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查太莱夫人的情人|Lady Chatterley‘s Lover

第6章|Chapter 6

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 劳伦斯] 阅读：[26939]
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“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。

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“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。”

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康妮沉思着

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“呵，是的，但是你从来就还没有和她们有过什么关系哟！”

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“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？”

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“是的，谈着话……”

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“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？”

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“也许不能怎样，但是一个女人……”

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“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。”

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“但是这两件事应该可以并行才是！”

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“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。”

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“我觉得这两件事是应该可以同时发生的。”

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“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。”

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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？”

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“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。”

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“但是那不使你觉得悲哀吗？”

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“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。”

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“你喜欢我吗？”

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“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？”

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“不错，”康妮说。“但是也许我们之间应该要有这问题吧？”

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“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？”

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“但是其间没有不同的地方么？”

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“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？”

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“那我一定要觉得可恨。”

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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？”

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“我决不这样迫你，但是这其中恐怕有些谬误的地方吧？”

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“你也许这样觉得，我却不。”

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“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。”

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“而男人对女人呢，有没有？”

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她考虑了问题的那一面。

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“不甚有。”她诚实地说。

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“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！”

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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？

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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。

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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。

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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。

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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。

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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。

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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。

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“喂，不要哭了，你这小鬼子。”那人怒叫道。

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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。

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“什么事？她哭什么？”康妮问道，很坚决的，但是有点喘不过气来。

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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。

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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。

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“我是问你。”她喘着气说。

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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。

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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。

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“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。

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“不要哭了！”她向孩子弯着身说，“你看看我给你什么东西！”

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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。

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“那是……那是……为了猫猫！。”

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呜咽减低了，抽噎着。

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“什么猫猫，亲爱的？”

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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。

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“在那儿！”

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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。

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“啊！”她憎恶地叫道。

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“这是一只野猫，夫人。”那人嘲讽地说。

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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。

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“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？”

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孩子吸着鼻涕；然后用一种矫揉造作的尖声道：“康妮·梅乐士！”

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“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？”

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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。

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“我本来要跟奶奶留在家里的”女孩说。

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“是吗？但是你的奶奶在那儿？”

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孩子举起手臂，向马路下边指着：“在村舍里。”

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“在村舍里？你要回到她那里去么？”

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想起了刚才的哭泣，突然发抖地抽噎起来。——“是的，我要去！”

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“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？”

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他行了一个礼。轻轻地点了点头。

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“我想我可以带她到村舍里去吧？”康妮问道。

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“如果夫人愿意的话。”

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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。

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“你喜欢同我到村舍里，到你奶奶那里去么，亲爱的？”

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那孩子又通告着那尖锐的声音，娇媚地说：“是的！”

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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。

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“早安！”康妮说。

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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。

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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。

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“奶奶！奶奶！”

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“怎么，你已经回来了！”

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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。

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“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；

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“早安！”康妮说，“她哭了，所以我把她带回来的。”

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祖母向孩子迅速地瞥了一瞥。

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“但是，你爹爹在哪儿？”

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女孩牵着她祖母的裙，痴笑着。

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“他在那边，”康妮说，他把一只野猫打死了，把小孩吓慌了。”

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“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！”

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“没有什么麻烦，这还可使我散散步呢。”康妮微笑着说。

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“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。

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康妨不知道说什么好。

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“你瞧，奶奶！”孩子作媚态说。

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那老妇女望着孩子手中的六辨士。

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“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！”

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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。

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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。

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“谢谢你。”孩子尖声地说。

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“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。

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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！”

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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，

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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。

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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！

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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！

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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！

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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！

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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！”

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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。

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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。

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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。

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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？

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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！”

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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。

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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！

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就是这样！

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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！

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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

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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。

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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。

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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。

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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！

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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。

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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。

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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。

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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。

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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。

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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！

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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！

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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。

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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。

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“查太莱夫人！”他说，“请进来吗？”

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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。

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“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。

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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。

