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恋爱中的女人|Women in Love

Chapter 17 The Industrial Magnate

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 劳伦斯] 阅读：[28837]
Chapter 16 Man to Man
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住在贝多弗的厄秀拉和戈珍都有了一段空闲时间。在厄秀拉心目中，一时间伯金不存在了，他失去了自己的意义，对她来说变得无足轻重。厄秀拉又兴高采烈地按原样儿生活起来，跟他断了关系。

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前一段时间戈珍几乎每时每刻都惦念着杰拉德·克里奇，甚至觉得自己跟他肉体上都产生了联系，可现在她拿杰拉德根本不当一回事了。她心里正酝酿着出走，试图过一种新型的生活。她心里一直有什么在警告她防止同杰拉德建立最终的关系。她感到最好是同他保持一种一般熟人的关系，这样做更明智。

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她计划去圣·皮特斯堡的一位朋友那儿，那人跟她一样也是个雕塑家，同一位爱好宝石的俄国阔佬儿住在一起。那位俄国人放荡的情感生活对戈珍很有吸引力。她并不想到巴黎去，巴黎太枯燥，太令人生厌。她倒愿意去罗马、慕尼黑、维也纳、圣·皮特斯堡或莫斯科，圣·皮特斯堡和慕尼黑那儿她都有朋友，她给这两个朋友都写信问及住房的事。

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她手里有一笔钱。她回家里来的一个目的就是攒钱。现在她已经卖出了几件作品，在各种展览中她都受到了好评。她知道如果去伦敦，她的作品会很时髦的。可是她太了解伦敦了，她想去别处。她有七十镑，对此别人一无所知。一得到朋友的消息，她就可以动身走了。别看她表面上温和平静，其实她的性格是躁动型的。

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有一天姐妹两人到威利·格林的一个农家去买蜂蜜。女主人科克太太身躯肥胖，脸色苍白，鼻子很尖，人很滑头，满口的甜言蜜语，可这掩盖不住她猫一样狡猾的内心。她把姑娘们请进了她那间非常干净舒适的厨房里。屋里真是每个角落都那么干净、惬意。

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“布朗温小姐，”她有点讨好地说，“回到老地方，还喜欢这儿吧？”

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戈珍一听她说话就讨厌上她了。

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“我无所谓。”她生硬地回答。

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“是吗？嗨，我以为你会觉得这儿跟伦敦不一样的。你喜欢大地方儿的生活。我们嘛，不得不将就着在威利·格林和贝多弗过日子。你对我们这儿的小学校还喜欢吧，人们都爱念叨它。”

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“我喜欢它？”戈珍扫了她一眼道，“你的意思是我觉得它不错？”

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“对的，你的看法是什么？”

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“我确实觉得这是一所挺不错的学校。”

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戈珍感到很厌恶，态度很冷淡。她知道这儿的庸人们都讨厌学校。

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“你真这样想啊！我可听人们议论的太多了，说什么的都有，能知道内部人的看法太好了。不过，意见也不一样吧？克里奇先生完全赞成。哦，可怜的人啊，我真怕他不久于世了。

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他身体太不好了。”

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“他的病又厉害了？”厄秀拉问。

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“是啊，自从失去了迪安娜小姐他的病就重了，瘦得不成样子。可怜的人，他的烦恼太多了。”

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“是吗？”戈珍有点嘲弄地说。

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“他够烦恼的。你们还没见过象他那样和气的人呢。可是他的孩子们一点也不象他。”

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“我觉得，他们都象他们的母亲。”厄秀拉说。

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“好多方面都象，”科克太太压低嗓门儿说，“她可是个傲慢的女人哩，我敢说，一点不错！她这人可看不得，能跟她说上句话可不容易。”说着这女人做个鬼脸。

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“她刚结婚时你认识她吗？”

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“认识。我给她家当保姆，看大了三个孩子呢。那可是几个可怕的东西，小魔鬼，杰拉德是个从没见过的魔王，从六个月开始就那个样子。”那女人的话音里透着一种恶气。

