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查太莱夫人的情人|Lady Chatterley‘s Lover

第8章|Chapter 8

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 劳伦斯] 阅读：[27417]
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波尔敦太太对于康妮也是很慈爱地看护的，她觉得她必要把她的女性的职业的看护，扩张到女主人的身上。她常常劝男爵夫人出去散步，乘汽车到由斯魏特走走去，到新鲜空气里去，因为康妮已经成了个习惯，整天坐在火旁边。假装着看书，或做着活计，差不多不出门了。

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希尔达走了不久以后的一个刮风天，波太太对她说：“你为什么不到树林里去散散步，到守猎人的村舍后边去看看野水仙？那是一幅不容易看到的最美丽的景色。并且你还可以采些来放在房里呢，野水仙总是带着那么愉快的风姿，可不是么？

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康妮觉得这主意很不坏，看看吱水仙花去！毕竟呢，为什么这样困守愁城，摧残自己？春天回来了……”春大显身手秋冬去复回，但是那欢乐的日子，那甜蜜地前来的黄昏或清晨，却不向我回来。”

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而那个守猎人！他的纤细的白皙的身体，象是一枝肉眼不能见的花朵里的孤寂的花心！她在极度的颓丧抑郁中竟把他忘记了，但是现在什么东西在醒转了……幽暗地，在门廊与大门的那边……所要做的，但是通过那些门廊与大门。

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她现在更有气力了，走起路来也更轻快了，树林里的风，不象花园里的风那么紧吹着她而使人疲乏。她要忘记，忘记世界和所有可怖的行尸走肉的人们，在三月的风中，有无穷的词语在她的心中迅疾经过：“你得要投胎重生！我相信肉体之复活！假如一粒小麦落在地下面不死，它是要发牙的……当报春花生长晨，我也要露出头来看太阳！”

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一阵阵的阳光乍明乍暗，奇异的光辉，林边棱树下的毛莫草，在阳光照耀下，好象金叶似的闪着黄光，树林里寂静着，这样地寂静着，但给一阵阵的阳光照得揣揣不安，新出的白头翁都在开花了，满地上布散着它们苍白的颜色。整个树林都好象苍白了。“在您的呼吸之下，世界就成苍白了”

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但是这一天，那却是珀耳塞福涅的呼吸；她在一个寒冷的早晨，从地狱中走了出来，一阵阵的风呵着冷气，在头顶上，那纠缠在树枝间的乱风在愤怒着。原来风也是和押沙龙一样，被困着，但是挣扎着想把自己解脱出来，那些白头翁草看来多委怕冷的样子，在它绿色的衣裙上，耸着洁白的赤裸的肩膊。可是它们却忍得佐。在小径的旁边，还有些抉出的小莲馨花，乍开着黄色的花蕾。

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狂怒的风在头顶上吼叫着，下边只有一阵阵的冷气，康妮在树林里奇异兴奋起来，她的两颊上潮红涌起，两只眼睛蓝得更深。她蹒跚地走着，一边采些莲馨花初出的紫罗兰，又香又冷的紫罗兰。她只管前进着，不知自己是在那里。

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未了，她到了树林尽头的空旷处，她看见了那带绿色的石筑的村舍，远看起来差不多是淡红色的，象是一朵菌的下面的颜色，村舍的石块绘阳光温暖着。在那关闭着的门边，有些素馨花在闪着黄色的光辉。但是阗寂无声。烟囱里不冒烟，也没有狗吠声。

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她静默地绕到屋后面去，那儿地势是隆起的，她有个托词，她是来看野水仙的。

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它们都在那儿，那些花柄短短的野水仙，在发着沙沙的的声响，摇动着，战栗着，这样的光耀而富有生命，但是它们都在闪避着风向，而不知何处藏匿它们的脸儿。

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它们在窘迫至极的时候，摇摆着那光辉的向阳小花瓣，但是事实上也放它们喜欢这样——也许它们喜欢这样地受着虐待。

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康妮靠着一株小松树下，这小松树在她的背后，荡动着一种奇异的、有弹性的、有罗的、向上的生命。直耸着，流动着，它的树梢在太阳光里！她望着那些野水仙花，在太阳下变成金黄颜色，这同样的太阳，把她的手和膝疯都温暖起来，她甚至还闻着轻微的柏油昧的花香。因为是这样的静寂，这样的孤独，她觉得自己是进入到了她自己的命运之川流里去了。她曾经被一条绳索系着，颠簸着，摇动着，象一只碇泊着的船。现在呢，她可以自由飘荡了。

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冷气把阳光赶走了。野水仙无言地深藏在草荫里。它们整天整夜在寒冷中这样深藏着，虽然是弱质，但是那么强悍！

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她站了起来，觉得有些硬直，采了几朵野水仙便走了。她并不喜欢摘断花枝，但是她只要一两朵去伴她回去。她不得不回勒格贝去，回擂格贝的墙里去。唉！她多么恨它，尤其是它坚厚地墙壁！墙归墙！虽然，在这样的风里，人却需要这些墙壁呢。

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她回到家里时，克利福问她道

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“你到那儿去来？”

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“一直穿过了树林，你瞧，这些小野水仙花不是很可爱么？想一想，它们是从泥土中出来的！”

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“还不是从空气里和阳光里出来的。”他说。

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“但是在泥土中形成的。”她反驳他说，自己有点惊异着能反驳得这么侠。

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第二天午后，她又回一到树林里去。她沿着落叶松树丛中的那条弯曲而上知的大马路走去，直至一个被人叫做和约翰并的泉源。在这山坡上，冷气袭人，落叶松的树荫下，并没有一朵花儿。但是那冰冷的泉源，却在它的自里带红的纯洁的细石堆成的小井床上，幽烟地涌着。多么冰冷，清澈，而且光亮！无疑地那晰来的守猎人添放了些小石子。她听着溢出的水，流在山坡上，发着叮略的细微声。这声音甚至比那落叶松林的嘶嘶的怒号声更高，落时松林在山坡上，遍布着忿怒的、无叶的、狞恶的暗影。她听见好象一些渺小的水铃在鸣着。

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这地方阴森得有些不祥的样子，冷而且潮湿。可是，几个世界以来，这井一定曾经是人民钢水的地方，现在再也没有人到这里来饮水了。阂围的小空地是油绿的，又冷又凄惨。