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“请坐坐好吗？”他问道，心里想着她是不会坐下的。门还是开着。

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“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。

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“好的，夫人，我就去看去。”

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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。

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“你只一个人住在这儿吗？”她问道。

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“是人，夫人，只一个人。”

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“但是你的母亲呢？”

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“她住在村中她自己的村舍里。”

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“和孩子在一起么？”康妮问道。

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“和孩子在一起！”

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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。

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当他看见了康妮的莫名其妙的样子时，他说道：

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“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。”

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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。

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她有许多话想说，可是说不出来，她只向他望着，说：

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“我希望没有打扰你吧？”

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一个轻轻的讥讽的微笑，把他的眼睛缩小了。

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“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。”

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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。”

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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。

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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。

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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。”

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“真的吗？克利福说，“我倒没有注意。”

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“但是他不是有点特别的地方么？”康妮坚持着说。

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“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”

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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。

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“但是，你觉得他是有点什么特别的地方么？”她问道。

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“老实说，我不觉得，我毫没有注意到什么。”

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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。

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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！

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`Why don’t men and women really like one another nowadays?’ Connie asked Tommy Dukes, who was more or less her oracle.

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`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.’

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Connie pondered this.

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`Ah, yes, but you never have anything to do with them!’ she said.

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`I? What am I doing but talking perfectly sincerely to a woman at this moment?’

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`Yes, talking...’

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`And what more could I do if you were a man, than talk perfectly sincerely to you?’

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`Nothing perhaps. But a woman...’

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`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.’

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`But they shouldn’t be!’

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`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.’

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`I think they ought to.’

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`All right. The fact that things ought to be something else than what they are, is not my department.

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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?’

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`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.

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`But doesn’t it make you sad?’

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`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.’

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`Do you like me?’

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`Very much! And you see there’s no question of kissing between us, is there?’

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`None at all!’ said Connie. `But oughtn’t there to be?’

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`Why, in God’s name? I like Clifford, but what would you say if I went and kissed him?’

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`But isn’t there a difference?’

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`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?’

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`I should hate it.’

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`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?’

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`No, I’m not. But isn’t something wrong?’

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`You may feel it, I don’t.’

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`Yes, I feel something is wrong between men and women. A woman has no glamour for a man any more.’

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`Has a man for a woman?’

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She pondered the other side of the question.

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`Not much,’ she said truthfully.

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`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!’

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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?

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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.

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And the bounders who pretended they did, and started working the sex game, they were worse than ever.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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`Ah, shut it up, tha false little bitch!’ came the man’s angry voice, and the child sobbed louder.

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Constance strode nearer, with blazing eyes. The man turned and looked at her, saluting coolly, but he was pale with anger.

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`What’s the matter? Why is she crying?’ demanded Constance, peremptory but a little breathless.

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A faint smile like a sneer came on the man’s face. `Nay, yo mun ax ’er,’ he replied callously, in broad vernacular.

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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.

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`I asked you,’ she panted.

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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.

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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.

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`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.

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`Don’t you cry then!’ she said, bending in front of the child. `See what I’ve got for you!’

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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.

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`It’s the...it’s the...pussy!’

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Shudders of subsiding sobs.

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`What pussy, dear?’

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After a silence the shy fist, clenching on sixpence, pointed into the bramble brake.

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`There!’

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Connie looked, and there, sure enough, was a big black cat, stretched out grimly, with a bit of blood on it.

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`Oh!’ she said in repulsion.

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`A poacher, your Ladyship,’ said the man satirically.

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She glanced at him angrily. `No wonder the child cried,’ she said, `if you shot it when she was there. No wonder she cried!’

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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.

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`What is your name?’ she said playfully to the child. `Won’t you tell me your name?’

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Sniffs; then very affectedly in a piping voice: `Connie Mellors!’

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`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!’

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The child looked at her, with bold, dark eyes of scrutiny, sizing her up, and her condolence.

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`I wanted to stop with my Gran,’ said the little girl.

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`Did you? But where is your Gran?’

