著名的煤场，曾内部矛盾过大钱的。但是它的黄金时代已经过去了。新伦敦从来变没有多大出息，平素不过能混过日子就是。但是瑞时候坏了，象新伦敦这种矿场是要被人放弃的了。
“许多达娃斯哈的男子们都跑到史德门和怀德华去了。”波太太说，“克利福男爵哟，你去史德门看过大战后成立的那些新工厂吗？啊！啊一天你得去看看，那全是些新式的设备啊，伟大的化学工厂建筑在煤坑上；那全不象是个采煤的地方了。人们说，他们从化学产品所得的钱，比煤炭所得的还要多了。人们说，他们从化学产品所得的钱，比煤炭所得的还要多……我忘记了是什么化学产品了而那些工人的宿舍，简直象王宫！附近的光棍们当然是趋之若鹜了。但是许多达娃斯哈人也到那里去了；他们在那边生活很好，比我们这里的工人还好。他们说，达娃斯哈完了，再过几年便要关闭了。而新伦敦是要先关的。老实说，如果达娃斯哈煤坑停工了，那可不是好玩的事！在罢工的时候，已经是够不幸了，但是老实说，如果真的倒完备下去，那便要象是世界的末日来到了，当我年轻的时候，这是全国顶好的煤矿场，那时在这里作工的人都要私自庆幸的。啊，达娃斯哈弄过不少钱呢！而现矿工他却说，这是一条沉着的船，大家都得离开了。真令人寒心！但是当然，不到不得已的时候，许多的不会就些离开的，他们不喜欢那些新式的，掘得很深的，用机器去工作有矿坑。有些人是看见了那些铁人——他们所起的名称——就生怕的，那些砍煤的机器代替了以前的人工。但是他们所说的话，在从前放弃人工织袜的时候就有人说过了，我记得还看见过一两架那种人工织袜机呢。但是老实说，机器越多，人也好象越多了！他们说。你不能从达娃斯哈的煤炭里取得和史德门那里一样的化学原材，那是奇怪的事，这两处煤矿相距只有三哩路。总之，这是他们所说的，但是人人都说峭想点方法改庚工人的生活，不雇用女工——所有那些每天跑到雪非尔德的女子们——那是可耻和。老实说，达娃斯哈矿场，经过这许多人说是完了，说是象一只沉着的船似地离开了……。
但如果复活起来，哪时谈起来一定有趣呢，但是人们什么不说呢！自然呀，当在大战的时候，什么都是蒸蒸向荣的，那时候佐佛来男爵自己把财产嘱托保管起来，这样所有的金钱才可以永远巡全下去，我也不明白怎样，这是人们传说的！但是他们说，现在连主人和东家都得不着什么钱了。真难令人相信，可不是！我一向相信煤矿的事业是永久永久地继续下去的，当我还年轻的时候，谁想得到今日这种情形呢，但是新英格兰公司已关门了，大量高维克林公司也一样，是的，那真好看呢，如果到那小树林里去看看高维克林矿场在树木间荒芜着，煤坑下面生满了荆棘，铁轨腐锈得发红，死了的煤矿场，那是可怕得象顽强神本身一样的。天呀，要是达娃斯哈关门的话，我们将怎样呢？……那真令人不忍想象。除了罢工以外，总是挤挤拥拥的人骆在工作着，甚至罢工的时候，如果钱还没有得到手，风花还是转着的，这世界多奇怪，我们今年不知明年事，真是茫茫然网。”
波太太的一番话，引起克利福的争斗的新精神，他的进款，流太太已指示过了，因为有他父亲的遗产，是无虞的，虽然那并不是一笔大进款。实际上，他并不真正地关心那些煤坑。他所欲夺得的是另一个世界，文学和荣耀的世界。换句话说，是名誉的成功的世界，而不是那劳工的世界。
现在，他明白了名誉的成功与劳工的成功之间的不同了：一个是享乐的群众，一个是劳工的群众。他呢；站在个人地位上，供给着享乐的群众以享乐的粮食——小说；这点他是成功了，但是在这享乐的群众以下，还有个狰狞、龌龊而且可怕的劳工群众。而这个群众也有他们的需要。供应这种群’众的需要，比去供应其他群众的需要是可怖得多的工作。当他写着他的小说，正在那一边发迹的时候，这一边达娃斯哈却下在碰壁了，他现在明白了成功的财神有两个主要的嗜欲：一个是著作家或艺术家一类的人所供给的馅媚、阿谀、抚慰搔爬；而另一个右怕的嗜欲是肉和骨。这财神所吃的肉和骨，是由实业上发财的人去供给的。
是的，有两在群的狗在争夺着财神的宏爱：一群是馏媚者，他们向她贡献着娱乐、小说、影片、戏剧；其他一群不太铺线的但是粗野得多，向供给着肉食——金钱的实质。那装饰华丽的供给娱乐的狗群，‘彼此张牙舞爪地吵嚷着争取财神的这宠爱。
但是比起那另一骆不可少的、内肉供给者们的你死我活地暗斗来，却又相差千里了。
在被太太的影响之下，克利福想去参与另一群狗的色斗了，想利用工业出品的粗暴方法，去争取财神的宠爱了，他张牙舞爪起来了。在某种程度上，是波太太激化成就了一个大丈夫，这是康妮不曾做到的，康妮玲眼旁观，并且歙他觉知他自己所处的情态，波太太使他感觉兴趣的只是外界的事物，在内心他开始软腐了，但是在外表上他却开始生活了。
他甚至勉强地重新回到矿场里去，他坐在一个大桷里，向矿穴里降下。他坐在一个大拥里，被人牵曳着到各得的矿洞，大战前他所尽知而似乎完全忘记了的许我事情，现在都重新显现在他目前了；他现在是残废了，端从而在那大桶里，经理用着强有力的灯光，照着矿脉给他看。他不太说话，但是他心里开始工作了。
他开始把关采矿工业的专门书籍重新拿来阅读；他研究着政府的公报，而且细心地阅读着德文的关于代矿学、煤炭化学及石脑油尖类化学的最新书报。当然，最有价值的发明人家是保密的。但是，当你开始探求采矿工业技术上的深奥，和研究各种方法之精密以及煤炭的一节化学可能性时，你是要惊愕近代技术精神之巧妙及其近于高的智慧的。那仿佛妖魔本身的魅幻的智慧，借给了工业的专门科学家。这种工业的专门科学，比之文学与艺术那种可怜的低能者的感情的产物有意味多了。在这园地中，人好象是神，或有灵感的妖魔，奋斗着去发现。在这种活动中，有些人精神的年龄，是高到不能计算的。但是克利福知道，这些同样的人，如果讲到他们的感情的与常人的生活状态上来，他们的精神年龄大约只有十三四岁——只是些柔弱的孩童罢了。这种天壤的相差则令人惊怖的。
但是管这个干吗，让人类在感情上和“人性的”精神上陷到愚钝的极端去，克利福是不关心的。让这一切都见鬼去吧。他所注意的是近代采煤工业的技术，和达娃斯哈的再造。
他一天一天地到矿场里去，他研究着，他把所有各部门的经理、工程师，都严厉地考询起来，这是他们从来没有梦想到的。权威！他觉得在自己的心里，滋生着一种新的权威的感觉：对所有这些人，和那内千矿工的权威。他发现了：他渐渐地把事情把握到手里来了。
真的，他象是再生了，现在，生命重新回到他身上来了！他以前和康妮过着那种艺术家的和自学者的孤寂的私生活，他是渐渐地萎死下去的，现在，他屏除了这一切，他让这一切睡眠去了。他简直觉得生命从煤央里从矿穴里，蓬勃地向他涌来，于是，矿场的龌龊空气也比氧气还要好了那予他以一种权威的感觉。他正开始他的事业了，他正在开始他的事业了。他就要得到了，得手了！那并不是象他用小说所得到的那种胜利，那只是竟尽精力，用尽狡猾的广告的胜利而已，他所要的是一个大丈夫的胜利。
起初，他相信问题的解决点是在电力方面；把煤炭变成电力，以后，又来了个新主意。德国人巳发明了一种不用火力的发动机，这发动机所用的是一种新燃料，这燃料烧起来只要很少的量，而在某种特殊的情形下，能发生很大的热力。
一种新的集中的燃料，烧得慢而热力又猛，这主意首先引起了克利福的注意；这种燃料，得要一种界和刺激物，光是空气的供给是不够铁，他便开始做着实验，耸得了一位聪慧的青年来帮助他，这青年在化学的研究中，是有很高的成绩的。
他觉得凯旋了。他锤从自我中跳出来了。他的从自我中跳出和毕生私愿已经实现了。艺术没有使他在室这个目的，反之，艺术只把他牵制了。但是现在呢？他的私愿已实现了。
他并不知道波太太多么扶助自己，也不知道自己是多么领先她。但是有一件显然的事，就是当他和她在于起的时候，他的声调就变成安闲亲切的，差水多有些庸俗的了。
和康妮在一起，他显得有点僵硬的样子，他觉得他该她一切一切的东西，所以对她尽可能地表示敬意与尊重，只要她在外表上对他还有敬意。但是很显然地，他在暗地里惧怕她。他心里的新阿咯琉斯。
Chapter 10
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. 


康妮现在十分孤独，到勒格贝不的人少了，克利福不再需要这些人。他是奇怪的，甚至一般知友他也索性不要了，他宁愿有一架无线电收音机，所以他发了不少钱安设了一架，花了不少的气力绥把机器弄好了。虽然米德兰的气候不好，但是有时他还可以听着玛德里和法兰克福的。 

他可以连续几个钟头坐在那儿听着那扬声器的吼叫。这把康妮的头弄错了。但是他却迷幻地坐在那儿，脸上的表情是空洞的，好象一个失了灵魂扔人，听着，或名胜是呼着那无法说出的东西。

他真正在听？抑或那只是当他心底里有事时所用的催眠剂？康妮可不知道，她逃避到自己房屋或树林里去。有时一种恐怖占据着她，一种对于那蔓延了整个文明人类的初期狂病所生的恐怖。

但是现在克利福正向着这加一个实业活动的不可思仪的世界猛进了。他差不多变成了一只动物，有着一个实用的怪壳为表，一个柔软的闪髓为里，变成了一只近代实业与财政界的奇异的虾蟹，甲壳虫类的无脊动物，有着如机器似的钢甲和软闪的内部，康妮自己都觉得全摸不着头脑了。

她还是不能自由，因为克利福总是需要他。他怪不安宁，好象生怕被她遗弃了的样子。他里面的软浆需要她，这是一个孩子的需要，差不多可以说是一个白痴的需要。查太莱男爵夫人。他的妻子，定要留在他的身边，在勒格贝。否则他便要象白痴似的迷失在一个荒野上。

康妮在一种恐柿的情态中，明白了这种惊人的依赖生活。她听着克利福对他手下的经理们、董事们和青年刻学家们说话，他的聪明锐利的眼光，他的权威，他的对于这些所谓实干家们的奇异的物质的权威，使他惊骇了。他自己也成为一个实于家了，而且是这么一个异乎寻常的、锐利而有权威的实干家，一个太上的主子。康妮觉得在克利福的生命的转变关头，这些都是波太太的影响所致的。

但是这个锐利的实干家，一旦回到了他的个人感情生活时，他又几乎成为一个白痴了，他把康妮象神一般地敬爱，她是他的妻，一个更高的生物，他以、个崇拜偶象的心，奇异时卑贱地崇拜她，好象一个野蛮人，因为深怕甚至嫉恨神的权威而去崇拜神的偶像，一个可怖的偶像。她唯一要求的事，便是要康妮立誓不要离开他，立誓不要遗弃他。

“克利福，”她对他说一但这是她得到了那小屋门的钥匙以后了一“你是不是真的要我哪一天生个孩子？”

他的灰色的有点突出的眼睛，向她望着，表示着几分不安。

“我是无所谓的，只要我们间不生什么变化。”他说。

“变化什么？”她问道。

“不使你我间发生变化，不使我们相互的爱情生变化，要是有什么变化的话，我是决然反对。可是，哪一天我自己也许可以有个孩子的！”

她愕然地望着他。

“我的意思是说，这些日子里，我那个也许可以恢复过来的。”

她者是愕然地望着他，他觉得不安起来。

“那么，要是我有个孩子，你是不愿意的了？”她说。

“我告诉你，”他象是一只人了穷巷的狗，赶快答道，“我十分愿意的，但要那不影响到你财我的爱情，否则我是绝对反对的。”

康妮只好静默无言，惊惧地轻蔑地冷静着。这种谈话是白痴的呓语，她再也不知道他在说着什么了。

“呵！那不会影响到我对你的感情的。”她带点嘲讽的意味说。

“好！”他说，“关键就在这儿，如果那样的话，我是毫不介意的。我想，有个孩子在家里跑来跑去，而且知道他的伟大前程已被确定，这太可爱了。我的努力得有个目的，我得知道那是你生的小孩是不是？亲爱的，我一定也要觉得那是我生的一样，因为，这种事情，全是为了你。你知道的，是不是？亲爱的，我呢，我是毫无重要的，我是一个零，在生命的事件上，唯有你才是重要的。你知道的，是不是？我是说，要是没有你，我是绝对地一个零，我是为你和你的前程活着的。我自己是毫无重要的。”

康妮的着他，心里的反感和厌恶越深下去。他所说的都是些败坏人类生存的可怖的半真理。一个有理智健全的男子，怎么能对一个妇人说这种话？不过男子们的理智是不健全的。一个稍为高尚的男子，怎么能把可饰的生命责任诿在一个女人身上，而让她孤零零地在空虚之中？

但是，半点钟后，康妮听着克利福对波太太用兴奋起劲的声音谈话，露着他自己对地这个妇人的无热情的热情。仿佛她是他的半情妇、半乳母似的。太太小心地替他穿晚服，因为家里来了些重要的企业界的客人。

在这时期，康妮有时真觉得她侠要死了。她觉得自已是给妖魔的的谎言，给可怖的白痴的残暴压得要死了，克利福在企业上的奇异的能干使她惧怕，他自称的对他的崇拜使她慷怖，他们之间已经什么都没有了。她现在再也不模独他，而他也再不摸独她了，他甚至再也不友好地捏着她的手了，不，因为他们已完全分离了，他只用着崇拜偶像者的宣言去挖苦她，那是失尽了势能的人的残暴，她觉得她定要发狂了，或要死了。’

她尽可能地常常逃到树林里去，一天下午，当她坐在约翰井旁边，思索着，望着泉水冷清地沸涌的时候，守猎人突然出现在她的旁边。

“我替你另做了一把钥匙，夫人！”他一边说，一边行礼把钥匙交给了她。

“呀，太感谢你了！”她慌忙地说。

“小屋里是不太整洁的。”他说，“请你不要怪我。我只能尽我可能地收拾了一下。”

“但是我是不要麻烦的，在一个星期的光景，我便要把母鸡安置起来，但是这些母鸡不会怕你的，我早晚都得看管他们，但是我会尽我的能力少搅扰你的。”

“但是你并不搅扰我呢。”她坚持着说，“如果是我搅扰你的话，我宁可不到那小屋里去的。”

他用他的灵活的蓝眼睛望着她。他好象很慈蔼而又冷淡。虽然他的样子看起来瘦弱有病，但是他的肉体与精神是健全的，他有点咳嗽起来。

“你咳嗽吗？”她说。

“这没什么……受了点凉罢了，前些时患了肺炎，给我留下了这咳嗽，但是没有什么关系。”

他疏远地站着，不愿接近她。

早晨或午后，她经常地到小屋里去，但是他总不在那里，无疑地他是故意躲避她。他要保持着他的孤独与自由。

他把小屋收拾得很整洁，把小桌子和小椅子摆在火炉旁边，放了一堆起火的柴和小木头，把工具和捕兽机推到很无宾角落里去，好象为了要消灭他自己的形迹似的，屋外边，在那靠近树林的空地上，他用树枝和稻草搭了个矮小的棚，是给小雄鸡避风雨的，在这棚下有五只木笼子。有一天，当她到那里时，她看见笼子里有了两只棕色的母鸡，凶悍地警备着，正在孵着雉鸡的蛋，很骄傲地箍松着毛羽，在它们的性的热血里，深深地沉味着。康妮看了，差不多心都碎了．她觉得自己是这样的失落无依，毫无用处，全不象个女性，只有一个恐怖的可怜虫罢了。

不久，五个笼子都有了母鸡，三只是棕色的，一只是灰色的，还有一只是黑色的，五只母鸡都同样是在它们母性的重大而温柔的抚养职务中，在母性的天性中，筵松着毛羽，紧伏在卵上。当康妮在它们面前蹲伏下去时，它们的光耀的眼睛守视着她，它们忿怒地惊惶地发着尖锐的咯咯声，但是这种忿怒大概是每当被人迫近时的女性的忿怒。

康妮在小屋里找到了些谷粒。她用手拿着去饲它们，它们并不吃，只有一只母鸡在她手上猛啄了一下，把康妮吃了一惊，但是她却焦苦着想把些什么东西给它们吃，给这些不思饮食的孵卵的母鸡，她拿了一罐子水给它们，其中—只喝了一口，她喜欢极了。

现在，她每天都来看这些母鸡。它们是世界上唯一可以使她的心温暖起来的东西了。克利福的主张使她全身发冷，波太太的声音和那些到家里来的企业界的人们的声音，使她发冷。蔑克里斯偶尔地写给她的信，也使她觉得同样的冷颤。她觉得如果没有什么新的事情来到，她定要死了。

虽然，这是春天了，吊钟花在树林里开花了，擦子树正在发芽，好象一些青色的雨滴似的。多么可怕哟，已是春天了，一切都是这样的冷，这样的无情，只有那些母鸡，这样奇异地筵松着毛羽伏在卵上，是在他们母性的孵化的热力中温暖着！康妮不住地觉得自己就要晕顾了。

有一天，那是阳光华丽的可爱的一天，莲馨花在擦树下一簇一簇地开着，小径上缀满着许多紫罗兰花，她在午后来到鸡笼边。在一个鸡笼前面，一只很小很小的小鸡在傲然自得地瞒跚着，母鸡在惊骇地叫喊。这只纤小的小鸡是棕灰色的，带了些黑点，在这时候，这整个大地上最有生气的东西，就是这只小对外开放了。康妮蹲了下去，在一种出神人化的状态中注视着它。这是生命！这是生命！这是纯洁的，闪光的，无恐惧的新生命！这样的纤小，而这样的毫无畏惧！甚至它听着了母鸡的惊叫而蹒跚地走进笼子里去藏在母鸡的毛羽下面，它也不是真正惧怕什么，它只当作那是一种游戏，一种生活的游戏，瞧！一会儿过后，一只小小的尖头儿，从母鸡的金棕色的毛羽里铭丁出来，探视着这花花的大干世界。

康妮给这一幅美丽的画图迷住了。而同时，她的被遗弃的妇人的失望的感觉浓厚到他一向所没有过的程度，那使她忍受不了。

她现在只有一个欲望，便是到林中这块空地上去，其他的一切都不过是苦痛的梦。但是为了尽她的主妇的职务，她有时是整天留在家里的。那时，她觉得自己也仿佛空虚上去，成为空虚而疯狂了。

有一天黄昏的时候，用过茶点以后，她不管家里有客没有，她便逃了出来，天已晚了，她飞跑着穿过了花园，好象她怕被人叫回去似的，当她进树林里去时，攻瑰色的太阳，正向西方沉没，但是她在花丛中赶紧走着，大地上的光明还可以继续多时的。

她脸色徘红，神情恍馏地走到林中的空地上。那守猎的人，只穿着衬衣，正在关闭鸡笼的门，这样小鸡才可以安全度夜，但是还有三只褐色的活泼的小鸡，在那稻草棚下乱窜着，而不听从的焦急的呼唤

“我忍不住要赶来看看这些小鸡！”她一边气喘着说，一边羞赧地望了望了那守猎人，好象不太留意他似的，添了些新生的么？”

“到现在已经有三十六只了。”她说，“还不坏？”

他也一样感觉着一种奇异的快乐，去等候着这些小生命的出世。

康妮蹲在最后的一个笼子面前，那三只小鸡已经进去了。但是她们的毫无忌畏挑战头儿，从那黄色毛羽中钻了出来，一会儿又藏了进去，只有一只小头儿，还在那广大的母体的上向外窥视着。

“我真喜欢摸摸它们，”她说着，把她的手指胆怯的从笼格里伸了进去，但是那只母鸡凶悍地把她的手啄丁一下，康妮吓得向后惊退。

“你看它怎么啄我！它恨我呢！”她用一种惊异的声音说，“但是我并不伤害它们呀！”站在她旁边的他，笑了起来，然后在她旁边蹲了下去，两膝开着，自信地把手慢慢地伸进笼里，老母鸡虽然也啄了他一下，但是没有那样凶悍。缓缓地，轻轻地，他用他那稳当而温和的手指，在老母鸡和毛羽中探索着，然后把一只微弱地嗽卿的小鸡握在手中，拿了出来。

“喏！”他说着，伸手把小鸡交给她，她把那小东西接在手里，它用那两条小得象火柴杆似的腿儿站着，它的微小的、飘摇不定的生命颤战着，从它那轻巧的两脚传到康妮的手上。但是它勇敢地抬起它的清秀美丽的小头儿，向四周观望着，嗽的叫了一声。

“多么可爱！多么无忌惮”她温柔地说。”

那守猎人，蹲在她的旁边，也在欣赏着她手里的那只无畏惧的小鸡、忽然地，他看见一滴眼泪落在她腕上。

他站了起来，走到另一个笼前去，因为他突然觉得往昔的火焰正在他的腰边发射着，飞腾着，这火焰是他一向以为永久地熄灭了的。他和这火焰狰扎着，他背着康妮翻转身去，但是这火焰蔓延着，，向下蔓延着，把他的两膝包围了。

他重新回转身去望着她。她正跪在地上，盲目地，慢慢地伸着两手，让那小鸡回到母鸡那里去，她的神情是这样的缄默这样的颠沛，他的脏腑里，不禁燃烧着对她哀怜的情绪。

他自己也不知道在做着什么，他迅速地向她走过去，在她旁边重新蹲下去，他她手里接过了小鸡。因为她正在害怕那母．鸡，正要把它放回笼里去，在他的两腰背后，火焰骤然激发起来，比以前更为；虽烈了。他惶恐地望着她，她的脸孔躲了过去，在她孤独凄凉的无限苦楚中盲目地哭泣着。他的心突然熔化了，象一点火花，他的手伸了出来，把手指放在她的膝上。

“不要哭。”他温柔地说。

她听了，把两手掩着脸，觉得她的心真是碎了，一切都无关重要了。

他把手放在她的肩上，温柔地，轻轻地，他的手沿着她的背后滑了下去，不能自主地用着一种盲目的抚慰的动作，直到了她的弯曲着腰际。在那儿，温柔地，温柔地，用着一种盲目的本能的抚慰，他爱抚着她的腰窝。

她找到了她的小手绢，盲目地揩着眼泪。

“到小屋里去罢。”他用镇静的声音说。

说了，他温柔地用手扶着他的上臀，使她站了起来，慢慢地带她向小屋走去，直至她进了里面。然后他把桌椅推在一边，从一只用具箱里取出了一张褐色的军毡，慢慢地铺在地上。她呆本地站着，向他脸上望阂。

他的脸孔是苍白，没有表情的，好象一个屈服于命运之前的人的脸孔似的。

“躺在这儿罢。”他温柔地说，然后把门关上了。这一来，小屋里黑暗了，完全黑暗了。

奇异地，驯服地，在毡子上躺了下去，然后她觉着一只温柔的，不定的无限贪婪的手，触摸着她的身体，探索着她的脸，那只手温柔地，温柔地爱抚着她的脸，无限的温慰，无限的镇静，最后，她的颊上来了温柔的吻触。

在一种沉睡的状态中，一种梦幻的状态中，她静默地躺着。然后，她颤战起来，她觉着在她的衣裳中，那只手在温柔地，却又笨拙地摸索着，但是这只手，却知道怎样在它所欲的地方，把她的衣裳解开了。他慢慢地，小心地，把那薄薄的绸裤向下拉脱。直脱到她的脚上，然后在一种极乐的颤战中，他摸触着她温暖而柔软的肉体，在她的肚脐上吻了一会。他便马上向她进去，全然进到她柔软而安静的肉体里的和平之域去。

在一种沉睡的状态中，老是在一种沉睡的状态中，她静默地躺着。所有的动作，所有的性兴奋，都是他的，她再也无能为力了，甚至他的两臂楼着她那么紧，甚至他身体的激烈的动作，以及他的精液在她里面的播射，这一切都在一种沉睡的状态中过去，直至他完毕后，在他的胸膛上轻轻地喘息着时，她才开始醒转过来。

这时她惊愕了，朦胧地问着自己，为什么？为什么需要这个？为什么这个竟把她的重负减轻而给她以和平的感觉？这是真的么？这是真的么？

她的近代妇女的烦恼的心还是不能安息下来，这是真的么？她知道，假如她自己献身与这个人，那么这便是真的；但是假如她固守着自己时，这便是不真了。她老了，她觉得自己是一百万岁似的老了。总之，她再也不能支持自己的重量了。她是整个放在那里，任人拿去，任人拿去。

那人在神秘的静息中躺着。他感觉着什么？他想着什么？她不知道，她觉得他是一个陌生人，她是不认识他的。她只好等待，因为她不敢扰乱他的神秘的静息。他躺在那儿，他的两臂环抱着她，他的身体在上面，他的潮湿的身体触着她，这样的近．完全一个陌生人，却又吵令人感觉不安，他的静息的本身是令人宁泰的。

这一点，当他最后激醒转来而从她的身上抽退时，她是觉得的，那好象他把她遗弃了似的，他在黑暗中，把她的衣裳托了下来，盖在她的膝上。他站了一会，显然地在整理着他自己的衣服，然后他安静地把门打开了，走了出去。

她看见在那橡树的梢头，落日残辉的上面，悬着一轮明亮的小小月亮，她赶快站了起来，把衣裳整理好，然后她向那小屋的门边走去。

树林下面是昏暗了，差不多黑了。可是树林的上面，天还带着水晶似的幽明，不过没有那种睛朗的白光了。那从林下的昏暗中向好了过来，他的脸孔昂举着，象是一个灰点。

“我们走罢！”他说。

“到哪儿去？”

“我陪你到园门口去。”

他有他的料理事情的状态，他把小屋的门锁上了，然后跟着她出去。

“你不懊悔吗？”当他在她旁边走着时问她道。

“不！不！你呢？”她说。

“为那事！不！”他说，过了一会，他加了一句：“不过还有别的事情罢了。”

“什么别的事情？”她说。

“克利福男爵，其他的人，和一切的纠纷。”

“什么纠纷？”她沮丧地问道。

“事情常常是这样的，于你于我都是一样，总有些什么纠纷的。”他在昏暗中，稳定地走着。

“你懊悔么？”她说。

“在某一方面是有点儿的！”他一边回答，一边仰望着天空。“我自以为和这些事情是断绝了，现在我却又开始起来了”

“开始什么？”

“生活，”

“生活！”她应声说道。感觉着一种奇怪的兴奋。

“那是生活。”他说，“没有法子避免的。如果你避免它。你便等于死。所以我只好重新开始，我只好这样。”

她却不把事情看成这样。但是……

“那是爱情。”她欢快地说。

“无论那是什么，反正一样。”他回答道。

他们在静默中，在渐见昏黑下去的林中前进着，直至他们将到园门口的时候。

“但是你不憎恨我罢？”她有点不安地说。

“不，不。他答道。突然地，他用着那种古代的结合人类的热情，把她紧紧地抱在杯里。“不，我觉得那个太好了，太好了，你也觉得吗？”

“是的，我也觉得。”她有点不诚实地答道。因为她实在并没有觉得怎样。

他温柔地，温柔地，热吻着她。

“假如世界上没有这许多人，那就好了。”他悲伤地说。

她笑着，他们到了园门口了，他替她把门打开。

“我不再送了。”他说。

“不！”她把手伸了出去和他握别，但是他却用双手接着；

“你要我再来么？”她热切地问道。

“是的！是的！”

她离开了他，向园中过去，他在后边望着向灰暗的园中进去，心里差不多感着痛苦地望着她定了。

他原本是要守着他的孤独的，现在他使他再想起人间的关系来了。好恰牺性了自由，一个孤独者的示的自由。

他向黑暗的林中回去，一切都静寂着，月亮也沉了，但是他听得见夜之声响，他听得见史德门的机器和大路上来往的车辆。他慢慢地攀登那赤裸的山坡。在山上，他可以看见整个乡村，史德门的一排一排的火光，达娃斯哈煤小灯光和达娃斯哈村里的黄光。昏暗的乡村里，随处都是光，远过地，他可以看见，高炉在发着轻淡的粉红色，因为夜色清明，白热的金属发着玫瑰的颜色，史德门的电灯光，又尖锐又刺眼！多么令人难解的含着恶意的光辉！这一切米德兰工业区的夜的不安和永久的恐怖。他听得见史德门的车盘响着，载着七点钟的工人到煤坑里去，矿场是分三班轮流工作的。

他向幽暗的僻静的树林里下去。但是他知道树林的僻静是欺人的了。工业的嘈声把寂静破坏了。那尖锐的灯光，虽不能见，也把寂静嘲弄着。再也没有谁可以孤独，再也没有僻静的地方，世界再也不容有隐遁者了，现在，他已经得到了这个妇人，并且加了自己一个新的痛苦与罪罚的枷锁了，因为他从经验得知这是怎么一回事的。

这并不是妇人的过失，甚至不是爱情过失，也不是性欲的过失，过失是从那边来的，从那邪恶的电灯光和恶魔似的机器之嚣声里来的，那边，那贪婪的机械化验的贪婪世界，闪着灯光，吐炽热的金属，激着熙来攘往的喧声，那儿便是罪恶所在的地方，准备着把不能同流台污的东西一概毁灭，不那世界全果把这树林毁灭了，吊钟花将不再开花了，一切可以受作用的东西，定要在铁的跟随瞒之下消灭。

他用无限的温情想着那妇人，可怜的无依无靠的人，她不知道也自己是这样可爱。呵！太可爱了！她所接触的庸欲之流太不配她了！可怜的人儿，她也有点象野玉簪似的易伤地嫩弱，她并不象近代女子似的，全是树胶品和白金。他们要压刀的！那是毫无疑义了，他们要压倒她，如同他们压倒一切自然的温柔的生活一样，温柔！她有点什么温柔的东西，象滋长着的温柔的玉簪花似的温柔的东西，这东西是今日化学晶的妇女们所没有的了，但是他定要诚恳地把她保护一些时日，只一些时日，直至无情的铁世界和机械化的贪婪世界把她和他自己同时压倒。

他带着他的狗和枪归，到了他阴暗的村舍里，把灯点了，把火炉里的火生了，然后吃晚餐：一些面包和奶酷一些小葱头和酒。他在他所深爱的静默中孤独着。他的房子是清洁的。整齐的，但是有些冷清，可炉火是光耀的，炉床是白，白漆布铺着椅子上面悬着的一盏煤油灯也是光亮亮的，他想拿一本关于印度的书来看，但是今晚他却不能看书了，他穿一件衬，坐在火旁边，并不吸烟，但是有一杯啤酒在手旁边，他思念着康妮。

实在说来，他是懊悔发生了那种事情的，那懊悔也许大部分是为了她的缘故，他感觉到一个预兆，那并不是过失或罪恶的预兆，这一点他的意识是不会扰乱的，他知道一个人的意识所最怕惧的，是社会，或是自己，他并不惧怕自己。但是他很显然地惧怕社会，他本能地知道这社会是恶毒的、半疯狂的野兽。

那妇人！要是她能够在城和他在一起，而除了他俩以外，世界绝无第三者了，那么多情欲重新涌了起来，他的阴茎象一只活的小鸟似地兴奋着，同时他又觉得被一种恐惧压制着，他恐惧着自己和她要被外面那些电灯光里含恶意地闪耀着的“东西”所吞食，她，这可怜的年轻的人儿，在他看来，她只是一个年轻的女性的生物罢了，但是这却是一个你曾深进过，并且他还在欲望着进去的一个年轻的生物。

在欲望中，他奇异地打着哈尔，伸着懒腰，因为他远离男女们孤独地生活着已经四年了，他站了起来，把灯火弄小了，拿了外衣和枪，带着狗儿出去。那是一个繁星之夜，欲望，以及对于外界的恶意的“东西”的恐惧情绪推着他，他缓缓地，幽幽地，在树林中巡逻，他爱黑暗，他把自己投在黑暗的怀里，夜色正适合于他的膨胀的欲望。这欲望，无论如何象是一种财富，不巡地兴奋着的他的阴茎，火焚着他的两腰！呵！要是可以和一些人联合起来，去和那外界的、闪光的、电的“东西”抗战，去把生命的温柔，女人的温柔，和自然的欲望的财富保存起来，那就好了！但是所有的人都是在那边，迷醉着那些“东西”，胜利着，或惨败于那机械化的念婪或念婪的机械主义铁蹄之下。

康妮，在她这方面，差不多并不思索什么，她赶快穿过了花园回家去，她还来得及吃晚饭的。

可是，当她到了门口时，门是关着了，这一来她得去按铃了，这却使她烦恼起来，来开门的是波尔敦太太。

“呀！你回来了，夫人！我正开始奇怪着你是不是迷失了呢！”她有点笑谈地说，“但是克利福男爵却没有问起你；他同林先生谈着话，我看他是在这儿晚餐吧，是不是，夫人？”

“大概是罢。”康妮说。

“要不是迟一刻钟开饭？这一来你全阅以从容地换拾裳了。”一“也许那样好些。”

林先生是矿场的总经理，是一个上了年纪的北方人，他有点软弱不振，这是克利福不满意他的地方，他不能迎合战后的新环境，和那些战后的矿工们一样，只守着他们的老成持重的成规。但是康妮却喜欢林来先生，虽然她讨厌他的太太的诌媚样子，心里高兴着他的太太并没有来。

林来留在那儿吃饭，康妮显得是个男子们所极喜欢的主妇，她是这样的谦逊，而又这样的殷勤体贴，他的很大的蓝眼睛和她的幽娴的神态，是尽把她的心事掩藏起来的。这把戏康妮做得多了，已经差不多成了她的第二天性了，奇怪的就是当她做着这把戏时，虽然这是她的第二天性，而她却把一切都从心里忘掉。

她忍耐着等待着，直至她能上楼去，去思索自己的事情。她老是等着，等待好象是她拿手的事情了。

但是，当她回到房里示时，她依旧觉得模糊而昏乱，不知道打城想起。他究竟是怎样的一种人呢？他真喜欢她么？她不太相信，不过他是和蔼的。有着一种什么温暖的、天真的、和蔼的东西，又奇特而骤然，这东西差不多使她的子宫不得不为他展开，但是她觉得他也许对于任何妇女都是这么和蔼的，虽然是这样，他的和蔼却是奇异地使人觉得温慰的。他是一个热情的人，健全而热情的人。但是他也许并不是很专一的，他对她这样，而对任何妇女也许一样，那真是泛然不专的态度，她之于他，实在只是一个女性罢了。

但是，也许这样还要好些，毕竟他所爱她的地方就是她的女性，这是从来没有男人做过的，男人们只爱她的外表，而不爱她的女性。他们残酷地轻蔑这女性，或茫然地不知有这女性。男人们对于康妮小姐或查太莱男爵夫人都是十分主蔼的，但是对于她的性却不然了。他呢，他是全不管什么康妮小姐或查太莱男爵夫人的，他只温柔地爱抚着她的两腰或她的乳房。

第二天，她到树林里去，那是一个灰色的静的午后，沉绿的水银菜，在擦子树林下蔓生着，所有的树都在静默中努力着发芽了。她今天几乎可以感觉着她自己的身体里面，潮涌着那些大树的精液，向上涌着，直至树芽顶上，最后发为橡树的发光的小时儿，红得象血一样。那象是涨着的潮水，向天上奔腾。

她，来到林中的空旷地，但是他并不在那儿，她原来也不地抱着一半的心到这儿一会他的，小雄鸡儿轻捷得象昆虫似的，远在笼外奔窜着，黄母鸡在栏干里挂虎地咯咯着，康妮坐了下来，一边望着它们，一边等待着，她只是等待着，她差不多看不见什么小鸡，她等待着。

时间梦一般的悠悠地过去，而他却不来，她只好怀着一半希望等着他，他是从不在下午到这儿来的，茶点的时间到了，她得回家去，但是她得很勉强地迫着自己，然后才站了起来走开。

当她回家时，霏霏的细雨开始下起来。

“又下雨了么？”克利福看见了她摇着帽子上的雨滴，这样说：“只一点儿细雨。”

她默默地她静默地斟着茶，出神地深思着她的心事，她今天实在想会会那守猎人，看看那究竟是不是真的，那究间是不是真的。

“回头你要不要我给你念念书？”克利福问道。

她望着他，难道他猜疑什么了？

“春天使我觉得点有头晕……我想去休息一会儿。”她说。

“随你便罢，你真觉得不舒服吗？”

“是的，有点儿疲倦……这是春天到了的缘故，你要不要波太太来和你玩玩脾？”

“不！我听听收音机好了。”

她听见了他的声音里，含着一种满足的异的音调，她到楼上寝室里去，在那儿，她听见放音矾在呼号着一种矫揉造作的娇媚蠢笨的声音，这象是一种布廛的嚣喧，象是一个人摹舍己为人一个老贩的令人呕吐的声音，她穿上了她的紫色的旧雨衣，从一个旁门闪了出去。

蒙蒙的细雨好象是遮盖着世界的帐幕，神秘，寂静而不冷。当她急促地穿过花园时，她觉得热起来了，她得把她的轻雨衣解开了。

在细雨中，树林是静息而比几的，半开着的叶芽，半开着花，和孵估万千的卵子，充满着神秘，在这一切朦胧暗昧中，赤条条的幽暗的树木，发着冷光，好象反怕衣裳解除了似的，地上一切青苍的东西，好象在青苍地低哦着。

在那空旷处，依然一个人也没有，小雄鸡差不多都藏到母鸡的毛以下去了，只有一两中较冒失的，还在那草棚下的干地上啄食着。它们都是犹豫不安的。

好！他还没有来，他是故意不来的，也许，什么事情不好了罢，或者她最好是到村舍里去看看。

但是她是生成要等待的。她用她的钥匙，把小屋门打开丁，一切都很整齐，谷粒盛在一只箱里，几张毡子摺垒在架上，稻草整洁地堆在一个角落里，这是新添的一堆稻草，一盏风灯在钉子上悬着，在她躺过的地上，桌子和椅子也都放回原处了。

她走开着门口，坐在一张小凳子上，一切都非常静寂！细，雨轻柔地被风史着，但是风并没有声音，一切都没有声息。树木站立着，象是些有权威的生物，朦胧，幽明，静温而有生气，一切都多么地有生气！

夜色又近了，她得回去。他是在躲避着她。

但是突然地，他大踏步地来到了空旷处，他穿着车夫似的油布的短外衣，湿得发亮，他向小屋迅疾地望了一眼，微微地行了个礼然后转身走到鸡笼边去，他静静地蹲了下去，小心地注视着一切，然后小心地把笼门关好了。

最后，他慢慢地向她走了过来，她还是坐在小凳上。他在门廓下站在她的面前。

“你来了。”他用着土话的腔调说。

“是的！”她望着他说，“你来晚了。”

“是的！”他一边回答，一边向林中望着。

她缓缓地站了起来，把小凳子拉在旁边

“你要进来吗？”她问道。

他向她尖锐地望着。

“要是你天天晚上到这儿来，人们不会说什么吗？”他说。

“为什么？”她不明白地望着他，“我说过我要来的，没有人会晓得的。”

“但是他们不久终要晓得的，”他答道，“那时怎么办好？”

她不知道怎样回答的好。

“为什么他们要晓得呢？”她说。

“人们总会知道的。”他凄然地说。

她的嘴唇有点颤战起来，她油油地说；

“那我可没有法子。”

“不。”他说，“你不来是可以的，要是你愿意。”他低声地添了一句。

“但是我不愿意不来。”她用怨声说。

他无言了，回转眼睛向树林里望着；

“但是假如人晓得了，你将怎样？”他终于问道，“想想看！你要觉得多么屈辱，一个你的丈夫的仆人！”

她望着他的侧着的脸。

“你是不是，”她支吾地说，“你是不是不要我了？”

“想想看！”他说，“要是人们知道了，你将怎样！要是克利福男爵和……大家都……”

“那么，我可以走。”

“走到那儿去呢？”

“无论那儿！我有我自己的钱，我的母亲绘了我两万镑保管着，我知道这笔钱克利福是不能动的，我可以走。”

“但是假如你不想走呢？”

“哪里话！我将来怎样，我才不管呢。”

“呀，你这样想吗？但是你是要考虑的，你不得不考虑，人人都是这样的，你要记着你是查太莱男爵夫人，而我是个守猎人，假如我是一位贵绅的那么事情自然又不同了，是的，你不能不顾虑的。”

“我不，我的男爵夫人又怎么样！我实在恨这个名称，人们笨次这样叫我的时候，我总觉得他们嘲弄我。他们实在是在嘲弄我！甚至你这样叫我的时候，你也在嘲弄我的。”

“我！”

这是第一次他向她直望着，向她的眼里直望着。

“我并不嘲弄你。”他说。

当他这样望着她时，她看见他的眼睛阴郁起来，完全阴郁起来，两只瞳孔张大着。

“你不顾一切地冒险么？”他用着一种沉哑的声音说，“你应该考虑考虑的，不要等以太迟了”

他的声音里，含着一种奇民蝗警告的恳求。

“但是我没有什么可以失掉的东西。”她烦恼地说，“假如你知道实在的情形是怎样，你便要明自我是很喜欢失旧它的，但是你是不是为你自己有所惧怕呢？”

“是的？”他简单地说，“我怕，我怕！我怕那些东西。”

“什么东西？”她问道。

他奇异地把头向后来歪，指示着外面的世界。

“所有的东西！所有的人！所有他们。”

说完，他弯下身去，突然在她愁苦的脸上吻着。

“但是，”他说，“我并不顾虑那些！让我们受用罢，其他一切管它的！不过，要是那一天你懊悔起来•……”

“不要把我抛弃了。”她恳求道。

他的手指抚触着她的脸，突然地又吻了她一下。

“那么让我进去罢。”他温柔地说，“把你的雨衣脱了。”

他把枪挂了起来，台湾省了他自它的湿外衣，然后把毡子拿了下来。

“我多带了一张毡子来。”他说，“这样，要是我们喜欢的话，我们可以拿一张来盏的。”

“我不能久留呢，”她说，晚餐是七点半开的。”

他向她迅速地顾盼了一下，然后望着他的表。

“好的。”他说

他把门关了，在悬着的风灯里点了一个小小的火。

“哪一天我们要多玩一会儿。”他说。

他细心地铺着毡子，把一张招叠起来做她的枕头，然后他坐在一张小凳子上，把她拉到他的身边，一只手紧紧地抱着她，另一只手探摸关她的身体。当他摸着了好怕时候，她听见他的呼吸紧促进来，在她的轻薄的裙下，她是赤裸裸的。

“呵！摸触您是多么美妙的事！”他一边说，一边爱抚着她的臀部和腰部的细嫩、温暖而隐秘的皮肤。他俯着头，用他的脸颊，频频地摩擦着她的小腹和她的大腿。他的迷醉的状态，使她再次觉得有点惊讶起来。他在摸触着她生动而赤裸的肉地所感得的美，这种美的沉醉的欣欢，她是不了解的。这只有热情才可以了解，当热情没有了或死了的时候，那么，美所引起的美妙的惊心动魄是不可了解的，甚至有点被物的，温暖的生动的接触之美，比之眼见的美要深厚得多，她觉着他的脸在她的大腿上，在好怕小腹上，和她的后臀上，温柔地摩着。他的髭须和他的柔软而通密的头发，紧紧地擦着她；她的两膝开始颤战起来了，在她的灵魂里面，狠遥远地。她觉着什么新的东西在那里跳动着，她觉着一种新的裸体在那里浮露了出来，她有在这害怕起来，她差不多希望他不要这样爱抚她了，她只觉得被他环抱着，紧束着然而，她却等待着，等待着。

当他强烈地感到安慰与满足，面向他的和平之域的她的里面进去时，她还是等待着，她觉得自己有点被遗忘了j但是她知道，那是一部分她自它的过失，她想这样便可以固守着她与他的距离，现在也许她是命定了要这么固守着了。她一动不动地躺着；她觉着他在她坦克面的动作，她觉着他深深地沉伏着的专心，她觉着当他插射精液时的骤然的战栗，然后他的冲压的动作缓慢了下来，返种臀尖的冲压，确是有些可笑的。假如你是一个妇人，而又处在当事人之外，一个男子的臀尖的那种冲压，必定是太可笑的，在这种姿态这种动作中，男人确是十分可笑的！

但是她仍然一动不动地躺着，也不退缩，甚至当他完了时，她也不兴奋起来，以求她自己的满足，好象她和蔑免里斯的时候一样，她静静地躺着，眼泪慢慢地在她的眼里满溢了出来。

他也是一动不动，但是他紧紧地搂着她，他的两腿压在她的可怜的两条赤裸的腿上，想使她温暖着，他躺在她的上面，用一种紧密的无疑的热力温暖着她。

“您冷吗”他温柔地细声问道，好象她很近很近的。其实她却觉得远隔着，被遗忘着。

“不！但是我得走了。”她和蔼地说。

他叹息着，更紧地楼抱着她，然后放松了，重新静息下来。

他还没看出流泪，他只以为她是和他一样舒畅。

“我得走了。”她重新说道。

他人她那儿抽退了，在她旁边跪了一会，吻着她的两腿的里面，把她的裙拉了下来，然后在微微的激光里，毫无思索地把他自己的衣服扣好，甚至连身也没有转过去。

“哪一天您得到村舍里来。”他一边说着，一边热切地安闲在望着她。

但是她还是毫无生气地躺在那儿，沉思着，望闻他，陌生人！陌生人！她甚至觉得有点怒恨他。

他把他的外衣穿上，找着他的摔在地上的帽，然后把枪挂在肩上。

“来罢！”他用他的热烈，温和的眼睛望着她说。

她缓缓地站了起来，她不想走；却又不想留。他帮助她穿上了她的薄薄的雨衣，望着她是不是衣裳都整理好了。

然后他把门打开了，外面是很黑了。在门廊下坐着的狗儿，看见了他，愉快地站了起来，细雨在黑暗中灰灰地降着。天是很黑了。

“我得把灯笼带去。”他说，“不会有人的。”，在狭径中，他在她面前走着，低低地把风灯摇摆着，照着地上的湿草和蛇似的光亮的树根，苍暗的花，此外一切都是炙灰的雨雾和黝黑。

“哪一天您得到村舍里来。”他说，“您来不来？反正山羊或羔羊都是一样一吊的了。”

他对于她的返种奇特固扫诉欲望，使她惊讶着，而他们之间却没有什么东西，他也从来没有对她真正地说过话，则且她不自禁地憎恶他的土话，他的“您得来”的粗俗的土好象不是对她说的，而是对任何普通人的说的，她看见了马路上的指形花的叶儿，她知道他们大约是走到什么地方了。

“现在是七点一刻，”他说，“你赶得及回去吃晚饭的。”他的声调变了，好象他觉察着了她的疏远的态度。当他们在马路上转过了最后一个弯，正向着榛树的篱墙和园门去的时候，他把灯火吹熄了。他温和地握着她的手臂说：“好了，这里我们可以看得见了。”

但是，话虽这样说，实在不容易啊。他们脚下踏着的大地是神秘的。不过他是习惯了，他可以摸得着他的道路。到了园门时，他把他的手电筒交给她，说：“园里是光亮点；但是把这个拿去罢，恐怕你走错路。”

真的，在空旷的园中，有着一种幽灵似的灰星的徽光，突然地，他把她拉了过去，重新在她的衣裳下面摸抚着，他的湿而冷的手，触着她的温暖的肉体。

“摸触着一个象您这样的女人，我死也甘心了！”了沉哑的声音说，要是您可以多停一会的话……”

她觉着他的重新对她欲望起来的骤然的热力。

“不！我得赶快回去了！她有点狂乱地说。

“好罢。”他说着，态度突然变了，让她走开了。

她正要走开，却立即回转身来对他说：“吻一吻我罢。”

在黑暗中，他弯着身在她的左眼上吻着。她向他举着嘴唇，他轻轻地在上面吻了一吻，立即便缩回去了，他是不喜欢在嘴上亲吻的。

“我明天再来。”他一边走开一边说，“要是我能够的话。”她加了这一句。

“是的，但是不要来得这么晚了。”他在黑暗里回答道。她已经完全看不见他。

“晚安。”她说。

“晚安，男爵夫人。”他的声音回答着。

她停着了，回过头来向潮湿的黑暗里望着。在这夜色里，她只能看见他的形影。

“你为什么这样叫我？”她说道。

“好，不这样叫了。”他回答道，“那么，晚安，快走罢！”

她在朦胧的夜里隐没了，她看见那旁门正开着，她溜了进去，直至她的房里，并没有被人看见，娄她的房门磁起来时，晚餐的锣声正在响着，虽然这样，她还是决意要洗个澡一她得洗个澡。“但是我以后不要再迟归了。”她对自己说，“这未免太讨厌了。”

第二天，她并不到树林里去。她陪着克利福到阿斯魏去了。他现在有时可以乘汽车出去了，他雇了一个年青而强壮的车夫，在需要的时候。这车夫可以帮助他从车里下来。他是特地去看他的教父来斯里一，文达的。文达佳在阿斯魏附近的希勃来大厦里，这是一位富有资产的老绅士，是爱德华王时代繁荣过的许多富有的煤矿主人之一，爱德华王为了打猎，曾来希勃来佐过几次，这是一个墙的美丽的古老大厦，里面家具的布置是很都丽的，因为文达是个独身者，所以他对于他家里的修洁雅致的布置是很骄傲的，但是，这所大厦却给许多煤矿场环绕着了。文达对于克利福是关心的，但是因为他的文学作品和画报上刊登的他的像片，他个人对他是没有什么大尊重的。这老绅士是一个爱德华王一派的花花公子，他认为生活就是生活，而粗制滥造的作家是另一事，对于康妮，这者乡绅总是表示搜勤温雅。他觉得她是纯洁如处女的、端正的、动人的人，她对于克利福未免劳而无功了，并且她的命运不能给勒格贝生个继承人，是千可惜万可惜的，不过他自己也没有继承人。

康妮自己间着，假如他知道了克利宝的守猎人和她发生了关系，假如他知道了这守猎人用土话对她说“那一天您得到村舍里来”，他将怎样想呢？他定要憎恶她，轻鄙她，因为他差不多是疾恨劳工阶级的向前迈进的，假如她的情人是和她同样阶级的人，那么他不会介意的，因为康妮吴然地有着端庄的、驯服的、处女的风采，也许她生成是为了恋爱的。文达叫她“亲爱的孩子”，给了她一幅十八世纪的贵妇人的很可爱的小画像，她实在不想要，不过只好收下。

但是康妮一心只想着她和守猎人的事情。毕竟，文达先生确是个上等人，是个上流社会的一分子，他当她是个人物，是个高尚的人看待，他不把她和其他的妇女看成一样，而用着“您”、“您的”这种字眼。

