Lady Chatterleys Lover

by

D. H. Lawrence
Chapter 1
Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. Weve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen. This was more or less onstance hatterleys position. The war had brought the roof down over her head. !nd she had reali"ed that one must live and learn. #he married lifford hatterley in $%$&, when he was home for a month on leave. They had a months honeymoon. Then he went back to 'landers: to be shipped over to (ngland again si) months later, more or less in bits. onstance, his wife, was then twenty*three years old, and he was twenty*nine. +is hold on life was marvellous. +e didnt die, and the bits seemed to grow together again. 'or two years he remained in the doctors hands. Then he was pronounced a cure, and could return to life again, with the lower half of his body, from the hips down, paralysed for ever. This was in $%,-. They returned, lifford and onstance, to his home, Wragby +all, the family .seat. +is father had died, lifford was now a baronet, #ir lifford, and onstance was /ady hatterley. They came to start housekeeping and married life in the rather forlorn home of the hatterleys on a rather inade0uate income. lifford had a sister, but she had departed. Otherwise there were no near relatives. The elder brother was dead in the war. rippled for ever, knowing he could never have any children, lifford came home to the smoky 1idlands to keep the hatterley name alive while he could. +e was not really downcast. +e could wheel himself about in a wheeled chair, and he had a bath* chair with a small motor attachment, so he could drive himself slowly round the garden and into the line melancholy park, of which he was really so proud, though he pretended to be flippant about it. +aving suffered so much, the capacity for suffering had to some e)tent left him. +e remained strange and bright and cheerful, almost, one might say, chirpy, with his ruddy, healthy*looking face, and his pale*blue, challenging bright eyes. +is shoulders were broad and strong, his hands were very strong. +e was e)pensively dressed, and wore handsome neckties from 2ond #treet. 3et still in his face one saw the watchful look, the slight vacancy of a cripple. +e had so very nearly lost his life, that what remained was wonderfully precious to him. It was obvious in the an)ious brightness of his eyes, how proud he was, after the great shock, of being alive. 2ut he had been so much hurt that something inside him had perished, some of his feelings had gone. There was a blank of insentience. onstance, his wife, was a ruddy, country*looking girl with soft brown hair and sturdy body, and slow movements, full of unusual energy. #he had big, wondering eyes, and a soft mild voice, and seemed 4ust to have come from her native village. It was not so at all. +er father was the once well* known 5. !., old #ir 1alcolm 5eid. +er mother had been one of the cultivated 'abians in the

palmy, rather pre*5aphaelite days. 2etween artists and cultured socialists, onstance and her sister +ilda had had what might be called an aesthetically unconventional upbringing. They had been taken to 6aris and 'lorence and 5ome to breathe in art, and they had been taken also in the other direction, to the +ague and 2erlin, to great #ocialist conventions, where the speakers spoke in every civili"ed tongue, and no one was abashed. The two girls, therefore, were from an early age not the least daunted by either art or ideal politics. It was their natural atmosphere. They were at once cosmopolitan and provincial, with the cosmopolitan provincialism of art that goes with pure social ideals. They had been sent to 7resden at the age of fifteen, for music among other things. !nd they had had a good time there. They lived freely among the students, they argued with the men over philosophical, sociological and artistic matters, they were 4ust as good as the men themselves: only better, since they were women. !nd they tramped off to the forests with sturdy youths bearing guitars, twang*twang8 They sang the Wandervogel songs, and they were free. 'ree8 That was the great word. Out in the open world, out in the forests of the morning, with lusty and splendid* throated young fellows, free to do as they liked, and 9 above all 9 to say what they liked. It was the talk that mattered supremely: the impassioned interchange of talk. /ove was only a minor accompaniment. 2oth +ilda and onstance had had their tentative love*affairs by the time they were eighteen. The young men with whom they talked so passionately and sang so lustily and camped under the trees in such freedom wanted, of course, the love conne)ion. The girls were doubtful, but then the thing was so much talked about, it was supposed to be so important. !nd the men were so humble and craving. Why couldnt a girl be 0ueenly, and give the gift of herself: #o they had given the gift of themselves, each to the youth with whom she had the most subtle and intimate arguments. The arguments, the discussions were the great thing: the love*making and conne)ion were only a sort of primitive reversion and a bit of an anti*clima). One was less in love with the boy afterwards, and a little inclined to hate him, as if he had trespassed on ones privacy and inner freedom. 'or, of course, being a girl, ones whole dignity and meaning in life consisted in the achievement of an absolute, a perfect, a pure and noble freedom. What else did a girls life mean: To shake off the old and sordid conne)ions and sub4ections. !nd however one might sentimentali"e it, this se) business was one of the most ancient, sordid conne)ions and sub4ections. 6oets who glorified it were mostly men. Women had always known there was something better, something higher. !nd now they knew it more definitely than ever. The beautiful pure freedom of a woman was infinitely more wonderful than any se)ual love. The only unfortunate thing was that men lagged so far behind women in the matter. They insisted on the se) thing like dogs. !nd a woman had to yield. ! man was like a child with his appetites. ! woman had to yield him what he wanted, or like a child he would probably turn nasty and flounce away and spoil what was a very pleasant conne)ion. 2ut a woman could yield to a man without yielding her inner, free self. That the poets and talkers about se) did not seem to have taken sufficiently into account. ! woman could take a man without really giving herself away. ertainly she could take him without giving herself into his power. 5ather she could use this se) thing to have power over him. 'or she only had to hold herself back in se)ual intercourse, and let him finish and e)pend himself without herself coming to the crisis: and then she could prolong the conne)ion and achieve her orgasm and her crisis while he was merely her tool. 2oth sisters had had their love e)perience by the time the war came, and they were hurried home. ;either was ever in love with a young man unless he and she were verbally very near: that is unless they were profoundly interested, talking to one another. The ama"ing, the profound, the unbelievable thrill there was in passionately talking to some really clever young man by the hour, resuming day after day for months . . . this they had never reali"ed till it happened8 The paradisal

promise: Thou shalt have men to talk to8 9 had never been uttered. It was fulfilled before they knew what a promise it was. !nd if after the roused intimacy of these vivid and soul*enlightened discussions the se) thing became more or less inevitable, then let it. It marked the end of a chapter. It had a thrill of its own too: a 0ueer vibrating thrill inside the body, a final spasm of self*assertion, like the last word, e)citing, and very like the row of asterisks that can be put to show the end of a paragraph, and a break in the theme. When the girls came home for the summer holidays of $%$<, when +ilda was twenty and onnie eighteen, their father could see plainly that they had had the love e)perience. Lamour avait pass par l, as somebody puts it. 2ut he was a man of e)perience himself, and let life take its course. !s for the mot a nervous invalid in the last few months of her life, she wanted her girls to be .free, and to .fulfil themselves. #he herself had never been able to be altogether herself: it had been denied her. +eaven knows why, for she was a woman who had her own income and her own way. #he blamed her husband. 2ut as a matter of fact, it was some old impression of authority on her own mind or soul that she could not get rid of. It had nothing to do with #ir 1alcolm, who left his nervously hostile, high*spirited wife to rule her own roost, while he went his own way. #o the girls were .free, and went back to 7resden, and their music, and the university and the young men. They loved their respective young men, and their respective young men loved them with all the passion of mental attraction. !ll the wonderful things the young men thought and e)pressed and wrote, they thought and e)pressed and wrote for the young women. onnies young man was musical, +ildas was technical. 2ut they simply lived for their young women. In their minds and their mental e)citements, that is. #omewhere else they were a little rebuffed, though they did not know it. It was obvious in them too that love had gone through them: that is, the physical e)perience. It is curious what a subtle but unmistakable transmutation it makes, both in the body of men and women: the woman more blooming, more subtly rounded, her young angularities softened, and her e)pression either an)ious or triumphant: the man much 0uieter, more inward, the very shapes of his shoulders and his buttocks less assertive, more hesitant. In the actual se)*thrill within the body, the sisters nearly succumbed to the strange male power. 2ut 0uickly they recovered themselves, took the se)*thrill as a sensation, and remained free. Whereas the men, in gratitude to the woman for the se) e)perience, let their souls go out to her. !nd afterwards looked rather as if they had lost a shilling and found si)pence. onnies man could be a bit sulky, and +ildas a bit 4eering. 2ut that is how men are8 =ngrateful and never satisfied. When you dont have them they hate you because you wont> and when you do have them they hate you again, for some other reason. Or for no reason at all, e)cept that they are discontented children, and cant be satisfied whatever they get, let a woman do what she may. +owever, came the war, +ilda and onnie were rushed home again after having been home already in 1ay, to their mothers funeral. 2efore hristmas of $%$? both their @erman young men were dead: whereupon the sisters wept, and loved the young men passionately, but underneath forgot them. They didnt e)ist any more. 2oth sisters lived in their fathers, really their mothers, Aensington house, mi)ed with the young ambridge group, the group that stood for .freedom and flannel trousers, and flannel shirts open at the neck, and a well*bred sort of emotional anarchy, and a whispering, murmuring sort of voice, and an ultra*sensitive sort of manner. +ilda, however, suddenly married a man ten years older than herself, an elder member of the same ambridge group, a man with a fair amount of money, and a comfortable family 4ob in the government: he also wrote philosophical essays. #he lived with him in a smallish house in Westminster, and moved in that good sort of society of people in the government who are not tip*toppers, but who are, or would be, the real intelligent power in the

nation: people who know what theyre talking about, or talk as if they did. onnie did a mild form of war*work, and consorted with the flannel*trousers ambridge intransigents, who gently mocked at everything, so far. +er .friend was a lifford hatterley, a young man of twenty*two, who had hurried home from 2onn, where he was studying the technicalities of coal*mining. +e had previously spent two years at ambridge. ;ow he had become a first lieutenant in a smart regiment, so he could mock at everything more becomingly in uniform. lifford hatterley was more upper*class than onnie. onnie was well*to*do intelligentsia, but he was aristocracy. ;ot the big sort, but still it. +is father was a baronet, and his mother had been a viscounts daughter. 2ut lifford, while he was better bred than onnie, and more .society, was in his own way more provincial and more timid. +e was at his ease in the narrow .great world, that is, landed aristocracy society, but he was shy and nervous of all that other big world which consists of the vast hordes of the middle and lower classes, and foreigners. If the truth must be told, he was 4ust a little bit frightened of middle*and lower*class humanity, and of foreigners not of his own class. +e was, in some paralysing way, conscious of his own defencelessness, though he had all the defence of privilege. Which is curious, but a phenomenon of our day. Therefore the peculiar soft assurance of a girl like onstance 5eid fascinated him. #he was so much more mistress of herself in that outer world of chaos than he was master of himself. ;evertheless he too was a rebel: rebelling even against his class. Or perhaps rebel is too strong a word> far too strong. +e was only caught in the general, popular recoil of the young against convention and against any sort of real authority. 'athers were ridiculous: his own obstinate one supremely so. !nd governments were ridiculous: our own wait*and*see sort especially so. !nd armies were ridiculous, and old buffers of generals altogether, the red*faced Aitchener supremely. (ven the war was ridiculous, though it did kill rather a lot of people. In fact everything was a little ridiculous, or very ridiculous: certainly everything connected with authority, whether it were in the army or the government or the universities, was ridiculous to a degree. !nd as far as the governing class made any pretensions to govern, they were ridiculous too. #ir @eoffrey, liffords father, was intensely ridiculous, chopping down his trees, and weeding men out of his colliery to shove them into the war> and himself being so safe and patriotic> but, also, spending more money on his country than hed got. When 1iss hatterley 9 (mma 9 came down to /ondon from the 1idlands to do some nursing work, she was very witty in a 0uiet way about #ir @eoffrey and his determined patriotism. +erbert, the elder brother and heir, laughed outright, though it was his trees that were falling for trench props. 2ut lifford only smiled a little uneasily. (verything was ridiculous, 0uite true. 2ut when it came too close and oneself became ridiculous too . . . : !t least people of a different class, like onnie, were earnest about something. They believed in something. They were rather earnest about the Tommies, and the threat of conscription, and the shortage of sugar and toffee for the children. In all these things, of course, the authorities were ridiculously at fault. 2ut lifford could not take it to heart. To him the authorities were ridiculous ab ovo, not because of toffee or Tommies. !nd the authorities felt ridiculous, and behaved in a rather ridiculous fashion, and it was all a mad hatters tea*party for a while. Till things developed over there, and /loyd @eorge came to save the situation over here. !nd this surpassed even ridicule, the flippant young laughed no more. In $%$B +erbert hatterley was killed, so lifford became heir. +e was terrified even of this. +is importance as son of #ir @eoffrey, and child of Wragby, was so ingrained in him, he could never escape it. !nd yet he knew that this too, in the eyes of the vast seething world, was ridiculous. ;ow he was heir and responsible for Wragby. Was that not terrible: and also splendid and at the same time, perhaps, purely absurd:

#ir @eoffrey would have none of the absurdity. +e was pale and tense, withdrawn into himself, and obstinately determined to save his country and his own position, let it be /loyd @eorge or who it might. #o cut off he was, so divorced from the (ngland that was really (ngland, so utterly incapable, that he even thought well of +oratio 2ottomley. #ir @eoffrey stood for (ngland and /loyd @eorge as his forebears had stood for (ngland and #t @eorge: and he never knew there was a difference. #o #ir @eoffrey felled timber and stood for /loyd @eorge and (ngland, (ngland and /loyd @eorge. !nd he wanted lifford to marry and produce an heir. lifford felt his father was a hopeless anachronism. 2ut wherein was he himself any further ahead, e)cept in a wincing sense of the ridiculousness of everything, and the paramount ridiculousness of his own position: 'or willy*nilly he took his baronetcy and Wragby with the last seriousness. The gay e)citement had gone out of the war . . . dead. Too much death and horror. ! man needed support and comfort. ! man needed to have an anchor in the safe world. ! man needed a wife. The hatterleys, two brothers and a sister, had lived curiously isolated, shut in with one another at Wragby, in spite of all their conne)ions. ! sense of isolation intensified the family tie, a sense of the weakness of their position, a sense of defencelessness, in spite of, or because of, the title and the land. They were cut off from those industrial 1idlands in which they passed their lives. !nd they were cut off from their own class by the brooding, obstinate, shut*up nature of #ir @eoffrey, their father, whom they ridiculed, but whom they were so sensitive about. The three had said they would all live together always. 2ut now +erbert was dead, and #ir @eoffrey wanted lifford to marry. #ir @eoffrey barely mentioned it: he spoke very little. 2ut his silent, brooding insistence that it should be so was hard for lifford to bear up against. 2ut (mma said ;o8 #he was ten years older than lifford, and she felt his marrying would be a desertion and a betrayal of what the young ones of the family had stood for. lifford married onnie, nevertheless, and had his months honeymoon with her. It was the terrible year $%$&, and they were intimate as two people who stand together on a sinking ship. +e had been virgin when he married: and the se) part did not mean much to him. They were so close, he and she, apart from that. !nd onnie e)ulted a little in this intimacy which was beyond se), and beyond a mans .satisfaction. lifford anyhow was not 4ust keen on his .satisfaction, as so many men seemed to be. ;o, the intimacy was deeper, more personal than that. !nd se) was merely an accident, or an ad4unct, one of the curious obsolete, organic processes which persisted in its own clumsiness, but was not really necessary. Though onnie did want children: if only to fortify her against her sister*in*law (mma. 2ut early in $%$C lifford was shipped home smashed, and there was no child. !nd #ir @eoffrey died of chagrin.

Chapter 2
onnie and lifford came home to Wragby in the autumn of $%,-. 1iss hatterley, still disgusted at her brothers defection, had departed and was living in a little flat in /ondon. Wragby was a long low old house in brown stone, begun about the middle of the eighteenth century, and added on to, till it was a warren of a place without much distinction. It stood on an eminence in a rather fine old park of oak trees, but alas, one could see in the near distance the chimney of Tevershall pit, with its clouds of steam and smoke, and on the damp, ha"y distance of the hill the raw straggle of Tevershall village, a village which began almost at the park gates, and trailed in utter hopeless ugliness for a long and gruesome mile: houses, rows of wretched, small, begrimed, brick houses, with black slate roofs for lids, sharp angles and wilful, blank dreariness. onnie was accustomed to Aensington or the #cotch hills or the #usse) downs: that was her

(ngland. With the stoicism of the young she took in the utter, soulless ugliness of the coal*and*iron 1idlands at a glance, and left it at what it was: unbelievable and not to be thought about. 'rom the rather dismal rooms at Wragby she heard the rattle*rattle of the screens at the pit, the puff of the winding*engine, the clink*clink of shunting trucks, and the hoarse little whistle of the colliery locomotives. Tevershall pit*bank was burning, had been burning for years, and it would cost thousands to put it out. #o it had to burn. !nd when the wind was that way, which was often, the house was full of the stench of this sulphurous combustion of the earths e)crement. 2ut even on windless days the air always smelt of something under*earth: sulphur, iron, coal, or acid. !nd even on the hristmas roses the smuts settled persistently, incredible, like black manna from the skies of doom. Well, there it was: fated like the rest of things8 It was rather awful, but why kick: 3ou couldnt kick it away. It 4ust went on. /ife, like all the rest8 On the low dark ceiling of cloud at night red blotches burned and 0uavered, dappling and swelling and contracting, like burns that give pain. It was the furnaces. !t first they fascinated onnie with a sort of horror> she felt she was living underground. Then she got used to them. !nd in the morning it rained. lifford professed to like Wragby better than /ondon. This country had a grim will of its own, and the people had guts. onnie wondered what else they had: certainly neither eyes nor minds. The people were as haggard, shapeless, and dreary as the countryside, and as unfriendly. Only there was something in their deep*mouthed slurring of the dialect, and the thresh*thresh of their hob*nailed pit*boots as they trailed home in gangs on the asphalt from work, that was terrible and a bit mysterious. There had been no welcome home for the young s0uire, no festivities, no deputation, not even a single flower. Only a dank ride in a motor*car up a dark, damp drive, burrowing through gloomy trees, out to the slope of the park where grey damp sheep were feeding, to the knoll where the house spread its dark brown facade, and the housekeeper and her husband were hovering, like unsure tenants on the face of the earth, ready to stammer a welcome. There was no communication between Wragby +all and Tevershall village, none. ;o caps were touched, no curtseys bobbed. The colliers merely stared> the tradesmen lifted their caps to onnie as to an ac0uaintance, and nodded awkwardly to lifford> that was all. @ulf impassable, and a 0uiet sort of resentment on either side. !t first onnie suffered from the steady dri""le of resentment that came from the village. Then she hardened herself to it, and it became a sort of tonic, something to live up to. It was not that she and lifford were unpopular, they merely belonged to another species altogether from the colliers. @ulf impassable, breach indescribable, such as is perhaps none)istent south of the Trent. 2ut in the 1idlands and the industrial ;orth gulf impassable, across which no communication could take place. 3ou stick to your side, Ill stick to mine8 ! strange denial of the common pulse of humanity. 3et the village sympathi"ed with lifford and onnie in the abstract. In the flesh it was 9 3ou leave me alone8 9 on either side. The rector was a nice man of about si)ty, full of his duty, and reduced, personally, almost to a nonentity by the silent 9 3ou leave me alone8 9 of the village. The miners wives were nearly all 1ethodists. The miners were nothing. 2ut even so much official uniform as the clergyman wore was enough to obscure entirely the fact that he was a man like any other man. ;o, he was 1ester !shby, a sort of automatic preaching and praying concern. This stubborn, instinctive 9 We think ourselves as good as you, if you are /ady hatterley8 9 pu""led and baffled onnie at first e)tremely. The curious, suspicious, false amiability with which the miners wives met her overtures> the curiously offensive tinge of 9 Oh dear me8 I am somebody now, with /ady hatterley talking to me8 2ut she neednt think Im not as good as her for all that8 9 which she always heard twanging in the womens half*fawning voices, was impossible. There was no getting past it. It was hopelessly and offensively nonconformist.

lifford left them alone, and she learnt to do the same: she 4ust went by without looking at them, and they stared as if she were a walking wa) figure. When he had to deal with them, lifford was rather haughty and contemptuous> one could no longer afford to be friendly. In fact he was altogether rather supercilious and contemptuous of anyone not in his own class. +e stood his ground, without any attempt at conciliation. !nd he was neither liked nor disliked by the people: he was 4ust part of things, like the pit*bank and Wragby itself. 2ut lifford was really e)tremely shy and self*conscious now he was lamed. +e hated seeing anyone e)cept 4ust the personal servants. 'or he had to sit in a wheeled chair or a sort of bath*chair. ;evertheless he was 4ust as carefully dressed as ever, by his e)pensive tailors, and he wore the careful 2ond #treet neckties 4ust as before, and from the top he looked 4ust as smart and impressive as ever. +e had never been one of the modern ladylike young men: rather bucolic even, with his ruddy face and broad shoulders. 2ut his very 0uiet, hesitating voice, and his eyes, at the same time bold and frightened, assured and uncertain, revealed his nature. +is manner was often offensively supercilious, and then again modest and self*effacing, almost tremulous. onnie and he were attached to one another, in the aloof modern way. +e was much too hurt in himself, the great shock of his maiming, to be easy and flippant. +e was a hurt thing. !nd as such onnie stuck to him passionately. 2ut she could not help feeling how little conne)ion he really had with people. The miners were, in a sense, his own men> but he saw them as ob4ects rather than men, parts of the pit rather than parts of life, crude raw phenomena rather than human beings along with him. +e was in some way afraid of them, he could not bear to have them look at him now he was lame. !nd their 0ueer, crude life seemed as unnatural as that of hedgehogs. +e was remotely interested> but like a man looking down a microscope, or up a telescope. +e was not in touch. +e was not in actual touch with anybody, save, traditionally, with Wragby, and, through the close bond of family defence, with (mma. 2eyond this nothing really touched him. onnie felt that she herself didnt really, not really touch him> perhaps there was nothing to get at ultimately> 4ust a negation of human contact. 3et he was absolutely dependent on her, he needed her every moment. 2ig and strong as he was, he was helpless. +e could wheel himself about in a wheeled chair, and he had a sort of bath*chair with a motor attachment, in which he could puff slowly round the park. 2ut alone he was like a lost thing. +e needed onnie to be there, to assure him he e)isted at all. #till he was ambitious. +e had taken to writing stories> curious, very personal stories about people he had known. lever, rather spiteful, and yet, in some mysterious way, meaningless. The observation was e)traordinary and peculiar. 2ut there was no touch, no actual contact. It was as if the whole thing took place in a vacuum. !nd since the field of life is largely an artificially*lighted stage today, the stories were curiously true to modern life, to the modern psychology, that is. lifford was almost morbidly sensitive about these stories. +e wanted everyone to think them good, of the best, ne plus ultra. They appeared in the most modern maga"ines, and were praised and blamed as usual. 2ut to lifford the blame was torture, like knives goading him. It was as if the whole of his being were in his stories. onnie helped him as much as she could. !t first she was thrilled. +e talked everything over with her monotonously, insistently, persistently, and she had to respond with all her might. It was as if her whole soul and body and se) had to rouse up and pass into theme stories of his. This thrilled her and absorbed her. Of physical life they lived very little. #he had to superintend the house. 2ut the housekeeper had served #ir @eoffrey for many years, and the dried*up, elderly, superlatively correct female you could hardly call her a parlour*maid, or even a woman . . . who waited at table, had been in the house for forty years. (ven the very housemaids were no longer young. It was awful8 What could

you do with such a place, but leave it alone8 !ll these endless rooms that nobody used, all the 1idlands routine, the mechanical cleanliness and the mechanical order8 lifford had insisted on a new cook, an e)perienced woman who had served him in his rooms in /ondon. 'or the rest the place seemed run by mechanical anarchy. (verything went on in pretty good order, strict cleanliness, and strict punctuality> even pretty strict honesty. !nd yet, to onnie, it was a methodical anarchy. ;o warmth of feeling united it organically. The house seemed as dreary as a disused street. What could she do but leave it alone: #o she left it alone. 1iss hatterley came sometimes, with her aristocratic thin face, and triumphed, finding nothing altered. #he would never forgive onnie for ousting her from her union in consciousness with her brother. It was she, (mma, who should be bringing forth the stories, these books, with him> the hatterley stories, something new in the world, that they, the hatterleys, had put there. There was no other standard. There was no organic conne)ion with the thought and e)pression that had gone before. Only something new in the world: the hatterley books, entirely personal. onnies father, where he paid a flying visit to Wragby, and in private to his daughter: !s for liffords writing, its smart, but theres nothing in it. It wont last8 onnie looked at the burly #cottish knight who had done himself well all his life, and her eyes, her big, still*wondering blue eyes became vague. ;othing in it8 What did he mean by nothing in it: If the critics praised it, and liffords name was almost famous, and it even brought in money . . . what did her father mean by saying there was nothing in liffords writing: What else could there be: 'or onnie had adopted the standard of the young: what there was in the moment was everything. !nd moments followed one another without necessarily belonging to one another. It was in her second winter at Wragby her father said to her: .I hope, onnie, you wont let circumstances force you into being a demi*vierge. .! demi*vierge8 replied onnie vaguely. .Why: Why not: .=nless you like it, of course8 said her father hastily. To lifford he said the same, when the two men were alone: .Im afraid it doesnt 0uite suit onnie to be a demi*vierge. .! half*virgin8 replied lifford, translating the phrase to be sure of it. +e thought for a moment, then flushed very red. +e was angry and offended. .In what way doesnt it suit her: he asked stiffly. .#hes getting thin . . . angular. Its not her style. #hes not the pilchard sort of little slip of a girl, shes a bonny #cotch trout. .Without the spots, of course8 said lifford. +e wanted to say something later to onnie about the demi*vierge business . . . the half*virgin state of her affairs. 2ut he could not bring himself to do it. +e was at once too intimate with her and not intimate enough. +e was so very much at one with her, in his mind and hers, but bodily they were non*e)istent to one another, and neither could bear to drag in the corpus delicti. They were so intimate, and utterly out of touch. onnie guessed, however, that her father had said something, and that something was in liffords mind. #he knew that he didnt mind whether she were demi*vierge or demi*monde, so long as he didnt absolutely know, and wasnt made to see. What the eye doesnt see and the mind doesnt know, doesnt e)ist. onnie and lifford had now been nearly two years at Wragby, living their vague life of absorption in lifford and his work. Their interests had never ceased to flow together over his work. They talked and wrestled in the throes of composition, and felt as if something were happening, really happening, really in the void.

