"Why don't men and women really like one another nowadays?" Connie
asked Tommy Dukes, who was more or less her oracle.
"Oh, but they do! I don't think since the human species was invented,
there has ever been a time when men and women have liked one another as
much as they do today. Genuine liking! Take myself ... I really _like_
women better than men; they are braver, one can be more frank with
them."
Connie pondered this.
"Ah, yes, but you never have anything to do with them!" she said.
"I? What am I doing but talking perfectly sincerely to a woman at this
moment?"
"Yes, talking...."
"And what more could I do if you were a man, than talk perfectly
sincerely to you?"
"Nothing perhaps. But a woman...."
"A woman wants you to like her and talk to her, and at the same time
love her and desire her; and it seems to me the two things are mutually
exclusive."
"But they shouldn't be!"
"No doubt water ought not to be so wet as it is; it overdoes it in
wetness. But there it is! I like women and talk to them, and therefore
I don't love them and desire them. The two things don't happen at the
same time in me."
"I think they ought to."
"All right. The fact that things ought to be something else than what
they are, is not my department."
Connie considered this. "It isn't true," she said. "Men can love women
and talk to them. I don't see how they can love them _without_ talking,
and being friendly and intimate. How can they?"
"Well," he said, "I don't know. What's the use of my generalising? I
only know my own case. I like women, but I don't desire them. I like
talking to them; but talking to them, though it makes me intimate in
one direction, sets me poles apart from them as far as kissing is
concerned. So there you are! But don't take me as a general example,
probably I'm just a special case: one of the men who like women, but
don't love women, and even hate them if they force me into a pretence
of love, or an entangled appearance."
"But doesn't it make you sad?"
"Why should it? Not a bit! I look at Charlie May, and the rest of the
men who have affairs.... No, I don't envy them a bit! If fate sent me
a woman I wanted, well and good. Since I don't know any woman I want,
and never see one ... why, I presume I'm cold, and I really _like_ some
women very much."
"Do you like me?"
"Very much! And you see there's no question of kissing between us, is
there?"
"None at all!" said Connie. "But oughtn't there to be?"
"_Why_, in God's name? I like Clifford, but what would you say if I
went and kissed him?"
"But isn't there a difference?"
"Where does it lie, as far as we're concerned? We're all intelligent
human beings, and the male and female business is in abeyance. Just in
abeyance. How would you like me to start acting up like a continental
male at this moment, and parading the sex thing?"
"I should hate it."
"Well then! I tell you, if I'm really a male thing at all, I never run
across the female of my species. And I don't miss her, I just _like_
women. Who's going to force me into loving, or pretending to love them,
working up the sex game?"
"No, I'm not. But isn't something wrong?"
"You may feel it, I don't."
"Yes, I feel something is wrong between men and women. A woman has no
glamour for a man any more."
"Has a man for a woman?"
She pondered the other side of the question.
"Not much," she said truthfully.
"Then let's leave it all alone, and just be decent and simple, like
proper human beings with one another. Be damned to the artificial
sex-compulsion! I refuse it!"
Connie knew he was right, really. Yet it left her feeling so forlorn,
so forlorn and stray. Like a chip on a dreary pond, she felt. What was
the point, of her or anything?
It was her youth which rebelled. These men seemed so old and cold.
Everything seemed old and cold. And Michaelis let one down so; he was
no good. The men didn't want one; they just didn't really want a woman,
even Michaelis didn't.
And the bounders who pretended they did, and started working the sex
game, they were worse than ever.
It was just dismal, and one had to put up with it. It was quite true,
men had no real glamour for a woman: if you could fool yourself into
thinking they had, even as she had fooled herself over Michaelis, that
was the best you could do. Meanwhile you just lived on and there was
nothing to it. She understood perfectly well why people had cocktail
parties, and jazzed, and Charlestoned till they were ready to drop. You
had to take it out some way or other, your youth, or it ate you up.
But what a ghastly thing, this youth! you felt as old as Methuselah,
and yet the thing fizzed somehow, and didn't let you be comfortable. A
mean sort of life! And no prospect! She almost wished she had gone off
with Mick, and made her life one long cocktail party, and jazz evening.
Anyhow that was better than just mooning yourself into the grave.