那天她没有到树林里，再隔一天她也没有去，第三天还是没有去，只要她觉得，或者自以为觉得那人在等着她，想着她，她便不到那儿去，但是第四天，她可怕的烦躁不安起来了。不过她还是不愿到林中去，不愿再去为那个男子展开她的两腿。她心里想着她可以做的事情一到雪非尔德去，访访朋友去，可是想到了这些事情就使她觉得憎恶。最后，她决定出去散散步，并不是到树林，而是向相反的方向去，她可以从大花园的其他一面的小铁门里出去，到马尔海去，那是一个宁静而灰色的春日，天气差不多可说是温暖的，她一边走着，一边沉味在飘渺的思想里，什么都没有看见。直到马尔海的农庄里时，她才被狗的狂吠声，从梦幻里惊醒了，马尔海农庄！这狐牧场，宽展到勒格贝的花园围墙边，这样他们是亲邻呢；但是康妮好久没有到这儿来了。

“陪儿！”她向那条白色的大叭儿狗说。“陪儿！”你忘记了我了？你不认识我了么？”一她是怕狗的，陪儿一边吠着，一边向后退着，她想穿过那农家大院，到畜牧场那条路上去。

弗林太太走了出来。这是和康妮一样年纪的人，她曾当过学校教员；但是康妮疑心她是个虚伪的小人物。

“怎么，是查太莱男爵夫人！”弗林太太的眼睛光耀着，她的脸孔红得象个女孩似的。“陪儿！陪儿！怎么了！你向着查太莱夫人吠！陪儿！赶快停嘴！”她跑了过去，用手里拿着的白手巾打着狗，然后向康妮走来。

“它一向是认识我的。”康妮说着，和她握了握手，弗林一家是查太莱的佃户。

“怎么会不认识夫人呢！它只想卖弄卖弄罢了。”弗林太太说，她脸红着，很羞难过地望着康妮，”不过它好久没有看见您了，我很希望你的身体好些了罢？”

“谢谢你，我很好了。”

我们差不多整个冬天都没有看见夫人呢。请进来看看我的小孩吗？”

“晤！”康犹豫着，“好不过只一会儿。”

弗林太太赶快跑进去收拾屋子，康妮缓缓地跟了进去，在那幽暗的厨房里，水壶正在炉火边沸着，康妮在那里踌躇了一’会，弗林太大走了回来。

“对不起得很。”她说，“请你进这边来罢。”

他们进了起坐室里，那儿，在炉火旁的地毯上坐着一个婴孩桌子上草率地摆着茶点用的东西。一个年轻的女仆，害羞地、笨拙地向走廊里退了出去。

那婴孩约莫有一岁了，是个檄难得脾小东西，头发是红的，象她的父亲，两只傲慢的眼睛是淡蓝色的，这是一个女孩怪不怕人的，她坐在一些垫枕中间，四同摆着许多布做的洋固固和其他玩具，这是时下的风尚。

“呵。真是个宝贝！”康妮说，“她长得多快！一个大女孩了，一个大女孩了！”

女孩出世的时候，她给过十条围巾给她。圣诞节的时候，又曾给了她一些赛璐璐鸭子。

“佐士芬！你知道谁来看你吗？这是谁，佐士芬？查太莱男爵夫人……你认得查太莱男爵夫人吗？”

这奇的不怕人的小东西，镇静地望着康妮，“男爵夫人”于她还是毫无所谓的。

“来！到我这儿来好不好？”康妮对孩子说。

孩子表示着无可不无可的样子，良把她气象上膝上。抱着一个孩子在膝上是多么温暖，多么可爱的！两个手臂是这样的柔软，两条小腿是样的无知而无羁！

“我正要随便喝点茶，孤孤单单的，陆克上市场去了，因此我什么时候用点茶都随我的便，请喝杯茶好不好，查太莱夫人？这种坏茶点自然不是夫人惯用的，但是如果你不介意的话……”

康妮并不介意，虽然她不喜欢人家提到她惯用佬。桌子上很铺张地摆了些最漂亮的茶本少茶壶。

“只要不麻烦你就好了。”康妮说。

但是假如弗林太太不麻烦，那儿还有什么乐趣！康妮和小孩玩着，她的小女性的无惧惮她的温柔的年轻的温暖，使康妮觉得有趣而得到一种浓厚的快乐，这年轻的生命！这样的无畏！这样的无畏，那是因为毫无抵抗的缘故。所有的成人们都是给恐惧压得这样的狭小！

康妮喝了一杯有点太浓的茶，吃了些美味的奶油面包和罐头李子。弗林太太脸红着，非常地兴奋，仿佛康妮是一个多情的武士似的，她们谈着些真正妇人间说的话，两个人都觉得写意。

“不过这茶点太坏了。”弗林太大说。

“比我家里用的还要好呢。”康妮诚实地说。

“呵！……”弗林太太说，她自然是不相信的。

但是最后康妮站了起来。

“我得走了！”她说，“我的先生并不知道我到哪里去了，他要疑心各种各样的事情呢。”

“李决不会想到你在此地的。”弗林太太高兴地笑道，“他要派人满村叫着找呢。”

“再会，佐士芬。”康妮一边说，一边吻着孩子，揉着她的红色的卷发。

大门是锁着而且上了门闷的，弗林太太紧持着去替刃康要开了，康妮出到了农庄门前的小花园里，这小花园是用冬青树的篱芭围绕着的，沿着等候径的两旁，植着洗我报春花，柔软而华丽。

“多可有宾报春花！”康妮说。

“陆克把它们叫作野草闹花。”弗林太太笑着说，“带点回去吧。”

弗林太太热心地采着。

“够了！够了！”康妮说。

她们来到了小花园的门边。

“你打哪条来呢？”弗林太太问道。

“打畜牧场那条路去。”

“让我看……呵，是的，母牛都在栅栏里，但是它们还没有起来。不过那门是锁着的，你得爬过去呢。”

“我会爬的。”康妮说。

“也许我可以陪你到栅栏那边去罢。”

她走过了那兔子蹂躏得难看的草场。在树林中，鸟雀在啾呶着胜利揭歌最后的牛群，慢慢地在被残踏得象人们行路似的草场上曳着笨重的步伐，一个人在呼喝着它们。

“今晚他们捋乳捋得晚了。”弗林太太严厉地说，“因为他们知道陆克在天黑以前是不会回来的。”

她们来栅栏边，栅栏的后面蔓生着小衫树的丛林。那里有一个小门，但是锁着。在里面的草地上放着一个空瓶子。

“这是守猎人盛牛奶的空瓶子。”弗林太太解说着，“我们装满了牛奶便带来话此地，他自己会来取的。”

“什么时候？”康妮问。

“呵，他什么时候经过此地便什么时候取的。多数是早晨。好了，再会罢，查太莱夫人！请你常来，你到我家里来真是难得的。”

康妮跨过栅栏，进到了一条狭隘的小径上，两旁都是些丛密的小杉树。弗林太太戴着一顶教员戴的遮日帽，在牧场上跑着回去。康妮不喜欢这丛密的新植的树林，这种地方令人觉得可怖和闷塞。她低着头赶路，心里想着弗林太大的孩子，那是个可这的小东西，不过她的两腿将来要象她父亲似的，有点弯曲罢了。现在已经可以看出来了，但是也许长大了会变得好的。有个孩子是我么温暖，多么称心，弗林太太显得多么得意！她至少是一样东西是康妮没有，而且是显然地不能有的。是的，弗林太大熔耀她的为母的尊荣，康妮有点儿，微微地有点儿嫉妨。这是她无可如何的。

突然地，她从沉思中吓了一跳，微地惊叫了一声，一个人在那里！

那是守猎人，他站在狭径中好象巴蓝的驴子，截着眼也的去路。

“怎么，你？”她惊愕地说。

“你怎么来的？”她喘着气追问道。

“但是你怎么一煌？你到小屋里去过么？”

“不：不：我刚从玛尔海来。”

他奇异地探究地望着她；氏着头，觉得是点罪过。

”你现在是到小屋里去么？”他用着有点严厉的声调问道。

“不，我不能去，我在玛尔海已离好一会，家里人都不知道我到哪里去了。我回去要晚了，我得赶快跑。”

“似乎把我丢弃了？”他微微地冷笑着说。

“不！不，不是这样，只是……”

“不是这样还有什么？”他说了，向她走了过去，两上她，她觉得他的全身是可怕地紧贴着她。这样的兴奋。

“呵，不要现在、不要现在。”她一边喊着，一边想把他推开。

“为什么不？现在只是六点钟，你还有半点钟。不，不！我要你，”

他紧紧地抱着她，她觉得他的着急。她的古代人的本能使她为自由而挣扎，但是她的里面有着一种什么又迟钝又沉重珠怪东西，他的身以迫在假压着她，她再也没有心去挣扎了。

他向四下望了一望。

“来……这儿来！打这边来。”他一边说，一边尖锐地望着浓密的小杉树丛中，这些小松树还没他们一半高。

他加望着她。她看见他的眼睛是强烈的，光亮的，凶悍的，而没有湿情，但是她已不能自主了，她觉得她的四肢奇异地沉重起来，她退让了，她驯服了。

他引着她在不易穿过的刺人的树丛中穿了进去，直到二块稍为空旷而有着一丛拓死的树枝的地方，他把些干拓的树校铺在地上，再把他的钙套和上衣盖在上面，她只好象一只野兽似地，在树下躺下去；同时，只穿着衬衣和短裤的他，站在旁边等待着，牢牢地望着她，但是他还有体贴阂到的，他使她舒舒服服地躺着，不过，他却他她的内衣的带子扯断了，因为她只管懒慵地躺着，而不帮助他。

他也是把前身裸露着，当他进她里面的时候，她觉得他裸着的皮肉紧贴着她，他在她里面静止了一会，在那儿彭胀着，颤动着，当他开始抽动的时候，在骤然而不可抑止的征欲里，她里面一种新奇的、惊心动魄的东西，在波动着醒了转来，波动着，波动着，波动着，好象轻柔的火焰的轻扑，轻柔得象毛羽样，向着光辉的顶点直奔，美妙地，美妙地，把她溶解，把她整个内部溶解了。那好象是是钟声一样，一波一波地登峰造极。她躺着，不自觉地发着狂野的，细微的呻吟，呻吟到最后。但是他结束得太快了，太快了；而她再也不能用自己的力量迫使自己完结，这一次是不同了，不同了，她毫无能力了，好也不能竖挺起来缠着他，去博得她自己的满足了。当她觉得他在引退着，可退着，收缩着，就要从她那里滑脱出去的可怕的片刻，她的心里暗暗地呻吟着，她只好等待，等待。她的整个肉体在温柔地开展着，温柔地哀恳着，好象一根洁水下的海芜草，衰恳着他再进去，而使她满足，她在火炽的热情中昏迷着，紧贴着他，他并没有完全滑脱了她，她觉得他的温软的肉蕾，在她里面耸动起来，用着奇异的有节奏的动作，一种奇异的节奏在她里面泛滥起来，彭胀着，彭胀着，直至把她空洞的意识充满了。于是，难以言语形容的动作重新开始一其实这并不是一种动作，而是纯粹的深转着的肉感之旋涡，在她的肉里，在她的意识里，愈转愈深，直至她成了一个感觉的波涛之集中点。她躺在那儿呻吟着，无意识地声音含混地呻吟着，这声音从黝黑无边的夜里发了出来，这是生命！男子在一种敬惧中听着他下面的这种声音，同时把他的生命的泉源插射在她的里面，当这声音低抑着时，他也静止下来，懵懵地，一动不动地卧着；同时她也慢慢地放松了她的拥抱，软慵地横陈着。他们躺着，忘了一切，甚至互相忘着，两个人都茫然若失了。直至最后，他开始振醒过来，觉察了自己无遮地裸露着，而她也觉察了他的身体的重压放松了，他正要离开她了，但是她心里觉得她不能容忍他让她无所麻盖，他现在得永久地庇盖着她。

但是他终于引退了，他吻着她，把她遮掩起来，然后开始遮掩着他自己，她躺着，仰望着上面的树枝，还是没有力量移动，他站着，把他的短裤扣好了，向四周望着，一切都在死寂中，只有那受惊的小狗儿，鼻子挟在两脚中间，俯伏着。他在树枝堆上重新坐了下去，静默地握着康妮的手。

“这一次我们是同时完毕的。”他说。

她回转头来望着他，没有回答。

“象这个样子是很好的，大部分化，过了一生还不知道这个呢。”他象是做梦似地说着。

她望着他的沉思的股。

“真的么？”她说，“你快乐吗？”

他回转头来向她眼里望着，”快乐，”他说，“是的，但是不要谈这个，他不要她谈这个。”他俯着身去吻她，她觉得他应该这样永久地吻着她。

最后，她坐了起来。

“人们很少有同时完毕的么？”她用一种天真的好奇心问道。

“很少。你只要看他们的呆板的样子便看得出来。”他无可奈何地说着，心里懊悔着为什么开始了这种谈话。

“你和基耸女人这样完毕过么”

他觉得好笑地望着她。

“我不知道。”他说，“我不知道。”

她明白了，他决不会对她说他所不愿说的事情的，她望着他的脸，她对他的热情，在她脏腑在颤动着，她尽力抑制着，因为她觉得自己迷失着了。

他穿好了上衣和外套；在小杉树丛中避开了一条路直至小径上。落日的最后光辉，沉在树林梢头了，“我不送你了。”他说，“还是不送的好。”

在他离开之前，她热情地望着他，他的狗儿不耐烦恼地等着他。她好象没有什么话好说了，再也没有什么了。

康妮缓缓地归去，明白了在她的坦克面，另有一件深藏着的东西了。唱一个自我在她的里面活着，在她的子宫里，脏腑里，温柔地溶化着，燃烧着，她以这个眶我的全部，去崇拜她的情人，她崇拜到觉得走路时，两膝都柔软无力起来，在她的子宫里，脏腑里，她满足地，生气蓬勃地，脆弱地，不能自己地崇拜着他，好象一个最天真的妇人。她对自己说：“那好象是个孩子，那好象有个孩子在我的里面。”……那是真的，她的子宫，好象一向是关闭着的，现在是展开了。给一个新的生命充实了，这新的生命虽然近于一种重负，但是却是可爱的。

“要是我有了孩子！”她心里想着，“要是我有了他的孩子在我的里面！”……想到了这个，她的四脚软怠了，她明白了有个自我的孩子，和有个全身全心欲爱着的男人的孩子，这其间是有天壤之别的，前者似乎是平凡的，但是从一个整个心欲崇拜着的男子得到孩子，那使她觉得和旧日的大不相同了。那使她深深地，深深地沉醉在一切女性的中心里，沉醉在开化以前的睡眠里。

她所觉得新奇的并不是热情，而是那渴望的崇拜。这是她一向所惧怕的，因为这种崇拜的情感要使她失掉力量；她现在还在惧怕，唯恐她崇拜得过深时她要把自己迷失了，把自己抹杀了，她不愿象一个未开花的女子似地被抹煞而成为一个奴隶。她决不要成为一个奴隶，她惧怕她的崇拜的心情，但是她了愿立刻反抗起来，她胸中有个固执的意志，那是很可以对她子宫里的日见增大的崇拜的温情宣战而把它歼灭的。甚至现在，她可以这样做，至少她心里这样想，她可以忽意地驾驭她的热情。

唉，是的，热情得象一个古罗马时代狂饮烂醉的酒神的女祭司，在树林中奔窜着找寻伊亚科斯，找寻这个无人性的，纯粹是的神仆赫阳物！男子，这个人，得不要让他僭越。他只是个库堂的司阉者，他只是那赫赫阳物的持有者与守护者，这阳物是属于女子的。

这样，在这新的醒觉中，古代的坚固的热情，在她心里燃了些时，把男子缩小成一个可陪鄙的东西，仅仅是一个阳物的持有者，当他尽他的职务是，全果被撕成碎片的，她觉得她的四肢和身体里面，有着那种古代狂欢节的族纵的女祭司的力量，有着那种蹂躏男性的热情而迅速的女人的力量。但是，当她觉着这个的时候，她的心是沉重的，她不要这一切，这一切都是不神秘的，光赤的，不育的，只有崇拜的温情才是她的宝藏，这写藏是这样的深奥而温柔，这样的神秘而不可思仪！不，不，不，她要放弃她的坚固的、光辉的、妇人权威，这东西使她觉得疲乏而僵硬；她要沉没在生命的新的洗浴里，沉没在无声地歌唱着崇拜之歌的她的子宫脏腑的深处，那未免太早去开始惧怕男子了。

“我到玛尔海去散步来，并且和弗林太太喝了杯茶。”她对克利福说，“我是想去看她的孩子的，她的头发好象是好的蛛丝，这孩子真可爱，真是个宝贝！弗林上市场去了，所以她和我和孩子大家一起一吃了些茶点，你没有纳闷我到那儿去了吗？”

“是的，我纳闷不知你到那儿支他，但是我猜着你定是在什么地方喝茶去了，。克利福嫉妨地说，他的心眼里，觉察了她有着什么新的地方，有着什么她不太了解的地方，但是他把这个归因于孩子。他相信康妮之所苦脑，都是因为没有孩子，换句话，都是因为她不能机械地生个孩子。

“夫人，我看见你穿过了花园打那铁门出去，。波太太说，“所以我想你恐怕是到牧师家里去了。”

这两今妇人的眼睛交视着，波太太的是灰色的，光耀的，探究的；康妮的是蓝色的，朦胧的，奇异地美丽的，波太太差不多断定康妮有了个情人了。但是这怎么可能呢？那里来个男子呢？

“呵，不时出去走走，访访人家，于你是很有益处的。”波太太说，“我刚对克利福男爵说，如果夫人肯多出访访人，于她是有无限益处的。”

“是的，我觉得很高兴出去走一趟，克利福，那真是个可爱的孩子，这样玲珑而毫无忌惮”康妮说，“她的头发简直象蜘蛛网，有着光耀的橙红色，两只眼睛淡蓝得象磁做的一样，那奇妙而毫无忌惮自然呵，因为那是个女孩，否则不会这么大胆的。”

“夫人说得一点不错……那简直是个小弗林。他们一家都是多头发。都是毫无忌惮的。”波太太说。

“你喜欢看看她吗．克利福：我已经约了她们来虽茶，这样你就可以看看她了。”

“谁？”他一边说，一边怪不安地望着康妮。“弗林太太和她的女孩下星期一。”

“你可以请他们到楼上你房里去。”他说。

“怎么，你不想看看那孩子么？”她喊道。

“呵，看看倒无所谓但是我不想整个钟头和她们坐在一块几喝茶。”

“呵！”康妮说着，两只朦胧的大眼睛望着他。

其实她并没有看贝，他、他是另一个什么人。

“你们可以舒舒服服地在你楼上房里用茶呢，夫人，克利福男爵不在一块儿。弗林太太要觉得自在得多的。”波太太说。

她确定康妮已有了情人了，她的灵魂里有什么东西在欢欣着，但是他是谁呢？他是谁呢’也许弗林太太替她牵线的罢。

那晚上，康妮不愿意洗澡。她觉得他触过她的肉，她觉得他的肉紧贴过她，这感觉于她走可贵的。是一神圣的感觉。

克利福觉得非常烦躁。晚饭后，他不愿让她走开，而她却渴望着快点到房是城去孤独地待着，她的眼睛望着他但是奇异地顺从他。

“我们玩玩牌呢。还是让我念书给你听？”他不安地问道。

“念书给我听罢。”康妮说。

“念什么……诗呢。散文呢，还是戏剧呢？”

“念点拉车的诗罢。”她说。

从前，他法式的抑扬婉转地念拉车的诗是他的拿手好戏，但是现在呢，他再也没有那种气派，而且有点局促了，其实，与其念书，她是宁愿听收音机，但是康却替弗林太大的婴孩缝着一件黄绸的小衣裳；那衣料是她散步回一晚餐以前，从她的一件衣裳剪裁下来的，她静航海地坐着，在温柔地情绪中沉醉着，疑缝缀着，与此同时，他在继续在念着拉辛的诗。

在她的心晨，她可以感觉到热情在嗡嗡发声，好象沉钟的尾声。

克利福对她说了些关于拉辛的话，他说过了好一会，她才明白他说什么。

“是的！是的！”她抬头望着他说，“做得真好。”

她的眼睛的深妙的蓝光，和她的温柔的静坐着的神情、重新使他惊骇起来，她来没有那么温柔，那么静航海的，她使他不能自己地迷惑着，好象她在发着什么香味使他沉醉似的。这样，他无力地继续着念诗；他的法文发音的喉音，她觉是烟囱里的风似的，他念的拉辛的诗句，她一宇也都没有听到。

她已经沉醉在她的温柔的美梦里了，好象一个发着芽的春天的森林，梦昧地，欢快地，在呜咽着，她可以感觉着在同一曲世界里，他和她是在一起的，他，那无名的男子，用着美丽的两脚，神妙地美丽的两脚，向前移支，在她的心里，在她的血脉里，她感觉着他和他的孩子，他的孩子是在她所有血脉里，象曙光一样。

“因为她没有手，没有眼，没有脚，也没有金发的宝藏

她象一个森林似的，象一个阴暗的、橡树交错的树林似的，千千万万地蓓苗在开发着，在无声地低语着。同时，那些欲望的鸟儿，在她错缩浓密的身体里睡着。

但是克利福的声音不停地、异乎寻常地轨轹着，咕噜着。多么异样的声音！多么异样的他，倾着身在他的书本上，样子是奇怪的，贪婪的，文明的，他有宽阔的肩膊，却没有两条真腿！多么怪异的生物，天赋着尖锐的！冷酷无情的、某种鸟类的意志，没有热力，一点都没有！这是未一煌生物之一，没有灵魂，只有一个极活支斩冷酷的意志。她怕他，微微地颤战起来，不过，温柔的热烈的生命之火焰，是比他更强的，并且真实的事情却瞒着他呢。

诗念宛了。她吃了一惊，她抬头看见克利福的灰白而乖恶的眼睛，好象含恨地在望着她，这更使她惊愕起来。

“非常感谢！你念拉辛念得真好！”她温柔地说。’

“差不多念和昨你听着一样的好。”他残酷地说。“你在什么着什么？”他问。

“我替弗林太太的孩子做件衣裳。”

他的头转了过去，孩子！孩子！她只想着这个。

“毕竟呢，”他用一种浮夸的口气说，“我们所需要的，都可以从拉辛的诗里得到，有条理有法则的情绪。是比紊乱的情绪更重要的。”

她的两只朦胧的大眼睛注视着他。

“是的，的确！”她说。

“近代人让情绪放荡无羁，这只有使情绪平庸化罢了，我们所需要的，便是有古典的约束。”

“是的。”她缓缓地说看见他的脸孔毫无表情，正在听着收套机的激动人心的痴话，“人们假装着有情绪、其买他们是毫无所感的，我想这便是所谓浪温罢。”

“一点不错！”他说。

实在说，他是疲惫了。这种晚上使他疲惫了，与其过着这样的晚上，他是宁愿读点技术上的书，或和矿场的经理谈话，或是听收半日机的。

被太太带了两杯麦芽牛奶走了进来，一杯是给克利福喝了好安睡的，一杯是给康妮喝了好长胖的，这是她介绍勒格贝来的一种经常的的夜点。

康妮喝完了后，心里高兴，她可以走开，并且心里感激着不必去帮助克利福就寝的事了。

“晚安。克利福，祝你安睡？拉车的涛好象一个梦似的深人人心，晚安！”

她向门边走去她没有吻他晚安便走了，他的尖锐而冷酷的眼瞄望看她，好！他为她念下整晚的诗她却连一个晚安的吻都不给他这样的铁石心肠！即令说这种亲吻只是一种形式罢，但生命是筑在这种形工上的、她实在是个波尔雪维克主义者！她的本能鄙是波尔雪维克主义者的！他冷酷地、愤怒地望着她从那里出支泊那个门。愤怒！”

他给夜之恐怖所侵袭了．他只是一团神经同甘共网结着的东西，当他不用全力兴奋地工作的时候，或当他不空泛迷离地听着收音机的时候，他便给焦虑的情绪纠缠着，而感觉着一种大祸临头的空洞，他恐怖着，假如康妮愿意的话，她是可以保护他的。但是显然她并不愿意，她并不愿意，她是冷酷无情的，他为好汽做的一切，她都漠然无睹，他把他的生命捐弃绘她，她还是漠然元睹。她只想我先系，任性您情地让她自己的道路。

现在她所醉心的便是孩子，她要这个孩子是她自己的。全是她自己的，而不是他的！

虽然，克利福的身体是很壮健的，他的脸色是这样的红润‘他的肩膊宽阔而有力，他的胸膛是这样大的，他发胖了。但是，同时他却怕死。什么地方好象有个可的空洞在恐吓着他，好象一个深渊似的；他的精力要崩倒在这深里，有时他软弱无力地觉得自己要死了，真的死了。

因此他的有点突出的两只灰色的眼睛，显怪异的，诡秘，却有点残暴，冷酷而同时差不多又是无忌惮的，这种无忌惮的神气是奇特的，好象他不怕生命如休强悍，而他却战胜着生命似的。“谁能认识意志之神秘一因为意志竟能胜天使……”

但是他所最恐怖的，便是当他不能人睡的夜里那时真是可怖，四方作斋的空虚压抑着他毫无生命而生存着，多么可怕！在深夜里毫天生命、却生存着！

但是现在，他可以按铃叫波太太，这是个大大的安慰。她穿着室内便友走了过来、头发辫结着垂在背后、虽然她的棕色的头发里杂着自发地却奇异地有少女的暗淡的神气。她替他煮咖啡或煮凉茶或和他玩象棋或“毕克”纸牌戏。她有着那种对于游戏的奇民蝗女性的才能甚至在睡眼朦胧中还能下一手好象棋，而使他觉得胜之无愧。这样，在深夜的，静寂的亲密里，他们坐着。或是她坐着，而他卧在床上，桌上了灯光孤寂地照着他们。她失去了睡眠，他失去了恐怖。他们玩着，一起玩着一然后一起喝杯咖啡，吃块饼干，在万籁俱寂的深夜里，两人都不太说什么话、但是两人的心里都觉得安泰了。

这晚上，她奇怪着究竟谁是查太莱男爵夫人的情人。她又想起他的德底，他虽早已死了，但旦她总是没有十分死的。当她想起他时，她对于人世的，尤其对于那些残害他的生命的主子们的心底旧恨，便苏醒了转来，那些主于们并没有真的残害他的生命。但是，在她的情感上，都是真的。因为这个，在她心的深处，她是个虚无主义者，而且真的是无政府主义者。

在她的朦胧半睡中，她杂乱地想着她的德底和术太莱男爵夫人的不知名的情人。这一来，她觉得和那另一个妇人共有着对于克利福男爵，以及他所代表的一切事物的大怨恨。同时，她却和他玩着“毕克”，赌着六便士的胜负。和一个有爵位的人玩“毕克”，甚至输了六便士，毕竟是可引为荣誉的事呢。

他们玩纸牌戏时，是常常赌钱的，那可以使他忘掉自己。他是常常赢的。这晚上还是他赢，这一来，不到天亮，他不愿去就寝了。侥幸地，在四点半钟左右，睡光开始显现了。在这一段的时间里，康妮上在床酣睡着，但，是那守猎人，他也不能安息，他把鸡笼关闭了，在树林里巡逻一同，然后回家去吃夜餐。他并不上床去，他坐在火旁边思索着。

他想着他在达娃斯哈过支泊童年，和他的五、六年的结婚生活，他照例苦味地想着他的妻。她是那样粗暴的！但是他自从一九一五年的春天入伍之后，便至今没有见过她。然而她还在不到三英里路之遥生活着，而且比一向更其粗暴。他希望这一生永不再见她了。

他想着他在国外的士兵的生涯由印度到埃及，又回到印度，那盲目的、无忧虎的、与马群在一起的生涯；那爱他的，也是他所爱的上校；那几年的军官生涯大可以升为上尉的中尉生涯然后上校的死于肺炎，和他自己的死里逃生；他的残的健康的，他的深大的不安，他的离开军职而回到英国来再成为一个用人。

他只是把生命托延着。在这树林中，至秒在短期内，他相信定可安全，在那里，并没有人来打猎，他的唯一的事便是养育雉鸡，他可以孤独而与生命隔绝，这便是他唯一希望的事，他得有一块立足的地方，俺这儿是他的出世的故乡。甚至他的老母还住在这儿，虽则他对于他的母亲一向并没有什么了不起的感情。他可以一天一天地继续着生活，与人无术怨，于心无奢望。因为他是茫然不知所措的。

他是茫然不知所措的。自从他当过几年军官，并且和其他的军官和公务员以及他们的家庭交往以来，他的一切雄心都死了，他认识了中上阶级是坚韧的，象橡胶一样奇异的坚韧，却缺乏生命，这使他觉得冰冷，而且觉得自己和他们是多么相异。

这样，他重新回到他自己的阶级里去，在那里去找回几年外出之中所忘记了的东西，那些下分令人重大不的卑贱的心情和庸俗的仪态。他现在终于承认仪态是多么重要的了，而且他承认，假装对于一两个铜板和其它生命中的琐事满不在乎的样子是多么重要的了，但是在平民之中是没有什么假装的，猪油的价钱多一枚或少一枚铜板，是比删改《圣经》更重要的。这使他真忍受不了！

况且，那儿还有工资的问题呵。他已经在占有阶级中生活过，他知道希图解决工资问题是多么徒劳梦想的事，除了死之外，是没有解决的可能的。中有不要管，不要管什么工资问题。

然而，要是没有钱而且不幸，你便不得不管，无论怎样，这渐渐成为他们所担心的唯一的事情了。钱的担心，好象一种庞大的痈病，咀食着一切阶级中的个人，他不愿为钱担心。

那么又怎样呢：生命除了为钱担心以外，还有什么？什么都没有。

可是他可以孤独地生活着，心里淡淡地满足着自己能够孤独，养雉鸡，这些雉鸡是终要给那些饱餐以后的肥胖先生们射乐的，多么空泛！多么徒然！

但是为什么担心，为什么烦脑呢？他没有担心，也没有烦脑过，直至现在这个女人来到了他的生命里，他差不多大她十岁，他的经验比她多一千年，他俩间的关系日见密切，他已可以预见那一天，他们再也不能脱这关系，而他们便不得不创造一个共同的生活了。“因为爱之束缚不易解开！”

那么怎样呢？怎样呢？他是不是必须赤手空拳地从新开始？他走不是定要牵累这个女人？他是不是定和要她的残废的丈夫作可怖掐吵？还要和他自己的粒暴而含恨的妻作些可怖的争吵？多么不幸！多么不幸！并且他已经不年轻了，他再也不轻快活泼了，他又不是无忧无虑的那种人，所有的苦楚和所有的丑恶都能使他受伤，还有这个妇人。

但是纵令他们把克利福男爵和他自己的妻的障碍除去了，纵令他们得到了自由，他们又将怎样呢？他自己己又将怎样呢？他将怎样摆布他的生活呢？因为他总得做点什么事他不能让自己做寄生虫，依靠她的金钱和他自己的很小的恤金度日的！

这是一个不能解决的问题。他只能幻想着到美国去，到美国去尝口新鲜的空气，他是毫不相信金元万元的，但是也许那儿会有旁的什么东西。

他不能安息，甚至不愿上床去，他呆呆的在苦味地思索中坐到了半夜，他突然地站了起来，取了他的外套和枪。

“来罢，女孩儿。”他对狗儿说，“我们还是到外头去的好。”

这是个无月亮的繁垦之夜，他举着轻轻的步伐，缓缓地，小心地巡逻着，他唯一所要留神的东西，便是矿工们尤其是史德门的矿工们在玛尔附近所放的舞免机，但是现在是生育的季节，甚至矿工们对这点都有点新生而不过分放肆的，虽然，这样偷偷地巡逻着，去搜索偷掳野兽的人，却使他的神经安静了下来，而使他忘记了思虑。

但是，当他缓缓地，谨慎地巡逻完了的时候——那差不多要走五英里路一他觉得疲乏了，他走上山顶上去，向四周眺望。除了永不这地工的，史德门矿场的隐约而断续的声音外，没有什么其他的息；除了工厂里一排一排的闪炼的电灯光外，差不多没有什么其他的光，世界在烟雾中阴森地沉睡着，那是两点半了，但是这世界虽然是在沉睡中，还是不安，残的绘火车声和大路上经过的大货车的声音搅扰着，给高炉的玫瑰色的光照耀着。这是一个铁与煤的世界。铁的残忍。煤的乌姻和无穷无尽的念婪，驱驶着这世上的一切，在它的睡眠里，只有贪婪骚扰着。

夜是冷的，他咳嗽起来，一阵冷风在小山上吹着，他想着那妇人，现在他愿放弃他所有一切或他会有的一切、去换取这个妇人，把她抱在两臂里、两个人暖暖地拥在一张毡子里酣睡，一切未来的希望和一切过去的获得，他都愿放弃了去换取她，和她温暖地拥有一蹬毡子丑酣睡，只管酣睡。他觉得把这个妇人抱在他臂里睡觉”是他唯一的需要的事情。

他到小屋里去．盖着毡子、躺在地上预备睡觉，但是他不能人睡，他觉得冷，此外。他残酷地觉得他自己的天性的缺憾。他残酷地觉得他的孤独条件的不全，他需要她，他想摸触她，想把她紧紧地抱在怀里，共享那圆满而酣睡的片荆。

他重新站了起来，走出门去，这一次他是向着花园的门走去，然后慢慢地沿着小径向着大厦走去，那时差不多是四点钟了，夜是透明的，寒冷的，但是曙光还没有出现，他是习惯于黑夜的人，他能清楚地辨别一切。

慢慢地，慢慢地，那大厦好象磁石似地吸引他。他需要去亲近她，那并不是为了情欲，不，那是为了那残酷的缺憾的孤独的感觉，这种感觉是需要一个静寂的妇人抱在他的两臂里，才能使它消逝的，也许他能找到她罢，也许他甚至可以唤她出来，或者寻个方法到她那里去罢。因为这种需要是不可拒抗的。

缓慢地，静默的，他攀登那小山坡向着大厦走去，他走到了山摄，绕过那结大树，踏上了绕着大厦门前那块菱形的草地，而直达门口的那条大路。门前那大草坪上矗立着的两株大山毛梯树，在夜色中阴暗地浮出，他都看得清楚了。

这便是那大厦，低低的，长长的，暖味的，楼下点着一盏灯，那是克利福男爵的卧室，但是那牵着柔丝的极端残酷地引诱着他的妇人，竟在那一间房子呢？他可不知道。

他再前进了几步，手里拿着枪，在那大路上呆站着，注视着那大屋，也许他现在还可以用个什么方法找到她，面到她那儿去罢，这屋并不是难进的；他又有夜盗一样的聪明，为什么不到那儿去呢？他呆呆地站着，等着。这时，曙光在他的背后微微的破露了。他看见屋里的灯光熄灭了，但是他却没有看见被太太走近窗前，把深蓝色的绸窗幕拉开，望着外面黎明的半暗的天，希冀着曙光的早临，等待着，等待着克利福知道真的天亮了。因为当他知道的确天亮了时，他差不多便可以即刻入睡的。

她站在窗边，睡眼惺松地等待着，突然地，她吃了一惊，差不多叫出来了，因为那大路上，在黎明中，有个黑暗的人影。她完全清醒了，留神地审视着，但是不露声色，免得打扰克利福男爵的清睡。

自日的光明开始疯疯地侵浸在大地上了；那黑暗的人影好象变小了，更清楚了，她分辨了枪和脚绊和宽大的短衣外一这不是奥利华•梅乐士那守猎人吗？是的，因她的狗儿在那里，好象一个影子似地东闻西嗅着，等着它的主人呢！

但是这人要什么呢？他是不是想把大家叫醒了？为什么他钉着似地站在那儿，仰望着这大厦，好象一条患着相思病的公狗，站在母狗的门前？

老天爷哟！波太太陡然地醒悟了，查太莱男的夫人的情人便是他！便是他！

多么令人惊讶！但是她自己一爱微•波东敦，也曾有点钟爱过他的。那时，他是十六岁的孩子，面她是个二十六岁的妇人。她还在研究着护学，他曾大大地帮助过她研究关于解副学和其他应学的东西，那是个聪慧的孩子，他得过雪非尔德公学的奖学拿，学过法文和其他的东西，以后终竟成了个蹄铁匠，他说那是因炮喜欢马的缘故，其实那是因为他不敢与世触，不过他永不承认罢了。

但是他是个可爱的孩子，很可爱的孩子，他曾大大地帮助过她，他有很巧妙的法使你明白事情，他的聪明全不下于克利福男爵，并且他和妇女们是秀合得来的，人都说，他和妇人们是比和男子们更合得来的。

直至他蠢笨地和那白黛•古蒂斯结了婚，这种婚姻仿佛是为了泄愤似的，有许多人是这样的，他们是为了汇愤而结婚的，因为他们有过什么失意的事情，无疑地这是个失败的婚姻……在大战期中，他出外去了几年，他成了一个中尉，做了个十足的上流人！然后回到达娃斯哈来当一个守猎人！真的，有些人是不知道攫着机会上升的！他重新说起一回下注阶级所说的土话，而她一爱微•波尔敦，却知道他愿意时，是可以说在任何贵绅所说的英语。

呵呵！原来男爵夫人给他迷住了！晤，他并不是第一个……他有着一种什么迷人的东西，不过，想想看！一个达娃斯哈村里生长教养出来的孩子！而是勒格贝大厦里的男爵夫人的情人！老实说，这是绘查太莱大富大贵之家的一个耳光哟！

但是他，那守猎人，看见白日渐渐显现，他明白了，那是徒劳的，想把你自己从孤独中解脱出来，边种尝试是徒劳的，你得一生依附着这孤独，空罅的弥补只是间或的事，只是间或的！但是你得等待这时机来到，接受你的孤独而一生依着它。然后接受弥补空田的时机，但是这时机是自已来的，你不能用力勉强的。

骤然地。引诱他么追臆她的狂欲毁碎了。这是他毁碎的，因为他觉得那应该这样，双方都应该互相对着趋近，假如她不向他前来，他便不应去追逐她。他不应这样，他得走开，直至她向他前来的时候。

他缓缓地，沉思地、转身走开，重新接受着他的孤立，他知道这样是好些的，她应该向他前来，追逐她是没有用的，没有用的。

波太太看着他婚姻没了，看着他的狗儿跑着跟在他的后面。

“呵呵，原来这样！”对延迟产，“我一向就没有想以他，而他恰恰便我所应该想到的！我没有了德底以后(那时他还年轻)他曾对象很好过，呵，呵！假如他知道了的话，他将怎么说呢！”

她向着自已经入睡了的克利福得意地望了一眼，轻轻地走出了房门。
Chapter 11
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.' 


康妮正在一间旧物贮藏室里收拾着。勒格贝有好几间边样的贮藏室，这林厦真是个么贮藏库，而这家人却永不把旧东西南卖。佐佛莱男爵的父亲喜欢收藏图画，佐佛莱男爵的母亲喜欢收藏十六世纪的意大利家具。佐佛莱男爵他自己喜欢收藏橡木雕刻的老箱子，教堂里的圣衣箱。边样一代一代地传下来。克利福收藏些近代画，一些不大值钱的近代画。 

在这旧物贮藏室里，有些兰德西尔的坏作品，有些韩特的可怜的鸟巢和其他一堆庸俗的皇家艺术学会会员的绘画，都是足使一个皇家艺术学会会员的女人吓倒的。她决意把这一切东西查阅一遍，整理出来，那些粗重的有具使她觉得有趣。

她发现了一个家传的红木老摇篮。这摇篮被谨慎地包捆着，以防尘埃和损坏。她把它拆开了。这摇篮有着某种可人的地方；她审视了一番。

“真可借用不着这个摇篮。”在旁边帮着忙的被太太叹着气说，“虽然这样的摇篮现在已经太旧式了。”

“也许有一天用得着的，我也许要有个孩子呢。”康妮从容地说，仿佛说着她也许可以有一顶新帽子似地轻易。

“难道你是说克利福男爵可以好些么？”波太太结结巴巴地说。

“不必等到他好些了，我是照他现在的情况说。他只是筋肉的瘫痪罢了——这对他是没有妨碍的。”康妮自然得象呼吸似地说着谎。

那是克利福给她的主意，她说过，“自然啦，我还可以生个孩子的。我并不是真的残废了，纵令臀部和腿部的筋肉瘫痪了，而且殖力是可以容易恢复的，那时种子便可以传递了。”

他对于彩矿问题是这样的致力，在这种活泼奋勇的日子里，他真的好象觉得他的性功能就要恢复了。康妮恐怖地望着他。但是她是够机警地把他的暗示拿来当作她自己的武器的。因为假如她能够的话，她定要有个孩子的，不过那决不是克利福的孩子。

波太大气窒着呆了一会，过后，她知道了这只是欺骗的话罢了，不足相信的，不过，今日的医生们是能做这种事的；他们很能够做接种这类的事情的。

“呵，夫人，我只希望和褥着你可以有个孩子，对于你和对于大家，那是件多么可喜的事！老实说，勒格贝大厦里有个孩子，事情就大不同了！”

“可不是？”康妮说。

她选了三张六十年前的皇家艺术学会会员的图画，去送给学兰公爵夫人主办的慈善贩卖会。人家叫她做“贩卖会会爵

夫人”，她是常常向所有的有爵位的人征求物品给她贩卖的，

她得了这三张装了框、署了皇家艺术学会会员的名的图画，定

要得意极了，她也许还要亲自来拜谢呢，克利福是顶讨厌她的造访的！

“但是，天呀！”波太太心里想，“你准备给我们的是不是梅乐士的孩子啊？天呀，天呀，那简直是一个达娃斯哈的孩子在勒格贝大厦摇篮里了！不过那也可以无愧于这个摇篮的！”

在这旧物贮藏室堆积着的许多离奇古怪的东西中，有一日黑漆的大箱子，做得非常巧妙，这是六七十年前的东西，里面安排着各种各样的物件，上面是一些梳妆用品；刷子、瓶子、镜子、梳子、小盒子甚至三个精致的保险小剃刀、肥皂、确和一切刮脸用品。下面是写字台用品：吸水纸、笔、墨水瓶、纸、信封、记事薄。再下全是在女红用具；三把大小不同的剪刀、针、信封、记事簿。再下便是女红用具；三把大小不同的剪刀、针、针箍、丝线、棉线。补缀用的木球，这一切都是精细的上品，此外还有个放药品的格子，瓶子上标着名种药名：“鸦片药酒”、“松香水”、“丁香精”等，但都是空的。一切都是没有用过的东西。整个箱子台起来的时候，象一个小而拥肿的提箱。里面摆布得迷魂阵一样的密。密到子里的，水都流不出来：因为一点空也都没有了。

做工和设计都非常精美，这是维多利亚时代的手艺但是这箱子却有点太怪异了。购置这日箱子的查太莱前辈一定也有这种感觉所以从来没有人拿来使用过，这是一口无灵魂的死箱子。

虽然，波太太却喜欢极了。

看看多美丽的刷子这么值钱的东西，甚至那三把刮脸用的肥筇刷，都是无美不备啊！还有那些剪刀！那是钱所能买的最精致的东西了。呵！真可爱！”

“你觉得么？”康妮说，“那么，你拿去罢。”

“呵，不！夫人。”

“是的，拿去罢！否则它要在这儿搁到地球末日呢。假如你不要，我便拿来和图画一起送给公爵夫人了，她是不配受用这许多东西的。真的，拿去罢！”

“呵！夫人！我真不知道怎么感谢你才好。”

“那么不要感谢好了。”康妮笑着说。

波太太手里抱着那只大而黝黑的箱子，兴奋得满面春风地走下楼来。

女管家白蒂斯太太驶着车，把波太太利她的箱子，带到村里她家中去。那得请几位朋友来玩赏玩赏于是她请了药剂师的女儿、女教员和一个掌柜助手的女人维顿太太到家里来。她们赏叹了一番之后，开始低谈着查太莱男爵夫人要生小孩了。

“神奇的事情是常常有的。”维顿太太说。

但是波太太坚信着，如果孩子真出世了，那定是克得福男爵的孩子。便是这样！

不久以后，教区的牧师来对克利福慈祥地说：

“我们是不是可以希望一个勒格贝的继承者呢？呵，要是这样，那真是圣灵显迹了！

”晤！我们可以这样希望吧。”克利福带着微徽和讥讽同时又有着某种信心地说。他开始相信那是很可能的。甚至相信孩子也许是他的限。

一天下午，大家都叫他做“乡绅文达”的来斯里•文达来了，这是个清瘦、修洁的、七十岁的老先生。“从头到脚都是贵绅。”正始波太太对白蒂斯太太说的一样。的确！他说起话来那种“咳咳！”不绝曰的古老样子，好象比从前戴假发的绍绅还来得冬烘。飞奔的时光，把这些古雅的东西都淘汰了。

他们讨论着煤矿问题。克利福的意思，以为他的煤炭的品质给纵令不佳．但是可以做成一种集中燃料，这种燃料如果加以某种带酸的湿空气，好好强压起来，是能够发出很大的热力的，很久以来，人们已注意过这种事实了。在一种强有力的湿风之中，煤炕边燃烧出来的火是畅亮的，差不多没有烟的，剩下来的只是些灰粉，而不是粉红色的粗大砂砾。

“但是你到哪里去找到适当的机器去用你的燃料呢？”文达问道。

“我要自己去制造这种机器，并且自己去消用这种燃料。这样产生出来的电力我便拿出来卖。我确信这是可以做的。”

“假如你做得到的话，那好极了，好极了，我的孩子。咳！好极了！要是我能够帮什么忙的话，我是很愿意的。我恐怕我自己利我的煤矿场都是不太合时宜了。但是谁知道呢？当我瞑目以后，还可以有象你一样的人，好极了！这一来所有的工人又有工作了，那时代不要再管煤销不销了。真是好主意，我希望这主意可以成功，要是我自已有儿子的话，无疑地他们会曾希勃来矿场出些新主意。无疑的！顺便问一句，我的亲爱的孩子，外面传的风声，究竟真不真？我们是不是可以希望个勒格贝的继承人？”

“外面有这么一个风声么？”克利福问道。

“是的，亲爱的孩子，住在惠灵坞的马沙尔向我问起这事是不是真的，这便是我听到的风声，自然，要是这是无稽之谈，我决不向外多嘴的。”

“晤，文达先生。”克利福不安地说，但是两只眼睛发着异光。“希望是有一个的，希望是有一个的。”

文达从房子的那边踱了过来，把克利福的手紧握着。

“我亲爱的孩子，我亲爱的朋友，你知道不知道我听了心里多快活？知道你抱着得子的希望工作着，也许那一天达娃斯哈的工人都要重新受雇于你了！呵，我的孩子、能够保持着家声，和有着现成的工作给有意工作的任何人……”

老头儿实在感动了。

第二天康妮正把一些黄色的郁金香安置在一个玻璃瓶里。

“康妮，”克利福说，“你知道外边传说着你就要给勒格贝生一个继承人了吗？”

康妮觉得给恐怖笼罩着了。但是她却安泰地继续布摆着她的花。

“我不知道。”她说，“那是笑话呢，还是有意中伤？”

他静默了一会，然后答道：

“我希望两样都不是。我希望那是一个预言。”

康妮还是在整理着她的花。

“我今早接了父亲一封信。”她说，“他问我，他已经替我答应过亚力山大•柯泊爵士，在七月和八月到他的威尼斯的‘爱斯姆拉达别墅去度署的事，忘记了没有。”

“七月和八月？”克利福说。

“呵，我不会留两个月他么久的，你真的不能一起去么”

“我不愿到国外旅行去。”克利福迅速地说。

她把花拿到窗前去。

“在是我去，你不介意罢？”她说，“你知道那是答应了的事情。”

你要去多少时候？”

“也许三个星期。”

大家静默了一会。”

“那吗，”克利福慢慢地、带几分忧郁地说，“假如你去了一定还想回来的话，我想三个星期我是可以忍受的。”

“我一定要回来的。”她质朴地娴静地说，心里确信着她是一定要回来的。她正想着另一个男子。

克利福觉着她的确信，他相信她，他相信那是为了他的缘故。他觉得心上的一块石头松了，他马上笑逐颜开起来。

“这样吗，”他说，“我想是没有问题的，是不是？”

“是的。”她说。

“换换空气，你定要觉得快乐罢？”

她的奇异的蓝色的眼睛望着他。

“我很喜欢再见见威尼斯，”她说，“并且在那浅水湖过去的小岛的沙滩上洗洗澡。但是你知道我是厌恶丽岛的！我相信我不会喜欢亚力大•柯泊爵士和柯泊爵士夫人的。但是有希尔达在那儿，并且假如我们有一只自己的游艇，那么，是的，那定是有趣的。我实在希望你也能一起去呢。”

她说这话是出于至诚的。她根愿意在这种小事情上使他快乐快乐的。

“唉，但是想象一下我在巴黎北车站或加来码头上的情形罢！”

“但是那有什么关系呢？我看过其他的在大战中受了伤的人，用异床抢着呢。何况我们是可以坐汽车去呢。”

“那么我们得带两个仆人去了。”

“呵，用不着，我们带非尔德去全蚝了，那边总会有个仆人的。”

但是克利福摇了摇头。

“今年不动了，亲爱的，今年不去！或者明年再看罢。”

她忧愁地走开，明年！明年他又将怎样么？

她忧愁地走开了，明年！明年他又将怎样么？她自己实在并不想到威尼斯去，现在不，现在是有了那个男了了，但是她还是要去，为了要服从生活的纪律的缘故；而且，要是她有了孩子的话，克利福会相信她是在威尼斯有了个情人的缘故。

现在已经是五月了，他们是打算在六月间便要出发的。老是这一类的安排！一个人的生命老是安排定了。轮子转着，转着，把人驱使着，驾双着，人实在是莫可奈何的。

已经是五月了，但是天气又寒冷而多雨起来。俗话说的：“寒冷多雨再五月，利于五谷和草秣。”五欲和草袜在我们日重要的东西了！康妮得上啊斯魏去走一趟，这是他们的小市镇。那儿，查太莱的姓名依旧是威风赫赫的，她是一个人去的，非尔得驶着她的汽车。

虽然是五月天，而且处处是嫩绿，但是乡间景色是忧郁的。天气是够冷的，雨中杂着烟雾。空气里浮荡着某种倦怠的感觉。一个人不得不在抵抗中生活。无怪乎这些人都是丑恶而粗钝的了。

汽车艰辛地爬着上坡，哟过达娃斯哈的散漫龌龊的村落，一些黑色砖墙的屋子，它们的黑石板的屋顶的尖锐的边缘发着亮光，地上的泥土夹着煤屑，颜色是黑的。行人道是湿而黑的。仿佛一切的一切都给凄凉郁的情绪所浸透了。丝没有自然的美，丝毫没有生之乐趣，甚至一只鸟、一只野兽所有的美的本能都全部消失了，人类的直觉官能都全部死了。这种情形是令人寒心的。杂货店的一堆一堆的肥皂，蔬菜店的大黄莱和柠檬，时装钥的丑怪帽了，一幕一幕地在丑恶中过去，跟着是俗不可面的电影戏院，广告画上标着：“妇人之爱！”和原始派监理会的新的大教堂，它的光滑的砖墙和窗上的带青带红的大快玻璃实在是够原始的。再过去，是维斯莱源的小教堂，墙砖是黝黑的，直立在铁栏和一些黑色的小树后边，自由派的小教堂，自以为高人一等，是用乡村风味的沙石筑成的，而且有个钟楼，但并不是个很高的钟楼。就在那后边，有个新建的校舍，是用高价的红砖筑成的，前面有个沙地的运动场，用铁栅环绕着，整个看起来是很堂皇的，又象教堂又象监狱。女孩子们在上着唱歌课，刚刚练习完了“拉一米一多一拉”，正开始唱着一首儿单的短歌。世上再也没有比这个更不象歌唱一自然的歌唱一的东西了：这只是一阵奇异的呼号，带了点腔调的模样罢了。那还赶不上野蛮人；野蛮人还有微妙的节奏。那还赶不上野兽；野兽呼号起来的时候还是有意义的。世上没有象这样可怖的东西，而这种东西却叫做唱歌！当非尔德去添汽油的时候，康妮坐在车里觉得肉麻地听着。这样一种人民，直觉的官能已经死尽，只剩下怪异的机械的呼号和乖房的气力，这种人民会有什么将来呢？　　

