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查太莱夫人的情人|Lady Chatterley‘s Lover

第9章|Chapter 9

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 劳伦斯] 阅读：[26936]
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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康妮惊讶着自己对于克利福的厌恶的感觉，尤其是，她觉得她一向就深深地讨厌他。那不是恨，因为这其中是并没有什么热情的，那是一种肉体上的深深的厌恶，她似乎觉得她所以和他结婚，正因为她厌恶他，一种不可思仪的肉体的上厌恶他，则实际上，她所以和他结婚，是因为他在精神上摄引她，兴奋她的缘故。在某种情形之下，他好象是比她高明，”是她的支配者。

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现在，精神上的摄引已经衰萎了，崩溃了，她所感到的只是肉体上的厌恶了。这种厌恶从她的心的深处升起，她体悟了她的生命曾经给这兢兢业业恶的感觉怎样地咀食着。

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她觉得自己毫无力量，而且完全地孤独无诊了。她希望有什么外来的救援，但是整个世界中并没有可以救援的人。社会是可怕的，因为它是癫狂的。文明的社会产癫狂的。金钱和所谓爱情，便是这个社会的两个狂欲，其中金钱尤为第一，在混沌的疯狂里，个人在这两种狂欲中——金钱与爱情中——追逐着。看着蔑克里斯！他的生活，他活动，只是癫狂罢了。他的爱情也是一种癫狂症。

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克利福也是一样，所有他的谈话，所有他的作品，所有他的使他自己飞黄腾达的狂野的挣扎！这一切都是癫狂，事情却越见坏下去，而成了真正的狂病了。

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康妮觉得惊怕得麻木了。但是还好，克利福对她的操纵，改向波尔敦太太施展，她觉得轻松了许多，这一点是克利福自己不知道的，好象许多癫狂着一样，他的癫狂可以从他所不自知的事物的多少看出来，可以从他的意识的大空虚看出来。

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波太太态度在许多事情上是可钦佩的，但是她有一种驾驭他人怪癣和坚持自己的意志的无限的固执，这是新妇女们的一个癫狂的标志。她相信自己是全身全心地尽忠于他人。克利福使她觉得迷惑，因为他常常或一直使她的意志挫折，好象他的本能比她的更精细似的，是的，他比她有着更精细更微妙的坚持意志的固执性，这便是克利家庭副业这惑的地方吧。

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“今天天气多么美好！”有时波太太要用这种迷人的动听的声音说，“我相信你今天坐着小车子出去散散步，一定要觉得写意的，多美丽的太阳！”

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“是么？给我那本书吧——那边。那本黄皮的。哎，把那些玉簪花拿开吧！”

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“为什么，这样好看花！它们的香味简直是迷人的。”

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“恰恰是那味道我不爱闻，我觉得有些殡葬的味道。”

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“你觉得么？”她惊讶地听道，有点觉得恼怒，但是被他的威严压服了，她把玉簪花拿了出去，深觉深觉得他的难于应付。

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“今天要我替你刮脸呢，还是你喜欢自己刮呢？”老是那种温柔的，阿澳的，但是调度有方的声音。

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“我不知道。请你等一会吧。我准备好了再叫你。”

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“是的，克利福男爵！”她温柔地、屈服地答道。然后静静地退发出去，但是每次的挫折，都增强了她的意志。

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过了一会他按铃时，她马上便到他那里去。他便要说：

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“我想今天还是你替我刮脸吧。”

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她听了心里微微地颤动起来，她异常温柔地答道：

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“是的，克利福男爵！”

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她是很伶俐的，她的抚触是温柔的，缠绵的，而又有点迂缓的，起初，她的手指在他的脸上的这种无限的温柔的抚触，渐渐地她的手指尖熟悉了克利福的脸颊和嘴唇，下含和颈项了，他是个养尊处优的人，他的脸孔和咆部是够好看的，而且他是一位贵绅。

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她也是个漂亮的妇人，她的苍白的有点强长的脸孔，非常肃穆；差不多是用着爱情，她可以提着他的咽喉，而他好对她驯服起来了。

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她现在是什么都替他做了。他也觉得在她物里比在康妮手里更自然、更无羞赧地去接受她的卑贱的服役了。好喜欢管理他的事情，她爱担任他的身体上的所有的事情，至于最微贱的工作。有一天，她对康妮说：

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“当你深深地认识他们的时候，一切男子实在都是些婴孩。啊，我看护过达娃斯哈矿里最可怕最难对付的工人，但是他们一有什么痛苦，而需要你的看护的时候，他们便成为婴陕，只是些大婴孩罢了。啊，所有的男子都是差不多的。”

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起初，波尔敦太太相信，一位贸绅，一位真正的贵绅，如克利福男爵，是会有什么不同的，所以克利福开始占了上风，但是渐渐地，如她所说的，当她深深地认识了他的时候，她发觉他并不异于他人，只是一个有着大人的身体的婴孩罢了，不过这个婴孩的性情是怪异的，举止上斯文的。他富有威权，他有种种她所毫无而他能够用以驾驭她的奇异的知识。

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有时康妮很想对克利福说：

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“天哟！不要这样可怕地深陷在这个妇人的手里吧！”但是，她并没有说出来，因为她始终觉得她并不怎么把他放在心里。

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他们俩依旧守着从前的习惯，晚上直到点钟，是要在一起度过的，他们谈着，或一起读着书，或校阅着他的草稿。但是此中的乐趣早山消失了，他的草稿使康妮烦厌，但是她还是尽她的义务，替他用打字机抄录着，不过，不要等待多时，那奖是波太太来做这工作了。

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因为康妮对波太太来做这工作了。

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因为康妮对疲太太提议过她应该学习打字，波太太是随时都准备着动手的人，她马上便开始了，而且勤勉地练习着，现在，克利福有时口念着一封信叫她打，她可以打出来了，虽然是有点缓慢，但是没有错了，他很有耐性地把难宇和遇着要用法文时一个个的字母念给她。她是这样的兴奋，所以教授她差不多可说是一件乐事了。现在，晚饭过后，有时康妮便借口头痛到楼上房里去了。

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“啊，不要担心，你回房里去休息，亲爱的。”

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但是她走了不久，他便按铃叫波太太来一玩皮克或齐克纸牌戏，甚至下象棋了，他把这些游戏都教给了她；康妮觉她波太太那种红着兴奋得象女孩子似的样子，手指怪不安地举着他的棋子又不敢动的样子，真是难看，克利福用着一种优胜者的半嘲弄的微笑，对她说：

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“你应当说：我调子了！”

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她的光亮的惊异的眼睛望着他，然后含郑地驯服地低声说：

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“我调子了！”

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是的，他正教育着她，他觉得这是一件快乐的事，这给他一种权威的感觉。而她呢，也觉她迷醉，而同时，她使他觉得需要她在身边，她的天真的迷醉，对他是一种微妙的深深的阿瘐。