On one of her bad days she went out alone to walk in the wood,
ponderously, heeding nothing, not even noticing where she was. The
report of a gun not far off startled and angered her.
Then, as she went, she heard voices, and recoiled. People! She didn't
want people. But her quick ear caught another sound, and she roused;
it was a child sobbing. At once she attended; someone was ill-treating
a child. She strode swinging down the wet drive, her sullen resentment
uppermost. She felt just prepared to make a scene.
Turning the corner, she saw two figures in the drive beyond her: the
keeper, and a little girl in a purple coat and moleskin cap, crying.
"Ah, shut it up, tha false little bitch!" came the man's angry voice,
and the child sobbed louder.
Constance strode nearer, with blazing eyes. The man turned and looked
at her, saluting coolly, but he was pale with anger.
"What's the matter? Why is she crying?" demanded Constance, peremptory
but a little breathless.
A faint smile like a sneer came on the man's face. "Nay, yo' mun ax
'er," he replied callously, in broad vernacular.
Connie felt as if he had hit her in the face, and she changed colour.
Then she gathered her defiance, and looked at him, her dark-blue eyes
blazing rather vaguely.
"I asked _you_," she panted.
He gave a queer little bow, lifting his hat. "You did, your Ladyship,"
he said; then, with a return to the vernacular: "but I canna tell yer."
And he became a soldier, inscrutable, only pale with annoyance.
Connie turned to the child, a ruddy, black-haired thing of nine or
ten. "What is it, dear? Tell me why you're crying!" she said, with the
conventionalised sweetness suitable. More violent sobs, self-conscious.
Still more sweetness on Connie's part.
"There, there, don't you cry! Tell me what they've done to you!" ...
and intense tenderness of tone. At the same time she felt in the pocket
of her knitted jacket, and luckily found a sixpence.
"Don't you cry then!" she said, bending in front of the child. "See
what I've got for you!"
Sobs, snuffles, a fist taken from a blubbered face, and a black shrewd
eye cast for a second on the sixpence. Then more sobs, but subduing.
"There, tell me what's the matter, tell me!" said Connie, putting the
coin into the child's chubby hand, which closed over it.
"It's the ... it's the ... pussy!"
Shudders of subsiding sobs.
"What pussy, dear?"
After a silence the shy fist, clenching on sixpence, pointed into the
bramble brake.
"There!"
Connie looked, and there, sure enough, was a big black cat, stretched
out grimly, with a bit of blood on it.
"Oh!" she said in repulsion.
"A poacher, your Ladyship," said the man satirically.
She glanced at him angrily. "No wonder the child cried," she said, "if
you shot it when she was there. No wonder she cried!"
He looked into Connie's eyes, laconic, contemptuous, not hiding his
feelings. And again Connie flushed; she felt she had been making a
scene, the man did not respect her.
"What is your name?" she said playfully to the child. "Won't you tell
me your name?"
Sniffs; then very affectedly in a piping voice; "Connie Mellors!"
"Connie Mellors! Well, that's a nice name! And did you come out with
your Daddy, and he shot a pussy? But it was a bad pussy!"
The child looked at her, with bold, dark eyes of scrutiny, sizing her
up, and her condolence.
"I wanted to stop with my Gran," said the little girl.
"Did you? But where is your Gran?"
The child lifted an arm, pointing down the drive. "At th' cottidge."
"At the cottage! And would you like to go back to her?"
Sudden, shuddering quivers of reminiscent sobs. "Yes!"
"Come then, shall I take you? Shall I take you to your Gran? Then your
Daddy can do what he has to do." She turned to the man. "It is your
little girl, isn't it?"
He saluted, and made a slight movement of the head in affirmation.
"I suppose I can take her to the cottage?" asked Connie.
"If your Ladyship wishes."
Again he looked into her eyes, with that calm, searching detached
glance. A man very much alone, and on his own.
"Would you like to come with me to the cottage, to your Gran, dear?"
The child peeped up again. "Yes!" she simpered.
Connie disliked her; the spoilt, false little female. Nevertheless she
wiped her face, and took her hand. The keeper saluted in silence.
"Good morning!" said Connie.
It was nearly a mile to the cottage, and Connie senior was well bored
by Connie junior by the time the gamekeeper's picturesque little home
was in sight. The child was already as full to the brim with tricks as
a little monkey, and so self-assured.