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The child lifted an arm, pointing down the drive. `At th’ cottidge.’

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`At the cottage! And would you like to go back to her?’

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Sudden, shuddering quivers of reminiscent sobs. `Yes!’

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`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?’

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He saluted, and made a slight movement of the head in affirmation.

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`I suppose I can take her to the cottage?’ asked Connie.

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`If your Ladyship wishes.’

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Again he looked into her eyes, with that calm, searching detached glance. A man very much alone, and on his own.

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`Would you like to come with me to the cottage, to your Gran, dear?’

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The child peeped up again. `Yes!’ she simpered.

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Connie disliked her; the spoilt, false little female. Nevertheless she wiped her face and took her hand. The keeper saluted in silence.

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`Good morning!’ said Connie.

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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.

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At the cottage the door stood open, and there was a rattling heard inside. Connie lingered, the child slipped her hand, and ran indoors.

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`Gran! Gran!’

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`Why, are yer back a’ready!’

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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.

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`Why, whatever?’ she said, hastily wiping her arm across her face as she saw Connie standing outside.

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`Good morning!’ said Connie. `She was crying, so I just brought her home.’

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The grandmother looked around swiftly at the child:

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`Why, wheer was yer Dad?’

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The little girl clung to her grandmother’s skirts and simpered.

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`He was there,’ said Connie, `but he’d shot a poaching cat, and the child was upset.’

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`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!’

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`It was no bother, just a walk,’ said Connie smiling.

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`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.’

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Connie didn’t know what to say.

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`Look, Gran!’ simpered the child.

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The old woman looked down at the sixpence in the little girl’s hand.

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`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!’

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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.

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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.

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`Thank you,’ piped the child.

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`There’s a dear!’ laughed Connie, and she moved away, saying `Good morning’, heartily relieved to get away from the contact.

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Curious, she thought, that that thin, proud man should have that little, sharp woman for a mother!

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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!’

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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.

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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!

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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!

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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!

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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?

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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!

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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.

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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.

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So that was that!

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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!

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She had an idea that he would have to be a foreigner: not an Englishman, still less an Irishman. A real foreigner.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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!

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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!

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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!

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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?

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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.

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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.

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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.

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`Lady Chatterley!’ he said. `Will you come in?’

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His manner was so perfectly easy and good, she stepped over the threshold into the rather dreary little room.

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`I only called with a message from Sir Clifford,’ she said in her soft, rather breathless voice.

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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.

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`Would you care to sit down?’ he asked, presuming she would not. The door stood open.

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`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.

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`Very good, your Ladyship. I will see to it at once.’

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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.

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`Do you live here quite alone?’ she asked.

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`Quite alone, your Ladyship.’

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`But your mother...?’

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`She lives in her own cottage in the village.’

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`With the child?’ asked Connie.

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`With the child!’

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And his plain, rather worn face took on an indefinable look of derision. It was a face that changed all the time, baking.

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`No,’ he said, seeing Connie stand at a loss, `my mother comes and cleans up for me on Saturdays; I do the rest myself.’

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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.

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She wanted to say so many things, and she said nothing. Only she looked up at him again, and remarked:

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`I hope I didn’t disturb you?’

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The faint smile of mockery narrowed his eyes.

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`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.’

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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.

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She plodded on into the wood, knowing he was looking after her; he upset her so much, in spite of herself.

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And he, as he went indoors, was thinking: `She’s nice, she’s real! She’s nicer than she knows.’

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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.

158

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`The game-keeper, Mellors, is a curious kind of person,’ she said to Clifford; `he might almost be a gentleman.’

159

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`Might he?’ said Clifford. `I hadn’t noticed.’

160

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`But isn’t there something special about him?’ Connie insisted.

161

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`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.’

162

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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.

163

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`But don’t you think there is something special about him?’ she asked.

164

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`Frankly, no! Nothing I had noticed.’

165

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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.

166

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Connie felt again the tightness, niggardliness of the men of her generation. They were so tight, so scared of life!

167

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