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康妮呢，她觉得克利福的真面目显露出来了：他有点肥胖臃肿，有点庸俗，平凡，并没有什么才气，波太太的把戏和她的谦卑的威风，也太透明了，不过康妮所奇怪的便是这个妇人从克利福那里所得到的天真的迷醉，说她是爱上了他，这是不对的，他是一位上流社会的人，一位有爵衔的贵绅，一个相片在许多画报上登着，能够写书吟诗的人。他只是觉得和这第一个人亲近，使他迷醉罢了，她迷醉到了一种怪异的热情的地步。他的“教育”她，对她所引起的一种兴奋的热情，是比恋爱所能引起的更深更大的。实际上，不可能有爱情的活动，跟另种热情——知识的热情，和他一样有知识的热情一道，使她迷醉到骨髓里。

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在某一点上，毫无疑义这妇人是钟爱他了：姑无论我们把钟爱两字怎样看法，她看起来是这样漂亮，喧佯年轻，她的灰色的眼睛有时是迷人的，而同时，她还有一种隐忧的温柔的满足样子，那几乎是得意的、秘密的满足。咳！这种秘密的满足，康妮觉得多么讨厌但是克利福之深陷于这个妇人的手中，是无足惊异的！她深深地坚持地爱慕他，全心全身地服侍他，使他可以任意地使用她。他觉得被馅媚，是无可惊奇的了。

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康妮详细地听着他们俩的谈话，大部分是波太太在说话，她对他说着一大堆达娃斯哈村里的闲话，那是比闲话甚的，什么格丝太太、佐治。爱里欧、美福小姐凑在一起。关于平民生活的事情，只要波太太一开口，那是比一切书本都详细的，所有这些平民都是她所深悉的，她对他们的事情是这样的感觉兴趣，这样的热心。听她说话是令人叹服的，虽然那未免有点儿屈辱，起初，她不敢对克利福“说起达娃斯哈”——这是她自己的口吻，但是一说起了就多么起劲！克利福听着，是为找“材料”，他觉得其中的材料有的是，康妮明白了他的所谓天才就是：知道利用闲话的一种伶俐的能干，聪明，而外表则装作满不在乎。波太太，当然“说起达娃斯哈”来是很起劲的。甚至酒滔不绝的，什么事情她不知道！她很可以说出十二部书的材料来呢。

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康妮很迷愕地听着她。但是听了后又常常觉得有点羞耻。她不应该这样好奇地、津津有味地听着她的。不过，听他的人最秘密的故事毕竟是可以的，只要用、种尊敬的心听着，用一种体贴的锐敏的心，去同情于挣扎受苦的人的灵魂。因为，甚至笑谑也是同刁的一种形式呢，真正的定夺我们的生命的。东西，便是盾我们怎样广布或同缩我们的同情、这点便是一篇好小说之最重要的地方。它——小说，能够引导我们的同情心流向新的地境，也能够把我们同情心从腐朽的东西引退。所以，好小说能够把生命最秘密处启示出来，因为生命中之热情的秘密处，是最需要锐敏的感悟之波涛的涨落，去作一番澄清和振作的工作的。

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但是小说也和闲话一样，能够兴奋起虚伪的同情，而为灵魂的机械的致翕伤。小说能够把最龌龊的感情瘭崇起来，虽然这种感情在世人的眼中是“纯洁”的，于是小说和闲话一样，终于成为腐败了。而且和闲话一样，因为常常地假装着站在道学方面说话，尤其是腐败不堪了。波外部设备太太的闲话，是常常站在道学方面说的。’他是这么一个‘坏’男子，她是这么一个‘好’女人。”这种话常常不离她的口，因此康妮从波太太的闲话里，能够看出妇人只是一个甜言蜜语的东西，男于是太忠厚的人，但是根据波太太那种错误的、世俗的同情心的指引，太忠厚使一个男子成为“坏”人，而甜言蜜语使一个妇人成为“好”人。

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这便是听了闲话使人觉得耻辱的缘故，这也是多数的小说，尤其是风行的小说，使人读了觉得耻辱的缘故，现在的民众只喜欢迎合他们的腐败心理的东西了。

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虽然，波太太的闲话，使人对达娃斯哈村得了一个新认识，那种丑恶的生活多么龌龊可怖！全不象从表面上所见地那么平淡所有这些闲话中的主人翁，自然都是克利福所面熟的，康妮只能知道一二。听着这些生活故事，人要觉得那是在一个中非洲的野林中，而不象在一个英国的村中。

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“我想恢们已经听见爱尔苏女士在前星期结了婚吧，谁想得到！爱尔苏女士，那老鞋匠詹姆士。爱尔苏的女儿。你知道他们在源克罗起了一所房子。老头儿是去年摔发地跋死的；他八十三岁了，却精健得象一个孩子似的，分在北士乌山上一条孩子们在冬做的滑冰道上摔了一跤，把大腿折断了，那便完结了他的生命。可怜的老头儿，真是可怜，好，他把所有的钱都传给黛蒂了，他的男孩子们却一枚铜板都没有得到！黛蒂呢，我是知道的，她长五岁，……是的，她去年秋天是五十三岁。你知道他们都是些很信教的人，真人！艰险父亲死后，她开始和一个琴卜绿的男子来往，我不知道你们认识他不，他叫威尔谷，是一个红鼻子。够好看，上了年纪的人，他在哈里孙的木厂里做工，好，他至少有六十五岁了；但是如果你看见了他们俩臂挽着臂，和在大门口接吻的情形你要以为他们是一对年青的鸳鸯呢！是人，在正对着派克罗的大路的窗口上，她坐在他的膝上，谁都可以瞧得见。他是有了几个四十岁以上的儿子的人了，他的太太的死去，也不过是两年前的事呢！如果那老詹姆士·爱尔苏没有从坟墓里爬出来生她的气，那是因为他出不来；他生前对她是很严厉的！现在他们结了婚了，到琴卜绿去任了。人们说，她从早至晚都穿着一件睡衣跑来跑去，多不体面的事！真的，我敢说这些上了年纪的人的行为是不体面的！他们比年轻的人更坏，更令人厌恶呢。我常说：去看好的有益的电影戏，但是天啊，不要去看那些情剧和恋爱片，无论如何，不要让孩子们去看！但是事实上，大人比孩子更坏，而老年人尤其坏！说起什么道德不，没有人会理会你人，人们是喜欢怎样做就怎样做，我不得不说，他们是无所谓道德不道德的。但是在这样的年头儿，他们不得不把风头收敛一下了，现在矿务不景气，他们也没有我了，他们的抱怨是令人骇怕的，尤其是妇女们。男子们都是这样的好，这样的忍耐！他们可有什么办法，这些可怜虫！但是妇女们呢，啊，他们还是继续下去，她们凑着钱去绘玛丽公主的结婚送礼，但是当她们看见了公主所得的礼物都是些华贵堂皇的东西时，她们简直气疯了，她是谁，难道她比我们更值钱？为什么史磺爱格公司①给了她六件皮外套，而不给我一件？我真侮气出了十先令！我奇怪我出了十先令给她，她要给我什么东西？我的父亲的收入这样少，我甚至想一件春季外套都买不起，，而她却几车几车地收。现在是时候了，穷人们应得些钱来花，富人们是享福享得够了，我需要一件新的春季外套，我实在需要，但是我怎么才能得到呢？我对她们说：“算了，得不到你所想的这些艳丽的东西，也就算了，你能吃得饱穿得暖已经是四天之福了，而她们却驳我说：“为什么玛丽公主并不穿上她的破旧衣裳说四天之福呢？还要我们别介意！象她这样的人，收着几车几车的衣裳，我却不能得一件春季的新外套，这真是奇耻大辱，一位公主！一位公主就能这样！那都是钱作怪，因为她有的是钱，所以人便越多给她！虽没有人给我钱，但我和他人有同样的权利呢，不要对我说什么教育，钱才是好东西，我需要一件春季的新外套，我实在需要，但我不会得到的，因为我没有钱……”