At the cottage the door stood open, and there was a rattling heard
inside. Connie lingered, the child slipped her hand, and ran indoors.
"Gran! Gran!"
"Why, are yer back a'ready!"
The grandmother had been blackleading the stove, it was Saturday
morning. She came to the door in her sacking apron, a blacklead-brush
in her hand, and a black smudge on her nose. She was a little, rather
dry woman.
"Why, whatever?" she said, hastily wiping her arm across her face as
she saw Connie standing outside.
"Good morning!" said Connie. "She was crying, so I just brought her
home."
The grandmother looked round swiftly at the child:
"Why, wheer was yer Dad?"
The little girl clung to her grandmother's skirts and simpered.
"He was there," said Connie, "but he'd shot a poaching cat, and the
child was upset."
"Oh, you'd no right t'ave bothered, Lady Chatterley, I'm sure! I'm
sure it was very good of you, but you shouldn't 'ave bothered. Why,
did ever you see!"--and the old woman turned to the child: "Fancy Lady
Chatterley takin' all that trouble over yer! Why, she shouldn't 'ave
bothered!"
"It was no bother, just a walk," said Connie smiling.
"Why, I'm sure t'was very kind of you, I must say! So she was crying!
I knew there'd be something afore they got far. She's frightened of
'im, that's wheer it is. Seems 'e's almost a stranger to 'er, fair a
stranger, and I don't think they're two as'd hit it off very easy. He's
got funny ways."
Connie didn't know what to say.
"Look, Gran!" simpered the child.
The old woman looked down at the sixpence in the little girl's hand.
"An' sixpence an' all! Oh, your Ladyship, you shouldn't, you shouldn't.
Why, isn't Lady Chatterley good to yer! My word, you're a lucky girl
this morning!"
She pronounced the name, as all the people did: Chat'ley.--"Isn't
Lady Chat'ley _good_ to you!"--Connie couldn't help looking at the old
woman's nose, and the latter again vaguely wiped her face with the back
of her wrist, but missed the smudge.
Connie was moving away.... "Well, thank you ever so much, Lady
Chat'ley, I'm sure. Say thank you to Lady Chat'ley!"--this last to the
child.
"Thank you," piped the child.
"There's a dear!" laughed Connie, and she moved away, saying "Good
morning," heartily relieved to get away from the contact. Curious, she
thought, that that thin, proud man should have that little, sharp woman
for a mother!
And the old woman, as soon as Connie was gone, rushed to the bit of
mirror in the scullery, and looked at her face. Seeing it, she stamped
her foot with impatience. "Of _course_ she had to catch me in my coarse
apron, and a dirty face! Nice idea she'd get of me!"
Connie went slowly home to Wragby. "Home!" ... it was a warm word to
use for that great, weary warren. But then it was a word that had had
its day. It was somehow cancelled. All the great words, it seemed to
Connie, were cancelled for her generation: love, joy, happiness, home,
mother, father, husband, all these great, dynamic words were half dead
now, and dying from day to day. Home was a place you lived in, love
was a thing you didn't fool yourself about, joy was a word you applied
to a good Charleston, happiness was a term of hypocrisy used to bluff
other people, a father was an individual who enjoyed his own existence,
a husband was a man you lived with and kept going in spirits. As for
sex, the last of the great words, it was just a cocktail term for an
excitement that bucked you up for a while, then left you more raggy
than ever. Frayed! It was as if the very material you were made of was
cheap stuff, and was fraying out to nothing.
All that really remained was a stubborn stoicism: and in that there was
a certain pleasure. In the very experience of the nothingness of life,
phase after phase, _étape_ after _étape_, there was a certain grisly
satisfaction. So that's _that_! Always this was the last utterance:
home, love, marriage, Michaelis: So that's _that_!--And when one died,
the last words to life would be: So that's _that_!--
Money? Perhaps one couldn't say the same there. Money one always
wanted. Money, success, the bitch-goddess, as Tommy Dukes persisted in
calling it, after Henry James, that was a permanent necessity. You
couldn't spend your last sou, and say finally: So that's _that_!--No,
if you lived even another ten minutes, you wanted a few more sous for
something or other. Just to keep the business mechanically going, you
needed money. You had to have it. Money you _have_ to have. You needn't
really have anything else. So that's _that_!--
Since, of course, it's not your own fault you are alive. Once you
are alive, money is a necessity, and the only absolute necessity.