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她站了起来，慢慢地步回家去，一边走着，她听见了右边发着轨微的敲击声，她站着静听。这是锤击声还中一只啄木鸟的啄木声？不，这一定是锤击声。

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她继续走路，一边听着，她发现了在小杉树的中间，有一条狭窄的小径，一条迷失的小径。一条迷失的小径，但是她觉得这条小径是被人走过的，她冒险地沿这小径上走去，那两旁的小杉树，不久便要给老橡林淹没了，锤击的声音，在充满着风的小杉树，不久使要给老橡林淹没了。锤击的声音，在充满着风的树林之静默中——因为树木甚至在它们的风声中，也产生一种静默——愈来愈近。

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她看见了一个幽秘的小小的空地，和一所粗木筑成的幽秘的小屋，她从来没有到过这儿的！她明白了这是养育幼稚的幽静的地方，那守猎的人，只穿着衬衣，正跪在地上用铁锤锤击着什么，狗儿向她走了过来，尖锐地疾疾地吠着，守猎人突然地指起头来，看见了她。他的眼睛里表现着惊愕的神气。

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他站了起来向她行礼，静默地望着她，望着她四肢无力地走了近来，他埋怨她不该侵犯了他的孤独，这孤独是他所深爱，而认为是他生命里唯一的和最后的自由。

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’我奇怪着迷锤声是怎么来的。”她说着，觉得自己无办，而气急。而后有点怕他因为他晕佯直直地望着她。

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“我正准备些小鸟儿用的笼子。”他用沉浊的土话说。

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她不知怎么说好，而且她觉得软弱无力。

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“我想坐一会儿。”她说。

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“到这小屋里坐坐吧。”他说着，先她走到小屋里去，把些废木树推在一边。拖出了一把榛树枝做的粗陋的椅子。

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“要绘你生点吗？”她答道。

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便是化望着她的两手：这两只手冷得有些蓝了。于是他迅速地拿了些松枝放在屋隅的小夸炉里，一会儿，黄色的火焰便向烟囱里直冒。他在那火炉的旁边替她安顿了一个位子。

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“坐在这儿暖一暖吧。”他说。

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她服从着。他有着一种慈爱的保护者的威严，使他马上听从。她坐了下来，在火焰上暖着两手，添着树枝，而他却在外边继续着工作。她实在不愿意坐在那儿，在那角落里火旁边藏匿着，她宁愿站在门边去看他的工作。但是她巳受着人家的款待，那么她只好服从。

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小屋里是很舒适的，板壁是些没有上漆的松木做的。在她坐的椅子旁，有一张小桌子，一把粗陋的小凳，一条木匠用的长板凳，还有一日大木箱，一些工具，新木板，钉子和各种各样的东西挂在钩子上，大斧、小斧、几个捕兽的夹子，几袋东西和他的外衣，那儿并没有窗户，光线是从开着的门边进来的，这是一个杂物的储藏室，但同时却也是一个小小的庇护所。

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她听着锤击声，这并不是一种愉快的声音，他是不高兴的。一个女人！侵犯了他的自由与孤独，这是多么危险的侵犯！他在这大地上所要的，便是孤独，他是到了这步田地的人了，但是，他没有力量去保卫他的孤独；他只是一个雇佣的人，而这些人却是他的主子。

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尤其是，他不想再和一个女人接触了，他惧怕，因为过去的接触使他得了一个大大的创伤。他觉得，要是他不能孤独，要是人不让他孤独，他便要死，他已经完全与外界脱离了；他的最后藏身处便是这个树林：把他自己藏在那儿！

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康妮把火生得这样的猛，她觉得温暖起来了一会儿她觉得热起来了。她走出门边从而在一张小凳上，望着那个工作着的人。他好象没有注意她，但是他是知道她在那儿的．不过他仍然工作着，似乎很专心地工作着，他的褐色的狗儿坐在他的旁边，视察着这不可信任的世界。

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清瘦、沉静、而又敏捷，那人把笼子做好了，把它翻了过去，试着那扇滑门，然后把它放在一边。然后他站了起来，去取了一只旧笼子，把它放在刚才工作着的所板上。他蹲伏着，试着止面的木棒是不是坚实，他把其中的几根折断了，又开始把钉子拨出来，然后他把木笼前后翻转着考量，他一点儿也不露着他觉察了有一个女人在那儿。

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康妮出神地望着他。那天当他裸体的时候她所觉得的那种孤独，她现在能在他的衣服下感觉出来：又孤独，又专心，他象一只孤独地工作着的动物。但是他也深思默虑着，象一个退避的灵魂，象一个退避一切人间关系的灵魂。即在此刻，他就静默地、忍耐地躯避着她。这么一个热情的躁急的国子的这种静默，这种无限的忍耐，使康妮的子宫都感动了。她可以从他俯着的头。他的又敏捷又姻静的两只手和他那纤细多情的弯着的腰部看出这些来，那儿有着什么忍耐着退缩着的东西，她觉得这个人的经验比她自已的深广，深广得多了。也许比她的还要残酷。想到了这个倒使她觉得轻松起来，她差不多觉得自己没有负什么责任了。

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这样．，她坐在那小屋的门边，做梦似的，全失了时间和环境的知觉。她是这样地仿佛着，他突然地向她望了一望，看见了她脸上那种十分静穆和期待的神情。在他，这是一种期待的神情，骤然地，他仿佛觉得他的腰背有一支火馅在扑着，他的心里呻吟起来，他恐怖着，拒绝着一切新的密切的人间关系。他最切望的便是她能走开，而让他孤独着，他惧怕她的意志，她的女性的意志，她的新女性的固执，尤其是，他惧怕她的上流社会妇女的泰然自若、果敢无畏的您情任性。因为毕竟我只是一个佣人，他憎恨她出现在这个小屋里。

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康妮忽然不安地醒转过来，她站了起来，天色已经黄昏了；但是她不能走开。她向那人走了过去，他小心翼翼地站着，他的憔悴的面孔僵硬而呆滞，他注视着她。

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“这儿真舒服，真安静。”她说，“我以前还没有来过呢。”

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“没来过么？”

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“我看我以后不时还要到这儿来坐坐。”

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“是吗？”

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“你不在这儿的时候，是不是把这屋门锁起的？”

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”是的，夫人”

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“你认为我也可以得一片钥匙么？这样我便可以不时来坐坐。钥匙有两片没有？”

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“据我知道，并没有两片。”

