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查太莱夫人的情人|Lady Chatterley‘s Lover

第4章|Chapter 4

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 劳伦斯] 阅读：[26938]
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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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！

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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。

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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。

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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。”

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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。

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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。

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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。”

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“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。

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“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。”

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“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？”

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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。

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“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。”

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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。”

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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。

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“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？”

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“好色的色尔特人的说法。”克利福说。

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“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？”

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“象兔子一样的苟合？”韩蒙说。

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“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？”

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“可是我们并不是兔子呀。”韩蒙说。

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“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？”

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“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。

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“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？

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“一点也不！你可以结婚呀？”

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“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。”

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因为和朱丽亚调情的事，这两个人自抱着怨恨。

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“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……

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“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。”

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“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。”

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“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。”

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唐米·督克斯不禁大笑起来。

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“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？”

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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。

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“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。”

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“怎样重要呢？”督克斯问道。

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“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。

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“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。”

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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。

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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；

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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。

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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。

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星期日的晚上，有个起劲的聚谈，话柄又转到爱情上。

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“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。”

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“我就不相信我们大家都这样仇恨的。”克利福抗仪说。

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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！”

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“啊！但是我相信我们彼此上诚实地相爱的。”韩蒙说。

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“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。”

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“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。

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督克斯不愿再谈苏格拉底了。

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“的确，批评和学问是两回事。”韩蒙说。

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“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。

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大家都望着分，仿佛听见驴子说了话似的。

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“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。”

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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。

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“好，那么我们都是摘下赤的苹果了。”韩蒙有点恼怒地说。

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“既是这燕，让我们把自己来酿成苹果酒好了。”查量说。

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“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；

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“妙哪！”查里高叫道，“你觉得波尔雪维克主义怎样？”

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“算了罢！让我们把波尔雪维克主义切成肉酱罢！”督克斯说。

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“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。

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“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。”

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“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。”

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“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。”

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“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。

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“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。”

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“无论如何，波尔雪维克主义已经达到事物的绝底了。”查里说。

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“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。”

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“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。

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“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。”

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“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。”

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“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。”

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大家正在不满意的沉默着，巴里突然不安地问道：

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“那么你相信爱情罢，唐米，是不是？”

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“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！”

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“但是你总相信点什么东西罢？”

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“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。”

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“那么这种种你都具有了。”巴里说。

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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。”

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“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。

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“我的上帝？‘要是她们对我来说不好，她们好又与我何干？’”

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“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？”

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“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。

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“是的，生活是太单调了！”

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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!

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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`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.’

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`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.

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`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.’

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`You mean you wouldn’t mind if he made love to Julia in some discreet alcove?’

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Charlie May was slightly satirical, for he had flirted a very little with Julia, and Hammond had cut up very roughly.

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`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.’

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`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.’

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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.

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`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?’

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`There speaks the lascivious Celt,’ said Clifford.

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`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?’

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`Be as promiscuous as the rabbits!’ said Hammond.

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`Why not? What’s wrong with rabbits? Are they any worse than a neurotic, revolutionary humanity, full of nervous hate?’

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`But we’re not rabbits, even so,’ said Hammond.

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`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?’

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`I should have thought sexual indigestion from surfeit would have interfered with you more seriously,’ said Hammond satirically.

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`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.’

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`Not at all! You can marry.’

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`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.’

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These two men had not forgiven each other about the Julia flirtation.

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`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...’

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`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.’

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`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.’

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`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.’

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Tommy Dukes burst into a laugh.

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`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?’

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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.

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`Well!’ he said, `being myself hors de combat, I don’t see I’ve anything to say on the matter.’

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`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.’

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`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.’

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`What sort of great thing?’ said Tommy.

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`Oh...it perfects the intimacy,’ said Clifford, uneasy as a woman in such talk.

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`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...’

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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.

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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!

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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.

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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.

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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.

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There was a gorgeous talk on Sunday evening, when the conversation drifted again to love.

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`Blest be the tie that binds

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Our hearts in kindred something-or-other’---

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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.’

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`I don’t think we’re altogether so spiteful,’ protested Clifford.

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`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.’

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`Oh, but I do think we honestly like one another,’ said Hammond.

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`I tell you we must...we say such spiteful things to one another, about one another, behind our backs! I’m the worst.’

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`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.

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Dukes refused to be drawn about Socrates.

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`That’s quite true, criticism and knowledge are not the same thing,’ said Hammond.

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`They aren’t, of course,’ chimed in Berry, a brown, shy young man, who had called to see Dukes, and was staying the night.

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They all looked at him as if the ass had spoken.

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`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.’

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Clifford made big eyes: it was all stuff to him. Connie secretly laughed to herself.

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`Well then we’re all plucked apples,’ said Hammond, rather acidly and petulantly.

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`So let’s make cider of ourselves,’ said Charlie.

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`But what do you think of Bolshevism?’ put in the brown Berry, as if everything had led up to it.

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`Bravo!’ roared Charlie. `What do you think of Bolshevism?’

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`Come on! Let’s make hay of Bolshevism!’ said Dukes.

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`I’m afraid Bolshevism is a large question,’ said Hammond, shaking his head seriously.

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`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.

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`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.’

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`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.’

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`I deny that Bolshevism is logical, it rejects the major part of the premisses,’ said Hammond.

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`My dear man, it allows the material premiss; so does the pure mind...exclusively.’

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`At least Bolshevism has got down to rock bottom,’ said Charlie.

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`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.

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`But this thing can’t go on...this hate business. There must be a reaction...’ said Hammond.

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`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.’

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`But there are many other ways,’ said Hammond, `than the Soviet way. The Bolshevists aren’t really intelligent.’

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`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.’

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Out of the disapproving silence came Berry’s anxious question:

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`You do believe in love then, Tommy, don’t you?’

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`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!’

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`But you do believe in something?’

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`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.’

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`Well, you’ve got them all,’ said Berry.

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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.’

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`There are nice women in the world,’ said Connie, lifting her head up and speaking at last.

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The men resented it...she should have pretended to hear nothing. They hated her admitting she had attended so closely to such talk.

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`My God! "If they be not nice to me What care I how nice they be?"

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`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?’

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`It’s much less complicated if one stays pure,’ said Berry.

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`Yes, life is all too simple!’

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