Lady Chatterley's Lover Page 10

  The keeper, waiting at attention to be dismissed, watched everything narrowly, missing nothing. He went pale, with a sort of fear, when he saw Connie lifting the inert legs of the man in her arms, into the other chair, Clifford pivoting round as she did so. He was frightened.

  “Thanks, then, for the help, Mellors,” said Clifford casually, as he began to wheel down the passage to the servants’ quarters.

  “Nothing else, Sir?” came the neutral voice, like one in a dream.

  “Nothing. Good-morning!”

  “Good-morning, Sir.”

  “Good-morning! It was kind of you to push the chair up that hill.… I hope it wasn’t too heavy for you,” said Connie, looking back at the keeper outside the door.

  His eyes came to her in an instant, as if wakened up. He was aware of her.

  “Oh, no, not heavy!” he said quickly. Then his voice dropped again into the broad sound of the vernacular: “Good-mornin’ to your ladyship!”

  “Who is your gamekeeper?” Connie asked at lunch.

  “Mellors! You saw him,” said Clifford.

  “Yes, but where did he come from?”

  “Nowhere! He was a Tevershall boy… son of a collier, I believe.”

  “And was he a collier himself?”

  “Blacksmith on the pit-bank, I believe: overhead smith. But he was keeper here for two years before the war… before he joined up. My father always had a good opinion of him, so when he came back, and went to the pit for a blacksmith’s job, I just took him back here as keeper. I was really very glad to get him… it’s almost impossible to find a good man round here, for a gamekeeper… and it needs a man who knows the people.”

  “And isn’t he married?”

  “He was. But his wife went off with… with various men… but finally with a collier at Stacks Gate, and I believe she’s living there still.”

  “So this man is alone?”

  “More or less! He has a mother in the village… and a child, I believe.”

  Clifford looked at Connie, with his pale, slightly prominent blue eyes, in which a certain vagueness was coming. He seemed alert in the foreground, but the background was like the Midlands atmosphere, haze, smoky mist. And the haze seemed to be creeping forward. So when he stared at Connie in his peculiar way, giving her his peculiar, precise information, she felt all the background of his mind filling up with mist, with nothingness. And it frightened her. It made him seem impersonal, almost to idiocy.

  And dimly she realized one of the great laws of the human soul: that when the emotional soul receives a wounding shock, which does not kill the body, the soul seems to recover as the body recovers. But this is only appearance. It is really only the mechanism of the reassumed habit. Slowly, slowly the wound to the soul begins to make itself felt, like a bruise, which only slowly deepens its terrible ache, till it fills all the psyche. And when we think we have recovered and forgotten, it is then that the terrible after-effects have to be encountered at their worst.

  So it was with Clifford. Once he was “well,” once he was back at Wragby, and writing his stories, and feeling sure of life, in spite of all, he seemed to forget, and to have recovered all his equanimity. But now, as the years went by, slowly, slowly, Connie felt the bruise of fear and horror coming up, and spreading in him. For a time it had been so deep as to be numb, as it were non-existent. Now slowly it began to assert itself in a spread of fear, almost paralysis. Mentally he still was alert. But the paralysis, the bruise of the too great shock was gradually spreading in his affective self.

  And as it spread in him, Connie felt it spread in her. An inward dread, an emptiness, an indifference to everything gradually spread in her soul. When Clifford was aroused, he could still talk brilliantly, and, as it were, command the future: as when, in the wood, he talked about her having a child, and giving an heir to Wragby. But the day after, all the brilliant words seemed like dead leaves, crumpling up and turning to powder, meaning really nothing, blown away on any gust of wind. They were not the leafy words of an effective life, young with energy and belonging to the tree. They were the hosts of fallen leaves of a life that is ineffectual.

  So it seemed to her everywhere. The colliers at Tevershall were talking again of a strike, and it seemed to Connie there again it was not a manifestation of energy, it was the bruise of the war that had been in abeyance, slowly rising to the surface and creating the great ache of unrest, and stupor of discontent. The bruise was deep, deep, deep… the bruise of the false inhuman war. It would take many years for the living blood of the generations to dissolve the vast black clot of bruised blood, deep inside their souls and bodies. And it would need a new hope.

  Poor Connie! As the years drew on it was the fear of nothingness in her life that affected her. Clifford’s mental life and hers gradually began to feel like nothingness. Their marriage, their integrated life based on a habit of intimacy, that he talked about: there were days when it all became utterly blank and nothing. It was words, just so many words. The only reality was nothingness, and over it a hypocrisy of words.