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他又哼起他的土话来了。康妮犹豫着：他正在反对她了。但是，难道这小屋是他的么？

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“我们不能多弄一片钥匙么？”她用温柔的声音问道，这是一个妇人决意要满她的要求时的声音。

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“多弄一片！”他一边说，一边用一种忿怒和嘲弄的混合的眼光望着她。

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“是的，多做一片同样的。”她说，脸红着。

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“也许克利福男爵另有一片吧。”他用土话说。

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“是的！”她说，“他也许另有一片，要不我们可以照你那片另做一片，想想那用不了一天的工夫，在这一天内你可以不那钥匙吧？”

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我可不能说，夫人！我不认识这附近谁会做钥匙的。”

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康妮气得通红起来。

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“好吧！”她说，“我自己管去。”

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“是的，夫人。”

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他们的视线遇着，他的眼睛是冷酷的，险恶的，充满着厌恶和侮蔑，漠然于未来的事情。她的眼睛则含恨的，盛她的。

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但是，她的心里是难过的，她看见了当她反对他时，他是多么地厌恶她。她担负了他是在一种失望的神情中。

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“再会吧！”

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“再会，夫人！”——他行了一个礼碎然地转身走了。

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她把他心里隐忧着和狂暴的旧恨——那对于坚执的妇人的愤怒——撩醒了，而他是无力反抗的，莫可奈何的，他知道这个！

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她呢，她对于男怕的固执也感到愤怒。尤其是一个仆人！她忧闷地、带恨地回到家里。

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她看见波尔敦太太在那棵大山毛榉树下等着她。

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“我正不知道你什么时候回来，夫人。”她快活地说。

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“我回来晚了吧。”她妮问道。

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“啊……不过克利福男爵等着喝茶罢了。”

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“那么你为什么不替他弄呢？”

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“啊，我觉得我的位子不适合那种职务哟，并且我不相信克利福男爵会喜欢的，夫人。”

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“我不明白他为什么会不喜欢。”康妮说。

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她进里面书房里去会克利福，那把旧的铜开水壶正在扎盘上开着。

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“我来晚了吧，克利福？，”她说着，把她采的几朵花安置了，再把茶叶罐取了来，她站在扎盘旁边，帽子没有取下，围巾也还在颈上。“我真抱歉！为什么你不叫波太太弄茶呢？”

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“我没有想到这个。”他冷嘲地说，“我不太觉得她在茶桌上执行主妇的职务是合适的。”

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“啊，拿银茶壶来斟茶，并不见得怎么神圣。”康妮说。他奇异地望着她。

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“你整个下午做什么来？”

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“散散步，坐在一个背风的地方休息。你知道大冬青树上还有小果子吗？”

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她把她的肩披除了，但是还戴着帽子。她坐下去弄着茶。烤的面包一定已软韧不脆了。她把茶壶套于套上茶壶，站起来去找一个小玻璃杯，把她的紫罗兰花放在，可怜的花作，在柔软的枝头低垂着。

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“他们会活转来的！”她一边说，一边把杯子里的花端在他的面前让他闻。

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“比朱诺的眼睑还要温馨。”他引起了这句话说。

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“我觉得这句诗和这些紫罗兰一点关系也没有。”她说，“伊丽莎自时代的人都是有些空泛不着边际的。”

84
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她替他斟着茶。

85
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户约翰井过去不远，那个养育幼雉的小屋，你知道有第二片钥匙吗？”

86
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“也许有吧，为什么？”

87
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“我今天无意中发现了这个地方——以前我从不晓得有这么一个地方的，我觉得那儿真可爱，我不时可以到那里去坐坐，是不是？”

88
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“梅乐士也在那里吗？”

89
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“是的！就是他的铁锤声使我发现那小屋的。他似乎很不乐意我去侵犯了那个地方。当我问他有没有第二片钥匙时，他差不多唐突起来了。”

90
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“他说了什么？”

91
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“啊，没有什么。只是他那对人的态度，他说钥匙的事他全不知道。”

92
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“在我父亲的书房里也许有一片吧。这些钥匙白蒂斯都认得，所有钥匙都在那里。我得叫他去找出来。”

93
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“啊，劳驾您！”她说。

94
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“哎，你刚才不是说梅乐士差不多唐突起来了么？”

95
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“啊，那是值不得谈起的，真的！但是我相信他是不太喜欢我在他的宫堡里自由出入的。”

96
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“我也这样想。”

97
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“但是我不明白为什么不呢？毕竟那又不是他的家。那又不是他的私人住宅。我不明白为什么要是我喜欢时，我不能到那儿去坐坐？”

98
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“的确！”克利福说，“这个人，他自视太高了。”

99
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“你觉得他是这样的人么？”

100
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无疑的，他是这样的一个人！他认为他是一个特别的人。你知道他曾经娶过一个女人，因为和她台不来，他便在一九一五年那年人了伍，而被派到印度去。不管怎样，他曾在埃及的马队里当过一时的蹄铁匠，他常常管着马匹，这一点他是能干的。以后，一个驻印度军的上校看上了他，把他升做一个中尉的军官，是的，他们把他升为一个军官。他跟他的上校回印度去，在西北部弄了一个位了。他在那里得了病，于是他得了一份恤金，他大概是去年才离开军队的吧。这当然喽，象他这种人要回到从前的地位去是不容易的事，但是他倒能尽他的职务，至少关于我这里的事他是能尽职的。不过，我是不喜欢看见他摆出中尉梅乐士的样子的。”’

101
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“他讲的是一日德尔贝的话．他们怎么能把他升为一个军官呢？”

102
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’呵，他的土话是他觉得要说晨才说的，象他这种人，他能说很正确的英语的。我想他以为自己既重陷在这种地位是，便最好说这种地位的人所说的话罢了。”

103
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“为什么这些事你以前不对我说？”

104
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“啊，这些浪漫史我是厌烦的，浪漫史是破坏一切秩序的，发生浪漫史是万分可借的。”

105
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康妮觉得同意于这种说法，这些无得可以适合的、不知足的人，有什么用处？

106
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好天气继续着，克利福也决意到树林里去走走。风欧来是冷的，但并不令人疲惫，而且阳光象是生命的本身一样，又温暖又充实。

107
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“真奇怪，”康妮说，“在一个真正新鲜而清朗的日子里，人觉得多么的不同，普通的时候，一个人觉得甚至空气都是半死的。人们正在连空气都拿来毁灭了。”