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她们所关心的，便是衣裳。她们觉得拿七八个金镑去买一件冬季季的外套——你要知道她们只是些矿工的女儿们哟——两个金镑去买一顶夏天的孩子帽。中很当然的，她们戴着两金镑的帽子到教堂里去。这些女儿们。要是在我年轻的时候，她们只要有一顶三先令帽子，已经要骄傲了！听说今年监理会派的教堂举行纵会时，他们要替礼拜日学校的孩子们建造一种讲坛似的太平台，高到天花板一样高，那礼拜日学校女手第一班的教员谭荪女士对我说，咳，这平台上的人穿的许多新的礼拜衣裳，价值定在一千镑以上！时候是这么不景气！但是你不能阻挡她们这么干。她们对一于衣裳装饰品颠狂的，男孩们也是一样：他们找的钱全都花在他们自己身上：衣服，烟，酒，一星期两三次跑到雪非尔德去胡闹。唉！世界变了，所有这些青年，都无所忌惮，无所尊敬了，上了年纪的男子们，便都是那么柔顺，那么顺心。真的，他们让妇女们把士切都拿去。事情所以便到了这步田地。妇女们真是些恶魔呢，但是青年儿子们都不象他们的父亲了。他们什么都不能缺少，什么都不能牺牲，他们是一要都为自己，要是你对他们说，应廖省点钱成个家，他们便说：那用着着急，我要及时享乐，其余一切都用不着着急。啊，他们是多么鲁莽，自私！一切都让老年人去干，一切都越来越糟了。”

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克利福对于他的本村开始有个新认识了他常常惧怕这个地方；但是他相信安隐无事的。现在……

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“村人中社会主义和波尔雪维克主义很盛行吗？”他问道

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“啊，”波太太说，“听是听得见有一些人在高叫的，不过这些叫的人大都是些外部设备人钱妇女。男子们并不管这些东西的。我不相信达娃斯哈的男子会有变成赤色的一天的。他们对那种事情是太隐当了，但是年轻人有时也饶舌起来。那并不是因为他们真正有心。他们只要口袋里有点钱到酒店里去花，或到雪非尔德去胡闹，此外什么都不在他们的心上，当他们没有钱的时候，他们便去听赤党的天花乱附的宣传。但是没有人真相信。’那么你相信没有什么危险么？”’

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“啊，没有。只要买卖不坏，危险是不会有的，但是如果事情长信地坏下去，年轻人便不免要头脑糊涂起来。我告诉你：这些都是自私的放纵坏了的孩子，但是，他们不见得会做出什么事情来的。他们无论什么事都不认真，除了坐在两轮摩托车上出风头，和到雪非尔德的跳舞厅去跳舞。没有事情会使他们正经的，最正经的人是穿着晚服到跳舞厅去，在一群女子的面前熔耀一番，跳着这些新出的却尔斯登舞，什么不干！有时公共汽车上，挤满着这些穿着晚服的青年，矿工的儿子们，到跳舞厅去，不要说其他带了女朋友乖汽车或双轮摩托车去的人了。他们对什么事都不认真……除了对于东加斯脱和黛比的赛马会：因为他们每次赛马都要去赌的。还有足球呢！但是甚至足球也不象以前了，差得远了。他们说，玩是足球太苦了，不，星期六的下午，他们订为不如乘双轮摩托车到雪非尔德或匿汀当玩去。”

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“但是他们到那里去干什么？”

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“呀，他们在那里闲荡……到讲究的茶园如美卡多一样的地方去晚上茶……带着女友到跳舞厅或电影院或皇家允院去，女孩们和男孩们一样的放流无题。她们喜欢什么便做什么的。”

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“当他们没有钱去供这种种挥霍的时候又怎么样呢。”

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“他们总象是有钱似的也不知道怎么来的，没有钱的时候，他们便开始说些难听的话了，但是，据我看来，既然这些青年男女们所要的只是金钱来供享乐和买衣裳，怎么会沾染着什么波尔雪维克。他们的头脑是不能使他们成为社会主义者的，他们不够正经，他们永不会够正经地把什么事情正经看待的。”

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康妮听着这一番话，心里想，下层阶级和其他一切阶级相象极了，随处都是一样：达娃斯哈或伦敦的贵族区梅费或根新洞都是一样。我们现在只有一个阶级了：拜金主义者，男拜金主义蜒和女拜多主义者，唯一不同的地方，就是你有多少钱和人需要多少钱罢了。

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在波太太影响之下，克利福开始对于他的矿场发生新兴趣了，他开始觉得事情是与自已有关系的，一个新的扩展自己的需要在他心里产生了。毕竟他是达娃斯哈的真主人，煤坑，便是他。这点使他重新感到权威，那是他一向惧怕着不敢想的。

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在达娃斯哈只有两处煤场了：一处就叫达娃斯哈，其他一处小新伦敦。从前达健斯哈是一个著名的煤场，曾内部矛盾过大钱的。但是它的黄金时代已经过去了。新伦敦从来变没有多大出息，平素不过能混过日子就是。但是瑞时候坏了，象新伦敦这种矿场是要被人放弃的了。