  There was Clifford’s success: the bitch-goddess! It was true he was almost famous, and his books brought him in a thousand pounds. His photograph appeared everywhere. There was a bust of him in one of the galleries, and a portrait of him in two galleries. He seemed the most modern of modern voices. With his uncanny lame instinct for publicity, he had become in four or five years one of the best known of the young “intellectuals.” Where the intellect came in, Connie did not quite see. Clifford was really clever at that slightly humorous analysis of people and motives which leaves everything in bits at the end. But it was rather like puppies tearing the sofa cushions to bits; except that it was not young and playful, but curiously old, and rather obstinately conceited. It was weird and it was nothing. This was the feeling that echoed and re-echoed at the bottom of Connie’s soul: it was all nothing, a wonderful display of nothingness. At the same time a display. A display! a display! a display!

  Michaelis had seized upon Clifford as the central figure for a play; already he had sketched in the plot, and written the first act. For Michaelis was even better than Clifford at making a display of nothingness. It was the last bit of passion left in these men: the passion for making a display. Sexually they were passionless, even dead. And now it was not money that Michaelis was after. Clifford had never been primarily out for money, though he made it where he could, for money is the seal and stamp of success. And success was what they wanted. They wanted, both of them, to make a real display… a man’s own very display of himself, that should capture for a time the vast populace.

  It was strange… the prostitution to the bitch-goddess. To Connie, since she was really outside of it, and since she had grown numb to the thrill of it, it was again nothingness. Even the prostitution to the bitch-goddess was nothingness, though the men prostituted themselves innumerable times. Nothingness even that.

  Michaelis wrote to Clifford about the play. Of course she knew about it long ago. And Clifford was again thrilled. He was going to be displayed again, this time somebody was going to display him, and to advantage. He invited Michaelis down to Wragby with Act I.

  Michaelis came: in summer, in pale-colored suit and white suede gloves, with mauve orchids for Connie, very lovely, and Act I was a great success. Even Connie was thrilled… thrilled to what bit of marrow she had left. And Michaelis, thrilled by his power to thrill, was really wonderful… and quite beautiful, in Connie’s eyes. She saw in him that ancient motionlessness of a race that can’t be disillusioned any more, an extreme, perhaps, of impurity that is pure. On the far side of his supreme prostitution to the bitch-goddess he seemed pure, pure as an African ivory mask that dreams impurity into purity, in its ivory curves and planes.

  His moment of sheer thrill with the two Chatterleys, when he simply carried Connie and Clifford away, was one of the supreme moments of Michaelis’ life. He had succeeded: he had carried them away. Even Clifford was temporarily in love with him… if that
is the way one can put it.

  So next morning Mick was more uneasy than ever: restless, devoured, with his hands restless in his trouser pockets. Connie had not visited him in the night… and he had not known where to find her. Coquetry!… at his moment of triumph.

  He went up to her sitting-room in the morning. She knew he would come. And his restlessness was evident. He asked her about his play… did she think it good? He had to hear it praised. That affected him with the last thin thrill of passion beyond any sexual orgasm. And she praised it rapturously. Yet all the while, at the bottom of her soul, she knew it was nothing.

  “Look here!” he said suddenly at last. “Why don’t you and I make a clean thing of it? Why don’t we marry?”

  “But I am married,” she said amazed, and yet feeling nothing.

  “Oh, that!… he’ll divorce you all right.… Why don’t you and I marry? I want to marry. I know it would be the best thing for me… marry and lead a regular life. I lead the deuce of a life, simply tearing myself to pieces. Look here, you and I, we’re made for one another… hand and glove. Why don’t we marry? Do you see any reason why we shouldn’t?”

  Connie looked at him amazed: and yet she felt nothing. These men, they were all alike, they left everything out. They just went off from the top of their heads as if they were squibs, and expected you to be carried heavenwards along with their own thin sticks.

  “But I am married already,” she said. “I can’t leave Clifford, you know.”

  “Why not? But why not?” he cried. “He’ll hardly know you’ve gone, after six months. He doesn’t know that anybody exists, except himself. Why, the man has no use for you at all, as far as I can see; he’s entirely wrapped up in himself.”

  Connie felt there was truth in this. But she also felt that Mick was hardly making a display of selflessness.

  “Aren’t all men wrapped up in themselves?” she asked.

  “Oh, more or less, I allow. A man’s got to be, to get through. But that’s not the point. The point is, what sort of a time can a man give a woman? Can he give her a damn good time, or can’t he? If he can’t he’s no right to the woman.…” He paused and gazed at her with his full, hazel eyes, almost hypnotic. “Now, I consider,” he added, “I can give a woman the darndest good time she can ask for. I think I can guarantee myself.”