108
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“你这样想么？”他问道。”

109
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“是人，我这样想，各种各样的人的许多烦恼、不满和愤怒的气氛，把空气里的生气毁灭了。这是毫无可疑的。”

110
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“也许是空气的某种情况把人的生气削减了吧？”

111
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“不，是人类把宇宙摧残了。”她断言道。

112
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“他们把自己的巢窠摧残了。”克利福说。

113
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小车子前进着，在擦树的矮林中，悬着些淡金色的花絮，在太阳晒着的地方，白头翁盛开着，仿佛在赞赏着生之欢乐，正如往日人们能够和它们一同赞赏的时候一样，它们隐约地发着苹果花香。康妮采了一些给克利福。

114
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他接在手里，奇异地望着这些花。

115
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“啊，您啊，您是末被奸污的幽静的新妇……”他引了这句诗说，“这句待与其用在希腊瓶上，似乎远不如且在这些花上适合。”

116
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“奸污是个丑恶的宇！”她说，“这是人类把一切事物奸污了。”

117
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“啊，我可不知道，但是蜗牛们……”

118
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“甚至蜗牛们也不过只知道啮食，而蜜蜂们并不把东西奸污呢。”

119
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她对他生气起来，他把每佯东西都变成空虚的字眼。紫罗兰拿来比未诺的眼睑，白头翁拿来比未被奸污的新妇。她多么憎恨这些空虚的字，它们常常站在她和生命之间：这些现成的字句，便是奸污者，它们吮听着一切有生命的东西的精华。

120
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这次和克利福的散步，是不太欢挟的。他和康妮之间，有着一种紧张的情态，两个人都假装着不去留意，但是紧张的情态是存在着的。骤然地，她用着女子的本能的全力，把他摆脱，她要从他那里摆脱出来。尤其要从他的“我”从他的空虚的字句，从他的自我的魔力中，从他的无限的单调的自我的魔力中解脱出来．天又开始下雨了，但是，下了一两天后，她冒着围走到林中去，一进了树林，她便向那小屋走去。雨下着，但天气并不玲，在这朦胧的雨天中，树林是这样地寂静，这样地隔绝，这样地不可亲近。

121
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她来到了那块空旷的地方，一个人都没有！小屋门是锁着的。她坐在那粗陋的门檐下的门槛上。蜷伏在她自己的暖气里。她这样静坐着，望着霏霏的雨，听着雨滴的无声的声，听着风在树枝上的奇异的叹息，而同时却又仿佛没有风似的，老橡树环立着，它们的灰色的有力的树干给雨湿成黑色，圆圆的，充满着生命，向四阂进发着豪放的树枝，地上并没有什么细树乱草。有的是繁衍的白头翁，一两株矮树、香木、或雪球树，和一堆淡紫色的荆棘。在白头翁的绿衣下面，衰老而焦红的地方。末被奸污！而全世界却都被奸污了。“某种东西是不能被奸污的，你不能奸污一罐沙丁鱼，许多女子象罐里的沙丁鱼，许多男子也是一样，但是她的内在的、怨恨的、不可拒抗的力量压着她，使她象麻痹了似地钉在那儿。

122
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被奸污！唉！一个人是可以不待被人摸触而被奸污的！一个人是可以被那些淫秽的死字眼和鬼缠身似的死理想奸污的！

123
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一只褐色的雨琳湿了的狗，跑着走了前来，它并不吠，只是举着它的湿尾巴。守猎人跟在后面，穿着一件象车夫穿的黑油布的给雨淋湿的短外衣，脸孔有点红热，她觉得当他看见了她时疾速的步伐退顿了一下，她在门搪下那块狭小的干地上站了起来，他无言地向地行个礼，馒慢地走上前来，她准备要走开了。

124
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“我正要走了。”她说。

125
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“你是等着要进里面去么？”他用土话说道。他望着小屋，并不望着康妮。

126
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“不，我只坐在这儿避避雨。她尊严地、镇静地说。

127
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他向她望着，她象是觉得冷的样子。

128
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“那么，克利福男爵没有另一片钥匙么？”他问道。

129
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“没有。但是没有关系。我很可以在这屋搪下避雨的，再见！”她恨他的满口的土话。

130
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当她走开时，他紧紧地望着她，他掀起了他的外衣，从他的袋里，把小屋门的钥匙取了出来。

131
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“你还是把这片钥匙拿去吧，我会另外找个地方养幼雉去。”

132
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她望着他问道：“这是什么意思？”

133
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“我说我会另外找个地方养幼雉去，要是你到这儿来，大概你不喜欢看见我在你的旁边。老是来来往往，忙这忙那的。”

134
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她望着他，明白了他的模糊不表的土话的意思，。她冷淡地说：

135
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“为什么你不说大家说的英语？”

136
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“我？我以为我说的是大家说的英语呢。”

137
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她忿怒地静默了一会。

138
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“那么，要是你要这钥匙，你还中拿去吧。或者，我还是明天再交给你吧，让我先把这地方清理出来，你觉得好不好？”’

139
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她更气了。

140
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“我不要你的钥匙，”她说：“我不要你清理什么东西出来。我一点也不想把你从这小屋里赶走，谢谢你！我只要不时能到儿来坐坐，象今天一样，但是我很可以坐在这门檐下。好了，请你不要多说了。”

141
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“他的两只狡猾的蓝眼睛又向她望着。

142
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“但是，”他用那沉浊的迂缓的土话说，“小屋是欢迎夫人来的，钥匙是她的，其他一节都是她的。不过，在这个季节，我得饲养小雉，我得忙这忙那的。如果在冬天，我便差不多用不着到这小屋里来。但是现在是春不了，而克利福男爵要我开始养些雄鸡……夫人到这儿来时，无疑地不愿意我老是在她周围忙忙碌碌。”

143
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她在一种朦胧的惊愕中听着他。

144
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“你在这里于我有何关系呢？”她问道。

145
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“这是我自己要觉得碍事！”他简单地但是意味深长地说。她的脸红了起来。

146
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“好！”她最后说，我妨碍你好了，但是我觉得从而在这儿，看你管理着站雄鸡，于我一点也没有关系，而且我还喜欢呢，但是你既以为这是碍你的事，我便不丙妨碍你好了，你不要害怕了，你是克利福男爵的守猎而不是我的。”