All the rest you can get along without, at a pinch. But not money.
Emphatically, that's _that_!--
She thought of Michaelis, and the money she might have had with him;
and even that she didn't want. She preferred the lesser amount which
she helped Clifford to make by his writing. That she actually helped
to make.--"Clifford and I together, we make twelve hundred a year out
of writing;" so she put it to herself. Make money! Make it! Out of
nowhere! Wring it out of the thin air! The last feat to be humanly
proud of! The rest all-my-eye-Betty-Martin.
So she plodded home to Clifford, to join forces with him again, to make
another story out of nothingness: and a story meant money. Clifford
seemed to care very much whether his stories were considered first
class literature or not. Strictly, she didn't care. Nothing in it! said
her father. Twelve hundred pounds last year! was the retort simple and
final.
If you were young, you just set your teeth, and bit on and held on,
till the money began to flow from the invisible; it was a question of
power. It was a question of will; a subtle, subtle, powerful emanation
of will out of yourself brought back to you the mysterious nothingness
of money: a word on a bit of paper. It was a sort of magic, certainly
it was triumph. The bitch-goddess! Well, if one had to prostitute
oneself, let it be to a bitch-goddess! One could always despise her
even while one prostituted oneself to her, which was good.
Clifford, of course, had still many childish taboos and fetishes.
He wanted to be thought "really good," which was all cock-a-hoopy
nonsense. What was really good was what actually caught on. It was
no good being really good and getting left with it. It seemed as if
most of the "really good" men just missed the bus. After all you only
lived one life, and if you missed the bus, you were just left on the
pavement, along with the rest of the failures.
Connie was contemplating a winter in London with Clifford, next winter.
He and she had caught the bus all right, so they might as well ride on
top for a bit, and show it.
The worst of it was, Clifford tended to become vague, absent, and to
fall into fits of vacant depression. It was the wound to his psyche
coming out. But it made Connie want to scream. Oh God, if the mechanism
of the consciousness itself was going to go wrong, then what was one to
do? Hang it all, one did one's bit! Was one to be let down _absolutely_?
Sometimes she wept bitterly, but even as she wept she was saying to
herself: Silly fool, wetting hankies! As if that would get you anywhere!
Since Michaelis, she had made up her mind she wanted nothing. That
seemed the simplest solution of the otherwise insoluble. She wanted
nothing more than what she'd got; only she wanted to get ahead with
what she'd got: Clifford, the stories, Wragby, the Lady-Chatterley
business, money, and fame, such as it was ... she wanted to go ahead
with it all. Love, sex, all that sort of stuff, just water-ices! Lick
it up and forget it. If you don't hang on to it in your mind, it's
nothing. Sex especially ... nothing! Make up your mind to it, and
you've solved the problem. Sex and a cocktail: they both lasted about
as long, had the same effect, and amounted to about the same thing.
But a child, a baby! that was still one of the sensations. She
would venture very gingerly on that experiment. There was the man
to consider, and it was curious, there wasn't a man in the world
whose children you wanted. Mick's children! Repulsive thought! As
lief have a child to a rabbit! Tommy Dukes?... he was very nice, but
somehow you couldn't associate him with a baby, another generation. He
ended in himself. And out of all the rest of Clifford's pretty wide
acquaintance, there was not a man who did not rouse her contempt, when
she thought of having a child by him. There were several who would have
been quite possible as lovers, even Mick. But to let them breed a child
on you! Ugh! Humiliation and abomination.
So that was that!
Nevertheless, Connie had the child at the back of her mind. Wait! wait!
She would sift the generations of men through her sieve, and see if
she couldn't find one who would do.--"Go ye into the streets and byways
of Jerusalem, and see if ye can find _a man_." It had been impossible
to find a man in the Jerusalem of the prophet, though there were
thousands of male humans. But _a man! C'est une autre chose!_
She had an idea that he would have to be a foreigner: not an
Englishman, still less an Irishman. A real foreigner.