在雨中，一辆煤车在轰轰地下着山坡，非尔德添好了油，把车向山坡上开行，经过了那些大的但是凄凉的裁缝店、布匹店和邮政局，来到了寂寞的市场上，那儿，杉•布勒克正在他的所谓“太阳旅店”的酒肆里。伺望着外边的行人，并且向查泰莱男爵夫人的汽车行了士个鞠躬。

大教堂是在左边的黑树丛中，汽车现在下坡了，经过“矿工之家”咖啡店。汽车已经经过了“威录敦”、“纳尔逊”、“三桶”和“太阳”这些咖啡酒肆，现在打“矿工之家”门前经过了，然后再经过了“机师堂”，又经过了新开的够华丽的“矿工之乐”，最后经过了几个新的所谓“别墅”而到了上史德门去的黝黑的路，两旁是灰暗的篱笆和暗青色的草原。

达娃斯哈！那便是达娃斯哈！快乐的英格兰！莎士比亚的英格兰！晤！不！那是今日的英格兰。自从康妮在那儿居住以后，她明白了。这英格半正生产着一种新的人类，迷醉于金钱及社会政治生活，而自然的直觉的官能却是死灭了的新人类。这是些半死的尸体，但是，活着的一半却奇异地、固执地生活着。这一切都是怪涎的，乖庚的。这是个地下的世界，不可以臆测的世界，我们怎样能够明白这些行尸的反应呢？康妮看见一些大的运货车，里面装满着雪菲尔德钢铁厂的工人，一些具有人类模样的、歪曲的、妖怪样的小东西，正向着蔑洛克去作野外旅行，她的心不禁酸楚起来。她想：唉，上帝呵，人类把自己弄成怎么样了？人类的领导者们，把他们同胞开弄成怎么样了？他们把他们的人性都消灭了，现在世上再也不能有友爱了！那只是一场恶梦！

她在—种恐怖的波浪中，重新觉得这一切都是灰色的、令人寒心的失望。这些生物便是工人群众；而上层阶级的内容怎样也是她所深知的，那是没有希望的了，再也没有什么希望的了。可是，她却希望着一个孩子，一个继承人！一个勒格贝的继承人！她不禁惊悸起来。

而梅乐士却是从这一切中出来的！是的，但是他与这一切却远隔着，如她自己与这一切无隔着一样。不过，甚至在他那里也没有什么友爱了。友爱死了，那儿只有孤寂与失望。这便是英格兰，英格兰的大部分。康妮很知道，因为她今天是从这样的英格兰的大部分的中心经过的。

汽车正向着史德门上去。雨渐渐停止了，空气中浮着一种奇异的、透明的五月之光。乡景一幕一幕地卷了过去，往南是毕克，往东是门司非德和诺汀汉。康妮正向着南方走去。

当汽车驶到了高原上面时，她看向见左手边，在一个高临乡野的高地上，那深灰色的，暗淡而雄壮的华梭勃宫堡，下面是些带红色的半新的工人住宅。再下面，便是煤场的大工厂，还正在曰着一缕缕的灰暗的烟和自蒸气，这工厂每年是要把几千几万金镑放在公爵和其他股东的腰包里的。这雄壮的老宫堡；败了，然而它还是高耸天际，俯视着下面湿空气中的黑烟和白雾。

转了个弯，他们在高原上向着史德门前进。从这路上看起来，史德门只是个庞大的壮丽的新饭店。离路不远的地方，金碧辉煌的柯宁斯贝饭店，在一种荒寂的情况中耸立着。但是，细看起来，你便看得见左手边一排排精致的“摩登”住宅，安排得象滑牌戏似的，一家家用花园互相隔离着，这是几个妖怪的“主子们”在这块糠人的土地上所玩的一种奇异的骨牌戏。在这个住宅区过去，耸立着一些真正近代矿场的骇人的凌空建筑，一些化学工厂巨大的长廓，它们的形式是前此人类所梦想不到的。在这种庞大的新设备中间，连矿场矿坑本身都不算什么了。在这大建筑的前面，那骨牌戏都是惊奇地摆在那儿，等待着主干们去玩它。

这便是战后新兴的史德门。但是事实上，尽管康妮并不认识它，老史德门是在那“饭店”下边半英里路之遥，那是一个老的小矿场，一些黑砖筑的老住宅，一两个小教堂，一两间商店和一两间小酒店。

但是这一切都算不得什么了。新工厂里冒着浓烟和蒸汽的地方才是现在的史德门。那儿没有教堂，没有小酒店、甚至没有商店，只有些大工厂。这是现代的奥式皮亚神国里面有着一切的神的殿堂；此外便些模范住宅和饭店，所谓饭店、虽然看起来怪讲究的，其实只是个故工们的酒店罢了。

这块新地方，其至是从康妮到勒格贝以后才建筑起来的。那些模范住宅里，住满着从四方八面来的一些流氓，这些人所干的勾安之一，便是去偷捕克利福的兔子。

汽车在高原上走着，她望着整个的州府，一起一伏地开憎爱分明过去。这个州府往昔是个骄做的、威风赫赫的州府呢！在好怖前，那直立天际，象是海市蜃楼的房屋，便是查维克大厦。它的窗户占了墙壁的大部分，这是伊丽莎白时代的一个最出名的宫堡。它孤独地、高贵地站在一个大花园的上头。虽然是古旧了。过时了。但是人们还当作一个荣耀的遗物似地保存着。“瞧瞧我们的祖先是多么的显贵！”

那是过去，现在是在那下面。将来呢，只有上帝知道在哪里了。汽车已经转着弯了，两旁是些老而黑的矿工的小村舍，汽车正向着阿斯魏下去。在这阴湿的日子里，阿斯魏正冒着一阵阵的烟和蒸汽，好象为什么天神焚香似的。阿斯魏是在那山谷的下面，到雪非尔德的所有的铁道线都打这儿穿过，那些长烟囱里冒着烟和闪光的煤矿场和钢铁厂，那教堂上的螺钻似的凄惨的小钟楼，虽然就要倒塌了，但是依旧还矗立在烟雾中，这样的阿斯魏，常常总使康妮觉得奇怪地感动。这是个山谷中央在古老的村镇。有一个主要的旅舍名叫“查太莱”。阿斯魏人都谯勒格贝是一个地方的总名，而不是一个屋名。

矿工们的勤黑的村舍是平着行人道起的，狭小得象百多年前的矿工住宅一样。这些村舍都是洞着道路起，道路于是成了一条街了。当你走进这街里面的时候，你便要立刻忘记了那开豁的、起伏的原野。这原野上还有着富堡和大厦耸立着，但是和鬼影一般了。现在康妮正到了那光赤的铁道网的上头，那儿四面都起着高大的镀冶金属的工厂和其他的工厂，歙人觉得四周只是些墙壁，铁的声音在嚣响着，庞大的载货车震动着地皮，号笛叫着。

然而当你沿着这条路下去，到了那曲折撤搂的市镇中心时，在那教堂的后面，你便进到了一个两世纪以前的世界上了。“查太莱”旅舍和那老药房，便在这弯曲的街上。这街从前是通到这些富堡和权贵者们的游乐别所在的旷野外去的大道。

在那街角上，一个警察正举着手，让三辆载着铁条的货车过去，使那可怜的者教堂颠震着。直至这些货车过去了，那警察才向查太男爵夫人行礼。

在那市区的弯曲的老街两旁，挤拥着所有旧而黑的矿工住宅。再过去，便是一排排较新而稍大的房屋，起在那山谷的坡上。这是些较现代的矿工的住宅。再远一些，在那宫堡大厦所在的临野上，烟与蒸汽夹杂着，漾荡着，星罗棋布着无数的红砖建筑，有的在低凹处，有的狞恶地在那斜坡上突入天际，这便是矿区。在这矿区的里头，轿式马车和茅舍时代的老英格兰，甚至罗宾汉时代的英格兰还残留着。在那儿，矿工们不做工的时候，他们的受压制的好动的本能无聊起来；便东奔西窜地闲散浪荡着；

英格兰哟，我的英格兰！但是哪个是我的英格兰？英格兰的权贵者们的堂皇大厦，照起像来真是好看极了，而且在我们和伊丽莎白时代的人们之间创造了一种幻象的联系。古香古色的古老大厦，现在还存在着，和在慈爱的安妮王后与汤姆•琼斯的时代一样。但是烟灰把褐黄色的粉漆弄黑了，很久以来便再也没有那黄金颜彩了，而且一个一个地，象那些官堡一般，被人遣弃了。现在开始被人拆毁了。至于那育英格兰时代的茅舍呢，现在却变成芒寂的乡野中的一些槛楼的大砖屋了。

现在，人们把官堡拆毁了，乔治风格的大厦也渐渐完了。那无美不备地乔治风格的大厦佛力治，当康妮的汽车打那门前经过时，也正在被人拆毁着。这大厦还是很完整的。大战以前，维持莱一家人还是阔绰地住在里面的，但是现在，人家觉得这大厦太大了，太花费了，并且四邻都太仇视了，贵族都到了较为愉快的地方去住了，那儿，他们是可以挥霍着金钱而不必知道金钱之来处的。

这便是历史：一个英格兰把其他的一个英格半消灭了。煤矿业曾使那些大厦致富。现在却把那些大厦消灭了。如同把那些茅舍消灭了一样。工业的英覆半把农业的英格兰消灭了。一种意义把另一种意义消灭了。新英格兰把旧英格兰消灭了。事态的继续并不是有机的，而是机械式的。

属于富裕阶级的康妮，曾攀附着那残余的者英格兰，直至经过了不少的年代，她才明白了，实际上，她的阶级已经给这骇人的右怖的新英格兰消灭了，而且这种消灭工作将继续着，直至消灭净尽了为止。佛力治莱没有了，伊斯乌德没有了，文达先生所爱的希勃莱也就要没有了。

康妮在希勃莱停了一会。屋后的园门是挨近矿场铁道和大路的交叉点的，希勃莱矿场本身就在那些树丛后边。园门大开着，因为矿工们是有权通过花园的。他们在园里游荡着。

汽车经过了那点缀园景的水池旁边一但矿工们却把他们的报纸抛在这池里一•然后由一条特别的小咱来到那大厦门前。这是个十八世纪中期的可爱的粉漆的建筑。那儿有一条美丽的水松树的小径，这小径从前是通到一个老屋去的。大厦的正面安静地开展着，它的乔治风格的玻璃窗户好象一些欢乐的眼睛似地闪烁着。屋后边便量些令人羡慕的花园。

康妮觉得里面的一切都比勒格贝可爱得多，光亮得多，并且更有生气，都丽而雅致。房子的墙壁都嵌着乳黄色的木板，天花板油着金色，每样东西都美妙修洁，一切布置都尽美尽妙，处处都花费过大量金钱的。甚至那些走廓都布置得宽大而可爱，优雅地弯曲着，并且充满着生气。

不过文达是孤独地生活着，他深爱他的住宅。但是他的花园却给他自己的三个煤矿场围绕着。他的想法是很慷慨的。他的花园差不多是欢迎矿工们进来的。难道不是这些矿工们使他有钱的么！所以，当他看见一君君的槛楼的工人到他的水池边闲逛时一自然不能进到他的私人花园里面，这几是有个界限的一他便要说：“矿工们也许不象鹿子那样可以点缀园景，但是他们比鹿子是有利得多了。”

但那是维多利亚王后在位的后半期一金钱满地的黄金时代，那时，矿工们都是些“老实的工人”。　　‘

文达把这种话向他的贵宾，那时还是威尔士王子，半谢罪地说，那王子用他的带喉音的英语回答说：

“你说的很对，要是在桑德灵韩富的花园下面藏有煤炭的话，我定要在那青草上开个矿场，并且要认为那是最上等的花园布景。呵，我很情愿用这价钱把化鹿去换矿工，我还听说你的工人都是些好人呢。”

那时，这王子也许把金钱之美和工业之福惠说得过火一点吧。

但是这王子后来做了国王，而这国王也已崩逝了。现在是一位另外的国王，他的主要职秒似乎是在主持慈善粥研厂的开幕礼。

那些“好工人”，现在却正浸蚀着希勃莱。大花园里，雨后春笋似地起了许多新的肘落，“老乡绅”的心里，觉得这种民众是异样了，从前，他是心下宽大的，觉得你是自己的产业和自己的矿工们的主子。现在呢，一种新的精神在微妙地侵浸着，他觉得被排挤了。他的产业好象再也不属于他了，那是不容人误会的。矿业与工业、有着一个自我的意志。这意志是反对贵绅主子的！所有的矿工都是参预这意志的人，要想反抗这个意志是困难的，这意志使你失掉你的地位，或者使你从生命中滚蛋！

曾经讲过军队的“多绅文达”，亏他还站得稳。但是他在晚饭之后，再也不想到花园里去散步了。他差不多总是躲在家里。一天晚上，他光着头，穿着漆皮鞋和紫色的丝袜子，陪着康妮在园门边去，用他的“咳，咳”不离口的上流社会的文雅的口气和她谈着，但是当他经过——群矿工面前时，他们只是望着他，头都不点。康妮觉得这清瘦的、高雅的老先生在退缩着，好象一只笼子里的都丽的羚羊给庸俗的眼睛凝视着时退缩着一般。矿工们，在私人方面对他是没有恶意的，一点也没有。但是他们的精神是无情地．反抗他的。他们的心底里深深地怨恨地。在丑恶中生活着的他们，对于他的都丽的，斯文的，高雅的生活里含恨的。“他是谁呵！”他们所恨的是他与他们间的不同地方。

虽然，在他的英格兰人的心和他的兵士之心的秘密处，他相信他们急恨这种“不同的地方”是有理由的，他觉得他的享受这一切优越的权益有点不对的，但是他是代表一种制度，所以他是不愿被人排挤的。

只有死才能排挤他。在康妮访他不久以后，死神突然地把他攫去了。在他的遗嘱中，他并没有忘记给克利福很大的好处。

继承他的财产的人，马上叫人把希勃莱拆毁了。因为保存这大厦太花钱了。谁也不愿意住在那里，于是这大便毁灭了。那美丽的水松树的路线原来伐了。园中的树木也砍光了。整个产业也分成小块了。这地方是很近阿斯魏的。在这新的“无人之城”的奇异的荒原上，新起着一排排的舒适的屋宇；于是便变成了希渤莱新村子！

康妮到那里去的一年以后，一切都工了，现在那里是希特莱新村了，一座座红砖的屋宇起在那些新避的街道上，没有会梦想到十二个月以前，那里还有过一座壮丽的粉漆大厦。

但是这是爱德华王所私授的花园布景法的新时代，这是一种拿煤矿场来点缀草地的花园布景法。

一个英格兰把另一个英格兰消灭了。乡绅文达和勒格贝大厦的英格兰是完了。死了，不过这种消灭工作还没有做到尽头罢了。

以后将怎样呢！康妮是不能想象的。她只能看见一些新的砖石的街道铺在田野上，新的建筑物在矿场上起着，新的女工穿着她们的丝袜，新的男工到跳舞宫去。后辈人是完全意识不着老英格兰的。在意识之继续中，有个破缺，差不多是美国式的，但其实是工业的破缺。以后将怎样呢？

康妮总觉得那儿并没有以后。她想把她的头藏匿在沙里；或者，至少藏匿在一个活着的男子的怀里。，　　世界是这样的错杂，这样的奇怪，这样的丑恶！普通的人是这样多，而又这样可怕，真的！她回家去时，心里这样想着，望着矿工们缓慢地离开矿坑，又炭又黑，一身歪着，一边肩耸着，一边肩低着，响着他们的沉重的镶铁的长靴。脸色苍白得鬼似的，眼睛闪着自，预项缩着，肩膊失了望膊的模样。这是人，这是人，唉。在某种说法上，他们是些忍耐的好人；在其他的说法上，他们只是鬼。他们的人类所应具有的某种东西被戮杀了。然而，他们却是人，他们却能生孩子，人是可以由他们而生孩子，可怕的，可怕的思索呵：他们是温和的好人。但是他们只是一种半人，灰色的半人，直至现在，他们是“好”的，但这也不过是他们的一半是好的，呵！假如他们死了的部分苏醒过来！晤！去想象这个，真是太可怕了！康妮是深怕工人群众的，她觉得他们是这样的不可思议。他们的生命是绝对没有美的，绝对没有直觉的，老是“在矿坑里”。

这样的人所生的孩子！呵，天哟天！

虽然，梅乐士是这样的一种人生的。也许不十分是。在人情上，四十年是有变迁的，有大大的变迁的。钦与煤把人类的肉体与灵魂深深地吞食了。

虽然，那丑恶休身的人类却生活着！这一切结果要怎样呢？也许煤炭消灭之日，他们也会从这地面上消灭了罢。他们是当媒炭号召他们时，成千成万地从无中而来的，或者他们只是些煤层里的怪异的动物罢，他们是另一世界的生物，他们是煤的一种无素，好像铁工是铁的一种无素的一样。这是些非人的人。他们是煤、铁与陶土的灵魂。炭素、铁索、砂素等元素的动物。边些小元素，他们也许有点奇异的非人的矿物的美；跟煤的光泽，铁的重量也蓝色与抗力，玻璃的透明一样的美。矿物世界的妖怪的、伛偻的、无素的生物！他们属于煤、铁与阔土，正如鱼之属于水、虫之属于腐木一样。他们是矿物的分解物的灵魂！

康妮惧怕这煤和铁的米德兰，这种惧怕使她周身觉得一种怪异的感觉如同受了流行感冒一样，她觉得高兴地离开了这一切而回到家里，把头埋在沙里，她甚至觉得高兴地去和克利福聊天。

“当然啦，我不得不在彭莱小姐的店里喝杯茶。”她说。

“真的么！但是文达家里会请你喝茶的。”

“呵。是的，不过我不便却彭莱小姐的情。”

彭莱小姐是个脸色带黄的老处女，有个大鼻子和浪漫的气质，她侍候人喝茶时候的殷勤热烈，是好象在做圣典一样的。

“她问起我没有？”克利福说。

“当然啦！‘请问夫人，克利福男爵身体好吗？’我相信她把你看得比嘉威尔小姐还高呢。”　　一

“我想你对地说了我身体很好罢？”

“是的！她听了这话，好象听了我对她说天堂的门为你开了一般的喜悦。我对她说，要是她来达娃斯喻时，她定要到这儿来看看你。”

“我！为什么？来看看我！”

“呵，是的，克利福。你不能尿让人家这样崇拜你而不稍稍报答人家。在她的眼里，嘉巴多西亚的圣乔治都绝对赶不上你呢。”

“你相信她会来吗？”

“呵。她的脸红了起来，那片刻问，她变得怪美丽的，可怜的东西！为汁么男子们不跟真正崇拜他们的女子结婚呢？”

“女子们的崇拜开始得太迟了。但是她有没有说她会来？”

“呵！”康妮模仿着彭莱小姐的喘息着的声音说，“夫人哟、我哪几敢这么告次！”

“造次！多么可笑！但是我希望她不要真的来了，她的茶怎么洋？”

“呵，立敦茶，浓得很呢！但是，克利福，你知道你是彭莱小姐和许多；宝一类的老处女的《玫瑰史》？，么？”

“纵令这样，我也不引以为荣。”

“她们把你在画报上所登的像怎。都好象宝贝般藏了起来，并且她们也许每天晚上都替你祈祷呢，真是樟极了。”

她回到楼上去换布裳。

那天晚上，他对她说。

“你是不是觉得在结婚生活之中，有些什么永存的东西？”

她望着他。

“不过，克利福，你把‘永存’看得象个帽子似的，或者看得象个长长的链索似的，施曳一个人后边，无论人走到多么远都得曳着。”

她烦恼地望着她。

“我的意思是，”他说，“假如你到威尼斯去，你不要抱着一种希望，希望有个什么可以认为大正经的情史罢。”

“在威尼斯有个可以认为大正经的情史？不，放心罢！不，我在威尼斯决不会有个比小正经更正经的情史的。”

她的声调里，带着一种奇特的轻鄙的意味。他皱着眉头望着她。

第二天早晨，当她到楼下去时，她看见守猎人的狗一佛萝茜，正坐在克利福卧室门前的走廓里，轻轻地叫着。

“怎么，佛萝茜”她温柔地说，“你在这儿干吗？”

她静静地把克利福的门打开了，克利福正坐在床上，他的床桌的打字机推在一边。守猎人站在床边等着，佛萝茜跑了进来，梅乐士的头部和眼睛做了个轻轻的姿势叫它到门外夫，它才溜了出来。

“呀，早安，克利福！”康妮说，“我不知道你们有事呢。”

然后她望着守猎人，向他道了早安。他摸棱地望着她，低、声地回答着。但是仅仅他的现在，已使她觉得一种热情之浪荡到她身上来了。

“我打扰了你们吗，克利福？真对不起。”

“不，那是毫无紧要的事。”

她重新走出门来，到第一层楼上的蓝色梳妆室里去，她坐在窗前，望着他那种奇异的、静默的形态向那大路下去。他有着一种自然缄默的高贵，一种冷淡的骄傲，和某种弱不禁风的神气。一个雇工！一个克利福的雇工！“亲爱的布鲁图斯哟，不要埋怨我们的昨辰不烘照，如果我们侈共一等，那是我们自己的过错呵。”

他是不是低人一等呢？他是不是？他那一方面又觉得他怎样呢？那是太阳光耀的一天，康妮在花园里工作着，波太太帮着她。为了一种什么缘故，这两个女人，给人类间存在着一种不可解的同情之潮所溶台了，她们把麝香石竹系在栓子上，她们种着一些夏季的小植物，这种工作她们俩都喜欢的。康妮尤其觉得把小植物的嫩根播入轻松的黑土里，再把它们轻轻埋好，是一种快乐的事，在这春日的早晨，她觉得子宫的深处在颤动着。仿佛阳光照了它，而使它快活起来似的。“你丈夫过世好多年了罢？”她一边对波太太说，一边拿起了一根小植物放在泥穴里。

“二十三年了！”波太太一边说，一边小心地把楼斗菜一一分开。“自从他们把他带回家里到现在。有二十三年了。”

“康妮听了这“带回家里”的可怖的结局，心里不禁吓了一跳。

“你以为她是为什么遭难的？”她问道。“他生前和你快乐么？”

这是妇人与妇人间的一个问题，波太太用她的手背，把垂在脸上的一撮头发拂了开去。

“我不晓得，夫人！他是一种不屈不挠的人；并且不愿与他人同道的，那是一种致命的固执性：宁死而不愿低头，你知道，他对什么都是漠然，我认为那是矿坑的罪过。他原就不应该到矿坑里做工的。但是他还小的时候，他的父亲便强迫他到矿坑里做工。这一来，当你过了二十岁时，那是不太容易改行的了。”

“他曾说过他讨厌到矿坑里做工么？”

“呵。不！从来没有说过！他是从来不说他厌恶什么的”

他只露着难看的面色罢了。他是那些粗心大意的人之一；好象大战开始的时候，那些第一批狂欢赴战，立刻阵亡的青年们一样他的头脑不是不清醒。就是什么都漠然。我常对他说：‘您下对什么漠然。谁也不管！但这不是真的！呵。当我生第一胎孩子时，他那一动不动的静默着的神气。和孩子生过后，他望着我的那种凄惨的眼睛！那时我受了不小的苦痛。但是我得去安慰他。我对他说：‘不要紧的，亲爱的，不要紧的！’他望着我，怪的道笑着。他从来不说什么的，但我相信从此以后，他在夜里和我再也没有什么真正乐趣了；他再也不您意任性了。我常对他说：‘呵。亲爱的。让您自己任性点罢！’……我有时是要对他说这种粗的话的。他却不说什么，池总是不愿让他自己任性时儿，也许他不能罢。他不愿我再有孩子了，我常常埋怨他的母亲。她不该让他进产房里来的。他不应到那里去的。男子们的旦熟思起来的时候，是要把一切事情都张大起来着。”

“那对他有这么大的影响么？”康妮惊愕地说。

“是的。那种生产的苦痛。他是不能认为天然的。那把他夫妇之爱中所应得的乐趣都糟塌了。我对他说：‘要是我自己都不介意，为什么你要介意？那是我的事情呢！……’他中回答道：“那是不公道的！”

“也许他是个太易感动的人吧。”康妮说。

“对了！当你认识了男子的时候，你便知道他们在不该感动的地方。便太易感动了。我相信，连他自己也不晓得他是痛恨矿坑的，恨得入骨的，他死后的脸容是那么安静。仿佛他是被解救了似的。他生前是很漂亮的一个青年！当我看见他那么安泰。那么纯洁的样子，仿佛是他自己愿意死似的。我的心都碎了。唉！真的，那使我的心都碎了。但是那是矿坑的罪过。”

说着，她流了几滴伤心泪。康妮却哭得比她更厉害。那天是个温暖的春日。空中浮荡着与黄花的香馨，许多东西在萌牙，阳光的精华充满着肃静的园里。

“你一定难过极了！”康妮说。

“阿夫人！起初我还不太明白呢，我只能反复地哭着说：‘我的人哟，为什么你要离开我！……’我再也找不着其他的话说。但是我总觉得他会回来的。”

“但是那并不是他要离开你呢。”康妮说。

“是的，夫人！那不过是我哭着时说的傻话，我继续地希望着他会回来的。尤其是在夜里，我眼不交睫地想着，为什么他不在这床上？……仿佛我的感觉不容我相信他是死了似的。我只觉得池是定要回来的。回来假紧着我躺着，使我可以觉得他是和我在一起，我唯一所希望的，便是感觉着他温暖暖地和我在一起。唉！不知道经过了多少次的捻，经过了多少年。我才明白他不会回来了！”

“和他的肉体的接触不会回来了。”康妮说。

“对啦。夫人！和他的肉体的接触！直至今日。我还忘不了，而且永久也忘不了的。假如上面有天的话，他将在那儿。他将假紧着我躺着，使我能入睡。”

康妮惊惧地向她的深思的标致的脸孔瞥了一眼。又是一个达娃斯哈出来的热情的人！和他的肉体的接触；“因为爱之束缚。不易解开！”

“你一旦深爱了一个男子时，那是可怕的！”她说。

“唉！夫人、那便是使人觉得这么苦痛的原因，你觉得人们都是希望他死的。你觉得矿坑是存心害死他的。唉。我觉得假如世上没有矿坑。并且没有经营煤矿的人的话，他是决不会离开我的。但是他们全都是想拆散一对相投的男女。”

“肉体地相投的男友。”康妮说。

“对了，夫人！这世上铁石心肠的人太多了，每天早晨，当他起来去矿坑里做工时，我总觉得那是不祥的，不祥的，但是他除了到矿坑里做工以外还能怎样呢？一个穷人能怎样呢？”

一种奇异的疾恨燃烧着这个妇人。

“难道一种接触关系能够延续到这么久么？”康妮突然地问道，“那使你这么久还能够感觉着他么？”

“呵，夫人，除此以外还有什么能持久的呢？孩子们长大了便要离开你。但是男子，呵！……但是连这点接触的记忆，他们都想把你夺杀了。甚至你自己的孩子！不过，谁知道！我们也许是要分离的。但是感情是不同的东西哟，也许最好是永远不要爱上谁。不过，当我看见那些从来不曾真正地受男子彻底地温暖过的女人，我便觉得她们总是些可怜虫。不怕她们穿得多漂亮。风头出得多有劲，不，我的主意是不会变的。我对于人世是没有什么尊敬的。”
Chapter 12
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. 
`Why canna I?' she said. 
午饭过后，康妮马上便到林中去，那真是可爱的一天。蒲公英开着太阳似的花，新出的雏菊花是棕的自，擦树的茂林，半开的叶子中杂着尘灰颜色的垂直花絮，好象是一幅花边。大开着的黄燕蔬。满地簇拥。象黄金似的在闪耀。这种黄边。是初夏的有力的黄色。莲馨花灰灰地盛开着。花姿招展的莲馨花。再也不畏缩了。绿油油的玉簪。象是个苍海。向上举着一串串的蓓蕾。跑马路上，毋忘我草乱蓬蓬地繁生着。楼斗莱乍开着它们的紫蓝色的花苞。在那矮丛林的下面。还有些蓝色的鸟蛋壳。处处都是蕾芽。处处都是生命的突跃！ 
守猎人并不在那小屋里。那儿，一切都是在静穆中。棕色的少鸡在肆意地奔窜着。康妮继续向着村舍走去。因为她要去会他。
村舍浸在太阳光里。在树林的边缘外。小园里。重苔的野水仙丛簇地生长着。靠近大开着的门前。沿着小径的两旁。都是些重苔的红雏菊。一只狗吠着。佛萝茜走上前来。
门大开着！那么他是在家里了。阳光铺泻在红砖的阶台上！当她经过小园里时。她从窗里看见了他。穿着衬衣。正坐在桌边吃着东西。狗儿轻轻地叫着。缓缓地摇着尾巴。
他站了起来，来到门边，用一条红手巾揩着嘴，嘴里不住地咀嚼着。
“我可以进来吗？”她说。
“进来！”
简朴的房子里。阳光照了进去，房子里还带着羊排煎过后的味道。煎煮东西用的炉子还在防火架上。旁边，那白色的地上。有今盛着马铃薯的黑锅子。放在一张纸上。火是红的。但是不太起劲；通风的炉门关着。开水壶在响。
桌了上摆着碟子，里面是些马铃薯和剩下的羊排。还有一个盛着面包的篓子和一只盛着啤酒的蓝杯子，桌上铺着一张白色的漆布。他站在阴影处。
“你的午餐吃得晚呢。”她说“请继续吃罢！”
她在门。边的阳光里，坐在一把木椅上。
“我得到了斯魏去。”他一边说着，一边坐了下来，。但他并不吃。
“请吃罢。”她说。
但他还是不吃。
“你要吃点什么东西吗？”他用着土话问她。“你要喝杯茶么？开水壶里有开着的水。一他欠身起来。
“假如你让我自己来弄扩知。”她说着站了起来，他仿佛忧闷的样子，她觉得她正使他烦恼不安。
“艰险罢，茶壶在那边。”一他指着一个壁角的褐色的小橱子。“茶杯和茶，是在你头脾炉架上。”
她从炉架上取下了那黑茶壶和一盒茶叶。她用热水把茶过来洗灌了，呆了一会，不知把水倒在哪里好。
“倒在外边。”他看见了她的迟疑的样子说，“那是净水。”
她走到门边，把水倒在小径上，多可爱的地方。这么清静。这么真的森林世界！橡树发着赭黄色的小叶儿；花园里，戏雏菊象是些红毛绒上的钮结似的。她望着门槛上那块带洞的大石板。现在这门槛上跨过的脚步是这么少了。
“这儿真是个可爱的地方。”她说：“这么美妙地静寂。一切都静寂而富有生命！”
他慢慢地、有点不太愿意地重新用他的餐午，她能感觉到他是很扫兴的，她默默地沏了花，把茶壶放在炉灶上，她知道普通人是这么做的，他推开碟子。走到屋后边去，她听见了开门闰的声响，一会儿他拿了一盘干酷和牛油回来。
她把两个茶杯放在桌上；这是仅有的两个茶杯。
“你喝杯茶吗？”她说。
“假如你愿意的话，糖在柜子里，牛奶过来也在那儿。牛奶在伙食间里。”
“我把你的碟子收了好吗？”她问道。他向她望着。微微地冷笑起来。
“晤……假如你愿意的话。”他一边说，一边慢慢地吃着面包和干酷她到后边洗涤碗碟的侧屋里。水龙头是安在那儿的，左边有个门。无疑地这是伙食间的门了。她把这个门打开了。看见了这个所谓伙食间，差不多笑了：这只是一个狭长的粉白着的壁橱。但是这里面还布置得下一桶啤酒和几食物。她从一个黄罐里取了点牛奶。
“你的牛奶怎么得来的？”当她回到桌边时，她伺他道。
“弗林家里的。他们把瓶子放在畜牧场边。你知道的，就是那天我遇着你的那个地方。”
但是他是很扫兴的样子。
她斟了茶。然后举着牛奶过来。
“不要牛奶。”她说，他好象听见什么声响，向门外疾望着。
“我想把门关了的好。”他说。
“那未免可惜了。”她答道。“没有人会来吧，是不是？”
“那是千载一时的。不过谁知道呢。”
“纵玲有人来了也不打紧。”她说。“我不过来喝一杯茶罢了。调羹在哪儿？”
他弯身把桌子的舞屉打开了。康妮坐在桌边。大门里讲来的阳光晒着她。
“佛萝茜！”他向那睡在楼梯下一块小席上的狗说，“去守望去，去守望去！”
他举着手指，狗儿奔了出去个察。
“你今天不快活吗？”她问道。
他的蓝色的眼睛迅速地转了过来凝视着她。
“不快活？不，只有点儿烦恼罢了！我得去请发两张传票，去传我所捉得的两个偷猎的人。咳，我是讨厌这类事情的。”
他说的是冷静、正确的英语，他的声音里含着怒气。
“你讨厌当守猎人吗？”她说。
“当守猎人？不！只要人们让我安安静静的。但是到了要我上敬礼察署和其他的地方，等着那些混蛋来理我的时候……呵，咳，我便要发疯了……”他着带点幽默味道微笑着。
“难道你不能真正在自立么？”她问道。
“我？我想我能够的，我有我的恤金使我生活。我能够的！但是我得是点工作，否则我便要闷死。那是说，我需要点什么事情使我不空闲着。而我的坏脾气是不容我为自己工作的。所以便不得不替他人做事了。不然的话，我的坏脾气来了，不出一月，便要把一切踢翻，所以算起来，我在这儿是很好的，尤其是近来……”
他又向她幽默地起来。
“但是为什么你有这种脾气呢？”她问道，“难道你‘常常”都是坏脾气的么？”
“差不多是常常铁。”他笑着说，“我有满腔的忿懑。”
“什么忿港？”她说。
“忿港！”他说“你不知道那是什么吗？”
她失望地静默着。他并不注意她。
“下个月我要暂时离开这儿了。”她说。
“是么？到那儿去？”
“威尼斯。”
“威尼斯？和克利福男爵去么？去多久？”
“一个月上下。”她答道，“克利福他不去。
“他留在这儿么？”他问道。
“是的，他是不喜欢在他这种情境中旅行的。”
“暖，可怜的家伙！”他带着同情心说。
停了一会。
“我走了你不会把我忘记罢，会不会？”她问道，他又向她凝视起来。
“忘记？”他说，“你知道没有人会忘记的。那不是个记忆的问题。”
她想问：“那么是个什么问题呢？”但是她忍住了。她只用一种沉哑的声音说：“我告诉了克利福，也许我极个孩子了。”
现在他带着强烈的好奇心，真正地望着她。
“真的么？”他终于说：“他说了什么？”
“呵，他是无所谓的，只在孩子似乎是他的，他倒要喜欢呢。”
她不敢看她。他静默了好一会，然后再凝望着她。
“没有提到我，当然吧？”他说。
“没有，没有提到你。”她说。
“不，他是决难容忍我做他的代庖人的。……那么他将怎样设想这孩子的来源呢？”
“我可以在威尼斯有个情人呀。”
“不错。”他缓缓在回答道，“这便是你到威尼斯去的缘故了。”
“但并不是真为了找情人去。”她望着他，辩护着说。
“只是做个样子罢了。”他说。
两个人重新静默着。他望着窗外，半悲伤、半讥嘲地苦笑，她是恨他这种劳笑的。
“难道你没有预先设法避免孩子么？”他突然说，“因为我没有那工具。”
“没有。”她说，“我恨那样。”
他望着她，然后又带着那特殊的诡谲的苦笑，望着窗外。两个人紧张地静默着，最后，他回转头来，讥否则地向她说：
“那么，那便是你要我的缘故，为了要有个孩子的缘故吧？”
她低着头。
“不，事实上不是这样？”她说。
“为什么事实上？”他用着有点激烈的声音问道。
她埋怨地望着她，说；“我不知道。”他大笑起来。
“你不知道，那么我知道么！”他说。
两人静默了好久，冷森森地静默着。
“唔。”他最后说，“随夫人的便，如果你有了个孩子，我是喜欢送给克利福男爵的。我并不吃什么亏。我倒得了个很快意的经验，的确快意的经验：“……他伸着腰，半打着呵欠，“如果你把我利用了，那并不是我么一次给人利用，而且这一次是最快意地给人利用了，虽然这对于我是不十分荣誉的事。”……他重新奇异地伸着懒腰，他的筋肉颤战着，牙关紧闭着。．“但是我并没有利用你。”他辩护着说。
“我是听夫人作用的。”他答道。
“不。”她说，“我喜欢你的肉体。”
“真的么？”他答道，笑着，“好，那么我们是两讫子，因为我也喜欢你的。”
他的奇异的阴暗的两眼望着她。
“现在我们到楼上去好不好？他用着一种窒息的声音问她。
“不，不要在这儿，不要现在！”她沉重地说。虽然，假如他稍为紧持的话，她定要屈服了，因为她是没有力量反抗他的。
他又把脸翻了转去，好象把她忘了。
“我想触摸你，同你触摸我一样。”她说，“我从来没有真正地触摸过你的身体。”
他望着她，重新微笑起来。现在？”他说。
“不！不！不要在这儿！到小屋里去，你不介意罢？”
“你怎么触摸我？”他问道。
“当你抚摩我的时候。”
他的眼睛和她的沉重不安的眼睛遇着。
“你喜欢我抚摩你么？”他老是笑着。
“是的，你呢？”
“呵，我！”然后他换了声调说：“我也喜欢，那不用我告诉你的。”这是实在的。
她站了起来，拿起了帽子。“我得走了。”她说。
“你要走了么？”他文雅地说。
她满望着他来触摸她，对她说些话，但是他什么也不说，只是斯文地等待着。
“谢谢你的茶。”她说。
“我还没有谢谢夫人赏光呢。”他说。
她向着小径走了出去，他站在门口，微微地苦笑着。佛萝茜举着尾巴走了前来，康妮沉默地向林中蹒跚走去，心里知道他正站在那儿望着她，脸上露着那不可思议的苦笑。
她狠扫兴地、烦恼地回到家里，她一点也不喜欢他说他是被人利用了。在某种意义上，这是真的，但是他不应该说了出来。因此她重新地给两种感情占据着：其一是怨恨他，其一是欲望着与他和好起来。
她十分不安地、恼怒地用完了茶点后，立刻回到楼上房里去了，但是她在房子里不知所措，坐立不安。她得做点什么事。她得再到小屋里去。假如他不在那儿的话，那便算了。
她从旁门溜了出去，有时闷郁地直向目的地走去，当她来到林中那空旷地时，她觉得可怖地不安起来，但是他却在那儿，穿着衬衣，蹲在鸡笼前，把笼门打开了，让母鸡出来。在他周围的那些小雏鸡，现在都长得有点笨拙了，但比之普通的小鸡却雅致得多。
她直向他走了过去。
“你瞧！我来了。”她说。
“唉，我看见了！”他一边，一边站了起来，有点嘻笑地望着她。
“你现在让母鸡出来了么？”她问道。
“是的，它们孵小鸡孵到只剩一张皮、一把骨了，现在，它们全不想出来和取食了，一只孵卵期的母鸡是没有自我的，它整个身心都为了它的卵或小鸡。”
可怜的母鸡！多么盲目的爱！甚至所孵的卵并不是它们自已的！康妮怜地望着它们，好懒情他之间，给一种阴郁的静默笼罩着。
“我们进小屋里去吧？”他问道。
“你要我去么？”她猜疑地问道。
“是的，假如你愿意来的黄悠地、一波一浪荡到远处去。不住地，在她的最生动的地方，那海底分开，在若荡漾，中央便是探海者在温柔的深探着，愈探愈深，愈来愈触着她的底下；她愈深愈远地暴露着，她的波涛越荡越汹涌地荡到什么岸边去，使她暴露着。无名者的深探，愈入愈近，她自己的波涛越荡越远地离开她，抛弃她，直至突然地，在一种温柔的、颤战的痉挛中，她的整个生命的最美妙处被触着了，她自己知道被触着了，一切都完成了，她已经没有了，她已经没有了，好也不存在了，她出世了：一个妇人。
唉！太美了，太可爱了！在那波涛退落之中；她体会这一切的美而可爱了。现在她整个的身体，在深情地紧依着那不知名的男子，在盲目地依恋着那萎缩着的阴茎，它，经过了全力的、狂暴的冲刺后，现在柔软地、娇弱地、不自知地退缩着。当它，这神秘的锐敏的东西从她的肉里退了出来时，她不自学地叫了一声，一声迷失的呼喊，她试着把它放了回去。刚才是这样的佳妙！这样的使她欢快！
现在她才知道了那阴茎的小巧，和花蕊似的静躺，柔嫩，她不禁又惊奇地尖锐了叫了一声，她的妇人的心，这权威者的；柔嫩而惊奇地叫着。
“可爱极了！”她呻吟着说，“好极了！?む被她自己的销魂的情欲所压倒，她躺着，两手无力地放在他的舞动的身上，无论怎样，她都禁不住她的精神在作局外观；她觉得他的臂部的冲撞是可笑的，他的阴茎的那种渴望着得到那片刻的排汇的样子是滑稽的。是的，这便是爱，这可笑的两臂的冲撞这可怜的、无意义的、润湿的小阴茎的萎缩。这便是神圣的爱！毕竟，现代人的藐视这种串演是有理由的，因为这是一种串演。有些诗人说得很对，创造人类的上帝，一定有个乖庚的、幽默的官能，他造了一个有理智的人，而同时却迫他做这种可笑的姿势，而且使他盲目地追求这可笑的串演。甚至一个莫泊桑都觉得爱是屈辱的没落。世人轻蔑床第间事，却又做它。
冷酷地、讥消地，她的奇异的妇人之心远引着，虽然她一动不动地躺着，但是她的本能却使她挺起腰子，想把那男子挤出去，想从他的丑恶的紧抱中，从他的怪诞的后臂的冲撞中逃了出来。这男子的身体是个愚蠢的、鲁莽的、不完备的东西，它的缺憾的笨拙，是有点令人讨厌的。人类如果是完完备地进化的话，这种串演，这种“官能；是定要被淘汰的。
当他很快地完了时，当他卧在她的身上，狠静默的远引着，远引在一种奇异的，静息的境域里，很远地，无室她所不能及的天外时，她开始在心里做哭起来，她觉得他象潮水似的退开，退开，留下她在那儿，象一块海岸上的小石。他舞退着，他的心正离开着她，他知道。
一股真正的哀伤袭据着她心，她痛哭起来。他并没有注意，也许甚至不知道。强烈的呜咽愈来愈厉害。摇撼着她，摇撼着他。
“暖”他说，“这一次是失败了，你没有来呢”
这样看来，他是知道的！她哭得更剧烈了。
“但是怎么啦？”他说，“有时是要这样的。”
“我……我不能爱你。”她哭着说，突然地，她觉得她的心碎了。
“您不能？那么，您不用爱就是！世上并没有法律强迫您爱。听其自然好了。”
他的手还是她的胸上；但是她却没有搂着他了。
他的话是不太能安慰她的。她高声地鸣咽起来。
“不要这样，不要这样！”他说，“甜的要，苦的也要，这一次是有点苦的。”
她哀痛地哭道：“但是我很想爱你，我却不能”那是可怕的！”
他半苦昧、半椰榆地笑了一笑。
“那并不可怕。”他说，“纵令您是那么觉得，您涌使不可怕的东西成为可怕。不要管您爱不爱我。您绝不能勉强的。一篮核桃之中，总有个二泊。好的坏的都得要。”
他撒开了他的手，再也不触摸着她了。现在，她再也不被他触摸着了，她顽皮地觉得满足起来。她憎恨他的土话：这些“您”，“您”，“您的”，假如他喜欢的话，他可以站了起来，毫不客气地直站在她面前，去如他那燕京饭店唐的粗棉布的裤子，毕竟蔑克里斯还知羞地背过脸去。这个人却是这样的自信，他甚至不人们会觉得他是鲁莽无教养的。
虽然，当他默默地舞了出来预备起身时，她恐怖地紧抱着他。
“不！不要走！不要离开我！不要和我斗气！抱着我罢！紧紧地抱着我罢！”她盲目地，疯狂地，哺哺地说，也不知道自己说着什么，她用一种奇异的力量紧抱着他。她要从她自己的内在的暴怒中和反抗中逃了出来，这占据着她的内在的反抗力，是多么强呵！
他重新把她抱在他的两臂中，紧压着她。突然地，她在他的两臂中变成娇小了，这样地娇小而贴服了。完了，反抗力没有了，她开始在一种神妙的和平里溶解了。当她神妙地在他的两臂中溶解成娇小玲珑地时候，他对她的情欲也无限地膨胀了。他所有的血管里都好象为了这臂里的她，为了她的娇媚，为了她的勾人心魂的美，沸腾着一种剧烈的，却又温柔的情欲。他的弃着纯粹的温柔的情欲的手，奇妙地，令人晕眩地爱抚爱她，温柔地，他抚摩着边腰间的软油的曲线，往下去，再往下去，在她柔软而温暖的两股中间，移近着，再移近着，直到她身上最生罢的地方。她觉得他象是一团欲火，但是温柔的欲燕且她觉得自己是溶化在这火焰中了。她不能自禁了。她觉着他的阴茎带着一种静默的、令人惊奇的力量与果断，向他坚举着，她不能自禁地去就他。她颤战着降服了。她的一切都为他开展了。呵！假如他此刻不为她温存，那是多么残酷的事，因为她是整个地为他开展着，整在地在祈求他的怜爱！
那种强猛的，不容分说地向她的进入，是这样的奇异这样的可怕，使她重新颤战起来，也许他的来势要象利刃似的，一刀刺进她温柔地开展着的肉里，那时她便要死了。她在一种骤然的、恐怖的忧苦中，紧紧地抱着她。但是，他的来势只是一种缓缓的、和平的进入，幽暗的、和平的进入，一种有力的、原始的、温情的进入，这种温情是和那创造世界时候的温情一样的，于是恐怖的情绪在她的心里消退了。她的心安泰着，她毫无畏惧了。她让一切尽情地奔驰，她让她自己整个地尽情奔驰，投奔在那泛滥的波涛里。
她仿佛象个大海，满是些幽暗的波涛，上升着，膨胀着，膨胀成一个巨浪，于是慢慢地，整个的幽暗的她，都在动作起来，她成了一个默默地、蒙昧地、兴波作浪的海洋。在她的里面，在她的底下，慢慢分开，左右荡漾，悠悠地、一波一浪荡到远处去。不住地，在她的最生动的地方，那海底分开，在若荡漾，中央便是探海者在温柔的深探着，愈探愈深，愈来愈触着她的底下；她愈深愈远地暴露着，她的波涛越荡越汹涌地荡到什么岸边去，使她暴露着。无名者的深探，愈入愈近，她自己的波涛越荡越远地离开她，抛弃她，直至突然地，在一种温柔的、颤战的痉挛中，她的整个生命的最美妙处被触着了，她自己知道被触着了，一切都完成了，她已经没有了，她已经没有了，好也不存在了，她出世了：一个妇人。
唉！太美了，太可爱了！在那波涛退落之中；她体会这一切的美而可爱了。现在她整个的身体，在深情地紧依着那不知名的男子，在盲目地依恋着那萎缩着的阴茎，它，经过了全力的、狂暴的冲刺后，现在柔软地、娇弱地、不自知地退缩着。当它，这神秘的锐敏的东西从她的肉里退了出来时，她不自学地叫了一声，一声迷失的呼喊，她试着把它放了回去。刚才是这样的佳妙！这样的使她欢快！
现在她才知道了那阴茎的小巧，和花蕊似的静躺，柔嫩，她不禁又惊奇地尖锐了叫了一声，她的妇人的心，这权威者的；柔嫩而惊奇地叫着。
“可爱极了！”她呻吟着说，“好极了！”
但是他却不说什么，静息地躺在她身上，只是温柔地吻着她。她幸福地呻吟着，好象一个牺牲者，好象一个新生的东西。
现在，她的心里开始对他奇怪地惊异起来了。一个男子！这奇异的男性的权威压在她身上！她的手还有点害怕地在他身上轻抚着，害怕他那曾经使她觉得有点厌恶的、格格不入的奇民蝗东西；一个男子。现在，她触摸着他，这是上帝的儿子们和人类的女儿们在一起的时候了，他多么美，他的皮肤多么纯洁！多么可爱，多么可爱，这样的强壮，却又纯洁而嫩弱！多么安静，这敏锐的身体！这权威者，这嫩弱的肉，多么绝对地安静！多美！多美！她的两手，在他的背上畏怯地向下爱抚着，直到那温软的臀上。美妙！真是美妙！一种新知觉的骤然的小火焰，打她的身里穿过，怎么这同样的美，她以前竟只觉得厌恶？摸触着这温暖生动的臀部的美妙，是不能言嗡的！这生命中的生命，这纯洁的美，是温暖而又有力的。还有他那两腿间的睾丸的奇异的重量！多么神秘！多么奇异的神秘的重量，软软的，沉重的，可以拿来放在手上。这是根蒂，一切可爱的东西的根蒂，一切完备的美的原始的根蒂。
她紧依着他，神奇地惊叹起来，这种惊叹差不多可说是警畏恐怖的惊叹。他紧紧地抱着她，但是不说什么，他决不会说什么的。她假近着他，更加假近着他，为的是要亲近他那感官的奇异在他的绝对的、不可思议的安静中，她又觉得他那东西，那另一个权威者，重新慢慢地颤举起来，她的心在一种敬畏的情绪中溶化了。
这一次，他的进入她的身内，是十分温柔的，美艳的，纯粹的地温柔，纯粹地美艳，直至意识所不能捉摸。整个的她在颤战着。象生命之原液似的，无知而又生动，她不知道那是怎样的，她不复记忆那是怎样过去的，她只知道世上再也没有这样可爱的事情了。就只这一点儿，然后，她完全地静默着，完全地失掉意识，她也不知道经过了多久的时间，他和她一样地静默着。和她一样地深陷在无底的沉寂中，关于这一切，他们是永不会开口的。
当她的意识开始醒转的时候。她紧依在他的胸前，哺哺地说：“我的爱！我的爱！”而他则沉默地紧抱着她，她蜷伏在他的至善至美的胸膛上。
但是他依旧是在那无底的静默中，他奇异地，安静地，把她象花似的抱着。
“你在那儿？”她低声说，“你在那儿？说话罢！对我说说话吧！”
他温柔地吻着她，喃喃地说：“是的，我的小人儿！”
但是她不知道他说的是什么意思，她不知道他在那儿，他的那种沉默，使她觉得似乎是失落了。
“你爱我，是不是？”她喃喃地说。
“是的，您知道！”他说。
“但是告诉我你爱我吧！”她恳求道。
“是的！是的！您不觉得么？”他模糊地但是温柔地、确信地说。她愈紧地、愈紧地依着他。他在爱恋之中比她安泰得多了，她却需要他再使她确信。
“你真的爱我吧！”她固执地细声说。他的两手温柔地爱抚着她，好象爱抚着一朵花似的，没有情欲的颤战，但是很微妙，很亲切的。她呢，却依旧好象恐怕爱情要消遁似的。
“告诉我，你爱我吧”她恳求说。
“是的！”他心不在焉地说。她觉得他的问话，使他远离着她了。
“我们得起来了吧？”他最后说。
“不！”她说。
但是她觉得他分心了，正在听着外边的动静。
“差不多天黑了。”他说。从他的声音里，她听出了世事是不容人的，她吻着他，心里带着一个妇人在放弃她的欢乐时的悲伤。
他站了起来，把灯火转大了，然后，很快地把衣裤重新穿上。他站着，一边束紧着他的裤子。一边用两只乌黑的大眼睛俯望着她。他那带几分红热的脸孔，乱蓬蓬的头发，在那朦胧的灯光下，显得奇异地温暖、安静而美妙，美妙到她永不会告诉他怎样的美，她想去紧依着他，楼抱着他，因为他的美，有着一种温暖的、半睡眠的幽逮，那使她想呼喊起来，把他紧捉着，把他占据着。但是她是绝不会把他占据的，所以她静卧在毡子上，裸露着她温柔地弯曲着的腰股。他呢，他一点也不知道她在想什么，但是他觉得她是美妙的，尤其是他可以进去的那温软的、神奇的东西，是比一切都更美妙的。
“我爱您，因为我可以进您的身里去。”他说。
“你喜欢我么？”好心跳着说。
“我既可以进您的身里去，一切便都行了。我爱您，因为您为我开展着。我爱您。因为我可以这样进您的身里去。
他俯着身上她的柔软的腰窝里吻着，用他的面颊在那儿摩察着，然后用毡子把她盖上了。
“你永不丢弃我吧？”她说。
“别问这种事。”他说。
“但是你相信我爱你吧？”她说。
“此刻您在爱我，热爱到您以前所意想不到的程度，但是一旦您细想起来的时候，谁知道要怎样呢！”
“不，不要说这种话，……你并不真正以为我利用你吧，是不是？”
“怎么？”
“为了生孩子……”
“我们今日，无论谁都可以生无论怎样的孩子。”他一边说，一边坐了下来束紧着他的脚绊。
“呀，不！”她叫道，“你不是真的这样想吧？”
“晤，”他望着她说，“我们刚才所做的，便是最重要的了。”
她静卧着，他慢慢地把门打开了。天是暗蓝色的，天脚是晶莹的蓝玉石色，他出去把母鸡关好了，轻轻地对狗儿说着话。她呢，她躺在那儿，惊异着生命与万物之不可思议。
当他回来时，她依旧躺在那儿，娇是象一个流浪的波希米亚妇人，他在她旁边的一张小凳上坐下。
“在您没有走以前，哪一天晚上您得到村舍里来，好不好？”他举着眉头望着她说，两手垂在膝间。
“好不好？”她模仿着土话打趣说。他微笑着。“是的，好不好？”他重说道。
“是的，她模仿着他。
“和我同睡一宵。”他说，“您定得来，您哪天来？”
“我哪天来？”她用着他的封知问道。
“不，您学得不象，究竟您哪天来？”
“也许礼拜天。”
“礼拜天，好的！”
他嘲笑着她说：
“不，您学得不象。”
“为什么不象？”她说。
他笑着。她模仿的土话真是有点令人捧腹的。
“来罢，您得走了！”他说。
“我得走了么。”她说。
她身体向前倾着，他轻抚着她的脸。
“您真是个好‘孔’(Cunt)，您是这在地上剩下的最好的小‘孔’儿。当您喜欢的时候，当您愿意的时候！”
“什么是‘孔”’她问道。
“怎么，您不知道什么是‘孔’！那是您下面的那个；那是我进您里面时我所得的那个；也是我进您里面时您所得的那个”
“那么，‘孔’是象交合了？
“不。不！交合只是做的事情，禽兽也能交合，但是，‘孔’却是强得多了。那是您自己，明白不，您是异于禽类的，可不是？……甚至当您在交全听时候。‘孔’！嗳，那是使您美丽的东西，小人儿；”
他的两只幽星的、温柔的、不这言语形容地温暖地、令人不能忍的美丽的眼睛望着她。她站了起来．，在他这两眼间吻着。
“是么？”她说，“那么你爱我么？”
他吻了吻她，没有回答。
“现在您得回去了。”他说。
他的手儿，抚摩着她身上的曲线，稳定而不含欲望，但是又温柔，又熟落。
当她在昏邑里跑着回家去时，世界好象是个梦，园里的树木，好象下碇的舟帆，膨胀着，高涌着。到大厦去的斜坡，也充溢着生命。
Chapter 13
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! 