147
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这句话是奇异的，她自己也不知道她为什么说出了这样的话。

148
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“不，夫人，这小屋于是夫人的，夫人随时喜欢怎样就怎样。你可以在一星期前通知我把我辞退了，只是……

149
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“只是什么？”她不知所措地问道。

150
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他怪可笑地把帽子向后推了一推。

151
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“只是，你来这里时，尽可以要求这小屋子你一个人用，尽可以不愿意我在这儿忙这忙那的。”

152
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“但是为什么？”她恼怒地，说“你不是个开化了的人么？”你以为我应该怕你么？为什么我定要留心你和你的在与不在？难道那有一点儿关系么？

153
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他望着她，脸上显着乖戾的笑容。

154
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“没有的，夫人，一点儿关系也没有的。”他说。

155
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“那么，为什么呢？”她问道。

156
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“那么，我叫人另做一片钥匙给夫人好吗？”

157
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“不，谢谢！我不要。”

158
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“无论如何我另做一片去，两片钥匙好些。”

159
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“我订为你是个鲁莽的人！”康妮说，脸红着，有些气急了。

160
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“啊，啊！”他忙说道，“你不要这样说！啊，啊！我是不含坏意的，我只是想，要是你要到这儿来，我便搬迁，而在旁的地方另起炉灶，那是要花好大的功夫的，但是如果夫人不要理会我，那么……小屋子是克利福男爵的，而一切都听夫人的指挥，听夫人的便，只要汉我在这儿做这做那的时候，夫人不要理会我就完了。”

161
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康妮迷乱得莫名其妙地走开了。她不知道自己究竟是不是绘他侮辱了，是不是给他极端干了，也许他说的话并不含有什么坏意，也许他不是要说，如果她去那小屋里，她便要他避开。好象她真有这个意思似的！好象他那傻子在不在那里，有什么关系似的！

162
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她在纷乱的屋中回家去，不知道自己在想着什么，感觉着什么。

163
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Mrs Bolton also kept a cherishing eye on Connie, feeling she must extend to her her female and professional protection. She was always urging her ladyship to walk out, to drive to Uthwaite, to be in the air. For Connie had got into the habit of sitting still by the fire, pretending to read; or to sew feebly, and hardly going out at all.

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It was a blowy day soon after Hilda had gone, that Mrs Bolton said: `Now why don’t you go for a walk through the wood, and look at the daffs behind the keeper’s cottage? They’re the prettiest sight you’d see in a day’s march. And you could put some in your room; wild daffs are always so cheerful-looking, aren’t they?’

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Connie took it in good part, even daffs for daffodils. Wild daffodils! After all, one could not stew in one’s own juice. The spring came back...`Seasons return, but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of Ev’n or Morn.’

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And the keeper, his thin, white body, like a lonely pistil of an invisible flower! She had forgotten him in her unspeakable depression. But now something roused...`Pale beyond porch and portal’...the thing to do was to pass the porches and the portals.

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She was stronger, she could walk better, and iii the wood the wind would not be so tiring as it was across the bark, flatten against her. She wanted to forget, to forget the world, and all the dreadful, carrion-bodied people. `Ye must be born again! I believe in the resurrection of the body! Except a grain of wheat fall into the earth and die, it shall by no means bring forth. When the crocus cometh forth I too will emerge and see the sun!’ In the wind of March endless phrases swept through her consciousness.

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[p1]Little gusts of sunshine blew, strangely bright, and lit up the celandines at the wood’s edge, under the hazel-rods, they spangled out bright and yellow. And the wood was still, stiller, but yet gusty with crossing sun. The first windflowers were out, and all the wood seemed pale with the pallor of endless little anemones, sprinkling the shaken floor. `The world has grown pale with thy breath.’ But it was the breath of Persephone, this time; she was out of hell on a cold morning. Cold breaths of wind came, and overhead there was an anger of entangled wind caught among the twigs. It, too, was caught and trying to tear itself free, the wind, like Absalom. How cold the anemones looked, bobbing their naked white shoulders over 6

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[p2]">crinoline skirts of green. But they stood it. A few first bleached little primroses too, by the path, and yellow buds unfolding themselves.

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The roaring and swaying was overhead, only cold currents came down below. Connie was strangely excited in the wood, and the colour flew in her cheeks, and burned blue in her eyes. She walked ploddingly, picking a few primroses and the first violets, that smelled sweet and cold, sweet and cold. And she drifted on without knowing where she was.

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Till she came to the clearing, at the end of the wood, and saw the green-stained stone cottage, looking almost rosy, like the flesh underneath a mushroom, its stone warmed in a burst of sun. And there was a sparkle of yellow jasmine by the door; the closed door. But no sound; no smoke from the chimney; no dog barking.

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She went quietly round to the back, where the bank rose up; she had an excuse, to see the daffodils.

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And they were there, the short-stemmed flowers, rustling and fluttering and shivering, so bright and alive, but with nowhere to hide their faces, as they turned them away from the wind.

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They shook their bright, sunny little rags in bouts of distress. But perhaps they liked it really; perhaps they really liked the tossing.

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Constance sat down with her back to a young pine-tree, that wayed against her with curious life, elastic, and powerful, rising up. The erect, alive thing, with its top in the sun! And she watched the daffodils turn golden, in a burst of sun that was warm on her hands and lap. Even she caught the faint, tarry scent of the flowers. And then, being so still and alone, she seemed to bet into the current of her own proper destiny. She had been fastened by a rope, and jagging and snarring like a boat at its moorings; now she was loose and adrift.

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The sunshine gave way to chill; the daffodils were in shadow, dipping silently. So they would dip through the day and the long cold night. So strong in their frailty!

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She rose, a little stiff, took a few daffodils, and went down. She hated breaking the flowers, but she wanted just one or two to go with her. She would have to go back to Wragby and its walls, and now she hated it, especially its thick walls. Walls! Always walls! Yet one needed them in this wind.

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When she got home Clifford asked her:

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`Where did you go?’

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`Right across the wood! Look, aren’t the little daffodils adorable? To think they should come out of the earth!’

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`Just as much out of air and sunshine,’ he said.

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`But modelled in the earth,’ she retorted, with a prompt contradiction, that surprised her a little.