!nd thus far it was a life: in the void. 'or the rest it was non*e)istence. Wragby was there, the servants . . . but spectral, not really e)isting. onnie went for walks in the park, and in the woods that 4oined the park, and en4oyed the solitude and the mystery, kicking the brown leaves of autumn, and picking the primroses of spring. 2ut it was all a dream> or rather it was like the simulacrum of reality. The oak*leaves were to her like oak*leaves seen ruffling in a mirror, she herself was a figure somebody had read about, picking primroses that were only shadows or memories, or words. ;o substance to her or anything . . . no touch, no contact8 Only this life with lifford, this endless spinning of webs of yarn, of the minutiae of consciousness, these stories #ir 1alcolm said there was nothing in, and they wouldnt last. Why should there be anything in them, why should they last: #ufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. #ufficient unto the moment is the appearance of reality. lifford had 0uite a number of friends, ac0uaintances really, and he invited them to Wragby. +e invited all sorts of people, critics and writers, people who would help to praise his books. !nd they were flattered at being asked to Wragby, and they praised. onnie understood it all perfectly. 2ut why not: This was one of the fleeting patterns in the mirror. What was wrong with it: #he was hostess to these people . . . mostly men. #he was hostess also to liffords occasional aristocratic relations. 2eing a soft, ruddy, country*looking girl, inclined to freckles, with big blue eyes, and curling, brown hair, and a soft voice, and rather strong, female loins she was considered a little old*fashioned and .womanly. #he was not a .little pilchard sort of fish, like a boy, with a boys flat breast and little buttocks. #he was too feminine to be 0uite smart. #o the men, especially those no longer young, were very nice to her indeed. 2ut, knowing what torture poor lifford would feel at the slightest sign of flirting on her part, she gave them no encouragement at all. #he was 0uiet and vague, she had no contact with them and intended to have none. lifford was e)traordinarily proud of himself. +is relatives treated her 0uite kindly. #he knew that the kindliness indicated a lack of fear, and that these people had no respect for you unless you could frighten them a little. 2ut again she had no contact. #he let them be kindly and disdainful, she let them feel they had no need to draw their steel in readiness. #he had no real conne)ion with them. Time went on. Whatever happened, nothing happened, because she was so beautifully out of contact. #he and lifford lived in their ideas and his books. #he entertained . . . there were always people in the house. Time went on as the clock does, half past eight instead of half past seven.

Chapter 3
onnie was aware, however, of a growing restlessness. Out of her disconne)ion, a restlessness was taking possession of her like madness. It twitched her limbs when she didnt want to twitch them, it 4erked her spine when she didnt want to 4erk upright but preferred to rest comfortably. It thrilled inside her body, in her womb, somewhere, till she felt she must 4ump into water and swim to get away from it> a mad restlessness. It made her heart beat violently for no reason. !nd she was getting thinner. It was 4ust restlessness. #he would rush off across the park, abandon lifford, and lie prone in the bracken. To get away from the house . . . she must get away from the house and everybody. The work was her one refuge, her sanctuary. 2ut it was not really a refuge, a sanctuary, because she had no conne)ion with it. It was only a place where she could get away from the rest. #he never really touched the spirit of the wood itself . . . if it had any such nonsensical thing. Daguely she knew herself that she was going to pieces in some way. Daguely she knew she was out of conne)ion: she had lost touch with the substantial and vital world. Only lifford and his books, which did not e)ist . . . which had nothing in them8 Doid to void. Daguely she knew. 2ut it was like beating her head against a stone.

+er father warned her again: .Why dont you get yourself a beau, onnie: 7o you all the good in the world. That winter 1ichaelis came for a few days. +e was a young Irishman who had already made a large fortune by his plays in !merica. +e had been taken up 0uite enthusiastically for a time by smart society in /ondon, for he wrote smart society plays. Then gradually smart society reali"ed that it had been made ridiculous at the hands of a down*at*heel 7ublin street*rat, and revulsion came. 1ichaelis was the last word in what was caddish and bounderish. +e was discovered to be anti* (nglish, and to the class that made this discovery this was worse than the dirtiest crime. +e was cut dead, and his corpse thrown into the refuse can. ;evertheless 1ichaelis had his apartment in 1ayfair, and walked down 2ond #treet the image of a gentleman, for you cannot get even the best tailors to cut their low*down customers, when the customers pay. lifford was inviting the young man of thirty at an inauspicious moment in the young mans career. 3et lifford did not hesitate. 1ichaelis had the ear of a few million people, probably> and, being a hopeless outsider, he would no doubt be grateful to be asked down to Wragby at this 4uncture, when the rest of the smart world was cutting him. 2eing grateful, he would no doubt do lifford .good over there in !merica. Audos8 ! man gets a lot of kudos, whatever that may be, by being talked about in the right way, especially .over there. lifford was a coming man> and it was remarkable what a sound publicity instinct he had. In the end 1ichaelis did him most nobly in a play, and lifford was a sort of popular hero. Till the reaction, when he found he had been made ridiculous. onnie wondered a little over liffords blind, imperious instinct to become known: known, that is, to the vast amorphous world he did not himself know, and of which he was uneasily afraid> known as a writer, as a first*class modern writer. onnie was aware from successful, old, hearty, bluffing #ir 1alcolm, that artists did advertise themselves, and e)ert themselves to put their goods over. 2ut her father used channels ready*made, used by all the other 5. !.s who sold their pictures. Whereas lifford discovered new channels of publicity, all kinds. +e had all kinds of people at Wragby, without e)actly lowering himself. 2ut, determined to build himself a monument of a reputation 0uickly, he used any handy rubble in the making. 1ichaelis arrived duly, in a very neat car, with a chauffeur and a manservant. +e was absolutely 2ond #treet8 2ut at right of him something in liffords county soul recoiled. +e wasnt e)actly . . . not e)actly . . . in fact, he wasnt at all, well, what his appearance intended to imply. To lifford this was final and enough. 3et he was very polite to the man> to the ama"ing success in him. The bitch* goddess, as she is called, of #uccess, roamed, snarling and protective, round the half*humble, half* defiant 1ichaelis heels, and intimidated lifford completely: for he wanted to prostitute himself to the bitch*goddess, #uccess also, if only she would have him. 1ichaelis obviously wasnt an (nglishman, in spite of all the tailors, hatters, barbers, booters of the very best 0uarter of /ondon. ;o, no, he obviously wasnt an (nglishman: the wrong sort of flattish, pale face and bearing> and the wrong sort of grievance. +e had a grudge and a grievance: that was obvious to any true*born (nglish gentleman, who would scorn to let such a thing appear blatant in his own demeanour. 6oor 1ichaelis had been much kicked, so that he had a slightly tail*between* the*legs look even now. +e had pushed his way by sheer instinct and sheerer effrontery on to the stage and to the front of it, with his plays. +e had caught the public. !nd he had thought the kicking days were over. !las, they werent . . . They never would be. 'or he, in a sense, asked to be kicked. +e pined to be where he didnt belong . . . among the (nglish upper classes. !nd how they en4oyed the various kicks they got at him8 !nd how he hated them8 ;evertheless he travelled with his manservant and his very neat car, this 7ublin mongrel. There was something about him that onnie liked. +e didnt put on airs to himself, he had no illusions about himself. +e talked to lifford sensibly, briefly, practically, about all the things lifford wanted to know. +e didnt e)pand or let himself go. +e knew he had been asked down to

Wragby to be made use of, and like an old, shrewd, almost indifferent business man, or big*business man, he let himself be asked 0uestions, and he answered with as little waste of feeling as possible. .1oney8 he said. .1oney is a sort of instinct. Its a sort of property of nature in a man to make money. Its nothing you do. Its no trick you play. Its a sort of permanent accident of your own nature> once you start, you make money, and you go on> up to a point, I suppose. .2ut youve got to begin, said lifford. .Oh, 0uite8 3ouve got to get in. 3ou can do nothing if you are kept outside. 3ouve got to beat your way in. Once youve done that, you cant help it. .2ut could you have made money e)cept by plays: asked lifford. .Oh, probably not8 I may be a good writer or I may be a bad one, but a writer and a writer of plays is what I am, and Ive got to be. Theres no 0uestion of that. .!nd you think its a writer of popular plays that youve got to be: asked onnie. .There, e)actly8 he said, turning to her in a sudden flash. .Theres nothing in it8 Theres nothing in popularity. Theres nothing in the public, if it comes to that. Theres nothing really in my plays to make them popular. Its not that. They 4ust are like the weather . . . the sort that will have to be . . . for the time being. +e turned his slow, rather full eyes, that had been drowned in such fathomless disillusion, on onnie, and she trembled a little. +e seemed so old . . . endlessly old, built up of layers of disillusion, going down in him generation after generation, like geological strata> and at the same time he was forlorn like a child. !n outcast, in a certain sense> but with the desperate bravery of his rat*like e)istence. .!t least its wonderful what youve done at your time of life, said lifford contemplatively. .Im thirty . . . yes, Im thirty8 said 1ichaelis, sharply and suddenly, with a curious laugh> hollow, triumphant, and bitter. .!nd are you alone: asked onnie. .+ow do you mean: 7o I live alone: Ive got my servant. +es a @reek, so he says, and 0uite incompetent. 2ut I keep him. !nd Im going to marry. Oh, yes, I must marry. .It sounds like going to have your tonsils cut, laughed onnie. .Will it be an effort: +e looked at her admiringly. .Well, /ady hatterley, somehow it will8 I find . . . e)cuse me . . . I find I cant marry an (nglishwoman, not even an Irishwoman . . . .Try an !merican, said lifford. .Oh, !merican8 +e laughed a hollow laugh. .;o, Ive asked my man if he will find me a Turk or something . . . something nearer to the Oriental. onnie really wondered at this 0ueer, melancholy specimen of e)traordinary success> it was said he had an income of fifty thousand dollars from !merica alone. #ometimes he was handsome: sometimes as he looked sideways, downwards, and the light fell on him, he had the silent, enduring beauty of a carved ivory ;egro mask, with his rather full eyes, and the strong 0ueerly*arched brows, the immobile, compressed mouth> that momentary but revealed immobility, an immobility, a timelessness which the 2uddha aims at, and which ;egroes e)press sometimes without ever aiming at it> something old, old, and ac0uiescent in the race8 !eons of ac0uiescence in race destiny, instead of our individual resistance. !nd then a swimming through, like rats in a dark river. onnie felt a sudden, strange leap of sympathy for him, a leap mingled with compassion, and tinged with repulsion, amounting almost to love. The outsider8 The outsider8 !nd they called him a bounder8 +ow much more bounderish and assertive lifford looked8 +ow much stupider8

1ichaelis knew at once he had made an impression on her. +e turned his full, ha"el, slightly prominent eyes on her in a look of pure detachment. +e was estimating her, and the e)tent of the impression he had made. With the (nglish nothing could save him from being the eternal outsider, not even love. 3et women sometimes fell for him . . . (nglishwomen too. +e knew 4ust where he was with lifford. They were two alien dogs which would have liked to snarl at one another, but which smiled instead, perforce. 2ut with the woman he was not 0uite so sure. 2reakfast was served in the bedrooms> lifford never appeared before lunch, and the dining*room was a little dreary. !fter coffee 1ichaelis, restless and ill*sitting soul, wondered what he should do. It was a fine ;ovember . . . day fine for Wragby. +e looked over the melancholy park. 1y @od8 What a place8 +e sent a servant to ask, could he be of any service to /ady hatterley: he thought of driving into #heffield. The answer came, would he care to go up to /ady hatterleys sitting*room. onnie had a sitting*room on the third floor, the top floor of the central portion of the house. liffords rooms were on the ground floor, of course. 1ichaelis was flattered by being asked up to /ady hatterleys own parlour. +e followed blindly after the servant . . . he never noticed things, or had contact with Isis surroundings. In her room he did glance vaguely round at the fine @erman reproductions of 5enoir and E"anne. .Its very pleasant up here, he said, with his 0ueer smile, as if it hurt him to smile, showing his teeth. .3ou are wise to get up to the top. .3es, I think so, she said. +er room was the only gay, modern one in the house, the only spot in Wragby where her personality was at all revealed. lifford had never seen it, and she asked very few people up. ;ow she and 1ichaelis sit on opposite sides of the fire and talked. #he asked him about himself, his mother and father, his brothers . . . other people were always something of a wonder to her, and when her sympathy was awakened she was 0uite devoid of class feeling. 1ichaelis talked frankly about himself, 0uite frankly, without affectation, simply revealing his bitter, indifferent, stray*dogs soul, then showing a gleam of revengeful pride in his success. .2ut why are you such a lonely bird: onnie asked him> and again he looked at her, with his full, searching, ha"el look. .#ome birds are that way, he replied. Then, with a touch of familiar irony: .but, look here, what about yourself: !rent you by way of being a lonely bird yourself: onnie, a little startled, thought about it for a few moments, and then she said: .Only in a way8 ;ot altogether, like you8 .!m I altogether a lonely bird: he asked, with his 0ueer grin of a smile, as if he had toothache> it was so wry, and his eyes were so perfectly unchangingly melancholy, or stoical, or disillusioned or afraid. .Why: she said, a little breathless, as she looked at him. .3ou are, arent you: #he felt a terrible appeal coming to her from him, that made her almost lose her balance. .Oh, youre 0uite right8 he said, turning his head away, and looking sideways, downwards, with that strange immobility of an old race that is hardly here in our present day. It was that that really made onnie lose her power to see him detached from herself. +e looked up at her with the full glance that saw everything, registered everything. !t the same time, the infant crying in the night was crying out of his breast to her, in a way that affected her very womb. .Its awfully nice of you to think of me, he said laconically.

.Why shouldnt I think of you: she e)claimed, with hardly breath to utter it. +e gave the wry, 0uick hiss of a laugh. .Oh, in that way8 . . . 1ay I hold your hand for a minute: he asked suddenly, fi)ing his eyes on her with almost hypnotic power, and sending out an appeal that affected her direct in the womb. #he stared at him, da"ed and transfi)ed, and he went over and kneeled beside her, and took her two feet close in his two hands, and buried his face in her lap, remaining motionless. #he was perfectly dim and da"ed, looking down in a sort of ama"ement at the rather tender nape of his neck, feeling his face pressing her thighs. In all her burning dismay, she could not help putting her hand, with tenderness and compassion, on the defenceless nape of his neck, and he trembled, with a deep shudder. Then he looked up at her with that awful appeal in his full, glowing eyes. #he was utterly incapable of resisting it. 'rom her breast flowed the answering, immense yearning over him> she must give him anything, anything. +e was a curious and very gentle lover, very gentle with the woman, trembling uncontrollably, and yet at the same time detached, aware, aware of every sound outside. To her it meant nothing e)cept that she gave herself to him. !nd at length he ceased to 0uiver any more, and lay 0uite still, 0uite still. Then, with dim, compassionate fingers, she stroked his head, that lay on her breast. When he rose, he kissed both her hands, then both her feet, in their suede slippers, and in silence went away to the end of the room, where he stood with his back to her. There was silence for some minutes. Then he turned and came to her again as she sat in her old place by the fire. .!nd now, I suppose youll hate me8 he said in a 0uiet, inevitable way. #he looked up at him 0uickly. .Why should I: she asked. .They mostly do, he said> then he caught himself up. .I mean . . . a woman is supposed to. .This is the last moment when I ought to hate you, she said resentfully. .I know8 I know8 It should be so8 3oure frightfully good to me . . . he cried miserably. #he wondered why he should be miserable. .Wont you sit down again: she said. +e glanced at the door. .#ir lifford8 he said, .wont he . . . wont he be . . . : #he paused a moment to consider. .6erhaps8 she said. !nd she looked up at him. .I dont want lifford to know not even to suspect. It would hurt him so much. 2ut I dont think its wrong, do you: .Wrong8 @ood @od, no8 3oure only too infinitely good to me . . . I can hardly bear it. +e turned aside, and she saw that in another moment he would be sobbing. .2ut we neednt let lifford know, need we: she pleaded. .It would hurt him so. !nd if he never knows, never suspects, it hurts nobody. .1e8 he said, almost fiercely> .hell know nothing from me8 3ou see if he does. 1e give myself away8 +a8 +a8 he laughed hollowly, cynically, at such an idea. #he watched him in wonder. +e said to her: .1ay I kiss your hand and go: Ill run into #heffield I think, and lunch there, if I may, and be back to tea. 1ay I do anything for you: 1ay I be sure you dont hate me: 9 and that you wont: 9 he ended with a desperate note of cynicism. .;o, I dont hate you, she said. .I think youre nice. .!h8 he said to her fiercely, .Id rather you said that to me than said you love me8 It means such a lot more . . . Till afternoon then. Ive plenty to think about till then. +e kissed her hands humbly

and was gone. .I dont think I can stand that young man, said lifford at lunch. .Why: asked onnie. .+es such a bounder underneath his veneer . . . 4ust waiting to bounce us. .I think people have been so unkind to him, said onnie. .7o you wonder: !nd do you think he employs his shining hours doing deeds of kindness: .I think he has a certain sort of generosity. .Towards whom: .I dont 0uite know. .;aturally you dont. Im afraid you mistake unscrupulousness for generosity. onnie paused. 7id she: It was 4ust possible. 3et the unscrupulousness of 1ichaelis had a certain fascination for her. +e went whole lengths where lifford only crept a few timid paces. In his way he had con0uered the world, which was what lifford wanted to do. Ways and means . . . : Were those of 1ichaelis more despicable than those of lifford: Was the way the poor outsider had shoved and bounced himself forward in person, and by the back doors, any worse than liffords way of advertising himself into prominence: The bitch*goddess, #uccess, was trailed by thousands of gasping, dogs with lolling tongues. The one that got her first was the real dog among dogs, if you go by success8 #o 1ichaelis could keep his tail up. The 0ueer thing was, he didnt. +e came back towards tea*time with a large handful of violets and lilies, and the same hang*dog e)pression. onnie wondered sometimes if it were a sort of mask to disarm opposition, because it was almost too fi)ed. Was he really such a sad dog: +is sad*dog sort of e)tinguished self persisted all the evening, though through it lifford felt the inner effrontery. onnie didnt feel it, perhaps because it was not directed against women> only against men, and their presumptions and assumptions. That indestructible, inward effrontery in the meagre fellow was what made men so down on 1ichaelis. +is very presence was an affront to a man of society, cloak it as he might in an assumed good manner. onnie was in love with him, but she managed to sit with her embroidery and let the men talk, and not give herself away. !s for 1ichaelis, he was perfect> e)actly the same melancholic, attentive, aloof young fellow of the previous evening, millions of degrees remote from his hosts, but laconically playing up to them to the re0uired amount, and never coming forth to them for a moment. onnie felt he must have forgotten the morning. +e had not forgotten. 2ut he knew where he was . . . in the same old place outside, where the born outsiders are. +e didnt take the love* making altogether personally. +e knew it would not change him from an ownerless dog, whom everybody begrudges its golden collar, into a comfortable society dog. The final fact being that at the very bottom of his soul he was an outsider, and anti*social, and he accepted the fact inwardly, no matter how 2ond*#treety he was on the outside. +is isolation was a necessity to him> 4ust as the appearance of conformity and mi)ing*in with the smart people was also a necessity. 2ut occasional love, as a comfort and soothing, was also a good thing, and he was not ungrateful. On the contrary, he was burningly, poignantly grateful for a piece of natural, spontaneous kindness: almost to tears. 2eneath his pale, immobile, disillusioned face, his childs soul was sobbing with gratitude to the woman, and burning to come to her again> 4ust as his outcast soul was knowing he would keep really clear of her. +e found an opportunity to say to her, as they were lighting the candles in the hall: .1ay I come:

.Ill come to you, she said. .Oh, good8 +e waited for her a long time . . . but she came. +e was the trembling e)cited sort of lover, whose crisis soon came, and was finished. There was something curiously childlike and defenceless about his naked body: as children are naked. +is defences were all in his wits and cunning, his very instincts of cunning, and when these were in abeyance he seemed doubly naked and like a child, of unfinished, tender flesh, and somehow struggling helplessly. +e roused in the woman a wild sort of compassion and yearning, and a wild, craving physical desire. The physical desire he did not satisfy in her> he was always come and finished so 0uickly, then shrinking down on her breast, and recovering somewhat his effrontery while she lay da"ed, disappointed, lost. 2ut then she soon learnt to hold him, to keep him there inside her when his crisis was over. !nd there he was generous and curiously potent> he stayed firm inside her, giving to her, while she was active . . . wildly, passionately active, coming to her own crisis. !nd as he felt the fren"y of her achieving her own orgasmic satisfaction from his hard, erect passivity, he had a curious sense of pride and satisfaction. .!h, how good8 she whispered tremulously, and she became 0uite still, clinging to him. !nd he lay there in his own isolation, but somehow proud. +e stayed that time only the three days, and to lifford was e)actly the same as on the first evening> to onnie also. There was no breaking down his e)ternal man. +e wrote to onnie with the same plaintive melancholy note as ever, sometimes witty, and touched with a 0ueer, se)less affection. ! kind of hopeless affection he seemed to feel for her, and the essential remoteness remained the same. +e was hopeless at the very core of him, and he wanted to be hopeless. +e rather hated hope. .Une immense esprance a travers la Terre, he read somewhere, and his comment was: . 9 and its darned*well drowned everything worth having. onnie never really understood him, but, in her way, she loved him. !nd all the time she felt the reflection of his hopelessness in her. #he couldnt 0uite, 0uite love in hopelessness. !nd he, being hopeless, couldnt ever 0uite love at all. #o they went on for 0uite a time, writing, and meeting occasionally in /ondon. #he still wanted the physical, se)ual thrill she could get with him by her own activity, his little orgasm being over. !nd he still wanted to give it her. Which was enough to keep them connected. !nd enough to give her a subtle sort of self*assurance, something blind and a little arrogant. It was an almost mechanical confidence in her own powers, and went with a great cheerfulness. #he was terrifically cheerful at Wragby. !nd she used all her aroused cheerfulness and satisfaction to stimulate lifford, so that he wrote his best at this time, and was almost happy in his strange blind way. +e really reaped the fruits of the sensual satisfaction she got out of 1ichaelis male passivity erect inside her. 2ut of course he never knew it, and if he had, he wouldnt have said thank you8 3et when those days of her grand 4oyful cheerfulness and stimulus were gone, 0uite gone, and she was depressed and irritable, how lifford longed for them again8 6erhaps if hed known he might even have wished to get her and 1ichaelis together again.

Chapter 4
onnie always had a foreboding of the hopelessness of her affair with 1ick, as people called him. 3et other men seemed to mean nothing to her. #he was attached to lifford. +e wanted a good deal

of her life and she gave it to him. 2ut she wanted a good deal from the life of a man, and this lifford did not give her> could not. There were occasional spasms of 1ichaelis. 2ut, as she knew by foreboding, that would come to an end. 1ick couldnt keep anything up. It was part of his very being that he must break off any conne)ion, and be loose, isolated, absolutely lone dog again. It was his ma4or necessity, even though he always said: #he turned me down8 The world is supposed to be full of possibilities, but they narrow down to pretty few in most personal e)perience. Theres lots of good fish in the sea . . . maybe . . . but the vast masses seem to be mackerel or herring, and if youre not mackerel or herring yourself you are likely to find very few good fish in the sea. lifford was making strides into fame, and even money. 6eople came to see him. onnie nearly always had somebody at Wragby. 2ut if they werent mackerel they were herring, with an occasional cat*fish, or conger*eel. There were a few regular men, constants> men who had been at ambridge with lifford. There was Tommy 7ukes, who had remained in the army, and was a 2rigadier*@eneral. .The army leaves me time to think, and saves me from having to face the battle of life, he said. There was harles 1ay, an Irishman, who wrote scientifically about stars. There was +ammond, another writer. !ll were about the same age as lifford> the young intellectuals of the day. They all believed in the life of the mind. What you did apart from that was your private affair, and didnt much matter. ;o one thinks of in0uiring of another person at what hour he retires to the privy. It isnt interesting to anyone but the person concerned. !nd so with most of the matters of ordinary life . . . how you make your money, or whether you love your wife, or if you have .affairs. !ll these matters concern only the person concerned, and, like going to the privy, have no interest for anyone else. .The whole point about the se)ual problem, said +ammond, who was a tall thin fellow with a wife and two children, but much more closely connected with a typewriter, .is that there is no point to it. #trictly there is no problem. We dont want to follow a man into the w.c., so why should we want to follow him into bed with a woman: !nd therein lies problem. If we took no more notice of the one thing than the other, thered be no problem. Its all utterly senseless and pointless> a matter of misplaced curiosity. .Fuite, +ammond, 0uite8 2ut if someone starts making love to Gulia, you begin to simmer> and if he goes on, you are soon at boiling point. . . . Gulia was +ammonds wife. .Why, e)actly8 #o I should be if he began to urinate in a corner of my drawing*room. Theres a place for all these things. .3ou mean you wouldnt mind if he made love to Gulia in some discreet alcove: harlie 1ay was slightly satirical, for he had flirted a very little with Gulia, and +ammond had cut up very roughly. .Of course I should mind. #e) is a private thing between me and Gulia> and of course I should mind anyone else trying to mi) in. .!s a matter of fact, said the lean and freckled Tommy 7ukes, who looked much more Irish than 1ay, who was pale and rather fat: .!s a matter of fact, +ammond, you have a strong property instinct, and a strong will to self*assertion, and you want success. #ince Ive been in the army definitely, Ive got out of the way of the world, and now I see how inordinately strong the craving for self*assertion and success is in men. It is enormously overdeveloped. !ll our individuality has run that way. !nd of course men like you think youll get through better with a womans backing. Thats why youre so 4ealous. Thats what se) is to you . . . a vital little dynamo between you and Gulia, to bring success. If you began to be unsuccessful youd begin to flirt, like harlie, who isnt successful. 1arried people like you and Gulia have labels on you, like travellers trunks. Gulia is

labelled Mrs Arnold ! "ammond 9 4ust like a trunk on the railway that belongs to somebody. !nd you are labelled Arnold ! "ammond# $%& Mrs Arnold ! "ammond. Oh, youre 0uite right, youre 0uite right8 The life of the mind needs a comfortable house and decent cooking. 3oure 0uite right. It even needs posterity. 2ut it all hinges on the instinct for success. That is the pivot on which all things turn. +ammond looked rather pi0ued. +e was rather proud of the integrity of his mind, and of his not being a time*server. ;one the less, he did want success. .Its 0uite true, you cant live without cash, said 1ay. .3ouve got to have a certain amount of it to be able to live and get along . . . even to be free to think you must have a certain amount of money, or your stomach stops you. 2ut it seems to me you might leave the labels off se). Were free to talk to anybody> so why shouldnt we be free to make love to any woman who inclines us that way: .There speaks the lascivious elt, said lifford. ./ascivious8 well, why not 9 : I cant see I do a woman any more harm by sleeping with her than by dancing with her . . . or even talking to her about the weather. Its 4ust an interchange of sensations instead of ideas, so why not: .2e as promiscuous as the rabbits8 said +ammond. .Why not: Whats wrong with rabbits: !re they any worse than a neurotic, revolutionary humanity, full of nervous hate: .2ut were not rabbits, even so, said +ammond. .6recisely8 I have my mind: I have certain calculations to make in certain astronomical matters that concern me almost more than life or death. #ometimes indigestion interferes with me. +unger would interfere with me disastrously. In the same way starved se) interferes with me. What then: .I should have thought se)ual indigestion from surfeit would have interfered with you more seriously, said +ammond satirically. .;ot it8 I dont over*eat myself and I dont over*fuck myself. One has a choice about eating too much. 2ut you would absolutely starve me. .;ot at all8 3ou can marry. .+ow do you know I can: It may not suit the process of my mind. 1arriage might . . . and would . . . stultify my mental processes. Im not properly pivoted that way . . . and so must I be chained in a kennel like a monk: !ll rot and funk, my boy. I must live and do my calculations. I need women sometimes. I refuse to make a mountain of it, and I refuse anybodys moral condemnation or prohibition. Id be ashamed to see a woman walking around with my name*label on her, address and railway station, like a wardrobe trunk. These two men had not forgiven each other about the Gulia flirtation. .Its an amusing idea, harlie, said 7ukes, .that se) is 4ust another form of talk, where you act the words instead of saying them. I suppose its 0uite true. I suppose we might e)change as many sensations and emotions with women as we do ideas about the weather, and so on. #e) might be a sort of normal physical conversation between a man and a woman. 3ou dont talk to a woman unless you have ideas in common: that is you dont talk with any interest. !nd in the same way, unless you had some emotion or sympathy in common with a woman you wouldnt sleep with her. 2ut if you had . . . .If you have the proper sort of emotion or sympathy with a woman, you ought to sleep with her, said 1ay. .Its the only decent thing, to go to bed with her. Gust as, when you are interested talking to someone, the Only decent thing is to have the talk out. 3ou dont prudishly put your tongue between your teeth and bite it. 3ou 4ust say out your say. !nd the same the other way.