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“是吗？”戈珍说。

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“他是个任性、霸道的孩子，刚六个月就指使得保姆团团转。又踢又叫，象个魔鬼一样折腾。他还是个吃奶的孩子时，我不知掐他的屁股多少回了。要是再多掐几次，也许他就变好了。可他母亲就是不肯改掉他的坏毛病，你说什么她也听不进去。我还记得她跟克里奇先生吵闹的样子呢。他实在气坏了，实在无法忍受了，就关起门来用鞭子抽他们。可是太太却象一只老虎一样在门外来来回回地游荡，一脸杀气腾腾的样子。门一开她就举着双手冲进去向先生大叫‘你这个胆小鬼，你把我的孩子怎么样了？’那样子真跟疯了一样。我敢说先生怕太太，他气疯了也不敢动她一手指头。想想仆人们过的是什么日子吧。一旦他们当中有人受惩罚我们怎么能不高兴呢？”

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“真的！”戈珍说。

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“什么事都有。如果你不让他们把桌子上的茶壶打碎，如果你不让他们用绳子拴着猫的脖子拉着乱转，如果他们要什么你不给什么，他们就好闹一场，然后他们的母亲就会进来问：‘他怎么了？你怎么他了？宝贝儿，怎么了？’问完了她会恶狠狠地看着你，恨不能把你踩在脚下。不过她倒是没把我踩在脚下。我是唯一能对付她的人。她自己是不会管孩子的，她才不找这份麻烦呢。可这些孩子太任性，他们可让人说不得，小霸王杰拉德可真不得了。他一岁半时我离开了他家，我实在受不了了。他小时候我拧过他的小屁股，我拧了，管不住他我就拧他，我一点也不惭愧——”

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听到这儿戈珍愤愤然走了。“我拧了他的小屁股”这句话把她气坏了。她听不得这样的话。她恨不得把这女人赶出去绑起来。可这句话在她的脑子里永远生了根，赶也赶不走。她觉得哪一天要把这话告诉他，看他如何受得了。可一想到这一点，她又恨起自己来。

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但是，在肖特兰兹，那场持久的斗争就要结束了。父亲病了，就要死了。间歇性的疼痛让他失去了活力，人已经不那么清醒了。沉寂渐渐笼罩了他的头脑，他对周围的事儿愈来愈无法注意了，病痛似乎吸走了他的活力，他知道这种疼痛何在，知道它会再回到自己身上。这疼痛象自己体内奔涌着的什么东西。可他没有力量或意志去把它找出来，更无法知道这是什么样的东西。它就藏在黑暗中，这巨痛时时撕裂他，然后又陷入平静中。每当它来撕扯自己，他就蜷缩起来忍着，一但它离去，他又拒绝知道它是何物。既然它是在黑暗中，那就不要去知道它好了。所以他从不承认有什么疼痛，只有他独处一隅时，当他全部的神经越来越恐怖时他才认可。在其它时候，他不过认为刚才疼了一下，过去了，没什么。有时这疼痛甚至更令他激动。

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可病痛渐渐吞噬了他。渐渐地，他的力量都耗尽了，他被吹进了黑暗中，他的生命被吸走了，他被吸进黑暗中。在他生命的薄暮时节，他能看清的太少了。企业，他的工作都彻底地离他而去了。他对社会的兴趣业已消失，好象从来没有过一样。甚至他的家对他来说也陌生了，他只淡淡地记起某某某是他的子女。这些对他只是个历史事实，毫无生命意义了。要想弄清他们跟他的关系那非得花一番力气不可。甚至他的妻子对他来说也跟没有存在一样。她确实象他体内的黑暗和病痛一样。出于某种奇特的联想，他觉得他的病痛藏身之处与藏有他妻子的所在是一样的黑暗。他全部的思维和悟性都模糊了，现在他的妻子和那熬煎人的病痛变成了同一种黑暗的力量来对付他，而他以前从未正视过这股力量。他从未把这种恐惧驱赶开。他只知道有一个黑暗的地方，那里占据着什么东西，不时地出来撕扯他。可他从未敢穿破黑暗把这野兽赶出来，他反而忽视了它的存在。只是，他模模糊糊地感到，恐怖来自他的妻子，她会毁灭他，那病痛也是一股黑暗的毁灭力量。

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他很少见到他的妻子。她有自己的一间屋。她只是偶尔来到他的房间，伸长脖子压低嗓门询问他情况如何。而他则三十年如一日地回答说：“哦，我不觉得情况有什么不好，亲爱的。”可他很怕她，表面上很平静，其实他怕她怕得要死。