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The next afternoon she went to the wood again. She followed the broad riding that swerved round and up through the larches to a spring called John’s Well. It was cold on this hillside, and not a flower in the darkness of larches. But the icy little spring softly pressed upwards from its tiny well-bed of pure, reddish-white pebbles. How icy and clear it was! Brilliant! The new keeper had no doubt put in fresh pebbles. She heard the faint tinkle of water, as the tiny overflow trickled over and downhill. Even above the hissing boom of the larchwood, that spread its bristling, leafless, wolfish darkness on the down-slope, she heard the tinkle as of tiny water-bells.

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This place was a little sinister, cold, damp. Yet the well must have been a drinking-place for hundreds of years. Now no more. Its tiny cleared space was lush and cold and dismal.

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She rose and went slowly towards home. As she went she heard a faint tapping away on the right, and stood still to listen. Was it hammering, or a woodpecker? It was surely hammering.

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She walked on, listening. And then she noticed a narrow track between young fir-trees, a track that seemed to lead nowhere. But she felt it had been used. She turned down it adventurously, between the thick young firs, which gave way soon to the old oak wood. She followed the track, and the hammering grew nearer, in the silence of the windy wood, for trees make a silence even in their noise of wind.

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She saw a secret little clearing, and a secret little hot made of rustic poles. And she had never been here before! She realized it was the quiet place where the growing pheasants were reared; the keeper in his shirt-sleeves was kneeling, hammering. The dog trotted forward with a short, sharp bark, and the keeper lifted his face suddenly and saw her. He had a startled look in his eyes.

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He straightened himself and saluted, watching her in silence, as she came forward with weakening limbs. He resented the intrusion; he cherished his solitude as his only and last freedom in life.

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`I wondered what the hammering was,’ she said, feeling weak and breathless, and a little afraid of him, as he looked so straight at her.

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`Ah’m gettin’ th’ coops ready for th’ young bods,’ he said, in broad vernacular.

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She did not know what to say, and she felt weak. `I should like to sit down a bit,’ she said.

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`Come and sit ’ere i’ th’ ’ut,’ he said, going in front of her to the hut, pushing aside some timber and stuff, and drawing out a rustic chair, made of hazel sticks.

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`Am Ah t’ light yer a little fire?’ he asked, with the curious na?veté of the dialect.

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`Oh, don’t bother,’ she replied.

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But he looked at her hands; they were rather blue. So he quickly took some larch twigs to the little brick fire-place in the corner, and in a moment the yellow flame was running up the chimney. He made a place by the brick hearth.

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`Sit ’ere then a bit, and warm yer,’ he said.

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She obeyed him. He had that curious kind of protective authority she obeyed at once. So she sat and warmed her hands at the blaze, and dropped logs on the fire, whilst outside he was hammering again. She did not really want to sit, poked in a corner by the fire; she would rather have watched from the door, but she was being looked after, so she had to submit.

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The hut was quite cosy, panelled with unvarnished deal, having a little rustic table and stool beside her chair, and a carpenter’s bench, then a big box, tools, new boards, nails; and many things hung from pegs: axe, hatchet, traps, things in sacks, his coat. It had no window, the light came in through the open door. It was a jumble, but also it was a sort of little sanctuary.

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She listened to the tapping of the man’s hammer; it was not so happy. He was oppressed. Here was a trespass on his privacy, and a dangerous one! A woman! He had reached the point where all he wanted on earth was to be alone. And yet he was powerless to preserve his privacy; he was a hired man, and these people were his masters.

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Especially he did not want to come into contact with a woman again. He feared it; for he had a big wound from old contacts. He felt if he could not be alone, and if he could not be left alone, he would die. His recoil away from the outer world was complete; his last refuge was this wood; to hide himself there!

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Connie grew warm by the fire, which she had made too big: then she grew hot. She went and sat on the stool in the doorway, watching the man at work. He seemed not to notice her, but he knew. Yet he worked on, as if absorbedly, and his brown dog sat on her tail near him, and surveyed the untrustworthy world.

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Slender, quiet and quick, the man finished the coop he was making, turned it over, tried the sliding door, then set it aside. Then he rose, went for an old coop, and took it to the chopping log where he was working. Crouching, he tried the bars; some broke in his hands; he began to draw the nails. Then he turned the coop over and deliberated, and he gave absolutely no sign of awareness of the woman’s presence.

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So Connie watched him fixedly. And the same solitary aloneness she had seen in him naked, she now saw in him clothed: solitary, and intent, like an animal that works alone, but also brooding, like a soul that recoils away, away from all human contact. Silently, patiently, he was recoiling away from her even now. It was the stillness, and the timeless sort of patience, in a man impatient and passionate, that touched Connie’s womb. She saw it in his bent head, the quick quiet hands, the crouching of his slender, sensitive loins; something patient and withdrawn. She felt his experience had been deeper and wider than her own; much deeper and wider, and perhaps more deadly. And this relieved her of herself; she felt almost irresponsible.

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So she sat in the doorway of the hut in a dream, utterly unaware of time and of particular circumstances. She was so drifted away that he glanced up at her quickly, and saw the utterly still, waiting look on her face. To him it was a look of waiting. And a little thin tongue of fire suddenly flickered in his loins, at the root of his back, and he groaned in spirit. He dreaded with a repulsion almost of death, any further close human contact. He wished above all things she would go away, and leave him to his own privacy. He dreaded her will, her female will, and her modern female insistency. And above all he dreaded her cool, upper-class impudence of having her own way. For after all he was only a hired man. He hated her presence there.

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Connie came to herself with sudden uneasiness. She rose. The afternoon was turning to evening, yet she could not go away. She went over to the man, who stood up at attention, his worn face stiff and blank, his eyes watching her.

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`It is so nice here, so restful,’ she said. `I have never been here before.’

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`No?’

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`I think I shall come and sit here sometimes.

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`Yes?’

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`Do you lock the hut when you’re not here?’

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`Yes, your Ladyship.’

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`Do you think I could have a key too, so that I could sit here sometimes? Are there two keys?’

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`Not as Ah know on, ther’ isna.’

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He had lapsed into the vernacular. Connie hesitated; he was putting up an opposition. Was it his hut, after all?

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`Couldn’t we get another key?’ she asked in her soft voice, that underneath had the ring of a woman determined to get her way.

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`Another!’ he said, glancing at her with a flash of anger, touched with derision.

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`Yes, a duplicate,’ she said, flushing.

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`’Appen Sir Clifford ’ud know,’ he said, putting her off.

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`Yes!’ she said, `he might have another. Otherwise we could have one made from the one you have. It would only take a day or so, I suppose. You could spare your key for so long.’