礼拜天，克利福想到林中去走走，那是个可爱的早晨，梨花李花都突然开了，到处都是奇艳的白色。 

那是件残酷的事，当这世界正在千红万紫的时候，克利福还得从一把轮椅里，被人扶掖着，转到一个小车里，但是他却忘怀了，甚至仿佛觉得他的腿是有某种可骄的地方了。康妮看见人把他那死了的两腿抢到适当的地方去时，还是觉得心里难过，现在，这种工作是由波太太或非尔德担任了。

她在马路的上头，那山毛榉树凑成的树墙边等着他。他坐在那卟卟响着的小车里前进着，这车子走得象大病人似的缓慢。当他来到康妮那里时，他说：

“克利福男爵骑在喷唾沫的骏马上！”

“至少是在喷着鼻息的骏马上！”她笑着说。

他停住，了望着那褐色的，长而低的老屋。

“勒格贝的神色没有变呢！”他说，“实在，为什么要变呢？我是骑在人类的精神的功业上，那是胜于骑在一匹马上的。”

“不错，从前拍拉图的灵魂上天去进，是乘着两马的战车去的，现在定要坐福德汽车去了。”她说。

“也许要坐罗斯---莱斯汽车去呢：因为柏拉图是个贵族呵！”

“真的！再也没有黑马受人鞭鞑和虐待了，柏拉图决没有梦想到我们今日会走得比他的两条黑白骏马更快，决没有梦想到骏马根本就没有了，有的只是机器！”

“只是机器和汽油！”克利福说。

“我希望明年能够把这老屋修整一下，为了这个，我想我得省下一千镑左右，但是工程太贵了！”他又加上一句。

“呵，那很好！”康妮说，“只要不再罢工就好了！”

“他们再罢工又有什么好处呢！那只是把工业，把这硕果仅存的一点点工业送上死路罢了，这班家伙应该有觉悟了！”

“也许他们满不在乎工业上死路呢，康妮说。

“呵，不要说这种妇人的话！纵令工业不能使他们的腰包满溢，但是他们的肚子是要靠它温饱的呵。”他说着，语调里奇异地带了些波太太的鼻音。

“但是那天你不是说过你是个保守派无政府主义者吗？”她天真地问道。

“你没有懂我的意思么？”他反驳道，“我的意思只是说，一个人在私生活上，喜欢怎样做怎样想，便可以怎样做怎样丰想，只要保全了生命的形式和机构。”

康妮静默地走了几步，然后固扫计说；

“这仿佛是说，一只蛋喜欢怎样腐败下去，便可以怎样腐

败下去，只要保全了蛋壳，但是蛋腐败了是不由得不破裂的。”

“我不相信人是和蛋一样的。”他说，“甚至这蛋是天使的

蛋，也不能拿来和人相提并论，我亲爱的小传道师。”

在这样清朗的早晨，他的心情是很愉快的，百灵鸟在园里

飞翔嗽卿着，远远地在低凹处的矿场，静悄悄地冒着烟雾。情景差不多同往日，大战前的往日一样，康妮实在不想争论。但是她实在也不想和克利福到林中去。她在他的小车旁走着心里在赌着气。

“不，”他说，如果事情处理得宜，以后不会有罢工的事了”

“为什么不会有了。”

“因为事情会摆布得差不多罢工成功了。”

“但是工人肯么？”她问道。

“我们不问他们肯不肯。为了他们自己的益处，为了救护工业，我们要当他们不留神的时候，把事情摆布好了。”

“也为了你自己的好处。”她说。

“自然啦！为了大家的好处，但是他们的好处却比我的好处多，没有煤矿我也能生活下去，我有其他的生计，他们却不能；没有煤矿他们便要挨饿的。”

他们在那浅谷的上头，遥望着煤矿场和矿场后面那些达娃斯哈的黑顶的屋宇，好象蛇似沿着山坡起着。那褐色的老教堂的钟声响着：礼拜，礼拜，礼拜！

“但是工人们肯让你这样自由摆布么？”她说。

“我亲爱的，假如摆布得聪明，他们便不得不让。”

“难道他们与你之间，不可以有互相的谅解么？”

“绝对可以的：如果他们认清了工业第一，个人次之。”

“但是你一定要自己占有这工业么？”她说。

“我不，但是我既已占有了，我便得占有它。现在产业所有权的问题已成为一个宗教问题了。这是自从耶稣及圣佛兰西斯以来就这样的。问题并不是：将您所有的一切赐予穷人；而是，利用您所有的一切以发展工业，面子穷人以工作，这是所以便靶靶众生饱暖的唯一方法，把我们所有的一切赐予穷人，那便等于使穷人和我们自己一伙儿饿馁。饥饿的世界是要不得的，甚至人人都穷困了，也不见得怎样有趣，贫穷是丑恶的！”

“但是贫富不均又怎样？”

“那是命，为什么木星比海王星大？你不能转变造化的！”

“但是假如猜忌、嫉妒和愤懑的感情一旦粹发起来……”

“但谁是群龙之首呢？”她问道。

“经营和占有工业的人们。”

两人间静默了好一会。

“我觉得这些人都是些坏头目。”她说。

“那么他们要怎样才算好头目呢？

“他们把他们的头目地位不太当你一回事。”她说。

“他们对他们的地位，比你对你的男爵夫人的地位，更当作一回事呢。”他说。

“但是我的地位是人家强给我的。我自己实在不想。”她脱口而出道，他把车停了，望着她：

“现在是谁想摆脱责任？现在是谁想逃避头目地位---如你所称的---责任。”

“但是我并不想处在什么头目地位呢。”她反驳道。

“咳！这是逃避责任。你已有了这种地位：这是命定的。你应该承受下去。矿工们所有的一切起码的好处是谁给的？他们的一切政治自由，他们的教育，他们的卫生环境，他们的书籍，他们的音乐，一切一切，是谁给的？是不是矿工们给矿工们的？不！是英国所有的勒格贝的希勃莱，尽了他们的本分给的，而且他们应该继续地给与。那便是你的责任。”

康妮听，脸气得通红。

“我很想给点什么东西。”她说，但是人们却不允许我。现在，一切东西都是出卖的，或买来的，你所提起的那种种东西，都是勒格贝的希勃莱用高价出卖给矿工们的，你们是不给一分一毫真正的同情的，此外，‘我要问问，是谁把人民的天然的生活与人性夺去了，而给与这种种工业的丑恶？是谁？”

“那么，你要我怎样呢？他气得脸发青说，“难道请他们到我家里来抢劫么？”

“为什么达娃斯哈弄成这么丑恶，这么肮脏？为什么他们的生活是这么绝望？”

“达娃斯喻是他们自己春夏秋冬成的，这是他们自由的一种表现。他们为自己做成了这美妙的达娃斯哈。他们过着他们的美妙的生活。我却不能过他们的那种生活。一条虫有一条虫的活法。”

“但是你使他们为你工作，他们靠你的煤矿生活。”

“一点也不。每条虫子找它自己的食粮，没有一个工人是被迫为我做工的。”

他们的生活是工业化的，失望的，我们自己的也一样。”她叫道。

“我不相信这话，你说的是骑丽的溺藻，只是瞩目待毙了的残余的浪漫主义的话，我亲爱的康妮呵，你此刻一点儿也没有失望的人的样了呢！”

这是真的。她的深的眼睛发着亮，两颊红粉粉的发烧，她充满着反叛的热情，全没有失望着的颓丧样儿，她注意到浓密的草丛中，杂着一些新出的莲馨花，还裹着一层毛茸，她自己愤横地奇怪着，为什么她既然觉得克利福不对，却又不能告诉他，不能明白地说出他在哪里不对。

“无怪工人们都恨你了。”她说。

“他们并不恨我！”他答道。“不要弄错了，他们并不是如你所想象的真正的‘人’。他们是你所不懂的，而且你永不会懂的动物。不要对其他的人作无谓的幻想，过去和将来的群众都是一样的，罗马暴君尼罗的奴录和我们的矿工，或福德汽车厂的工人，是相差得微乎其微的。我说的是在煤场里和田野里工作的奴录。这便是群众，他们是不会变的，在群众中，可以有个露头角的人但是这种特殊的现象并不会使群众改变，群众是不能改变的。这是社会科学中最重要的事实之一。PaneeCicenses！可是不幸地，我们今日却用教育去替你杂要场了。我们今日的错处．就错在把这般群众爱看的杂耍场大大地铲除了。并且用一点点几的教育把这般群众弄坏了。”

当克利福吐露着他对于平民的真正感情时，康妮害怕起来了。他的话里，有点可怖的真理在。但是这是一种杀人的真理。

看见了她苍白的颜色和静默的态度，克利福把小车子再次开动了。一路无言地到了园门边，康妮把园门打开了，他重新把车子停住。

“现在我们所要执在手里的是一条鞭，而不是一把剑，群众是自从人类开始直至人类末日止，都被人统治的，而且不得不这样，说他们能自治，那是骗人的笑话。”

“但是你能统治他的么？”她问道。

“我？当然！我的心和我的志愿意都没有残废，我并不用两条腿去统治，我能尽我的统治者的本分，绝对的尽我的本分，给我个儿子，他便将继承父业。”

“但是他不会是你真正的儿子，不会属于你的统治者的阶级，也许不。”她呐呐地说。

“我不管他的父亲是谁，只要他是个健康的、有普通智慧的人。给我一个无论那个健康的，有普通智慧的男子所生的儿子，我便可以使他成个不愧门媚的查太莱。重要的不是生我们者是谁，而是命运所给与我们的地位是怎样。把无论怎样的一个孩子放在统治者阶级中，他便要成为庶民，群众的产品，那是不可抗拒的环境所迫的缘故。”

“那么庶民并没有庶民的种，贵族也没有贵族的种了？”她说。

“不，我的孩子！这一切都是浪漫的幻想。贵族是一种职责，命运之一部分，而群众是执行职责，命运之其他一部分。个人是无基紧要的。紧要的是你受的哪一种职责的教养，你适全呈哪一种职责，贵族并不是由个人组成的。而是由全贵族职责之执行而成的，庶民之所以为庶民，也是由全民众职责之执行而成的。”

“依你这样说来，我们人与人之间，并没有共同的人性了！”

“随你喜欢，我们谁都有把肚子吃饱的需要，但是计烃职责之表现或扫许，我相信统治阶级也服役阶级之间有个无底的深渊在，这两种职责情形是相反的。职责是所以决定个人的东西。”

康妮惊愕地望着他。

“你不继续散步么？”她说。

他把他的小车子开动了。他要说的话都说了。他现在重新陷入了他所特有的那种空洞的冷淡中，那是使康妮觉得很难堪的。但是无论如何，她决定不在这林中和他争论。

在他们面前开展着那条跑马道，面旁是两排榛子树和斑白色的美丽的树木。小车子缓缓地前进，路上棒树影遮不到的地方，蔓生着牛奶泡沫似的毋忘我花，车子打上面经过，克利，福在路中心欢呼着他的车，在花草满地中，这路中心被脚步践踏成一条小径了。在后面跟着的康妮，望着车轮打小铃兰和喇叭花上而辗过，把爬地藤的带黄色的小花钟儿压个破碎。现在，这车轮在毋忘我花中开着一条路线。

所有的花都象在这儿，绿色水池里那些初生的圆叶风铃草，茂盛得象一潭静止的水。

“你说得真对，这儿可爱极了。”他说，“美极了，什么东西比得上英国的春天可爱”

康妮听了他这话，仿佛春天的花开都是由议院来决定似的，英国的春天！为什么不是爱尔兰的，或犹太的春天？小车儿在劲健得象芥麦似的圆叶风铃草丛中缓缓地前进，压着牛劳草的灰色的叶儿。当他们来到那树木伐光了空旷地时，有点眩眼的光线照耀着他们，满地鲜蓝的圆叶风铃草中，间杂着一些带企或带紫的蓝色，在这花群中。一些蕨草抢着褐色的、卷绢的头儿，象是些小蛇，准备若为夏娃汇漏什么新的秘密，

克利福把车驶到小山顶上，康妮在后面慢馒地跟着。山毛榉的褐色牙儿，温柔地开展着。老去的冬天的粗糙，全变成温柔了。甚至倔强嶙峋的橡树，也发着最柔媚的嫩叶，伸展着纤纤的褐色的小枝翅，好象是些向阳的蝙蝠的翅翼。为什么人类从来就没有什么新鲜的蜕变，使自己返老还童？多么拓燥刻板的人生！

克利福把车子停在小山顶上，眺望着下面。圆叶风铃草象蓝色的潮水似的，在那条宽大的马路上泛滥着，温暖的把山麓铺得通蓝。

“这种颜色本身是很美的。”克利福说，“但是拿来作画便没有用了。”

“的确！”康妮说，一点儿也不感兴趣。

“让我冒险一下把车子驶到泉源那边去好吗？”克利福说。

“我以为车子回来时上得了这个山么？”她说。

“我们试试看。不入虎穴，焉得虎子！”

车子开始慢慢地下着坡，在那条被蓝色的风信子泛滥着的、缚丽的宽道上颠簸着。阿，最后的一条船，在飘过风信子的浅水上！呵，波涛汹涌上的轻舟，在作着我们的文化的末次的航行，到哪儿去，呵，你荒唐的软舟，你蠕蠕地颠缀到那儿去！安泰而又满足，克利福坐在探险的舵前，戴着他的者黑帽，穿着软绒布的短外衣，又镇静又小心。呵，船主哟，我的船主哟，我们壮丽的航行是完结了！可是还没有十分完结呢！康妮穿着灰色的衣裳，在后面跟着轮痕，一边走着，一边望着颠镊着下坡的小车儿。

他们打那条小屋里去的狭径前经过，多谢天，这狭径并容不下那小车子，小得连容一个人都不易，车子到了小山箕后，转个弯不见了，康妮听见后面的一声低低的口哨。她转过头去；守猎人正下着坡向她走来，后面跟着他的狗儿。

“克利福男爵是不是到村舍那边去？”他一边问，一边望着她的眼睛。

“不，只到约翰井那边去。”

“呵，那好！我可以不露面了。但是我今晚再见你。—点钟左右。在我园门边候你。”

他重新向她的眼里直望。

“好。”她犹豫地说。

他们听见克利福响着喇叭声的唤康妮。她呼啸着长声回答着。守猎人的脸上绉了一绉，他用手在康妮的胸前，温柔地从下向上抚摸着。她惊骇地望了望他，忙向山坡上奔去，嘴里呼着“喔——喔”去回答克利福。那人在上面望着她，然后回转身去．微微地苦笑着，向他的小径里隐没。

她看见克利福正慢慢地上着坡，向半山上落叶松林中的泉源处走去，当她赶上他时，他已经到了。

“车子走得很不错。”他说。

康福望着落叶松林边丛生着的牛蒡草，灰色的大叶儿象反影似的。人们叫它做罗宾汉大黄。泉水的阂围．一切都显得十分清静，十分忧郁！而泉水却欢乐地、神妙地腾涌着！那儿还有几朵大戟花和蓝色的大喇叭花。在那池边、黄土在掀动着：一只鼹鼠！它露着头．两只嫩红的手在扒着，钻形在嘴儿在盲目地摇着，嫩红的小鼻尖高举着。

“它好象用它的鼻尖在看似的。”康妮说。

“比用它的眼睛看得更清楚呢！”他说，“你要喝点水吗？”

“你呢？”

她从树枝上拿下接着一个珐琅杯子，弯身去取了一杯水给他。他啜了几口。然后她再弯下身去，她自己也喝了一些。

“多么冷！”她喘着气说。

“很凉，好喝，是不是？你发了愿吗？”

“你呢？”

“是的，我发了个愿，但是我不愿说。”

她听见落叶松林里一只啄木鸟的声音，然后是一阵轻柔的、神秘的风声。她仰着头。一朵朵白云还蓝色的天上浮过。

“有云呢！”她说。

“那只是些白色的绵羊。”他答道。

一朵云影在那小空地上盖了过去。鼹鼠游到那温软的黄土上去了。

“讨厌的小东西。”克利福说：“我们该把它打死。”

“瞧！它象是个圣坛上的牧师呵。”她说。

她采了几朵小铃兰花给他。

“野袜草！”他说，“香得和前世纪的浪漫的贵妇们一般，可不是？毕竟那时的贵妇们并不见得怎么颠狂呢！”

她望着天上的白云。

“不知道会不会下雨呢，”她说。

“下雨！为什么！你想不下寸么？”

他们开始向原路回去。克利福小心地驶着颠簸的车子下坡。到了沉黑的山下，向右转走了几分钟。他们便向那向阳的，圆叶风铃草遍布着的长坡上去。

“现在，好好走罢！老爷车！”克利福一边说，一边开着车。

小车子颠动不稳地上着这险阻的长坡，它好象不太愿意似的挣扎着慢慢走着。好容易他们来到了一处丛生着风情的地方。车子好象给花丛绊着了，它挣扎着，跳了一跳，停住了。

“最好是把号角响一响，看守猎人会不会来。”康妮说。

“他可以推一推。不过我自己也可以推。那可以帮助一点儿。”

“我们让车子憩一憩。”克利福说，“请你在车轮后面放一块枕石吧。”

康妮找了一块石头。他们等待着。过了一会，克利福把机器开了。想把车子开行起来。它挣扎着，象个病人似地摇震着；发着怪声。

“让我推一推罢。”康妮说着跑到车子后边去。

“不要推！”他恼怒地说：“如果要人推的话，还用得着这该死的机器么！把石头放在车轮下。”

重新停住，重新又开行着：但是愈来愈糟了。

“你得让我推一推。”她说，否则响一响号角叫守猎的来。”

“等一等！”

她等候着。他再试了一回，但是越弄越坏。

“你既不要我推，那么把号角响起来罢。”她说。

“不要管！你静一会儿吧！”

她静了一会，他凶暴地摇着那小小的发动机。

“克利福，你这样子只能把机器全弄坏的。还白费你一番气力呢。”她规劝说。

“倘若我能够下来看看这该死的东西就好了！”他激动地说，把号角粗暴地响着。“也许梅乐士会知道毛病在那儿罢。”

他们在压倒的花丛中等待着，天上渐渐地被云凝结着了。静默中，一只野鸽在叫着咕噜咕咕！咕噜咕咕！克利福在号角上一按，把它吓住了嘴。

守猎人立刻在路旁出现了，行了个礼，问是什么事。

“你懂机器吗？”克利福尖锐地问道。

“我怕我不懂呢。车子有什么毛病么？”

“显然地！”克利福喝道。

那人留心地蹲伏在车轮边，探视着那小机器。

“这种机器上的事情，我恐怕全不知道呵！克利福男爵。”他安静地说：“假如汽油和油都够了……”

“细心看看有什么东西破损了没有？”克利福打断他的话说。

那人把他的枪靠在一株树放下，脱了外衣，丢在树边，褐色的狗儿坐着守伺着，然后他蹲伏下去，向画底下细视，手指轻触着油腻的小机器，那油污把他的礼拜日的白衬衣弄脏了，他心里有点恼怒。

“不象有什么东西破损了的样子。”他说，站了起来，把帽子向后一推，在额上擦着，思索着。

“你看了下面的支校没有？”克利福问道，“看看那儿有没有毛病！”

那人俯卧在地上，头向后倾，在车下蠕动着，摸索着。康妮想，一个男子俯卧在庞大的地上的时候，他是多么纤弱微小的可怜的东西。

“据我看来，似乎并没有什么毛病。”他说。

“我想你是没有办法的。”克利福说。

“的确没有办法！”他欠身起来蹲坐在脚跟上，象厂工们的坐法一样，“那儿决没有什么破损的东西。”

克利福把机器开着，然后上了齿轮，可是车子动也不动。

“把发动机大力点儿按一按罢。”守猎人授意说。

这种参与，使克利福恼怒起来，但是他终于把发动机开到大苍蝇似的嗡嗡响起来了。车子咆哮的嚣响起来了，似乎好些了。

“我想行了。”梅乐士说。

车子象病人似的向前跳了一跳又退了回来，然后蠕蠕地前进。

“要是我推一推，便可以好好地走了。”守猎人一边说，一边走到车后边去。

“不要动它！”克利福喝道。“它自己会走！”

“但是克利福！”康妮在旁边插嘴说，“你知道车子自己走不动了，为什么这样固执！”

克利福气得脸色苍白起来，他在发动机上猛推。车子迅疾地、摇摆地走了几步，然后在一丛特别浓密的圆叶风铃草丛中停着了。

“完了！”守猎人说，“马力不够。”

“它曾上过这个山坡来的。”克利福冷醒地说。

“这一次却不行了。”守猎人说。

克利福没有回答。他开始开动着他的发动机，有时紧，有时慢，仿佛他要开出个抑扬婉转的音乐来似的。这种奇异的声音在林中回响着。然后包，他陡然地上了齿轮，一下子把发动机放松了。

“你要把车子弄碎呢。”守猎人哺哺地说。

车子咆哮地跳了起来。向着路旁的壕沟滚去。

“克利福！”康妮喊着向他跑了过去。

但是守猎的已经把车杠握着了。克利福也用尽了力量，卒把车子转向路上来，现在，车子发着古怪的嚣声，拼命向上爬着。梅乐士在后面紧紧地推着；小车儿于是前进无阻，仿佛在戴罪立功了。

“你瞧，走得多好！”克利福得意地说，说了向后面望着，他看见了守猎的人的头。

“你在推着么？”

“不推不行的。”

“不要推！我已经告诉你不要动它！”

“不推不行呢；”

“让它试试看！”克利福怒喝道。

守猎的退开，回身去拿他的枪和外衣。车子仿佛立刻窒息了。它死了似的停着。克利福囚犯似地困在里面，恼怒得脸都自了。他用手推着拔动机，他的脚是没有作的，结果车子响着怪声。在狂暴地领袖躁中，他把小把柄转动着，结果怪声更大，但是车子一点儿也不肯动。他把发动机停住了，在愤怒中硬直地坐着。

康妮生在路旁的土堤上，望着那些可怜的，压坏的圆叶风铃草。“再没有象英国的春天这么可有宾东西了：“我能尽我统治者的本份。”“现在我们所要的是一条鞭，而不是一把剑。”“统治阶级！”

守猎人拿了他的枪和外衣走了上来，佛萝茜小心地跟在他的脚边。克利福叫他看看机器。康妮呢，她对于机器的技术是毫无所知，但是对于汽车在半路坏了时的滋味，却经验得多了，她忍耐地坐在土堤上，仿佛她不存在似的。守猎人重新俯卧在地上，统治阶级也服役阶级！

他站了起来忍耐地说：“现在再试一试罢。”

他的声音是安静的，差不多象是在对一个孩子说话。

克利福把发动机开了，梅乐士迅疾地退到车后边去，开始推着。车子走了，差不多一半是车力，其余是人力。

克利福回转了头，气极了。

“你走开好不好！”

守猎人立刻松了手，克利福继续说：“我怎么能知道它走得怎样！”

那人把枪放下了，穿着他的外衣。车子开始馒馒地往后退。

“克利福，刹车！”康妮喊道。

三个人立刻手忙脚乱起来。康妮和守猎人轻轻地相碰着，车子停住了，大家沉默了一会。

“无疑地我是非听人摆布不可了！”克利福说着，气得脸发黄了。

没有人回答他。梅乐士把枪挂在肩上，他的脸孔怪异而没有什么表情，有的只是那心不在焉的忍耐的神气罢了。狗儿佛萝茜差不多站在主人的两脚之间守望着，不安地动着，在这三个人的中间迷惑不知所措，狐疑地，厌恶地望着那车子。好一幅活画图摆在那些压倒的圆叶风铃草丛中。大家都默然。

“我想是要推一推了。”最后克利福假作镇静地说。

没有回答。梅乐士心不在焉的样子，仿佛没有听见似的。康妮焦虑地向他望了一望，克利福地回过头来探望。“梅乐士！你不介意把车子推回去罢！”他用一种冷淡的尊严的声调说，“我希望没有说什么使你见怪的话。”他用不悦的声调说了一句。

“一点也没有，克利福男爵！你要我推么？”

“请。”

那人走上前去，但是这一次却没有效了。动机绊着了。他们拉着，推着，守猎人重新把他的枪和外衣除了下来。现在克利福一言不发了。最后，守猎人把车子的后身从地上抢地起来。飞了一脚，想使车子轮脱去因绊。没有用，车子重新坠了下去。克利福依在车子一边，那人在举重之后喘着气。

“不要这样做！”康妮向他喊道。

“假如你把轮子这么一拉，那就行了。”他一边说，—边指示她怎样拉。

不，不要再去抬那车子。你要把自己扭伤的。”她说，现在气得一脸通红了。　　

但是，她向他的眼里直望着，点了点头，她不得不上前去扶着轮子，准备着。他把车子抢起了，她拉了一拉，车子颠缀起来。

“老天呀！”克利福吓得喊了起来。

但是现在好了，发动机不绊着了。守猎人在轮后放了一块石头，走到土坡边坐下。这一番力使他心跳起来，脸孔苍白，差不多晕迷了。康福望着他，气得几乎叫了起来。大家死寂了一会。她看见他的两手在大腿上颤战着。

“你受伤了没有？”她向他走上前去说。

“不，不”他几分含怒地转过头去。

一阵死似的沉寂。金黄色头发的克利福的头，兀然不动。甚至狗儿也站着不动。天上给云遮蔽着了。

最后，守猎人叹了一口气，用他的红手巾撂着鼻。

“那肺炎病使我气力衰弱了不少。”他说。

没有人回答。康妮心里打量着，把那车子和笨重的克利福指起来。那得要好一番气力；那得要太大太在的一番气力呵！假如他没有因此而丢了命！……

他站了起来，重新拿了他的外衣，把它挂在车子的门钩上。

“你准备好了么，克利福男爵？”

“是的，我正等着你！”

他尔身把石头拉开了，用全身重量推着车子，康妮从没有看过他这么苍白，这么无心的。山既陡峻而克利福又沉重。康妮走到守猎人的旁边说：“我也来推！”

她用一种生了气的妇人的泼辣的气力推着。车子走得快‘较了、克利福回转头来。

“何苦呢？”他说。

“何苦！你要这人的命么！假如刚才还没有坏的时候，你就让它走的话……”

她没说下去，她已经喘不过气来了，她推得轻一点儿了；因为那是十分费劲的工作。

“呵！轻点儿！”守猎人在她旁边微笑着说。

“你的确没有受伤么？”他凶狠地说。

他摇了摇头，她望着他的手，一只小小，短短的生支斩，给气候侵赤了的手。这手是爱抚过她的。她还没有端详过它呢，它的样子是这么安静，和他一样，一种奇民蝗内在的安静。康妮看了怪想把它握着，仿佛这只手是不能被她接近似的，她整人脾灵魂突然地为他颠动起来。他是这么沉默，这么不可接近！而他呢，他觉得他的四脚复活了。左手推着车，右手放在康妮的圆而白的手腕上，温柔地、爱抚地挽着她的手腕，一把力量的火焰在他的背上、腰下下降着，使他复了生气。突然地，她尔身吻了吻他的手。这时，正在他们面前的克利宝的头背，却冗然不动。

到了小山顶上，他们憩了一憩，劳力过后的康妮，觉得高兴地可以休息一会。她有时曾梦想过这两个男子友爱起来，一个是她的丈夫，一个是她的孩子的父亲。现在，她明白了这种梦想是荒唐无稽的了。这两个男子是水火般不相容的。不是能两立的。她体会了恨之奇妙，这是第一次，而这也是第一次，她分明地、决然地深恨克利福、恨不得要他从这大地上消灭。说也奇怪，她这样根他，并且她自己满承认恨他，使她觉得自由而充满生命起来了。她心里想：“现在我棍他了，我再也不能继续和他同居了。”

在那平地上，车子只要守猎的一个人推便行了。克利福向康妮谈起话来，表示着他是怪安闲的：他说起在锹浦的爱娃妨毋，说起麦尔肯爵士。他曾写信来问康妮究竟和他一起坐汽车去威尼斯呢，还是和希尔达乘火车一起去。

“我情愿坐火车去。”康妮说，“我不喜欢坐汽车走远路，尤其是有灰尘的时候，但是我还要看看希尔达的意思怎样。”

“她会要坐她自己的汽车和你一起去呢。”他说。

“也许！……•这儿我得帮一帮忙把车子推上去，你不知道这车子多么重呢。”

她走到车后守猎人的旁边，推着车子了微红色的小上径上去，她并不怕给人瞧见不好看了。

“为什么不去叫非尔德来推，让我在此地等着，他是够强壮来做这种事的。”克利福说。

“现在不过几步就到了。”她喘着气说。

但是当他们到了山顶时，她和梅乐士两个人都在揩着脸上的汗，这种共同的工作，奇异地使他们更亲近了。当他们到了屋门口时，克利福说：“劳驾得很，梅乐士，我得换一架发动机才行。你愿意到厨房里去用午饭么？我想差不多是时候了。”

“谢谢，克利福男爵。我要去我母亲那里吃饭。今天是星期天。”

“随你便罢。”

梅乐士把外衣穿上了，望着康妮，行了个礼便走了，康妮悻悻地回到楼上去。

午饭的时候，她忍不住她的感情了。

“克利福，你为什么这么可厌地不体谅人？”她说。

“体谅谁？”

“那守猎的！假如那便是你所谓的统治阶级的行为，我要替你可惜呢。”

“为什么？”

“他是一个病后体弱的人！老实说，健如我是服役阶级的人，定不睬你，让你尽管呼唤！”

“我很相信你会这样。”

假如车子里坐的是他，两腿又疯瘫了，并且举止又和你一样，你将对他怎样？”

“我亲爱的传道师，你这样把两个地位不同的人相提并论，是无聊的。”

“而你这样卑劣地，拓萎了似的缺乏普通的同情，才是最无聊的呢。贵者施思于人呀！唉。你和你的统治阶级！”

“可施给我什么呢？难道要为我的守猎人作一场莫须有的感情冲动？我不，这些我让我的传道师担任去。”

“哎呀，仿佛他就是象你一样的一个人似的！”

“总之他是我的守猎人，我每星期绘他两金镑，并且给他一所屋子住。”

“你给他！你想为什么你给他两金镑一星期，和一所屋子住。为什么？”

“为了他的服役。”

“咳！我告诉你还是留下你的两金镑一星期，和你的屋子罢！”

“大概他也想这样对我说，不过他就没有这个能耐儿！”

“你，你的统治！”她说，“你并不能统治，别梦想罢。你不过比他人多点钱，把这钱去使人替你服役，一星期两金镑，否则便叫他们饿死了罢。统治！统治什冬？你是从头到脚干涸的！你只知道拿金钱去压诈他人，和任何犹太人及任何浑水捉鱼的人一样！”

“一番好漂亮的话，查太莱男爵夫人！”

“你呢！你刚才在林中时，才真是漂亮极了！我真替你害羞！咳，我的父亲比你人道十倍，你们上流人呵！”

他按铃叫波太太。但是他已经两腮发蒙了。

康妮怒不可遏地回到楼上去，心里说着：“他！用钱去买人！好，他并没有买我，所以我没有和他共住的必要。一条死鱼要瓣上流人，他的灵魂是赛聪蹈的；他们多么欺骗人，用他们的仪度和他们的奸猾虚焦的上流人的神气。他们大概只有赛潞瑶一样多的感情。”

她计划着晚上的事情，决意不去想克利福了。她不愿去恨他。她不愿在任何感情上——甚至恨——和他太亲切地生活了。她不愿他丝毫地知道她，尤其不愿他知道她对于那个守猎人的感情。关于她对待用人的态度的这种争吵，不是自今日始。他觉得那是家常事了。她呢，她觉得她一提到他人的事的时候，他是呆木无感的，坚韧得和橡胶似的。

晚饭的时候，她泰地下楼去，带着平素那种端庄的神气，他的两腮还在发黄！他的肚气又发作了，那使他变得十分怪异……他正读着一本法文书。

“你读过普鲁斯的作品吗？他问。

“读过，但是他的作品使我烦厌。”

“他真是个非常的作家。”

“也许！但是他使我烦厌：那种诡谲的花言巧语！他并没有感情，他只是对于感情说得滔滔不休罢了。妄自尊大的人心，我是厌倦的。”

“那么你宁爱妄自尊大的兽性么？”

“也许！但是一个人也许可以找点什么不妄自尊大的东西吧。”

“总之，我喜欢普鲁斯特的锐敏，和他的高尚的无政府情态。”

“那便是使你毫无生命的东西！”

“我的传道士小夫人又在说道了。”

这样，他们又开始那争吵不尽的争吵了！但是她忍不住去和他争斗。他坐在那儿象一具骷髅似的，施着一种骷髅的、腐朽的、冷森森的意志去反抗她。她仿佛觉得那骷髅正把她抓着，把她压抑在它胸膛的骨架前。这骷髅也武装起来了。她有点害怕起来。

她等到一可以脱身的时候，便回到楼上房里去了，很早地便上床去了。但是到了九点半，她便起来往外边打听动静。一点声响也没有。她穿了一件室内便衣走下楼去，克利福和波太太正在打牌赌钱，大概他们是要玩到半夜的。

康妮回到了寝室里，把她所穿的室内便衣丢在凌乱的床上，穿上了一件薄薄的寝衣，外面加了一件日常穿的绒衣，穿了一双胶底的网球鞋，披了一件轻松外套，一切都准备好了。假如碰见什么人的话，她可以说是出去一会儿，早上回来的时候！她可以说是在露里散步回来，这是她在早餐以前常做的事，唯一的危险便是在夜里有人到她寝室里来。但这是罕有的事，一百回碰不到一回的。

白蒂斯还没有把门上锁。他是十点关门，早上七点开门的。她悄悄地闪了出来，没有谁看见她。天上悬着一弯半月，亮得尽够使大地光明，但却不能使人看见这穿着暗色处厌的她。她迅疾地穿过了花园，与其说是幽会使她兴奋，不如说是甘种反叛的暴怒使她心里火烧着，这种心境是不适于爱情的幽会的。但是事情是只好逆来顺受呵！
Chapter 14
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. 


当她将到园门边时，她听见开门的声音，那么，他已经在黝黑的林中，并且看见她了。 

“你来的早呢。”他在黑暗里说，“一切都好么？”

“一切都顺利。”

她出了园门后，他悄悄地把它关上了。他的手电筒在黑暗的地上照着，照着那些夜里还开着的灰白色的花朵。默默地，他们前后相隔着前进。

“你今天早上的确没有为了那车子受伤么？”她问道。

“没有，没有！”

“你什么时候得的那肺炎病，这病对你的影响怎样？”

“呵，没有怎样！只是心弱一点，肺硬一点罢了，但是肺炎过后总是这样的。”

“你不应该作激烈的操作吧？”

“不要太经常就是。”

她在愤怒的静默中缓缓地前进着。

“你恨克利福吗？”他最后说。

“恨她？不！和他一样的人，我碰过太多了，我再也不自录烦恼地去恨他们了。我早就知道他这一粝的人是我所不喜欢的，所以我却置之漠然了。”

“他是哪一类的人？”

“呵，你比我更知道，他是那种半年轻的有点带女性的没有睾丸的人。”

“没有什么？”

“没有睾丸，男子的睾丸。”

她沉思着。

“难道问题就是这个么？”她有点烦闷地说。

“当一个人蠢笨的时候，你说他没有脑筋，当他卑一下的时候，你说他没有心。当他怯懦的时候、你说他没有脾胃；当他是毫无那种男性的凶猛的火气的时候，你便说他没有塞丸，当他是一种驯服了的人的时候……”

她沉思着。

“克利福是不是驯服的人？她问道。

“是的，驯服了，并且可恶得很，那是和大多数的这类的人一样的，当你反抗他们的时候。”

“你以为你是不驯服的么？”

“也许不太。”

远远地她看见了一点黄色的灯光。她站住了。

“有灯火么？”她说。

“我常常是点一盏灯在家里的。”他说。

她继续和他并行着，但没有触着他。她自己心里奇怪着为什么要同他去。为什么？

他把门开了；两个人进去后，他再把门日住。他想，这好象是个监狱呢！红热的火边，开水壶正在响着；桌子上摆了几个茶杯。

她坐在火边一把木椅子上。从寒冷地外面进来，觉得这儿是温暖的。

“我的鞋都湿了，我脱了罢。”康媳说。

她把她穿的袜的两脚放在光亮的钢火炉围栏上。他到伙食间里找了些食物：面包、牛油和卤奄肉。她热起来了。她把外套脱了。

“你要喝可可呢，茶呢，还是咖啡？”他问道。

“我什么都不想，你自己请吃罢。”

“我不想吃什么，只是要给点东西狗儿吃。”

他在砖上稳重地、恬静地踱来踱去，预备了一碗狗吃的东西。那猎狗不安地举着头望着他。

“来，这儿是你的晚餐；不用装那副怪样子！”他说。

他把碗放在楼梯脚下的地席上后，在靠墙的一把椅子上坐了下去，脱了他的脚绊和鞋那猎狗儿并不吃，却跑到他的旁边坐下，不安地仰望着他。

他缓缓地解地他的脚绊。狗儿越靠近着他。

“您怎么啦、因为这儿有个外人所以这么不安么、呵，女性终是女性！去吃你的晚餐吧。”

他把手放在它的头上，狗儿侧着头依着他。他轻柔地拉着它软滑的长耳朵。

“那边，那边！去吃您的晚餐去！去！”

他把椅子移向楼梯那边，狗儿柔顺地走去吃它的东西。

“你喜欢狗吗。”康妮问道。

“不，不太喜欢。它们太驯服，太缠绵了。”

他脱了脚绊正在脱着笨重的鞋康妮背着火向房子里望着。多么简朴的一间小房子！但是墙上却接着一张令人生怖的结婚放大像，显然是他和他的女人，一个有着刚勇的脸孔的年轻女子。

“那是你么？：康妮问道。

他回过头来望着他头睥那张大像。

“是的！这像是刚要结婚前照的，那时我是二十一岁。”他很冷静地望着那像片。

“我喜欢这个像么。”康妮问道。

“喜欢？不！我从来不喜欢照这像。但是她却非照这像不，可。”

他回转头去把鞋脱着。

“你，既不喜欢，为什么挂在那儿、也许你太太会高夹的到淖借呢。”她说。

他突然苦笑起来望着她，说：

“凡家里值得带走的东西，她都带走了：但是这张像，她却留下了！”

“那么为什么你还留着它呢？为了痴情的缘故么？”

“不，我从来就没有瞧它，我差不多就不知道有它。那是从我们这儿来就挂在那里的。”

“你为什么不把它烧了。”

他又回过头来望着那张像：四面装的是丑陋的褐色油金的框子，上面是个没有胡子的、活泼的、样子很年轻的男子，领于有点过高，和一个身树有点臃肿，穿着一件暗色缎衣，卷发蓬松、刚勇的年轻妇人。

“真的，这主意图不错。”他说。

他把鞋脱了换上了一双托鞋。他站地椅子上，把墙上的像取了下来，带绿色的图纸上，留下了一块苍白色的大方形。

“用不着拂去上面的灰尘上。”他一边说，一边把像架靠着墙根放了。

他到杂物间里取了一把铁锤和钳子回来。坐在刚才坐的那个地位，他开始把那大像架背后的纸撕了，小钉子拔了。他沉静地入神地工作着，这神情是他所特有的。

一会儿，他把钉子都拔了。他把后面的木板取了下来，再把那坚实的硬纸的像怎取了出来，他觉得有趣的望着那张像怎说

“我那时的样子恰是这样：象一个年轻的教士；面她那时的样子也恰是这样：象一只河东狮子，一只奸头奸胸的河东狮子！”

“让我瞧瞧。”康妮说。

真的，他胡子剃得光光的，样子顶整洁，这是二二盯前那些整洁的青年之一。甚至在像上，他的眼眼也是活泼而无畏的。那女人呢，虽然她的颐骨是沉重的。但并不怎样象河东狮子。她有一种令人看了不免感动的什么东西。

“一个人千万不要留这种东西。”康妮说。

“的确；千万不要留；尤其千万不要去照3”

他把像怎在膝上撕碎了；撕成了小片时，他丢进火里去。“只是把火壅塞了。”他说。

他小心地把玻璃和木板拿到楼上去。

他把像架用铁锤打碎了，上面的漆灰飞扬着。然后他把碎片带到杂物间里去。

“这个我明天再烧。”他说：“上面的膏泥灰漆太多了。”

把一切收拾好了后，他坐了下来。

“你爱不爱你的女人。”她问他。

“爱。”他说：“你爱不爱克利福男爵。”

但是她非问个究竟不休。

“但是你想她罢。”她坚持地问。

“想她。”她苦笑着。

“也许你现面还想她罢。”她说

“我！”她睁着眼睛，“呵，不，我一想到她就难受。”他安静地说。

“为什么。”

他只是摇着头。

“那么为什么你不离婚？她总有一天是要回来的。”康妮说。

他尖锐地望着她。

“决没有这事，她恨我比我恨她更甚呢。”

“你看吧，她将来要回来的。”

“决不会，那是没有问题的了！我再也见不到她了。”

“你将要见她的。你们的分居是没有法律根据的，是不是？”

“没有。”

“呵，那么她是要回来的。那时你便不得不收容她。”

他呆呆地望着康妮。然后奇怪的摇着头。

“你的话也许是对的。我回到这个地方来真是笨！但是我那时正在飘零无依，而不得不找个安顿的地方。人再也没有比落魄者更可怜的境遇了。不过你的话是对的。我得把婚离了。各个自由。公务员、法庭、裁判官……我是恨之入骨的。但是我不得不忍受。我要离婚。”

她看见他把牙关啼紧了，她心里暗地里在狂喜着。

“我现在想喝杯茶了。”她说。

他站起来去弄茶。但是他脸上的神态还是没有变。

当他们在桌边就坐后，她问道：

“你为什么和她结婚、她比你低下，波太大对我讲过她的事情，她永不能明白为什么你和她结婚。”

他疑视着她。

“让我告诉你罢。”他说，“我第一个情妇，是当我十六岁的时候开始追逐她的。她是一个奥拉东地方的校长的女儿，长得满好看，还可以说是很美丽，那时人家认为我是个有为的青年。我是雪非尔得公学出身，我懂有法文和德文，我自己也非常自大，她是个浪漫派儿，讨厌一切庸俗的东西。她怂恿我读书吟诗：从某一方面来讲，她使我成了个大丈夫。为了她，我热心地读书，思索。那时我在巴脱来事务所里做事，又苍白又瘦弱，所有读过的东西都使我胡思乱想起来。我和她一切都谈。无所不谈，我们从波斯的巴色波里谈到非洲的唐布都。百里以内再也找不出我们这样有文学修养的一对了。我对她说得出神入化，的确也出神人化。我简直是飘飘欲仙了。并且她崇拜我。可是，草中有伏蛇；那便是性爱的问题。她并没有性感；至少是那应该有的地方她却没有。我一天一天地消一天一天地痴狂。我对她说，我们非成情人不行了。我同平常一样，用言语去把她说服了。于是她委身与我了。我觉得很兴奋，可是她总是没有兴味。她压根儿就不想那个。她只是崇拜我，她只爱听我说话，爱我抱吻她。其余，她就压根儿不想。世上有不少同她一样的女子。我呢，我所想的恰恰是其余的，于是我们闹翻了，我残忍地丢了她。当时，我和另一个少女发生关系，她是个女教员，不久以前日有过一场不体面的事；拼上了一个有妇之夫，差不多把她弄得发狂，她是个温柔的、皮肤嫩自的妇人，年纪比我大点，还会拉四弦琴．她真是个妖精。关于恋爱的东西，她样样喜欢，就是性爱她不喜欢．又妖腐，又缠绵，不知用多少药样来迷你只是是如果迫她进一步到性爱上去，她便要咬牙切齿地馏恨起来，我强迫她屈服．她简直把我恨死了。于是我又失望了。我深恶这种种。我需要的是一个克要我，而又需要‘那个’的女人。

“跟着来自黛•古蒂斯，当我还是孩童的时候，古蒂斯一家就任在我们田邻，所以我很认识他们。他们都是庸欲的人。白黛到波明汉去就个什么事情一据她自己说，是在一个人家里当女伴，但是大家却说她是在一家旅馆里当女仆一类的事情，这且不提，事情是正当我再也受不了刚才说的那个女人的时候，白黛回家来了，风致釉然，穿着人时，带着一种花校招展的光彩，这种肉感的光彩，我们有时是可以从一个女人或一架电车看得见的。我呢，我正在一称失望的、敢作敢为的情境中。我辞了巴脱来的差，因为我觉得干那种事情太不值了．我回到了达娃斯哈来当铁匠头：主要的工作是替巴安铁蹄那是我父亲的职业，我一向是和他在一起的。我喜欢这职业，我喜欢马，我觉得联业正合我的意，于是我不说他们所谓的‘斯文’话了，那便是说，不说那正确的英语，面重新说起土话来了．我不田地在家里续书，但是我打着铁、安着马蹄。我有—头小马和一部自己的汽车，我父亲死后给成留下了三百镑。于是，我和白黛发生了关系，而且我喜欢她的庸俗：我需要她庸俗；我要我自己也庸俗起来。好，我娶她了。起初，她还不坏。其他的、纯洁的、妇人们差不多把我的睾丸都剥夺了，但是白黛在剥一点上却还好，她需要我，而不待人千呼万唤。我满心得意。那正是我所需要的：一个解怜爱的女人。于是我拼命地把她怜爱。我想她有点看不起我，因为我高兴得不可名状，有时还服侍她在床上吃早餐呢！她一切都不管，当我工作回来时，没有一顿象样的晚餐是常有的事，要是我说个不是，她便闹将起来。以毒攻毒，我也不让，她把个茶杯向我头上飞过来。我扼着她了的颈项，把她窒得魂出七窍。如此这般地继续下去。她很傲慢地对待我。事情弄得我要她进，她永不让我，永不，她者是拒绝我，粗野得不成话。她简直使我厌恶极了，使我再也不要她了。那时她却狐狸似地要我了，我只好屈服。我老是迁就。但是当我们干起来时，她却永不和我一块享受，永不！她只是等待，要是我忍过半点钟，她忍得更久。当我完毕了时，那么她便开始干她的，我得在她里面一直等到她完事，嘴里呼号着，全身摆荡着，她下面的那个地方钳紧着，钳紧着，然后失了魉心的舒畅。于是她说：‘好极了！’渐渐地，我觉得讨厌了而她呢，却愈来愈坏，她渐渐地更不容易得到完毕了。她在那下面撕扯着我，仿佛她那儿有个尖喙似地撕扯着我，天哟！人‘家以为女人那下面是柔软得象一颗无花果，但是我告诉你，那些老贱妇的两腿间有个尖喙，直把你撕扯得忍无可忍为止。我！我！我！她们只想着她们自己，撕扯着、呼号着。她们还说男子是自私的；但是男于的自私，较之这种一旦成了习惯后的妇人的盲目的撕扯，恐有天壤之别罢。好象个老娼妓！她却是无可奈何的。我对她说起过，我告诉她我多么厌恶那样。而她却也情意试一试改过来。她评着静静地躺着，一切工作都让我。她试着；但是那是没有用的。我的工作，她么点儿感觉都没有。她得自己动作，磨她自己的咖啡，这一来她又得开始那一套了。她非要她自己放肆不可，扯着，撕着，扯着，撕着，仿佛她身上只有她那尖喙上有感觉，只有那磨擦着撕扯着的尖喙的顶上有感觉。人说，老淫妇便是那样，这是她的一种卑下的固执性。一种嗜酒的妇人的疯狂的固执性。好，到了后来我忍不住了。我们分床睡了，这是她自己开始的，当她到了脾气发作的时候，而想不要我的时候，她说我眶待她，于是她要自己一个人一间卧室。但是后来，我不许她进我房子里来的日子到了，我再也不要她了。