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但他一直信奉自己的处世哲学，他从没有在精神上垮下来。他就是现在死，他的精神也不会垮，他仍会明白自己对她的感情。一生中，他常常说：“可怜的克里斯蒂娜，她的脾气真是太倔犟了。”他对她始终是这样的态度，他用怜悯代替了仇恨，怜悯成了他的保护伞，成了他的常胜武器。他理智上仍然为她感到可怜，她的性子也太暴烈了。

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可惜的是，如今，他的怜悯，他的生命都渐渐耗尽了，他开始感到可怕甚至恐怖。他就是死了，他的怜悯心也不会破灭，不会象一只壳虫那样被

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HE LAY sick and unmoved, in pure opposition to everything. He knew how near to breaking was the vessel that held his life. He knew also how strong and durable it was. And he did not care. Better a thousand times take one’s chance with death, than accept a life one did not want. But best of all to persist and persist and persist for ever, till one were satisfied in life.

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He knew that Ursula was referred back to him. He knew his life rested with her. But he would rather not live than accept the love she proffered. The old way of love seemed a dreadful bondage, a sort of conscription. What it was in him he did not know, but the thought of love, marriage, and children, and a life lived together, in the horrible privacy of domestic and connubial satisfaction, was repulsive. He wanted something clearer, more open, cooler, as it were. The hot narrow intimacy between man and wife was abhorrent. The way they shut their doors, these married people, and shut themselves in to their own exclusive alliance with each other, even in love, disgusted him. It was a whole community of mistrustful couples insulated in private houses or private rooms, always in couples, and no further life, no further immediate, no disinterested relationship admitted: a kaleidoscope of couples, disjoined, separatist, meaningless entities of married couples. True, he hated promiscuity even worse than marriage, and a liaison was only another kind of coupling, reactionary from the legal marriage. Reaction was a greater bore than action.

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On the whole, he hated sex, it was such a limitation. It was sex that turned a man into a broken half of a couple, the woman into the other broken half. And he wanted to be single in himself, the woman single in herself. He wanted sex to revert to the level of the other appetites, to be regarded as a functional process, not as a fulfilment. He believed in sex marriage. But beyond this, he wanted a further conjunction, where man had being and woman had being, two pure beings, each constituting the freedom of the other, balancing each other like two poles of one force, like two angels, or two demons.

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He wanted so much to be free, not under the compulsion of any need for unification, or tortured by unsatisfied desire. Desire and aspiration should find their object without all this torture, as now, in a world of plenty of water, simple thirst is inconsiderable, satisfied almost unconsciously. And he wanted to be with Ursula as free as with himself, single and clear and cool, yet balanced, polarised with her. The merging, the clutching, the mingling of love was become madly abhorrent to him.

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But it seemed to him, woman was always so horrible and clutching, she had such a lust for possession, a greed of self-importance in love. She wanted to have, to own, to control, to be dominant. Everything must be referred back to her, to Woman, the Great Mother of everything, out of whom proceeded everything and to whom everything must finally be rendered up.

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It filled him with almost insane fury, this calm assumption of the Magna Mater, that all was hers, because she had borne it. Man was hers because she had borne him. A Mater Dolorosa, she had borne him, a Magna Mater, she now claimed him again, soul and body, sex, meaning, and all. He had a horror of the Magna Mater, she was detestable.

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She was on a very high horse again, was woman, the Great Mother. Did he not know it in Hermione. Hermione, the humble, the subservient, what was she all the while but the Mater Dolorosa, in her subservience, claiming with horrible, insidious arrogance and female tyranny, her own again, claiming back the man she had borne in suffering. By her very suffering and humility she bound her son with chains, she held him her everlasting prisoner.

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And Ursula, Ursula was the same -- or the inverse. She too was the awful, arrogant queen of life, as if she were a queen bee on whom all the rest depended. He saw the yellow flare in her eyes, he knew the unthinkable overweening assumption of primacy in her. She was unconscious of it herself. She was only too ready to knock her head on the ground before a man. But this was only when she was so certain of her man, that she could worship him as a woman worships her own infant, with a worship of perfect possession.

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It was intolerable, this possession at the hands of woman. Always a man must be considered as the broken off fragment of a woman, and the sex was the still aching scar of the laceration. Man must be added on to a woman, before he had any real place or wholeness.