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“许多达娃斯哈的男子们都跑到史德门和怀德华去了。”波太太说，“克利福男爵哟，你去史德门看过大战后成立的那些新工厂吗？啊！啊一天你得去看看，那全是些新式的设备啊，伟大的化学工厂建筑在煤坑上；那全不象是个采煤的地方了。人们说，他们从化学产品所得的钱，比煤炭所得的还要多了。人们说，他们从化学产品所得的钱，比煤炭所得的还要多……我忘记了是什么化学产品了而那些工人的宿舍，简直象王宫！附近的光棍们当然是趋之若鹜了。但是许多达娃斯哈人也到那里去了；他们在那边生活很好，比我们这里的工人还好。他们说，达娃斯哈完了，再过几年便要关闭了。而新伦敦是要先关的。老实说，如果达娃斯哈煤坑停工了，那可不是好玩的事！在罢工的时候，已经是够不幸了，但是老实说，如果真的倒完备下去，那便要象是世界的末日来到了，当我年轻的时候，这是全国顶好的煤矿场，那时在这里作工的人都要私自庆幸的。啊，达娃斯哈弄过不少钱呢！而现矿工他却说，这是一条沉着的船，大家都得离开了。真令人寒心！但是当然，不到不得已的时候，许多的不会就些离开的，他们不喜欢那些新式的，掘得很深的，用机器去工作有矿坑。有些人是看见了那些铁人——他们所起的名称——就生怕的，那些砍煤的机器代替了以前的人工。但是他们所说的话，在从前放弃人工织袜的时候就有人说过了，我记得还看见过一两架那种人工织袜机呢。但是老实说，机器越多，人也好象越多了！他们说。你不能从达娃斯哈的煤炭里取得和史德门那里一样的化学原材，那是奇怪的事，这两处煤矿相距只有三哩路。总之，这是他们所说的，但是人人都说峭想点方法改庚工人的生活，不雇用女工——所有那些每天跑到雪非尔德的女子们——那是可耻和。老实说，达娃斯哈矿场，经过这许多人说是完了，说是象一只沉着的船似地离开了……。

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但如果复活起来，哪时谈起来一定有趣呢，但是人们什么不说呢！自然呀，当在大战的时候，什么都是蒸蒸向荣的，那时候佐佛来男爵自己把财产嘱托保管起来，这样所有的金钱才可以永远巡全下去，我也不明白怎样，这是人们传说的！但是他们说，现在连主人和东家都得不着什么钱了。真难令人相信，可不是！我一向相信煤矿的事业是永久永久地继续下去的，当我还年轻的时候，谁想得到今日这种情形呢，但是新英格兰公司已关门了，大量高维克林公司也一样，是的，那真好看呢，如果到那小树林里去看看高维克林矿场在树木间荒芜着，煤坑下面生满了荆棘，铁轨腐锈得发红，死了的煤矿场，那是可怕得象顽强神本身一样的。天呀，要是达娃斯哈关门的话，我们将怎样呢？……那真令人不忍想象。除了罢工以外，总是挤挤拥拥的人骆在工作着，甚至罢工的时候，如果钱还没有得到手，风花还是转着的，这世界多奇怪，我们今年不知明年事，真是茫茫然网。”

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波太太的一番话，引起克利福的争斗的新精神，他的进款，流太太已指示过了，因为有他父亲的遗产，是无虞的，虽然那并不是一笔大进款。实际上，他并不真正地关心那些煤坑。他所欲夺得的是另一个世界，文学和荣耀的世界。换句话说，是名誉的成功的世界，而不是那劳工的世界。

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现在，他明白了名誉的成功与劳工的成功之间的不同了：一个是享乐的群众，一个是劳工的群众。他呢；站在个人地位上，供给着享乐的群众以享乐的粮食——小说；这点他是成功了，但是在这享乐的群众以下，还有个狰狞、龌龊而且可怕的劳工群众。而这个群众也有他们的需要。供应这种群’众的需要，比去供应其他群众的需要是可怖得多的工作。当他写着他的小说，正在那一边发迹的时候，这一边达娃斯哈却下在碰壁了，他现在明白了成功的财神有两个主要的嗜欲：一个是著作家或艺术家一类的人所供给的馅媚、阿谀、抚慰搔爬；而另一个右怕的嗜欲是肉和骨。这财神所吃的肉和骨，是由实业上发财的人去供给的。

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是的，有两在群的狗在争夺着财神的宏爱：一群是馏媚者，他们向她贡献着娱乐、小说、影片、戏剧；其他一群不太铺线的但是粗野得多，向供给着肉食——金钱的实质。那装饰华丽的供给娱乐的狗群，‘彼此张牙舞爪地吵嚷着争取财神的这宠爱。

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但是比起那另一骆不可少的、内肉供给者们的你死我活地暗斗来，却又相差千里了。

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在被太太的影响之下，克利福想去参与另一群狗的色斗了，想利用工业出品的粗暴方法，去争取财神的宠爱了，他张牙舞爪起来了。在某种程度上，是波太太激化成就了一个大丈夫，这是康妮不曾做到的，康妮玲眼旁观，并且歙他觉知他自己所处的情态，波太太使他感觉兴趣的只是外界的事物，在内心他开始软腐了，但是在外表上他却开始生活了。

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他甚至勉强地重新回到矿场里去，他坐在一个大桷里，向矿穴里降下。他坐在一个大拥里，被人牵曳着到各得的矿洞，大战前他所尽知而似乎完全忘记了的许我事情，现在都重新显现在他目前了；他现在是残废了，端从而在那大桶里，经理用着强有力的灯光，照着矿脉给他看。他不太说话，但是他心里开始工作了。

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他开始把关采矿工业的专门书籍重新拿来阅读；他研究着政府的公报，而且细心地阅读着德文的关于代矿学、煤炭化学及石脑油尖类化学的最新书报。当然，最有价值的发明人家是保密的。但是，当你开始探求采矿工业技术上的深奥，和研究各种方法之精密以及煤炭的一节化学可能性时，你是要惊愕近代技术精神之巧妙及其近于高的智慧的。那仿佛妖魔本身的魅幻的智慧，借给了工业的专门科学家。这种工业的专门科学，比之文学与艺术那种可怜的低能者的感情的产物有意味多了。在这园地中，人好象是神，或有灵感的妖魔，奋斗着去发现。在这种活动中，有些人精神的年龄，是高到不能计算的。但是克利福知道，这些同样的人，如果讲到他们的感情的与常人的生活状态上来，他们的精神年龄大约只有十三四岁——只是些柔弱的孩童罢了。这种天壤的相差则令人惊怖的。

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但是管这个干吗，让人类在感情上和“人性的”精神上陷到愚钝的极端去，克利福是不关心的。让这一切都见鬼去吧。他所注意的是近代采煤工业的技术，和达娃斯哈的再造。

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他一天一天地到矿场里去，他研究着，他把所有各部门的经理、工程师，都严厉地考询起来，这是他们从来没有梦想到的。权威！他觉得在自己的心里，滋生着一种新的权威的感觉：对所有这些人，和那内千矿工的权威。他发现了：他渐渐地把事情把握到手里来了。