.;o, said +ammond. .Its wrong. 3ou, for e)ample, 1ay, you s0uander half your force with women. 3oull never really do what you should do, with a fine mind such as yours. Too much of it goes the other way. .1aybe it does . . . and too little of you goes that way, +ammond, my boy, married or not. 3ou can keep the purity and integrity of your mind, but its going damned dry. 3our pure mind is going as dry as fiddlesticks, from what I see of it. 3oure simply talking it down. Tommy 7ukes burst into a laugh. .@o it, you two minds8 he said. ./ook at me . . . I dont do any high and pure mental work, nothing but 4ot down a few ideas. !nd yet I neither marry nor run after women. I think harlies 0uite right> if he wants to run after the women, hes 0uite free not to run too often. 2ut I wouldnt prohibit him from running. !s for +ammond, hes got a property instinct, so naturally the straight road and the narrow gate are right for him. 3oull see hell be an (nglish 1an of /etters before hes done. !.2. . from top to toe. Then theres me. Im nothing. Gust a s0uib. !nd what about you, lifford: 7o you think se) is a dynamo to help a man on to success in the world: lifford rarely talked much at these times. +e never held forth> his ideas were really not vital enough for it, he was too confused and emotional. ;ow he blushed and looked uncomfortable. .Well8 he said, .being myself hors de combat, I dont see Ive anything to say on the matter. .;ot at all, said 7ukes> .the top of yous by no means hors de combat. 3ouve got the life of the mind sound and intact. #o let us hear your ideas. .Well, stammered lifford, .even then I dont suppose I have much idea . . . I suppose marry*and* have*done*with*it would pretty well stand for what I think. Though of course between a man and woman who care for one another, it is a great thing. .What sort of great thing: said Tommy. .Oh . . . it perfects the intimacy, said lifford, uneasy as a woman in such talk. .Well, harlie and I believe that se) is a sort of communication like speech. /et any woman start a se) conversation with me, and its natural for me to go to bed with her to finish it, all in due season. =nfortunately no woman makes any particular start with me, so I go to bed by myself> and am none the worse for it . . . I hope so, anyway, for how should I know: !nyhow Ive no starry calculations to be interfered with, and no immortal works to write. Im merely a fellow skulking in the army . . . #ilence fell. The four men smoked. !nd onnie sat there and put another stitch in her sewing . . . 3es, she sat there8 #he had to sit mum. #he had to be 0uiet as a mouse, not to interfere with the immensely important speculations of these highly*mental gentlemen. 2ut she had to be there. They didnt get on so well without her> their ideas didnt flow so freely. lifford was much more hedgy and nervous, he got cold feet much 0uicker in onnies absence, and the talk didnt run. Tommy 7ukes came off best> he was a little inspired by her presence. +ammond she didnt really like> he seemed so selfish in a mental way. !nd harles 1ay, though she liked something about him, seemed a little distasteful and messy, in spite of his stars. +ow many evenings had onnie sat and listened to the manifestations of these four men8 these, and one or two others. That they never seemed to get anywhere didnt trouble her deeply. #he liked to hear what they had to say, especially when Tommy was there. It was fun. Instead of men kissing you, and touching you with their bodies, they revealed their minds to you. It was great fun8 2ut what cold minds8 !nd also it was a little irritating. #he had more respect for 1ichaelis, on whose name they all poured such withering contempt, as a little mongrel arriviste, and uneducated bounder of the worst sort. 1ongrel and bounder or not, he 4umped to his own conclusions. +e didnt merely walk round them with millions of words, in the parade of the life of the mind.

onnie 0uite liked the life of the mind, and got a great thrill out of it. 2ut she did think it overdid itself a little. #he loved being there, amidst the tobacco smoke of those famous evenings of the cronies, as she called them privately to herself. #he was infinitely amused, and proud too, that even their talking they could not do, without her silent presence. #he had an immense respect for thought . . . and these men, at least, tried to think honestly. 2ut somehow there was a cat, and it wouldnt 4ump. They all alike talked at something, though what it was, for the life of her she couldnt say. It was something that 1ick didnt clear, either. 2ut then 1ick wasnt trying to do anything, but 4ust get through his life, and put as much across other people as they tried to put across him. +e was really anti*social, which was what lifford and his cronies had against him. lifford and his cronies were not anti*social> they were more or less bent on saving mankind, or on instructing it, to say the least. There was a gorgeous talk on #unday evening, when the conversation drifted again to love. .2lest be the tie that binds Our hearts in kindred something*or*other 9 said Tommy 7ukes. .Id like to know what the tie is . . . The tie that binds us 4ust now is mental friction on one another. !nd, apart from that, theres damned little tie between us. We bust apart, and say spiteful things about one another, like all the other damned intellectuals in the world. 7amned everybodies, as far as that goes, for they all do it. (lse we bust apart, and cover up the spiteful things we feel against one another by saying false sugaries. Its a curious thing that the mental life seems to flourish with its roots in spite, ineffable and fathomless spite. !lways has been so8 /ook at #ocrates, in 6lato, and his bunch round him8 The sheer spite of it all, 4ust sheer 4oy in pulling somebody else to bits . . . 6rotagoras, or whoever it was8 !nd !lcibiades, and all the other little disciple dogs 4oining in the fray8 I must say it makes one prefer 2uddha, 0uietly sitting under a bo*tree, or Gesus, telling his disciples little #unday stories, peacefully, and without any mental fireworks. ;o, theres something wrong with the mental life, radically. Its rooted in spite and envy, envy and spite. 3e shall know the tree by its fruit. .I dont think were altogether so spiteful, protested lifford. .1y dear lifford, think of the way we talk each other over, all of us. Im rather worse than anybody else, myself. 2ecause I infinitely prefer the spontaneous spite to the concocted sugaries> now they are poison> when I begin saying what a fine fellow lifford is, etc., etc., then poor lifford is to be pitied. 'or @ods sake, all of you, say spiteful things about me, then I shall know I mean something to you. 7ont say sugaries, or Im done. .Oh, but I do think we honestly like one another, said +ammond. .I tell you we must . . . we say such spiteful things to one another, about one another, behind our backs8 Im the worst. .!nd I do think you confuse the mental life with the critical activity. I agree with you, #ocrates gave the critical activity a grand start, but he did more than that, said harlie 1ay, rather magisterially. The cronies had such a curious pomposity under their assumed modesty. It was all so e' $athedra, and it all pretended to be so humble. 7ukes refused to be drawn about #ocrates. .Thats 0uite true, criticism and knowledge are not the same thing, said +ammond. .They arent, of course, chimed in 2erry, a brown, shy young man, who had called to see 7ukes, and was staying the night. They all looked at him as if the ass had spoken. .I wasnt talking about knowledge . . . I was talking about the mental life, laughed 7ukes. .5eal knowledge comes out of the whole corpus of the consciousness> out of your belly and your penis as much as out of your brain and mind. The mind can only analyse and rationali"e. #et the mind and

the reason to cock it over the rest, and all they can do is to critici"e, and make a deadness. I say all they can do. It is vastly important. 1y @od, the world needs critici"ing today . . . critici"ing to death. Therefore lets live the mental life, and glory in our spite, and strip the rotten old show. 2ut, mind you, its like this: while you live your life, you are in some way an Organic whole with all life. 2ut once you start the mental life you pluck the apple. 3ouve severed the conne)ion between, the apple and the tree: the organic conne)ion. !nd if youve got nothing in your life but the mental life, then you yourself are a plucked apple . . . youve fallen off the tree. !nd then it is a logical necessity to be spiteful, 4ust as its a natural necessity for a plucked apple to go bad. lifford made big eyes: it was all stuff to him. onnie secretly laughed to herself. .Well then were all plucked apples, said +ammond, rather acidly and petulantly. .#o lets make cider of ourselves, said harlie. .2ut what do you think of 2olshevism: put in the brown 2erry, as if everything had led up to it. .2ravo8 roared harlie. .What do you think of 2olshevism: . ome on8 /ets make hay of 2olshevism8 said 7ukes. .Im afraid 2olshevism is a large 0uestion, said +ammond, shaking his head seriously. .2olshevism, it seems to me, said harlie, .is 4ust a superlative hatred of the thing they call the bourgeois> and what the bourgeois is, isnt 0uite defined. It is apitalism, among other things. 'eelings and emotions are also so decidedly bourgeois that you have to invent a man without them. .Then the individual, especially the personal man, is bourgeois: so he must be suppressed. 3ou must submerge yourselves in the greater thing, the #oviet*social thing. (ven an organism is bourgeois: so the ideal must be mechanical. The only thing that is a unit, non*organic, composed of many different, yet e0ually essential parts, is the machine. (ach man a machine*part, and the driving power of the machine, hate . . . hate of the bourgeois. That, to me, is 2olshevism. .!bsolutely8 said Tommy. .2ut also, it seems to me a perfect description of the whole of the industrial ideal. Its the factory*owners ideal in a nut*shell> e)cept that he would deny that the driving power was hate. +ate it is, all the same> hate of life itself. Gust look at these 1idlands, if it isnt plainly written up . . . but its all part of the life of the mind, its a logical development. .I deny that 2olshevism is logical, it re4ects the ma4or part of the premisses, said +ammond. .1y dear man, it allows the material premiss> so does the pure mind . . . e)clusively. .!t least 2olshevism has got down to rock bottom, said harlie. .5ock bottom8 The bottom that has no bottom8 The 2olshevists will have the finest army in the world in a very short time, with the finest mechanical e0uipment. .2ut this thing cant go on . . . this hate business. There must be a reaction . . . said +ammond. .Well, weve been waiting for years . . . we wait longer. +ates a growing thing like anything else. Its the inevitable outcome of forcing ideas on to life, of forcing ones deepest instincts> our deepest feelings we force according to certain ideas. We drive ourselves with a formula, like a machine. The logical mind pretends to rule the roost, and the roost turns into pure hate. Were all 2olshevists, only we are hypocrites. The 5ussians are 2olshevists without hypocrisy. .2ut there are many other ways, said +ammond, .than the #oviet way. The 2olshevists arent really intelligent. .Of course not. 2ut sometimes its intelligent to be half*witted: if you want to make your end. 6ersonally, I consider 2olshevism half*witted> but so do I consider our social life in the west half* witted. #o I even consider our far*famed mental life half*witted. Were all as cold as cretins, were all as passionless as idiots. Were all of us 2olshevists, only we give it another name. We think

were gods . . . men like gods8 Its 4ust the same as 2olshevism. One has to be human, and have a heart and a penis if one is going to escape being either a god or a 2olshevist . . . for they are the same thing: theyre both too good to be true. Out of the disapproving silence came 2errys an)ious 0uestion: .3ou do believe in love then, Tommy, dont you: .3ou lovely lad8 said Tommy. .;o, my cherub, nine times out of ten, no8 /oves another of those half*witted performances today. 'ellows with swaying waists fucking little 4a"" girls with small boy buttocks, like two collar studs8 7o you mean that sort of love: Or the 4oint*property, make*a* success*of*it, 1y*husband*my*wife sort of love: ;o, my fine fellow, I dont believe in it at all8 .2ut you do believe in something: .1e: Oh, intellectually I believe in having a good heart, a chirpy penis, a lively intelligence, and the courage to say Hshit8I in front of a lady. .Well, youve got them all, said 2erry. Tommy 7ukes roared with laughter. .3ou angel boy8 If only I had8 If only I had8 ;o> my hearts as numb as a potato, my penis droops and never lifts its head up, I dare rather cut him clean off than say Hshit8I in front of my mother or my aunt . . . they are real ladies, mind you> and Im not really intelligent, Im only a Hmental*liferI. It would be wonderful to be intelligent: then one would be alive in all the parts mentioned and unmentionable. The penis rouses his head and says: +ow do you do: 9 to any really intelligent person. 5enoir said he painted his pictures with his penis . . . he did too, lovely pictures8 I wish I did something with mine. @od8 when one can only talk8 !nother torture added to +ades8 !nd #ocrates started it. .There are nice women in the world, said onnie, lifting her head up and speaking at last. The men resented it . . . she should have pretended to hear nothing. They hated her admitting she had attended so closely to such talk. .1y @od8 H(f they be not nice to me )hat care ( how nice they be:I .;o, its hopeless8 I 4ust simply cant vibrate in unison with a woman. Theres no woman I can really want when Im faced with her, and Im not going to start forcing myself to it . . . 1y @od, no8 Ill remain as I am, and lead the mental life. Its the only honest thing I can do. I can be 0uite happy talking to women> but its all pure, hopelessly pure. +opelessly pure8 What do you say, +ildebrand, my chicken: .Its much less complicated if one stays pure, said 2erry. .3es, life is all too simple8

Chapter 5
On a frosty morning with a little 'ebruary sun, lifford and onnie went for a walk across the park to the wood. That is, lifford chuffed in his motor*chair, and onnie walked beside him. The hard air was still sulphurous, but they were both used to it. 5ound the near hori"on went the ha"e, opalescent with frost and smoke, and on the top lay the small blue sky> so that it was like being inside an enclosure, always inside. /ife always a dream or a fren"y, inside an enclosure. The sheep coughed in the rough, sere grass of the park, where frost lay bluish in the sockets of the tufts. !cross the park ran a path to the wood*gate, a fine ribbon of pink. lifford had had it newly gravelled with sifted gravel from the pit*bank. When the rock and refuse of the underworld had burned and given off its sulphur, it turned bright pink, shrimp*coloured on dry days, darker, crab* coloured on wet. ;ow it was pale shrimp*colour, with a bluish*white hoar of frost. It always pleased

onnie, this underfoot of sifted, bright pink. Its an ill wind that brings nobody good. lifford steered cautiously down the slope of the knoll from the hall, and onnie kept her hand on the chair. In front lay the wood, the ha"el thicket nearest, the purplish density of oaks beyond. 'rom the woods edge rabbits bobbed and nibbled. 5ooks suddenly rose in a black train, and went trailing off over the little sky. onnie opened the wood*gate, and lifford puffed slowly through into the broad riding that ran up an incline between the clean*whipped thickets of the ha"el. The wood was a remnant of the great forest where 5obin +ood hunted, and this riding was an old, old thoroughfare coming across country. 2ut now, of course, it was only a riding through the private wood. The road from 1ansfield swerved round to the north. In the wood everything was motionless, the old leaves on the ground keeping the frost on their underside. ! 4ay called harshly, many little birds fluttered. 2ut there was no game> no pheasants. They had been killed off during the war, and the wood had been left unprotected, till now lifford had got his game*keeper again. lifford loved the wood> he loved the old oak*trees. +e felt they were his own through generations. +e wanted to protect them. +e wanted this place inviolate, shut off from the world. The chair chuffed slowly up the incline, rocking and 4olting on the fro"en clods. !nd suddenly, on the left, came a clearing where there was nothing but a ravel of dead bracken, a thin and spindly sapling leaning here and there, big sawn stumps, showing their tops and their grasping roots, lifeless. !nd patches of blackness where the woodmen had burned the brushwood and rubbish. This was one of the places that #ir @eoffrey had cut during the war for trench timber. The whole knoll, which rose softly on the right of the riding, was denuded and strangely forlorn. On the crown of the knoll where the oaks had stood, now was bareness> and from there you could look out over the trees to the colliery railway, and the new works at #tacks @ate. onnie had stood and looked, it was a breach in the pure seclusion of the wood. It let in the world. 2ut she didnt tell lifford. This denuded place always made lifford curiously angry. +e had been through the war, had seen what it meant. 2ut he didnt get really angry till he saw this bare hill. +e was having it replanted. 2ut it made him hate #ir @eoffrey. lifford sat with a fi)ed face as the chair slowly mounted. When they came to the top of the rise he stopped> he would not risk the long and very 4olty down*slope. +e sat looking at the greenish sweep of the riding downwards, a clear way through the bracken and oaks. It swerved at the bottom of the hill and disappeared> but it had such a lovely easy curve, of knights riding and ladies on palfreys. .I consider this is really the heart of (ngland, said lifford to onnie, as he sat there in the dim 'ebruary sunshine. .7o you: she said, seating herself in her blue knitted dress, on a stump by the path. .I do8 this is the old (ngland, the heart of it> and I intend to keep it intact. .Oh yes8 said onnie. 2ut, as she said it she heard the eleven*oclock hooters at #tacks @ate colliery. lifford was too used to the sound to notice. .I want this wood perfect . . . untouched. I want nobody to trespass in it, said lifford. There was a certain pathos. The wood still had some of the mystery of wild, old (ngland> but #ir @eoffreys cuttings during the war had given it a blow. +ow still the trees were, with their crinkly, innumerable twigs against the sky, and their grey, obstinate trunks rising from the brown bracken8 +ow safely the birds flitted among them8 !nd once there had been deer, and archers, and monks padding along on asses. The place remembered, still remembered. lifford sat in the pale sun, with the light on his smooth, rather blond hair, his reddish full face inscrutable.

.I mind more, not having a son, when I come here, than any other time, he said. .2ut the wood is older than your family, said onnie gently. .Fuite8 said lifford. .2ut weve preserved it. ()cept for us it would go . . . it would be gone already, like the rest of the forest. One must preserve some of the old (ngland8 .1ust one: said onnie. .If it has to be preserved, and preserved against the new (ngland: Its sad, I know. .If some of the old (ngland isnt preserved, therell be no (ngland at all, said lifford. .!nd we who have this kind of property, and the feeling for it, must preserve it. There was a sad pause. .3es, for a little while, said onnie. .'or a little while8 Its all we can do. We can only do our bit. I feel every man of my family has done his bit here, since weve had the place. One may go against convention, but one must keep up tradition. !gain there was a pause. .What tradition: asked onnie. .The tradition of (ngland8 of this8 .3es, she said slowly. .Thats why having a son helps> one is only a link in a chain, he said. onnie was not keen on chains, but she said nothing. #he was thinking of the curious impersonality of his desire for a son. .Im sorry we cant have a son, she said. +e looked at her steadily, with his full, pale*blue eyes. .It would almost be a good thing if you had a child by another man, he said. .If we brought it up at Wragby, it would belong to us and to the place. I dont believe very intensely in fatherhood. If we had the child to rear, it would be our own, and it would carry on. 7ont you think its worth considering: onnie looked up at him at last. The child, her child, was 4ust an .it to him. It . . . it . . . it8 .2ut what about the other man: she asked. .7oes it matter very much: 7o these things really affect us very deeply: . . . 3ou had that lover in @ermany . . . what is it now: ;othing almost. It seems to me that it isnt these little acts and little conne)ions we make in our lives that matter so very much. They pass away, and where are they: Where . . . Where are the snows of yesteryear: . . . Its what endures through ones life that matters> my own life matters to me, in its long continuance and development. 2ut what do the occasional conne)ions matter: !nd the occasional se)ual conne)ions especially8 If people dont e)aggerate them ridiculously, they pass like the mating of birds. !nd so they should. What does it matter: Its the life*long companionship that matters. Its the living together from day to day, not the sleeping together once or twice. 3ou and I are married, no matter what happens to us. We have the habit of each other. !nd habit, to my thinking, is more vital than any occasional e)citement. The long, slow, enduring thing . . . thats what we live by . . . not the occasional spasm of any sort. /ittle by little, living together, two people fall into a sort of unison, they vibrate so intricately to one another. Thats the real secret of marriage, not se)> at least not the simple function of se). 3ou and I are interwoven in a marriage. If we stick to that we ought to be able to arrange this se) thing, as we arrange going to the dentist> since fate has given us a checkmate physically there. onnie sat and listened in a sort of wonder, and a sort of fear. #he did not know if he was right or not. There was 1ichaelis, whom she loved> so she said to herself. 2ut her love was somehow only an e)cursion from her marriage with lifford> the long, slow habit of intimacy, formed through

years of suffering and patience. 6erhaps the human soul needs e)cursions, and must not be denied them. 2ut the point of an e)cursion is that you come home again. .!nd wouldnt you mind what mans child I had: she asked. .Why, onnie, I should trust your natural instinct of decency and selection. 3ou 4ust wouldnt let the wrong sort of fellow touch you. #he thought of 1ichaelis8 +e was absolutely liffords idea of the wrong sort of fellow. .2ut men and women may have different feelings about the wrong sort of fellow, she said. .;o, he replied. .3ou care for me. I dont believe you would ever care for a man who was purely antipathetic to me. 3our rhythm wouldnt let you. #he was silent. /ogic might be unanswerable because it was so absolutely wrong. .!nd should you e)pect me to tell you: she asked, glancing up at him almost furtively. .;ot at all, Id better not know . . . 2ut you do agree with me, dont you, that the casual se) thing is nothing, compared to the long life lived together: 7ont you think one can 4ust subordinate the se) thing to the necessities of a long life: Gust use it, since thats what were driven to: !fter all, do these temporary e)citements matter: Isnt the whole problem of life the slow building up of an integral personality, through the years: living an integrated life: Theres no point in a disintegrated life. If lack of se) is going to disintegrate you, then go out and have a love*affair. If lack of a child is going to disintegrate you, then have a child if you possibly can. 2ut only do these things so that you have an integrated life, that makes a long harmonious thing. !nd you and I can do that together . . . dont you think: . . . if we adapt ourselves to the necessities, and at the same time weave the adaptation together into a piece with our steadily*lived life. 7ont you agree: onnie was a little overwhelmed by his words. #he knew he was right theoretically. 2ut when she actually touched her steadily*lived life with him she . . . hesitated. Was it actually her destiny to go on weaving herself into his life all the rest of her life: ;othing else: Was it 4ust that: #he was to be content to weave a steady life with him, all one fabric, but perhaps brocaded with the occasional flower of an adventure. 2ut how could she know what she would feel ne)t year: +ow could one ever know: +ow could one say 3es: for years and years: The little yes, gone on a breath8 Why should one be pinned down by that butterfly word: Of course it had to flutter away and be gone, to be followed by other yess and nos8 /ike the straying of butterflies. .I think youre right, lifford. !nd as far as I can see I agree with you. Only life may turn 0uite a new face on it all. .2ut until life turns a new face on it all, you do agree: .Oh yes8 I think I do, really. #he was watching a brown spaniel that had run out of a side*path, and was looking towards them with lifted nose, making a soft, fluffy bark. ! man with a gun strode swiftly, softly out after the dog, facing their way as if about to attack them> then stopped instead, saluted, and was turning downhill. It was only the new game*keeper, but he had frightened onnie, he seemed to emerge with such a swift menace. That was how she had seen him, like the sudden rush of a threat out of nowhere. +e was a man in dark green velveteens and gaiters . . . the old style, with a red face and red moustache and distant eyes. +e was going 0uickly downhill. .1ellors8 called lifford. The man faced lightly round, and saluted with a 0uick little gesture, a soldier8 .Will you turn the chair round and get it started: That makes it easier, said lifford. The man at once slung his gun over his shoulder, and came forward with the same curious swift, yet

soft movements, as if keeping invisible. +e was moderately tall and lean, and was silent. +e did not look at onnie at all, only at the chair. . onnie, this is the new game*keeper, 1ellors. 3ou havent spoken to her ladyship yet, 1ellors: .;o, #ir8 came the ready, neutral words. The man lifted his hat as he stood, showing his thick, almost fair hair. +e stared straight into onnies eyes, with a perfect, fearless, impersonal look, as if he wanted to see what she was like. +e made her feel shy. #he bent her head to him shyly, and he changed his hat to his left hand and made her a slight bow, like a gentleman> but he said nothing at all. +e remained for a moment still, with his hat in his hand. .2ut youve been here some time, havent you: onnie said to him. .(ight months, 1adam . . . your /adyship8 he corrected himself calmly. .!nd do you like it: #he looked him in the eyes. +is eyes narrowed a little, with irony, perhaps with impudence. .Why, yes, thank you, your /adyship8 I was reared here . . . +e gave another slight bow, turned, put his hat on, and strode to take hold of the chair. +is voice on the last words had fallen into the heavy broad drag of the dialect . . . perhaps also in mockery, because there had been no trace of dialect before. +e might almost be a gentleman. !nyhow, he was a curious, 0uick, separate fellow, alone, but sure of himself. lifford started the little engine, the man carefully turned the chair, and set it nose*forwards to the incline that curved gently to the dark ha"el thicket. .Is that all then, #ir lifford: asked the man. .;o, youd better come along in case she sticks. The engine isnt really strong enough for the uphill work. The man glanced round for his dog . . . a thoughtful glance. The spaniel looked at him and faintly moved its tail. ! little smile, mocking or teasing her, yet gentle, came into his eyes for a moment, then faded away, and his face was e)pressionless. They went fairly 0uickly down the slope, the man with his hand on the rail of the chair, steadying it. +e looked like a free soldier rather than a servant. !nd something about him reminded onnie of Tommy 7ukes. When they came to the ha"el grove, onnie suddenly ran forward, and opened the gate into the park. !s she stood holding it, the two men looked at her in passing, lifford critically, the other man with a curious, cool wonder> impersonally wanting to see what she looked like. !nd she saw in his blue, impersonal eyes a look of suffering and detachment, yet a certain warmth. 2ut why was he so aloof, apart: lifford stopped the chair, once through the gate, and the man came 0uickly, courteously, to close it. .Why did you run to open: asked lifford in his 0uiet, calm voice, that showed he was displeased. .1ellors would have done it. .I thought you would go straight ahead, said onnie. .!nd leave you to run after us: said lifford. .Oh, well, I like to run sometimes8 1ellors took the chair again, looking perfectly unheeding, yet onnie felt he noted everything. !s he pushed the chair up the steepish rise of the knoll in the park, he breathed rather 0uickly, through parted lips. +e was rather frail really. uriously full of vitality, but a little frail and 0uenched. +er womans instinct sensed it. onnie fell back, let the chair go on. The day had greyed over> the small blue sky that had poised low on its circular rims of ha"e was closed in again, the lid was down, there was a raw coldness. It was going to snow. !ll grey, all grey8 the world looked worn out.