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`Ah canna tell yer, m’Lady! Ah know nob’dy as ma’es keys round ’ere.’

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Connie suddenly flushed with anger.

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`Very well!’ she said. `I’ll see to it.’

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`All right, your Ladyship.’

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Their eyes met. His had a cold, ugly look of dislike and contempt, and indifference to what would happen. Hers were hot with rebuff.

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But her heart sank, she saw how utterly he disliked her, when she went against him. And she saw him in a sort of desperation.

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`Good afternoon!’

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`Afternoon, my Lady!’ He saluted and turned abruptly away. She had wakened the sleeping dogs of old voracious anger in him, anger against the self-willed female. And he was powerless, powerless. He knew it!

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And she was angry against the self-willed male. A servant too! She walked sullenly home.

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She found Mrs Bolton under the great beech-tree on the knoll, looking for her.

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`I just wondered if you’d be coming, my Lady,’ the woman said brightly.

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`Am I late?’ asked Connie.

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`Oh only Sir Clifford was waiting for his tea.’

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`Why didn’t you make it then?’

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`Oh, I don’t think it’s hardly my place. I don’t think Sir Clifford would like it at all, my Lady.’

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`I don’t see why not,’ said Connie.

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She went indoors to Clifford’s study, where the old brass kettle was simmering on the tray.

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`Am I late, Clifford?’ she said, putting down the few flowers and taking up the tea-caddy, as she stood before the tray in her hat and scarf. `I’m sorry! Why didn’t you let Mrs Bolton make the tea?’

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`I didn’t think of it,’ he said ironically. `I don’t quite see her presiding at the tea-table.’

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`Oh, there’s nothing sacrosanct about a silver tea-pot,’ said Connie.

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He glanced up at her curiously.

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`What did you do all afternoon?’ he said.

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`Walked and sat in a sheltered place. Do you know there are still berries on the big holly-tree?’

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She took off her scarf, but not her hat, and sat down to make tea. The toast would certainly be leathery. She put the tea-cosy over the tea-pot, and rose to get a little glass for her violets. The poor flowers hung over, limp on their stalks.

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`They’ll revive again!’ she said, putting them before him in their glass for him to smell.

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`Sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes,’ he quoted.

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`I don’t see a bit of connexion with the actual violets,’ she said. `The Elizabethans are rather upholstered.’

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She poured him his tea.

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`Do you think there is a second key to that little hut not far from John’s Well, where the pheasants are reared?’ she said.

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`There may be. Why?’

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`I happened to find it today---and I’d never seen it before. I think it’s a darling place. I could sit there sometimes, couldn’t I?’

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`Was Mellors there?’

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`Yes! That’s how I found it: his hammering. He didn’t seem to like my intruding at all. In fact he was almost rude when I asked about a second key.’

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`What did he say?’

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`Oh, nothing: just his manner; and he said he knew nothing about keys.’

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`There may be one in Father’s study. Betts knows them all, they’re all there. I’ll get him to look.’

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`Oh do!’ she said.

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`So Mellors was almost rude?’

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`Oh, nothing, really! But I don’t think he wanted me to have the freedom of the castle, quite.’

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`I don’t suppose he did.’

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`Still, I don’t see why he should mind. It’s not his home, after all! It’s not his private abode. I don’t see why I shouldn’t sit there if I want to.’

98

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`Quite!’ said Clifford. `He thinks too much of himself, that man.’

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`Do you think he does?’

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`Oh, decidedly! He thinks he’s something exceptional. You know he had a wife he didn’t get on with, so he joined up in 1915 and was sent to India, I believe. Anyhow he was blacksmith to the cavalry in Egypt for a time; always was connected with horses, a clever fellow that way. Then some Indian colonel took a fancy to him, and he was made a Lieutenant. Yes, they gave him a commission. I believe he went back to India with his colonel, and up to the north-west frontier. He was ill; he was a pension. He didn’t come out of the army till last year, I believe, and then, naturally, it isn’t easy for a man like that to get back to his own level. He’s bound to flounder. But he does his duty all right, as far as I’m concerned. Only I’m not having any of the Lieutenant Mellors touch.’

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`How could they make him an officer when he speaks broad Derbyshire?’

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`He doesn’t...except by fits and starts. He can speak perfectly well, for him. I suppose he has an idea if he’s come down to the ranks again, he’d better speak as the ranks speak.’

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`Why didn’t you tell me about him before?’

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`Oh, I’ve no patience with these romances. They’re the ruin of all order. It’s a thousand pities they ever happened.’

105

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Connie was inclined to agree. What was the good of discontented people who fitted in nowhere?

106

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In the spell of fine weather Clifford, too, decided to go to the wood. The wind was cold, but not so tiresome, and the sunshine was like life itself, warm and full.

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`It’s amazing,’ said Connie, `how different one feels when there’s a really fresh fine day. Usually one feels the very air is half dead. People are killing the very air.’

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`Do you think people are doing it?’ he asked.

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`I do. The steam of so much boredom, and discontent and anger out of all the people, just kills the vitality in the air. I’m sure of it.’

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`Perhaps some condition of the atmosphere lowers the vitality of the people?’ he said.

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`No, it’s man that poisons the universe,’ she asserted.

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`Fouls his own nest,’ remarked Clifford.

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The chair puffed on. In the hazel copse catkins were hanging pale gold, and in sunny places the wood-anemones were wide open, as if exclaiming with the joy of life, just as good as in past days, when people could exclaim along with them. They had a faint scent of apple-blossom. Connie gathered a few for Clifford.

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He took them and looked at them curiously.

115

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`Thou still unravished bride of quietness,’ he quoted. `It seems to fit flowers so much better than Greek vases.’

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`Ravished is such a horrid word!’ she said. `It’s only people who ravish things.’

117

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`Oh, I don’t know...snails and things,’ he said.

118

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`Even snails only eat them, and bees don’t ravish.’

119

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She was angry with him, turning everything into words. Violets were Juno’s eyelids, and windflowers were on ravished brides. How she hated words, always coming between her and life: they did the ravishing, if anything did: ready-made words and phrases, sucking all the life-sap out of living things.

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The walk with Clifford was not quite a success. Between him and Connie there was a tension that each pretended not to notice, but there it was. Suddenly, with all the force of her female instinct, she was shoving him off. She wanted to be clear of him, and especially of his consciousness, his words, his obsession with himself, his endless treadmill obsession with himself, and his own words.