“我恨这一切。她呢，她也恨我，我的上帝，那孩子出世以前她多么恨我！我常想这孩子是她在恨中得的胎。虽然，孩子生后，我便不理她了，以后大战来了。我入了伍，我直至探明她和史行业门的一个家伙拼上了才回来的。”

他停住了。脸孔是苍白的。

“史德门的那个人是怎样的一上人？”康妮问道。

“一个有点孩子样的大汉字，满口秽言的。她凌眶他，并且他们俩口儿都喝酒。”

“唉！假如她回来的话！”

“呵，我的上帝！那我便得走，我介得重新隐没！”

两人静默了一会，火上的像片已经烧成灰烬了。

“这样看来。”康妮说：“你真得到了需要你的妇人后，不久你便觉得腻了。”

“是的，大概是的！虽然是这样，我却宁愿白黛面不愿那些‘水不永不’的女子；那种我年青时候的‘纯洁’的爱人，那种有毒气的百合花，和基耸。”

“其他？”

“其他？没有什么其他的，不过，经验告诉我，大部分的妇人都是这样；她们需要一个男子，但是不要性爱。她们忍受着，仿佛那是恶命中不得不忍受的事。再旧式一点的，她们便象木头似的，躺在那儿任你冲撞事后她们也不关心。她们喜欢你，但那件事的本身，对她们是没有什么的。只是有点无味罢了。大多数的男子倒喜欢这样，我却讨厌，但是有一种奸诈的妇人，她们虽然也是一样，却假装不一样，她们表面上似乎狂热，似乎消魂不禁，但实际上只是一套把戏，只是装模作样罢了……其次是那些什么都爱的，什么样的感觉。什么样的抚爱，什么样的滋味，无所不爱，就是不爱自然的那一种。她们常常使你在唯一享受的地方以处的地方去享受。……还有是一种坚硬的女子。想使她们享受真是上天般难，她们是要自力享受的，正如我的女人一样，她们要站在主动者的地位。……还有是里面简直了的，全死了的，她们自己也知道，科学还有是那种没有到期就使你草率了事，然后她们继续着靠紧你的大腿，簸动着她们的腰，直至她们自己完毕为止的。她们大多数都是搞同性恋式的，世上多少妇人，有意识的，或无意识地，都是属于搞同性恋式的，真令人惊异，我觉得她们差不多全部是这一类。”

“你觉得厌恶么？”康妮问道。

“我觉得她们都该杀！当我碰到一个真正的搞同性恋式的妇人时，我心里咆哮着，想把她杀死。”

“你怎么对付呢？”

“走开，愈快愈好。”

“但是你以为搞同性恋式的妇人，比有同性爱癖的男子更要不得么？”

“是的，我以为更要不得。因为她们给我的苦头更大。在理论上，我倒不说，当我遇到一个搞同性恋式的妇人时，不论她自己知道不知道，我便要发狂，不，不，我再也不想和任何妇人有什么来往了，我要自己孤守着，我要守着我的孤独和我的高洁。”

他脸色苍白地理着眉头。

“你遇着我了，你觉得懊悔么？”她问道。

“我懊悔而又高兴。”

“现在呢？”

“现在，我忧惧外边的不可避免的种种纠纷，种种诽谤，种种丑恶，这种种迟早是要来到的，当我气馁的时候，我是沮丧的，但是当我气盛的时候，我又觉得快乐了。甚至觉得胜利了。我没有遇到你以前，正是我日见苦恼的时候，我想人世间再也没有真天上的性爱了。再也没有真正地、自然地和一个男子在肉感上共鸣的妇人了。有的只是黑种女子……不过我们是白人，黑人却有点象一团泥。”

“现在呢，你高兴我么？”她问道。

“是的！当我能忘掉其作瓣时候，当我不能忘掉其作田时候，我便想躲在桌子下面去死。”

“为什么在桌子下面呢？”

“为什么？”他笑了起来，“去捉迷藏呢，孩子！”

“你对于女子的经验，似乎真的太坏了。”她说。

“那是因为我不能自欺的缘故，在这一点上，多数的男子却能做到。他们采择一种态度，接受欺骗。我呢，我决不能自欺，我知道我所求于一个女子的是什么，如果没有得到，我决不能说我得到了。”

“但是你现在得到了么？”

“象是得到了。”

“那么你为什么这样苍白而抑郁？”

“往事太多了，或者也因为我怕自己。”

她静默的坐着，夜渐渐深了。

“你觉得男女之事是重要的么？”她问道。

“在我。那是重要的，在我，如果我能够和一个女子发生适当的关系，那是我生命中最重要的事。”

“假如你不能呢？

“那么我便只好没有。”

她沉思了一下，然后问道：

“你相信你一向对待女子没有过错误的地方么？”

“天哟，不！我的女人弄到那步田地，大半是我的错，是我使她变坏的，我是个很狐疑的人，你将来便会晓得的，要我对谁深信起来，那是件难事，晤，也许我自己也是个令人失望的人，我狐疑着。真正的温情却是不客人误认的。”

她望着他。

“当你血气沸腾的时候，你不狐疑你的肉体吧。”她说：“那时你不狐疑吧，是不是？”

“唉，是的！我的一切烦恼就是那样得来的，这也便是我的心所以如此狐疑的缘故。”

“让你的心狐疑去吧，这有什么要紧！”

狗儿不安地在席了叹了气，炉火给灰炉掩着，弱了起来。

“我们是一对被打败了的战士。”康妮说。

“你也被打败了么？”他笑着说：“现在我们又上前线再战去了！”

“是的！我真有时怕。”

“是么！”

他站起来，把康妮的鞋拿去烘干，把他自己的擦了一擦，也放到火边去，明天早上他将加点油去把它们擦亮了，他搅着火，把纸灰搅了下去，“甚至烧化了都肮脏。”他说，接着他拿了一些柴枝放在火架上，预备早上烧的，然后他带了狗儿出去了一会。

当他回来时，康妮说：

“我也要出去一会儿。”

她独自的到黑暗的外边去，那是个繁星之夜，在夜气里，她闻着花香，她觉得她温的鞍更加湿了，但是她觉得想走开，一直的走开，远离着他，远离着一切的人。

外面是冷的。她战栗着回到屋里去，他正坐在半熄了的炉火面前。

“呵，冷呀！”她战栗着。他添了些柴枝，再去取了些柴枝，直至一炉子满是熊熊的火焰，发着劈拍声，跳跃着飞腾着的火焰，使他们俩都快活起来，温暖着他们的脸和他们的灵魂。

看见他静默地、疏远地坐着，她握着了他的手：“不要愁，一个人只好尽力做去。”

“是的！”他叹了口气，苦笑着。

她挨近着他，依在他的两臂里。

“忘掉它吧！”她细声说：“忘掉它罢！”

在火的奔流的热力中，他抱紧着她。火焰本身就象一种忘记。还有她的柔媚的、温热的、成熟的重量！慢慢地，他的血流转变了。开始有力量，有生气，而且猛勇了。

“也许那些女人在心底里是想亲近你，并且好好地爱你的，不过她们也许不能。也许那不全是她们的过失罢。”她说。

“我知道，我自己曾经是一条被蹂躏的断了脊骨的蛇，你以为我不知道么？”

她突然紧紧地依着他。她本来不愿再提起这一切了；但是一种恶作剧的念头在推着她。

“但是你现在不是那样了。”她说：“你再也不是一种被蹂躏的断了脊骨的蛇了。”

“我不知道现在我怎样，前头还有黑暗的日子里。”

“不！”她紧依着他抗议说，“为什么，为什么？”

“我们的一切，我们每个人，都将有黑暗的日子来到。”他用—种预言家的忧郁口气重新说道。

“不！不要说这种话！”

他静默着，但是她可以觉着他的里面有一个失望的黑洞在。一切欲，望，一切爱，都在那儿死了：人们的心灵便迷失在他们里面的这种失望的黑窖中。

“你这么冷酷地说着性爱。”她说，“你那种说法，仿佛你只求你个人的快乐，和你个人的满足似的。”

她兴奋地起来反抗他了。

“不！”他说：“我想从一个女人那里得到我的快乐和满足，介一我却从未得到，因为我决不能得到我的快乐和满足，除非她同时从我这儿得到她的。那是从来没有实现过的事，那是要两两相承的。”

“但是你就从来没有信任过你所有的女人，实际上你是连我也不信任的。”她说。

“我不懂信任女人是什么意思。”

“你瞧！坏处就在这儿。”

她依旧在他的膝上蜷伏着。但是他的心是飘忽的，不在的，他不是理会她的时候，她所说的话，只是把她驱得更远。

“毕竟你信任什么？”她坚持着说。

“我不知道。”

“什么也不信。和我所认识的男子一样。”她说。

他们沉默了。然后他兴奋起来说：

“是的，我相信点什么东西的。我相信要有温热的心。我相信假如男子们在性交的时候有温热的心，女子们用温热的心去接受。一切全好了。那种种心冷意谈的性交，都是愚味的死把戏。”

“但是你不心冷意淡地和我性交罢？”她说。

“我现在一点儿都不想和你性交，此刻我的心正冷得象冷番薯似的。”

“呀；”她吻着他，笑地谈地说：“让我们这冷番薯来焖一焖罢。”

他笑了起来，拯直着身子说：

“那是真的，一切都要有点温热的心儿。可是女人们却不喜欢。甚至你也不真正喜欢。你喜欢舒服的、剧烈的、尖锐的、心冷意谈的那种性交，然后你却说那是甜得密似的。你哪儿有什么对我的柔情？你对我狐疑得象一只猫对一只狗似的。我告诉你：即使想有温热的心和柔情，也得有两造才行。你爱性交，那是不待言的了。但是你却想把这玩意儿加上个什么都丽神妙的名堂，去诌媚你的自尊心。在你看来，你的自尊心，是比无论那个男于，是比男女关系更重要的。”

“但这恰恰是我所要责备你的地方。你的自尊心是大于一切的。”

“那么，好罢！不要再谈了！”他说着。想站起来，“让我们各行其素罢。我宁愿死，而不愿再干那心冷意淡的性交了。”

她离开了他，他站了起来。

“你以为我又愿意么？”她说。

“我希望你也不愿。”他答道，“无论怎样，你到楼上去睡罢．我就在这楼下睡好了。”

她望着他。他是苍白的，两眉深锁着，他好象北极一般的远离着她。男子们都是一样的。

“没有到早晨我不能回去。”她说。

“不！到楼上睡去，现在是一点差一刻了。”

“我不支，我一定不去。”她说。

他走过去拿起他的鞋“好，我要出去！”他说。

他开始在穿鞋。她呆呆地望着他。

“等一等！”她支吾着说：“等一等！我们究竟怎么了？”

他弯身系着他的鞋带，没有回答。时间过着，康妮觉得一阵黑，象要晕眩了，她的意识全失了，她呆呆地站在那儿，圆睁着眼睛望着他，一切知觉都失了。

这种静寂使他抬起头来，看见他圆睁的眼睛，迷失着的样子，好象一阵狂风打着她，他把她抱在怀里，紧紧地拥着，他觉得全身都疼痛起来，他抱着她；她让他抱着。

他的手盲目地探摸着她，直至探摸到了她衣裳下面那又又暖的地方。

“我的小人儿！”他用土话喃喃地说：“我的小人我和！我们不斗气罢！让我们永不要斗气罢！我爱您，我爱抚触您。别和我争执！不！不！不！让我们和好在一块儿罢。”

她抬头望着他。

“不要烦闷。”她镇地说：“烦闷是没有用的。你真是想和我在一块儿么？”

她宽大而镇静的眼睛望着他的脸。他停住手，突然地静默起来，脸回避着。但是他的身体并没有避开。

然后他回过头来，向她眼里望着，脸上带着他那古怪的讽否则的苦笑说：“是的！让我们和好在一块儿，誓不相分！”

“是真的么？”她说，两眼充满着眼泪。

“是的，真的！心和腹和阳具都和您在一块儿。”

他一边望着她，一边微笑着，眼里有一种讽刺的晶光，还带了一种苦味。

她忍声地哭泣着，他在炉火前的地毡上，和她躺了下去，并且进了她的里面，这样他们才得到了几分安静。然后他们迅速上楼就寝，因为夜气渐渐地寒冷起来了。而且他们都互，相弄得疲乏极了。她小鸟儿似地依在他的怀里，他们立刻入睡，深深地人了同五的睡乡里，这样，他们安睡着，直至太阳出林梢，直至白日开始的时候。

然后他醒了，望着日光，听着垂帘的窗外，山茑鸦和画眉在村中噪叫，这定将是个眼朗的早晨。约莫五点半了，这是他平日起床的时候，他夜来睡得多熟；这是多么新鲜的日子！女人还在温甜地、蜷伏地睡着。他的手抚着她，她睁开了她那又蓝又惊异的眼睛，朦胧地向她微笑着。

“他醒了么？”她说。

他向她的眼里望着，他微笑着吻着她，突然地，她清醒了坐了起来。

“想不到我竟在这儿呢！”她说。

她向那粉白的小房子四下望着，天花板是倾斜的，屋角的窗户，白帘垂着；房子里空空地，只有一个黄色的衣柜、一把椅子和那张好必他睡着的小白床。

“想不到我们竟在这儿呢！”她一边说，一边俯望着他。他躺在那儿，痴望着她，在她的薄薄的睡衣下，爱抚着她的乳房。当他这样温热地横陈着的时候，他显得年轻而美貌。他的眼睛竟是这么温暖！她呢，她是鲜艳面听轻得象一枝花一样。

“我要你把这个脱了！”他一边说，一边掀起了她的薄薄的细麻的睡衣。从她头上脱了下来，她坐在那儿，裸露着两肩。和两只有点垂长而带金色的乳房，他喜欢把她的乳房象吊钟似的轻轻摇着。

“你也得把你的衣裤脱了。”她说。

“呵！不！”

“要！要！”她命令道。

他把棉布的旧短褂脱了，把长裤推了下去，除了手里和手腕、脸和颈以外，他是一乳一般的白，他的优美的肤肉是幼嫩而有筋节的。骤然地，康妮重新觉得他的刺人的美，正如她那天午后看见他洗身的时候一样。

。金阳晒在白色的垂帘上，她觉得太阳正想进来。

“呵！让我们把窗帘打开罢！鸟儿唱着真高兴！我们让太阳进来罢！”她说。

他走下床去，背向着康妮，赤棵裸地，又白又瘦，身子有时前倾，定到窗边，他把窗帘拉开了，向外边望了一会，他的背是白嫩的色的，优美的，却又是有力的。

在这纤细的美妙的肉体里，有着一种内在的，而非外在的力量。

“你真美哟！”她说，“这么纯洁而美妙！来罢！“她伸着两臂。

他不好意思向她回转身去。因为他的赤裸肉体正在兴奋着。

他在地上拾起了他的衬衣，遮掩着前身向她走了过去。

“不！”她说。她依旧伸着纤细而美丽的两臂挺着两只下坠的乳房。“让我看看你！”

他让衬衣坠了下去，木立着向她着望。阳光从矮窗射了进来，照着他的大腿，和纤小的小腹，和昂挺的‘法乐士’，在一小朵金赤色的发亮的毛丛中，黑幽比寺，温热热地举了起来，她觉得惊愕而羞怕。

“多么奇怪！她缓缓地说，“它在那儿的样子多么奇怪！这样大！这样黝黑而镇定！可不是么？”

男子俯望着他的纤细而白嫩的前身，他笑了。在他纤细的两乳间；毛色是暗的，差不多黑的，但是在小腹下那‘法乐士’举起的地方，浓浓地一小丛的毛色是金赤的，发亮的。

“这么骄傲！”她不安地，喃喃地说：“并且这么威风现在我明白为什么男子们都这么专横了！可是它的确是可有宾，好象它有它自己的生命似的！有点让人生怕，可是的确可爱！并且它是向我来呢！……”她咬着她的下唇，又惊怕又兴奋。

男子沉默地望着那紧张的“法乐士”。一“是的。”他最后细声地用着土话说：“是的，我的儿哟！您在那儿还不错呢。您可以昂首面无畏！您在那儿优游自得，毫不求人！您是不是我的主人，约翰•多马士？您是我的主人么？喂，约翰•多马士，您比我更生动，您比我寡言：您想她么？您想我的珍奴夫人么？您又使我沉沦了，好家伙！是的，您笑迷迷地高举起来。那么去问她罢！去问珍奴夫人罢！您说：‘呵，门哟，把你的门据开了罢，光荣的君主要进来了！’呵，您不害羞的东西，您所要的便是一个‘孔’。告诉珍奴夫人说您要一个‘孔’。约翰•多马士，和珍奴夫人的‘孔’！……”

“呵，不要椰榆它！”康妮一边说，一边跪在床上向他爬了过平均来，她的两管环抱着他的自晰的细腰。把他拉了近去，这样她的下坠而摇荡着的乳房，触着了那骚动挺直的“法乐士”的头，并且杂着了那滴润液，她紧紧地搂着那男子。

“躺下！”他说：“躺下去！让我来！”

他现在急起来了。

当他们完毕了后，当他们十分静息下来的时候，妇人重新要去发现男子，去瞧瞧那，法乐士”的神秘。

“现在它是继小而柔软了，象一个生命的小蓓蕾似的！”她一边说，一边把那柔软的小朋茎握在手里。“可不是可爱么！这么自由不愿，这么奇异并且这么天真！宽进我进得这么深！你知道，你决不要去得罪它。它也是我的！它不单是你的！它是我的！这么可爱，这么天真！”她温柔地把那阴茎握在手里。

他笑着。

“祝福那结台我们的心于同一之爱的连结。”他说。

“当然啦！”她说。“甚至当它柔软而继小的时候，我都觉得我的心全部在联系着它，并且你这儿的多么好看！多么，多么异样！

“那是约翰•多马士的毛，不是我的毛！”他说。

“约翰•多士马！约翰•多马士！”她迅疾地吻着那预柔软的，但是开始颤动起来的阴茎。

“是的！”男子一边说，一边好象痛苦地在伸展着他的身子，“它的根蒂是生在我的灵魂里的，那好家伙！有时我不知把它怎么样好。它是个固执的东西，不容易得它的欢心的，可是我却不愿失掉它。”

“无怪乎男子们总是惧怕它了！”她说：“它是够可怕的。”

男子觉得全身起着一种战栗，同时，意识之波涛又换了方向，朝向下面去了。他觉得软弱无力，同时他的阴茎，慢慢地温柔地、一波一波地膨胀，上升，举起，坚硬起来，奇异地在那儿高耸着，挺直而傲慢。妇人一边瞻望着，一边也觉得战栗起来。

“好！拿去罢！它是您的。”男子说。

她战栗着，她的心溶解了。当他进去时，不可名状的快乐之波涛，激烈地、温柔地荡漾着她，一种奇异的、惊心动魄的感觉开始开展着，开展着，直到最后、极度的、盲目的汜流中，她被淹没而去了。

他听见了远远的史德门在发着七点钟的号笛声，那是礼拜一的早晨，他有点害怕起来，他把脸孔埋在他的两只乳房间。让她软软的两只乳房掩着他的耳朵，好使他听不见。

她却没有听见，她沉静地躺着，她的灵魂象洗过般了的晶洁。

“您得起来了，不是么？他喃喃地说。

“几点钟了？”她无情打彩的声音问道。

“七点钟的号笛响过了。”

“是的，我想我得起来了。”

她和平常一样，对于这种迫人的外界，不禁激怒起来。

他坐了起来，失神地向窗外望着。

“你真的爱我，是不是？”她安静地问道。

他望着她。有点烦燥地说：

您知道我爱您。还要问什么呢？

“我要你留着我，不要让我走了。”她说。

他的眼睛笼罩着一种温热而柔媚的暗影，毫不能思索‘。

“什么时候？现在？”

“现在把我留在你的心里，我愿不久便来和你永久同居。”

他赤裸裸地坐在床上，低着头，不能思索什么。

“你不愿意那样么？”她问道。

“愿意的！”他说，然后他那幽暗的眼睛，带着另一种羞不多象睡寐似的意识的火焰，望着她。

现在什么都不要问我。”他说，“让我就这样吧，我喜欢您，我爱您，当您躺在那儿的时候，女子是个可有宾东西。如果人能深深地进她，如果她有个好‘孔’。我爱您，您的大腿，您的姿态，您的女性，我爱您的女性。我整个心整个窜丸都爱您。可是现在什么都不要问我。不要迫我说什么，以后您什么都可以问。现在让我就这样吧，让我就这样吧！”

温柔地，他把手放在她的爱神的山上，放在那温软的褐色的毛丛上，他静静地、赤裸地坐在床上，他的人掸似的静定的脸孔，差不多象个佛像，在另一种意识的不可见的火焰中，呆本地坐着，他的手放在她的身上，等待着转机。

过了一会，他取了衬衣穿上，默默地、迅疾地穿好了外面的衣服，向赤裸裸地横陈在床上，釉烂得象个第戎的光荣”的她望了一眼，走了，她听见他走下楼去把门打开了。

她躺在那儿冥想着，冥想着。唉！真是不容易走开！从他的怀里走开！他在楼梯下面喊道：“七点半了！”她叹息着走下床来。呵！空洞洞的小房子！除了小衣杠和小床外。空无他物。可是楼板是擦得光亮的。近看穿边的角落里，有个小书架，下面有些书是从巡回图书馆借来的。好了一看，有的关于苏俄的，有的是游记，一本是记原于与电子的，一本是研究地层及地震原因的，此外是几部小说，还有三本关于印度的书，这样看来，他是个嗜好读书的人呢！

太阳从穿上进来，晒着她的赤裸裸的四肢。他看见狗儿佛萝西在外面徘徊着，绿茸茸的蕨草下面，是些深绿色的水银菜。那是个清朗的早晨，鸟儿翩翩着，胜利地歌唱着。呵，要是她可以留在这儿！要是没有那另外的烟雾与铁的可怖的世界！要是他能替她创造个世界！

她向那壁立而狭小的楼梯下去。假如这所房于是在一个隔绝的世界中的话，有这所小房子她一定要觉得满足了。

他已经梳洗过了，炉火正在燃着。

“你想吃点什么东西么？”他说。

“不！借个梳子给我好了。”

她跟他到厨房后间里去，在后门边的一块小镜子面到把头发梳好了。现在她准备要走了。

她站在有的小花园里，望着那些带的花，一圃灰灰的石竹花都已经含蕾了。

“我直愿此外的世界全都消灭了。”她说；“并且和你同住在这儿。”

“那世界是不会消灭的。”他说。

他们穿过那可有宾带露的树林，差不多没有说话，可是他们是在一个他们所独有的世界中相储着。

回到勒格贝去，于她是苦痛的事呵。

“我但愿不久便来和你完全同居。”她在离开他的时候说。

他只是微笑着没有回答。她安然地回到家里，回到她楼上的寝室里去，并没有人看见她。
Chapter 15
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, na?ve 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. 


早餐的时候，一封希尔达的信放在托盘上。 

“爸爸这个礼拜要到伦敦去，我将于六月十七日礼拜四那天到你那里。你得准备好，我们随即出发，我不想在勒格贝多留，那是个可怕的地方。我大概要在勒霍的高尔门家里过夜；所以我礼拜四便可到你那边午餐。我们在午后茶点的时候便启程，晚上或在格兰森宿一宵，和克利福过一个晚上是没有好处的。因为假如他不喜欢你走，那于他是没有趣的事。”

好！她又在棋盘上给人摆布着了。

克利福是大大不喜欢她走的，原因只是因为她走了，他便要觉得不“安全”。她在的时候，不知怎么的，他便觉得安全，便觉得可以自由自由地做他的事，他常到煤炕里去，勾心斗角地去求解决那些差不多不能解决的问题，如怎样用最经济的方法去采煤，然后出卖。他知道他应该找个方法去用自己的煤，或者把煤炼成其他的东西，这样他才不必拿出去卖，更不必为没有销路发愁，但是，假如他把煤变成了电力，他自己又用得着么，或卖得了么？至于把煤化成油，此刻还是件太花钱而且不容易的事，要维持工业的生命，便需要创造新的工业，那象是一种狂病。是的，那是一种狂病，非得一个狂人是成功不了的。

晤，他不是有点儿狂么？康妮这么想。她觉得他对于故务的热切和锐敏也是疯狂的表现；甚至他的感奋本身也是疯狂的感奋。

他对她说着他的伟大的计划，她只惊讶地听着，让他独自说去。一堆废话说完了后，他翻转头去听无线电放音机，失神似的一句话不说。无疑地，他的计划象梦一般的隐退了。

现在，每天晚上，他和波太太无实在丘八们所玩的“潘东”脾，并且是赌六便士的。在这方面他也是一样，他一边赌着，一边还迷失在一种无意识的境界里，或一种失神的沉醉里或沉醉的失神里，反正一样，康妮看了真觉难受。可是她回到楼上就寝以后，他和波太太有时还要赌到早上二三点，安然地，怪沉溺地赌。波太太溺命不亚于克利福；她越沉溺，她使差不多输得越多。

她有一天对康妮说：“那晚我输了二十三个先令给克利福男爵。”

“他受了你的钱么？康妮惊愕地问道。

“为什么，当然啊，夫人！那是荣誉债呢；”

康妮严历地遣责他们两个。结果是克利福把波太太的年薪加了一百镑；她赌的钱也有了。同时，康妮觉得克利福日见死气沉沉了。

她最后告诉他，她十七号便要走了。

“十七号！”他说，“什么时候回来？”

“最迟是七月二十号左右。”

他怪异地、失神地望着她，飘忽得象一个孩子似的，但又奸诡得象一个老人一样。

“你现在不会把我丢弃了吧，是不是？”他说。

“怎么？”

“当你走了以后，我的意思是说，你一定会回来吧？”

“比什么都一定，我将要回来的。”

“是的！好！七月二十！”

他很怪异地望着她。可是他实在是愿意她走的，那是奇怪的。他的确愿意她走，愿意她有点小浪漫史，也许她怀了个胎回来呢。而同时，她这一去，却又使他害怕……

她战栗着，她等待着完全脱离他的时间，等待着她自己、他自己的成熟。

她坐着，与守猎人谈起她的外出。

“那么当我回来的时候，我可以告诉克利福我要离开他。你和我便可以出走。他们决不必知道是和你走的，我们可以到外国去，是不是？到非洲去或澳洲去。你想怎样？”

她这个计划使他很兴奋。

“你从来没有到过殖民地去则不是？”他问道。

“没有！你呢？”

“我到过印度，南非和埃及。”

“为什么不让我们到南非去呢？”

“是的，为什么不？”他慢慢地说。

“也让你不想到那儿去罢？”她问道。

“那于我是无所谓的，怎样我都无所谓的。”

“那不便你快乐么？为什么不呢？我们不会穷的。我一年约莫有六百镑的入息，我已经写信去问过了，这数目并不多，但是也够了，是不是？”

“于我这是很富裕了。”

“啊，那时就快乐了！”

“可是我应该离了婚，而你也应该离了婚才行，否则我们便要有麻烦了。”’要考虑的事情有多着呢。

另一天，她问些关于他自己的事情。那时他们是在小屋里。外面正在雷雨交加。

“从前你是一位中尉，一位军官，而又是一位贵绅的那个时候，你是不是快乐的？”

“快乐？是的。我喜欢我的那位上校。”

“你爱他不？”

“是的，我爱他。”

“他呢，他爱你不？”

“是的！从某方面讲，他是爱我的。”

“说点他的事情我听罢。”

“有什么好说？他是行伍出身的。他爱军队生活。他没有结过婚。他比我大二十岁。他是个很聪明的人，在军队里很少与人往来，这种人便是这样的，他是个热情的人，并且是个很聪明的军官。我和他在一起的时候，我是在他的迷惑之下生活的。我让他指挥着我的生活，这点我是永久不会懊悔的。”

“他死了以后。你觉得很痛苦吧？”

“我自己都差不多死去了，但是当然恢复了原状时，我明白了我的一部分是死去了，但是我一向就知道那终是要一死了结的。其实，什么东西不终是一死了结！”

她沉思着。外面雷声轰响。他们好象是在一只烘芒时代的巨舟内。’

“你的过去好象有无限的事。”她说。

“是么？我觉得我已经死过一两次了，可是结果我还在这儿偷生着，而且准备接受种种烦恼。”

“你的上校死了以后，你觉得你的军官和贵绅的生活是幸福的么？”

“不！我的同僚们都是一些蠢才。”他突然笑了起来，“上校常常说：孩子哟，英国的中等级的人每口东西都得咀嚼三十回，因为，他们的食道太狭，只要一粒小豆子便要把他们窒塞。他们都是一些女性的可怜虫，虚荣而骄傲，甚至鞋带松了也要大惊小怪的。他们腐烂的象猫兽的肉，而且常常是自以为对的。我之所以不上进也便为此，这些磕头，磕头，舐屁股舐到舌硬了的东西，常常是自以为对的。他们尤其是些装模作样假道学，假道学！全是些只有半个睾丸的女性的假道学。每个——”

康妮笑了起来，外面的雨在倾盆地下着。

“他恨他们！”

“不！”他说，“他是不屑去根他们的，他只是讨厌他们罢了，那是有个分别的。因为，据他说，连丘八们现在都变成一样假道学，一样半塞丸，一样食道狭小的人了。这种情形是人类的命运。”

“晋通的群众，工人们，也一样么？”。

“一模一样，他们的血气都死了。他们所剩下的一点，都给汽车、电影院和飞机吮吸了，相信我：一代人比一代人更不象样了，食道是橡胶管做的，脸和两腿是马口铁做的，这是马口铁做的群众！一种牢固的波尔雪维克主义正在消灭着有人性的东西，而崇拜着机械的东西。金钱，金钱，金钱！所有现代的人只有个主意，使是把人类古老的人性的感情消灭掉，把从前的恶当和大显身夏娃切成肉装酱。他们都是！样，世界随处都是一栗：把人性的真实性杀了，每条阴茎一金镑，每对睾丸两金镑！什么是‘孔’，还不是性交的工具！随处都是一样。给他们钱，叫他们去把世界的阳具割了。绘他们钱，钱，钱，叫他们人类的血气消灭掉，只剩下一些站立不稳的小机械。”

他从城那小屋里，脸上笼罩着讥讽的神气，虽然是这样，他还留亲戚一只耳朵听着外面林中的暴风雨声，那暴风雨声使他觉得非常孤寂起来。

“但是，那一切不会有个了结么？”她说。

“是的，当然，世界将会自己解救出来，当最后的一个真正的人被消灭了以后，当所有的人都被驯服了，自种人、黑种人、黄种人，各色人种都成了驯服的畜生，那么一切都会痴愚起来。因为健全的心地是植根于荤丸之内的。他们都将痴愚起来，并且将举行伟大的火焚刑。你知道‘火焚刑’便是一种‘宗教仪式’么？好，他们将举行他们伟大的宗教仪式；他们将互相成为献祭品。”

“你的意思是说他们将互相残杀么？”

“是的，亲有宾！要是我们照现在这样生活下去，那么在百年以内，这岛上的人民将不到一万也许不是十个，他们将斯文一互相销毁。”隆隆的雷声渐渐地远了。

“那时多可爱！”她说。

“可爱极了！莫想着人类之消灭和消灭后其他的物类未产生以前的空洞，那是最足以静人心气的事情。要是我们这样继续下去，要是所有的人，知识分子，艺术家，统治者，工业家，工人，都继续着癫狂地消灭他们最后的有人性的感情，最后的一点直觉最后的的健全的本能；要是这样代数式的一步一步地继续下去，那么，人类便要休了！再见，爱人；蛇把自己蚕咽了而剩下一个空，乱纷纷的，但是并不是无望。可爱极了！一些凶悍的野狗将在勒格贝屋里面狂吠，一些凶悍的野马将在达娃斯哈的煤坑边践踏！tedeunlaudamns！”

康妮笑了起来，但不是很快乐的笑。

“他们既都是波尔雪维克主义者，那么你应该高兴了吧？你定觉得高兴地看着他们急忙忙地向着末日走去吧！”

“的确！我不阻止他们，因为我虽想阻止他们也做不到。”

“那么，为什么你这样悲伤呢？”

“我并不悲伤！要是我的雄鸡作最后一次的啼喔，我也无所谓。”

“但是假如你有个孩子呢？”她说。

他低着头。

“怎么，”他终于说：“我觉得在这种世界中让一个孩子出世，是件廖误而悲伤的事。

“不！不要这样说！不要这样说！”她恳求道，“我相信我要有个孩子了。告诉我你将快活吧。”她的手放在他的手上。

“你既觉得快活，我是快活的。”他说，“不地我却以为那是怪对不住那孩子的事。”

“啊！不！”她愤激地说，“那足见你不真正要我！如果这有这种感觉，你不能真正要我的。”

他重新静默起来，脸孔沉郁着，外边只剩下雨打的声音了。

“我不太承认这话，”他低声地说，“我不太承认这话。我有我的苦衷。”她觉得他此刻所以悲伤的缘故，一部分是因为她要到威尼斯去了。这是使她高兴的。

她把他的衣服拉开了，露出了他的小腹，她在他的肚脐上吻了一吻。然后她把脸颊依在他的小腹上，两臂环抱着他温暖而静艄的腰。他们在这洪荒世界中孤寂着。

“告诉我你实在想有一个孩子，你期待着！”她喃喃地说，她的脸孔在他的小腹上压着。“告诉我你想吧！”

“嗨！”他最后含糊地说。她感觉得到那奇异的意识的转变与松懈，颤战着穿透他的身体。“我有时想，’假如有人能在这儿的矿工们中间试一试！他们现在没有什么工作，而且人息又不多，假如有人能够对他们说：想想旁的事情去吧，不要光想钱了。假如只是为了需要。我们所需要的并不多。让我们不要为金钱而生话吧。……”

她的脸颊温柔地磨着他的小腹，并且把他的睾丸托在手里。柔柔地，那阴茎在颤动着，但没有坚挺起来，雨在外面急打着。

“让我们为旁的东西而生活。我们的唯一目的不要为找钱，无论为自己或为他人找钱。现在，我们是迫不得已：我们不得不替自己找一点点我一，而替主人找一大堆。让我们制止这种情境罢！一步一步地让我们制止着罢。我们不必狂暴。一步一步地，让我们把整个工业生活丢弃而到后面去。我金钱，只要一点点便行了。其实，无论谁，你与我，工头主子们，甚至国王，只要一点点金钱便行了。只要有决心，你便可以从这纷乱中跳了出来。”他停了一会，然后继续道：

“我将对他们说：瞧罢！瞧瞧老周！他一举一动多可爱！又生动又灵敏。他多美丽！再瞧瞧老张！他又笨又丑，那是因为他从不愿激励起来，现在瞧瞧你们自己罢！一肩高一肩低的，两腿弯曲，两脚弯曲，两腿走了样。你们做了什么来，你们的劳作使你们变成怎么了？你们把自己弄坏了。不必做那么多的工呢。把衣服脱了瞧瞧你们自己吧。你们本应当有生气而美丽的，而你们却是丑陋而死半死。我将这样告诉他们。而且我要使人们穿上另一件小而短的白衫。啊，假如男子们有了红色的漂亮的两腿，单这个使足以使他们在一个月内改变了。他们将重新变成真正的人，真正的人！女人们呢，她们要怎样穿便怎样穿。因为男了们一旦用那鲜红的两腿走起路来，短小的白衫后面，露着那可人的鲜红的屁股的时候，那时女人们便也要变成真正的女人了。那有因为男子不成男子，所以女人才不成女人。……然后，把达娃斯哈消灭了，而建筑几座美丽的建筑，以收容我们大家。再来把国爱各处收拾个干净。可是不要多生孩子，因为世界已经人口过剩了。

“但是我却不向人们说教；我只把他们的衣服剥去了，说：瞧瞧你们自己罢！这便是为金钱而工作的结果！瞧瞧！这便是为金钱而工作的结果！你们一向是为了金钱而工作时建立“起来的，瞧瞧你会的女人！她们不在乎你们。你们也不在乎她们。那是因为你们的时间只用在工作上和金钱的打算上。你们不能说话，不能活动，不能生活，你们不能和一个女人好好地在一起，你不能生活着，瞧瞧你自己罢！”

跟着是一阵死寂。康妮半听着，一边把她到小屋里来时在路上所采的几朵毋忘我，结在他小腹下的毛丛里，外面已变成静温而有点寒冷了。

“你有四样的毛，”她对他说。“你胸膛上的差不是黑色，你的头发是浅色，但是你的髭须是粗而深红，而你这儿的毛，爱情的毛，却象是一丛光耀的金红的芋刺，这是最好看的毛。”

他俯头望着，看见几朵乳白色的戎忘我在他胜利下的毛丛里。

“暖！这阴毛里正是个放勿忘我的好地方。但是，难道你不关心未来么？”

“啊，我实在关心得很呢！”她望着他说。

“因为当我觉得人类的卑鄙龌龊到了无可救药的时候，我便觉得殖民地并不怎么远。甚至月亮也并不怎么远。因为在那儿，你回转头来便看得见杂在繁星之中的世界，又肮脏，又残忍，又乏味；被人类弄成卑鄙秽了。那时我觉得吞了一块胆，一肚子苦结着，只要有可以逃避的地方，无论哪里都不会怎么远。但是当我找到了个工作做着的时候，我却忘记了这一切，虽然，最近百年来，一部分人对于群众的行为是可耻的：人变成工作的昆虫了，他们所有的勇气，他们所有的真正生活，都被剥夺了，我定要把地球上的机器扫个干净，绝’对地了结了工业的时代，好象了结了一个黑暗的错误一样，但是我既不能，并且也没有人能，我只好静静地过我的生活一假如我有生活可过的话，这倒是使我有时怀疑的。”

外面的雷声已停止了。但是雨却又倾盆地下起来，天上闪着最后的电光，还有一二声远远的沉墨，康妮觉得不太高兴地滔滔地说了这一大雄话而事实上只是对他自已说的，并不是对她说的。他仿佛给失望完全占据着了，面她呢，却觉得快铄，而憎恨失望。她知道他之所以重陷在这种心境里，是因为她要离开他了。是因为他心里刚刚体味了那种离情。她觉得几分得意起来。

她把门打开了，望着外面的滂沱大雨，象一张钢幕似的。蓦然地她生了一个欲望，欲望着向这雨里飞奔，飞奔而去。她站了起来，急忙忙地脱掉了她的袜子，然后脱掉她的衣裳和内衣；他屏息望着她。她的尖尖的两只乳房，随着她一举一动而颤摆着。在那苍茫的光线里，她是象牙色的，她穿上了她的橡胶鞋，发了一声野性的痴笑，跑了出去，向着大雨挺着两乳，展着两臂朦胧地在雨里跳着她多年前在代斯德所学的谐和的舞蹈。那是个奇异的灰影，高着，低着，弯曲着，雨向她淋着，在她饱满的臀上发着亮，她重新起舞着，小腹向前在雨中前进，重又弯身下去，因此只见她的臀和腰向他呈献着，好象向他呈献着一种臣服之礼，一种野性的礼拜。

他痴笑着，把他自己的衣服也脱了。那是令人难忍的！他裸着白析的身体，有点田战着，向那急雨里奔了出去。佛萝西狂吠着飞跃在他的前头。康妮，湿透了的头发粘在她的头上，她回转了温热热的脸，看见了他。她的蓝色的眼睛，兴奋地闪着光，她奇异地开步向前狂奔，跑进林中的小径上，湿树枝儿绊打着她。她奔窜着，他只看得见一个圆而湿的头，一个湿的背脊，在逃遁中向前倾着，圆满的臀部闪着光，一个惊遁的妇人的美妙的裸体。

她差不多要到那条大马路上去了，然后他才赶到了，赤裸裸的两臂抱着她，抱着她温软的、赤裸裸的腰身。她叫了一声，伸直着身体，把她整个柔软而寒冷的肉体，投在他的怀里。他癫狂地紧楼着，这柔软而寒冷的女性的肉，在交触里，瞬即变成火一般的暖热了。在雨倾盆地琳着他们，直至他们的肉体冒着蒸气。他把她可爱的沉重的两乳握在两手里，并且狂乱地紧压在他自己身上，在雨中战栗着，静默着，然后，突然地把她抱了起了，和她倒在那小径上，在雨声怒号的静谧中，迅速地，猛烈地，他占有了她，迅速地、猛烈地完毕，好象一只野兽似的。

他立即站丁起来，揩着眼上的雨水。

“回去。”他说：于是他们向着小屋奔去。他迅疾地一直走着：他不喜欢给雨打着。可是他却走得慢，采着毋忘我、野蝴蝶花和圆叶风铃草。走了几步，然后又停下来望着他走远丁

当她带着花，喘着气回到小屋里去时，她看见炉火已经燃上了，柴校在避拍地响着。她的尖尖的乳房，一高一低地荡动着，她的湿头发紧粘在她的头上，面孔鲜红，通身光亮。她圆睁的眼睛，喘着气，湿了的小小的头儿，饱满而天真的滴着水的臀部，她看起来象是另一个人似的。

他取了张旧床布，从上至下擦着她，她象个孩子似的站着不动。然后，他把屋门关上了，再擦着他自己。炉火里火焰高冒着。她把床布一端包着她的头在擦着她的湿发。

“我们共用一条毛巾揩擦：这是吵嘴的预兆！”他说。

她向他望了一会，她的头发是乱莲蓬的。

“不！”她说，圆睁着眼睛，“这并不是一条毛巾，这是一张床布呢。”

他们俩继续着忙碌地擦着头，刚才的那番运动，使他们还在喘息不休。他们各披了一张军，露着前身向着火，在火焰前一块大木头上并排地坐着静愁。康妮嫌恶那毡子披在皮肤上的感觉：不过床布又已经全湿了。

她把毡子摆脱了，跪在炉火面前，伸着头在摇着，使头发干起来，他默望着她臀部的美丽的下垂曲线，他今天所心醉的就是那个。这曲线多么富丽地下垂到她沉重而圆满的两股上！

在这两股间，深隐一神秘的温热中，便是那神秘的进口！

他用手在她的背后爱抚着，缓缓地，微妙地，爱抚她臀部的曲线和饱满。

“您这后面多美丽，”他用那带喉音的、爱怜的土话的：“那是人间最美丽的臀儿！那是最美丽的女人的臀儿！那上面一分一毫都是女人，纯粹的女人！您并不是那种臀儿钮扣似的女儿，她们该是些男孩子。可不是！您有一个真正的、柔软的、下倾的后臀，那是男子们所爱而使他们动心的东西，那是个可以负担世界的臀儿。”

他一边说，一边轻柔地爱抚着那圆满的后部，直至他觉得仿佛一种蔓延的火热，从那儿传到了他的手上，他的指尖触着了她身上的那两个秘密的孔儿，他用一种火似的拂掠的动作，摸了这个又摸那个。

“假如你撤点尿或拉点尿，我是高兴的。我不要一个不能拉屎的女人。”

康妮忍不住骤然地、惊愕地狂笑起来。但是他却不理她，继续着说：

“您是真实的！啊！是！您是真实的，甚至有点儿淫野。这儿是您撤尿的地方，这儿是您拉屎的地方；我一只手儿盖着两处，我爱您这一切您有着一个的真正臀儿，怪骄傲的。它的确是可以骄傲面无愧的。”

他的手紧紧地压在她那两个秘密的地方，好象表示一种亲切的问候。

“我爱它！”他说：“我爱它！假如我只有十分钟的命，可以去爱抚您这个臀儿，去认识它，我定要承认我活了一世了！您不明白？管什么工业制度！这是我生命中的一个伟大的日子。”

她回转身去，爬在他的膝上，紧依着他。

“亲吻我罢！她细声说；

她明白了他俩的心里都带着离情别意，最后她觉得悲伤起来了。一

她坐在他的大腿上，她的头依着他的胸膛。她象牙似的光耀的两腿，懒慵慵地分开着；炉里的火光参差地照着他们。仓他俯着头，在那火光里，望着她的肉体的折纹，望着她开着的两腿阐那褐色的阴毛。他伸手在后面桌上把刚才她采来。的花拿了，这花还是湿的，几滴雨水滴在她的身上。

“这些花儿，刮风下雨都在外头，”他说：“它们都是没有家的。”

“甚至没有一间小屋！”她哺哺地说。

他用幽静的手指，批把几朵毋忘我花结在她那爱神山上的美丽的褐毛毛丛里。

“那儿！”，他说，“那儿使是毋忘我应该在的地方！”

她俯视着那些乳白色的小怪花儿，杂在她下身的褐色的阴毛丛里。

“多么好看地！”她说。

“好看得同生命一样。”她答道。

他在那毛丛里添了一朵粉红色的野蝴蝶花的花蕾。

“那儿！那代表我，站在您这毋忘我的地方！那是荒苇丛中的摩西。”

“我要离开你了，你不反对罢，是不是？”她不安地问道，仰望着他的脸。

在那沉重的两眉下面，他的脸是失神的，不可思仪的。

“你有你的自由。”他说。

他说起正确的英语来了。

“但是假如你不愿意我走的话，我便不走好了。”她紧依着他说。

两人静默了。他俯着身在火上添了一块柴。火焰光耀着他静默而沉思的脸孔。她等着，但是他不说什么。

“不地这，我觉得那便是和克利福断绝的第一步。罗真想有个孩子。那给我一个机会去，去……”她正要说下去。

“去使我们相信一些谎话。”他说。

“是的，那也是事情的一种。难道你要他们知道真话么？”

“他们相信什么我是不关心的。”

“我却不然！我不愿创作他们用冰冷的心肠来对待我；至少是当我还在勒格贝的时候，当我决绝地走开了的时候，他们爱怎么想便可以怎么想了。”

他静默着。

“但是克利福男爵希望你一定要回来的么？”

“啊，我得回来的。”她说，两人又静默起来。

“孩子呢，在勒格贝生么？”他问道。

她的手臂紧揽着他的颈项。

“假如你不愿带我走的话，便不得不了。”她说。

“带你到哪儿去呢？”

”哪儿都好！只要远远地远远地离开勒格贝。”

“什么时候？”

“怎么、当我回来的时候呀。”

“但是你走了何必又回来呢？何必一件事分两次做呢？”他说。

啊，我得回来的。我已经答应过了！我已经忠诚地答应过了。不过，其实我是为了你而回来的。”

“为了你的丈夫的守猎人而回来？”

“那又有什么关系呢？”她说。

“真的？”他沉思了一会，“那么你想什么时候决然再走呢？确定一个日子。”

“啊，我不知道，当我从威尼期回来以后，我们再准备一切。”

“怎样准备！”

“啊，我将一切都告诉克利福。我不得不告诉他。”

“真的！”

他静默的。她的两臂紧紧地环抱着他的颈项。

“不要把事情弄得使我为难吧！”她恳求道。

“把什么事情弄得使你为难？”

“我得动身到威尼斯去和以后应该安排的事情。”

他的脸上露着一种半苦笑的微笑。

“我不会把事情弄得使你为难的。”他说，“我只想知道你究竟抱的什么目的。可是你自己实际上也不知道。你只想延迟一下。走到远处去把事情端详一下。我并不责备炼，我相信这是聪明的手段。你尽可以依旧做勒贝的主妇。我并不责备你的，我没有勒格贝来呈献给你。事实上，你知道我有什么东西好给你的。不，不，我相信你是对的！我实在相信你是对的！并且我是毫不想靠你生活，受你给养的。这也是得考虑的一件事。”

她不知道怎样，觉得他是报复似的。

“但是你要我，是不是？”她问道。

“你呢？你要不要我？”

“你知道那是不用说的。”

“好！你什么时候要我？”

“你知道等我回来以后，我们便可以计划那一切的。现在我什么也说不上。我得镇静一下，清理一下。”

“好！镇静你的清理你的去吧！，！

她有时恼怒起来。

“但是你信任我吧，是不是？”她说。

“啊，绝对地！”

她听见他的声音里含着讥讽。

“请你告诉我吧，”她没精打彩地说，“你以为我不去威尼斯好些么？”

“我断定你还是去威屁斯好，”他答道。他的声音是冷静的，有点讥讽的。

“你知道我下礼拜四便要支了么？”她说。

“是的！”

她现在沉思起来了，最后她说：

“当我回来的时候，我们将更明白我们的情境是不是？”

“啊，一定的！”

他们间隔着一种奇异的静默的深渊！

“我已经为了我离婚的事情去见过律师了。”他有点勉强地说。

她微微战栗了一下。

“是么！”她说，“他怎么说？”

“他说我早就该行事，现在也许要有困难了。可是因为我从军去了，所以他想是可以办得通的。只是不要案子一办她便跑回来就好了！”

“她一定要知道么？”

“是的！她将接到一张传票。和她同居的男子也是一样，他是共同被告。”

“多么可憎，这种手续！我想我和克利福也得打这条路经过的。”

他们沉默了一会。

“当然啊，”他说，“我得在半年或八个月间过着一种模范生活。这一来，要是你到威尼斯去了，至少在两三个星期以内，我可以少掉一个引诱。”

“我是个引诱么？”她爱抚着他的脸说，“我真高兴我竟是个引诱你的！让我们不要想它了吧！你一思索起来的时候，你便使我生怕；你便把我压扁了似的。让我们不要想它了吧！当我的俩分离了的时候，我们想它的时间多着呢。这是最要紧的！我曾想过：在我动身以前，我无论如何得再和你共宿一宵。我得再到村舍里去一次。我礼拜四晚上来好么？”

“但是那天你的姊姊不是要来么？”

“是的！但是她说我们将在午后茶的时候动身。这样我们可以在那个时候动身，但是晚上她可以在旁的什么地方过夜，我呢，我到你家里来。”

“但是那么’来，她得知道了？”

“啊！我打算一切都告诉她。其实我已经多少告诉她了。她于我是很有用的，她是个老于世故的人呢。”

他考虎着她的计划。

“那么，你们将于午后茶的时候离开勒格贝，好象你到伦敦去似的，你们的路线怎样？”

“经过诺汀汉和吉兰森。”

“你的妹妹将把你在路上什么地方放了，然后你再走路或坐弃回来么？我觉得这未免太冒险了。”

“是么？好，以希尔达可以驶我回来。她可以在曼斯非德过夜，晚上把我带回来，早上再来找我。这是很容易的事。”

“但是给人瞧见了呢？”

“我会戴上避坐眼睛和面纱的。”

他沉思了一会。

“好。”他说，“随你喜欢吧，和通常一样。”

“可是，你不觉得高兴么？”。

“啊”是的！高兴得很。”他有点冷酷地说，“打铁要趁热的时候打。”

“你知道我心里想什么吗？”她忽然说，“那是我突然想起的，你是烫人的‘铁杵骑士’！”

“是的！你泥？你是红热的‘春臼夫人’？”

“是的。”她说，“是的！你是铁柞爵幸，我是春臼夫人。”

“好，那么我竟被封起爵来了！约翰•多马士变成珍奴夫人的约翰爵士了。”

“是的！约翰•多马士封了爵了！我是褐色阴毛爵士夫人。你也得挂上了几朵花才是呢！”

她在他金红色的阴毛丛中，结了两朵粉红色的蝴蝶花。

“啊！”她说，“美呀！美呀！约翰爵士！”

她又在他胸前暗色的毛里嵌了一朵毋忘我。

“你这儿不会忘掉我罢！”她吻着他的胸膛，把两朵毋忘我，在每只乳上粘了一朵，她再吻了吻她。

“把我当个日历罢！”他说着，笑了起来，胸前的花也坠了下来。

“等一会！”他说。

他站了起来把小屋的门打开了。门廓里卧着的佛萝苯站了起来望着他。

“认得吗？这是我呢！”他说。

雨停了。外边笼罩着—种潮湿的、芬芳的静寂。天色已近黄昏了。

他向着林中小径走了下去。康妮望着他的白析而清瘦的形影。仿佛一个鬼影，一个幽灵似的，一步一步地向着远处飘涉当她看不见他的时候，她的心沉重起来。她站在那小屋的门里，被着一张毡子，默对着那湿润的固定的沉默。

但是不久他便回来了，蹒跚地跑着，两只手里拿着一些花。她有点害怕他，仿佛他不太是一个人似的。当他中近的时候，他望着她的眼睛，但她不懂他这种视线的意思。’他带回来的是些楼斗菜花，野蝴蝶花，野袜草，橡树枝叶和一些含未放的耐冬花。他把橡树的柔软继校环系着她的两只乳房，再添了些圆叶风铃草和野蝴蝶花在上面；在她的肚脐上放了一朵粉红色的野蝴蝶花；夜她的阴毛丛里，是一些毋忘我和香车叶草。

“现在你是富丽堂皇了！”他说，珍奴夫人与约翰•多马士台欢之日的嫁装。”

他又在他自己身上的毛里嵌了些花朵，在阴茎的同围绕了一枝爬地藤，再把一朵玉簪花粘附在肚脐上，她守望着他，这种奇异的热心，使他觉得有趣，她拿了一朵蝴蝶花插在他的髭须上，花在他的鼻下桂着。

“这是迎娶珍奴夫人约翰•多马士，”他说，“我们得和康妮与梅乐士分手了。也许……”

他正伸手做着一种姿势，却打了个喷嚏。

“也许什么？”她说，等着他继续说下去。

他有点茫然地望着眼也。

“没有什么？”他说。

“也许什么？继续说下去呀。”

他忘记了。他这种有头无尾的话，是她觉得最令人丧气的事。

千阵黄色的阳光在树林上照耀着。

“太阳！”他说，“是你应该走的时候了。啊，时光！时光！我的夫人呀，什么是无翼而飞的东西？时光！时光！”

他拿了衬衣。

“向约翰•多马士道晚安吧。”他说着，俯望着他的阴茎。“他在爬地藤的臂环里是安全的！此刻他并不是怎样烫人的铁挎呢。”

他把法兰绒的衬打举到头上穿着。当他的头冒了出来的时候，他说：

“一个男了最危险的一刹那，使是当他的头放进衬衣里的时候，那时候他的头是在一个袋子里。所以我喜欢那些美国衬衣，穿的时候和穿普通的褂子一样。”她老是望着他。他把短裤穿上了，扣好了。

“瞧瞧珍奴！”他说，“在这些花卉中！明年将是谁替你结花，珍奴？是我呢还是他人？‘再见罢我的圆叶风铃草，福星拱照！’我恨这歌儿；这使我想起大战初起的那些日子。”他坐下去穿着袜子。她依旧木立着。他把手放在她的臀部下面。“美丽的小珍奴夫人！”他说，“也许你将在威尼斯找到了一个男子，在你的阴毛里放茉莉，在你的肚脐上放石榴花吧！可怜的小珍奴夫人！”

“别说这种话！”她说，“你只是说来伤我的心罢了。”

他把头低头。然后他用土话说：

“是的，也许，也许！好！以我不说了，我停嘴了。但是您得穿上衣服，回您的堂皇大厦去了。时间过了！约翰和小珍奴的时间过了！穿上您的内衣罢，碴太莱男爵夫人！您这样子站着，没有内衣，只有几朵花儿遮掩着，您是谁都可以的。好，好，让我来为您解衣罢，您有尾巴的小画眉哟！”

他把她头发上的叶子除去了，吻着她的湿发；他把她乳房上的花除去了，吻着她的乳房；他吻着她的肚脐，吻着她的阴毛，却让他所结的花留在那里。

“得让这些花留在那儿，假如它们愿意。”他说，“好了！您重新赤裸起来了，您只是个赤裸裸的女儿，带着几分珍奴气！现在，穿上内衣罢，您得走了，否则查太莱爵夫人要赶不上她的晚餐了！‘您上哪儿去来，我的美丽的女儿？’”

当他这样满口说着土话的时候，她是从来不知道怎样回答的。于是她处了衣裳，准备着回去，有点耻震地回勒格贝去。至少她是这样感觉着：有点耻辱地回去。

他要陪她跑到马路上去。她的幻雉已经关好了，可以放心了。

当他和她走到马路上的时候，恰恰碰见了波太大，脸孔苍白慌慌张张地向他们走来。

“啊！夫人！我们奇怪着是不是发生了什么事情呢。”

“不！没有什么事情。”

波太太望着守猎的，爱情使他满面春光，她遇着了他的半含笑半嘲讽的视线。他有如意的事情的时候，总是这样笑着的。但他和蔼地望着她。

“晚安，小驮太！现在我可以不陪男爵夫人了。晚安夫人！晚安波太太！”

他行了个礼，转身就走。
Chapter 16
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 Hélo?se 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. 