But wait! wait! Next winter she would get Clifford to London; the
following winter she would get him abroad to the South of France,
Italy. Wait! She was in no hurry about the child. That was her own
private affair, and the one point on which, in her own queer, female
way, she was serious to the bottom of her soul. She was not going to
risk any chance comer, not she! One might take a lover almost at any
moment, but a man who should beget a child on one ... wait! wait!
it's a very different matter.--"Go ye into the streets and byways of
Jerusalem...." It was not a question of love; it was a question of _a
man_. Why, one might even rather hate him, personally. Yet if he was
the man, what would one's personal hate matter? This business concerned
another part of oneself.
It had rained as usual, and the paths were too sodden for Clifford's
chair, but Connie would go out. She went out alone every day now,
mostly in the wood, where she was really alone. She saw nobody there.
This day, however, Clifford wanted to send a message to the keeper, and
as the boy was laid up with influenza,--somebody always seemed to have
influenza at Wragby,--Connie said she would call at the cottage.
The air was soft and dead, as if all the world were slowly dying. Grey
and clammy and silent, even from the shuffling of the collieries,
for the pits were working short time, and today they were stopped
altogether. The end of all things!
In the wood all was utterly inert and motionless, only great drops
fell from the bare boughs, with a hollow little crash. For the rest,
among the old trees was depth within depth of grey, hopeless, inertia,
silence, nothingness.
Connie walked dimly on. From the old wood came an ancient melancholy,
somehow soothing to her, better than the harsh insentience of the
outer world. She liked the _inwardness_ of the remnant of forest,
the unspeaking reticence of the old trees. They seemed a very power
of silence, and yet a vital presence. They, too, were waiting:
obstinately, stoically waiting, and giving off a potency of silence.
Perhaps they were only waiting for the end; to be cut down, cleared
away, the end of the forest, for them the end of all things. But
perhaps their strong and aristocratic silence, the silence of strong
trees, meant something else.
As she came out of the wood on the north side, the keeper's cottage, a
rather dark, brown stone cottage, with gables and a handsome chimney,
looked uninhabited, it was so silent and alone. But a thread of smoke
rose from the chimney, and the little railed-in garden in the front of
the house was dug and kept very tidy. The door was shut.
Now she was here she felt a little shy of the man, with his curious
far-seeing eyes. She did not like bringing him orders, and felt like
going away again. She knocked softly, no one came. She knocked again,
but still not loudly. There was no answer. She peeped through the
window, and saw the dark little room, with its almost sinister privacy,
not wanting to be invaded.
She stood and listened, and it seemed to her she heard sounds from the
back of the cottage. Having failed to make herself heard, her mettle
was roused, she would not be defeated.
So she went round the side of the house. At the back of the cottage
the land rose steeply, so the backyard was sunken, and enclosed by a
low stone wall. She turned the corner of the house and stopped. In the
little yard two paces beyond her, the man was washing himself, utterly
unaware. He was naked to the hips, his velveteen breeches slipping
down over his slender loins. And his white slim back was curved over
a big bowl of soapy water, in which he ducked his head, shaking his
head with a queer, quick little motion, lifting his slender white
arms, and pressing the soapy water from his ears, quick, subtle as a
weasel playing with water, and utterly alone. Connie backed away round
the corner of the house, and hurried away to the wood. In spite of
herself, she had had a shock. After all, merely a man washing himself;
common-place enough, Heaven knows!
Yet in some curious way it was a visionary experience: it had hit her
in the middle of the body. She saw the clumsy breeches slipping down
over the pure, delicate, white loins, the bones showing a little, and
the sense of aloneness, of a creature purely alone, overwhelmed her.
Perfect, white, solitary nudity of a creature that lives alone, and
inwardly alone. And beyond that, a certain beauty of a pure creature.
Not the stuff of beauty, not even the body of beauty, but a lambency,
the warm, white flame of a single life, revealing itself in contours
that one might touch: a body!
Connie had received the shock of vision in her womb, and she knew it;
it lay inside her. But with her mind she was inclined to ridicule. A
man washing himself in a backyard! No doubt with evil-smelling yellow
soap!--She was rather annoyed; why should she be made to stumble on
these vulgar privacies?
So she walked away from herself, but after a while she sat down on a
stump. She was too confused to think. But in the coil of her confusion,
she was determined to deliver her message to the fellow. She would not
be balked. She must give him time to dress himself, but not time to go
out. He was probably preparing to go out somewhere.