  “And what sort of a good time?” asked Connie, gazing on him still with a sort of amazement, that looked like thrill; and underneath feeling nothing at all.

  “Every sort of a good time, damn it, every sort! Dress, jewels up to a point, any night-club you like, know anybody you want to know, live the pace… travel and be somebody wherever you go.… Darn it, every sort of good time.”

  He spoke it almost in a brilliancy of triumph, and Connie looked at him as if dazzled, and really feeling nothing at all. Hardly even the surface of her mind was tickled at the glowing prospects he offered her. Hardly even her most outside self responded, that at any other time would have been thrilled. She just got no feeling from it all, she couldn’t “go off.” She just sat and stared and looked dazzled, and felt nothing, only somewhere she smelt the extraordinary unpleasant smell of the bitch-goddess.

  Mick sat on tenterhooks, leaning forward in his chair, glaring at her almost hysterically: and whether he was more anxious out of vanity for her to say Yes! or whether he was more panic-stricken for fear she should say Yes—who can tell?

  “I should have to think about it,” she said. “I couldn’t say now. It may seem to you Clifford doesn’t count, but he does. When you think how disabled he is.…”

  “Oh, damn it all! if a fellow’s going to trade on his disabilities, I might begin to say how lonely I am, and always have been, and all the rest of the my-eye-Betty-Martin sob-stuff! Damn it all, if a fellow’s got nothing but disabilities to recommend him.…”

  He turned aside, working his hands furiously in his trouser pockets. That evening he said to her:

  “You’re coming round to my room tonight, aren’t you? I don’t darned know where your room is.”

  “All right!” she said.

  He was a more excited lover that night, with his strange small boy’s frail nakedness. Connie found it impossible to come to her crisis before he had really finished his. And he roused a certain craving passion in her, with his little boy’s nakedness and softness; she had to go on after he had finished, in the wild tumult and heaving of her loins, while he heroically kept himself up, and present in her, with all his will and self-offering, till she brought about her own crisis, with weird little cries.

  When at last he drew away from her, he said, in a bitter, almost sneering little voice:

  “You couldn’t go off at the same time as a man, could you? You’d have to bring yourself off! You’d have to run the show!”

  This little speech, at the moment, was one of the shocks of her life. Because that passive sort of giving himself was so obviously his only real mode of intercourse.

  “What do you mean?” she said.

  “You know what I mean. You keep on for hours after I’ve gone off… and I have to hang on with my teeth till you bring yourself off by your own exertions.”

  She was stunned by this unexpected piece of brutality, at the moment when she was glowing with a sort of pleasure beyond words, and a sort of love for him. Because after all, like so many modern men, he was finished almost before he had begun. And that forced the woman to be active.

  “But you want me to go on, to get my own satisfaction?” she said.

  He laughed grimly: “I want it!” he said. “That’s good! I want to hang on with my teeth clenched, while you go for me!”

  “But don’t you?” she insisted.

  He avoided the question. “All the darned women are like that,” he said. “Either they don’t go off at all, as if they were dead in there… or else they wait till a chap’s really done, and then they start in to bring themselves off, and a chap’s got to hang on. I never had a woman yet who went off just at the same moment as I did.”

  Connie only half heard this piece of novel, masculine information. She was only stunned by his feeling against her… his incomprehensible brutality. She felt so innocent.

  “But you want me to have my satisfaction too, don’t you?” she repeated.

  “Oh, all right! I’m quite willing. But I’m darned if hanging on waiting for a woman to go off is much of a game for a man.…”

  This speech was one of the crucial blows of Connie’s life. It killed something in her. She had not been so very keen on Michaelis; till he started it, she did not want him. It was as if she never positively wanted him. But once he had started her, it seemed only natural for her to come to her own crisis with him. Almost she had loved him for it… almost that night she loved him, and wanted to marry him.

  Perhaps instinctively he knew it, and that was why he had to bring down the whole show with a smash; the house of cards. Her whole sexual feeling for him, or for any man, collapsed that night. Her life fell apart from his as completely as if he had never existed.

  And she went through the days drearily. There was nothing now but this empty treadmill of what Clifford called the integrated life, the long living together of two people, who are in the habit of being in the same house with one another.

  Nothingness! To accept the great nothingness of life seemed to be the one end of living. All the many busy and important little things that make up the grand sum-total of nothingness!

  Chapter Six

  “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 generalizing? I only know my own case. I like women, but I don’t desire them. I like talking to them; but talking to them, though it makes me intimate in one direction, sets me poles apart from them as far as kissing is concerned. So there you are! But don’t take me as a general example, probably I’m just a special case: one of the men who like women, but don’t love women, and even hate them if they force me into a pretense 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 really like some women very much.”