康妮到家后，忍受了一番盘洁。午茶时候出去了的克利福，到暴风雨开始时才回去，夫人哪儿去了？谁也不知道。只有主太想出她是到林中散步去了。在这暴风雨里到林中去！……这一次，克利福却神经兴奋地狂乱起来了。电光闪一下，他惊跳一下，雷声轰一下，他失神一下。他望着冰冷的大雷雨。仿佛世界的末日到了，他愈来愈狂躁起来。 

波太太试着去安慰他。

“她会躲避在林中的小屋里的。放心罢。夫人不会有什么的。”

“在这种雷雨里，我不喜欢她待在林中！我压根儿不喜欢她到林中去！现在她已经出去两个多小时了，好是什么时候出去的？”

“你回家以前不久出去的。”

“我没有看见她在花园里。上帝知道她在哪儿和发生了什么事！”

“啊，不会发生什么事的。你看罢。等雨一停了她马上就会回来的。只是雨把她阻住罢了。”

但是雨已停了，夫人却没有马上回来，时间过着，夕阳出来发着最后的黄光了，依旧没有夫人的影子，夕阳沉下去了，昏色渐渐地深了，晚餐的第一次也敲了。

“再等也没有用了！”克利福在狂躁中说，“我要打发非尔德或白蒂斯找她去。”

“啊，不要这样！”波太太喊道，“他们将瞎想发生了自杀或什么大事。网，不要让人讲闲话……让我到小屋那边去看看她在万：在。我找得着她。”

这样劝了一会，克利福准她去了。

这样，康妮在马路上碰见了，脸色苍白，迟疑地不敢前进。

“不要怪我来找你，夫人！克利福男爵狂躁得那神样儿！他以为你一定是给雷打死了，或给一株树倒下来压死了。他决意要订发非尔德和白蒂斯来林中找尸首呢，这一宋，我想还是我来好，别惊动了所有的仆人。

她不安地说着，她看得见康妮的脸上还带着热情的光润和梦影，并且她觉得她是对她发怒的。

“很对！”康妮说，她再也找不着什么话说了。

两个妇人在那湿世界里缓缓地前进。两个人都不t兑话。一些大水滴唤亮地在林中滴着。当他们到了大花园里时，康妮在前边越是着。波太大有点喘不过气来，她日见肥胖了。

“克利福这种大惊小怪，真是愚蠢！”康妮最后恼怒地说，其实她只是对自己说着。

“唉！你知道男子们是怎样的！他们是喜欢狂躁。但是一见了夫人就会好的。”

康妮很恼怒波太大知道了她的秘密：因为她无疑是知道的。

突然地，康妮在小径上站着了。

“真是岂有此理，人们竟敢来追的踪！”她说，睛眼发着光。

“啊！夫人哟，别这么说！巍”

他惊愕地望着她。

“肉体的生命。”他说，不过是禽兽的生命。”

“甚至这样也好过煞有介事的死尸的生命。不过你的话是不对的！人类的肉体现在不过才开始生活。在古代希腊民族里，肉体生命曾焕发过，不久便给柏拉图和亚里斯多德毁灭了，从坟墓中地站在那儿，低着头，毕竟呢，她也是个妇人，她是个同盟者。

“啊，好罢！”她说，“既然如此—，我也就没有什么了！”

“但是夫人，你放心罢！你只是在小屋里避雨，那是毫无所谓的。”

她他到了家里。康妮直进克利福的房里去，她对他，对他的苍白紧张的脸孔和突出的两眼，狂怒起来。

“我得告诉你，我想你无需叫仆人来跟踪我的！”她劈头便说。

“我的上帝！”他也暴怒起来，“你这女人上那儿去来？你离去了整整几个钟头，而且在这样的暴风雨里！你到那瘟树林里去弄什么鬼？直到理在你干吗来？雨已停了几个钟头了！几个钟头了！你知道是什么时候了不？你真够使任何人发疯！你上那儿去了？你干吗去了？”

“我要是不愿告诉你又怎么样呢？她拔去了她的帽子，摇着她的头发。

他望着她，他的睛眼突着，白睛膜上起着黄色，这种暴怒一他的害处是很大的：结果是波太太在以后的几天里，没有好过的时间，康妮突然地内疚起来。

“的确！”她说，温和些了，“谁都会奇怪我究竟到哪儿去了！暴风雨到来的时候，我只是坐在小屋里罢了，而且生了一点火，怪快活的。”

她现在安闲地说话了。毕竟，为什么要上添油使他难过呢！我狐疑地望着她。

“瞧瞧你的头发！”他说，“瞧瞧你自己！”

“是的。”她泰然地答道，“我脱光了衣服在雨中奔了一阵。”

他惊愕地望着她。

“你一定是发疯了！”他说。

“为什么？喜欢雨水浴有什么好发疯了地方？”

“你用什么擦干你自己的？

“用一条旧毛巾和火烘干的。”

他老是目瞪口呆地望着她。

“假如有人来了？”

“谁会来？”

“谁？无论谁啊！梅乐士呢？他没有来吗？餐上他是一定到那儿去的。”

“是的，他在雨停了后才来，他是来喂短雉鸡。”

她说话时的从容的态度，是令人惊愕的。在隔房听着的波太太，叹服得五体投地。想想吧，一个妇人竟能这样自然地图旋应变！”

“假如他在你赤裸棵地、疯妇似地在雨中奔窜着的时候来到了？”

“那么我想他定要吓得魂不附体，逃之唯恐不速呢。”

克利福屹然不动地老是望着她。他的下意识里究竟在想什么，他是决不知道的。他太惶无措了，因而他的上意识里也不能构成什么明确的思想，他不能自己的佩服她。她的样子是这么红润，这么美丽，这么光泽：爱的光泽。

“总之，”他说，渐渐平静下来，“假如你没有受惊，得了个大伤风，便算你的幸运了。”

“啊，我没有受惊！”她答道。她心里正在想着那个男子的话：“您有的是最美丽的妇人的臀儿！”她希望，她真上希望她能告诉克利福，在那雷雨交加的时候，有人曾对她这么说过。然而！她却摆了个被件逆了的王后的样儿，到楼上换衣服去了。

那天晚上，克利福想向她讨好起来，他正读着一本最新出的关于科学的宗教的书：他身体里有着一种无诚意的宗教的血脉。他是自私地关心着他的自我的将来的。那象他和康妮间的文学上的谈话一样。因为他们之间的谈话差不多是化学制作出来的。他们差不多在头脑里用化学方法调制他们的谈话。

“喂，你觉得这个怎样？”他说着，把书拿了过来，“假如我们的宇宙里再进化多少时代，你便用不着走到雨中去冷却你的热烈的肉体了。啊，你听罢！——宇宙预示着我们两种光景：一方面，它是物质地耗损着；另一方面，它是精神地上升着。”

康妮等着下文。但是克利福并不读下去。她惊异地望着他。

“假如它是精神地上升着，”她说，“那么下面剩下什么东西呢，下面那个从前的尾巴所在的地方？”

“嗳！”他说，“得留心著者的意思。我想他所谓，‘上升’但是‘耗损’的相反。”

“那么可以说，精神出了毛病，出壳了！”

“唔，正经点，别说笑，你觉得怎样？”

她重新望着他。

“物质地耗损？”她说，“我看你却日见肥胖起来，而我也不见得耗损着我自己。你相信太阳比从前小了些么？我却不。我想亚当献给夏娃的苹果，不见得会比我们的橙子核大，你以为怎样？”

“好罢，听听下文罢：‘宇宙便这样慢馒地过去，电得非我们所能思议，而到了一种新的创造的情境，在这种情境里，我们今日所见的物质世界，将变成一种飘渺的波纹，这种波纹与虚无是无甚分别的。”

她觉得怪可笑地徨着，她心里涌着种种不便说出的话；但是她仅仅说：

“多么愚笨的骗人的鬼话！仿佛他可怜的小小的知觉能知道在那么悠久缓慢的时间里会有什么发生似的！那只是说，他自己是个物质的失败者，所以他想使全宇宙也为一个物质的失败者罢了！胡说乱道的假道学！”

啊，且徨罢！别中断了这伟大的庄重之词：‘目前世界的这种情境，系从一个不能想象的过去中生出来的，并且将在一个不能想象的将来中消灭。剩下的是抽象的无穷尽的王国，自新不息、变化万端的创造力，和主宰大干的聪明上帝。’那，那便是结论！”

康妮轻蔑地听着。

“他是精神出了毛病，出完了。”她说，“多么荒唐！什么‘不可想象。’什么‘世界的消灭’，什么‘万变的创造力’，甚至上帝也凑在一块！这真是白痴说的话！”

“我承认他说得有点模糊，有点象烟幕，”克利福说，”可是，说到宇宙是在物质地耗损，精神地上升，我倒相信是存几分真理的。”

“是么！那么让它上升吧，只要它让我在这下界物质地安全而坚实。”

“你喜欢你的体格么？”他问道。

“我爱我的体格呢！”同时她的心涌起了这句话：“这是世上最美丽的，最美丽的妇人臀儿！”

“但是你这话使我有点惊异。因为格格无疑地是个多余累赘的东西。在我想来，女子在精神生活上是不能享受最高乐趣自勺。”

“最高乐趣？”她望着他说，“难道那种白痴的想法便是精神生活的最高乐趣么！谢谢你罢！我不要这种最高乐趣！我只要肉体，我相信肉体的生命比精神的生命更真实一只要这肉体的确有生命。但是世间许多的人，都和你的著名的风力机器一样，他们的精神仅仅依附在他们的尸首上！”

他惊愕地望着她。

“肉体的生命。”他说，不过是禽兽的生命。”

“甚至这样也好过煞有介事的死尸的生命。不过你的话是不对的！人类的肉体现在不过才开始生活。在古代希腊民族里，肉体生命曾焕发过，不久便给柏拉图和亚里斯多德毁灭了，从坟墓中复活起来了。这人类肉体的生命，将是这美丽的宇宙间的美丽的、美丽的生命！”

“亲爱的，你说得仿佛你正引领着这肉体生命到世界上来了！不错，你要旅行去了，但是请你不要高兴得这样没有分寸，相信你吧，如有个上帝在，管他是什么上帝，他会把人类肉体里的肠胃淘汰了。而使人类变成一个更高尚、更神圣的东西的。”

“为什么我要相信你，克利福？我倒觉得假如有个什么上帝在，他将在我的肠胃里醒觉转来，并且在那里曙光似地幸福的荡漾着。为什么要相信你的话？我所相信的恰恰与你相反！”

“呀！真的？什么使你变得这么异样？是不是因为赤裸裸地在雨中奔了一阵，学了一回古代的烂醉的酒神的女祭司？或者是因为某种感官的欲望？或者是因为要到威尼斯去了？”

“者是原因；为了旅行觉得满腔兴头，难道是可惊怪的么？”她说。

“表现得这么露骨，就未免可怪了。”

“那么我隐藏着就是了。”

“啊，用不着！你兴奋得差不多从事多也兴奋起来了。我差不多觉得是我自己要旅行去了。”

“那么，为什么你不和我一起去呢。”

“理由我们已经说过。不过，我想你的原因，是因为你可以暂时告别这一切了。此刻再也没有比‘告别这一切’更令你兴奋的事了。……但是，凡是出行便必有避返，而且凡是避返便是一种新的关系。”

“我并不想有什么新的关系。”

“不要大言，上帝听着呢。”他说。

“不！我并不大言；”她爽脆地说。

但是她对于出行一把旧的关系截断一的兴奋并不减少。这是她无可如何的事。

不能人官的克利福，整夜里和波太太打牌赌钱，直至她磕睡得欲想死了。

希尔达要来的日子来到了，康妮和梅乐士已经商议好了、假如他们的爱情之夜，没有什么阻碍的话，她便在她的窗上接一条绿色围巾：否则，便挂一条红色巾。

波太太帮着康妮打棼行李。

“换换空气，对于夫人是很有益处的。”

是的，我也这样想，克利福男爵的事，都得你一个人料理一些时日了，你不介意吧？”

“啊，不！他的事我都可以处理。我是说，他所需要我做的事，我都做得了，你觉和比以前好了些吗？”

“啊，好得多了，你替他做了些惊人的事呢！”

唉，哪里啊！不过男子们都是一样的；他们只是一些婴孩你得诌媚他们，拿甜言去诱骗他们，让他们相信他们是事事随心所欲的，你觉得对不对？夫人。”

“这种事情我恐怕没有太多经验呢。”

康妮停止了收拾东西。

“甚至你的丈夫，你也得象婴孩似的去诌媚他，用甜言诱骗他么？”她一边说，一边望着波太太。

波太太也停了下来。

“说到他”。她说，“是的，我也得好好地去奉承他的。但是他常常知道我所永的是什么，这是我不得不说的。不过他普通总是让步的。”

“他从来不摆老爷先生的架子么？”

“不！不过，有时当我看见了神色不同的时候，我便知道非让步不可了，但是普通总是他让步的。不，他从不摆老爷先生的架子，而我也不，我知道可以跟他强硬到哪一步，使得退让；虽然这种退让有时是很吃亏的。”

“假如你强硬下去会怎么样呢？”

“啊，我可不知道，我从来就没有强硬下去过，甚至他错了，假如他固执，我也退让。你知道，我决不愿使我们间的东西被破坏，假如你固执着对付一个男子，那便完了。假如你爱上了一个男子，当他真是决了意的时候，你便得退让；管你有理没有理。都得退让，否则什么东西便要破坏了。但是，我不得不说，德底有时看见我决了意的时候，甚至我没有理，他也退让的，我想这是双方一样的。”

“你对付你所有的病人也这样么？”康妮问道。

“啊，那是不同的。我对他们不是这样的。我知道什么是对于他们有益的，或者我努力去知道，然后我设法为他们的好处帮去。那和自己真正所爱的人是不相同的，大不相同的，假如你真正地爱过丁一个人，你使差不多能对任何人表示亲爱，甚至他不太需要你，但那是不同的，你不是真正爱他的，一个人真正地爱过了一回，如果还能真正地再爱一回，那是可疑的。”

这话把康妮吓着丁。

“你以为一个人只能爱一次么？”她问道。

“爱一次，或永远不爱，大多数的女子是从来不爱，从来不开始爱的，她们不知爱是什么东西。男子也不例外。我呢，当我看见了一个女子在恋爱的时候，我对他是满腔同情的。”

“你觉得男子是易动怒的么？”

“是的，假如你伤了他们的虚荣心。但是女子还不是一样？不过男子的虚荣心和女子的有点不同罢了。”

康妮把这些话思量着，她对于她到威尼斯去的事，又开始有点疑惧起来，实在说来，她不是故意要躲避她的爱人么？一虽然是短时间，他是知道的，所以他的神气是那么怪异和讥。

虽然！人生常是受环境的机械所支配的，康妮便是这机械的栖牲者。她不能在五分钟内摆脱出来，她甚至边摆脱的心也没有了。

星期四的早晨，希尔达按照预定的时间来到，驶着她的两座轻便汽车，她的衣箱用皮带牢牢地缚在后边，和平家一样，她的样子是端庄的，处女的；但是也和平至少一样，她有着一种倔强的气概，她有一种魔鬼似的倔强的自我意志，这是她的丈夫发觉的。但是现在，这位丈夫正在要求和始离婚了。她呢，她虽然没有情人，但她却给了他许多方便，好去提他的要求。目下。她和男子们疏远了。她倒觉得很满意自己做了自己的主人，和她的两个孩子的主人，她打算把这两个孩子“好好地”教养成人，不管这个词的意义怎样解释。

在小汽车上，康妮也只准带一口衣箱。但是她已经把一日大箱子寄绘她的父亲，由火车带去了。她的父亲刚由苏格兰到伦。他认为到威尼斯何必坐汽车去？在七月天，在意大利用汽车旅行是太热了，所以他还是舒舒服服地乘火车去。

这样，希尔达俨然大元帅似的，严肃地把旅丢失重要事件计划好了。她和康妮在楼上的房子里闸谈着。

“但是，希尔达，”康妮说，心里有点惊惧着她要说下去的话．“今晚我要在这我和附近过夜；不是这儿；是这儿附近。”

希尔达的灰色的、不可思议的跟随，注视着她的妹妹。她的样子似乎非常镇静，但是她却常常盛怒起来。

“传播对方，这儿购近？”她柔和地问道。

“希尔达，你知道我爱上了一个人吧，是不是？”

“是的，我是知道有了什么事情的。”

“那么，他住在这儿附近。我要和他共度过最后的一夜，我得去！我已经答应了。”

康妮固执起来了。

希尔达静默地低着她的象密涅瓦一样的头，然后望着她。

“你愿意告诉我他是谁么？她说。

“他是我们的守猎人，”康妮支吾着说，她的脸孔鲜红起来，好象有个做了坏事的孩子一样。

“康妮！”希尔达说，厌恶地道挺着她的鼻子一这是她母亲传下的姿势。

“我明白，但是他的确是可爱的人，他的的确是了解温情的人。”康妮企图为她的爱人辩护。

希尔达，象脸色鲜艳的雅典娜似的低头沉思着。产际上她正在暴怒着．但是她不敢露了出来，因为酷肖父亲的康妮，努势将立刻放肆争抗起来。

无疑地，希尔达不喜欢克利福和他以大人物自居的冷静的神气，她觉得他无耻地利用着康妮。她曾希望她的妹妹会离开他。但是，她是属于苏格兰的坚固的中等阶级的人，她深恶任何贬抑自己身分。或贬抑家声的事情。

“你将要懊悔的！”她说。”

“不！我决不懊悔！”康妮红着脸喊道，“他是个罕有的例外，我的确爱他，他是个美妙的情人！

希尔达依旧沉思着。

“你转瞬使我要厌倦他的。”她说，“然后你一生便要惭愧你的这种行为。”“不，决不！我希望我不久便要有个他的孩子呢。”

“怎么！康妮！”希尔达说，严厉务象一声铁锤气愤得脸色苍白起来。

“假如你我可以的话，便将有个孩子，假如我有个他的孩子，我将发狂似的骄傲。”

希尔达明白和她争论是无用的，她沉思着。

“克利福没有猜什么吗？”她问道。

“啊，不！猜疑什么呢？”

“我深信你一定给了他不少猜疑的机会。”希年达说。

“不，一点都没有。”

“我觉得今晚的勾当是纯粹的癫狂，那个人住在哪儿？”

“在树林那一端的村舍里。”

“他没有结婚么？”

“结了！但是他的女人离弃了他。”

“什么年纪？”

“我可不知道，比我大些。”

康妮的每句回答，都使希尔达越发愤怒起来，愤怒得和她母亲在生之日一样，愤怒到无可复加的境地，但是她还是隐忍着。

“假如我是你，我决不干今晚的勾当。”她安静地劝道。

“我不能！今晚我定要在他那儿过夜，否则我便不能去威尼斯，我决不能。”

希尔达从康妮的这话里，听出她父亲的声音，她只得让步，但这不过是外交手腕，她同意了和康妮到曼斯非德晚餐，天黑后把她带回到村舍去的山路尽头，早上再到那里去找她。她自己将在曼斯非德过夜，那不过是半点钟的汽车路程，假如汽车开得快的话，但是她对她的妹妹的破坏她的计划，是非常愤怒的，她在心里隐忍着。

康妮在她的窗槛上挂上了一条鲜绿的围巾。

在对于康妮的愤怒里，希尔达不觉对克利福宽大起来，他毕竟是个有智慧的人。说他没有性能，这更好；可以少了一件争吵的理由！希尔达再也不想要肉体的爱了，这东西把男子都变成自私可恶的小鬼子。康妮的生活，实在比多数的女人的生活都安适，不过她不她的神气罢了。

而克利福也断定希尔达毕竟是个无疑的聪明女子，假如一个男子想在政治上活动的话，这种女子是再好不过的助手和伴侣。是的，她不象康妮那么孩子气，那么不可依靠。

在大厅里，大家提早用了午后的茶点，大厅门开着，让太射了进来。大家都仿佛有点气喘。

“再见，康妮，女孩子！平安地回来！”

“再见，克利福！是的，我不久便会回来的！”康妮差不多温柔起来了。

“再见，希尔达！请你用只眼睛看护她。”

“我将用只眼睛呢。”希尔达说，“她决不会怎样迷途的。”

“这就是保证！”

“再见，波太太！我知道你会好好地侍候克利福男爵的。”

“我将尽我的能力，夫人。”

“有付’么消息的时候，给我写信，并且告诉我克利福男爵的种种情形，”

“是的，夫人，我不会忘记，祝你快活，并且早日回来我们的闷！”

大家挥着手巾，车开行了，康妮回转头来，看见克利福在台阶上坐在轮椅里，毕竟是他的丈夫，勒格贝是她近有，这是环境所决定的。

铁伯斯太太把大门打开着，祝了声夫人一路平安，汽车悄悄地出了小树丛幽黑遍布着的大花园，上了大道，那儿矿工们正曳着沉重的步伐归家。希尔达朝着克罗斯山的路驶去，这并不是条大路，但也是到曼斯非德的路，康妮戴上了避尘镜。她们沿着铁道驶去，这铁道在她们下边这一条壕道里。然后她们在壕道上的桥上横过。

“这儿便是到村舍去的小路！”康妮说。

希尔达愤愤地望了望那条小路。

“我们不能一直往前去，真是万分可惜！”她说，“否则我们九点钟使可到帕尔摩了。”

“我真替你抱赚。”戴着眼睛的康妮说。

她们不久便到了曼斯非德。从前这儿是绝妙的一个城市。现在却是个令人气丧的矿工城市了。希尔达在一本旅行指南书中介绍的旅店前停下了，开了一间房子，这一番事于她是毫无意思的，她差不多气愤到了不能说话。但是康妮却忍不住要告诉她一关于那男子的事情。

“他！他！他叫什么名字？你尽是说：他！希尔达说。”

“我从来就没有用名字叫过他，他也没有用名字叫过我。想起来也是奇怪的。我们有时只是用珍奴夫人，和约翰•多马士的名字，但是他的名字是奥利佛•梅乐士。”

“你觉得做奥利佛•梅乐士太太比做查太莱男爵夫人怎么佯？”

“可爱得多了！”

康妮是令人失望的了！虽然，那男子已经在军队里当过了四五年军官，他定然有多少相当的仪表。他似乎是个有身份的，希尔达有点温和起来了。

“但是你不久便要厌倦他的。”她说，“那时你便要因和他发生了关系而感到羞耻呢。我们是不能和工人阶级相混的。”

“但是你自己却是个热心的社会主义者！你常常是站在工人阶级方面的。”

“在政治的危机中，我可以站在他们的方面；但是正因为我站在他们的方面，我知道在生活上和他们相混是多么不可能的事，这并不是势利，实在是因为我们和他们的节奏全不能相谐。”

希尔达曾经在道地的政治界和知识分子中生活过，所以她的话是令人无可答辩的。

在旅馆里，慢慢地度过了嗳昧的黄昏，最后来了个嗳昧的晚餐。晚餐后，康妮捡了些东西放在一个小绸袋里，再梳了一次头发。

“希尔达，”她说，“毕竟爱情是美的，那使你觉得你是生活着，你是在造化的中心。”她仿佛在自夸。

“我想每个景子都有这同样的感觉。”希尔达说。

“是么？以我要替它高兴呢！”

黄昏是奇妙地睛朗，甚至在这个城市里，黄昏也留恋不去，今夜一定是个半透明的夜。希尔达气愤着的脸孔，象是个假面具似的冷酷她把汽车开行了，姊妹俩向原处回去，但走的是经过波梭接的另一条路。

康妮戴着她的避尘眼镜和掩饰面孔的帽子，静默地坐着，希尔达的反对，使她更决绝地站在她的爱人的方面，纵令海拓石烂她也要依附他。

当她们经过克罗斯山时，她们的车灯亮着，在壕道里驶过的光亮的小火车，使人觉和是在夜间了。希尔教研室打算在桥的尽头处转入小路里去。她把速度有点突然地放慢了下来，汽车离开了大路，车灯明亮地照着那蔓草丛生的小咱，康妮往外望着，看见了一个暗影，她把车门打开了。

“我们来了！”她低声地说。

但是希尔达已经把灯光熄了，正专心地把车子退后，想转过头来。

“桥上没有东西吗？”她简略地问道。

“没有，你退罢。”男子的声音说。

她把车子退到桥上，转了方向，在大路上前进了几步，然后再退人小路里，在一株榆树下面，压倒着草丛和藏躲藏康妮步下车来。男子在树下站着。

“你等了珍久了么？”康妮问道。

“不很久。”他答道。

他们俩等丰希尔达下来，但是希尔达却把车门关上了，坐着不动。

“那是我的姊姊希尔达，你愿意来和她说说话么？希尔达！这是梅乐士先生。”

守猎人脱了脱他的帽子，便是没有走上前去。

“希尔达，请你和我们到村舍里去罢。”康妮恳求道：“离这儿不远了。”“但是汽车呢？”

“放在小路去，不要紧的，你有钥匙。”

希尔达不说什么，她犹豫着，然后她望着后面的小路。

“我可以绕过这树丛退了进去么？”她说。

“啊，可以的！”守猎人说。

她慢慢地退着，绕过了树丛后面把汽车锁好了，走下来，已经是夜里了。但是夜色是明亮的，荒凉的小咱两旁，起着高高的野生的篱笆，样子是很黑的，空气中散布着一种新鲜的香留。守猎人在前，康妮跟在他后面，最后是希尔达，大家都静默着，在难走的地方，他把电筒照着，然后又继续。一支猫头鹰在橡树上轻轻地叫着，大家都不能说话；没有什么好说的话。

最后，康妮看见丁屋里的黄色灯光，她的心剧跳起来，她有点害怕起来，他们继续着色贯前进。

他把锁着的门打开了，领他们进到好温暖的、但是空洞的小屋于里。炉火低低地红热地燃着。桌子上摆好了两份子和玻璃杯，这一次，桌布是洁白。希尔达摇了摇她的头发，济览着那空洞而忧郁的屋子。然后她鼓着勇气望着那男子。

他的身材是中等，纤瘦的，她觉得他样子还好看，他默默地守着一种冷淡的态度，仿佛他决不愿开口似的。

坐下罢，希尔达。”康妮说。

“请！”他说，“我给你们什么好呢，茶呢还是旁的东西？或者一杯啤酒！啤酒是够冷的。”

“啤酒吧！”康妮说。

“是的，请你也给我啤酒吧！”希尔达用一种做作的羞怯态度说，他冷眼望着她。

他拿了一个蓝色壶子到厨房间里，带着啤酒回来时，他脸上的表情又变了。

康妮坐在门边，希尔达背着墙坐在他常坐的椅子上，正对着窗角。

“那是他的子。”康妮说，希尔达站了起来，仿佛那子烧了她似的。

“别起来，别起来！随便坐，我们这儿并没有谁是熊。”他很泰然地用土话说道。

他给希尔达一只玻璃杯，替她先斟了啤酒。

“香酒我这儿是没有的。”他说，“但是也许你们自己有罢，我自己是不舞烟的，您要吃什么东西么？”他回转头去对康妮说，“您要吃点什么东西么？您普通是不推辞的。”他怪自若地说他的土话，仿佛是个乡间旅舍的主人。”

“有什么好吃的？”康妮脸红着问道。

“煮熟的火腿和干酷核桃，随你们喜欢。并没有什么好东西。”

“好的！”康妮说，“你吃一点么；希尔达？”

希尔达举目望着他。

“为什么你说约克郡的土话？”她温和地说。

“那不是约克郡话，那是德比话，”他望着她，模棱地冷笑着说。

“德比话，好罢！为什么你说德比话？你开始的时候不是说大家所；兑的英语么？”

“是么！但是假如我高兴的话；难道我不能换换么？唔，唔，让我说德比话，如果我觉得合适。我想您不反对罢！”

“那仿佛有点矫揉做作了。”希不达说。

“嗳，也许！但是达娃斯哈，倒是您才象矮做作呢。”他用一种怪疏远的态度，偏着脸打量着她，仿佛说：“你，你是谁呵？”

他到伙食间里去取食物。

姊妹俩沉默着坐着。他带了另一份碟子和刀刃回来，然后他说：

“假如你们不介意，我要象平常一样把外衣除了。”

他把他的外衣脱了挂在衣钩上，穿着一件薄薄的，淡黄色的法兰绒衬衣，在桌边坐下。

“随意罢！”他说，“随意罢！别等人来请！”

他把面包切了，静坐着，希迎达象康妮前些时一样，感到了他的静默和冷淡的力量。她看见的不大的、锐敏的手，不经意地放在桌上。无疑地他不是个不简单的工作！不！他是做作的！做作的！

“不过，”她一边拿了一小零部件干酷一边说，“假如你对我们说普通的英语，一定比说土话来得自然些。”

但望着她，感觉到她的魔般的坚强的意志。

“是么？”他用普通的英语说，是么？不过我与您之间有什么很自然的话可说？除非您告诉我，您愿我坠人地狱，好让您的妹妹不再见我；于是我回答些一样难堪的话，此外还有什么是自然的？”

“啊，有的！”希尔达说，“讲点礼貌便是很自然的。”

“那便是第二天性，可以这么说罢！”他说着笑了起来。“不，我是厌恶礼貌了，别管我罢！，”

希尔达分明地无话可说了。赚得满腔的愤怒，哼，他应该知道人家休面了他，而他却摆着重要角色的威风神气，仿佛以为是他给了人家体面似的，多么鲁薷！可怜的康妮，迷失在这么一个人的爪掌里！

三个人静默地吃着，希尔达留心看着他在餐桌上的仪态怎样，她不得不承认他是本能地比她自己优雅高尚得多的。她有着某种苏样兰人的笨重态度，而他呢，他有着英国人所有的缄默的、自制的安泰一无聊可剩的安泰，他是不易屈服于人的。

但是她也是决不力他所报导服的。她说：

“你真以为这件事值得冒险吗？”她有点温和下来了。

“什么事值得什么冒险？”

“和我妹妹的这件事。”

他脸上露着不快的苦笑，用土话说：

“那你得去问她！”

然后他望着康妮。

“那是您甘心情愿的，是不是，女孩和？我没有强迫您罢？”

康妮望着希尔达。

“我希望你不要拔是非罢，希尔达。”她说。

“我决不想挑拔什么是非。但是总得有个人去想想是非。在生活中，不得不有点某种永久性。你不能一味胡闹的。”

他们静默了一会。

“咳，永久性！”他说，“那是什么意思？您自己的生命里可有什么永久性？我相信您正在离婚罢，不知道这里头的永久性是什么？这不过是您自己的执锄性的永久性罢，我看很明白，那永久性于您有什么好处？您不久便要厌恶这永久性。一个执锄的女人和她的自我意志！咳，这两种东西合起来便成个好漂亮的永久性，的确！谢谢天，幸得您的事与我无涉！”

“你有什么权利对我说这种话？”希尔达说。

“什么权利？你又有什么权利把您的永久性来厌烦他人？不要管他人的永久性罢。”

“我的好汉哟，你以为你和我有什么关系么？”希迎达温和地说。

“是的！”他说，“有的，愿他罢，不愿也罢，你多少总是我的阿姨了。”

“还差得远呢，我确实告诉你。”

“并不如您想象的远，我确实告诉您。我有我自己的永久性，我的水久性决不输您的永久性！假如您的妹妹到我这儿来找点性爱和温情，她自己知道她打的是什么主意。她在我的床上睡过，这是非您的永久性所能有后，谢谢上帝！”他停下一会，然后继续说，“嗳，我不是个呆子，假如一块天鹅肉落在我嘴边我只好多谢天，有这么一个美人儿，一个男子不知能够享受多少的乐趣，不象您一类的女了那么难说，说起来也是可惜的，您本来是可以象一只好苹果的，而你却是个好看不好吃的野苹果，象你这样的女子是需要接种的。

他带了一种鉴赏家的有点肉感的怪笑望着她。

“而象你这样的男子。”她说，“是应该了起来，这是他们的极鄙与自私欲所应得的惩罚。”

“是的，太太！世上还有我这种人已经是幸福了。至于您呢，没有人睬您，喧是您所活该的。”

希尔达已经向边走去，他也站了起来，在衣钩上取了他的外衣。

“我一个人很可以找到我的路。”她说。

“我恐怕你不能呢。”他从容地答道。

在静默中，他们重重新在那可笑地鱼贯面蚝，那只猫头鹰还在叫着，他恨不得把它杀掉。

汽车还是好好地停在那儿，有点给露水沾湿了。希尔达上了车，把机器开动了，剩下的两个人在等待着。

“总之，我的意思是，她在汽车里面说，“我诚恐你们两个都要觉得悔不当初！”

“一个人的佳肴是另一个人的毒物，他在黑暗里说，“但是在我，这既是佳肴又是美酒。”

车灯亮了起来。

“康妮，早上别让我等。”

“是的，我不会你等的。晚安！”

汽车慢慢地出到了大路上，然后飞逝了，寂静的夜又笼罩了一切。

康妮羞怯地挽着他的手臂他们向着村舍归去，他一句话也不说，过了一会她使他站住了。

“吻一吻我吧！”她喃喃地说。

“不、等一会吧。等我的气消了。”他说。

这话使她觉得好笑起来，她依旧挽着他的手臂他们静默地，匆匆地回去，她现在和他在一起了。她是怪高兴的，当她想到希尔达差不多把他们拆散了时候，她寒战了一下，他在不可思议地静默的。

当他们回到村舍里去时，她觉得脱离了她的姊姊了。她高兴得差不多跳跃起来。

“但是你使希尔达太难为情了。”她对他说。

“她实在是该吃耳光的。”

“为什么呢？她是怪好的人！”

他并不回答，只是沉静地、安泰地忙着晚上的工作，他在外表上是愤怒的，可不是对她愤怒，康妮觉得出来。在愤怒中的他，有一种深刻、光泽的、特殊的美，使她心醉，使她的四脚酥软。

他老是不注意她。

最后，他坐下去解鞋带。然后他仰望着她，那眉端依旧蕴藏！着怒气。

“你要上楼去么？”他说，“那边有一枝蜡烛！”

他迅疾地把多倾了一倾，指示着桌上点着的蜡烛。她驯服地把蜡烛拿在手里，当她上楼的时候，他注视着她的饱满的臀部的曲线。

那是个惊人的情欲之夜。在这夜里，她有点吃惊而且差不多觉得无可奈何起来，然而在那最恰人意的关头，一种比温情战栗更不同、更尖锐、更可怖的刺人的战栗，把她钻穿了。虽然是有点怕，她却毫不推却地让他瓷情任性，一种无因而不羞怯的肉感，摇撼着她，摇撼到她的骨髓，把她脱到一丝不挂，使她成了一个新的妇人。实在那并不是爱。那并不是淫欲。那是一种火似的烧人的尖锐的内感，把灵魂烧成火绒一样。

这种火似的肉感，在那最秘密的地方，把最古老而最深刻的羞耻心焚毁了。结果是使康妮地卖力让她的爱人您情任性的享受她。她是个无抵抗的、逢迎迁就的东西。好象一个奴录，一个肉体的奴录，情欲的毁灭的火，却舐着她的周身，当这欲焰紧束地经过她的心怀与脏腑的时候，她真是觉得她是互着了。可是好一个痛快而神奇的死哟！

她曾常常地奇怪过，亚培拉所谓他与海萝伊斯相爱之时，所有情欲的微妙花样都尝过了，是什么意思，原来同样的东西，在千年以前，甚至在万年以前就有过了，同样的东西在希腊的土瓶上，随处都有！情欲的种种微妙、肉感的种种放肆，那是必需，绝对地必需的。用纯粹的肉感的火，去把虚焦的羞耻心焚毁了，把人体的沉浊的杂质溶解了，使它成为纯洁。

在这一个短短的夏夜里，她不知懂得了多少的事情！在这夜以前，她差不多相信了一个妇人是会因羞耻而死的；然而现在，死的却是羞耻，羞耻不过是恐惧罢了，在我们的肉体的根蒂里深伏着那种官能的羞耻，那种古老的，古老的肉体的恐惧，只有肉感的火才能把它赶走。最后，它是给男子的“地乐士”的追击所惊醒而溃散，于是她便来到她的生命的莽原之中心了。

现在，她觉得已经来到了她的天性的真正的原如处所，并且觉得她原本就是无羞惧的了。她是她的原来的、有肉感的自我，赤裸裸的、毫无羞惧的自我。她觉得胜利，差不多光荣起来！原来如此！生命原来是如此的！一个人的本来面目原来是如此的！世上是没有需要掩茂怕东西，没有需要害羞的东西的！她和一个男子一另一个人，共享着她的终极的赤裸。

而且是个多么肆无忌惮的恶魔似的男了！真象个恶魔！一个不坚强的人是承受不了他的。但是要达到那肉体的莽原一中心，要达到那官能的羞惧心的最后最深的伏处，是不容易的。只有“法乐士”有这窥探的本领。啊！他把她压得多么紧！

啊！在惊怖中，她曾多么恨它，但是实际上，她多么需要它！现在她明白了，在她的灵魂的根基处，深深地，她是需要而且秘密地希望这“法乐士”的追击的，不过她相信她不会得到罢了。现在，突然地，它来到了，一个男子在共享着她最终最后的赤裸，她一点儿羞惧都没有了。

诗人和世人真是一些骗子！他们使你相信你需要感，其实你所最需要的是这尖锐的、消蚀的、有点可怖的肉感。找个无羞惧、无罪过、无心疚的大胆从事的男子！假如他事后觉得羞惧，而且令人觉得羞惧，那就令人寒心了！多么可惜，多数的男人都这么怯懦，害羞，如克利福！甚至如蔑克里斯！这两个／、在肉感上都是有点儿象狗，有点儿奴颜卑膝的。所谓“精神的无上快乐！”这对于一个女人有什么价值？而且事实上，对于一个男子又有什么价值！那不过把精神弄得一塌糊湖糊涂而卑鄙罢了，甚至想把精神纯洁化、灵敏化起来，也得要这唯一的肉感才能成功，唯一的火假的肉感，而不是混沌一团的幻想。

啊！上帝啊，一个真正的男子是多可珍贵的东西！男人们大都是些只知东跑西窜，只知东闻西嗅，只知苟且交尾的狗。找到了一个无畏宿、无羞惧的男子！多可珍贵！她望着他在酣睡着，好象一个睡着的野兽似的，深深地迷失在睡官中。她鸟儿似地栖依在他的身边，诚恐脱离了他。

他醒来的时候，她的睡意也全失了。他坐了起来，俯望着她，好从他的里，看出了她自己的赤裸，直接的她的自我。那男性对她的认识，好象流液似地从他的眼眼里传到了她身上，把她春怠融融地包了起来，啊，这半睡的、饱和着热烈情欲的、沉重的肢体，是多么撩人肉欲，多么可爱！

“是起身的时候了么？”她说。

“六点半了。”

八点钟她便得到小咱的尽头去，老是，老是，老是这不容人的世事！

“我可以去弄早餐，弄好了带上这儿来，好吗？”

“啊，好的！”

佛萝茜在楼下轻轻的呜咽着。她起身把睡衣除了，用一条毛巾擦着他的身体，当一个人充满着勇气与生命的时候，是多么美丽！她一边静默地望着他，一边心里这么想着。

“把窗商拉开，好不好？”

太阳已经在早晨的嫩绿的树叶上照耀着了。近边的树林，显得蔚蓝而新鲜的颜色。她坐在床上，梦一般地望着楼窗外面，她的赤裸裸的两臂把她赤裸的两只乳房挤得凑合拢来。他在穿着衣服。她在梦幻着生活，与他共同的生活：这才叫生活！

他正在走开，避开她的危险的媚人的赤裸。

“难道我把睡衣都失去了么？”她说。

他伸手在床下边摇出一条薄薄的绸衣。

“在夜里我就觉得脚踝上有着什么绸的东西。”他说。

但是那睡衣已经差不多裂成两片了。

“不要紧！”她说，“它是属于这间房子的；我把它留在这儿罢。”

“是的，留在这儿罢，夜里我可以把它放在两腿间陪伴我。上面没有什么史字或标记么？”

她穿上了那撕破的睡衣，梦一般地望着窗外。窗门开着，清晨的空气和乌声透专进来，乌儿不住地飞过，然后她看见佛萝茜徘徊着走出门外，这是早晨了。

她听见他在楼下生火，舞水，从后门出去，她渐渐地闻着了煎肉的气味。最后，他端了一个大得刚能通过门框的黑色大托盘，走上楼来，他把找盘放在床上，斟着茶，康妮穿着那撕破了的睡衣，蹲伏着狼吞虎咽起来。他从城那唯一椅子上，他的碟子放在膝上。

“多么好！”她说，“在一起吃早餐是多么美妙！”

他静默地吃着，心里想着那在飞逝的时光，那使她想起来了。

“啊，我真希望我可以留在这儿和你一块，并且勒格贝在一百万里以外！但是事实上我正脱离着勒格贝呢，你知道吧，是不是？”

“是的！”“你答应我们将住在一起，将在一起生活，你和我！你答应吧，是不是？”

“是的，当我们能够的时候。”

“是啊！这不会久了，不会久了，是不是？”她向他斜依着，握着他的手腕，她把茶杯里的茶倾溢了出来。

“是的！”他一边说，一边整理着溢在托盘的茶。

“此后，我们再也不能在一起生活了，是不是？”她恳求地说。他苦笑了一笑，仰望着她。

“不氏蝗！不过在二二分钟内你便得走了。”

“只有二十五分钟了么？”她叫道。突然地，他举着手指，叫她不要出声，他站了起来，佛萝茜猛然吠了一声，跟着又高声地吠着几声，仿佛告警似的。

默默地，他把碟子放在托盘上，走下楼来，康妮听见他向园里的小径出去，一个脚踏车铃声在那外边响着。

“早安，梅乐士先生！一封挂号信！”

“啊，喂！你有铅笔么？”

“有的！，！

停顿了一会。

“加拿大！”那生人的声音说。

“是的！这是我从前一位朋友，他在在英属哥化比亚。不知道什么事用得着挂号信。”

“也许他寄你一笔大钱呢。”

“或者是来要点什么东西吧，这倒更象。”

静了一会。

“喂！又是个睛朗的日子！”

“是的！”

“早安广

“早安！”

过了一会，他回到楼上，脸上带点怒容。

“邮差。”他说。

“他来得好早啊！”她答道。

“这是乡间的邮递；他来的时候，多数总是七点左右来的。”

“是不是你的朋友寄绘你一笔大钱？”

“不，只是几张关于那边的一个产业的像片和文件罢了。”

“你想到那边去么？”

“我想或者我们是可以支的。”

“啊，是的！我相信那是个可有可爱的地方！”

但是，这邮差的来到，使他扫兴了。

“这些该死的脚踏车，不等到你留神它们便来到了。我希望他没有听见什么。”

“毕竟他听见佬呢！”

“现在你得起来，作好准备。我到外面看看就来。”

她看见他带着他的狗儿和枪，到那小咱上巡察，她下楼去梳洗，等到他回来时，她已经准备好了，把几件零的东西也收拾在她的小绸裹里。

他把门上了锁，他们向着林中下去，却不走那条小咱。他小心着。

“你认为人一生中可以有几个好时期过着象昨夜那种生活么？”她对他说。

“是的！不过也得想想其余的时期呢。”他有点简短地答道。

他们在林中草径上缓缓地瞳着；他默默地瞳到前面。

“我们不久便将在一起共同生活，是不是？”她恳求道。

“是的！”他答一道，头也不回，只顾前进。“当时机到了的时候！但是此刻你正要到威尼斯或什么地方去。”

她无言地跟着他，心里抑郁着。啊，多么难舍难离！

最后他站住了。

“我要打这边过去了。”他指着右边说。

但是她举着两臂环抱着他的颈项，紧紧地侵依着他。

“但是你对我的温情不会变吧，会不会？”她细声说，“我爱昨夜！但是你对我的温情不会变，会不会？”

他吻了吻她，把她紧紧地拥抱了一会。然后他又叹息着，重新了吻了吻她。

“我得看汽车来了没有。”

他踏过了那低低的荆刺和羊齿草丛，经过处留晒了一条痕迹。他去了几分钟，回来说：

“汽车还没有来．但是大路上停着一部送面包的货车。”

他显得焦虑不安的样子。

“听！”

他们听见一部汽车轻轻地响着呈懈驶近了，这汽车在桥上慢了下来，她无限悲伤地踏进了荆刺丛中，沿着他留下的脚痕走去，到了一排庞大的冬青树篱笆面前，他正在她的后面。

“那边！打那边过去！”他指着一个空隙说，“我不过去了。”

她失望地望着他，但是他吻了吻她，叫她出去，她满腔悲伤地爬过了冬青树丛和木栅，颠踬地走下小壕堑，颠踬地走上那小坡上去，希尔达不见康妮，正在那儿恼怒着走下车来。

“啊！你来了！”希尔达说，“他在哪儿呢？”

“他不来了。”

当康妮拿着她的小手囊上车去的时候，她的脸上流着眼泪，希尔达把风帽和眼镜交给她。

“戴上罢广她说。

康妮把掩饰的东西戴上了。然后再穿了一件乘汽车用的外套，变成了一个不能的不象人的东西了。希尔达匆匆地把汽车开动了。她们出了小路，向着大路驶去，康妮回转头去望了望，但是没有目的地见他的影迹。她走了！走了！她苦楚地流着眼泪，这离别来得这样骤然，这样意外！好象是死别似的；

“谢谢天，你要离开这人一些时日了！”希尔达一边说；一边把车子转着方，免得打克罗斯山的山村落经过。
Chapter 17
`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 flaneurs, 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.' 