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真的，他象是再生了，现在，生命重新回到他身上来了！他以前和康妮过着那种艺术家的和自学者的孤寂的私生活，他是渐渐地萎死下去的，现在，他屏除了这一切，他让这一切睡眠去了。他简直觉得生命从煤央里从矿穴里，蓬勃地向他涌来，于是，矿场的龌龊空气也比氧气还要好了那予他以一种权威的感觉。他正开始他的事业了，他正在开始他的事业了。他就要得到了，得手了！那并不是象他用小说所得到的那种胜利，那只是竟尽精力，用尽狡猾的广告的胜利而已，他所要的是一个大丈夫的胜利。

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起初，他相信问题的解决点是在电力方面；把煤炭变成电力，以后，又来了个新主意。德国人巳发明了一种不用火力的发动机，这发动机所用的是一种新燃料，这燃料烧起来只要很少的量，而在某种特殊的情形下，能发生很大的热力。

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一种新的集中的燃料，烧得慢而热力又猛，这主意首先引起了克利福的注意；这种燃料，得要一种界和刺激物，光是空气的供给是不够铁，他便开始做着实验，耸得了一位聪慧的青年来帮助他，这青年在化学的研究中，是有很高的成绩的。

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他觉得凯旋了。他锤从自我中跳出来了。他的从自我中跳出和毕生私愿已经实现了。艺术没有使他在室这个目的，反之，艺术只把他牵制了。但是现在呢？他的私愿已实现了。

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他并不知道波太太多么扶助自己，也不知道自己是多么领先她。但是有一件显然的事，就是当他和她在于起的时候，他的声调就变成安闲亲切的，差水多有些庸俗的了。

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和康妮在一起，他显得有点僵硬的样子，他觉得他该她一切一切的东西，所以对她尽可能地表示敬意与尊重，只要她在外表上对他还有敬意。但是很显然地，他在暗地里惧怕她。他心里的新阿咯琉斯。

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Connie was surprised at her own feeling of aversion from Clifford. What is more, she felt she had always really disliked him. Not hate: there was no passion in it. But a profound physical dislike. Almost, it seemed to her, she had married him because she disliked him, in a secret, physical sort of way. But of course, she had married him really because in a mental way he attracted her and excited her. He had seemed, in some way, her master, beyond her.

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Now the mental excitement had worn itself out and collapsed, and she was aware only of the physical aversion. It rose up in her from her depths: and she realized how it had been eating her life away.

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She felt weak and utterly forlorn. She wished some help would come from outside. But in the whole world there was no help. Society was terrible because it was insane. Civilized society is insane. Money and so-called love are its two great manias; money a long way first. The individual asserts himself in his disconnected insanity in these two modes: money and love. Look at Michaelis! His life and activity were just insanity. His love was a sort of insanity.

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And Clifford the same. All that talk! All that writing! All that wild struggling to push himself forwards! It was just insanity. And it was getting worse, really maniacal.

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Connie felt washed-out with fear. But at least, Clifford was shifting his grip from her on to Mrs Bolton. He did not know it. Like many insane people, his insanity might be measured by the things he was not aware of the great desert tracts in his consciousness.

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Mrs Bolton was admirable in many ways. But she had that queer sort of bossiness, endless assertion of her own will, which is one of the signs of insanity in modern woman. She thought she was utterly subservient and living for others. Clifford fascinated her because he always, or so of ten, frustrated her will, as if by a finer instinct. He had a finer, subtler will of self-assertion than herself. This was his charm for her.

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Perhaps that had been his charm, too, for Connie.

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`It’s a lovely day, today!’ Mrs Bolton would say in her caressive, persuasive voice. `I should think you’d enjoy a little run in your chair today, the sun’s just lovely.’

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`Yes? Will you give me that book---there, that yellow one. And I think I’ll have those hyacinths taken out.’

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`Why they’re so beautiful!’ She pronounced it with the `y’ sound: be-yutiful! `And the scent is simply gorgeous.’

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`The scent is what I object to,’ he said. `It’s a little funereal.’

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`Do you think so!’ she exclaimed in surprise, just a little offended, but impressed. And she carried the hyacinths out of the room, impressed by his higher fastidiousness.

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`Shall I shave you this morning, or would you rather do it yourself?’ Always the same soft, caressive, subservient, yet managing voice.

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`I don’t know. Do you mind waiting a while. I’ll ring when I’m ready.’

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`Very good, Sir Clifford!’ she replied, so soft and submissive, withdrawing quietly. But every rebuff stored up new energy of will in her.

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When he rang, after a time, she would appear at once. And then he would say:

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`I think I’d rather you shaved me this morning.’

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Her heart gave a little thrill, and she replied with extra softness:

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`Very good, Sir Clifford!’

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She was very deft, with a soft, lingering touch, a little slow. At first he had resented the infinitely soft touch of her lingers on his face. But now he liked it, with a growing voluptuousness. He let her shave him nearly every day: her face near his, her eyes so very concentrated, watching that she did it right. And gradually her fingertips knew his cheeks and lips, his jaw and chin and throat perfectly. He was well-fed and well-liking, his face and throat were handsome enough and he was a gentleman.

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She was handsome too, pale, her face rather long and absolutely still, her eyes bright, but revealing nothing. Gradually, with infinite softness, almost with love, she was getting him by the throat, and he was yielding to her.

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She now did almost everything for him, and he felt more at home with her, less ashamed of accepting her menial offices, than with Connie. She liked handling him. She loved having his body in her charge, absolutely, to the last menial offices. She said to Connie one day: `All men are babies, when you come to the bottom of them. Why, I’ve handled some of the toughest customers as ever went down Tevershall pit. But let anything ail them so that you have to do for them, and they’re babies, just big babies. Oh, there’s not much difference in men!’

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At first Mrs Bolton had thought there really was something different in a gentleman, a real gentleman, like Sir Clifford. So Clifford had got a good start of her. But gradually, as she came to the bottom of him, to use her own term, she found he was like the rest, a baby grown to man’s proportions: but a baby with a queer temper and a fine manner and power in its control, and all sorts of odd knowledge that she had never dreamed of, with which he could still bully her.

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Connie was sometimes tempted to say to him:

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`For God’s sake, don’t sink so horribly into the hands of that woman!’ But she found she didn’t care for him enough to say it, in the long run.

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It was still their habit to spend the evening together, till ten o’clock. Then they would talk, or read together, or go over his manuscript. But the thrill had gone out of it. She was bored by his manuscripts. But she still dutifully typed them out for him. But in time Mrs Bolton would do even that.

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For Connie had suggested to Mrs Bolton that she should learn to use a typewriter. And Mrs Bolton, always ready, had begun at once, and practised assiduously. So now Clifford would sometimes dictate a letter to her, and she would take it down rather slowly, but correctly. And he was very patient, spelling for her the difficult words, or the occasional phrases in French. She was so thrilled, it was almost a pleasure to instruct her.

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Now Connie would sometimes plead a headache as an excuse for going up to her room after dinner.

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`Perhaps Mrs Bolton will play piquet with you,’ she said to Clifford.