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And why? Why should we consider ourselves, men and women, as broken fragments of one whole? It is not true. We are not broken fragments of one whole. Rather we are the singling away into purity and clear being, of things that were mixed. Rather the sex is that which remains in us of the mixed, the unresolved. And passion is the further separating of this mixture, that which is manly being taken into the being of the man, that which is womanly passing to the woman, till the two are clear and whole as angels, the admixture of sex in the highest sense surpassed, leaving two single beings constellated together like two stars.

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In the old age, before sex was, we were mixed, each one a mixture. The process of singling into individuality resulted into the great polarisation of sex. The womanly drew to one side, the manly to the other. But the separation was imperfect even them. And so our world-cycle passes. There is now to come the new day, when we are beings each of us, fulfilled in difference. The man is pure man, the woman pure woman, they are perfectly polarised. But there is no longer any of the horrible merging, mingling self-abnegation of love. There is only the pure duality of polarisation, each one free from any contamination of the other. In each, the individual is primal, sex is subordinate, but perfectly polarised. Each has a single, separate being, with its own laws. The man has his pure freedom, the woman hers. Each acknowledges the perfection of the polarised sex-circuit. Each admits the different nature in the other.

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So Birkin meditated whilst he was ill. He liked sometimes to be ill enough to take to his bed. For then he got better very quickly, and things came to him clear and sure.

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Whilst he was laid up, Gerald came to see him. The two men had a deep, uneasy feeling for each other. Gerald’s eyes were quick and restless, his whole manner tense and impatient, he seemed strung up to some activity. According to conventionality, he wore black clothes, he looked formal, handsome and comme il faut. His hair was fair almost to whiteness, sharp like splinters of light, his face was keen and ruddy, his body seemed full of northern energy. Gerald really loved Birkin, though he never quite believed in him. Birkin was too unreal; -- clever, whimsical, wonderful, but not practical enough. Gerald felt that his own understanding was much sounder and safer. Birkin was delightful, a wonderful spirit, but after all, not to be taken seriously, not quite to be counted as a man among men.

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`Why are you laid up again?’ he asked kindly, taking the sick man’s hand. It was always Gerald who was protective, offering the warm shelter of his physical strength.

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`For my sins, I suppose,’ Birkin said, smiling a little ironically.

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`For your sins? Yes, probably that is so. You should sin less, and keep better in health?’

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`You’d better teach me.’

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He looked at Gerald with ironic eyes.

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`How are things with you?’ asked Birkin.

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`With me?’ Gerald looked at Birkin, saw he was serious, and a warm light came into his eyes.

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`I don’t know that they’re any different. I don’t see how they could be. There’s nothing to change.’

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`I suppose you are conducting the business as successfully as ever, and ignoring the demand of the soul.’

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`That’s it,’ said Gerald. `At least as far as the business is concerned. I couldn’t say about the soul, I’am sure.’

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`No.’

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`Surely you don’t expect me to?’ laughed Gerald.

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`No. How are the rest of your affairs progressing, apart from the business?’

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`The rest of my affairs? What are those? I couldn’t say; I don’t know what you refer to.’

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`Yes, you do,’ said Birkin. `Are you gloomy or cheerful? And what about Gudrun Brangwen?’

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`What about her?’ A confused look came over Gerald. `Well,’ he added, `I don’t know. I can only tell you she gave me a hit over the face last time I saw her.’

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`A hit over the face! What for?’

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`That I couldn’t tell you, either.’

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`Really! But when?’

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`The night of the party -- when Diana was drowned. She was driving the cattle up the hill, and I went after her -- you remember.’

33

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`Yes, I remember. But what made her do that? You didn’t definitely ask her for it, I suppose?’

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`I? No, not that I know of. I merely said to her, that it was dangerous to drive those Highland bullocks -- as it is. She turned in such a way, and said -- "I suppose you think I’m afraid of you and your cattle, don’t you?" So I asked her "why," and for answer she flung me a backhander across the face.’

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Birkin laughed quickly, as if it pleased him. Gerald looked at him, wondering, and began to laugh as well, saying:

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`I didn’t laugh at the time, I assure you. I was never so taken aback in my life.’

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`And weren’t you furious?’

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`Furious? I should think I was. I’d have murdered her for two pins.’

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`H’m!’ ejaculated Birkin. `Poor Gudrun, wouldn’t she suffer afterwards for having given herself away!’ He was hugely delighted.

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42

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43

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`She is self-conscious, is she? Then what made her do it? For I certainly think it was quite uncalled-for, and quite unjustified.’

44

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`I suppose it was a sudden impulse.’

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