“你知道，希尔达。”午饭过后，当她们临近来的时候，康妮说：“你从来没有过什么是真正的温情，或什么是真正的肉感，假如你从一个同一人的人经验到这两种东西，那是大大不同的。” 

“老天哟，别厌张你的经验罢！”希尔达说，“我从来就没有碰过一个能够和女人亲密能委身于女人的男人，我所需要的便是这一种男人，我并不希罕他们的自私的温情和他们的肉感。我不愿做一个男人的小固固，也不愿做他的取乐的肉机器，我所要的是完备的亲密，而我却得不到。我觉得够了。”

康妮思量着这话，完备的亲密！她猜想所谓亲密，便是两个人互相暴露自己。但那是烦恼的事情。在男女关系之中，而不能忘却自我，那是种疾病！

“我觉得你在他人之前，太想到你自己了。”她对她的姊姊说。

“我希望我至少没有奴隶的天性。”希尔达说。

“但是现在你恰恰有这天性呢！也许你是你的自我观念的奴隶。”

希尔达开着汽车，静默了一会，康妮这小妮子！竟敢说这闻所未闻的鲁莽话！

“我总不是他人对我的观念的奴隶，尤其这个人并不是我的丈夫的仆佣。”她最后狂怒地报复道。

“啊，希尔达，人不明白。”康妮泰然说。

她一向总是让她的姊姊支配她的。现在呢，虽然她的心底里有不能言宣的苦痛，但是她却不让另一个女人来支配她了。啊！只这一端便足使觉得解脱了，觉得好象得到了另一个生命似的。从另一个女人的奇异的支配和魔力之下解脱而自由起来！这些女人们是多么可怕哟！

和父亲聚首是使她快乐的事，她一向是他的宠女。她和希尔达任在波尔摩尔区的一家小旅馆里，麦尔肯爵士住在他的惧乐部里，晚上地带女儿们出去，丽她们是喜欢和他出去。

虽然他有点害怕他周围的新兴世界，但是他还是个漂亮而强壮的人。他在苏格兰续娶了一位比他年轻而富有的。但是他一有离开她的可能时，他总喜欢在外边优游度日的：这正象他的前妻还在的时候一样。

在歌剧院里，康妮坐他的旁边，他有点他的大腿是肥满的，但依旧是结实而轻快的，这是一个享受过生之乐趣的人的本腿，他的愉快的性情，他的自私，他的固执的放纵无，他的无质侮的肉感，康妮觉得这一切都可以从他的轻快而坚直的两条大腿看出来。这是个真男子！不过他现在已成为一个老人了．这是令人不快的事！因为青春的精华所寄的锐感和温情的力量，是一旦有过便永不消失的，而在他的强壮肥厚的男性的两腿上，却毫无踪影了。

突然，康妮明白两腿的意义了。她觉得两腿的意义比脸孔更为重要。因为脸孔的意义已变成虚焦了。有生命的灵敏的腿，我么罕有！她望着正厅里的男子们。都是一些黑布懈裹着的脑肠似的大腿，或是一些象套着黑色丧布的瘦削的本竿，或是一些样子好看的提青的腿，但是毫无意义，没有肉感，没有温情，没有锐觉只是些高视步的庸俗的死东西。甚至他父亲所有的肉感都全没有。它们都是被慑服了的，失去了生命的东西。

但是女人们是没有被慑服的！唉！多数女人的可怖的粗大的腿！看了令人震怒，令人想行杀的粗大的腿！或者是些可怜的瘦长木柱！或者是些穿着丝袜的，毫无生气的雅致的小东西！真可怕，这几百万条毫无意义的腿，毫无意义在随处趾高气扬！……

但是康妮在伦敦并不觉得快活，人们好象都是幽灵似的空洞，虽然有时他们也显得活泼和漂亮，但是他们都是没有生命，没幸福的。一切都是空洞荒芜，而康妮呢，她有的却是一个妇人的盲目地渴望幸福的心，渴望确实得到幸福的心。

在巴黎，她至少还感觉得到一点肉感。但这是多么厌倦、疲乏和衰败的肉感。因为缺乏温情而衰败的肉感，厌倦着金钱、金钱、金钱的追逐，甚至厌倦着憎恨与虚荣，简直厌倦得要死！却又不够美国化或伦敦化，去把这厌倦掩藏在机械的嚣声里！唉！那些男子，那结游荡者，那些玩弄女属于得，那些佳看的享受者！他们是多么厌倦！厌倦了，衰败了，因为得不到一点温情，也没有一点温情可以给与。那些能干的，有时是动人怜爱的女子们，对于肉感的真实性是知道一二的：在这一点上，她们是比英国的愚昧的姊妹们胜过一筹的。但是她们对于温情却知道得更少。她们是干枯的，她们的意愿是无穷地干拓，地紧张着的，她们也正在衰败。人类的世界渐渐在衰败下去。也许这种世界将变成凶暴的破坏者，变成一种无政府状态，克利福和他的保守的无政府主义！也许不久便再也不是“保守的”了。也许将要变成最过激的无政府状态了。

康妮开始惧怕这世界了。有时，她在巴黎的大街，或布兰林中，或卢森堡公园里，也觉得着一时的快乐。但是巴黎已经充满着一些装束古怪的美国人，和一些到了国外便令人讨厌的阴沉的英国人了。

她高兴地离开了巴黎去继续她们的旅程，天气突然变得很热了，所以希尔达决意通过，经布冷纳山道，然后从多罗米山地而至威尼斯。希尔达喜欢自己驾驶汽车，爱料理一切的事情，事事由她作主。康妮却乐得清闲安静。

沿途的确是很适意的。但是康妮不住地自己说：“我为什么一点光趣都没有？为什么什么都引不起我的兴趣？多么可怖，我对于风景都失掉兴趣了！那是可怖的！我象圣伯纳德似的，他渡了过卢塞思湖，却连青山绿水都没有看见。风景既然再也不使我发生兴趣了，那么为什么要强迫自己去欣赏？为什么？我不！”

是的，她在法国、瑞士、提罗尔和意大利都找不以有生气的东西，她只象货物似的，被运载着，打这些地方经过，并且这一切都比勒格贝更不真实，比那可怖的勒格贝更不真实！

至于人们呢！他们都是一样的，没有什么大不贩地方。他们都想您掏腰包，否则，假如他们是游客的话，他们便无论如何都得寻找快乐，好象把石头挤出血来似的找寻。可怜的山峦！可怜的风景！它们邦昨给人挤，挤出点小快活、小乐趣来。这些决心享乐的人们，究竟有什么意义？

“不！”康妮对自己说，“我宁愿留在勒格贝。那儿，动静。由我，不用鉴赏什么，不用做作什么。这种旅客的寻乐。实在是太单屈的，太无聊的！”

她想回勒格贝去，甚至回埂克利福那里去。甚至回到那可怜的残刻的克利福那里去。无论如何，耸总不象这些暑假游历的傻子们一般的傻呢。

但是在她的内心里，她却没有民那另一个人，她和他的联系决不可中断。啊！决不可中断，否则她便要迷失了，便要完全地迷失在这些有钱的废人和雪乐虫中间了。啊！这些雪乐虫！啊！“离乐”！这是令人作呕的另一种摩登花样。

她们把汽车停在梅斯脱的一家汽车行里，坐了定时航行的汽船到威尼斯去，那是一个可爱的夏天午后。湖水起着涟漪。在彼岸背向着她们的威尼斯，在庞大的太阳光下，显得朦胧暗淡，

到了码头后，她们换了一只游艇，把地址告诉了舟子。那是个普通的舟子，穿着件蓝带白的宽外衣：相貌并不很好看，一点特别的地方都没有。

“是的！埃姆拉达别墅！是的！我认得的！那里的一位先生坐过我的船，但是离这儿很远呢。”

他看来是个孩子气气的躁急的家伙。他躁得有些过甚地划着船，经过那些两边起着可怖的粘腻的绿寺的小运河，这些小河经过一些穷苦人家的区域，那儿，看得见洗涤过的衣物高高地挂在绳七，并且有一股乍浓乍淡的阴沟气味。

但是她们终于来到了两边有行人道的空阔的运河，上面跨着下结拱桥，河道笔直，和大运河适成直角。他们坐在小船筵下面，舟子高踞在她们的后边。

“小姐们要在埃姆拉达别墅久住吗？”他一边说，一边从容地划着船，并且用一条自黑带蓝的手巾揩着脸的汗。

约莫二十天的样子，我们俩都是结了婚的太太。“希尔达说，她的奇沉哑的声音，使她的意大利话说得更难听。

“啊！二十天！”那个人说。过了一会他又问道：“太太们，在这二十天内要不要雇一只艇子？按日计算，或者按星期计算？”

康妮和希尔达考虑着。在威尼斯，总是有一部分自己的游艇好，正如在陆地上，总是有一部自己的汽车好一样。

“别墅里有什么船？”

“有一只小汽车船，也有一只游艇，但是……”这个“但是”是说：它们不是你们的。

“你要多少钱？”

他要三十先令一天，十金镑一星期。

“这是通常的价钱么？”希尔达道。

“比通常的价钱更便宜，太太，通常是……”

姊妹俩考虑着。

“好吧！”希尔达说，“你明天早上来，我们再定夺吧。你叫什么么名字？”

他叫佐万尼，他问他应该在几点钟来，应该找哪一位。希尔达没有名片，康妮把她的给了他一张。他的热烈的南国人的蓝色，迅疾地往上瞥了一瞥，然后又望了一望。

“啊！”他说，脸孔光亮了起来，“男爵夫人！男爵夫人，是不是广

“柯士登沙男爵夫人！”康妮说。

埃拇拉达别野是很无宾，在那浅湖的边上，面对着纪奥遮。房子并不很老，。却很可爱，上面的平台前临大海，下面是个树木葱笼的花园，从湖边起着一道围墙绕着。

主人是个有点粗俗的笨重的苏格兰人，他大战前在意大利发了一笔大财。因为在大战中十分爱国，所以封了爵士。他的女人是那种清瘦、苍白、泼辣的人，她私人是没有财产的。她的不幸的地方，便是要管束她的丈夫的有点龌龊的招峰引蝶的行为。但是在冬季里，他发了一场小病，现在他是比较容易被驾驭了。

别墅差不多住满了容，除了麦尔具体地说爵士和他的两个女儿外，还有七位客人：一对苏格兰夫妇，也带了两个女儿；一位是年轻的意利的伯爵夫人，她是个寡妇；一位是年轻的乔治亚亲王；另一位断纪还劝的英国牧师，他因为患过炎，现在在亚力山大爵士的小教堂里主事，藉此休养身体。那位亲王是个囊空如洗的漂亮人物，厚颜无耻，拿来做个车夫是很不错的！伯爵夫人是个沉静的小猫猫，她有她自己的小勾当。那牧师是个从巴克斯教会来的经验缺乏头脑简单的人；他侥幸地把他的女人和两个孩子留在家里。那苏格兰夫妇一家四口一他们姓加丝利，是爱丁堡的坚实的中等阶级人家，他们坚实地享受一切，事事敢做敢说，只要自己不吃亏。

康妮和希尔达立即把要王排挤了。加丝利一家人，多少是她们的同种人，很实在，但是令人讨厌。他们的两个女儿正在找丈无。牧师并不是一个坏爱伙，就是太繁文缛礼了。亚力山大爵干呢，自从他发了小病后，在他的欢快中总是带着一种可怕的呆滞，但是家里来了这么许多美丽的少妇们，依然是一件使他心迷目乱的事情。他的太太一柯泊爵士夫人，是个沉静的善阿澳的妇人。可怜她并不怎么快乐，她只冷静地留心着所有的女子，这竞成了她的第二天性了。她说些冷酷的卑劣的闲话，那证明她对于一切人类天性是多么瞧不起。康妮觉得她对于仆人是非常阴毒虐待的，不过她的样子很静罢了。她巧妙地使亚力山在爵士相信“他”是一家之主和王候，因为他有那自以为快活的隆然大腹，他有那使人厌烦的笑在他有那“滑稽性”一依希尔达的说法。

麦尔肯爵士作着他的绘画。是的，他还想在有时间时画一幅威尼斯的水景。这种水景和他的苏格兰风景比起来是相异的。于是每天早晨，他带了大画布，乘着游艇到他的取景处去。稍迟一点，柯泊夫人有时也带了画簿和颜色，乘游艇到市区中心去，她是个执迷不悟的水彩画家，满屋里尽是一幅一幅的玫瑰色宫殿，暗淡的运河拱桥，中古时代的建筑物。再迟一点，便是加丝利一家人，亲王，伯爵夫人，亚力山在爵士，有时是牧师林德先生，乘船到丽岛去洗浴。大家都回得晚，午餐总是在一点半左右的。

别墅里宾主聚会的时候，是特殊地令人厌烦的。但是姊妹俩却用不着埋怨。好司令部整天都在外边。好司令部的父亲带她们去看展览会；几里路几里路的令人头痛的图画。他带她们上卢齐西别墅去看他的老朋友。天热的晚上，他和她们坐在皮亚沙上面的佛负边咖啡馆里。他带她们上剧院，去看哥多尼的戏剧。有的是灯彩辉煌的水上游艺会，有的是跳舞场。这是所有游乐城市中的一个游乐场城市。丽岛上，挤拥着成千成万的阳光晒赤了的或穿着轻便的睡衣裤的肉体，好象是个无限的海豹从水中出来在那里配偶的海滨。皮亚沙的人太多了，丽由的人类肢体太多了，游艇太多了，汽船太我了，轮船太多了，鸽儿太多了，冰冻饮食太多了，醇酒太多了，等小帐的仆人太多了，不同的语言太多了，阳光太多了，威尼斯的气味太多了，一船船的杨梅太多了，丝围巾太多了，大块的西瓜，生牛肉片似的摆在货摊上，太多了，娱乐太多了，唉！太多太多的娱乐！

康妮和希尔达穿着夏季的轻便衣裳，东穿西窜。她们认识许多的人，许多的人认识她们。葛地里蔑克里斯象个不受欢迎的人出现在她们面前：“喂，怎么！你们住在哪儿？来吃杯冰激淋或什么东西吧！和我乘我的游艇上什么地方去罢。”甚至蔑克里斯都差不多给太阳晒赤了。其实不如说给太阳尊焦了，才更适合于这一大堆人内的那种光景。

在某点上说来，那是有趣的，那差不多可说是快乐，总之，痛饮醇酒，身体浸在暖水里，在炙人的沙上晒太阳。在暖热的夜里，循着乐队的喧声跳舞，肚儿抵着肚儿。吃些冰冻东西凉快下来，这是个完美的麻醉剂。他们全体所需要的，便是麻醉剂；静流之水，是麻醉剂；太阳，是麻醉剂；跳舞、纸烟、醇酒、冰、苦艾酒，都无非是麻醉剂。麻醉！那便是享乐那！便是享乐！

希尔达是半喜欢麻醉的。她喜欢望着所有的女人，猜想着她们是什么人，干什么的。女人对于女人的兴趣是十分浓厚的。她是否漂亮？她勾上的是什么男子？她得到的是什么乐趣？……男子们象是一些穿白色法兰绒裤的大狗，等待着被人爱抚。等待着打滚作乐，等待着在音乐声中，用他们的肚皮去摩擦一个女人的肚皮。

希尔达喜欢跳舞，因为他可以把她的肚皮贴着一个所谓男子汉的肚皮，并且让他从那内脏的中央引导着跳的动作，在场中四处打转，然后她可以悄悄地走开，把那“脚色”忘记了。他只不过被利用一下罢了，可怜的康妮，她却有点闷闷不泺。

她不愿跳舞，因为她简直就不能把她的肚皮去磨擦他人的肚皮。她厌恨这丽岛上成堆成堆的差不多赤裸裸的人肉的聚合一丽岛的水几乎还不够把他们个个浸湿呢。她不喜欢亚力山大爵士和柯泊爵士夫人。她不愿意蔑克里斯和任何人跟着她。

有时，她把希尔达说服了”陪着她渡过浅湖，远远地到了一处荒寂的沙滩上，那儿，她们可以怪孤独的洗浴，把游艇停在礁石的后面，这便是康妮最快乐的时间了。

那时佐万尼多用了一个舟子来帮助他，因为路达远了，而且他在太阳下面汗流如注。佐万尼是个很可爱、对人很亲切的人一意大利人都是这样，却毫无热情。意大利人不是热情的民族；因为热情是深刻的，蕴蓄的。他们易于感动，常常也很亲切起来；但是他们却罕有持续不变的任何热情。

这样，佐万尼早已委身于他的两位太太了，正如他过去曾委身于无数的其他太太们一样他已毫无犹豫地甘心卖身于她们，假如她们要他的话；他暗暗地希望着她们要他。她们定会给他一注可观的缠头，那便巧妙了，因为他正准备结婚。他告诉她们于他的结婚的事，而她们也觉得有味地听着。

他想，横渡这浅湖到那种荒寂的沙滩上去，大概总是那回事：所谓那回事便是！爱。所以他叫了个帮手，因为路是远的，而且城有两位太太呢。两位太太便得两条鱼！高明的计算！况且是两位鲜丽的太太哟！他想到这个便不禁得意起来，虽然给钱和发命令的是那位大大太，但他却颇希望那位年轻的男爵夫人会选中他去担任那回事。她给的钱一定也会更多的。

他带来的助手叫丹尼。他并不是真正的游艇舟子，所以他没有那种卖笑男姐的神气。他本来是个大船上的船户，这种大船是运载附近岛屿所产的水果和其他出品到威尼斯来的。

丹尼生得标致，身材高大美好，他的圆整的头上，长得淡褐色的细密的卷发。他有一个雄狮似的好看的男子的脸孔，和两只相离很无的蓝色的眼睛，他不象佐万尼似的媚态洋溢、饶舌和嗜酒如命。他静默着，他从容地有力地划着浆，旁若无人。太太们是太太们，和他是远隔关睥。他甚至瞧也不瞧她们，他只望着前面。

这是一个真男子，当佐万尼喝多了，笨掘地乱拔着浆的时候，他便恼怒起来。这是一个男子，正如梅乐士是一个男了，一样是个威武不屈贫贱不移的人，康妮不禁替那放荡的佐万尼的妻室怜惜起来。但是丹尼的妻定是个威尼斯的妖媚可爱的民间妇女之一，这种妇女，我们还可以见到，她们住在这迷宫似的城市的幽僻的地方，幽雅朴素得如花一样。

唉！多么悲哀的事！起先是男了了买妇子的身，现在却是女子买男子的身了，佐万尼渴想着出卖他自己，象一只狗似地流口沫希冀着把自己送给一个女人。为了金钱！

康妮遥望着威尼斯：红粉的颜色。低低地铺在水上。它是金钱建筑起来的，它是金钱繁荣起来的，并且也是金钱把它杀死的。啊！这致死的金钱！金钱！金钱！卖身与死！

虽然这样，丹尼却依旧是个男子，他有着一个男子的自愿的忠贞。他并没有穿上游艇舟子的那种宽外衣，他穿的是件蓝色的毛线短衫。他有的粗野和骄的神气，他是那卑鄙的佐万尼的受雇者，而佐万尼却是两个女子的受雇者。世界便是这样！当耶稣拒绝了恶魔的金钱的时候，他却让这恶魔成了个犹太银行家似的，把一切权威都握在手里了。

康妮理理迷迷地从湖水的光照中回家去时。全明一些家里的来信在等着她。克利福是按时有信来的，他写得一手好信，他的信都是可以拿来出版的。因此康妮也就觉得他的信没有多大意思。

他在那湖光照耀的晕迷中，在盐质的气氛中，在空旷处，在虚无缥缈中生活着。好迅着健康的生活，她感到一种健康的迷醉。这太舒适了，明躺在摇篮中似的，一切都置诸度外。决且她已经怀孕了，她现在已经知道了。因此，晒着太阳，呼吸着盐质的湖水空气，作着海水浴，或躺在沙滩上，或寻觅着介壳，或乘着游潭无地、远远浮荡，……这种种迷醉，再加上她身里的孕这另一种令人适意的、迷醉的、丰富的健康，于是她的迷醉是到了无经复加的地步了。

她在威尼斯已经半个月了，她还有十天或半个月的勾留。太阳使她忘记了时间，而她丰富的肉体的健康，使她的忘记更其完全了。好居幸福的迷醉祥。

直至克利福的一封信才把她惊醒

我们也有一场本地的小风波。听说守猎我梅乐士的光妇。突然地跑回村舍里去，受了个不太恭的款待。他把她撵了出去，然后把门上了锁。但是，人说，当他从树林里回去的时候，他发现那不再佳丽了的妇人，纯粹地一丝不挂一不如说淫污地一丝不挂罢，稳然占据在他的床上，她是打碎了一块玻璃进去的。既无法把这有点疲乏了的维娜丝从他床上驱逐，他只好鸣金退兵。据说，他是退避到达娃斯哈的母巢去了。于是司德门的维娜斯占据了那村舍，她声称那是好怕家，而阿波罗呢，似乎是住在达娃斯哈了，这是传闻所得，因为梅乐士并没有来亲自见我。这些废话是从我们的废话鸟，我们的朱莺，我们的吃腐肉的几鹰波太太那里听来的。“假如这个妇人在这邻近的话，夫人决不愿再到林中去了的！”假如波太太没有说这种话，我是决不愿向你提起这事的。我很喜欢你的对于麦尔肯爵士跨步入水时候的写生见拂着他的白发，阳光照耀着他的鲜红的肉。我羡慕你们的太阳，这儿自在苦雨呢。但是我并不羡慕麦尔肯爵士积习而成的对人间肉欲的苦恋。不过，在他这年岁儿也怪不得。一个人似乎是越者越留恋人间的肉欲，只有青春才能体会不朽的滋味。

在幸福迷醉中的康妮，听了这个消息，烦恼到差不多激怒起来。同在是不得不被那个凶恶的妇人所纠缠了！她没有接过梅乐士的信，他们俩是相约过不要写信的，但是她现在需要从他那里得到直消息了，他毕竟是她身里怀着的孩子的父亲，让他写罢！

但是多么可恨！现在一切都扰乱了！那些下层阶的人民是多么可憎！这儿的阳光，这儿的终日优游的生涯较之那的国米德兰的忧郁的一团糟，是多么可爱！开朗的睛空，结竟可以说是生命中最紧要的东西啊！

她没有向人提起过她与怀孕的事，甚至对希尔达也不说，她写了封信给波太太探问详细的情形。

埃姆拉达别墅里，从罗马新来了一位艺术家旦肯•霍布斯，这是他们的朋友。他现在陪着她们乘游艇出去，在浅湖的彼岸和她们一起洗浴，处处护从着她们。这是个沉静的、差不多寡言的青年，对于艺术的造诣是很深的。

她接到了一封波太太的信。夫人，我保准你见了克利福男爵时是要高兴的。他正在容光焕发，充满着希望地刻苦工作着。不用说，他天天望着你回来，家里自从夫人走后最沉闷的，等夫人回来时，我们大家都要高兴了。关于梅乐士先生的事，我不晓得克利福男爵对你说了多少。事情似乎是一天午后，他的女人突然地跑回来了。当他从林里归家时，发现她坐在门槛上，她对他说，她是他的合法妻子，好在回来了，要和他重新相储度日，并且不愿离婚，因为梅乐士先生似乎正在提出离婚的要求。但是他却不听话，不肯让她进去，并且他自己也没有进去，门也没开便回树林里去了。但是那天晚上他回去时，他看见窗户给人打碎了。于是他跑到楼上看她干的什么勾当。他发现她一丝不挂地在他床上，他提议给她钱，但是她说她是他的妻，他得把她收回，他们间究竟怎样闹了一场，我也不很清楚，你的母亲对我谈及这种种，她是非常烦恼的，总之，他对她说，他宁死而不愿再和她同居，于是他拿了他的东西，一直回达娃斯哈他的母亲家里，他在那儿过了一夜，第于天他打花园里进树林，没有定近村舍去，那天他似乎没有见他的女人，但是隔了一天，她却跑到北加利她的哥哥名叫丹的家里去，呼天喊地发誓，说她是他的合法的妻，并且他曾在村舍里有过女人，因为她在他的抽屉里找到了一瓶香水，在炉灰上找到了一些名贵的纸烟头，和其他不知什么东西，而且送信的人一佛列•吉克，似乎说过，他有一天大清早，听见梅乐士先生卧室里有人说话，并且在小路上有汽车的痕迹。

梅乐士先生继续住在他母亲家里，他到树林里去时是打花园里进去的，而她似乎也继续留在村舍里，外面闲话说个不了，于是最后梅乐士先生和唐斐立听到村舍里去，把大部分的家修养和床褥搬走了，把抽水管的柄取下了，因此她也只好滚蛋。但是她并不回史德门去，她却去佳在北加利的史横太太家里，因为她的嫂嫂不要她了，她不断地到梅乐士妈妈家里去追他，并且开始对人发誓，说她曾和他在村舍里睡过，她找了一个律师，要求他给赡养费，她比以前更肥胖了，而且更下贱了，而且强壮得象一头牡牛。她到处向人说些关于他的最难堪的话，说他在村舍里留女人，说他们结婚后他怎样的行为，他迫她受一切下贱野蛮的事情，和一切我也说不清的事，多么可怖！一个妇人开口的时候，她什么恶作不出来！不论她多么下贱，总有人会相信她；而丑低之词将传扬开去，她把梅乐士先生说成一个对待女子又下贱又残暴的人的样子，简直是铃人震怒的，但是人们是怪怪易相信谤的话的，尤其是关于这一类事情的话，她宣称如果他活一日，她便不让一日好过，但我却对自己说，假如他对她是这么残暴的话，为什么她还是这么焦急着要回他家里？当然，她是快到停经时期的人了，因为她比他太好几岁呢，这些庸欲粗野的妇人，当停经时期来到的时期，总是要变成半疯狂的。

这信给了康妮一个大魇打击，现在。毫无疑义地，她是要混在这谗言丑低之中了，她恼怒他连一个自篱•古蒂斯都奈何不了，她甚至恼怒她干吗和她结婚，也许她真是有点下贱的某种倾向吧，康妮想起那最后的一夜，她灭禁战起来，那种种的肉感，他竟和白黛•古蒂斯这么一个女人共有过！那真是有点令人作呕了。也许最好是脱离他，完全避开他，他也许让真是个庸俗下贱的人呢。

她对于这整个事情的情感剧变了，她差不多要羡慕加丝利姊妹俩的不谐世务和痴憨的少女天真了，现在，她生怕她和守猎人的事被人知道”那是多么不可言宣的屈辱！她觉得厌倦，惧怕，她切望过着一种体面封锁理的生活，假如克利福知道了她的事，那是多么不可言宣的屈辱！她恐惧着惊怖这个社会和它的污秽的中伤，她差希望她能屏除那个孩子，避免了一切，简言之，她是陷在一种畏缩怯懦的情境中。

至于那瓶香水，那全是她的不是。她就忍不住她的孩子气的发作，更把他抽屉里的几条手巾和他的衬衣芒香起来，又把那小半瓶高锹的野罗兰香水留在那里，她想使他闻到了这香水而想起她。至于纸烟头，那是希尔达留下的。

她不能自禁地对旦肯•霍布斯倾了几凡民。她并没有说她已经是那守猎人的情人，她只说她喜欢他，并且把他的历史告诉霍布斯。

“啊！”霍布斯说，“你瞧吧，他们是非打倒这个人不可的，假如他不愿攫着机会爬到中等阶级去，假如他是个维护他自己的性的人，那么他便完了，人们唯一不让你的事，使是对于性这东西的爽直和坦白。至于于你是怎样的龌龊，人却不管，中实上你对于性爱愈龌龊的话，那便要打倒你。这是人类所剩下的最后的一个野蛮的禁忌：他们不愿听说性爱是个自然的、基要的机能。假如你想用这机能，他们便要杀你。你瞧罢，他们将把那个人穷迫到死的。毕竟，他有什么不是？说是他和他的妻的性爱太狂了，这不是他的权利么？她还应该引为荣呢！但是，你看，甚至一下流的东西如他的妻，都要起来反对他，而且挑拨暴民的野狗似的反对性爱的本能来推倒他。在实行性爱以前，你得象一只狗似的闻闻嗅嗅，觉得犯罪而难过。啊，他们是要把这可怜的家伙穷迫到死的。”

现在，康妮的情感又在另一方面剧变。毕竟他有什么不是？他对于她自己一康妮，又有什么不是？他给过她美妙的快乐的一种自由的、欣欣向荣的感觉，他把她身上困着的自然而温暖的性流的水闸打开了。这了这个，他便将被人穷迫到死。

啊，不，那是不应该的！她的心里看见他，赤棵锡，白析析的，只有脸孔和两手是赤色的，他闭着，对她挺起的阴说着话，仿佛它是另一个人似的，他的脸上接着那奇异的苦笑，她听见他的声音：“您有的是最美丽的妇人的臀儿！……”她觉得他的搀在热烈地、温柔地爱抚着她的臀部，爱抚着她的秘密的地方，好象是个祝福的表示。一种热力在她的子宫里流过，一些小小的火焰在她的两膝上摇曳。她说：“啊，不！我决不能退缩！我决不能把他抛弃！无论如何，我定要依附他和他给铁东西！我的温暖的、光芒的生命是他给的，我不退缩。”

她做了件冒失的事。她写了封信给波太太，里面封了一封短函叫小驮庄转交给他，她给他写道：

我听了你的种种烦恼，觉得非常痛苦；但是你宽心罢，那只是一种歇斯底里罢了，那是来得骤然，而去得也骤然。便是我是十分抱歉的，我很希望你不致过于忧心。那究竟是不值得的。她不过是个想给你点苦头的歇斯底里的妇人罢了，我在十天内使要归去，我希望一切都将顺适。

我听说你们打算十六日离开威尼斯，真是高兴得很。但是假如你在那边很快活的话，那便不必急急于回家。我们很怀念你。勒格贝没有了你也太空洞了，但是最要紧的还是你多多地享受阳光，阳光与睡衣裤，好象丽岛的广告上说的。所以。要是你在那儿觉得很愉快，并且对你的健康有进益，以准备度我们的严冬的话，那到你就请多留一些时日吧，拿今天说，这儿就下着雨呢。

波太太勒勉可靠地侍候我。她真是个怪异的人类标本。我越活着便越觉得人类是奇怪的生物。让多人是很可以象蜈蚣似地有一百条腿。或象龙是似的有六条腿。人类的一致，和一个人所希冀于他人的尊严，实际上仿佛是不存在的，我们甚至要怀疑这两种东西本身是否存在。

守猎人的非议日见增大，如雪球滚地一般，波太太供给着我种种消息，她使我联想到一条鱼，鱼虽然是不会说话，但是只要它是活着，它的腮好象总是在呼吸着沉默的闲言，一切都打她的腮筛里经过，并且没有使她惊异的事情，仿佛他人的事故，是好怕生命所必需的氧气似的。

她很留心着梅乐士的事件，假如我让她开口的话，她便要把我引到深底里去。她对于梅乐士的女妗是无限愤慨的一甚至这样她也象是舞台上的女优般的愤慨一她坚持叫她白黛，古蒂斯。我曾经到过白黛•古蒂斯的污浊的生活的深处；当我从那滔滔的闲话里解脱出来，慢慢地重新浮出水面的时候，我望着光明的阳光，惊异着怎么能有这么一种生活。

我觉得绝对的真，我们所眼见的这个世界，实际上是个深深的海底；所有的树木是海底植物，我们自己是海底的奇民蝗或鳞甲动物，我们象小是似地以腐物饱腹。只有灵魂偶尔从我们所住的这深不可测的地方，喘息着浮了起来，远远地浮到有真空气的以太的水面，我确信我们普通所吸的空气是水之一种，而我们男男女女都是鱼类之一种。

但是在海底掠食后的灵魂，有时也会象海鸥似的、狂喜地向着光明展冀疾飞。我想，我们在那人类的海底野林中掠食着我们水族同类的狞恶的生命，是我们的死运吧。但是我们不朽的命运却是逃走，一旦蚕咽了我们的粘腻的掠物后，我们便从这古老的海洋冲出，重回到光辉的以太里，重回到真正的光明里，那时我们便了解我们有个永久的天性。

当我听着波太太说话时，我觉得我自己是在沉着，沉着，沉到了海底里，那儿，神秘的人类鱼在打转，在游泳，肉欲来潮的时候，他们攫住了一块肉食，然后向着高处上升，上升，从浓雾里到以太里，从低湿处到干爽处。对你，我可以将这整个的程序解释，但是和波太太，我只觉得很可怖地向下，向下沉着，沉到了那绝底的海藻与死灰色的妖怪中间。

我恐怕我们的守猎人要定了，逃妇所引起的丑事，不单没有缓和下去，反而愈来愈见扩大了。她遣责他一切不可名状的事情。说也奇怪，她竞有法子使大部分的矿工的妻了们一可怖的鱼类一站在她的后面，村里是给渊言所腐化了。

我听说这位白黛。古蒂斯，把村舍和小屋搜索一番后，到梅乐士母亲家里把梅乐士罗唣了一场，有一天，她的女儿散学回来时，她想把这酷肖母亲的东西带定。但是这小儿女，不但没有吻她慈母的手，反而把她狠狠地咬了一日，这一来，慈母的另一只子给了她一个耳光，把她蹒跚地打落沟渠里，那位愤懑窘迫的祖母才把她救了出来。

这妇人在她的周围，喷布了惊人的大量的毒气。她把地妻生活的一切大小情节都播散出去，这种种情节在普通夫妇之间是只有埋藏在婚姻的沉默的扩墓之量深处的，在十年的安葬之后，她再发掘了出来，好个异样的陈列！这些详情我是从林来和医生那里听来的，医生觉得那是伴娱人的事情，自然，个中一切都是毫无意义的。人类一向就是婪无厌地探究着性交的特殊姿式的，假如一位丈无喜欢和他的女人“意大利式”地一如赛凌尼的说法一尽情尽意，又有什么不可呢，那不过是嗜好的问题罢了。不过我却没有想到我们的守猎人也能玩这许多戏法。无疑地那是白黛•古蒂斯启蒙他的。无论如何，那是他们自家的家丑，与他人是毫无关系的。

虽然，大家都在听着，正和我自己一样，在十年前，只要普通的廉耻心便足把这种事件窒息。但是普通的廉耻心不再存在了，矿工的妻子们从头到脚都武装起来了，再也无法使她们缄默了。人一定要以五十年来达娃斯哈的孩子们个个都是圣胎所出，我们的背教的妇女们，个个都和琼•达尔克一般光荣。我们的可敬的守猎人竟有拉伯雷的的倾向，这在村人的眼中似乎使他变得比一个杀人凶手如巨立朋更其怪庚而令人发指，可是然种种传说看来，达娃斯哈村里这些人民也是荒淫不羁的。

困难的地方便是这可恶的白黛•古蒂斯并不安于她自己的苦痛经验，她到处呼号着她发现了她的丈夫在村舍里“留”女子，并且胆敢指出人名。于是几个可敬的名字便被曳在污泥里了；事情竟闹到使人不得不下个拘禁她的命令。

梅乐士已不能使那妇人不到林中去，所以我不得不叫他来把事情问个详细。他和往常一样地踱来踱去，好象说：“别管我的事，我也不管你的！”可是，我却十分怀疑他自己觉得象个尾巴上缚了个洋锡罐的狗，虽然他装做详锡罐并不在那里的怪自然的样子，但是我听人说，当他经过村里的时候，妇人们都把她们的孩子叫开，好象他是沙德候爵的化身似的，他是一味的鲁莽，但是我恐怕他尾巴上的罐子缚得紧紧以的，并且他内心里象堂罗德里哥似的念着那句西牙短歌：“唉！我犯罪的那个地方，现在被咬伤了！”

我问他是不是尽林中的职务，他说他相信并没有疏忽他的职务。我对他说，他的女人在林中这样打扰是件讨厌的事。他答道，他没有法子制止她。然后我暗示他那件不名誉的事情，是越来越难听了。“是的，”他说，“人们应该只管自己的床第间事，那么他们便少听他人的床第间闲话了。”

他说这话是带点苦味，而无疑是真的，但是他说这庄的样子，既不文雅，又不尊敬。我把这个意思暗示给他，这一来我听见了那样锡罐在响起来：“克利福男爵，象您这样情境的人，是不应该责备我的两腿间有一条鳖鱼的。”

这种事情，不分皂白地逢人便说，当然于他是毫无益处的，因此我们的牧师和林来，和波劳斯，大家都以为最好是将他辞退了。

我问他在村舍里留女子的事是否真的。他说：“那与你有什么关系呢，克利福男爵？”我对他说，在我的林园里面，是不容不正经的事的。他却答道：“那么，你得把所有妇人的嘴都扣起来。”一当我迫着问他在村舍里的生活情形时，他说：“你尽可以把我和我的化狗儿佛萝茜捏造一些秽史。那给你一个好的漂亮的题目！”真的，他的鲁莽无礼，是无人能出其右的。

我问他另外去找个位置是否容易。他说：“假如你这话是暗示我滚蛋，那么再容易没有了。”这样，他毫不反对地在下星期末离开此地，而且他似乎愿意把这职业的种种秘密传授给他的代替者，乔•钱伯斯，一个年轻的家伙，我提议在他定的时候，多给一个月的薪水。他说我还是留着这钱好，因为我的良心无法安静。我问他这话是什么意思，他说：“克利福男爵，你没有另外欠我什么，所以不要多绘我什么。假如你还有什么不满的话要说的，便只管说罢。”

好了，此刻事情是完结了！那妇人是走了，我们也不知道她上哪儿去了。但是颗达娃斯哈露面的话，她是要被拘禁起来的，我听说她是最怕坐牢的，因为她实在太应份了。梅乐士将于下星期本离开，那地方不久也便重返原状了。

我亲爱的康妮，假如你觉得快活的话，你就在威尼斯或瑞士留在八月初罢，你能远隔着这些污秽的谣诼，我是觉得欣快的，这些谣琢到了月底便可以全息了。

我看，我们是海底的妖怪，当一条龙虾在泥上走过时，它把水给大家搅了，我们只好坦然受之啊！

克利福信里的激恼和任何同情心的缺乏，给康妮的印象是很坏的。但是当，她接到梅乐士的下面那封信时，她对于事情才明白些了：

秘密是刺穿一袋子里的猫定出来了，而且还带着种种小猫呢。想来你已经听到了，我的妻白黛，向我的无情的臂里回来了，而且卜居于村舍里，那儿一说句不恭敬的话一那小瓶高狄香水，在她的鼻子里却是老鼠味儿。在几天内，她没有找到旁的东西，然后，那张焚的像片，使她狂号起来，她在杂物间里发现了玻璃和框板。不幸地，在那框上板上，有人涂了一些小画，和几个省笔名字：C．D．R，起初，这还不能供给什么线索，直至她跑到小屋里去，在那里发现了一本你的书一女伶朱狄英的一本自传，在第一页上，写有你的名字ConstanceStewartReid，得了这个后，她便到处狂叫了几天，说我的情妇不是别人，就是果太莱男爵夫人自己，这消息终于传到了牧师、波劳斯先生和在狮福男福的耳朵里，于是他们把我的好太太告到官里去，她是个怕警察或怕死的，听了便逃之天天了。

克利福男爵要见我，于是我便到他那里去，他把事情说来说去，好象恼恨我的样子，然后他问我知道不知道连查太莱夫人的名字也给人提及了，我说我从来不听谣言，这话竞从克利福男爵嘴里听得，是使我惊异的，他说，这自然是个绝大的侮辱，我答道，在我的洗涤间里，接了个日历，上面有个玛丽王后的像，无疑地因为王后是我的阿房宫里的一个宫女子。但是他并不赏识这个笑话，她差不多派我是个不如裤钮在外面走路的鲁夫，而我也差不多告诉他，无论如何，他是没有东西可以不扣裤钮的，因此他把我辞退了，我将于下星期六离开，这地方将不再认识我了。

我将到伦敦我从前的房东英格太太那里去，她住在高堡广场十七号，她将绘我一个房子，或替我找过房子的。

你可以确信罢，你的罪恶是不会把你放松的，尤其是你是有夫之妇，而她的名字叫做白黛。

信里没有一个字是关于她的，或是给她的，康妮不禁愤恨起来，他很可以说几句抚慰她的，或安她的心里的话，但是她明白他的意思是要让她自由、自由地回勒格贝和克利福那里去。而这也使她愤恨，他何必如此假作毫侠？了对克利福说：“是的，她是我的爱人，我的情妇，而我是骄傲！”但是他却没有这个勇气。

那么，在达娃斯哈，她的名字竟和他的混在一起了，可怖的混蛋！但是不久便要静息下来了。

她愤怒着。那是一个复杂而系乱的愤怒，这愤怒使人了生气，她不知做什么好，说什么好，于是她也不说什么，也不做什么，她在威尼斯的生活和以前一样，和旦肯•霍布斯乘游船出去，洗海水浴，让时光轻轻地过去，十年前忧郁地恋爱她的旦肯，现在又爱起她来了，但是她对他说：“我希望于男子的只有一件事，便是他们让我安静！”

于是旦肯让她安静了，而是毫不生气。虽然，他还是对她流露着一种奇异的颠倒的爱之软流他。他但愿与她亲近。

“你有没有想过，”他有一天对她说，“人与人间的关系是多么肤浅？看看丹纪罢！他美得和一个太阳的儿子似的，但是你看，他在她的美中，看来是多么孤独！而我敢打赌，他一定有妻儿，而且这妻儿是他所不能离弃的。”

“问他自己去罢”康妮说。

旦肯问了他。丹尼说他已经结了婚，生了两个男孩大的九，小的七岁。但是他对于这事实并不流露任何情感。

“也许唯有能与他人真正结全听人，才有这种孤独于宇宙之间的外表罢。”康妮说，“此外的人都有着某种胶粘性，他们只知胶粘着群众，和优雅万尼一样。”而她心里想：“你，旦肯，也是这一类人。”
Chapter 18
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.' 


她再也不都犹豫了。她决定星期六(他离开勒格贝的那天也是星期六)离开威尼斯。她将于下星期一到伦敦，地她便可以会见他了，她给他写了一封信，寄到他的伦敦的地址去，要他回信到哈兰饭店，并且星期一晚上七点到那儿去会她。 

她心里感到一种奇异的复杂的愤怒，她所有的感应都好象麻木了。她甚至对希尔达也不愿告以心事，希尔达呢，对她的这种固执的大不高光，很亲切地跟一个荷兰女人交好起来，康妮觉得女人与女人之间这种有点闷抑的亲切是可憎的；反之，希尔达却趋之难不恐不及。

麦尔肯爵士决意和康妮一路回去，旦肯将陪希尔达回来。这老艺术家是养尊处优贯了的人，他买了两张“东方快画”的卧铺票，虽然康妮并不喜欢奢侈的卧车和那种车里的庸俗腐败的氛围。然而坐这种车到巴黎快一些。

麦尔肯爵士回家去见太太时，总是心中局促不安的。这是他的一第一位太太在世的时候传下来的习惯了。但是家里将举行一个松鸡的游猎会，他要及时赶到。阳光晒赤了的美丽的康妮，默默地坐着，把沿作宾景色全都忘了。

“回勒格贝去，你觉得有点烦闷的。”她的父亲看到她的郁郁不快的情形时说。

“我还说不定是要回勒格贝去呢。”她骤然地说，两只蓝色的大眼睛望着她父亲，他的蓝色的大眼睛，显着一个良心有疚的人的惊愕神情。

“你的意思是说要在巴黎待一下么？”

“不！我是说永不回勒格贝去。”

他老人家自己的小烦恼已经够受了，他衷心希望不要再担负她的烦恼。

“这是怎么说的，这么突然？”他问道。

“我要有个孩子了。”

这句话是她第一次对人说的，她的生命好象也随着这句话而裂成两片了。

“你怎么知道呢？”她的父亲问道。

她微笑着。

“我怎么知道！”

“当然不是克利福的孩子呢？”

“对！是另一个人的。

她觉得有点快意地使他捉摸不住地焦急起来。

“我认识那个人么？”麦尔肯爵士问道。

“不！你从来没有见过他。”

静默了很久以后，他说：

“你打算怎样呢？”

“我不知道，问题也就在这儿。”

“没法子跟克利福商量解决么？”

“我想克利福定发受孩子的。”康妮说；“前回你跟他谈话后，他对我说过，假如我有个孩子的话，他决不会介意的，只要我审慎行事。”

“在这种情况下，这是他唯一的有理智的话，以我想事情是没有什么问题了。”

“怎么见得？”康妮直望着她父亲的眼睛说，她父亲的眼睛，有点象她自己的，又蓝又大，但是笼罩着某种不安的神情，有时象个不安的幼童的眼睛，有时带着那乖僻自私的样子，通常是欢乐的，小心翼翼的。

“你可以给克利福一个查太莱姓的传宗接代的人，而且在勒格贝安置另一个小男爵。”

麦尔肯爵士的脸孔上显着半肉感的微笑。

“但我想我是不愿意的。”她说。

“为什么不？难道你觉得牵挂着那另一个人么？喂！我的孩子，让我告诉你一点真话吧。世界是赓续下去的。勒格贝存在着，它将继续存在，世界多少是固定的，我们表面上不得不去适应客观存在。在么认上说，我个人的意见是：我们喜怎样便可怎样。情感是变动的，你今年可以喜欢这人，明年喜欢另一个。但是勒格贝却继续存在着，只要勒格贝忠于你，你便要忠于勒格贝，此外，你什么都可以随意，但是如果你把事情破坏了，你不会得到多大好处的，人要是喜欢破坏的话，你尽可破坏，你有你个人的收入，这是一个人唯一可以依赖的东西，但是破坏了于你是没有多大好处的，给勒格贝一个小男爵：这是件好玩的事情。”

麦尔肯爵士重新微笑起来，康妮一声不响。

“我希望你终于得到一个真正的男人了。”过了一会他对她说道，肉感地生气勃然。

“是的，我实在得到了。不过烦恼也就在这儿。世上真正的男人是罕有的。”她说。

“啊，天！这是真的。他沉思着说：“的确罕有！那么，我亲爱的，瞧你这这个样子，他是个幸福的人，他决不会给你什么烦恼吧？”

“啊！不！他完全让我自主。”

“自然啦！自然啦！一个真男子应该是这样的。”

麦尔肯爵士心里觉得高兴。康妮是他的宠女，他一向就喜欢她的女性，她肖母亲的地方不象希尔达那么多，而他是一向讨厌克利福的，所以他高兴，他对他的女儿表示着慈蔼的温情，仿佛那未出世的孩子是他的。

他陪她乘车到哈兰饭店去，看她一切安顿了后，才到他的惧乐部去，她说晚上用不着他来陪她。

她得到了梅乐干的一封信。

我不愿到你的饭店里，但是我七点钟在亚当街的金鸡咖啡店的门前候你。

他在那儿等着她，瘦长的身躯，穿着一套薄薄的黑礼服，使他显得非常异要。他有一种自然的卓越的神气，但是没有她那个阶级的人的依式定做的样儿，虽然，她马上瞧出了他是可以到处出头的人。他有一种天生的仪态，那确是楷依式定做的阶级的东西好得多。

“呀！你来了！你的气色真好啊！”

“是的！可是你的便不见得好。”

她不安地望着他的脸，他瘦了，他的颧骨显露出来，但是他的眼睛向她微笑着，她觉得与他是毫无隔阂的。突然。她的维持外表的力量松懈了。一种肉体上的什么东西，从他泛溢出来，那使她的内心觉得安泰、快乐而无羁。她的追求幸福的锐敏的女子本这，立即告诉她：他在时，我是快乐的！威尼斯的所有阳光，并没有给过她这种内在的焕发与温暖。

“那件事使你觉得太可怖了吧？”当他们在一张桌子边相对着坐下后，她问道。

“人们总是可怖的。”他说，他太瘦了，她现在看出来了，她看见了他的手，和从前一般，象个人睡了的兽类似的，带着士种奇异的忘乎所以的态度放在桌上。她真想拿来亲吻。但是她不太有这胆量。

“你难过得很吧？”她说。

“是的，我觉得难过，而难过的日子还有呢。我知道我的觉得难过是愚蠢的。”

“你是不是觉得象一只尾巴上缚了个锡罐的狗？克利福说你有那样的神气呢。”

他望着她。此刻对他说这种话，是太残忍了：因为他的自尊心曾受过很大的苦楚。

“我想是的。”他说。

她决不知道侮辱对他所引起的狂暴的苦叶泊愤恨呢。

他们沉默了好一会。

“你怀念我不？”她问道。

“我高兴你远远离那一切。”

他们重新沉默着。

“但是，人们相信不相信你和我的事情？”她问道。

“不！我决不以为他们会相信的。”

“克利福呢？”

“我想他也不，他把事情搁在一边不去想它，但是，当然，那使他永不愿再见我的面了。”

“我就要有个孩子了。”

他脸上的、全身的表情全死了，他两只阴郁的眼睛望着她，这种注视是使她莫明其妙的：这象是一种火焰的灵魂在望着她。

“告诉我你高兴吧！”她握着他的手恳求道。她看见某种得胜的狂喜，从他的心里流溢出来，但是这种狂喜是给一种她所不明白的东西网结着的。

“那是个将来。”他说。

“难道你不高兴么？”她坚持着说。

“我是很不信任将来的。”

“但是你不必烦恼要负什么责任的，克利福将接受这个孩子如同已出一般，他一定要高兴的。”

她看见他听了这个话苍白在而退缩起来，他不答一词。

“你要我回到克利福那里去，而给勒格贝生个小男婴么？”她问道。

他望着她，又苍白又疏远，那狞恶的微微的苦笑挂在他的脸上。

“你不必告诉他谁是父亲吧！”

“啊！”她说，甚至我告诉他，他也要接受这个孩子的。”

他思索了一会。

“是的！”他最后自言自语地说，他也要的。”

他们静默着，他们中间好象有个阔大的深渊似的。

“但是你不愿我回克利福那儿去吧，是不是？”她问他说。

“你自己愿意怎样呢？”

“我愿和你同居。”她简单地说。

他听了这话，情不自禁地觉得一些小火焰在他的小腹上奔驰而过，他把头垂下了，然后用他那阴郁的眼睛再望着她。

“要是你觉得值得的话。”他说，“我是毫无所有的人。”

“你有的东西比大多数的男子更多，算了，你自己是知道的。”她说。

“是的，在某种程度上我是知道的。”他静思了一会，然后继续说：“人家一向说我的女性太浓了，但是这话是不真实的，我不女性并不因为我不喜欢射杀鸟儿，也不是因为我不喜欢弄钱或不喜欢往上爬。我在军队里要往上爬本来是很容易的，但是我却不喜欢军队，虽然我很可以驾驭男子们，他们也喜欢我，而当我发起脾气来的时候，他们便要怕神怕鬼似的怕我。咳，军队之所以是个死东西，绝对地呆笨的死东西，就是那愚昧的、机械的、上峰的权威所造成的。我喜欢男子们，而男子们也喜欢我，但是我就忍受不了那班经营这世界的人们的呓语和摆嗅架子的无耻。这便是我不能上进的缘故，我恨金钱的无耻行为，我恨阶级的无耻行为，在这种世界里，我还有什么可以献给一个女子的东西？”

“但是为什么要献给什么东西呢？那又不是一个交易，我们不过是互相钟爱罢了。”她说。

“不！不！事情不是这么简单的，生活便是前进，我的生命不愿就适当的轨道，简直不愿。所以我是有点象废物似的，我没有权利使一个女子进入我的生活，除非我的生活有所作为有所成就一至少是内在地，能使我们俩常觉新鲜奋发。男子应该把他生活中的下结有意及的东西献给女子，假如这个生活将是孤立的，假如这个女子是个真庄女子！我不能只做你的男性拼妇。”

“为什么不呢？”她说。

“咳，因为我不能，而且你转眼便要厌恨这种生活的。”

“你这话说得好象你不能信赖我似的。”她说。

他苦笑丰。

“钱是你的，社会地位是你的，一切将由你主决，。总之，我只是太太的内满足者罢了。”

“此外你还是什么呢？”

“我不怪你疑问。无疑地那是看不见的。可是，我对于自己，并不妄自轻贱。我明白我自己的生存的意义，虽然我也很了解旁人是不明白的。

“难道和我同居后，你的生存的意义便要减少了么？”

他停了很久才答道：

“也许；”

她也迟地思索着。

“什么是你的生存的意义呢？”

“我告诉你，那是看不见的。我不相信世界，我不相信金钱，我不相信进步，我不相信我们的文明的将来，假如人类是有个将来的话，那便得有个大大的变换。”

“那么真正的将来是怎样的呢？”

“上帝才知道！我觉得我的心里有一种什么东西和无限的愤怒混合着。但是那确切是什么，我却不知道。”