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`Oh, I shall be perfectly all right. You go to your own room and rest, darling.’

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But no sooner had she gone, than he rang for Mrs Bolton, and asked her to take a hand at piquet or bezique, or even chess. He had taught her all these games. And Connie found it curiously objectionable to see Mrs Bolton, flushed and tremulous like a little girl, touching her queen or her knight with uncertain fingers, then drawing away again. And Clifford, faintly smiling with a half-teasing superiority, saying to her:

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`You must say j’adoube!’

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She looked up at him with bright, startled eyes, then murmured shyly, obediently:

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`J’adoube!’

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Yes, he was educating her. And he enjoyed it, it gave him a sense of power. And she was thrilled. She was coming bit by bit into possession of all that the gentry knew, all that made them upper class: apart from the money. That thrilled her. And at the same time, she was making him want to have her there with him. It was a subtle deep flattery to him, her genuine thrill.

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To Connie, Clifford seemed to be coming out in his true colours: a little vulgar, a little common, and uninspired; rather fat. Ivy Bolton’s tricks and humble bossiness were also only too transparent. But Connie did wonder at the genuine thrill which the woman got out of Clifford. To say she was in love with him would be putting it wrongly. She was thrilled by her contact with a man of the upper class, this titled gentleman, this author who could write books and poems, and whose photograph appeared in the illustrated newspapers. She was thrilled to a weird passion. And his `educating’ her roused in her a passion of excitement and response much deeper than any love affair could have done. In truth, the very fact that there could be no love affair left her free to thrill to her very marrow with this other passion, the peculiar passion of knowing, knowing as he knew.

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There was no mistake that the woman was in some way in love with him: whatever force we give to the word love. She looked so handsome and so young, and her grey eyes were sometimes marvellous. At the same time, there was a lurking soft satisfaction about her, even of triumph, and private satisfaction. Ugh, that private satisfaction. How Connie loathed it!

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But no wonder Clifford was caught by the woman! She absolutely adored him, in her persistent fashion, and put herself absolutely at his service, for him to use as he liked. No wonder he was flattered!

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Connie heard long conversations going on between the two. Or rather, it bas mostly Mrs Bolton talking. She had unloosed to him the stream of gossip about Tevershall village. It was more than gossip. It was Mrs Gaskell and George Eliot and Miss Mitford all rolled in one, with a great deal more, that these women left out.’ Once started, Mrs Bolton was better than any book, about the lives of the people. She knew them all so intimately, and had such a peculiar, flamey zest in all their affairs, it was wonderful, if just a trifle humiliating to listen to her. At first she had not ventured to `talk Tevershall’, as she called it, to Clifford. But once started, it went on. Clifford was listening for `material’, and he found it in plenty. Connie realized that his so-called genius was just this: a perspicuous talent for personal gossip, clever and apparently detached. Mrs Bolton, of course, was very warm when she `talked Tevershall’. Carried away, in fact. And it was marvellous, the things that happened and that she knew about. She would have run to dozens of volumes.

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Connie was fascinated, listening to her. But afterwards always a little ashamed. She ought not to listen with this queer rabid curiosity. After all, one may hear the most private affairs of other people, but only in a spirit of respect for the struggling, battered thing which any human soul is, and in a spirit of fine, discriminative sympathy. For even satire is a form of sympathy. It is the way our sympathy flows and recoils that really determines our lives. And here lies the vast importance of the novel, properly handled. It can inform and lead into new places the flow of our sympathetic consciousness, and it can lead our sympathy away in recoil from things gone dead. Therefore, the novel, properly handled, can reveal the most secret places of life: for it is in the passional secret places of life, above all, that the tide of sensitive awareness needs to ebb and flow, cleansing and freshening.

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But the novel, like gossip, can also excite spurious sympathies and recoils, mechanical and deadening to the psyche. The novel can glorify the most corrupt feelings, so long as they are conventionally `pure’. Then the novel, like gossip, becomes at last vicious, and, like gossip, all the more vicious because it is always ostensibly on the side of the angels. Mrs Bolton’s gossip was always on the side of the angels. `And he was such a bad fellow, and she was such a nice woman.’ Whereas, as Connie could see even from Mrs Bolton’s gossip, the woman had been merely a mealy-mouthed sort, and the man angrily honest. But angry honesty made a `bad man’ of him, and mealy-mouthedness made a `nice woman’ of her, in the vicious, conventional channelling of sympathy by Mrs Bolton.

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For this reason, the gossip was humiliating. And for the same reason, most novels, especially popular ones, are humiliating too. The public responds now only to an appeal to its vices.

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Nevertheless, one got a new vision of Tevershall village from Mrs Bolton’s talk. A terrible, seething welter of ugly life it seemed: not at all the flat drabness it looked from outside. Clifford of course knew by sight most of the people mentioned, Connie knew only one or two. But it sounded really more like a Central African jungle than an English village.