The chair waited at the top of the pink path. lifford looked round for onnie. .;ot tired, are you: he said. .Oh, no8 she said. 2ut she was. ! strange, weary yearning, a dissatisfaction had started in her. lifford did not notice: those were not things he was aware of. 2ut the stranger knew. To onnie, everything in her world and life seemed worn out, and her dissatisfaction was older than the hills. They came to the house, and around to the back, where there were no steps. lifford managed to swing himself over on to the low, wheeled house*chair> he was very strong and agile with his arms. Then onnie lifted the burden of his dead legs after him. The keeper, waiting at attention to be dismissed, watched everything narrowly, missing nothing. +e went pale, with a sort of fear, when he saw onnie lifting the inert legs of the man in her arms, into the other chair, lifford pivoting round as she did so. +e was frightened. .Thanks, then, for the help, 1ellors, said lifford casually, as he began to wheel down the passage to the servants 0uarters. .;othing else, #ir: came the neutral voice, like one in a dream. .;othing, good morning8 .@ood morning, #ir. .@ood morning8 it was kind of you to push the chair up that hill . . . I hope it wasnt heavy for you, said onnie, looking back at the keeper outside the door. +is eyes came to hers in an instant, as if wakened up. +e was aware of her. .Oh no, not heavy8 he said 0uickly. Then his voice dropped again into the broad sound of the vernacular: .@ood mornin to your /adyship8 .Who is your game*keeper: onnie asked at lunch. .1ellors8 3ou saw him, said lifford. .3es, but where did he come from: .;owhere8 +e was a Tevershall boy . . . son of a collier, I believe. .!nd was he a collier himself: .2lacksmith on the pit*bank, I believe: overhead smith. 2ut he was keeper here for two years before the war . . . before he 4oined up. 1y father always had a good Opinion of him, so when he came back, and went to the pit for a blacksmiths 4ob, I 4ust took him back here as keeper. I was really very glad to get him . . . its almost impossible to find a good man round here for a gamekeeper . . . and it needs a man who knows the people. .!nd isnt he married: .+e was. 2ut his wife went off with . . . with various men . . . but finally with a collier at #tacks @ate, and I believe shes living there still. .#o this man is alone: .1ore or less8 +e has a mother in the village . . . and a child, I believe. lifford looked at onnie, with his pale, slightly prominent blue eyes, in which a certain vagueness was coming. +e seemed alert in the foreground, but the background was like the 1idlands atmosphere, ha"e, smoky mist. !nd the ha"e seemed to be creeping forward. #o when he stared at onnie in his peculiar way, giving her his peculiar, precise information, she felt all the background of his mind filling up with mist, with nothingness. !nd it frightened her. It made him seem

impersonal, almost to idiocy. !nd dimly she reali"ed 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. 2ut this is only appearance. It is really only the mechanism of the re*assumed habit. #lowly, 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. !nd when we think we have recovered and forgotten, it is then that the terrible after*effects have to be encountered at their worst. #o it was with lifford. 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 e0uanimity. 2ut now, as the years went by, slowly, slowly, onnie felt the bruise of fear and horror coming up, and spreading in him. 'or a time it had been so deep as to be numb, as it were non*e)istent. ;ow slowly it began to assert itself in a spread of fear, almost paralysis. 1entally he still was alert. 2ut the paralysis, the bruise of the too*great shock, was gradually spreading in his affective self. !nd as it spread in him, onnie felt it spread in her. !n inward dread, an emptiness, an indifference to everything gradually spread in her soul. When lifford was roused, 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. 2ut 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. #o it seemed to her everywhere. The colliers at Tevershall were talking again of a strike, and it seemed to onnie 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. !nd it would need a new hope. 6oor onnie8 !s the years drew on it was the fear of nothingness In her life that affected her. liffords 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, 4ust so many words. The only reality was nothingness, and over it a hypocrisy of words. There was liffords success: the bitch*goddess8 It was true he was almost famous, and his books brought him in a thousand pounds. +is photograph appeared everywhere. There was a bust of him in one of the galleries, and a portrait of him in two galleries. +e 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, onnie did not 0uite see. lifford was really clever at that slightly humorous analysis of people and motives which leaves everything in bits at the end. 2ut it was rather like puppies tearing the sofa cushions to bits> e)cept 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 onnies soul: it was all flag, a wonderful display of nothingness> !t the same time a display. ! display8 a display8 a display8 1ichaelis had sei"ed upon lifford as the central figure for a play> already he had sketched in the plot, and written the first act. 'or 1ichaelis was even better than lifford at making a display of nothingness. It was the last bit of passion left in these men: the passion for making a display. #e)ually they were passionless, even dead. !nd now it was not money that 1ichaelis was after. lifford had never been primarily out for money, though he made it where he could, for money is the seal and stamp of success. !nd success was what they wanted. They wanted, both of them, to make a real display . . . a mans own very display of himself that should capture for a time the vast

populace. It was strange . . . the prostitution to the bitch*goddess. To onnie, since she was really outside of it, and since she had grown numb to the thrill of it, it was again nothingness. (ven the prostitution to the bitch*goddess was nothingness, though the men prostituted themselves innumerable times. ;othingness even that. 1ichaelis wrote to lifford about the play. Of course she knew about it long ago. !nd lifford was again thrilled. +e was going to be displayed again this time, somebody was going to display him, and to advantage. +e invited 1ichaelis down to Wragby with !ct I. 1ichaelis came: in summer, in a pale*coloured suit and white suede gloves, with mauve orchids for onnie, very lovely, and !ct I was a great success. (ven onnie was thrilled . . . thrilled to what bit of marrow she had left. !nd 1ichaelis, thrilled by his power to thrill, was really wonderful . . . and 0uite beautiful, in onnies eyes. #he saw in him that ancient motionlessness of a race that cant be disillusioned any more, an e)treme, perhaps, of impurity that is pure. On the far side of his supreme prostitution to the bitch*goddess he seemed pure, pure as an !frican ivory mask that dreams impurity into purity, in its ivory curves and planes. +is moment of sheer thrill with the two hatterleys, when he simply carried onnie and lifford away, was one of the supreme moments of 1ichaelis life. +e had succeeded: he had carried them away. (ven lifford was temporarily in love with him . . . if that is the way one can put it. #o ne)t morning 1ick was more uneasy than ever> restless, devoured, with his hands restless in his trousers pockets. onnie had not visited him in the night . . . and he had not known where to find her. o0uetry8 . . . at his moment of triumph. +e went up to her sitting*room in the morning. #he knew he would come. !nd his restlessness was evident. +e asked her about his play . . . did she think it good: +e had to hear it praised: that affected him with the last thin thrill of passion beyond any se)ual orgasm. !nd she praised it rapturously. 3et all the while, at the bottom of her soul, she knew it was nothing. ./ook here8 he said suddenly at last. .Why dont you and I make a clean thing of it: Why dont we marry: .2ut I am married, she said, ama"ed, and yet feeling nothing. .Oh that8 . . . hell divorce you all right . . . Why dont 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. /ook here, you and I, were made for one another . . . hand and glove. Why dont we marry: 7o you see any reason why we shouldnt: onnie looked at him ama"ed: and yet she felt nothing. These men, they were all alike, they left everything out. They 4ust went off from the top of their heads as if they were s0uibs, and e)pected you to be carried heavenwards along with their own thin sticks. .2ut I am married already, she said. .I cant leave lifford, you know. .Why not: but why not: he cried. .+ell hardly know youve gone, after si) months. +e doesnt know that anybody e)ists, e)cept himself. Why the man has no use for you at all, as far as I can see> hes entirely wrapped up in himself. onnie felt there was truth in this. 2ut she also felt that 1ick was hardly making a display of selflessness. .!rent all men wrapped up in themselves: she asked. .Oh, more or less, I allow. ! mans got to be, to get through. 2ut thats not the point. The point is, what sort of a time can a man give a woman: an he give her a damn good time, or cant he: If he cant hes no right to the woman . . . +e paused and ga"ed at her with his full, ha"el eyes, almost hypnotic. .;ow I consider, he added, .I can give a woman the darndest good time she can ask for. I

think I can guarantee myself. .!nd what sort of a good time: asked onnie, ga"ing on him still with a sort of ama"ement, that looked like thrill> and underneath feeling nothing at all. .(very sort of a good time, damn it, every sort8 7ress, 4ewels up to a point, any nightclub you like, know anybody you want to know, live the pace . . . travel and be somebody wherever you go . . . 7arn it, every sort of good time. +e spoke it almost in a brilliancy of triumph, and onnie looked at him as if da""led, and really feeling nothing at all. +ardly even the surface of her mind was tickled at the glowing prospects he offered her. +ardly even her most outside self responded, that at any other time would have been thrilled. #he 4ust got no feeling from it, she couldnt .go off. #he 4ust sat and stared and looked da""led, and felt nothing, only somewhere she smelt the e)traordinarily unpleasant smell of the bitch*goddess. 1ick sat on tenterhooks, leaning forward in his chair, glaring at her almost hysterically: and whether he was more an)ious out of vanity for her to say 3es8 or whether he was more panic* stricken for fear she should say 3es8 9 who can tell: .I should have to think about it, she said. .I couldnt say now. It may seem to you lifford doesnt count, but he does. When you think how disabled he is . . . .Oh damn it all8 If a fellows 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*2etty*1artin sob*stuff8 7amn it all, if a fellows got nothing but disabilities to recommend him . . . +e turned aside, working his hands furiously in his trousers pockets. That evening he said to her: .3oure coming round to my room tonight, arent you: I dont darn know where your room is. .!ll right8 she said. +e was a more e)cited lover that night, with his strange, small boys frail nakedness. onnie found it impossible to come to her crisis before he had really finished his. !nd he roused a certain craving passion in her, with his little boys 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: .3ou couldnt go off at the same time as a man, could you: 3oud have to bring yourself off8 3oud have to run the show8 This little speech, at the moment, was one of the shocks of her life. 2ecause that passive sort of giving himself was so obviously his only real mode of intercourse. .What do you mean: she said. .3ou know what I mean. 3ou keep on for hours after Ive gone off . . . and I have to hang on with my teeth till you bring yourself off by your own e)ertions. #he was stunned by this une)pected piece of brutality, at the moment when she was glowing with a sort of pleasure beyond words, and a sort of love for him. 2ecause, after all, like so many modern men, he was finished almost before he had begun. !nd that forced the woman to be active. .2ut you want me to go on, to get my own satisfaction: she said. +e laughed grimly: .I want it8 he said. .Thats good8 I want to hang on with my teeth clenched, while you go for me8 .2ut dont you: she insisted. +e avoided the 0uestion. .!ll the darned women are like that, he said. .(ither they dont go off at

all, as if they were dead in there . . . or else they wait till a chaps really done, and then they start in to bring themselves off, and a chaps got to hang on. I never had a woman yet who went off 4ust at the same moment as I did. onnie only half heard this piece of novel, masculine information. #he was only stunned by his feeling against her . . . his incomprehensible brutality. #he felt so innocent. .2ut you want me to have my satisfaction too, dont you: she repeated. .Oh, all right8 Im 0uite willing. 2ut Im 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 onnies life. It killed something in her. #he had not been so very keen on 1ichaelis> till he started it, she did not want him. It was as if she never positively wanted him. 2ut once he had started her, it seemed only natural for her to come to her own crisis with him. !lmost she had loved him for it . . . almost that night she loved him, and wanted to marry him. 6erhaps instinctively he knew it, and that was why he had to bring down the whole show with a smash> the house of cards. +er whole se)ual feeling for him, or for any man, collapsed that night. +er life fell apart from his as completely as if he had never e)isted. !nd she went through the days drearily. There was nothing now but this empty treadmill of what lifford 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. ;othingness8 To accept the great nothingness of life seemed to be the one end of living. !ll the many busy and important little things that make up the grand sum*total of nothingness8

Chapter 6
.Why dont men and women really like one another nowadays: onnie asked Tommy 7ukes, who was more or less her oracle. .Oh, but they do8 I dont 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. @enuine liking8 Take myself. I really like women better than men> they are braver, one can be more frank with them. onnie pondered this. .!h, yes, but you never have anything to do with them8 she said. .I: What am I doing but talking perfectly sincerely to a woman at this moment: .3es, talking . . . .!nd what more could I do if you were a man, than talk perfectly sincerely to you: .;othing perhaps. 2ut a woman . . . .! 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 e)clusive. .2ut they shouldnt be8 .;o doubt water ought not to be so wet as it is> it overdoes it in wetness. 2ut there it is8 I like women and talk to them, and therefore I dont love them and desire them. The two things dont happen at the same time in me. .I think they ought to. .!ll right. The fact that things ought to be something else than what they are, is not my department. onnie considered this. .It isnt true, she said. .1en can love women and talk to them. I dont see

how they can love them without talking, and being friendly and intimate. +ow can they: .Well, he said, .I dont know. Whats the use of my generali"ing: I only know my own case. I like women, but I dont 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. #o there you are8 2ut dont take me as a general e)ample, probably Im 4ust a special case: one of the men who like women, but dont love women, and even hate them if they force me into a pretence of love, or an entangled appearance. .2ut doesnt it make you sad: .Why should it: ;ot a bit8 I look at harlie 1ay, and the rest of the men who have affairs . . . ;o, I dont envy them a bit8 If fate sent me a woman I wanted, well and good. #ince I dont know any woman I want, and never see one . . . why, I presume Im cold, and really like some women very much. .7o you like me: .Dery much8 !nd you see theres no 0uestion of kissing between us, is there: .;one at all8 said onnie. .2ut oughtnt there to be: . why, in @ods name: I like lifford, but what would you say if I went and kissed him: .2ut isnt there a difference: .Where does it lie, as far as were concerned: Were all intelligent human beings, and the male and female business is in abeyance. Gust in abeyance. +ow would you like me to start acting up like a continental male at this moment, and parading the se) thing: .I should hate it. .Well then8 I tell you, if Im really a male thing at all, I never run across the female of my species. !nd I dont miss her, I 4ust like women. Whos going to force me into loving or pretending to love them, working up the se) game: .;o, Im not. 2ut isnt something wrong: .3ou may feel it, I dont. .3es, I feel something is wrong between men and women. ! woman has no glamour for a man any more. .+as a man for a woman: #he pondered the other side of the 0uestion. .;ot much, she said truthfully. .Then lets leave it all alone, and 4ust be decent and simple, like proper human beings with one another. 2e damned to the artificial se)*compulsion8 I refuse it8 onnie knew he was right, really. 3et it left her feeling so forlorn, so forlorn and stray. /ike 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. (verything seemed old and cold. !nd 1ichaelis let one down so> he was no good. The men didnt want one> they 4ust didnt really want a woman, even 1ichaelis didnt. !nd the bounders who pretended they did, and started working the se) game, they were worse than ever. It was 4ust dismal, and one had to put up with it. It was 0uite 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 1ichaelis, that was the best you could do. 1eanwhile you 4ust lived on and there was nothing to it.

#he understood perfectly well why people had cocktail parties, and 4a""ed, and harlestoned till they were ready to drop. 3ou had to take it out some way or other, your youth, or it ate you up. 2ut what a ghastly thing, this youth8 3ou felt as old as 1ethuselah, and yet the thing fi""ed somehow, and didnt let you be comfortable. ! mean sort of life8 !nd no prospect8 #he almost wished she had gone off with 1ick, and made her life one long cocktail party, and 4a"" evening. !nyhow that was better than 4ust 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. 6eople8 #he didnt want people. 2ut her 0uick ear caught another sound, and she roused> it was a child sobbing. !t once she attended> someone was ill*treating a child. #he strode swinging down the wet drive, her sullen resentment uppermost. #he felt 4ust 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. .!h, shut it up, tha false little bitch8 came the mans angry voice, and the child sobbed louder. onstance strode nearer, with bla"ing eyes. The man turned and looked at her, saluting coolly, but he was pale with anger. .Whats the matter: Why is she crying: demanded onstance, peremptory but a little breathless. ! faint smile like a sneer came on the mans face. .;ay, yo mun a) er, he replied callously, in broad vernacular. onnie 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 bla"ing rather vaguely. .I asked you, she panted. +e gave a 0ueer little bow, lifting his hat. .3ou did, your /adyship, he said> then, with a return to the vernacular: .but I canna tell yer. !nd he became a soldier, inscrutable, only pale with annoyance. onnie turned to the child, a ruddy, black*haired thing of nine or ten. .What is it, dear: Tell me why youre crying8 she said, with the conventionali"ed sweetness suitable. 1ore violent sobs, self* conscious. #till more sweetness on onnies part. .There, there, dont you cry8 Tell me what theyve done to you8 . . . an intense tenderness of tone. !t the same time she felt in the pocket of her knitted 4acket, and luckily found a si)pence. .7ont you cry then8 she said, bending in front of the child. .#ee what Ive got for you8 #obs, snuffles, a fist taken from a blubbered face, and a black shrewd eye cast for a second on the si)pence. Then more sobs, but subduing. .There, tell me whats the matter, tell me8 said onnie, putting the coin into the childs chubby hand, which closed over it. .Its the . . . its the . . . pussy8 #hudders of subsiding sobs. .What pussy, dear: !fter a silence the shy fist, clenching on si)pence, pointed into the bramble brake. .There8 onnie looked, and there, sure enough, was a big black cat, stretched out grimly, with a bit of blood on it. .Oh8 she said in repulsion.

.! poacher, your /adyship, said the man satirically. #he glanced at him angrily. .;o wonder the child cried, she said, .if you shot it when she was there. ;o wonder she cried8 +e looked into onnies eyes, laconic, contemptuous, not hiding his feelings. !nd again onnie 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. .Wont you tell me your name: #niffs> then very affectedly in a piping voice: . onnie 1ellors8 . onnie 1ellors8 Well, thats a nice name8 !nd did you come out with your 7addy, and he shot a pussy: 2ut it was a bad pussy8 The child looked at her, with bold, dark eyes of scrutiny, si"ing her up, and her condolence. .I wanted to stop with my @ran, said the little girl. .7id you: 2ut where is your @ran: The child lifted an arm, pointing down the drive. .!t th cottidge. .!t the cottage8 !nd would you like to go back to her: #udden, shuddering 0uivers of reminiscent sobs. .3es8 . ome then, shall I take you: #hall I take you to your @ran: Then your 7addy can do what he has to do. #he turned to the man. .It is your little girl, isnt it: +e saluted, and made a slight movement of the head in affirmation. .I suppose I can take her to the cottage: asked onnie. .If your /adyship wishes. !gain he looked into her eyes, with that calm, searching detached glance. ! man very much alone, and on his own. .Would you like to come with me to the cottage, to your @ran, dear: The child peeped up again. .3es8 she simpered. onnie disliked her> the spoilt, false little female. ;evertheless she wiped her face and took her hand. The keeper saluted in silence. .@ood morning8 said onnie. It was nearly a mile to the cottage, and onnie senior was well red by onnie 4unior by the time the game*keepers pictures0ue little home was in sight. The child was already as full to the brim with tricks as a little monkey, and so self*assured. !t the cottage the door stood open, and there was a rattling heard inside. onnie lingered, the child slipped her hand, and ran indoors. .@ran8 @ran8 .Why, are yer back aready8 The grandmother had been blackleading the stove, it was #aturday morning. #he came to the door in her sacking apron, a blacklead*brush in her hand, and a black smudge on her nose. #he was a little, rather dry woman. .Why, whatever: she said, hastily wiping her arm across her face as she saw onnie standing outside. .@ood morning8 said onnie. .#he was crying, so I 4ust brought her home.

The grandmother looked around swiftly at the child: .Why, wheer was yer 7ad: The little girl clung to her grandmothers skirts and simpered. .+e was there, said onnie, .but hed shot a poaching cat, and the child was upset. .Oh, youd no right tave bothered, /ady hatterley, Im sure8 Im sure it was very good of you, but you shouldnt ave bothered. Why, did ever you see8 9 and the old woman turned to the child: .'ancy /ady hatterley takin all that trouble over yer8 Why, she shouldnt ave bothered8 .It was no bother, 4ust a walk, said onnie smiling. .Why, Im sure .twas very kind of you, I must say8 #o she was crying8 I knew thered be something afore they got far. #hes frightened of im, thats wheer it is. #eems es almost a stranger to er, fair a stranger, and I dont think theyre two asd hit it off very easy. +es got funny ways. onnie didnt know what to say. ./ook, @ran8 simpered the child. The old woman looked down at the si)pence in the little girls hand. .!n si)pence an all8 Oh, your /adyship, you shouldnt, you shouldnt. Why, isnt /ady hatterley good to yer8 1y word, youre a lucky girl this morning8 #he pronounced the name, as all the people did: hatley. 9 Isnt /ady hatley good to you8 9 onnie couldnt help looking at the old womans nose, and the latter again vaguely wiped her face with the back of her wrist, but missed the smudge. onnie was moving away .Well, thank you ever so much, /ady hatley, Im sure. #ay thank you to /ady hatley8 9 this last to the child. .Thank you, piped the child. .Theres a dear8 laughed onnie, and she moved away, saying .@ood morning, heartily relieved to get away from the contact. urious, she thought, that that thin, proud man should have that little, sharp woman for a mother8 !nd the old woman, as soon as onnie had gone, rushed to the bit of mirror in the scullery, and looked at her face. #eeing it, she stamped her foot with impatience. .Of course she had to catch me in my coarse apron, and a dirty face8 ;ice idea shed get of me8 onnie went slowly home to Wragby. .+ome8 . . . it was a warm word to use for that great, weary warren. 2ut then it was a word that had had its day. It was somehow cancelled. !ll the great words, it seemed to onnie, were cancelled for her generation: love, 4oy, happiness, home, mother, father, husband, all these great, dynamic words were half dead now, and dying from day to day. +ome was a place you lived in, love was a thing you didnt fool yourself about, 4oy was a word you applied to a good harleston, happiness was a term of hypocrisy used to bluff other people, a father was an individual who en4oyed his own e)istence, a husband was a man you lived with and kept going in spirits. !s for se), the last of the great words, it was 4ust a cocktail term for an e)citement that bucked you up for a while, then left you more raggy than ever. 'rayed8 It was as if the very material you were made of was cheap stuff, and was fraying out to nothing. !ll that really remained was a stubborn stoicism: and in that there was a certain pleasure. In the very e)perience of the nothingness of life, phase after phase, tape after tape, there was a certain grisly satisfaction. #o thats that8 !lways this was the last utterance: home, love, marriage, 1ichaelis: #o thats that8 !nd when one died, the last words to life would be: #o thats that8 1oney: 6erhaps one couldnt say the same there. 1oney one always wanted. 1oney, #uccess, the bitch*goddess, as Tommy 7ukes persisted in calling it, after +enry Games, that was a permanent

necessity. 3ou couldnt spend your last sou, and say finally: #o thats that8 ;o, if you lived even another ten minutes, you wanted a few more sous for something or other. Gust to keep the business mechanically going, you needed money. 3ou had to have it. 1oney you have to have. 3ou neednt really have anything else. #o thats that8 #ince, of course, its not your own fault you are alive. Once you are alive, money is a necessity, and the only absolute necessity. !ll the rest you can get along without, at a pinch. 2ut not money. (mphatically, thats that8 #he thought of 1ichaelis, and the money she might have had with him> and even that she didnt want. #he preferred the lesser amount which she helped lifford to make by his writing. That she actually helped to make. 9 . lifford and I together, we make twelve hundred a year out of writing> so she put it to herself. 1ake money8 1ake it8 Out of nowhere. Wring it out of the thin air8 The last feat to be humanly proud of8 The rest all*my*eye*2etty*1artin. #o she plodded home to lifford, to 4oin forces with him again, to make another story out of nothingness: and a story meant money. lifford seemed to care very much whether his stories were considered first*class literature or not. #trictly, she didnt care. ;othing in it8 said her father. Twelve hundred pounds last year8 was the retort simple and final. If you were young, you 4ust set your teeth, and bit on and held on, till the money began to flow from the invisible> it was a 0uestion of power. It was a 0uestion 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*goddess8 Well, if one had to prostitute oneself, let it be to a bitch*goddess8 One could always despise her even while one prostituted oneself to her, which was good. lifford, of course, had still many childish taboos and fetishes. +e 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 4ust missed the bus. !fter all you only lived one life, and if you missed the bus, you were 4ust left on the pavement, along with the rest of the failures. onnie was contemplating a winter in /ondon with lifford, ne)t winter. +e 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, lifford tended to become vague, absent, and to fall into fits of vacant depression. It was the wound to his psyche coming out. 2ut it made onnie want to scream. Oh @od, if the mechanism of the consciousness itself was going to go wrong, then what was one to do: +ang it all, one did ones bit8 Was one to be let down absolutely: #ometimes she wept bitterly, but even as she wept she was saying to herself: #illy fool, wetting hankies8 !s if that would get you anywhere8 #ince 1ichaelis, she had made up her mind she wanted nothing. That seemed the simplest solution of the otherwise insoluble. #he wanted nothing more than what shed got> only she wanted to get ahead with what shed got: lifford, the stories, Wragby, the /ady* hatterley business, money and fame, such as it was . . . she wanted to go ahead with it all. /ove, se), all that sort of stuff, 4ust water*ices8 /ick it up and forget it. If you dont hang on to it in your mind, its nothing. #e) especially . . . nothing8 1ake up your mind to it, and youve solved the problem. #e) and a cocktail: they both lasted about as long, had the same effect, and amounted to about the same thing. 2ut a child, a baby8 That was still one of the sensations. #he would venture very gingerly on that e)periment. There was the man to consider, and it was curious, there wasnt a man in the world whose children you wanted. 1icks children8 5epulsive thought8 !s lief have a child to a rabbit8 Tommy 7ukes: he was very nice, but somehow you couldnt associate him with a baby, another generation. +e ended in himself. !nd out of all the rest of liffords pretty wide ac0uaintance, 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 0uite possible as lover, even 1ick. 2ut to let them breed a child on you8 =gh8 +umiliation and abomination. #o that was that8 ;evertheless, onnie had the child at the back of her mind. Wait8 wait8 #he would sift the generations of men through her sieve, and see if she couldnt find one who would do. 9 .@o ye into the streets and by ways of Gerusalem, and see if you can find a man. It had been impossible to find a man in the Gerusalem of the prophet, though there were thousands of male humans. 2ut a man8 $est une autre chose8 #he had an idea that he would have to be a foreigner: not an (nglishman, still less an Irishman. ! real foreigner. 2ut wait8 wait8 ;e)t winter she would get lifford to /ondon> the following winter she would get him abroad to the #outh of 'rance, Italy. Wait8 #he was in no hurry about the child. That was her own private affair, and the one point on which, in her own 0ueer, female way, she was serious to the bottom of her soul. #he was not going to risk any chance comer, not she8 One might take a lover almost at any moment, but a man who should beget a child on one . . . wait8 wait8 its a very different matter. 9 .@o ye into the streets and byways of Gerusalem . . . It was not a 0uestion of love> it was a 0uestion of a man. Why, one might even rather hate him, personally. 3et if he was the man, what would ones personal hate matter: This business concerned another part of oneself. It had rained as usual, and the paths were too sodden for liffords chair, but onnie would go out. #he went out alone every day now, mostly in the wood, where she was really alone. #he saw nobody there. This day, however, lifford wanted to send a message to the keeper, and as the boy was laid up with influen"a, somebody always seemed to have influen"a at Wragby, onnie said she would call at the cottage. The air was soft and dead, as if all the world were slowly dying. @rey 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 things8 In the wood all was utterly inert and motionless, only great drops fell from the bare boughs, with a hollow little crash. 'or the rest, among the old trees was depth within depth of grey, hopeless inertia, silence, nothingness. onnie walked dimly on. 'rom the old wood came an ancient melancholy, somehow soothing to her, better than the harsh insentience of the outer world. #he 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. 6erhaps 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. 2ut perhaps their strong and aristocratic silence, the silence of strong trees, meant something else. !s she came out of the wood on the north side, the keepers cottage, a rather dark, brown stone cottage, with gables and a handsome chimney, looked uninhabited, it was so silent and alone. 2ut 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. ;ow she was here she felt a little shy of the man, with his curious far*seeing eyes. #he did not like bringing him orders, and felt like going away again. #he knocked softly, no one came. #he knocked again, but still not loudly. There was no answer. #he peeped through the window, and saw the dark little room, with its almost sinister privacy, not wanting to be invaded. #he stood and listened, and it seemed to her she heard sounds from the back of the cottage. +aving failed to make herself heard, her mettle was roused, she would not be defeated.