So she sauntered slowly back, listening. As she came near, the cottage
looked just the same. A dog barked, and she knocked at the door, her
heart beating in spite of herself.
She heard the man coming lightly downstairs. He opened the door
quickly, and startled her. He looked uneasy himself, but instantly a
laugh came on his face.
"Lady Chatterley!" he said. "Will you come in?"
His manner was so perfectly easy and good, she stepped over the
threshold into the rather dreary little room.
"I only called with a message from Sir Clifford," she said in her soft,
rather breathless voice.
The man was looking at her with those blue, all-seeing eyes of his,
which made her turn her face aside a little. He thought her comely,
almost beautiful, in her shyness, and he took command of the situation
himself at once.
"Would you care to sit down?" he asked, presuming she would not. The
door stood open.
"No thanks! Sir Clifford wondered if you would ..." and she delivered
her message, looking unconsciously into his eyes again. And now his
eyes looked warm and kind, particularly to a woman, wonderfully warm,
and kind, and at ease.
"Very good, your Ladyship. I will see to it at once."
Taking an order, his whole self had changed, glazed over with a sort
of hardness and distance. Connie hesitated, she ought to go. But she
looked round the clean, tidy, rather dreary little sitting-room with
something like dismay.
"Do you live here quite alone?" she asked.
"Quite alone, your Ladyship."
"But your mother...?"
"She lives in her own cottage in the village."
"With the child?" asked Connie.
"With the child!"
And his plain, rather worn face took on an indefinable look of
derision. It was a face that changed all the time, baffling.
"No," he said, seeing Connie stand at a loss, "my mother comes and
cleans up for me on Saturdays; I do the rest myself."
Again Connie looked at him. His eyes were smiling again, a little
mockingly, but warm and blue, and somehow kind. She wondered at him.
He was in trousers and flannel shirt and a grey tie, his hair soft and
damp, his face rather pale and worn-looking. When the eyes ceased to
laugh they looked as if they had suffered a great deal, still without
losing their warmth. But a pallor of isolation came over him, she was
not really there for him.
She wanted to say so many things, and she said nothing. Only she looked
up at him again, and remarked:
"I hope I didn't disturb you?"
The faint smile of mockery narrowed his eyes.
"Only combing my hair, if you don't mind. I'm sorry I hadn't a coat on,
but then I had no idea who was knocking. Nobody knocks here, and the
unexpected sounds ominous."
He went in front of her down the garden path to hold the gate. In his
shirt, without the clumsy velveteen coat, she saw again how slender
he was, thin, stooping a little. Yet, as she passed him, there was
something young and bright in his fair hair, and his quick eyes. He
would be a man about thirty-seven or eight.
She plodded on into the wood, knowing he was looking after her; he
upset her so much, in spite of herself.
And he, as he went indoors, was thinking: "She's nice, she's real!
she's nicer than she knows."
She wondered very much about him; he seemed so unlike a gamekeeper, so
unlike a working-man anyhow; although he had something in common with
the local people. But also something very uncommon.
"The gamekeeper, Mellors, is a curious kind of person," she said to
Clifford; "he might almost be a gentleman."
"Might he?" said Clifford. "I hadn't noticed."
"But isn't there something special about him?" Connie insisted.
"I think he's quite a nice fellow, but I know very little about him. He
only came out of the army last year, less than a year ago. From India,
I rather think. He may have picked up certain tricks out there, perhaps
he was an officer's servant, and improved on his position. Some of the
men were like that. But it does them no good, they have to fall back
into their old place when they get home again."
Connie gazed at Clifford contemplatively. She saw in him the peculiar
tight rebuff against anyone of the lower classes who might be really
climbing up, which she knew was characteristic of his breed.
"But don't you think there is something special about him?" she asked.
"Frankly, no! Nothing I had noticed."
He looked at her curiously, uneasily, half-suspiciously. And she
felt he wasn't telling her the real truth; he wasn't telling himself
the real truth, that was it. He disliked any suggestion of a really
exceptional human being. People must be more or less at his level, or
below it.
Connie felt again the tightness, niggardliness of the men of her
generation. They were so tight, so scared of life!