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`I suppose you heard as Miss Allsopp was married last week! Would you ever! Miss Allsopp, old James’ daughter, the boot-and-shoe Allsopp. You know they built a house up at Pye Croft. The old man died last year from a fall; eighty-three, he was, an’ nimble as a lad. An’ then he slipped on Bestwood Hill, on a slide as the lads ’ad made last winter, an’ broke his thigh, and that finished him, poor old man, it did seem a shame. Well, he left all his money to Tattie: didn’t leave the boys a penny. An’ Tattie, I know, is five years---yes, she’s fifty-three last autumn. And you know they were such Chapel people, my word! She taught Sunday school for thirty years, till her father died. And then she started carrying on with a fellow from Kinbrook, I don’t know if you know him, an oldish fellow with a red nose, rather dandified, Willcock, as works in Harrison’s woodyard. Well he’s sixty-five, if he’s a day, yet you’d have thought they were a pair of young turtle-doves, to see them, arm in arm, and kissing at the gate: yes, an’ she sitting on his knee right in the bay window on Pye Croft Road, for anybody to see. And he’s got sons over forty: only lost his wife two years ago. If old James Allsopp hasn’t risen from his grave, it’s because there is no rising: for he kept her that strict! Now they’re married and gone to live down at Kinbrook, and they say she goes round in a dressing-gown from morning to night, a veritable sight. I’m sure it’s awful, the way the old ones go on! Why they’re a lot worse than the young, and a sight more disgusting. I lay it down to the pictures, myself. But you can’t keep them away. I was always saying: go to a good instructive film, but do for goodness sake keep away from these melodramas and love films. Anyhow keep the children away! But there you are, grown-ups are worse than the children: and the old ones beat the band. Talk about morality! Nobody cares a thing. Folks does as they like, and much better off they are for it, I must say. But they’re having to draw their horns in nowadays, now th’ pits are working so bad, and they haven’t got the money. And the grumbling they do, it’s awful, especially the women. The men are so good and patient! What can they do, poor chaps! But the women, oh, they do carry on! They go and show off, giving contributions for a wedding present for Princess Mary, and then when they see all the grand things that’s been given, they simply rave: who’s she, any better than anybody else! Why doesn’t Swan & Edgar give me one fur coat, instead of giving her six. I wish I’d kept my ten shillings! What’s she going to give me, I should like to know? Here I can’t get a new spring coat, my dad’s working that bad, and she gets van-loads. It’s time as poor folks had some money to spend, rich ones ’as ’ad it long enough. I want a new spring coat, I do, an’ wheer am I going to get it? I say to them, be thankful you’re well fed and well clothed, without all the new finery you want! And they fly back at me: "Why isn’t Princess Mary thankful to go about in her old rags, then, an’ have nothing! Folks like her get van-loads, an’ I can’t have a new spring coat. It’s a damned shame. Princess! Bloomin’ rot about Princess! It’s munney as matters, an’ cos she’s got lots, they give her more! Nobody’s givin’ me any, an’ I’ve as much right as anybody else. Don’t talk to me about education. It’s munney as matters. I want a new spring coat, I do, an’ I shan’t get it, cos there’s no munney..." That’s all they care about, clothes. They think nothing of giving seven or eight guineas for a winter coat---colliers’ daughters, mind you---and two guineas for a child’s summer hat. And then they go to the Primitive Chapel in their two-guinea hat, girls as would have been proud of a three-and-sixpenny one in my day. I heard that at the Primitive Methodist anniversary this year, when they have a built-up platform for the Sunday School children, like a grandstand going almost up to th’ ceiling, I heard Miss Thompson, who has the first class of girls in the Sunday School, say there’d be over a thousand pounds in new Sunday clothes sitting on that platform! And times are what they are! But you can’t stop them. They’re mad for clothes. And boys the same. The lads spend every penny on themselves, clothes, smoking, drinking in the Miners’ Welfare, jaunting off to Sheffield two or three times a week. Why, it’s another world. And they fear nothing, and they respect nothing, the young don’t. The older men are that patient and good, really, they let the women take everything. And this is what it leads to. The women are positive demons. But the lads aren’t like their dads. They’re sacrificing nothing, they aren’t: they’re all for self. If you tell them they ought to be putting a bit by, for a home, they say: That’ll keep, that will, I’m goin’ t’ enjoy myself while I can. Owt else’ll keep! Oh, they’re rough an’ selfish, if you like. Everything falls on the older men, an’ it’s a bad outlook all round.’

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Clifford began to get a new idea of his own village. The place had always frightened him, but he had thought it more or less stable. Now---?

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`Is there much Socialism, Bolshevism, among the people?’ he asked.

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`Oh!’ said Mrs Bolton, `you hear a few loud-mouthed ones. But they’re mostly women who’ve got into debt. The men take no notice. I don’t believe you’ll ever turn our Tevershall men into reds. They’re too decent for that. But the young ones blether sometimes. Not that they care for it really. They only want a bit of money in their pocket, to spend at the Welfare, or go gadding to Sheffield. That’s all they care. When they’ve got no money, they’ll listen to the reds spouting. But nobody believes in it, really.’

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`So you think there’s no danger?’

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`Oh no! Not if trade was good, there wouldn’t be. But if things were bad for a long spell, the young ones might go funny. I tell you, they’re a selfish, spoilt lot. But I don’t see how they’d ever do anything. They aren’t ever serious about anything, except showing off on motor-bikes and dancing at the Palais-de-danse in Sheffield. You can’t make them serious. The serious ones dress up in evening clothes and go off to the Pally to show off before a lot of girls and dance these new Charlestons and what not. I’m sure sometimes the bus’ll be full of young fellows in evening suits, collier lads, off to the Pally: let alone those that have gone with their girls in motors or on motor-bikes. They don’t give a serious thought to a thing---save Doncaster races, and the Derby: for they all of them bet on every race. And football! But even football’s not what it was, not by a long chalk. It’s too much like hard work, they say. No, they’d rather be off on motor-bikes to Sheffield or Nottingham, Saturday afternoons.’

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`But what do they do when they get there?’

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`Oh, hang around---and have tea in some fine tea-place like the Mikado---and go to the Pally or the pictures or the Empire, with some girl. The girls are as free as the lads. They do just what they like.’

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`And what do they do when they haven’t the money for these things?’

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`They seem to get it, somehow. And they begin talking nasty then. But I don’t see how you’re going to get bolshevism, when all the lads want is just money to enjoy themselves, and the girls the same, with fine clothes: and they don’t care about another thing. They haven’t the brains to be socialists. They haven’t enough seriousness to take anything really serious, and they never will have.’

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Connie thought, how extremely like all the rest of the classes the lower classes sounded. Just the same thing over again, Tevershall or Mayfair or Kensington. There was only one class nowadays: moneyboys. The moneyboy and the moneygirl, the only difference was how much you’d got, and how much you wanted.

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Under Mrs Bolton’s influence, Clifford began to take a new interest in the mines. He began to feel he belonged. A new sort of self-assertion came into him. After all, he was the real boss in Tevershall, he was really the pits. It was a new sense of power, something he had till now shrunk from with dread.

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Tevershall pits were running thin. There were only two collieries: Tevershall itself, and New London. Tevershall had once been a famous mine, and had made famous money. But its best days were over. New London was never very rich, and in ordinary times just got along decently. But now times were bad, and it was pits like New London that got left.

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`There’s a lot of Tevershall men left and gone to Stacks Gate and Whiteover,’ said Mrs Bolton. `You’ve not seen the new works at Stacks Gate, opened after the war, have you, Sir Clifford? Oh, you must go one day, they’re something quite new: great big chemical works at the pit-head, doesn’t look a bit like a colliery. They say they get more money out of the chemical by-products than out of the coal---I forget what it is. And the grand new houses for the men, fair mansions! of course it’s brought a lot of riff-raff from all over the country. But a lot of Tevershall men got on there, and doin’ well, a lot better than our own men. They say Tevershall’s done, finished: only a question of a few more years, and it’ll have to shut down. And New London’ll go first. My word, won’t it be funny when there’s no Tevershall pit working. It’s bad enough during a strike, but my word, if it closes for good, it’ll be like the end of the world. Even when I was a girl it was the best pit in the country, and a man counted himself lucky if he could on here. Oh, there’s been some money made in Tevershall. And now the men say it’s a sinking ship, and it’s time they all got out. Doesn’t it sound awful! But of course there’s a lot as’ll never go till they have to. They don’t like these new fangled mines, such a depth, and all machinery to work them. Some of them simply dreads those iron men, as they call them, those machines for hewing the coal, where men always did it before. And they say it’s wasteful as well. But what goes in waste is saved in wages, and a lot more. It seems soon there’ll be no use for men on the face of the earth, it’ll be all machines. But they say that’s what folks said when they had to give up the old stocking frames. I can remember one or two. But my word, the more machines, the more people, that’s what it looks like! They say you can’t get the same chemicals out of Tevershall coal as you can out of Stacks Gate, and that’s funny, they’re not three miles apart. But they say so. But everybody says it’s a shame something can’t be started, to keep the men going a bit better, and employ the girls. All the girls traipsing off to Sheffield every day! My word, it would be something to talk about if Tevershall Collieries took a new lease of life, after everybody saying they’re finished, and a sinking ship, and the men ought to leave them like rats leave a sinking ship. But folks talk so much, of course there was a boom during the war. When Sir Geoffrey made a trust of himself and got the money safe for ever, somehow. So they say! But they say even the masters and the owners don’t get much out of it now. You can hardly believe it, can you! Why I always thought the pits would go on for ever and ever. Who’d have thought, when I was a girl! But New England’s shut down, so is Colwick Wood: yes, it’s fair haunting to go through that coppy and see Colwick Wood standing there deserted among the trees, and bushes growing up all over the pit-head, and the lines red rusty. It’s like death itself, a dead colliery. Why, whatever should we do if Tevershall shut down---? It doesn’t bear thinking of. Always that throng it’s been, except at strikes, and even then the fan-wheels didn’t stand, except when they fetched the ponies up. I’m sure it’s a funny world, you don’t know where you are from year to year, you really don’t.’