#o she went round the side of the house. !t the back of the cottage the land rose steeply, so the back yard was sunken, and enclosed by a low stone wall. #he turned the corner of the house and stopped. In the little yard two paces beyond her, the man was washing himself, utterly unaware. +e was naked to the hips, his velveteen breeches slipping down over his slender loins. !nd his white slim back was curved over a big bowl of soapy water, in which he ducked his head, shaking his head with a 0ueer, 0uick little motion, lifting his slender white arms, and pressing the soapy water from his ears, 0uick, subtle as a weasel playing with water, and utterly alone. onnie backed away round the corner of the house, and hurried away to the wood. In spite of herself, she had had a shock. !fter all, merely a man washing himself, commonplace enough, +eaven knows8 3et in some curious way it was a visionary e)perience: it had hit her in the middle of the body. #he 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. 6erfect, white, solitary nudity of a creature that lives alone, and inwardly alone. !nd beyond that, a certain beauty of a pure creature. ;ot 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 body8 onnie had received the shock of vision in her womb, and she knew it> it lay inside her. 2ut with her mind she was inclined to ridicule. ! man washing himself in a back yard8 ;o doubt with evil* smelling yellow soap8 #he was rather annoyed> why should she be made to stumble on these vulgar privacies: #o she walked away from herself, but after a while she sat down on a stump. #he was too confused to think. 2ut in the coil of her confusion, she was determined to deliver her message to the fellow. #he would not he balked. #he must give him time to dress himself, but not time to go out. +e was probably preparing to go out somewhere. #o she sauntered slowly back, listening. !s she came near, the cottage looked 4ust the same. ! dog barked, and she knocked at the door, her heart beating in spite of herself. #he heard the man coming lightly downstairs. +e opened the door 0uickly, and startled her. +e looked uneasy himself, but instantly a laugh came on his face. ./ady hatterley8 he said. .Will you come in: +is 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 #ir lifford, 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. +e 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. .;o thanks8 #ir lifford wondered if you would and she delivered her message, looking unconsciously into his eyes again. !nd now his eyes looked warm and kind, particularly to a woman, wonderfully warm, and kind, and at ease. .Dery good, your /adyship. I will see to it at once. Taking an order, his whole self had changed, gla"ed over with a sort of hardness and distance. onnie hesitated, she ought to go. 2ut she looked round the clean, tidy, rather dreary little sitting* room with something like dismay. .7o you live here 0uite alone: she asked. .Fuite alone, your /adyship. .2ut your mother . . . :

.#he lives in her own cottage in the village. .With the child: asked onnie. .With the child8 !nd his plain, rather worn face took on an indefinable look of derision. It was a face that changed all the time, baking. .;o, he said, seeing onnie stand at a loss, .my mother comes and cleans up for me on #aturdays> I do the rest myself. !gain onnie looked at him. +is eyes were smiling again, a little mockingly, but warm and blue, and somehow kind. #he wondered at him. +e 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. 2ut a pallor of isolation came over him, she was not really there for him. #he wanted to say so many things, and she said nothing. Only she looked up at him again, and remarked: .I hope I didnt disturb you: The faint smile of mockery narrowed his eyes. .Only combing my hair, if you dont mind. Im sorry I hadnt a coat on, but then I had no idea who was knocking. ;obody knocks here, and the une)pected sounds ominous. +e 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. 3et, as she passed him, there was something young and bright in his fair hair, and his 0uick eyes. +e would be a man about thirty*seven or eight. #he plodded on into the wood, knowing he was looking after her> he upset her so much, in spite of herself. !nd he, as he went indoors, was thinking: .#hes nice, shes real8 #hes nicer than she knows. #he wondered very much about him> he seemed so unlike a game*keeper, so unlike a working*man anyhow> although he had something in common with the local people. 2ut also something very uncommon. .The game*keeper, 1ellors, is a curious kind of person, she said to lifford> .he might almost be a gentleman. .1ight he: said lifford. .I hadnt noticed. .2ut isnt there something special about him: onnie insisted. .I think hes 0uite a nice fellow, but I know very little about him. +e only came out of the army last year, less than a year ago. 'rom India, I rather think. +e may have picked up certain tricks out there, perhaps he was an officers servant, and improved on his position. #ome of the men were like that. 2ut it does them no good, they have to fall back into their old places when they get home again. onnie ga"ed at lifford contemplatively. #he 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. .2ut dont you think there is something special about him: she asked. .'rankly, no8 ;othing I had noticed. +e looked at her curiously, uneasily, half*suspiciously. !nd she felt he wasnt telling her the real truth> he wasnt telling himself the real truth, that was it. +e disliked any suggestion of a really

e)ceptional human being. 6eople must be more or less at his level, or below it. onnie felt again the tightness, niggardliness of the men of her generation. They were so tight, so scared of life8

Chapter 7
When onnie went up to her bedroom she did what she had not done for a long time: took off all her clothes, and looked at herself naked in the huge mirror. #he did not know what she was looking for, or at, very definitely, yet she moved the lamp till it shone full on her. !nd she thought, as she had thought so often, what a frail, easily hurt, rather pathetic thing a human body is, naked> somehow a little unfinished, incomplete8 #he had been supposed to have rather a good figure, but now she was out of fashion: a little too female, not enough like an adolescent boy. #he was not very tall, a bit #cottish and short> but she had a certain fluent, down*slipping grace that might have been beauty. +er skin was faintly tawny, her limbs had a certain stillness, her body should have had a full, down*slipping richness> but it lacked something. Instead of ripening its firm, down*running curves, her body was flattening and going a little harsh. It was as if it had not had enough sun and warmth> it was a little greyish and sapless. 7isappointed of its real womanhood, it had not succeeded in becoming boyish, and unsubstantial, and transparent> instead it had gone opa0ue. +er breasts were rather small, and dropping pear*shaped. 2ut they were unripe, a little bitter, without meaning hanging there. !nd her belly had lost the fresh, round gleam it had had when she was young, in the days of her @erman boy, who really loved her physically. Then it was young and e)pectant, with a real look of its own. ;ow it was going slack, and a little flat, thinner, but with a slack thinness. +er thighs, too, they used to look so 0uick and glimpsy in their female roundness, somehow they too were going flat, slack, meaningless. +er body was going meaningless, going dull and opa0ue, so much insignificant substance. It made her feel immensely depressed and hopeless. What hope was there: #he was old, old at twenty* seven, with no gleam and sparkle in the flesh. Old through neglect and denial, yes, denial. 'ashionable women kept their bodies bright like delicate porcelain, by e)ternal attention. There was nothing inside the porcelain> but she was not even as bright as that. The mental life8 #uddenly she hated it with a rushing fury, the swindle8 #he looked in the other mirrors reflection at her back, her waist, her loins. #he was getting thinner, but to her it was not becoming. The crumple of her waist at the back, as she bent back to look, was a little weary> and it used to be so gay*looking. !nd the longish slope of her haunches and her buttocks had lost its gleam and its sense of richness. @one8 Only the @erman boy had loved it, and he was ten years dead, very nearly. +ow time went by8 Ten years dead, and she was only twenty* seven. The healthy boy with his fresh, clumsy sensuality that she had then been so scornful of8 Where would she find it now: It was gone out of men. They had their pathetic, two*seconds spasms like 1ichaelis> but no healthy human sensuality, that warms the blood and freshens the whole being. #till she thought the most beautiful part of her was the long*sloping fall of the haunches from the socket of the back, and the slumberous, round stillness of the buttocks. /ike hillocks of sand, the !rabs say, soft and downward*slipping with a long slope. +ere the life still lingered hoping. 2ut here too she was thinner, and going unripe, astringent. 2ut the front of her body made her miserable. It was already beginning to slacken, with a slack sort of thinness, almost withered, going old before it had ever really lived. #he thought of the child she might somehow bear. Was she fit, anyhow:

#he slipped into her nightdress, and went to bed, where she sobbed bitterly. !nd in her bitterness burned a cold indignation against lifford, and his writings and his talk: against all the men of his sort who defrauded a woman even of her own body. =n4ust8 =n4ust8 The sense of deep physical in4ustice burned to her very soul. 2ut in the morning, all the same, she was up at seven, and going downstairs to lifford. #he had to help him in all the intimate things, for he had no man, and refused a woman*servant. The housekeepers husband, who had known him as a boy, helped him, and did any heavy lifting> but onnie did the personal things, and she did them willingly. It was a demand on her, but she had wanted to do what she could. #o she hardly ever went away from Wragby, and never for more than a day or two> when 1rs 2etts, the housekeeper, attended to lifford. +e, as was inevitable in the course of time, took all the service for granted. It was natural he should. !nd yet, deep inside herself, a sense of in4ustice, of being defrauded, had begun to burn in onnie. The physical sense of in4ustice is a dangerous feeling, once it is awakened. It must have outlet, or it eats away the one in whom it is aroused. 6oor lifford, he was not to blame. +is was the greater misfortune. It was all part of the general catastrophe. !nd yet was he not in a way to blame: This lack of warmth, this lack of the simple, warm, physical contact, was he not to blame for that: +e was never really warm, nor even kind, only thoughtful, considerate, in a well*bred, cold sort of way8 2ut never warm as a man can be warm to a woman, as even onnies father could be warm to her, with the warmth of a man who did himself well, and intended to, but who still could comfort it woman with a bit of his masculine glow. 2ut lifford was not like that. +is whole race was not like that. They were all inwardly hard and separate, and warmth to them was 4ust bad taste. 3ou had to get on without it, and hold your own> which was all very well if you were of the same class and race. Then you could keep yourself cold and be very estimable, and hold your own, and en4oy the satisfaction of holding it. 2ut if you were of another class and another race it wouldnt do> there was no fun merely holding your own, and feeling you belonged to the ruling class. What was the point, when even the smartest aristocrats had really nothing positive of their own to hold, and their rule was really a farce, not rule at all: What was the point: It was all cold nonsense. ! sense of rebellion smouldered in onnie. What was the good of it all: What was the good of her sacrifice, her devoting her life to lifford: What was she serving, after all: ! cold spirit of vanity, that had no warm human contacts, and that was as corrupt as any low*born Gew, in craving for prostitution to the bitch*goddess, #uccess. (ven liffords cool and contactless assurance that he belonged to the ruling class didnt prevent his tongue lolling out of his mouth, as he panted after the bitch*goddess. !fter all, 1ichaelis was really more dignified in the matter, and far, far more successful. 5eally, if you looked closely at lifford, he was a buffoon, and a buffoon is more humiliating than a bounder. !s between the two men, 1ichaelis really had far more use for her than lifford had. +e had even more need of her. !ny good nurse can attend to crippled legs8 !nd as for the heroic effort, 1ichaelis was a heroic rat, and lifford was very much of a poodle showing off. There were people staying in the house, among them liffords !unt (va, /ady 2ennerley. #he was a thin woman of si)ty, with a red nose, a widow, and still something of a grande dame. #he belonged to one of the best families, and had the character to carry it off. onnie liked her, she was so perfectly simple and frank, as far as she intended to be frank, and superficially kind. Inside herself she was a past*mistress in holding her own, and holding other people a little lower. #he was not at all a snob: far too sure of herself. #he was perfect at the social sport of coolly holding her own, and making other people defer to her. #he was kind to onnie, and tried to worm into her womans soul with the sharp gimlet of her well*

born observations. .3oure 0uite wonderful, in my opinion, she said to onnie. .3ouve done wonders for lifford. I never saw any budding genius myself, and there he is, all the rage. !unt (va was 0uite complacently proud of liffords success. !nother feather in the family cap8 #he didnt care a straw about his books, but why should she: .Oh, I dont think its my doing, said onnie. .It must be8 ant be anybody elses. !nd it seems to me you dont get enough out of it. .+ow: ./ook at the way you are shut up here. I said to lifford: If that child rebels one day youll have yourself to thank8 .2ut lifford never denies me anything, said onnie. ./ook here, my dear child 9 and /ady 2ennerley laid her thin hand on onnies arm. .! woman has to live her life, or live to repent not having lived it. 2elieve me8 !nd she took another sip of brandy, which maybe was her form of repentance. .2ut I do live my life, dont I: .;ot in my idea8 lifford should bring you to /ondon, and let you go about. +is sort of friends are all right for him, but what are they for you: If I were you I should think it wasnt good enough. 3oull let your youth slip by, and youll spend your old age, and your middle age too, repenting it. +er ladyship lapsed into contemplative silence, soothed by the brandy. 2ut onnie was not keen on going to /ondon, and being steered into the smart world by /ady 2ennerley. #he didnt feel really smart, it wasnt interesting. !nd she did feel the peculiar, withering coldness under it all> like the soil of /abrador, which his gay little flowers on its surface, and a foot down is fro"en. Tommy 7ukes was at Wragby, and another man, +arry Winterslow, and Gack #trangeways with his wife Olive. The talk was much more desultory than when only the cronies were there, and everybody was a bit bored, for the weather was bad, and there was only billiards, and the pianola to dance to. Olive was reading a book about the future, when babies would be bred in bottles, and women would be .immuni"ed. .Golly good thing too8 she said. .Then a woman can live her own life. #trangeways wanted children, and she didnt. .+owd you like to be immuni"ed: Winterslow asked her, with an ugly smile. .I hope I am> naturally, she said. .!nyhow the futures going to have more sense, and a woman neednt be dragged down by her functions. .6erhaps shell float off into space altogether, said 7ukes. .I do think sufficient civili"ation ought to eliminate a lot of the physical disabilities, said lifford. .!ll the love*business for e)ample, it might 4ust as well go. I suppose it would if we could breed babies in bottles. .;o8 cried Olive. .That might leave all the more room for fun. .I suppose, said /ady 2ennerley, contemplatively, .if the love*business went, something else would take its place. 1orphia, perhaps. ! little morphine in all the air. It would be wonderfully refreshing for everybody. .The government releasing ether into the air on #aturdays, for a cheerful weekend8 said Gack.

.#ounds all right, but where should we be by Wednesday: .#o long as you can forget your body you are happy, said /ady 2ennerley. .!nd the moment you begin to be aware of your body, you are wretched. #o, if civili"ation is any good, it has to help us to forget our bodies, and then time passes happily without our knowing it. .+elp us to get rid of our bodies altogether, said Winterslow. .Its 0uite time man began to improve on his own nature, especially the physical side of it. .Imagine if we floated like tobacco smoke, said onnie. .It wont happen, said 7ukes. .Our old show will come flop> our civili"ation is going to fall. Its going down the bottomless pit, down the chasm. !nd believe me, the only bridge across the chasm will be the phallus8 .Oh do8 do be impossible, @eneral8 cried Olive. .I believe our civili"ation is going to collapse, said !unt (va. .!nd what will come after it: asked lifford. .I havent the faintest idea, but something, I suppose, said the elderly lady. . onnie says people like wisps of smoke, and Olive says immuni"ed women, and babies in bottles, and 7ukes says the phallus is the bridge to what comes ne)t. I wonder what it will really be: said lifford. .Oh, dont bother8 lets get on with today, said Olive. .Only hurry up with the breeding bottle, and let us poor women off. .There might even be real men, in the ne)t phase, said Tommy. .5eal, intelligent, wholesome men, and wholesome nice women8 Wouldnt that be a change, an enormous change from us: were not men, and the women arent women. Were only cerebrating make*shifts, mechanical and intellectual e)periments. There may even come a civili"ation of genuine men and women, instead of our little lot of clever*4acks, all at the intelligence*age of seven. It would be even more ama"ing than men of smoke or babies in bottles. .Oh, when people begin to talk about real women, I give up, said Olive. . ertainly nothing but the spirit in us is worth having, said Winterslow. .#pirits8 said Gack, drinking his whisky and soda. .Think so: @ive me the resurrection of the body8 said 7ukes. .2ut itll come, in time, when weve shoved the cerebral stone away a bit, the money and the rest. Then well get a democracy of touch, instead of a democracy of pocket. #omething echoed inside onnie: .@ive me the democracy of touch, the resurrection of the body8 #he didnt at all know what it meant, but it comforted her, as meaningless things may do. !nyhow everything was terribly silly, and she was e)asperatedly bored by it all, by lifford, by !unt (va, by Olive and Gack, and Winterslow, and even by 7ukes. Talk, talk, talk8 What hell it was, the continual rattle of it8 Then, when all the people went, it was no better. #he continued plodding on, but e)asperation and irritation had got hold of her lower body, she couldnt escape. The days seemed to grind by, with curious painfulness, yet nothing happened. Only she was getting thinner> even the housekeeper noticed it, and asked her about herself (ven Tommy 7ukes insisted she was not well, though she said she was all right. Only she began to be afraid of the ghastly white tombstones, that peculiar loathsome whiteness of arrara marble, detestable as false teeth, which stuck up on the hillside, under Tevershall church, and which she saw with such grim painfulness from the park. The bristling of the hideous false teeth of tombstones on the hill affected her with a grisly kind of horror. #he felt

the time not far off when she would be buried there, added to the ghastly host under the tombstones and the monuments, in these filthy 1idlands. #he needed help, and she knew it: so she wrote a little cri du coeur to her sister, +ilda. .Im not well lately, and I dont know whats the matter with me. 7own posted +ilda from #cotland, where she had taken up her abode. #he came in 1arch, alone, driving herself in a nimble two*seater. =p the drive she came, tooting up the incline, then sweeping round the oval of grass, where the two great wild beech*trees stood, on the flat in front of the house. onnie had run out to the steps. +ilda pulled up her car, got out, and kissed her sister. .2ut onnie8 she cried. .Whatever is the matter: .;othing8 said onnie, rather shamefacedly> but she knew how she had suffered in contrast to +ilda. 2oth sisters had the same rather golden, glowing skin, and soft brown hair, and naturally strong, warm physi0ue. 2ut now onnie was thin and earthy*looking, with a scraggy, yellowish neck, that stuck out of her 4umper. .2ut youre ill, child8 said +ilda, in the soft, rather breathless voice that both sisters had alike. +ilda was nearly, but not 0uite, two years older than onnie. .;o, not ill. 6erhaps Im bored, said onnie a little pathetically. The light of battle glowed in +ildas face> she was a woman, soft and still as she seemed, of the old ama"on sort, not made to fit with men. .This wretched place8 she said softly, looking at poor, old, lumbering Wragby with real hate. #he looked soft and warm herself, as a ripe pear, and she was an ama"on of the real old breed. #he went 0uietly in to lifford. +e thought how handsome she looked, but also he shrank from her. +is wifes family did not have his sort of manners, or his sort of eti0uette. +e considered them rather outsiders, but once they got inside they made him 4ump through the hoop. +e sat s0uare and well*groomed in his chair, his hair sleek and blond, and his face fresh, his blue eyes pale, and a little prominent, his e)pression inscrutable, but well*bred. +ilda thought it sulky and stupid, and he waited. +e had an air of aplomb, but +ilda didnt care what he had an air of> she was up in arms, and if hed been 6ope or (mperor it would have been 4ust the same. . onnies looking awfully unwell, she said in her soft voice, fi)ing him with her beautiful, glowering grey eyes. #he looked so maidenly, so did onnie> but he well knew the tone of #cottish obstinacy underneath. .#hes a little thinner, he said. .+avent you done anything about it: .7o you think it necessary: he asked, with his suavest (nglish stiffness, for the two things often go together. +ilda only glowered at him without replying> repartee was not her forte, nor onnies> so she glowered, and he was much more uncomfortable than if she had said things. .Ill take her to a doctor, said +ilda at length. . an you suggest a good one round here: .Im afraid I cant. .Then Ill take her to /ondon, where we have a doctor we trust. Though boiling with rage, lifford said nothing. .I suppose I may as well stay the night, said +ilda, pulling off her gloves, .and Ill drive her to town tomorrow. lifford was yellow at the gills with anger, and at evening the whites of his eyes were a little yellow

too. +e ran to liver. 2ut +ilda was consistently modest and maidenly. .3ou must have a nurse or somebody, to look after you personally. 3ou should really have a manservant, said +ilda as they sat, with apparent calmness, at coffee after dinner. #he spoke in her soft, seemingly gentle way, but lifford felt she was hitting him on the head with a bludgeon. .3ou think so: he said coldly. .Im sure8 Its necessary. (ither that, or 'ather and I must take onnie away for some months. This cant go on. .What cant go on: .+avent you looked at the child8 asked +ilda, ga"ing at him full stare. +e looked rather like a huge, boiled crayfish at the moment> or so she thought. . onnie and I will discuss it, he said. .Ive already discussed it with her, said +ilda. lifford had been long enough in the hands of nurses> he hated them, because they left him no real privacy. !nd a manservant8 . . . he couldnt stand a man hanging round him. !lmost better any woman. 2ut why not onnie: The two sisters drove off in the morning, onnie looking rather like an (aster lamb, rather small beside +ilda, who held the wheel. #ir 1alcolm was away, but the Aensington house was open. The doctor e)amined onnie carefully, and asked her all about her life. .I see your photograph, and #ir liffords, in the illustrated papers sometimes. !lmost notorieties, arent you: Thats how the 0uiet little girls grow up, though youre only a 0uiet little girl even now, in spite of the illustrated papers. ;o, no8 Theres nothing organically wrong, but it wont do8 It wont do8 Tell #ir lifford hes got to bring you to town, or take you abroad, and amuse you. 3ouve got to be amused, got to8 3our vitality is much too low> no reserves, no reserves. The nerves of the heart a bit 0ueer already: oh, yes8 ;othing but nerves> Id put you right in a month at annes or 2iarrit". 2ut it mustnt go on, mustnt, I tell you, or I wont be answerable for conse0uences. 3oure spending your life without renewing it. 3ouve got to be amused, properly, healthily amused. 3oure spending your vitality without making any. ant go on, you know. 7epression8 !void depression8 +ilda set her 4aw, and that meant something. 1ichaelis heard they were in town, and came running with roses. .Why, whatevers wrong: he cried. .3oure a shadow of yourself. Why, I never saw such a change8 Why ever didnt you let me know: ome to ;ice with me8 ome down to #icily8 @o on, come to #icily with me. Its lovely there 4ust now. 3ou want sun8 3ou want life8 Why, youre wasting away8 ome away with me8 ome to !frica8 Oh, hang #ir lifford8 huck him, and come along with me. Ill marry you the minute he divorces you. ome along and try a life8 @ods love8 That place Wragby would kill anybody. 2eastly place8 'oul place8 Aill anybody8 ome away with me into the sun8 Its the sun you want, of course, and a bit of normal life. 2ut onnies heart simply stood still at the thought of abandoning lifford there and then. #he couldnt do it. ;o . . . no8 #he 4ust couldnt. #he had to go back to Wragby. 1ichaelis was disgusted. +ilda didnt like 1ichaelis, but she almost preferred him to lifford. 2ack went the sisters to the 1idlands. +ilda talked to lifford, who still had yellow eyeballs when they got back. +e, too, in his way, was overwrought> but he had to listen to all +ilda said, to all the doctor had said, not what 1ichaelis had said, of course, and he sat mum through the ultimatum. .+ere is the address of a good manservant, who was with an invalid patient of the doctors till he died last month. +e is really a good man, and fairly sure to come.