“我要我告诉你么？”她望着他的脸说，你要我告诉你有的是什么东西么？那是他人所没有的，而且是创造将来的东西，你要我告诉你么？”

“告诉我吧，”他答道。

“那是你自己的温情的勇气；当你的手放在我的臀互，说我有个美丽的臀部的时候，便是那个东西。”

他的脸上显着苦笑。

“对了！”他说。

然后他静默地想着。

“是的！”他说，“你说得对。就是那个。全是那个！在我和男子们的关系中，我感觉到这个东西，我不得不肉体地和他们接触，而且不能退缩。我得内地对他们醒悟，而且对他们表示一点温情，甚至当我使他们痛苦折磨的时候对于肉体的醒悟和自然的肉体的温情也羞怯退缩，而这醒悟和温情却是最善的——甚至在男子与男中间。男子之所以刚强勇敢，而不是一些猿猴，也就因为那种东西。是的！那是温情的，的确；那是性的醒悟。性爱实在只是一种接触，一切接触中最密切的接触。而我们所惧怕的使是接触。我们只醒悟了一半，生活着一半，我们得完全地生活和醒悟。尤其是我们英国人得用点温情与辛勤；互相接触起来，这是我们的迫切的需要。”

她望着他。

“那么你为什么惧怕我呢？”她说。

他望着她很久才答道：

“那是因为你的金钱和你的地位，那是因为你所有的世界”“但是我难道没有温情么？康妮热劲地问道：

他阴郁地，心不在焉地望着她。

“是的！有的！时来时去，和我自己一样。”

“但是你难道不能信任这温情在人和我之间存在么？”她焦虑地凝视着他问道。

她看见他的脸色温和了下来，那抵抗的神气渐渐地失掉下”

“也让”他说。

两个人都静默着。

“我要你把我抱在你的怀里，”她说，“我要你对我说，你高兴我们将有个孩子了。”

她是这样的美丽，这样的温暖，这样的热切，他的脏腑为她骚动起来了。

“我想我们可以到我房子里去吧，”他说，“虽然这又是件令人谤的事情。”

她看见又把世界忘怀了，他的脸孔现着温柔的、热情的、柔媚面纯洁的光彩。。

他们沿着偏僻的街道走到高堡广场。他的房子在最高的一层，是个屋顶楼房，整洁而大方，他有个煤气炉自己烧煮着食物。

她把自己的衣裳脱了，叫他也把他的脱了，初期怀孕中的温软鲜丽的她，是动人的。

“我不应该烦扰你。”他说。

“别说这话！”她说，“疼爱我吧！疼爱我，说你不会丢弃我吧！说你不会丢弃我吧！说你永会让我回到世上去，或回到任何人那里去！”

她倔近他，紧贴着他纤瘦而强壮的裸体一这是她所知道的唯一的栖身处。

“那么我将留着您，”他说，“要是您愿意，我将留着你！”

他紧紧地环抱着她。

“告诉我你高兴有这孩子吧！”她重复地说，“吻吻他吧！吻吻这孩子所在的地方，说人高兴他在那儿吧。”

但是他犹豫着。

“我很惧怕孩子们生在这种世上；我很替他们的将来担心。”

“但是你已经把他放在我的里面了，对、他温柔吧，这便是他的将来了。吻吻他吧！”

他战战栗着，因为那是对的。“对他温柔吧，这便是他的将来了。”一这时，他对她的爱情是绝大的。他吻着她的小腹和好怕美神之丘，他假近着她的子宫和子宫里面的胎儿吻着。

“啊，你是爱我的！你是爱我的！”她细声地呼喊起来，这种呼喊是象她的性讥进时的呼喊一样，盲目的，模糊不清的。她温柔地插进她的里面，觉得温情的波涛，汹涌地从他自已的心肠里流到她的心肠里，两个相怜相爱的心肠在他们间燃烧着。

当他进她的里面去时，他明白了这是他应该做的事情：和她作温情的接触，而保存着他的骄傲、尊严和一个男子的完整。总之，虽则她有钱而他则两袖清风但是让他的骄傲心与正义心，却不容他因此而撤回他对她的温情的。他心里想到：“我拥护人与人间的肉体的醒悟的接触和温情的接触。她是我的伴侣。她授助我和金钱、机械以及世人的兽性的呆钝的理想作战。多谢上帝，我得了个女人了！我得了个又温柔又了解我的女人，和我相聚！多谢上帝，她并不是凶暴的矗妇。多谢上帝，她最个温柔的醒悟的女人。”当他的精液在她里面插射的时候，在这种创造的行为中一那是远地生殖行为的一他的灵魂也向她插射着。

现在，她是完全决定了：他和她是不可分离的了。不过，怎样呢，什么方法呢，那是仍待解决的。

“你恨不恨自黛•古蒂斯？”她问道。

“别对我说起她吧。”

“啊！你得让我说说，因为你曾经喜欢过她；而且你曾经和她亲密过。正如你现在和我一样，所以人得告诉我。在你们间有过这种亲密以后，而恨她到这步田地，可不是有点可怕的么？这是什么缘故？”

“我不知道。她的意志好象无时无刻不在准备着反抗我！咳！她那狞恶的女性的意志，她那自由狂！这种自由狂的结局是最残暴的暴虐！啊，她是拿着她的自由来反对我，好象她把硫酸抛在我脸上一样。”

“但是她甚至现在还没有脱离你呢。她还爱不爱你？”

“不，不！她所以没有放弃我，那是因为她有一种狂恨，她定要伤害我罢了。”

”但是她一定爱过你的。”

“不！唔，有时也许的。她是受我吸引的，我想就这一点也是好汽僧恨的。她有时爱我，但是转间，她便要开始苛刻我。她的最大的欲望便是苛刻我，那是没有法子使她改变的。在一开始的时候；她的意增就是反抗我的。”

“也许那是因为她觉得你并不真正爱她，而她想使你爱她的缘故呢。”

“老天！那是什么念头！”

“但是你不曾真正有过她吧，是不是？这就是你给她的苦头。”

“我有什么法子？我开始想去爱她；但是她总给我钉子碰，不，不要谈论空虚了吧，那是之动运，而她是常识，最近这些日子里，假如人家准我的话，我定把她这具有妇人形式的狂暴的东西象一头野兽似的宰了。假如，可以把她宰了的话，这一切不幸便没有了！人们真应该准许这种去恶除暴的行为。当一个女子地地给好怕固扫诉意志占着的时候，当她的固执的意志在反抗着一切的时候，那就可怖了，那就非把她杀掉不可了。”

“而男子们呢，当他们给固扫诉意志占据着的时候，不也应该把他们杀掉么？”

“是的！一样！……但是我得把她摆脱了，否则将向我重新追迫的。我早就想告诉你，只要可能，我必要离婚。所以我们得小心，你和我，得别让人看见在一起，假如她撞到了你我头上来的时候，我是绝对、绝对忍受不了的。”

康妮沉思着。

“那么我们不能在一起了？”她说。

“大约在六个月脑是不能的。但是我相信我的离婚在九月间便可完成，那么得等到明年三月。”

“但是孩子大概要在二月尾出薛尼。”她说。

他静默了。

“我愿所有克利福和白黛一流人都死尽！”他说。

“你对待他们并没有多大的温情呢。”她说。

“温情对待他们？但是对他们最温情的事也许就是绘他们一个死！他们是不能生活的！他们只知破坏生命。他们体内的灵魂是令人生怖的。死亡于他们应该是甘甜的了。人们应该准我去反他们杀尽才是！”

“但是你决不会这样做的。”她说。

“我一定会！我杀他们比杀一只鼬鼠还要觉得泰然。鼬鼠还有它的孤寂的美。但是他们太多了。啊，假如我可以的话，我定要把他们杀尽。”

“或许你还是不敢那么做的。”“唔。”

康妮现在要想的事情多着了，无疑地他是绝对地想把白黛•古蒂斯摆脱，她觉得他是对的。最后的斗争是太可怕了。那便是说，她将孤独地生活到春天。也许她可以和克利福离婚。但是怎样？假如梅乐士的名字一提起了，那么他那方面的离婚便离不成了。多么讨厌！一个人难道不能一直走到地球的尽头，摆脱这一切么？”

这是不可能的。现在世界的尽头，从伦敦到查宁十字街不过五分钟的距离罢了，只要有无线电，地球是没有远近的。非洲达荷美的王和西藏的喇嘛，都能听着伦敦和纽约呢。

忍耐吧！忍耐吧世界是个广大而可怖的机器网，若要不陷身其中，一个人得好好地小心从事。

康妮把心事告诉她的父亲。

“你知道，爸爸，他是克利福的守猎人，但是他从前是驻印度的军官。不过他是象佛罗佛斯上校似的，他愿意回到从前的阶级里去。”

但是麦尔肯爵士对于这著名的佛罗伦斯的轻薄的神秘主义是没有好感的。他觉得在那许多的谦逊后面宣传的作用太浓厚了。这种自傲的行为一故意自抑的自傲行为，是这老爵士所最讨厌的。

“你的守猎人是打那里跳出来的？”麦尔肯爵士愤愤地问道。

“他是个达娃斯哈的矿工的儿子，但是他是个绝对不会购笑大方的人。”

这位有爵衔的艺术家更加愤怒起来了。

“在我看来，这象是个打金矿的我。”他说，“而你显然是个很容易开采的金矿。”

“不，爸爸你错了，要是你邮过他，你便知道了。他是个真男子。克利福常常厌恶他，就是因为他是毫不屈辱的人。”

“这样看来，克利福倒有个一次不氏蝗本能了。”

麦尔肯爵士所不能堪的，便电报人知道了他的女儿跟一个守猎人私通。这种私通他是不反对的c他只是怕外间的非议罢了。

“那个人怎样，我倒不管。他显然是知道怎样迷惑你的。但是天哟！想想有空的闲话吧！想想你的继母听见了时的样子吧！”

“我知道。”康妮说，“闲话是可怕的，尤其是在上流社会里。而他呢，他是渴望着他的离婚能够成功的。我想我们也许可以说孩子是另一个人的，把梅乐士的名字完全不提。”

“另一个人的？谁呢？”

“或者旦肯•霍布斯”他从小就是我们的朋友，他又是个出名的艺术家，而而他喜欢我。”

“啊，这样么！可怜的旦肯！他将得到什么好处呢？”

“我不知道，但是那也许可以给他某种的偿吧。”

“真的，真的么？咳，如果这样，他真是个怪物！怎么，你和他甚至从来没有发生过关系么？”

“没有！但是他实在也不想。他只爱亲近我，但是不受接触。”

“我的上帝，多么古怪的一代人！”

“我最喜欢我的地方，就是做他的模特儿。不过我从来没有允许过他。”

“可怜的家伙！但是这种没有骨气的人看来是什么都做得出的。”

“不地穸宁愿他的名字和我的凑在一起吧？”

“老天呀！康妮，这一切诡计！”

“我知道！这是令人作呕的。但是我有什么办法呢？”

“一个诡计过了又是一个诡计！我想我活利弊太久了。”

“算了，爸爸你年轻的时候不也作过不少的诡计？”

“但是我确实告诉你，那是不同的。”

“老是说不同的。”

希尔达到了，听到了这种新事态，她也狂怒着，她也一样想起人人都要知道她的妹妹和一个守猎人发生关系，她简直忍不住，那是太，太屈辱了！

“为什么我们不可以干脆地陷遁了，个别地跑到英属哥化比亚去，那便没有非议了？”康妮说。

但是那是没有用的。非议还是一样要爆发的，康妮如果要跟哪个人去，那么最好是她能嫁他。这是希尔达的意见。麦尔肯爵士犹豫着。他想也许事情还可补救吧。

“你将会一会他吧，爸爸？”

可怜的麦尔肯爵士！他是毫不愿意的。可怜的梅乐士！他尤其不愿想，虽然，会见终于成了事实，那是在俱乐部的一间厢房里的午餐，只有他两个人在那儿，两只眼睛互相打量着。

麦尔肯爵士喝了不少的威士忌，梅乐士也喝着，他们滔滔地谈着印度，这是那年轻人所熟悉的问题。

这种谈话占去了全餐的时间，直至咖来了，侍仆走了，麦尔肯爵士才燃了一支雪茄诚恳地说道：

“喂，年轻人，我女儿的事怎么样？”

梅乐士的脸上显着苦笑。

“唔，先生，她的事怎么样？”

“是你给了她一个孩子呢。”

“这是我的光荣！，！梅乐士苦笑着说。

“光荣，老天爷！”麦尔肯爵士响亮地笑着说，这是苏格兰人的猥亵的笑，“光荣！哎，事情怎样？好吧，是不是？”

“好！”

“那是我敢打赌的！哈，哈！我的女儿的确是麦某人的女儿！我自己也一样我是从不懊悔佳妙的性交的，虽然她的母亲……啊，‘老天爷！’”他的眼睛向天炯着，“但是你使她温情起来了，啊，我看得见的，你使她温热起来了。哈，哈！我的血在她血脉里流着呢；你很知道怎样放火烧她啊！哈，哈，哈！我真高兴，我可以告诉你，她需要那个。啊，她是个好女子，她是个好女子，我早就知道只要有个知道怎样放火烧她的男子汉，她就合适了，哈，哈，一个守猎人，哎，我的孩子！你是个拿手的偷猎人！我告诉你！哈，但是，现在，说正经话吧，我们要怎样安排这事呢？说正经话吧，你知道！

说正经话吧，他们都摸不着什么头脑，梅乐士虽然有点醉了，但是两人中他是最清醒的一个，他尽力使谈话不至太糊涂起来，那是没有多大可说的。

“好，你是个守猎者！啊，你是很对的！这种猎是值得费心的！可不是么？一个女子的试金石，便是当你在她的屁股上捏一把的时候，只要摸摸她的臀儿，便知道她合适不合适。哈，哈：我羡慕你，我的孩子，你多大年纪了！”

“三十九。”

麦尔肯爵士扬着眉头。

“有这么多了？好，看你这神气，你还有好好的二十年在你面前，啊：是守猎人也罢，不是也罢，你是个好雄鸡。这个我只用一只眼睛便看得出来，不象那讨厌的克利福：一个从来没有点儿兴头的可怜虫。我喜欢你，我的孩子，我敢打赌你是有一条好鳖鱼的家伙；啊，你是只小雄鸡，一只善斗的小雄鸡，我看得出来！守猎人！哈，哈，我决不让你看守我的猎场呢！但是，说正经话吧，我们要怎样安排这事呢？世界是充满着衰老的妇人的！”

说正经话吧，他们都毫无所措，他们俩之间只成立了一个男性肉感的亲密结合。

“你知道，我的孩于，我有什么地方可以帮你的话，你尽管信赖我，守猎人！基督啊！那真讨羡！我高兴极了！啊，我高兴极了，那足见我的女儿有气血。可不是么？而且，你知道，她有好人的收入，并不多，并不多，你是也就够吃了。我将把我的所有都给她继承，这是她应得的，因为他在这充满着衰老的妇人的世界里，显示了她的血气，七十年来，我挣扎着想把自己从衰老妇人的裙下解放出来，到今还没成功，但是你这人是可以成功的，我看得出来。”

“我真高兴你这么想我。人们普通总说我是个猴子呢。”

“啊，当然啦！我亲爱的朋友，在那些衰老妇人的眼中，你不是猴子是什么？”

他们快乐地分手；梅乐干过后在心里整整笑了一天。

第二天，了在一个僻静的地方，和康妮、希尔达午餐。

“这种情境，面面看来都不好，真是太可惜了。”希尔达说。

“我却得到了不少的乐趣。”他说。

我以为在你们俩未有结婚生子的自由以前，是应该避免生注孩的。”

“上帝把果实结得有点太早了。”他说。

“我想这不干上帝的事，自然，康妮的钱尽够你们两的生活；但是这种情境是太难忍了。”

“但是你并不需去忍一点点儿。”他说。

“假如你是她那人就好了！”

“或者，假如我是关在动物园中的一个笼里就更好了！”

“或者，假如我是关在动物园中的一个笼里就更好了！”

大家都静默了。

“我想，”希尔达说：“最好是她指另一个人做共同被告，而你完全站在局外。”

“但是我是当事的人。”

“我的意思是说在进行离婚诉讼的时候。”

他惊异地凝视着她，康妮不敢对他提起借重旦肯的计划。

“我不明白你的意思。”他说。

“我们有位朋友，他大概可以答应这离婚案中，做共同被告，这一来你的名字就可以不被提起了。”希尔达说。

“你是说一个男子么。”

“当然！”

“但是她并没有另一个？……”

他惊愕地望着康妮。

“不，不！”她连忙说。“他只是个老朋友，毫无爱情的。”

“那么为传播愿肩这担子？如果他毫无所得的话？”

“有些男子是毫侠的人，不斤斤于得到什么妇人的好处的。”希尔达说。

“这倒是方便呢！但是这位英雄是谁？”

“他是我们在苏格丛从小就认识的朋友，一位艺术家。”

“旦肯•霍布斯！”他立即说道，因为康妮对他说过旦肯的。“但是你们怎样叫他这担子？”

“他们得共佳在什么旅馆里，或者她甚至得到他家里去。”

“我觉得那未免小题大做起来了。”他说。

“除此之外，你还有什么法子呢？＞”希尔达说，“如果你的名字提起了，你和你的离婚便离不成了，你的女人似乎是怪对付的人呢。”

“唉，这一切！”他沉郁地说。

他们静默了许久。

“我们很可以干脆一定了事。”他说。

“康妮却干脆走不了”希尔达说，克利福太出名了。”

“颓丧的静默重新把三人笼罩起来。

“世界就是这样。如果你们想安然同居，你们便得结婚。要结婚，你俩都得先离婚。那么我们将怎样安排呢？”

他静默了很久。

“你将替我人首安排呢？”他说。

“我们要看如果旦肯肯出名做共同被告的话，那么我们便要使克利福提出离婚，你则在你那方面进行你自己的离婚。你们俩得分开，直到你们都自由了的时候。”

“这世界象是个疯人院。”

“也许！但是，在世人的眼中，你的才是疯子一也许更甚呢。”

“更甚到什么？”

“罪犯，我想。”

“好，我希望我还能多用几回我的巴首。”他冷笑道，说了，他默默地愤怒着。

“好吧！”他最后说，“我同意一切吧，这世界是个暴庚的白痴，谁也消灾不了它，但是我将尽我的力，你是对的，我们得尽力营救我们自己的。”

他屈辱地，愤怒地，厌烦地，忧苦地望着康妮。

“我的小人儿！”他说，“世人要在你的屁股上加盐了。”

“不，假如我们不屈服的话。”她说。

她对于反抗世界的情感比他是疏淡的。

探调旦肯的意思的时候，他坚持着要见见这罪人守猎者。他约定四人在他家里晚餐，旦肯是哈姆莱特一流人物，有点矮而胖，肤色暗黑，寡言笑，头发是黑而不卷，他有一种凯尔特人的古怪的虚荣心，他的作品只是些管条、瓣形、螺形线和奇异的颜色的混合物；是超现代的，可是也有某种气魄，甚至某种纯粹的形式与格调，渤梅乐士觉得这种艺术是残酷的，令人厌恶的，他不敢说出来，因为旦肯对于他的艺术的主见差不多是病态的。艺术之于他，是个人的一种崇拜，一种宗教。

他们在画室里看着图画，旦暖的褐色的小眼睛，总不离开梅乐士。他想知道这守猎人的意见怎样，至于康妮和希尔达的意见，他早巳知道了。

“那有点象纯粹的谋杀。”梅乐士终于说，这种话是旦肯所预想不到会从一个守猎人口中说出来的。

“被杀的是谁呢？”希尔达有点冷酷地嘲讽地问道。

“是我！一个人所有的恻悯心肠都被杀了。”

这话引起了艺术家的深恨。他听出那人的声调晨带着厌恶不轻蔑。而他自己是讨厌人提起什么侧悯心肠的。那是令人厌恶的情感！

梅乐士站着，又高又瘦，态度疲惫，心不在焉，摇曳不定，仿佛飞蛾的飞舞，凝视着那些图画。

“也许是愚蠢的东西被杀了，多情的愚蠢的东西被杀了。”艺术家讥消着说。

“你觉得么？我觉得所有这些管条和起伏的颤动，才比什么都愚蠢，而且够多情了，我觉得它们表示着不少的自怜自叹的意味，和太多的神织持贩自尊自傲。”

另一阵疾恨涌上心来，那艺术家的脸都黄了。但是，他静默地、高傲地把图画向着墙壁番了过去。

“我想我们可以到餐室里去了。”他说。

他们在一种沉郁的静默中离开了画室。

咖过后，旦肯说：

“我毫不介意充作康妮的孩子的父亲。但是有个条件，康妮得来作我的模特儿。这是我多年的心愿，而她是一向所拒绝的。”他说这话是抱着黑暗的决心的，好象一个宣布火刑的裁判官似的。

“啊！”梅乐士说，“那么只在这条件之下你才肯做么？”

“对了！非有这条件我便不做。”旦肯的话里，故意带着对梅乐士的最在的藐视。他带着有点太多了。

“最好是同时把我当作你的模特儿，”梅乐士说，“最好是把我们画在一起：把维娜丝和伏尔甘放在艺术的网下，我在做守猎人以前，是一个铁匠呢。”

“谢谢！”艺术家说，“忧尔甘的尊容不合我的胃口。”

“甚至他的容貌象管条一样，而且修饰得象新郎一案，也不合尊胃么？”

艺术家没有回答他觉得回答起来未免降格了。

这次聚会就这样沉闷下去。旦肯故意不理梅乐干，他只跟两位太太谈话，而且很简短的谈话，仿佛那些字句是从他的不可思仪的忧郁的深处拔出来的一样。

“你不喜欢他，但是他并不是那么二泊，实在他来个好人呢。”当他们回去时，康妮解释着。

“他是一起伏狂乱痛挑战黑狗。”梅乐士说。

“真的，他今天真是不可爱。”

“你将去作模特儿么？”

“啊，我现在实在再也不介意了！他不会触摸我的。如果那可以完成你我的共同生活，我什么也不介意了。”

“但是他只会在画布上把你涂些嗅粪的。”“管他！他只画他对我的感情，那我是不反对的。我决不愿他触摸我，决不，但是如果他以为用他那艺术家的枭眼瞧着我有益的话，那么，让他瞧去。他只管把我画成许多空管子和阴阳起伏。那是他的不幸。他所以恨你，是因为你说他的管子艺术是多情的，自大的，但是，当然啦，那是真的。”
Chapter 19
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 its 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. 


“亲爱的克利福，我恐怕你预料的事情是实现了。是的，我爱上了另一个人。我很希望你将提出离婚。---我住在旦肯的家里。我告诉过你，我们在威尼斯时曾在一块。我很替你抱憾，但是请你把这事情平心静气的看吧。你实在是不再需要我了。而我呢，回勒格贝去是件难堪的事，我是十分抱歉的，但是请你原恕我吧，请你提出离婚，而另找个比我更好的人吧、我实在不是你所需要的人，我认为我是太无忍耐性，太自私了，我决不能回去和你同居了。一切我是替你觉得非常抱歉的，但是如果你平心静气地看这事情，你当知道这并不是那么可怖的事，对我个人来说，你实在并不真正在乎我，那么，请你原谅我而抛弃我吧。” 

在克利福的内心里，其实是不惊讶这么一封信的来到的。他的心中老早就知道她要离开他。但是外表上，他是绝对不愿承认的。所以，在外表上看来，这封信给了他一个最可怖的打击，因为他对于她的信任的外层是一向平静的。

我们大家不都一样么？我们用意志的力量，去强制着内在的直觉的东西不表露出来，一旦这种强制失效了的时候，便造成了一种恐怖的状态。于是打击之来，便十倍难受了。

克利福象个患歇斯底里症的孩子，他狞恶地、失神地在床上坐起来，把波太太吓着了。”

“怎么，克利福男爵，你怎么了？”

没有回答！她害怕他病势发作了，慌忙地摸摸他的脸，探探他的脉。

“什么地方疼痛么？告诉我什么地方疼痛，请你告诉我吧！”

没有回答！

“老天老天！那么我要打电话到雪非尔德叫加凌东医生，我请勒基医生马上来。”

她正向门边越过去时，听见他的重浊的声音说：

“不！”她停住了，凝视着他，他的脸是黄的，失神的，象个白痴的脸。

“你是要我不要找医生么？”

“是的！我不需要医生。”他的幽冥的声音说。

“但是，克利福男爵哟，你是病了，我可不敢负这责任。我得叫医生来，否则人们要责备我的。”

停了一会，然后那重浊的声音说：

“我没有病，我的女人不回来了。”---这仿佛是石像在说。

“不回来了？你是说夫人么？波太太走近床边说，“啊，别相信这话，你放心，夫人是一定会回来的。”

床上的石像依旧不动，只是把一封信在被单上推了过来。

“读吧！”幽冥的声音说。

“这是夫人的信，我确信夫人是不愿我看她写给你的信的，克利福男爵，如果你愿意的话，请你告诉我什么好了。”

“读吧！”那声音重新说道。

“好吧，克利福男爵，这是我顺从你啊。”她说。

她读了那封信。

“唔，太太真使我奇怪，”她说，“她曾那么忠实地答应回来的！”

床上那只脸孔上的粗野的但是失神的表情似乎加深了，波太太不安地望着他，她知道她所要对付是什么；男性的歇斯底里，这种讨厌的病，她从前在看护士兵的时候，已经验过多少了。

她有点讨厌克利福男爵，无论哪个头胸清醒的男子，都应该知道他的女人爱上了别人而要离开他了。虽然她也知道，克利福的内心里是绝对明白的，不过他不肯承认罢了，假如他承认了它而作某种准备，假如他承认了它而与他的女人尽力避克这种事变，那才算是大丈夫的行为，但是不然！他明明知道，却又老是瞒阂自己说事情并非如此，他明明觉得恶魔在扭着他的尾巴！却又装模作佯说是那是使向他微笑，这种虚伪的情境，引出了现在这种虚伪的脱血病的发作：歇斯底里，这是癫狂的一种形式，她心里有点恨恨地想道：“所以有这种事情，都是因为他太想自己了，他全副心神都在想他的不死的自我，于是当打击一来的时候，他便象是在自己的绷带里绞结着的木乃伊，瞧瞧他！”

但是歇斯底里是危险的，她是个看护，去拯救他，那是她的义务，想把他的大丈夫气与自尊心鼓舞起来，那只是于他有损无益的，因为他的大丈夫气已死了一如果不是地，那么至少是暂时地，他只会象一只虫子似地越卷越软，越挣扎越脱血的。

唯一可做的事情是解放他的自怜心。好象丁尼生笔下的贵妇一般，他得痛哭一场，否则，他定要一命鸣呼了。

于是波太太开始先哭起来，她用手掩着脸孔，舞舞噎噎地哭着。“我从没有想到夫人竟做得出来，我从没有想到！”她鸣咽着说。她突然亿起了她往日所是的忧苦悲伤，眼泪为她自己的不幸而流了，一经开始了，她的眼泪是真切的，因为她有她自己的林哭的事情。

克利福想着他怎样给这妇人康妮所背叛，而且波太太的悉苦传染了他，不禁泪水盈盈，而开始流了下来，他是为自己而哭的，彼太太看见了他的失神的脸上流着眼泪时，忙用小手绢揩干她自己的两颊，向他斜倾着。“不要烦恼，克利福男爵！”他在一种强烈的感动中说，“不要烦恼吧，不，那于你是有害的。”

他忍下了一声呜咽，身体颤抖起来，脸上的泪流得更急了，她的手放在他的臀上，她自己的泪又流起来，他重新颤抖着，好象痉挛似的，她把手臂绕着他的肩膊。“好了，好了！不要烦恼了！不，不要烦恼了！”她一边流泪，一边悲哀地对他说。她把他引近着她，她的两臂环绕着他的宽大的肩膊；他的脸依在她的胸膛上呜咽着，震动着他的宽大的肩膊，同时她温柔地爱抚着他的头发说：“好了！好了！好了！别发愁了！别发愁了！”

他把两臂楼抱着她，好象孩子似地偎依着她，他的眼泪把她浆三蝗白围裙和浅蓝色的衣裳弄湿了。他终于把自己完全放任了。

过了一会，她吻着他，把他在她怀里摇着。她的心里说：“啊，克利福里男爵哟，网！作威作福的查太莱哟！你终于到了这步田地了！”最后，他甚至象孩于似地人曰了。她觉得疲乏极了，回到她的房里去，笑着又哭着，她也给她自己的歇斯底里所占据了。多可笑！多可怕！这么一个下场！多可耻！而且是多混掩！。

以后，克利福对于波太太变成小孩一般了。他有时握着她的手，把他的头依在她的胸怀里。当她轻轻地吻了吻他时，他说：“是的！吻我吧！吻我吧！”当她用海绵洗涤他雄伟的身体时，他也一样要说：吻我吧！”好让她随便在他身上的什么地方，半打趣地轻吻着。

他的脸孔怪异地，失神地，象一个孩子那样惊愕地躺在床上，他有时用他的孩子似的大眼睛凝视她，沉溺在一种圣母的崇拜里。他完全沉溺了，所有他的大丈夫气都抛弃了。堕落地返回孩童状态了。他的手有时要放在她的怀里，触摸着她的乳房，在那里热烈地吻着，这是一种自以为孩子的人的堕落的热烈。

波太太觉得又喜悦又害羞，又爱又恨。可是她从不推却他和斥责他。他们之间在肉体上更亲近了。这种堕落的亲近，使他成为一个似乎天真的孩子，惊异错愕得好象一种宗教的热：这是“除非您再成了小孩的堕落的真切的表觉她呢，却是富有权力的伟大圣母，把这大孩子完全慑服在她的意志与怜爱之下。

奇异的是当这个变成了大孩子的克利福---几年来他就渐渐地变成了孩子了一到外界去时，他竟比从前锐利而灵敏得多了。这个堕落的大孩子，现在是个真正的事业家了，如果有关他的利益的问题来了的时候，他是个绝对的男性，锐利得象一根针，坚固得象一块钢，当他和其男子在一块的时候，对于人的目的物的造求上，对于他的煤矿业的发展上，他有一种差不多神秘的狡黠、刻薄和动用自如的力量，那仿佛是他自己的忍受性和他的卖身于伟大圣线了他一种对于物质问题的敏锐观察，赋予他一种超人的力量。他的沉经济效益与私情，和他的大丈夫气的完全消失，似乎给了他一种冷酷的，差不多幻像的，适于事业的第二天性。在事业上，他确实是超人的。

在这一点上，波太太是得意扬扬的，她有时骄傲地对她自己说：“他是多么得手了！这都是我一手做成的！老实说，他和查太莱男爵夫人的时候是从来没有这么得手过的。她不是一种能够推进男人的人，她太为她自己着想了。”

同时，在她的古怪的、女性的灵魂的某一角落里，她多么轻蔑他，憎恶他！在她看来，他是个倒仆了的野兽，只会动的怪物，她一边竭力地帮助他，鼓舞他，一边却在他经日的健全女性的最深最远处，残酷地、无限地轻蔑他，她觉得一个最卑下的流氓都胜他一筹。

克利福对于康妮的态度是奇怪的。他坚持着要再见他一面；他尤其坚持着要她到勒格贝来；这一点他是决定性的，绝对不可动摇的。因为康妮曾经忠实地答应回勒格贝来的。

“那有什么用呢？”波太太说，“难道你不能让她走，摆脱她么？”

“不！她说过她要回来，她便得回来。”

波太太不再反对他了。她知道她对付着是什么。

我不用告诉你的信对我的影响怎样，如果你肯替我想象一下，你也许可以想象出来；不过无疑地你是不愿劳驾替我一想的。

我的回答只有这一句：在我决定什么以前，我定要在勒格贝这儿亲自见你一面，你曾忠实地答应回勒格贝来，你得履行这个允诺，我非在这儿和往常一样亲自见你之后，我不能相信什么，或明白什么。不用说，这边没有人狐疑什么，所以你的归来是自然的，待我们继谈过后，如果你还觉得主意不变，那么无纤疑地我们是可以找个解决办法的。

康妮把这封信给梅乐士看。

“他想开始报复了。”他一边说，一迅把信交还她。

康妮默默无言。她有点惊异，为什么她怕起克利福来了，她怕到他那里去，她怕他，仿佛他是个危险的恶人。

“我怎么好呢？”她说。

“不要管他，如果你不愿意。”

她回了封信给克利福，想推辞这个会见，他复信说：如果你现在不回勒格贝来，我将判断你总有一天要回来的，我便依这判断行事，我将继续在这儿等候你，等五十年也成。

她被吓住了。这是一种阴险的威吓手段，她很知道他是这么说便这么做的。他将不提出离婚，于是孩子便要成为他的，除非她有证明不是。

经过一番忧苦焦虎过后，她决定请希尔达陷她到勒格贝去。她把这个决定通知克利福，他回信说：

我不欢迎人的筋姊，但是我也不绝以闭门羹。毫无疑义，你的

背弃义务与责任是她怂恿的，那么请你不要以为我将有一副笑脸

去见她。

她们到勒格贝时，适值克利福出去了，波太大出来迎接她们。

“呵，夫人！这并不是我们所期望的‘欣然归来’啊！”她说。

“可不是！”康妮说。

“原来这妇人知道了！不知道其他的仆人知道多小，猜疑我小了呢？”

她进了大门，现在这屋于是她恨之入骨的了，这种宽大散漫的地方，好象是个险恶的东西在她头上威吓着。她现在不是它的主妇，而是它的受难者了。

“我不能在此久留。”她恐怖地对希尔达低语道。

她很难过地进到她寝室里去，重新占有了这间房子，仿佛没有发生过什么事似的！在勒格贝四壁内的每一分钟，她感觉得憎恶。

直至她们下楼去晚餐的时候才会着克利福，他穿了晚服，结下了一条黑领带，他态度拘谨显得狠绅士的样子，在席间，他是十足文雅的，引领着一种文雅的谈话，可是一切都象带着一种狂昧。

“仆人们都知道了么？”当女仆出去了时，康妮问道。

“你的事么？一点也不知道。”

“但是波太太却知道了。”

他的颜色变了。

“正确地说，波太太并不是个仆人呢。”他说。

“啊，那我无所谓的。”

咖啡过后，当希尔达说要回房里去时，情势紧张起来了。

她走后，克利福和康妮静坐着，两个人都不愿开口。康妮见他并不激动感情，心中倒觉舒泰。她竭力使他守着这种高傲的神气，她只静坐着，低头望着自己的两手。

“我想你可以把你的话收吧？”他终于开口了。

“我可不能。”她喃喃地说。

“但是你不能，谁能呢？”

“我想没有人能。”

他怪冷酷地、狂怒地望着她。他是习愤了她的人，她可以说是他的生命和意志的一部分，她现在怎么胆敢对他失信，而把他日常生活的组织破坏了？她怎么胆敢把他的人格摇动了！

“什么原因使你叛背一切？”他坚持着说。

“爱情！”她说，还是说这句老话为妙。

“对旦肯•霍布斯的爱情？但是当你见到我的时候，你不觉得那是值得的吧？你不是想使我相信你爱他甚于一切吧！”

“一个人是要变的。”她说。

“也许！也许你是反复的。可是你还得使我确信这种变迁的重要。我简直不能相信你爱旦肯•堆布斯。”

“为什么你定要相信呢？你只要提出离婚，而不必相信我的感情。”

“为什么我定要提出离婚？”

“因为我不愿再在这儿生活了。而你实在也不需要我了。”

“你错了！我是不变的，在我这方面看来，你既是我的妻，我便愿你高贵地、安静地住在我的家里。一切感情的问题搁一在边一我确告你，我这方面搁开了不少，我觉得仅仅为了你的反复，便把勒格贝这儿的生活秩序破坏，便把这高尚的日常生活打碎，于我那是死一般难的。”

静默了一会，她说：

“我没有法子。我一定得离开，我想我要有个孩子了。”

他也静默了一会，然后说：

“是为了孩子的缘故你才要走么？”

她点了点头。

“为什么？难道旦肯•布斯这样重视他的小生命？”

“无纤疑地比你重视。”她说。

“但是我告诉你，我需要我的妻了，我不觉得有什么让她走的理由。要是她喜欢在我家里生个孩子，我不觉得有什么不便，而孩于是受欢迎；只要合理而尊重生活的秩序，你想告诉我旦肯•霍布斯对你的魔力较大么？我不相信。”

他沉默了一会。

“但是你不明白，”康妮说，“我一定要离开你，我一定要和我所爱的人生活去。”

“真的，我不明白！我毫不相信你的爱和你的爱人，我不相信这种胡言乱语。”

“也许，但是我确相信。”

“是么？我亲爱的太太，你没有这么愚蠢去相信人对旦肯的爱情的。相信我吧，即在此刻，你还是比较爱我呢，那么为什么我要去相信这种荒唐的故事！”

她觉得他的话是对的！她忍不住要对他和盘托出来了。

“我真正爱的并不是旦肯。”她仰望着他说，“我们说是旦肯，为的是要不伤你的感情。”

“不伤我的感情？

“是的！因为我真正钟爱的人。是要使你憎恨我的，他是梅乐士先生，我们往日的守猎人。”

假如他可以的话，他一定从椅子里跳出来了，他的脸色变黄了。他凝视着她，他的眼睛象大难临头似的突了出来。

然后他倒在椅子里，喘着气，两眼朝着天花板。

然后．他坐了起来。

“你说的是真话么？”他样子很可怖地问道。

“是的，你知道我说的是真话。”

“那是什么时候开始的？”

“春天。”

他静默着，象一只坠入陷阱里的兽。

“以，在村舍寝室里的就是你么？”

原来他的内心里早就晓得了。

“是的！”

他依旧在他椅子里向前弯着身，象一只陷于绝境的野兽似地凝视着她。

“天哪！你这种人真应该人大地上歼灭！”

“为什么？”她喃喃地说。

但是他好象没有听见她。

“那贱东西！那鲁莽下流！那卑鄙无赖！你在这儿的时候，竟和他发生了关系，和我的一个仆人发生关系！天！天哪！女人的下贱究竟有没有止境！”

她愤怒极了，这是她所预料的。

“你竞要这么一个无赖的汉的孩子么？”

“是的！我等待着。”

“你等待着！你的确相信么？从什么时候起你的确相信？”

“从六月起。”

他夫言了，他的样子又象个孩子那么惊异而失神了。

“真怪，”他最后说，“这么一种人也容许生在世上。”

“什么一种人？”她问道。

他神秘地望着她，没有回答。显然他不能承认梅乐士的存在，而与他没有任何关系，那是绝对的、不能言宣的、无力的憎恨。

“你有意要嫁他么？……接受他的秽名么？”他终于问道。

“是的，那是我所欲望的。”

他又目瞪口呆了。

“是的！”那最后说，“那证明我一向对你的想法没有错；你是变态的，你是狂妄的，你是一种半癫狂的堕落女了，你一定要追逐污浊的东西，‘没有烂泥便要发愁的’。”

突然，他差不多成为狂热的道德家了。他觉得自己是善的化身。而梅乐士、康妮这种人，是贱与恶的化身，他好象头上罩了圣光似的飘飘然了。

“那么，你还是离了婚把我丢弃了吧？”她说。

“不！你要到那里去，你尽管去，但害我却不提出离婚。”他痴呆地说。

“为什么不？”

他静默着，象一个呆子似的，执锄地静默着。

“你竟要承认你这孩于是你的合法的孩子和继承人么？”她说。

“我毫不关心孩子么。”

“但是如果他是个男孩那么他将成为你的合法孩子，他将继承你的爵位和这勒格贝啊。”

“我毫不关心这一切。”他说。

“但是你不得不关心！我将竭我的力量不使这孩子成为你的合法孩子，我宁愿他是个私生儿，而属于我一倘然他不能属于梅乐士。”

“你喜欢怎样做就怎样做。”

他的态度是不变的。

“但是为什么不离婚？”她说，“你可以拿旦肯做个借口，真正的名字是必提出的，而旦肯也同意了。”

“我决不提出离婚。”他执意说，好象已经钉了一日钉似的。

“但是为什么？因我是我要求的么？”

“因为我照我的意向而行，而我的意向是不想离婚。”

再谈也无益了。她回到楼去，把这结果告诉希尔达。

“我们最好明天走吧，让他静静地神智清醒起来。”希尔达说。

这样，康妮把她私人的东西收拾了半夜。第二天早上，她把她的箱子叫人送到车站去，也没有告诉克利福。她决意只在午餐前去见他道别。

但是她对波太太说：

“我得和你道别了，波太太，你知道什么缘故。，但是我相信你不会对人说的。”

“啊，相信我吧，夫人，唉！我们大家都难受得很，的确。但是我希望你和那位先生将来幸福。”

“那位先生！那便是梅乐士先生，我爱他。克利福男爵知道的。但是别对人说，假如那天你以为克利福男爵愿意离婚时，让我知道吧，好不好？我愿我能好好地和我所爱的人结婚呢。”

“我自然啦，夫人！啊，一切都信任我吧，我将尽忠于克利福男爵，我也将尽忠于您，因为我明白你们双方都是对的。”

“谢谢你！波太太！我接受我这点谢忱——可以吗？”

于是康妮重新离开勒格贝，和希尔达到苏格兰去了。梅乐士呢，他已经在一个农场里找到了工作，到乡间去了，他的计划是，无论康妮能否离婚，但他是要离婚的一如果可能。他要在农场里作六个月的工，这样，以后他和康妮或可有个他们自己的小农场，那么他的精力便有用处了。因为他得工作，甚至是劳苦的工作。他得谋自己的生活；甚至康妮有钱帮助他开始。

这样，他们得等着，等到春天，等到孩子出世，等到初夏再来的时候。

吉兰治农场，九月二十九日书。

经过一番进行后，我在这儿找到工作了，因为我在军队里的时候认识里查土，他现在是公司里的工程师。这农场是属于拔拉•斯登煤矿公司的，他们在这几种植刍袜和燕麦，以供给煤矿里工作的小马的食料，这并不是个私人的农场。但是他们还有牛、猪和其他一切，我的工资是每星期三十先令，农场的管理人罗莱，尽量给我种种不同的工作，这样，我从现在到复活节间可以尽量的学习。白黛的消息我毫无所闻。我不知道为什么她在离婚案中不出面；我更不知道她在哪儿和弄什么鬼。但是，如果我静默地忍耐到三月，我想我便可以自由了。而你呢，不要为了克利福的事而烦恼，最近总有一天他要摆脱你的。如果他不纠缠你，那已经是太好了。

我寄寓在一个很不错的老村舍里。居停主人是个海帕克的机关手，身材高大，长着一贪胡须，是个很信教的人。他的女人是有点象鸟儿的那种人，她喜欢一切上流东西和文雅的英语，满口都是“请允洗！”可是他们的唯—儿子大战中丢了命，这仿佛在他们中间凿了一个洞。还有一位是他们的高大的傻女儿，她准备着将来做个小学教员，我有时帮她预备功课，所以我是俨然家庭一分子了。但是他们都是正直的人，而且对我是太好了。我想我是比你更受人姑息了。

农场的工作我倒还喜欢。这种工作虽不律津有味，但我并不求津津有味。我是习惯于马的人；乳牛虽则是很女性的东西，可是对我有一种镇静的作用。当然捋关奶的时候，我坐着把头依在它的身上，我觉得很是解闷。这儿有六条希尔福来的够漂亮的乳牛。我们刚把燕麦收获完了。虽然天下着雨，而且两手受了不少的伤，却给了我乐趣。我不太关心这儿的人，但是我和他们倒还合得来。有许多东西是人们最好不理的。

矿业很萧条了。这儿是个煤矿区，和达娃斯哈一样，但是地方倒好些。有时我到酒店里和工人们谈叙起来，他们都怨声满口，但是他们决意不去变更什么，大家都说，诺特斯。代贝的矿工们氦都在适当的位置，但是在这种不需要他们的世界里，他们的心以外的其他生理部分，一定是在不适当的位置了，我喜欢他们，但是他们是不太令人激励的；他们缺少老雄鸡的斗争精神。他们大谈国有义，利益国有和全部工业国有等等。但是你不能只把煤矿国有，而其他的工业听其自然，他们说要给煤炭找些新的用途，这和克利福男爵的想法一样。在局部也许可以成功，但是在全国、全世界都成功却是疑问了。不管你把煤炭变成什么，你总得有个销路才行。工人们都是很冷淡的。他们觉得什么都没有救药了。这一点我是相信的。于是他们自己也跟着不可救药了。其中有些年轻的人，佩佩而谈要一个苏维埃，但是他们自己却没有什么确信。他们除了确信一切都是黑漆一团以外，再没有对什么的克确信了，即使在一个苏维埃之下，煤炭还是要卖的，困难便在这里了。

我们既有了这庞大的工业群众，而他们又非吃饭不可，所以这该死的把戏就得将就演下去。妇女们现在比男子们更其絮絮不休，而且她们的看法更有把握。男子们是软弱的，他们觉得灾祸将临，于是他们苟且将事，仿佛毫无办法。大家尽管讲来讲去，却没有人知道怎么样年轻的癫狂起来，因为他们没有钱花了。他们的整个生命就是花钱，现在他们没有钱可花了。我们的文明和我们的教育便是这样：叫群众为花钱而生活，然后金钱便流出来了。煤坑晨现在一星期只作两天、两天半的工了，而又没有转好的征兆，即使冬天来了也不见得会好转。二十五到三十先令的工钱，怎么养活一家人呢？妇女们是最癫狂的，而我们今日花钱是癫狂的，也算是她们。

你想对他们说生活和花钱是不同的事么！那是徒劳的。假如他们所受的是生活的教育，而不是找钱的花的教育，那么二十五个先令对于他们也就可以快活够用了。假如男子们如我说的都穿上了紧身红裤子，那么他们便不会那么想钱了。假如他们可以舞蹈，跳跃，狂歌，高视阔步，而且漂亮起来，那么腰包虽很瘦，他们也可以满足了。假如他们知道享受女人的福，而让女人也享受他们的福，那就好了！他们应该学习怎样使自己赤裸裸无畏和漂亮起来，怎样唱合唱的歌和跳那旧日的合跳的舞，怎样雕刻他们所坐的凳子和刺绣他们自己的标识。那时他们便不需要金钱了。这是解决工业问题的唯一方法：教练人民生活，在美中生活，而不需花钱，但这是不可能的。我们今日都是智力有限的人，而广大的群众连思想也不应该，因为他们不能思想。他们应该生动、活泼，而崇拜伟大的自然神潘(Pan)，只有他才永久是群众之神。少数的人，如果他们喜欢的话，尽可另有更高等的崇拜。但是让群众是些异端吧。

但是矿工们却不是些异端，他们不配。他们是一群半死的可怜虫：他们对于他们的女人毫无生气，对于生命毫无生气。年轻的一有机会便带些女人坐摩托单车兜风、跳舞，但是他们从头到脚都死了。而且那是要钱的事，钱这东西，你有了的时候，它便毒害你；你没收有的时候，它便饿死你。

这一切一定使你觉得厌烦起来，可是我不愿多说我自己的事，而我也没有什么事可产，我的心不愿多说我自己的事，而我也没有什么事可说。我的心不愿多想你，那不过使我们两人更觉茫无头绪罢了，介理，不用说，我现在的生命之目的，便是你和我同居。实在我是惧怕的。我觉得恶魔在空中，他将度图把我们捉住。或者这不是恶魔，而是贪财鬼。这鬼不是旁的，我想只是贪钱而厌生的群众之总意志罢了。总之，我觉和量些粗大的贪婪的白手在空中，想把任何努力生活，努力摆脱金钱的束缚而生活的人的咽喉扼着，把你的老命挤了出来。坏日子就要来了。坏日子就要来了，朋友们，坏日子就要来了！如果事情照这样下去，这些工业群众的将来，便只有死与毁灭。我有时觉得我的心肠都化成水了，而你却正等待着一个我的孩子！但是不要紧。世界过去的所有坏日子，都不能把人的心花摧毁，甚至没有摧毁女子的爱情，所以我对你的欲望和你我间的小光明，也不会被摧毁的。明年我们便要在一块了。虽然我惧怕，但是我相信你我终必结合的，一个得竭力抵抗挣扎以后，才能相信什么事物。一个人对于将来的唯一的保证，便信他自己有最好的东西和它的权力。那么我相信我们间的小火把。现在，在我看来，这是世界上唯一的东西了。我没有朋友，没有知已的朋友。只有你。现在，那小火把是我生命中唯一在怀的东西了。至于孩子呢，那是旁枝末叶。你与我间的那把熊熊之火，便是我的“圣灵降临”人们往日所信的“圣灵降临”是不太对的。“我”与“上帝”这无论如何是有点傲慢的。但是你与我间的熊小火，那便是可持的东西了！那便是我所坚持的，而且要坚持到底的，管他什么克利宝和白黛，煤矿公司和政府，以及追逐金钱的群众。

这便是此刻我不欲多想你的缘故。那只使我痛苦，而且无益，你的无离我，是我所难受的。但是如果我开始烦闷起来，什么东西梗要耗损了。忍耐吧，不折不扣地忍耐吧！不久便要到我的第四二冬天了。我过去的所有冬天是在无可奈何中过去了。但是这个冬天，我要坚依着我的“圣灵降临”的小火把而尝点和平滋味。我将不让世人的气息把它吹熄。我信仰一种微妙的神秘，这种神秘是不让人摧毁心花的。虽然你在格兰而我在米德兰，虽然我不能把你拥在怀中，夹在两腿间，但是我心里却有你在。我的灵魂温柔地在“圣灵降临”的小火把中，和你一起翱翔着，这好象是性交时的和平一样。我们在性交的时候，便产生了那种火焰。即使植物的花，也是由太阳与大地相交而产生的。但这是不易的事情，需要忍与长久的等待。

因此，我现在爱贞洁了，因为那是从性交中产生出来的和平。现在，我觉得能守贞洁是可爱的了。我爱这贞洁和雪花之爱雪一样。我爱这贞洁，它是我们的性交和和平的静顿，它在我们中间，好象一朵熊熊白火似的雪花。当正的春天来了的时候，当我们相聚之日来到了的时候，那时我们全炯以在性交之中使那小小的火把光辉起来，鲜真艳而光辉起来。

但不是现在，时候还没有到！现在是守贞洁的时候，能守贞洁是多么佳妙，那象是一条清凉的河水在我的灵魂里流着、我爱贞洁，它现在在我们间流荡着。它象新鲜的水和雨水。男子们怎么能够丑恶地调情泛爱。唐磺是个多么可怜的人，在性交之后，不能赢得和平，小火把无力地燃着，而不能在他镇静的过度期间一象在一条河边似的一贞洁起来。

好了，说了不少的话了，这都是为了我不能触摸你！假如我能够把你抱在臂里共枕而眠，这斑斑的墨迹便不会黑在这纸上了！我们可以在一起守着贞洁，正如我们在一起性交一样，但我们不得不发离一些时日，而我以为这是最明哲的道路。只要我们能够确信就好了。

但是不要紧，不要紧，不要苦恼我们自己。我们实在信任那小火把，我们信任庇护这火把不至熄灭的无名的上帝。我的心里不知有多少的你，真的，可惜就是你不全部在这儿。

不要怕克利福，如果他守着静默不要怕，他实在不能伤害你。等待吧，他终要摆脱你，终要把你抛弃，假如他不的话，我们总有方法无祁他的。但是，他终要摆脱你的。他终要把你象一个可恶的东西似地吐了出来的。

现在我愈写愈不能尽了。

但是我们的大部分是连在一起的。我们只要坚持着，准备着我们不无宾相聚。约翰•多马士向珍奴夫人道晚安，头有点低垂着，但是心是充满着希望的。