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It was Mrs Bolton’s talk that really put a new fight into Clifford. His income, as she pointed out to him, was secure, from his father’s trust, even though it was not large. The pits did not really concern him. It was the other world he wanted to capture, the world of literature and fame; the popular world, not the working world.

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Now he realized the distinction between popular success and working success: the populace of pleasure and the populace of work. He, as a private individual, had been catering with his stories for the populace of pleasure. And he had caught on. But beneath the populace of pleasure lay the populace of work, grim, grimy, and rather terrible. They too had to have their providers. And it was a much grimmer business, providing for the populace of work, than for the populace of pleasure. While he was doing his stories, and `getting on’ in the world, Tevershall was going to the wall.

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He realized now that the bitch-goddess of Success had two main appetites: one for flattery, adulation, stroking and tickling such as writers and artists gave her; but the other a grimmer appetite for meat and bones. And the meat and bones for the bitch-goddess were provided by the men who made money in industry.

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Yes, there were two great groups of dogs wrangling for the bitch-goddess: the group of the flatterers, those who offered her amusement, stories, films, plays: and the other, much less showy, much more savage breed, those who gave her meat, the real substance of money. The well-groomed showy dogs of amusement wrangled and snarled among themselves for the favours of the bitch-goddess. But it was nothing to the silent fight-to-the-death that went on among the indispensables, the bone-bringers.

61

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But under Mrs Bolton’s influence, Clifford was tempted to enter this other fight, to capture the bitch-goddess by brute means of industrial production. Somehow, he got his pecker up.

62

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In one way, Mrs Bolton made a man of him, as Connie never did. Connie kept him apart, and made him sensitive and conscious of himself and his own states. Mrs Bolton made hint aware only of outside things. Inwardly he began to go soft as pulp. But outwardly he began to be effective.

63

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He even roused himself to go to the mines once more: and when he was there, he went down in a tub, and in a tub he was hauled out into the workings. Things he had learned before the war, and seemed utterly to have forgotten, now came back to him. He sat there, crippled, in a tub, with the underground manager showing him the seam with a powerful torch. And he said little. But his mind began to work.

64

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He began to read again his technical works on the coal-mining industry, he studied the government reports, and he read with care the latest things on mining and the chemistry of coal and of shale which were written in German. Of course the most valuable discoveries were kept secret as far as possible. But once you started a sort of research in the field of coal-mining, a study of methods and means, a study of by-products and the chemical possibilities of coal, it was astounding the ingenuity and the almost uncanny cleverness of the modern technical mind, as if really the devil himself had lent fiend’s wits to the technical scientists of industry. It was far more interesting than art, than literature, poor emotional half-witted stuff, was this technical science of industry. In this field, men were like gods, or demons, inspired to discoveries, and fighting to carry them out. In this activity, men were beyond atty mental age calculable. But Clifford knew that when it did come to the emotional and human life, these self-made men were of a mental age of about thirteen, feeble boys. The discrepancy was enormous and appalling.

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But let that be. Let man slide down to general idiocy in the emotional and `human’ mind, Clifford did not care. Let all that go hang. He was interested in the technicalities of modern coal-mining, and in pulling Tevershall out of the hole.

66

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He went down to the pit day after day, he studied, he put the general manager, and the overhead manager, and the underground manager, and the engineers through a mill they had never dreamed of. Power! He felt a new sense of power flowing through him: power over all these men, over the hundreds and hundreds of colliers. He was finding out: and he was getting things into his grip.

67

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And he seemed verily to be re-born. Now life came into him! He had been gradually dying, with Connie, in the isolated private life of the artist and the conscious being. Now let all that go. Let it sleep. He simply felt life rush into him out of the coal, out of the pit. The very stale air of the colliery was better than oxygen to him. It gave him a sense of power, power. He was doing something: and he was going to do something. He was going to win, to win: not as he had won with his stories, mere publicity, amid a whole sapping of energy and malice. But a man’s victory.

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At first he thought the solution lay in electricity: convert the coal into electric power. Then a new idea came. The Germans invented a new locomotive engine with a self feeder, that did not need a fireman. And it was to be fed with a new fuel, that burnt in small quantities at a great heat, under peculiar conditions.

69

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The idea of a new concentrated fuel that burnt with a hard slowness at a fierce heat was what first attracted Clifford. There must be some sort of external stimulus of the burning of such fuel, not merely air supply. He began to experiment, and got a clever young fellow, who had proved brilliant in chemistry, to help him.

70

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And he felt triumphant. He had at last got out of himself. He had fulfilled his life-long secret yearning to get out of himself. Art had not done it for him. Art had only made it worse. But now, now he had done it.

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He was not aware how much Mrs Bolton was behind him. He did not know how much he depended on her. But for all that, it was evident that when he was with her his voice dropped to an easy rhythm of intimacy, almost a trifle vulgar.

72

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With Connie, he was a little stiff. He felt he owed her everything, and he showed her the utmost respect and consideration, so long as she gave him mere outward respect. But it was obvious he had a secret dread of her. The new Achilles in hint had a heel, and in this heel the woman, the woman like Connie, his wife, could lame him fatally. He went in a certain half-subservient dread of her, and was extremely nice to her. But his voice was a little tense when he spoke to her, and he began to be silent whenever she was present.

73

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Only when he was alone with Mrs Bolton did he really feel a lord and a master, and his voice ran on with her almost as easily and garrulously as her own could run. And he let her shave him or sponge all his body as if he were a child, really as if he were a child.

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