.2ut Im not an invalid, and I will not have a manservant, said lifford, poor devil. .!nd here are the addresses of two women> I saw one of them, she would do very well> a woman of about fifty, 0uiet, strong, kind, and in her way cultured . . . lifford only sulked, and would not answer. .Dery well, lifford. If we dont settle something by to*morrow, I shall telegraph to 'ather, and we shall take onnie away. .Will onnie go: asked lifford. .#he doesnt want to, but she knows she must. 1other died of cancer, brought on by fretting. Were not running any risks. #o ne)t day lifford suggested 1rs 2olton, Tevershall parish nurse. !pparently 1rs 2etts had thought of her. 1rs 2olton was 4ust retiring from her parish duties to take up private nursing 4obs. lifford had a 0ueer dread of delivering himself into the hands of a stranger, but this 1rs 2olton had once nursed him through scarlet fever, and he knew her. The two sisters at once called on 1rs 2olton, in a newish house in a row, 0uite select for Tevershall. They found a rather good*looking woman of forty*odd, in a nurses uniform, with a white collar and apron, 4ust making herself tea in a small crowded sitting*room. 1rs 2olton was most attentive and polite, seemed 0uite nice, spoke with a bit of a broad slur, but in heavily correct (nglish, and from having bossed the sick colliers for a good many years, had a very good opinion of herself, and a fair amount of assurance. In short, in her tiny way, one of the governing class in the village, very much respected. .3es, /ady hatterleys not looking at all well8 Why, she used to be that bonny, didnt she now: 2ut shes been failing all winter8 Oh, its hard, it is. 6oor #ir lifford8 (h, that war, its a lot to answer for. !nd 1rs 2olton would come to Wragby at once, if 7r #hardlow would let her off. #he had another fortnights parish nursing to do, by rights, but they might get a substitute, you know. +ilda posted off to 7r #hardlow, and on the following #unday 1rs 2olton drove up in /eivers cab to Wragby with two trunks. +ilda had talks with her> 1rs 2olton was ready at any moment to talk. !nd she seemed so young8 The way the passion would flush in her rather pale cheek. #he was forty*seven. +er husband, Ted 2olton, had been killed in the pit, twenty*two years ago, twenty*two years last hristmas, 4ust at hristmas time, leaving her with two children, one a baby in arms. Oh, the baby was married now, (dith, to a young man in 2oots ash hemists in #heffield. The other one was a schoolteacher in hesterfield> she came home weekends, when she wasnt asked out somewhere. 3oung folks en4oyed themselves nowadays, not like when she, Ivy 2olton, was young. Ted 2olton was twenty*eight when lie was killed in an e)plosion down th pit. The butty in front shouted to them all to lie down 0uick, there were four of them. !nd they all lay down in time, only Ted, and it killed him. Then at the in0uiry, on the masters side they said Ted had been frightened, and trying to run away, and not obeying orders, so it was like his fault really. #o the compensation was only three hundred pounds, and they made out as if it was more of a gift than legal compensation, because it was really the mans own fault. !nd they wouldnt let her have the money down> she wanted to have a little shop. 2ut they said shed no doubt s0uander it, perhaps in drink8 #o she had to draw it thirty shillings a week. 3es, she had to go every 1onday morning down to the offices, and stand there a couple of hours waiting her turn> yes, for almost four years she went every 1onday. !nd what could she do with two little children on her hands: 2ut Teds mother was very good to her. When the baby could toddle shed keep both the children for the day, while she, Ivy 2olton, went to #heffield, and attended classes in ambulance, and then the fourth year she even took a nursing course and got 0ualified. #he was determined to be independent and keep her children. #o

she was assistant at =thwaite hospital, 4ust a little place, for a while. 2ut when the ompany, the Tevershall olliery ompany, really #ir @eoffrey, saw that she could get on by herself, they were very good to her, gave her the parish nursing, and stood by her, she would say that for them. !nd shed done it ever since, till now it was getting a bit much for her> she needed something a bit lighter, there was such a lot of traipsing around if you were a district nurse. .3es, the ompanys been very good to me, I always say it. 2ut I should never forget what they said about Ted, for he was as steady and fearless a chap as ever set foot on the cage, and it was as good as branding him a coward. 2ut there, he was dead, and could say nothing to none of em. It was a 0ueer mi)ture of feelings the woman showed as she talked. #he liked the colliers, whom she had nursed for so long> but she felt very superior to them. #he felt almost upper class> and at the same time a resentment against the ruling class smouldered in her. The masters8 In a dispute between masters and men, she was always for the men. 2ut when there was no 0uestion of contest, she was pining to be superior, to be one of the upper class. The upper classes fascinated her, appealing to her peculiar (nglish passion for superiority. #he was thrilled to come to Wragby> thrilled to talk to /ady hatterley, my word, different from the common colliers wives8 #he said so in so many words. 3et one could see a grudge against the hatterleys peep out in her> the grudge against the masters. .Why, yes, of course, it would wear /ady hatterley out8 Its a mercy she had a sister to come and help her. 1en dont think, high and low*alike, they take what a woman does for them for granted. Oh, Ive told the colliers off about it many a time. 2ut its very hard for #ir lifford, you know, crippled like that. They were always a haughty family, standoffish in a way, as theyve a right to be. 2ut then to be brought down like that8 !nd its very hard on /ady hatterley, perhaps harder on her. What she misses8 I only had Ted three years, but my word, while I had him I had a husband I could never forget. +e was one in a thousand, and 4olly as the day. Whod ever have thought hed get killed: I dont believe it to this day somehow, Ive never believed it, though I washed him with my own hands. 2ut he was never dead for me, he never was. I never took it in. This was a new voice in Wragby, very new for onnie to hear> it roused a new ear in her. 'or the first week or so, 1rs 2olton, however, was very 0uiet at Wragby, her assured, bossy manner left her, and she was nervous. With lifford she was shy, almost frightened, and silent. +e liked that, and soon recovered his self*possession, letting her do things for him without even noticing her. .#hes a useful nonentity8 he said. onnie opened her eyes in wonder, but she did not contradict him. #o different are impressions on two different people8 !nd he soon became rather superb, somewhat lordly with the nurse. #he had rather e)pected it, and he played up without knowing. #o susceptible we are to what is e)pected of us8 The colliers had been so like children, talking to her, and telling her what hurt them, while she bandaged them, or nursed them. They had always made her feel so grand, almost super*human in her administrations. ;ow lifford made her feel small, and like a servant, and she accepted it without a word, ad4usting herself to the upper classes. #he came very mute, with her long, handsome face, and downcast eyes, to administer to him. !nd she said very humbly: .#hall I do this now, #ir lifford: #hall I do that: .;o, leave it for a time. Ill have it done later. .Dery well, #ir lifford. . ome in again in half an hour. .Dery well, #ir lifford. .!nd 4ust take those old papers out, will you: .Dery well, #ir lifford.

#he went softly, and in half an hour she came softly again. #he was bullied, but she didnt mind. #he was e)periencing the upper classes. #he neither resented nor disliked lifford> he was 4ust part of a phenomenon, the phenomenon of the high*class folks, so far unknown to her, but now to be known. #he felt more at home with /ady hatterley, and after all its the mistress of the house matters most. 1rs 2olton helped lifford to bed at night, and slept across the passage from his room, and came if he rang for her in the night. #he also helped him in the morning, and soon valeted him completely, even shaving him, in her soft, tentative womans way. #he was very good and competent, and she soon knew how to have him in her power. +e wasnt so very different from the colliers after all, when you lathered his chin, and softly rubbed the bristles. The stand*offishness and the lack of frankness didnt bother her> she was having a new e)perience. lifford, however, inside himself, never 0uite forgave onnie for giving up her personal care of him to a strange hired woman. It killed, he said to himself, the real flower of the intimacy between him and her. 2ut onnie didnt mind that. The fine flower of their intimacy was to her rather like an orchid, a bulb stuck parasitic on her tree of life, and producing, to her eyes, a rather shabby flower. ;ow she had more time to herself she could softly play the piano, up in her room, and sing: .Touch not the nettle, for the bonds of love are ill to loose. #he had not reali"ed till lately how ill to loose they were, these bonds of love. 2ut thank +eaven she had loosened them8 #he was so glad to be alone, not always to have to talk to him. When he was alone he tapped*tapped*tapped on a typewriter, to infinity. 2ut when he was not .working, and she was there, he talked, always talked> infinite small analysis of people and motives, and results, characters and personalities, till now she had had enough. 'or years she had loved it, until she had enough, and then suddenly it was too much. #he was thankful to be alone. It was as if thousands and thousands of little roots and threads of consciousness in him and her had grown together into a tangled mass, till they could crowd no more, and the plant was dying. ;ow 0uietly, subtly, she was unravelling the tangle of his consciousness and hers, breaking the threads gently, one by one, with patience and impatience to get clear. 2ut the bonds of such love are more ill to loose even than most bonds> though 1rs 2oltons coming had been a great help. 2ut he still wanted the old intimate evenings of talk with onnie: talk or reading aloud. 2ut now she could arrange that 1rs 2olton should come at ten to disturb them. !t ten oclock onnie could go upstairs and be alone. lifford was in good hands with 1rs 2olton. 1rs 2olton ate with 1rs 2etts in the housekeepers room, since they were all agreeable. !nd it was curious how much closer the servants 0uarters seemed to have come> right up to the doors of liffords study, when before they were so remote. 'or 1rs 2etts would sometimes sit in 1rs 2oltons room, and onnie heard their lowered voices, and felt somehow the strong, other vibration of the working people almost invading the sitting*room, when she and lifford were alone. #o changed was Wragby merely by 1rs 2oltons coming. !nd onnie felt herself released, in another world, she felt she breathed differently. 2ut still she was afraid of how many of her roots, perhaps mortal ones, were tangled with liffords. 3et still, she breathed freer, a new phase was going to begin in her life.

Chapter 8
1rs 2olton also kept a cherishing eye on onnie, feeling she must e)tend to her her female and professional protection. #he was always urging her ladyship to walk out, to drive to =thwaite, to be in the air. 'or onnie had got into the habit of sitting still by the fire, pretending to read> or to sew feebly, and hardly going out at all. It was a blowy day soon after +ilda had gone, that 1rs 2olton said: .;ow why dont you go for a walk through the wood, and look at the daffs behind the keepers cottage: Theyre the prettiest sight

youd see in a days march. !nd you could put some in your room> wild daffs are always so cheerful*looking, arent they: onnie took it in good part, even daffs for daffodils. Wild daffodils8 !fter all, one could not stew in ones own 4uice. The spring came back . . . .#easons return, but not to me returns 7ay, or the sweet approach of (vn or 1orn. !nd the keeper, his thin, white body, like a lonely pistil of an invisible flower8 #he had forgotten him in her unspeakable depression. 2ut now something roused . . . .6ale beyond porch and portal . . . the thing to do was to pass the porches and the portals. #he was stronger, she could walk better, and in the wood the wind would not be so tiring as it was across the bark, flatten against her. #he wanted to forget, to forget the world, and all the dreadful, carrion*bodied people. .3e must be born again8 I believe in the resurrection of the body8 ()cept a grain of wheat fall into the earth and die, it shall by no means bring forth. When the crocus cometh forth I too will emerge and see the sun8 In the wind of 1arch endless phrases swept through her consciousness. /ittle gusts of sunshine blew, strangely bright, and lit up the celandines at the woods edge, under the ha"el*rods, they spangled out bright and yellow. !nd the wood was still, stiller, but yet gusty with crossing sun. The first windflowers were out, and all the wood seemed pale with the pallor of endless little anemones, sprinkling the shaken floor. .The world has grown pale with thy breath. 2ut it was the breath of 6ersephone, this time> she was out of hell on a cold morning. old breaths of wind came, and overhead there was an anger of entangled wind caught among the twigs. It, too, was caught and trying to tear itself free, the wind, like !bsalom. +ow cold the anemones looked, bobbing their naked white shoulders over crinoline skirts of green. 2ut they stood it. ! few first bleached little primroses too, by the path, and yellow buds unfolding themselves. The roaring and swaying was overhead, only cold currents came down below. onnie was strangely e)cited in the wood, and the colour flew in her cheeks, and burned blue in her eyes. #he walked ploddingly, picking a few primroses and the first violets, that smelled sweet and cold, sweet and cold. !nd she drifted on without knowing where she was. Till she came to the clearing, at the end of the wood, and saw the green*stained stone cottage, looking almost rosy, like the flesh underneath a mushroom, its stone warmed in a burst of sun. !nd there was a sparkle of yellow 4asmine by the door> the closed door. 2ut no sound> no smoke from the chimney> no dog barking. #he went 0uietly round to the back, where the bank rose up> she had an e)cuse, to see the daffodils. !nd they were there, the short*stemmed flowers, rustling and fluttering and shivering, so bright and alive, but with nowhere to hide their faces, as they turned them away from the wind. They shook their bright, sunny little rags in bouts of distress. 2ut perhaps they liked it really> perhaps they really liked the tossing. onstance sat down with her back to a young pine*tree, that wayed against her with curious life, elastic, and powerful, rising up. The erect, alive thing, with its top in the sun8 !nd she watched the daffodils turn golden, in a burst of sun that was warm on her hands and lap. (ven she caught the faint, tarry scent of the flowers. !nd then, being so still and alone, she seemed to bet into the current of her own proper destiny. #he had been fastened by a rope, and 4agging and snarring like a boat at its moorings> now she was loose and adrift. The sunshine gave way to chill> the daffodils were in shadow, dipping silently. #o they would dip through the day and the long cold night. #o strong in their frailty8 #he rose, a little stiff, took a few daffodils, and went down. #he hated breaking the flowers, but she wanted 4ust one or two to go with her. #he would have to go back to Wragby and its walls, and now she hated it, especially its thick walls. Walls8 !lways walls8 3et one needed them in this wind.

When she got home lifford asked her: .Where did you go: .5ight across the wood8 /ook, arent the little daffodils adorable: To think they should come out of the earth8 .Gust as much out of air and sunshine, he said. .2ut modelled in the earth, she retorted, with a prompt contradiction, that surprised her a little. The ne)t afternoon she went to the wood again. #he followed the broad riding that swerved round and up through the larches to a spring called Gohns Well. It was cold on this hillside, and not a flower in the darkness of larches. 2ut the icy little spring softly pressed upwards from its tiny well* bed of pure, reddish*white pebbles. +ow icy and clear it was8 2rilliant8 The new keeper had no doubt put in fresh pebbles. #he heard the faint tinkle of water, as the tiny overflow trickled over and downhill. (ven above the hissing boom of the larchwood, that spread its bristling, leafless, wolfish darkness on the down*slope, she heard the tinkle as of tiny water*bells. This place was a little sinister, cold, damp. 3et the well must have been a drinking*place for hundreds of years. ;ow no more. Its tiny cleared space was lush and cold and dismal. #he rose and went slowly towards home. !s she went she heard a faint tapping away on the right, and stood still to listen. Was it hammering, or a woodpecker: It was surely hammering. #he walked on, listening. !nd then she noticed a narrow track between young fir*trees, a track that seemed to lead nowhere. 2ut she felt it had been used. #he turned down it adventurously, between the thick young firs, which gave way soon to the old oak wood. #he followed the track, and the hammering grew nearer, in the silence of the windy wood, for trees make a silence even in their noise of wind. #he saw a secret little clearing, and a secret little hot made of rustic poles. !nd she had never been here before8 #he reali"ed it was the 0uiet place where the growing pheasants were reared> the keeper in his shirt*sleeves was kneeling, hammering. The dog trotted forward with a short, sharp bark, and the keeper lifted his face suddenly and saw her. +e had a startled look in his eyes. +e straightened himself and saluted, watching her in silence, as she came forward with weakening limbs. +e resented the intrusion> he cherished his solitude as his only and last freedom in life. .I wondered what the hammering was, she said, feeling weak and breathless, and a little afraid of him, as he looked so straight at her. .!hm gettin th coops ready for th young bods, he said, in broad vernacular. #he did not know what to say, and she felt weak. .I should like to sit down a bit, she said. . ome and sit ere i th ut, he said, going in front of her to the hut, pushing aside some timber and stuff, and drawing out a rustic chair, made of ha"el sticks. .!m !h t light yer a little fire: he asked, with the curious naJvetE of the dialect. .Oh, dont bother, she replied. 2ut he looked at her hands> they were rather blue. #o he 0uickly took some larch twigs to the little brick fire*place in the corner, and in a moment the yellow flame was running up the chimney. +e made a place by the brick hearth. .#it ere then a bit, and warm yer, he said. #he obeyed him. +e had that curious kind of protective authority she obeyed at once. #o she sat and warmed her hands at the bla"e, and dropped logs on the fire, whilst outside he was hammering again. #he did not really want to sit, poked in a corner by the fire> she would rather have watched from the door, but she was being looked after, so she had to submit.

The hut was 0uite cosy, panelled with unvarnished deal, having a little rustic table and stool beside her chair, and a carpenters bench, then a big bo), tools, new boards, nails> and many things hung from pegs: a)e, hatchet, traps, things in sacks, his coat. It had no window, the light came in through the open door. It was a 4umble, but also it was a sort of little sanctuary. #he listened to the tapping of the mans hammer> it was not so happy. +e was oppressed. +ere was a trespass on his privacy, and a dangerous one8 ! woman8 +e had reached the point where all he wanted on earth was to be alone. !nd yet he was powerless to preserve his privacy> he was a hired man, and these people were his masters. (specially he did not want to come into contact with a woman again. +e feared it> for he had a big wound from old contacts. +e felt if he could not be alone, and if he could not be left alone, he would die. +is recoil away from the outer world was complete> his last refuge was this wood> to hide himself there8 onnie grew warm by the fire, which she had made too big: then she grew hot. #he went and sat on the stool in the doorway, watching the man at work. +e seemed not to notice her, but he knew. 3et he worked on, as if absorbedly, and his brown dog sat on her tail near him, and surveyed the untrustworthy world. #lender, 0uiet and 0uick, the man finished the coop he was making, turned it over, tried the sliding door, then set it aside. Then he rose, went for an old coop, and took it to the chopping log where he was working. rouching, he tried the bars> some broke in his hands> he began to draw the nails. Then he turned the coop over and deliberated, and he gave absolutely no sign of awareness of the womans presence. #o onnie watched him fi)edly. !nd the same solitary aloneness she had seen in him naked, she now saw in him clothed: solitary, and intent, like an animal that works alone, but also brooding, like a soul that recoils away, away from all human contact. #ilently, patiently, he was recoiling away from her even now. It was the stillness, and the timeless sort of patience, in a man impatient and passionate, that touched onnies womb. #he saw it in his bent head, the 0uick 0uiet hands, the crouching of his slender, sensitive loins> something patient and withdrawn. #he felt his e)perience had been deeper and wider than her own> much deeper and wider, and perhaps more deadly. !nd this relieved her of herself> she felt almost irresponsible. #o she sat in the doorway of the hut in a dream, utterly unaware of time and of particular circumstances. #he was so drifted away that he glanced up at her 0uickly, and saw the utterly still, waiting look on her face. To him it was a look of waiting. !nd a little thin tongue of fire suddenly flickered in his loins, at the root of his back, and he groaned in spirit. +e dreaded with a repulsion almost of death, any further close human contact. +e wished above all things she would go away, and leave him to his own privacy. +e dreaded her will, her female will, and her modern female insistency. !nd above all he dreaded her cool, upper*class impudence of having her own way. 'or after all he was only a hired man. +e hated her presence there. onnie came to herself with sudden uneasiness. #he rose. The afternoon was turning to evening, yet she could not go away. #he went over to the man, who stood up at attention, his worn face stiff and blank, his eyes watching her. .It is so nice here, so restful, she said. .I have never been here before. .;o: .I think I shall come and sit here sometimes. .3es: .7o you lock the hut when youre not here: .3es, your /adyship.

.7o you think I could have a key too, so that I could sit here sometimes: !re there two keys: .;ot as !h know on, ther isna. +e had lapsed into the vernacular. onnie hesitated> he was putting up an opposition. Was it his hut, after all: . ouldnt we get another key: she asked in her soft voice, that underneath had the ring of a woman determined to get her way. .!nother8 he said, glancing at her with a flash of anger, touched with derision. .3es, a duplicate, she said, flushing. .!ppen #ir lifford ud know, he said, putting her off. .3es8 she said, .he might have another. Otherwise we could have one made from the one you have. It would only take a day or so, I suppose. 3ou could spare your key for so long. .!h canna tell yer, m/ady8 !h know nobdy as maes keys round ere. onnie suddenly flushed with anger. .Dery well8 she said. .Ill see to it. .!ll right, your /adyship. Their eyes met. +is had a cold, ugly look of dislike and contempt, and indifference to what would happen. +ers were hot with rebuff. 2ut her heart sank, she saw how utterly he disliked her, when she went against him. !nd she saw him in a sort of desperation. .@ood afternoon8 .!fternoon, my /ady8 +e saluted and turned abruptly away. #he had wakened the sleeping dogs of old voracious anger in him, anger against the self*willed female. !nd he was powerless, powerless. +e knew it8 !nd she was angry against the self*willed male. ! servant too8 #he walked sullenly home. #he found 1rs 2olton under the great beech*tree on the knoll, looking for her. .I 4ust wondered if youd be coming, my /ady, the woman said brightly. .!m I late: asked onnie. .Oh only #ir lifford was waiting for his tea. .Why didnt you make it then: .Oh, I dont think its hardly my place. I dont think #ir lifford would like it at all, my /ady. .I dont see why not, said onnie. #he went indoors to liffords study, where the old brass kettle was simmering on the tray. .!m I late, lifford: she said, putting down the few flowers and taking up the tea*caddy, as she stood before the tray in her hat and scarf. .Im sorry8 Why didnt you let 1rs 2olton make the tea: .I didnt think of it, he said ironically. .I dont 0uite see her presiding at the tea*table. .Oh, theres nothing sacrosanct about a silver tea*pot, said onnie. +e glanced up at her curiously. .What did you do all afternoon: he said. .Walked and sat in a sheltered place. 7o you know there are still berries on the big holly*tree:

#he took off her scarf, but not her hat, and sat down to make tea. The toast would certainly be leathery. #he put the tea*cosy over the tea*pot, and rose to get a little glass for her violets. The poor flowers hung over, limp on their stalks. .Theyll revive again8 she said, putting them before him in their glass for him to smell. .#weeter than the lids of Gunos eyes, he 0uoted. .I dont see a bit of conne)ion with the actual violets, she said. .The (li"abethans are rather upholstered. #he poured him his tea. .7o you think there is a second key to that little hut not far from Gohns Well, where the pheasants are reared: she said. .There may be. Why: .I happened to find it today 9 and Id never seen it before. I think its a darling place. I could sit there sometimes, couldnt I: .Was 1ellors there: .3es8 Thats how I found it: his hammering. +e didnt seem to like my intruding at all. In fact he was almost rude when I asked about a second key. .What did he say: .Oh, nothing: 4ust his manner> and he said he knew nothing about keys. .There may be one in 'athers study. 2etts knows them all, theyre all there. Ill get him to look. .Oh do8 she said. .#o 1ellors was almost rude: .Oh, nothing, really8 2ut I dont think he wanted me to have the freedom of the castle, 0uite. .I dont suppose he did. .#till, I dont see why he should mind. Its not his home, after all8 Its not his private abode. I dont see why I shouldnt sit there if I want to. .Fuite8 said lifford. .+e thinks too much of himself, that man. .7o you think he does: .Oh, decidedly8 +e thinks hes something e)ceptional. 3ou know he had a wife he didnt get on with, so he 4oined up in $%$K and was sent to India, I believe. !nyhow he was blacksmith to the cavalry in (gypt for a time> always was connected with horses, a clever fellow that way. Then some Indian colonel took a fancy to him, and he was made a lieutenant. 3es, they gave him a commission. I believe he went back to India with his colonel, and up to the north*west frontier. +e was ill> he was a pension. +e didnt come out of the army till last year, I believe, and then, naturally, it isnt easy for a man like that to get back to his own level. +es bound to flounder. 2ut he does his duty all right, as far as Im concerned. Only Im not having any of the /ieutenant 1ellors touch. .+ow could they make him an officer when he speaks broad 7erbyshire: .+e doesnt . . . e)cept by fits and starts. +e can speak perfectly well, for him. I suppose he has an idea if hes come down to the ranks again, hed better speak as the ranks speak. .Why didnt you tell me about him before: .Oh, Ive no patience with these romances. Theyre the ruin of all order. Its a thousand pities they ever happened.