121

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The weather came rainy again. But after a day or two she went out in the rain, and she went to the wood. And once there, she went towards the hut. It was raining, but not so cold, and the wood felt so silent and remote, inaccessible in the dusk of rain.

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She came to the clearing. No one there! The hut was locked. But she sat on the log doorstep, under the rustic porch, and snuggled into her own warmth. So she sat, looking at the rain, listening to the many noiseless noises of it, and to the strange soughings of wind in upper branches, when there seemed to be no wind. Old oak-trees stood around, grey, powerful trunks, rain-blackened, round and vital, throwing off reckless limbs. The ground was fairly free of undergrowth, the anemones sprinkled, there was a bush or two, elder, or guelder-rose, and a purplish tangle of bramble: the old russet of bracken almost vanished under green anemone ruffs. Perhaps this was one of the unravished places. Unravished! The whole world was ravished.

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Some things can’t be ravished. You can’t ravish a tin of sardines. And so many women are like that; and men. But the earth...!

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The rain was abating. It was hardly making darkness among the oaks any more. Connie wanted to go; yet she sat on. But she was getting cold; yet the overwhelming inertia of her inner resentment kept her there as if paralysed.

125

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Ravished! How ravished one could be without ever being touched. Ravished by dead words become obscene, and dead ideas become obsessions.

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A wet brown dog came running and did not bark, lifting a wet feather of a tail. The man followed in a wet black oilskin jacket, like a chauffeur, and face flushed a little. She felt him recoil in his quick walk, when he saw her. She stood up in the handbreadth of dryness under the rustic porch. He saluted without speaking, coming slowly near. She began to withdraw.

127

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`I’m just going,’ she said.

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`Was yer waitin’ to get in?’ he asked, looking at the hut, not at her.

129

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`No, I only sat a few minutes in the shelter,’ she said, with quiet dignity.

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He looked at her. She looked cold.

131

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`Sir Clifford ’adn’t got no other key then?’ he asked.

132

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`No, but it doesn’t matter. I can sit perfectly dry under this porch. Good afternoon!’ She hated the excess of vernacular in his speech.

133

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He watched her closely, as she was moving away. Then he hitched up his jacket, and put his hand in his breeches pocket, taking out the key of the hut.

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`’Appen yer’d better ’ave this key, an’ Ah min fend for t’ bods some other road.’

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She looked at him.

136

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`What do you mean?’ she asked.

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`I mean as ’appen Ah can find anuther pleece as’ll du for rearin’ th’ pheasants. If yer want ter be ’ere, yo’ll non want me messin’ abaht a’ th’ time.’

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She looked at him, getting his meaning through the fog of the dialect.

139

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`Why don’t you speak ordinary English?’ she said coldly.

140

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`Me! Ah thowt it wor ordinary.’

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She was silent for a few moments in anger.

142

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`So if yer want t’ key, yer’d better tacit. Or ’appen Ah’d better gi’e ’t yer termorrer, an’ clear all t’ stuff aht fust. Would that du for yer?’

143

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She became more angry.

144

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`I didn’t want your key,’ she said. `I don’t want you to clear anything out at all. I don’t in the least want to turn you out of your hut, thank you! I only wanted to be able to sit here sometimes, like today. But I can sit perfectly well under the porch, so please say no more about it.’

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He looked at her again, with his wicked blue eyes.

146

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`Why,’ he began, in the broad slow dialect. `Your Ladyship’s as welcome as Christmas ter th’ hut an’ th’ key an’ iverythink as is. On’y this time O’ th’ year ther’s bods ter set, an’ Ah’ve got ter be potterin’ abaht a good bit, seein’ after ’em, an’ a’. Winter time Ah ned ’ardly come nigh th’ pleece. But what wi’ spring, an’ Sir Clifford wantin’ ter start th’ pheasants...An’ your Ladyship’d non want me tinkerin’ around an’ about when she was ’ere, all the time.’

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She listened with a dim kind of amazement.

148

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`Why should I mind your being here?’ she asked.

149

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He looked at her curiously.

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`T’nuisance on me!’ he said briefly, but significantly. She flushed. `Very well!’ she said finally. `I won’t trouble you. But I don’t think I should have minded at all sitting and seeing you look after the birds. I should have liked it. But since you think it interferes with you, I won’t disturb you, don’t be afraid. You are Sir Clifford’s keeper, not mine.’

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The phrase sounded queer, she didn’t know why. But she let it pass.

152

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`Nay, your Ladyship. It’s your Ladyship’s own ’ut. It’s as your Ladyship likes an’ pleases, every time. Yer can turn me off at a wik’s notice. It wor only...’

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`Only what?’ she asked, baffled.

154

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He pushed back his hat in an odd comic way.

155

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`On’y as ’appen yo’d like the place ter yersen, when yer did come, an’ not me messin’ abaht.’

156

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`But why?’ she said, angry. `Aren’t you a civilized human being? Do you think I ought to be afraid of you? Why should I take any notice of you and your being here or not? Why is it important?’

157

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He looked at her, all his face glimmering with wicked laughter.

158

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`It’s not, your Ladyship. Not in the very least,’ he said.

159

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`Well, why then?’ she asked.

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`Shall I get your Ladyship another key then?’

161

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`No thank you! I don’t want it.’

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`Ah’ll get it anyhow. We’d best ’ave two keys ter th’ place.’

163

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`And I consider you are insolent,’ said Connie, with her colour up, panting a little.

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`Nay, nay!’ he said quickly. `Dunna yer say that! Nay, nay! I niver meant nuthink. Ah on’y thought as if yo’ come ’ere, Ah s’d ave ter clear out, an’ it’d mean a lot of work, settin’ up somewheres else. But if your Ladyship isn’t going ter take no notice O’ me, then...it’s Sir Clifford’s ’ut, an’ everythink is as your Ladyship likes, everythink is as your Ladyship likes an’ pleases, barrin’ yer take no notice O’ me, doin’ th’ bits of jobs as Ah’ve got ter do.’

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Connie went away completely bewildered. She was not sure whether she had been insulted and mortally of fended, or not. Perhaps the man really only meant what he said; that he thought she would expect him to keep away. As if she would dream of it! And as if he could possibly be so important, he and his stupid presence.

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She went home in confusion, not knowing what she thought or felt.

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