onnie was inclined to agree. What was the good of discontented people who fitted in nowhere: In the spell of fine weather lifford, too, decided to go to the wood. The wind was cold, but not so tiresome, and the sunshine was like life itself, warm and full. .Its ama"ing, said onnie, .how different one feels when theres a really fresh fine day. =sually one feels the very air is half dead. 6eople are killing the very air. .7o you think people are doing it: he asked. .I do. The steam of so much boredom, and discontent and anger out of all the people, 4ust kills the vitality in the air. Im sure of it. .6erhaps some condition of the atmosphere lowers the vitality of the people: he said. .;o, its man that poisons the universe, she asserted. .'ouls his own nest, remarked lifford. The chair puffed on. In the ha"el copse catkins were hanging pale gold, and in sunny places the wood*anemones were wide open, as if e)claiming with the 4oy of life, 4ust as good as in past days, when people could e)claim along with them. They had a faint scent of apple*blossom. onnie gathered a few for lifford. +e took them and looked at them curiously. .Thou still unravished bride of 0uietness, he 0uoted. .It seems to fit flowers so much better than @reek vases. .5avished is such a horrid word8 she said. .Its only people who ravish things. .Oh, I dont know . . . snails and things, he said. .(ven snails only eat them, and bees dont ravish. #he was angry with him, turning everything into words. Diolets were Gunos eyelids, and windflowers were on ravished brides. +ow she hated words, always coming between her and life: they did the ravishing, if anything did: ready*made words and phrases, sucking all the life*sap out of living things. The walk with lifford was not 0uite a success. 2etween him and onnie there was a tension that each pretended not to notice, but there it was. #uddenly, with all the force of her female instinct, she was shoving him off. #he wanted to be clear of him, and especially of his consciousness, his words, his obsession with himself, his endless treadmill obsession with himself, and his own words. The weather came rainy again. 2ut after a day or two she went out in the rain, and she went to the wood. !nd once there, she went towards the hut. It was raining, but not so cold, and the wood felt so silent and remote, inaccessible in the dusk of rain. #he came to the clearing. ;o one there8 The hut was locked. 2ut she sat on the log doorstep, under the rustic porch, and snuggled into her own warmth. #o she sat, looking at the rain, listening to the many noiseless noises of it, and to the strange soughings of wind in upper branches, when there seemed to be no wind. Old oak*trees stood around, grey, powerful trunks, rain*blackened, round and vital, throwing off reckless limbs. The ground was fairly free of undergrowth, the anemones sprinkled, there was a bush or two, elder, or guelder*rose, and a purplish tangle of bramble: the old russet of bracken almost vanished under green anemone ruffs. 6erhaps this was one of the unravished places. =nravished8 The whole world was ravished. #ome things cant be ravished. 3ou cant ravish a tin of sardines. !nd so many women are like that> and men. 2ut the earth . . . 8 The rain was abating. It was hardly making darkness among the oaks any more. onnie wanted to go> yet she sat on. 2ut she was getting cold> yet the overwhelming inertia of her inner resentment

kept her there as if paralysed. 5avished8 +ow ravished one could be without ever being touched. 5avished by dead words become obscene, and dead ideas become obsessions. ! wet brown dog came running and did not bark, lifting a wet feather of a tail. The man followed in a wet black oilskin 4acket, like a chauffeur, and face flushed a little. #he felt him recoil in his 0uick walk, when he saw her. #he stood up in the handbreadth of dryness under the rustic porch. +e saluted without speaking, coming slowly near. #he began to withdraw. .Im 4ust going, she said. .Was yer waitin to get in: he asked, looking at the hut, not at her. .;o, I only sat a few minutes in the shelter, she said, with 0uiet dignity. +e looked at her. #he looked cold. .#ir lifford adnt got no other key then: he asked. .;o, but it doesnt matter. I can sit perfectly dry under this porch. @ood afternoon8 #he hated the e)cess of vernacular in his speech. +e watched her closely, as she was moving away. Then he hitched up his 4acket, and put his hand in his breeches pocket, taking out the key of the hut. .!ppen yerd better ave this key, an !h min fend for t bods some other road. #he looked at him. .What do you mean: she asked. .I mean as appen !h can find anuther pleece asll du for rearin th pheasants. If yer want ter be ere, yoll non want me messin abaht a th time. #he looked at him, getting his meaning through the fog of the dialect. .Why dont you speak ordinary (nglish: she said coldly. .1e8 ah thowt it wor ordinary. #he was silent for a few moments in anger. .#o if yer want t key, yerd better tacit. Or appen !hd better gie .t yer termorrer, an clear all t stuff aht fust. Would that du for yer: #he became more angry. .I didnt want your key, she said. .I dont want you to clear anything out at all. I dont in the least want to turn you out of your hut, thank you8 I only wanted to be able to sit here sometimes, like today. 2ut I can sit perfectly well under the porch, so please say no more about it. +e looked at her again, with his wicked blue eyes. .Why, he began, in the broad slow dialect. .3our /adyships as welcome as hristmas ter th hut an th key an iverythink as is. Ony this time O th year thers bods ter set, an !hve got ter be potterin abaht a good bit, seein after em, an a. Winter time !h ned ardly come nigh th pleece. 2ut what wi spring, an #ir lifford wantin ter start th pheasants . . . !n your /adyshipd non want me tinkerin around an about when she was ere, all the time. #he listened with a dim kind of ama"ement. .Why should I mind your being here: she asked. +e looked at her curiously. .Tnuisance on me8 he said briefly, but significantly. #he flushed. .Dery well8 she said finally. .I

wont trouble you. 2ut I dont think I should have minded at all sitting and seeing you look after the birds. I should have liked it. 2ut since you think it interferes with you, I wont disturb you, dont be afraid. 3ou are #ir liffords keeper, not mine. The phrase sounded 0ueer, she didnt know why. 2ut she let it pass. .;ay, your /adyship. Its your /adyships own ut. Its as your /adyship likes an pleases, every time. 3er can turn me off at a wiks notice. It wor only . . . .Only what: she asked, baffled. +e pushed back his hat in an odd comic way. .Ony as appen yod like the place ter yersen, when yer did come, an not me messin abaht. .2ut why: she said, angry. .!rent you a civili"ed human being: 7o you think I ought to be afraid of you: Why should I take any notice of you and your being here or not: Why is it important: +e looked at her, all his face glimmering with wicked laughter. .Its not, your /adyship. ;ot in the very least, he said. .Well, why then: she asked. .#hall I get your /adyship another key then: .;o thank you8 I dont want it. .!hll get it anyhow. Wed best ave two keys ter th place. .!nd I consider you are insolent, said onnie, with her colour up, panting a little. .;ay, nay8 he said 0uickly. .7unna yer say that8 ;ay, nay8 I niver meant nuthink. !h ony thought as if yo come ere, !h sd ave ter clear out, an itd mean a lot of work, settin up somewheres else. 2ut if your /adyship isnt going ter take no notice O me, then . . . its #ir liffords ut, an everythink is as your /adyship likes, everythink is as your /adyship likes an pleases, barrin yer take no notice O me, doin th bits of 4obs as !hve got ter do. onnie went away completely bewildered. #he was not sure whether she had been insulted and mortally of fended, or not. 6erhaps the man really only meant what he said> that he thought she would e)pect him to keep away. !s if she would dream of it8 !nd as if he could possibly be so important, he and his stupid presence. #he went home in confusion, not knowing what she thought or felt.

Chapter
onnie was surprised at her own feeling of aversion from lifford. What is more, she felt she had always really disliked him. ;ot hate: there was no passion in it. 2ut a profound physical dislike. !lmost, it seemed to her, she had married him because she disliked him, in a secret, physical sort of way. 2ut of course, she had married him really because in a mental way he attracted her and e)cited her. +e had seemed, in some way, her master, beyond her. ;ow the mental e)citement 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 reali"ed how it had been eating her life away. #he felt weak and utterly forlorn. #he wished some help would come from outside. 2ut in the whole world there was no help. #ociety was terrible because it was insane. ivili"ed society is insane. 1oney 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. /ook at 1ichaelis8 +is life and activity were 4ust insanity. +is love was a sort of insanity.

!nd lifford the same. !ll that talk8 !ll that writing8 !ll that wild struggling to push himself forwards8 It was 4ust insanity. !nd it was getting worse, really maniacal. onnie felt washed*out with fear. 2ut at least, lifford was shifting his grip from her on to 1rs 2olton. +e did not know it. /ike many insane people, his insanity might be measured by the things he was not aware of the great desert tracts in his consciousness. 1rs 2olton was admirable in many ways. 2ut she had that 0ueer sort of bossiness, endless assertion of her own will, which is one of the signs of insanity in modern woman. #he thought she was utterly subservient and living for others. lifford fascinated her because he always, or so of ten, frustrated her will, as if by a finer instinct. +e had a finer, subtler will of self*assertion than herself. This was his charm for her. 6erhaps that had been his charm, too, for onnie. .Its a lovely day, today8 1rs 2olton would say in her caressive, persuasive voice. .I should think youd en4oy a little run in your chair today, the suns 4ust lovely. .3es: Will you give me that book 9 there, that yellow one. !nd I think Ill have those hyacinths taken out. .Why theyre so beautiful8 #he pronounced it with the .y sound: be*yutiful8 .!nd the scent is simply gorgeous. .The scent is what I ob4ect to, he said. .Its a little funereal. .7o you think so8 she e)claimed in surprise, 4ust a little offended, but impressed. !nd she carried the hyacinths out of the room, impressed by his higher fastidiousness. .#hall I shave you this morning, or would you rather do it yourself: !lways the same soft, caressive, subservient, yet managing voice. .I dont know. 7o you mind waiting a while. Ill ring when Im ready. .Dery good, #ir lifford8 she replied, so soft and submissive, withdrawing 0uietly. 2ut every rebuff stored up new energy of will in her. When he rang, after a time, she would appear at once. !nd then he would say: .I think Id rather you shaved me this morning. +er heart gave a little thrill, and she replied with e)tra softness: .Dery good, #ir lifford8 #he was very deft, with a soft, lingering touch, a little slow. !t first he had resented the infinitely soft touch of her lingers on his face. 2ut now he liked it, with a growing voluptuousness. +e let her shave him nearly every day: her face near his, her eyes so very concentrated, watching that she did it right. !nd gradually her fingertips knew his cheeks and lips, his 4aw and chin and throat perfectly. +e was well*fed and well*liking, his face and throat were handsome enough and he was a gentleman. #he was handsome too, pale, her face rather long and absolutely still, her eyes bright, but revealing nothing. @radually, with infinite softness, almost with love, she was getting him by the throat, and he was yielding to her. #he now did almost everything for him, and he felt more at home with her, less ashamed of accepting her menial offices, than with onnie. #he liked handling him. #he loved having his body in her charge, absolutely, to the last menial offices. #he said to onnie one day: .!ll men are babies, when you come to the bottom of them. Why, Ive handled some of the toughest customers as ever went down Tevershall pit. 2ut let anything ail them so that you have to do for them, and theyre babies, 4ust big babies. Oh, theres not much difference in men8

!t first 1rs 2olton had thought there really was something different in a gentleman, a real gentleman, like #ir lifford. #o lifford had got a good start of her. 2ut 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 mans proportions: but a baby with a 0ueer 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. onnie was sometimes tempted to say to him: .'or @ods sake, dont sink so horribly into the hands of that woman8 2ut she found she didnt care for him enough to say it, in the long run. It was still their habit to spend the evening together, till ten oclock. Then they would talk, or read together, or go over his manuscript. 2ut the thrill had gone out of it. #he was bored by his manuscripts. 2ut she still dutifully typed them out for him. 2ut in time 1rs 2olton would do even that. 'or onnie had suggested to 1rs 2olton that she should learn to use a typewriter. !nd 1rs 2olton, always ready, had begun at once, and practised assiduously. #o now lifford would sometimes dictate a letter to her, and she would take it down rather slowly, but correctly. !nd he was very patient, spelling for her the difficult words, or the occasional phrases in 'rench. #he was so thrilled, it was almost a pleasure to instruct her. ;ow onnie would sometimes plead a headache as an e)cuse for going up to her room after dinner. .6erhaps 1rs 2olton will play pi0uet with you, she said to lifford. .Oh, I shall be perfectly all right. 3ou go to your own room and rest, darling. 2ut no sooner had she gone, than he rang for 1rs 2olton, and asked her to take a hand at pi0uet or be"i0ue, or even chess. +e had taught her all these games. !nd onnie found it curiously ob4ectionable to see 1rs 2olton, flushed and tremulous like a little girl, touching her 0ueen or her knight with uncertain fingers, then drawing away again. !nd lifford, faintly smiling with a half* teasing superiority, saying to her: .3ou must say 4adoube8 #he looked up at him with bright, startled eyes, then murmured shyly, obediently: .Gadoube8 3es, he was educating her. !nd he en4oyed it, it gave him a sense of power. !nd she was thrilled. #he 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. !nd 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. To onnie, lifford seemed to be coming out in his true colours: a little vulgar, a little common, and uninspired> rather fat. Ivy 2oltons tricks and humble bossiness were also only too transparent. 2ut onnie did wonder at the genuine thrill which the woman got out of lifford. To say she was in love with him would be putting it wrongly. #he 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. #he was thrilled to a weird passion. !nd his .educating her roused in her a passion of e)citement 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. There was no mistake that the woman was in some way in love with him: whatever force we give to the word love. #he looked so handsome and so young, and her grey eyes were sometimes marvellous. !t the same time, there was a lurking soft satisfaction about her, even of triumph, and private satisfaction. =gh, that private satisfaction. +ow onnie loathed it8 2ut no wonder lifford was caught by the woman8 #he absolutely adored him, in her persistent

fashion, and put herself absolutely at his service, for him to use as he liked. ;o wonder he was flattered8 onnie heard long conversations going on between the two. Or rather, it was mostly 1rs 2olton talking. #he had unloosed to him the stream of gossip about Tevershall village. It was more than gossip. It was 1rs @askell and @eorge (liot and 1iss 1itford all rolled in one, with a great deal more, that these women left out. Once started, 1rs 2olton was better than any book, about the lives of the people. #he knew them all so intimately, and had such a peculiar, flamey "est in all their affairs, it was wonderful, if 4ust a trifle humiliating to listen to her. !t first she had not ventured to .talk Tevershall, as she called it, to lifford. 2ut once started, it went on. lifford was listening for .material, and he found it in plenty. onnie reali"ed that his so*called genius was 4ust this: a perspicuous talent for personal gossip, clever and apparently detached. 1rs 2olton, of course, was very warm when she .talked Tevershall. arried away, in fact. !nd it was marvellous, the things that happened and that she knew about. #he would have run to do"ens of volumes. onnie was fascinated, listening to her. 2ut afterwards always a little ashamed. #he ought not to listen with this 0ueer rabid curiosity. !fter 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. 'or even satire is a form of sympathy. It is the way our sympathy flows and recoils that really determines our lives. !nd 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. 2ut the novel, like gossip, can also e)cite 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. 1rs 2oltons gossip was always on the side of the angels. .!nd he was such a bad fellow, and she was such a nice woman. Whereas, as onnie could see even from 1rs 2oltons gossip, the woman had been merely a mealy* mouthed sort, and the man angrily honest. 2ut 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 1rs 2olton. 'or this reason, the gossip was humiliating. !nd for the same reason, most novels, especially popular ones, are humiliating too. The public responds now only to an appeal to its vices. ;evertheless, one got a new vision of Tevershall village from 1rs 2oltons talk. ! terrible, seething welter of ugly life it seemed: not at all the flat drabness it looked from outside. lifford of course knew by sight most of the people mentioned, onnie knew only one or two. 2ut it sounded really more like a entral !frican 4ungle than an (nglish village. .I suppose you heard as 1iss !llsopp was married last week8 Would you ever8 1iss !llsopp, old Games daughter, the boot*and*shoe !llsopp. 3ou know they built a house up at 6ye roft. The old man died last year from a fall> eighty*three, he was, an nimble as a lad. !n then he slipped on 2estwood +ill, 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: didnt leave the boys a penny. !n Tattie, I know, is five years 9 yes, shes fifty*three last autumn. !nd you know they were such hapel people, my word8 #he taught #unday school for thirty years, till her father died. !nd then she started carrying on with a fellow from Ainbrook, I dont know if you know him, an oldish fellow with a red nose, rather dandified, Willcock, as works in +arrisons woodyard. Well hes si)ty*five, if hes a day, yet youd 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 6ye roft 5oad, for anybody to see. !nd hes got sons over forty: only lost his wife two years ago.

If old Games !llsopp hasnt risen from his grave, its because there is no rising: for he kept her that strict8 ;ow theyre married and gone to live down at Ainbrook, and they say she goes round in a dressing*gown from morning to night, a veritable sight. Im sure its awful, the way the old ones go on8 Why theyre a lot worse than the young, and a sight more disgusting. I lay it down to the pictures, myself. 2ut you cant 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. !nyhow keep the children away8 2ut there you are, grown*ups are worse than the children: and the old ones beat the band. Talk about morality8 ;obody cares a thing. 'olks does as they like, and much better off they are for it, I must say. 2ut theyre having to draw their horns in nowadays, now th pits are working so bad, and they havent got the money. !nd the grumbling they do, its awful, especially the women. The men are so good and patient8 What can they do, poor chaps8 2ut the women, oh, they do carry on8 They go and show off, giving contributions for a wedding present for 6rincess 1ary, and then when they see all the grand things thats been given, they simply rave: whos she, any better than anybody else8 Why doesnt #wan L (dgar give me one fur coat, instead of giving her si). I wish Id kept my ten shillings8 Whats she going to give me, I should like to know: +ere I cant get a new spring coat, my dads working that bad, and she gets van*loads. Its 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 youre well fed and well clothed, without all the new finery you want8 !nd they fly back at me: HWhy isnt 6rincess 1ary thankful to go about in her old rags, then, an have nothing8 'olks like her get van*loads, an I cant have a new spring coat. Its a damned shame. 6rincess8 2loomin rot about 6rincess8 Its munney as matters, an cos shes got lots, they give her more8 ;obodys givin me any, an Ive as much right as anybody else. 7ont talk to me about education. Its munney as matters. I want a new spring coat, I do, an I shant get it, cos theres no munney . . . I Thats all they care about, clothes. They think nothing of giving seven or eight guineas for a winter coat 9 colliers daughters, mind you 9 and two guineas for a childs summer hat. !nd then they go to the 6rimitive hapel in their two*guinea hat, girls as would have been proud of a three*and*si)penny one in my day. I heard that at the 6rimitive 1ethodist anniversary this year, when they have a built*up platform for the #unday #chool children, like a grandstand going almost up to th ceiling, I heard 1iss Thompson, who has the first class of girls in the #unday #chool, say thered be over a thousand pounds in new #unday clothes sitting on that platform8 !nd times are what they are8 2ut you cant stop them. Theyre mad for clothes. !nd boys the same. The lads spend every penny on themselves, clothes, smoking, drinking in the 1iners Welfare, 4aunting off to #heffield two or three times a week. Why, its another world. !nd they fear nothing, and they respect nothing, the young dont. The older men are that patient and good, really, they let the women take everything. !nd this is what it leads to. The women are positive demons. 2ut the lads arent like their dads. Theyre sacrificing nothing, they arent: theyre all for self. If you tell them they ought to be putting a bit by, for a home, they say: Thatll keep, that will, Im goin t en4oy myself while I can. Owt elsell keep8 Oh, theyre rough an selfish, if you like. (verything falls on the older men, an its a bad outlook all round. lifford 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. ;ow 9 : .Is there much #ocialism, 2olshevism, among the people: he asked. .Oh8 said 1rs 2olton, .you hear a few loud*mouthed ones. 2ut theyre mostly women whove got into debt. The men take no notice. I dont believe youll ever turn our Tevershall men into reds. Theyre too decent for that. 2ut the young ones blether sometimes. ;ot 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 #heffield. Thats all they care. When theyve got no money, theyll listen to the reds spouting. 2ut nobody believes in it, really. .#o you think theres no danger: .Oh no8 ;ot if trade was good, there wouldnt be. 2ut if things were bad for a long spell, the young

ones might go funny. I tell you, theyre a selfish, spoilt lot. 2ut I dont see how theyd ever do anything. They arent ever serious about anything, e)cept showing off on motor*bikes and dancing at the 6alais*de*danse in #heffield. 3ou cant make them serious. The serious ones dress up in evening clothes and go off to the 6ally to show off before a lot of girls and dance these new harlestons and what not. Im sure sometimes the busll be full of young fellows in evening suits, collier lads, off to the 6ally: let alone those that have gone with their girls in motors or on motor* bikes. They dont give a serious thought to a thing 9 save 7oncaster races, and the 7erby: for they all of them bet on every race. !nd football8 2ut even footballs not what it was, not by a long chalk. Its too much like hard work, they say. ;o, theyd rather be off on motor*bikes to #heffield or ;ottingham, #aturday afternoons. .2ut what do they do when they get there: .Oh, hang around 9 and have tea in some fine tea*place like the 1ikado 9 and go to the 6ally or the pictures or the (mpire, with some girl. The girls are as free as the lads. They do 4ust what they like. .!nd what do they do when they havent the money for these things: .They seem to get it, somehow. !nd they begin talking nasty then. 2ut I dont see how youre going to get bolshevism, when all the lads want is 4ust money to en4oy themselves, and the girls the same, with fine clothes: and they dont care about another thing. They havent the brains to be socialists. They havent enough seriousness to take anything really serious, and they never will have. onnie thought, how e)tremely like all the rest of the classes the lower classes sounded. Gust the same thing over again, Tevershall or 1ayfair or Aensington. There was only one class nowadays: moneyboys. The moneyboy and the moneygirl, the only difference was how much youd got, and how much you wanted. =nder 1rs 2oltons influence, lifford began to take a new interest in the mines. +e began to feel he belonged. ! new sort of self*assertion came into him. !fter 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. Tevershall pits were running thin. There were only two collieries: Tevershall itself, and ;ew /ondon. Tevershall had once been a famous mine, and had made famous money. 2ut its best days were over. ;ew /ondon was never very rich, and in ordinary times 4ust got along decently. 2ut now times were bad, and it was pits like ;ew /ondon that got left. .Theres a lot of Tevershall men left and gone to #tacks @ate and Whiteover, said 1rs 2olton. .3ouve not seen the new works at #tacks @ate, opened after the war, have you, #ir lifford: Oh, you must go one day, theyre something 0uite new: great big chemical works at the pit*head, doesnt look a bit like a colliery. They say they get more money out of the chemical by*products than out of the coal 9 I forget what it is. !nd the grand new houses for the men, fair mansions8 of course its brought a lot of riff*raff from all over the country. 2ut a lot of Tevershall men got on there, and doin well, a lot better than our own men. They say Tevershalls done, finished: only a 0uestion of a few more years, and itll have to shut down. !nd ;ew /ondonll go first. 1y word, wont it be funny when theres no Tevershall pit working. Its bad enough during a strike, but my word, if it closes for good, itll be like the end of the world. (ven 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, theres been some money made in Tevershall. !nd now the men say its a sinking ship, and its time they all got out. 7oesnt it sound awful8 2ut of course theres a lot asll never go till they have to. They dont like these new fangled mines, such a depth, and all machinery to work them. #ome of them simply dreads those iron men, as they call them, those machines for hewing the coal, where men always did it before. !nd they say its wasteful as well. 2ut what goes in waste is saved in wages, and a lot more. It seems soon therell be no use for men on the face of the earth, itll be all machines. 2ut they say thats what folks said when they had to give up the old stocking frames. I can remember

one or two. 2ut my word, the more machines, the more people, thats what it looks like8 They say you cant get the same chemicals out of Tevershall coal as you can out of #tacks @ate, and thats funny, theyre not three miles apart. 2ut they say so. 2ut everybody says its a shame something cant be started, to keep the men going a bit better, and employ the girls. !ll the girls traipsing off to #heffield every day8 1y word, it would be something to talk about if Tevershall ollieries took a new lease of life, after everybody saying theyre finished, and a sinking ship, and the men ought to leave them like rats leave a sinking ship. 2ut folks talk so much, of course there was a boom during the war. When #ir @eoffrey made a trust of himself and got the money safe for ever, somehow. #o they say8 2ut they say even the masters and the owners dont get much out of it now. 3ou can hardly believe it, can you8 Why I always thought the pits would go on for ever and ever. Whod have thought, when I was a girl8 2ut ;ew (nglands shut down, so is olwick Wood: yes, its fair haunting to go through that coppy and see olwick Wood standing there deserted among the trees, and bushes growing up all over the pit*head, and the lines red rusty. Its like death itself, a dead colliery. Why, whatever should we do if Tevershall shut down 9 : It doesnt bear thinking of. !lways that throng its been, e)cept at strikes, and even then the fan*wheels didnt stand, e)cept when they fetched the ponies up. Im sure its a funny world, you dont know where you are from year to year, you really dont. It was 1rs 2oltons talk that really put a new fight into lifford. +is income, as she pointed out to him, was secure, from his fathers 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. ;ow he reali"ed the distinction between popular success and working success: the populace of pleasure and the populace of work. +e, as a private individual, had been catering with his stories for the populace of pleasure. !nd he had caught on. 2ut beneath the populace of pleasure lay the populace of work, grim, grimy, and rather terrible. They too had to have their providers. !nd 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. +e reali"ed now that the bitch*goddess of #uccess 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. !nd the meat and bones for the bitch*goddess were provided by the men who made money in industry. 3es, 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. 2ut it was nothing to the silent fight*to*the*death that went on among the indispensables, the bone*bringers. 2ut under 1rs 2oltons influence, lifford was tempted to enter this other fight, to capture the bitch*goddess by brute means of industrial production. #omehow, he got his pecker up. In one way, 1rs 2olton made a man of him, as onnie never did. onnie kept him apart, and made him sensitive and conscious of himself and his own states. 1rs 2olton made hint aware only of outside things. Inwardly he began to go soft as pulp. 2ut outwardly he began to be effective. +e 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. +e sat there, crippled, in a tub, with the underground manager showing him the seam with a powerful torch. !nd he said little. 2ut his mind began to work. +e 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 @erman. Of course the most valuable discoveries were kept secret as far as possible. 2ut 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 fiends 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. 2ut lifford 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. 2ut let that be. /et man slide down to general idiocy in the emotional and .human mind, lifford did not care. /et all that go hang. +e was interested in the technicalities of modern coal*mining, and in pulling Tevershall out of the hole. +e 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. 6ower8 +e felt a new sense of power flowing through him: power over all these men, over the hundreds and hundreds of colliers. +e was finding out: and he was getting things into his grip. !nd he seemed verily to be re*born. now life came into him8 +e had been gradually dying, with onnie, in the isolated private life of the artist and the conscious being. ;ow let all that go. /et it sleep. +e simply felt life rush into him out of the coal, out of the pit. The very stale air of the colliery was better than o)ygen to him. It gave him a sense of power, power. +e was doing something: and he was going to do something. +e was going to win, to win: not as he had won with his stories, mere publicity, amid a whole sapping of energy and malice. 2ut a mans victory. !t first he thought the solution lay in electricity: convert the coal into electric power. Then a new idea came. The @ermans invented a new locomotive engine with a self feeder, that did not need a fireman. !nd it was to be fed with a new fuel, that burnt in small 0uantities at a great heat, under peculiar conditions. The idea of a new concentrated fuel that burnt with a hard slowness at a fierce heat was what first attracted lifford. There must be some sort of e)ternal stimulus of the burning of such fuel, not merely air supply. +e began to e)periment, and got a clever young fellow, who had proved brilliant in chemistry, to help him. !nd he felt triumphant. +e had at last got out of himself. +e had fulfilled his life*long secret yearning to get out of himself. !rt had not done it for him. !rt had only made it worse. 2ut now, now he had done it. +e was not aware how much 1rs 2olton was behind him. +e did not know how much he depended on her. 2ut 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. With onnie, he was a little stiff. +e felt he owed her everything, and he showed her the utmost respect and consideration, so long as she gave him mere outward respect. 2ut it was obvious he had a secret dread of her. The new !chilles in hint had a heel, and in this heel the woman, the woman like onnie, his wife, could lame him fatally. +e went in a certain half*subservient dread of her, and was e)tremely nice to her. 2ut his voice was a little tense when he spoke to her, and he began to be silent whenever she was present. Only when he was alone with 1rs 2olton 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. !nd he let her shave him or sponge all his body as if he were a child, really as if he were a child.

Chapter 1!
onnie was a good deal alone now, fewer people came to Wragby. lifford no longer wanted them. +e had turned against even the cronies. +e was 0ueer. +e preferred the radio, which he had installed at some e)pense, with a good deal of success at last. +e could sometimes get 1adrid or 'rankfurt, even there in the uneasy 1idlands. !nd he would sit alone for hours listening to the loudspeaker bellowing forth. It ama"ed and stunned onnie. 2ut there he would sit, with a blank entranced e)pression on his face, like a person losing his mind, and listen, or seem to listen, to the unspeakable thing. Was he really listening: Or was it a sort of soporific he took, whilst something else worked on underneath in him: onnie did now know. #he fled up to her room, or out of doors to the wood. ! kind of terror filled her sometimes, a terror of the incipient insanity of the whole civili"ed species. 2ut now that lifford was drifting off to this other weirdness of industrial activity, becoming almost a creature, with a hard, efficient shell of an e)terior and a pulpy interior, one of the ama"ing crabs and lobsters of the modern, industrial and financial world, invertebrates of the crustacean order, with shells of steel, like machines, and inner bodies of soft pulp, onnie herself was really completely stranded. #he was not even free, for lifford must have her there. +e seemed to have a nervous terror that she should leave him. The curious pulpy part of him, the emotional and humanly*individual part, depended on her with terror, like a child, almost like an idiot. #he must be there, there at Wragby, a /ady hatterley, his wife. Otherwise he would be lost like an idiot on a moor. This ama"ing dependence onnie reali"ed with a sort of horror. #he heard him with his pit managers, with the members of his 2oard, with young scientists, and she was ama"ed at his shrewd insight into things, his power, his uncanny material power over what is called practical men. +e had become a practical man himself and an ama"ingly astute and powerful one, a master. onnie attributed it to 1rs 2oltons influence upon him, 4ust at the crisis in his life. 2ut this astute and practical man was almost an idiot when left alone to his own emotional life. +e worshipped onnie. #he was his wife, a higher being, and he worshipped her with a 0ueer, craven idolatry, like a savage, a worship based on enormous fear, and even hate of the power of the idol, the dread idol. !ll he wanted was for onnie to swear, to swear not to leave him, not to give him away. . lifford, she said to him 9 but this was after she had the key to the hut 9 .Would you really like me to have a child one day: +e looked at her with a furtive apprehension in his rather prominent pale eyes. .I shouldnt mind, if it made no difference between us, he said. .;o difference to what: she asked. .To you and me> to our love for one another. If its going to affect that, then Im all against it. Why, I might even one day have a child of my own8 #he looked at him in ama"ement. .I mean, it might come back to me one of these days. #he still stared in ama"ement, and he was uncomfortable. .#o you would not like it if I had a child: she said. .I tell you, he replied 0uickly, like a cornered dog, .I am 0uite willing, provided it doesnt touch your love for me. If it would touch that, I am dead against it. onnie could only be silent in cold fear and contempt. #uch talk was really the gabbling of an idiot.

+e no longer knew what he was talking about. .Oh, it wouldnt make any difference to my feeling for you, she said, with a certain sarcasm. .There8 he said. .That is the point8 In that case I dont mind in the least. I mean it would be awfully nice to have a child running about the house, and feel one was building up a future for it. I should have something to strive for then, and I should know it was your child, shouldnt I, dear: !nd it would seem 4ust the same as my own. 2ecause it is you who count in these matters. 3ou know that, dont you, dear: I dont enter, I am a cypher. 3ou are the great I*am8 as far as life goes. 3ou know that, dont you: I mean, as far as I am concerned. I mean, but for you I am absolutely nothing. I live for your sake and your future. I am nothing to myself onnie heard it all with deepening dismay and repulsion. It was one of the ghastly half*truths that poison human e)istence. What man in his senses would say such things to a woman8 2ut men arent in their senses. What man with a spark of honour would put this ghastly burden of life* responsibility upon a woman, and leave her there, in the void: 1oreover, in half an hours time, onnie heard lifford talking to 1rs 2olton, in a hot, impulsive voice, revealing himself in a sort of passionless passion to the woman, as if she were half mistress, half foster*mother to him. !nd 1rs 2olton was carefully dressing him in evening clothes, for there were important business guests in the house. onnie really sometimes felt she would die at this time. #he felt she was being crushed to death by weird lies, and by the ama"ing cruelty of idiocy. liffords strange business efficiency in a way over*awed her, and his declaration of private worship put her into a panic. There was nothing between them. #he never even touched him nowadays, and he never touched her. +e never even took her hand and held it kindly. ;o, and because they were so utterly out of touch, he tortured her with his declaration of idolatry. It was the cruelty of utter impotence. !nd she felt her reason would give way, or she would die. #he fled as much as possible to the wood. One afternoon, as she sat brooding, watching the water bubbling coldly in Gohns Well, the keeper had strode up to her. .I got you a key made, my /ady8 he said, saluting, and he offered her the key. .Thank you so much8 she said, startled. .The huts not very tidy, if you dont mind, he said. .I cleared it what I could. .2ut I didnt want you to trouble8 she said. .Oh, it wasnt any trouble. I am setting the hens in about a week. 2ut they wont be scared of you. I sll have to see to them morning and night, but I shant bother you any more than I can help. .2ut you wouldnt bother me, she pleaded. .Id rather not go to the hut at all, if I am going to be in the way. +e looked at her with his keen blue eyes. +e seemed kindly, but distant. 2ut at least he was sane, and wholesome, if even he looked thin and ill. ! cough troubled him. .3ou have a cough, she said. .;othing 9 a cold8 The last pneumonia left me with a cough, but its nothing. +e kept distant from her, and would not come any nearer. #he went fairly often to the hut, in the morning or in the afternoon, but he was never there. ;o doubt he avoided her on purpose. +e wanted to keep his own privacy. +e had made the hut tidy, put the little table and chair near the fireplace, left a little pile of kindling and small logs, and put the tools and traps away as far as possible, effacing himself. Outside, by the clearing, he had built a low little roof of boughs and straw, a shelter for the birds, and under it stood

the live coops. !nd, one day when she came, she found two brown hens sitting alert and fierce in the coops, sitting on pheasants eggs, and fluffed out so proud and deep in all the heat of the pondering female blood. This almost broke onnies heart. #he, herself was so forlorn and unused, not a female at all, 4ust a mere thing of terrors. Then all the live coops were occupied by hens, three brown and a grey and a black. !ll alike, they clustered themselves down on the eggs in the soft nestling ponderosity of the female urge, the female nature, fluffing out their feathers. !nd with brilliant eyes they watched onnie, as she crouched before them, and they gave short sharp clucks of anger and alarm, but chiefly of female anger at being approached. onnie found corn in the corn*bin in the hut. #he offered it to the hens in her hand. They would not eat it. Only one hen pecked at her hand with a fierce little 4ab, so onnie was frightened. 2ut she was pining to give them something, the brooding mothers who neither fed themselves nor drank. #he brought water in a little tin, and was delighted when one of the hens drank. ;ow she came every day to the hens, they were the only things in the world that warmed her heart. liffords protestations made her go cold from head to foot. 1rs 2oltons voice made her go cold, and the sound of the business men who came. !n occasional letter from 1ichaelis affected her with the same sense of chill. #he felt she would surely die if it lasted much longer. 3et it was spring, and the bluebells were coming in the wood, and the leaf*buds on the ha"els were opening like the spatter of green rain. +ow terrible it was that it should be spring, and everything cold*hearted, cold*hearted. Only the hens, fluffed so wonderfully on the eggs, were warm with their hot, brooding female bodies8 onnie felt herself living on the brink of fainting all the time. Then, one day, a lovely sunny day with great tufts of primroses under the ha"els, and many violets dotting the paths, she came in the afternoon to the coops and there was one tiny, tiny perky chicken tinily prancing round in front of a coop, and the mother hen clucking in terror. The slim little chick was greyish brown with dark markings, and it was the most alive little spark of a creature in seven kingdoms at that moment. onnie crouched to watch in a sort of ecstasy. /ife, life8 pure, sparky, fearless new life8 ;ew life8 #o tiny and so utterly without fear8 (ven when it scampered a little, scrambling into the coop again, and disappeared under the hens feathers in answer to the mother hens wild alarm*cries, it was not really frightened, it took it as a game, the game of living. 'or in a moment a tiny sharp head was poking through the gold*brown feathers of the hen, and eyeing the osmos. onnie was fascinated. !nd at the same time, never had she felt so acutely the agony of her own female forlornness. It was becoming unbearable. #he had only one desire now, to go to the clearing in the wood. The rest was a kind of painful dream. 2ut sometimes she was kept all day at Wragby, by her duties as hostess. !nd then she felt as if she too were going blank, 4ust blank and insane. One evening, guests or no guests, she escaped after tea. It was late, and she fled across the park like one who fears to be called back. The sun was setting rosy as she entered the wood, but she pressed on among the flowers. The light would last long overhead. #he arrived at the clearing flushed and semi*conscious. The keeper was there, in his shirt*sleeves, 4ust closing up the coops for the night, so the little occupants would be safe. 2ut still one little trio was pattering about on tiny feet, alert drab mites, under the straw shelter, refusing to be called in by the an)ious mother. .I had to come and see the chickens8 she said, panting, glancing shyly at the keeper, almost unaware of him. .!re there any more: .Thurty*si) so far8 he said. .;ot bad8 +e too took a curious pleasure in watching the young things come out.

onnie crouched in front of the last coop. The three chicks had run in. 2ut still their cheeky heads came poking sharply through the yellow feathers, then withdrawing, then only one beady little head eyeing forth from the vast mother*body. .Id love to touch them, she said, putting her lingers gingerly through the bars of the coop. 2ut the mother*hen pecked at her hand fiercely, and onnie drew back startled and frightened. .+ow she pecks at me8 #he hates me8 she said in a wondering voice. .2ut I wouldnt hurt them8 The man standing above her laughed, and crouched down beside her, knees apart, and put his hand with 0uiet confidence slowly into the coop. The old hen pecked at him, but not so savagely. !nd slowly, softly, with sure gentle lingers, he felt among the old birds feathers and drew out a faintly* peeping chick in his closed hand. .There8 he said, holding out his hand to her. #he took the little drab thing between her hands, and there it stood, on its impossible little stalks of legs, its atom of balancing life trembling through its almost weightless feet into onnies hands. 2ut it lifted its handsome, clean*shaped little head boldly, and looked sharply round, and gave a little .peep. .#o adorable8 #o cheeky8 she said softly. The keeper, s0uatting beside her, was also watching with an amused face the bold little bird in her hands. #uddenly he saw a tear fall on to her wrist. !nd he stood up, and stood away, moving to the other coop. 'or suddenly he was aware of the old flame shooting and leaping up in his loins, that he had hoped was 0uiescent for ever. +e fought against it, turning his back to her. 2ut it leapt, and leapt downwards, circling in his knees. +e turned again to look at her. #he was kneeling and holding her two hands slowly forward, blindly, so that the chicken should run in to the mother*hen again. !nd there was something so mute and forlorn in her, compassion flamed in his bowels for her. Without knowing, he came 0uickly towards her and crouched beside her again, taking the chick from her hands, because she was afraid of the hen, and putting it back in the coop. !t the back of his loins the fire suddenly darted stronger. +e glanced apprehensively at her. +er face was averted, and she was crying blindly, in all the anguish of her generations forlornness. +is heart melted suddenly, like a drop of fire, and he put out his hand and laid his lingers on her knee. .3ou shouldnt cry, he said softly. 2ut then she put her hands over her face and felt that really her heart was broken and nothing mattered any more. +e laid his hand on her shoulder, and softly, gently, it began to travel down the curve of her back, blindly, with a blind stroking motion, to the curve of her crouching loins. !nd there his hand softly, softly, stroked the curve of her flank, in the blind instinctive caress. #he had found her scrap of handkerchief and was blindly trying to dry her face. .#hall you come to the hut: he said, in a 0uiet, neutral voice. !nd closing his hand softly on her upper arm, he drew her up and led her slowly to the hut, not letting go of her till she was inside. Then he cleared aside the chair and table, and took a brown, soldiers blanket from the tool chest, spreading it slowly. #he glanced at his face, as she stood motionless. +is face was pale and without e)pression, like that of a man submitting to fate. .3ou lie there, he said softly, and he shut the door, so that it was dark, 0uite dark. With a 0ueer obedience, she lay down on the blanket. Then she felt the soft, groping, helplessly desirous hand touching her body, feeling for her face. The hand stroked her face softly, softly, with

infinite soothing and assurance, and at last there was the soft touch of a kiss on her cheek. #he lay 0uite still, in a sort of sleep, in a sort of dream. Then she 0uivered as she felt his hand groping softly, yet with 0ueer thwarted clumsiness, among her .clothing. 3et the hand knew, too, how to unclothe her where it wanted. +e drew down the thin silk sheath, slowly, carefully, right down and over her feet. Then with a 0uiver of e)0uisite pleasure he touched the warm soft body, and touched her navel for a moment in a kiss. !nd he had to come in to her at once, to enter the peace on earth of her soft, 0uiescent body. It was the moment of pure peace for him, the entry into the body of the woman. #he lay still, in a kind of sleep, always in a kind of sleep. The activity, the orgasm was his, all his> she could strive for herself no more. (ven the tightness of his arms round her, even the intense movement of his body, and the springing of his seed in her, was a kind of sleep, from which she did not begin to rouse till he had finished and lay softly panting against her breast. Then she wondered, 4ust dimly wondered, why: Why was this necessary: Why had it lifted a great cloud from her and given her peace: Was it real: Was it real: +er tormented modern*womans brain still had no rest. Was it real: !nd she knew, if she gave herself to the man, it was real. 2ut if she kept herself for herself it was nothing. #he was old> millions of years old, she felt. !nd at last, she could bear the burden of herself no more. #he was to be had for the taking. To be had for the taking. The man lay in a mysterious stillness. What was he feeling: What was he thinking: #he did not know. +e was a strange man to her, she did not know him. #he must only wait, for she did not dare to break his mysterious stillness. +e lay there with his arms round her, his body on hers, his wet body touching hers, so close. !nd completely unknown. 3et not unpeaceful. +is very stillness was peaceful. #he knew that, when at last he roused and drew away from her. It was like an abandonment. +e drew her dress in the darkness down over her knees and stood a few moments, apparently ad4usting his own clothing. Then he 0uietly opened the door and went out. #he saw a very brilliant little moon shining above the afterglow over the oaks. Fuickly she got up and arranged herself she was tidy. Then she went to the door of the hut. !ll the lower wood was in shadow, almost darkness. 3et the sky overhead was crystal. 2ut it shed hardly any light. +e came through the lower shadow towards her, his face lifted like a pale blotch. .#hall we go then: he said. .Where: .Ill go with you to the gate. +e arranged things his own way. +e locked the door of the hut and came after her. .3ou arent sorry, are you: he asked, as he went at her side. .;o8 ;o8 !re you: she said. .'or that8 ;o8 he said. Then after a while he added: .2ut theres the rest of things. .What rest of things: she said. .#ir lifford. Other folks. !ll the complications. .Why complications: she said, disappointed. .Its always so. 'or you as well as for me. Theres always complications. +e walked on steadily in the dark. .!nd are you sorry: she said.

.In a way8 he replied, looking up at the sky. .I thought Id done with it all. ;ow Ive begun again. .2egun what: ./ife. ./ife8 she re*echoed, with a 0ueer thrill. .Its life, he said. .Theres no keeping clear. !nd if you do keep clear you might almost as well die. #o if Ive got to be broken open again, I have. #he did not 0uite see it that way, but still .Its 4ust love, she said cheerfully. .Whatever that may be, he replied. They went on through the darkening wood in silence, till they were almost at the gate. .2ut you dont hate me, do you: she said wistfully. .;ay, nay, he replied. !nd suddenly he held her fast against his breast again, with the old connecting passion. .;ay, for me it was good, it was good. Was it for you: .3es, for me too, she answered, a little untruthfully, for she had not been conscious of much. +e kissed her softly, softly, with the kisses of warmth. .If only there werent so many other people in the world, he said lugubriously. #he laughed. They were at the gate to the park. +e opened it for her. .I wont come any further, he said. .;o8 !nd she held out her hand, as if to shake hands. 2ut he took it in both his. .#hall I come again: she asked wistfully. .3es8 3es8 #he left him and went across the park. +e stood back and watched her going into the dark, against the pallor of the hori"on. !lmost with bitterness he watched her go. #he had connected him up again, when he had wanted to be alone. #he had cost him that bitter privacy of a man who at last wants only to be alone. +e turned into the dark of the wood. !ll was still, the moon had set. 2ut he was aware of the noises of the night, the engines at #tacks @ate, the traffic on the main road. #lowly he climbed the denuded knoll. !nd from the top he could see the country, bright rows of lights at #tacks @ate, smaller lights at Tevershall pit, the yellow lights of Tevershall and lights everywhere, here and there, on the dark country, with the distant blush of furnaces, faint and rosy, since the night was clear, the rosiness of the outpouring of white*hot metal. #harp, wicked electric lights at #tacks @ate8 !n undefinable 0uick of evil in them8 !nd all the unease, the ever*shifting dread of the industrial night in the 1idlands. +e could hear the winding*engines at #tacks @ate turning down the seven*oclock miners. The pit worked three shifts. +e went down again into the darkness and seclusion of the wood. 2ut he knew that the seclusion of the wood was illusory. The industrial noises broke the solitude, the sharp lights, though unseen, mocked it. ! man could no longer be private and withdrawn. The world allows no hermits. !nd now he had taken the woman, and brought on himself a new cycle of pain and doom. 'or he knew by e)perience what it meant. It was not womans fault, nor even loves fault, nor the fault of se). The fault lay there, out there, in those evil electric lights and diabolical rattlings of engines. There, in the world of the mechanical greedy, greedy mechanism and mechani"ed greed, sparkling with lights and gushing hot metal and roaring with traffic, there lay the vast evil thing, ready to destroy whatever did not conform. #oon it would destroy the wood, and the bluebells would spring no more. !ll vulnerable things must perish

under the rolling and running of iron. +e thought with infinite tenderness of the woman. 6oor forlorn thing, she was nicer than she knew, and oh8 so much too nice for the tough lot she was in contact with. 6oor thing, she too had some of the vulnerability of the wild hyacinths, she wasnt all tough rubber*goods and platinum, like the modern girl. !nd they would do her in8 !s sure as life, they would do her in, as they do in all naturally tender life. Tender8 #omewhere she was tender, tender with a tenderness of the growing hyacinths, something that has gone out of the celluloid women of today. 2ut he would protect her with his heart for a little while. 'or a little while, before the insentient iron world and the 1ammon of mechani"ed greed did them both in, her as well as him. +e went home with his gun and his dog, to the dark cottage, lit the lamp, started the fire, and ate his supper of bread and cheese, young onions and beer. +e was alone, in a silence he loved. +is room was clean and tidy, but rather stark. 3et the fire was bright, the hearth white, the petroleum lamp hung bright over the table, with its white oil*cloth. +e tried to read a book about India, but tonight he could not read. +e sat by the fire in his shirt*sleeves, not smoking, but with a mug of beer in reach. !nd he thought about onnie. To tell the truth, he was sorry for what had happened, perhaps most for her sake. +e had a sense of foreboding. ;o sense of wrong or sin> he was troubled by no conscience in that respect. +e knew that conscience was chiefly tear of society, or fear of oneself. +e was not afraid of himself. 2ut he was 0uite consciously afraid of society, which he knew by instinct to be a malevolent, partly*insane beast. The woman8 If she could be there with him, and there were nobody else in the world8 The desire rose again, his penis began to stir like a live bird. !t the same time an oppression, a dread of e)posing himself and her to that outside Thing that sparkled viciously in the electric lights, weighed down his shoulders. #he, poor young thing, was 4ust a young female creature to him> but a young female creature whom he had gone into and whom he desired again. #tretching with the curious yawn of desire, for he had been alone and apart from man or woman for four years, he rose and took his coat again, and his gun, lowered the lamp and went out into the starry night, with the dog. 7riven by desire and by dread of the malevolent Thing outside, he made his round in the wood, slowly, softly. +e loved the darkness and folded himself into it. It fitted the turgidity of his desire which, in spite of all, was like a riches> the stirring restlessness of his penis, the stirring fire in his loins8 Oh, if only there were other men to be with, to fight that sparkling electric Thing outside there, to preserve the tenderness of life, the tenderness of women, and the natural riches of desire. If only there were men to fight side by side with8 2ut the men were all outside there, glorying in the Thing, triumphing or being trodden down in the rush of mechani"ed greed or of greedy mechanism. onstance, for her part, had hurried across the park, home, almost without thinking. !s yet she had no afterthought. #he would be in time for dinner. #he was annoyed to find the doors fastened, however, so that she had to ring. 1rs 2olton opened. .Why there you are, your /adyship8 I was beginning to wonder if youd gone lost8 she said a little roguishly. .#ir lifford hasnt asked for you, though> hes got 1r /inley in with him, talking over something. It looks as if hed stay to dinner, doesnt it, my /ady: .It does rather, said onnie. .#hall I put dinner back a 0uarter of an hour: That would give you time to dress in comfort. .6erhaps youd better. 1r /inley was the general manager of the collieries, an elderly man from the north, with not 0uite enough punch to suit lifford> not up to post*war conditions, nor post*war colliers either, with their .ca canny creed. 2ut onnie liked 1r /inley, though she was glad to be spared the toadying of his

wife. /inley stayed to dinner, and onnie was the hostess men liked so much, so modest, yet so attentive and aware, with big, wide blue eyes and a soft repose that sufficiently hid what she was really thinking. onnie had played this woman so much, it was almost second nature to her> but still, decidedly second. 3et it was curious how everything disappeared from her consciousness while she played it. #he waited patiently till she could go upstairs and think her own thoughts. #he was always waiting, it seemed to be her forte. Once in her room, however, she felt still vague and confused. #he didnt know what to think. What sort of a man was he, really: 7id he really like her: ;ot much, she felt. 3et he was kind. There was something, a sort of warm naive kindness, curious and sudden, that almost opened her womb to him. 2ut she felt he might be kind like that to any woman. Though even so, it was curiously soothing, comforting. !nd he was a passionate man, wholesome and passionate. 2ut perhaps he wasnt 0uite individual enough> he might be the same with any woman as he had been with her. It really wasnt personal. #he was only really a female to him. 2ut perhaps that was better. !nd after all, he was kind to the female in her, which no man had ever been. 1en were very kind to the person she was, but rather cruel to the female, despising her or ignoring her altogether. 1en were awfully kind to onstance 5eid or to /ady hatterley> but not to her womb they werent kind. !nd he took no notice of onstance or of /ady hatterley> he 4ust softly stroked her loins or her breasts. #he went to the wood ne)t day. It was a grey, still afternoon, with the dark*green dogs*mercury spreading under the ha"el copse, and all the trees making a silent effort to open their buds. Today she could almost feel it in her own body, the huge heave of the sap in the massive trees, upwards, up, up to the bud*a, there to push into little flamey oak*leaves, bron"e as blood. It was like a ride running turgid upward, and spreading on the sky. #he came to the clearing, but he was not there. #he had only half e)pected him. The pheasant chicks were running lightly abroad, light as insects, from the coops where the fellow hens clucked an)iously. onnie sat and watched them, and waited. #he only waited. (ven the chicks she hardly saw. #he waited. The time passed with dream*like slowness, and he did not come. #he had only half e)pected him. +e never came in the afternoon. #he must go home to tea. 2ut she had to force herself to leave. !s she went home, a fine dri""le of rain fell. .Is it raining again: said lifford, seeing her shake her hat. .Gust dri""le. #he poured tea in silence, absorbed in a sort of obstinacy. #he did want to see the keeper today, to see if it were really real. If it were really real. .#hall I read a little to you afterwards: said lifford. #he looked at him. +ad he sensed something: .The spring makes me feel 0ueer 9 I thought I might rest a little, she said. .Gust as you like. ;ot feeling really unwell, are you: .;o8 Only rather tired 9 with the spring. Will you have 1rs 2olton to play something with you: .;o8 I think Ill listen in. #he heard the curious satisfaction in his voice. #he went upstairs to her bedroom. There she heard the loudspeaker begin to bellow, in an idiotically velveteen*genteel sort of voice, something about a

series of street*cries, the very cream of genteel affectation imitating old criers. #he pulled on her old violet coloured mackintosh, and slipped out of the house at the side door. The dri""le of rain was like a veil over the world, mysterious, hushed, not cold. #he got very warm as she hurried across the park. #he had to open her light waterproof. The wood was silent, still and secret in the evening dri""le of rain, full of the mystery of eggs and half*open buds, half unsheathed flowers. In the dimness of it all trees glistened naked and dark as if they had unclothed themselves, and the green things on earth seemed to hum with greenness. There was still no one at the clearing. The chicks had nearly all gone under the mother*hens, only one or two last adventurous ones still dibbed about in the dryness under the straw roof shelter. !nd they were doubtful of themselves. #o8 +e still had not been. +e was staying away on purpose. Or perhaps something was wrong. 6erhaps she should go to the cottage and see. 2ut she was born to wait. #he opened the hut with her key. It was all tidy, the corn put in the bin, the blankets folded on the shelf, the straw neat in a corner> a new bundle of straw. The hurricane lamp hung on a nail. The table and chair had been put back where she had lain. #he sat down on a stool in the doorway. +ow still everything was8 The fine rain blew very softly, filmily, but the wind made no noise. ;othing made any sound. The trees stood like powerful beings, dim, twilit, silent and alive. +ow alive everything was8 ;ight was drawing near again> she would have to go. +e was avoiding her. 2ut suddenly he came striding into the clearing, in his black oilskin 4acket like a chauffeur, shining with wet. +e glanced 0uickly at the hut, half*saluted, then veered aside and went on to the coops. There he crouched in silence, looking carefully at everything, then carefully shutting the hens and chicks up safe against the night. !t last he came slowly towards her. #he still sat on her stool. +e stood before her under the porch. .3ou come then, he said, using the intonation of the dialect. .3es, she said, looking up at him. .3oure late8 .!y8 he replied, looking away into the wood. #he rose slowly, drawing aside her stool. .7id you want to come in: she asked. +e looked down at her shrewdly. .Wont folks be thinkin somethink, you comin here every night: he said. .Why: #he looked up at him, at a loss. .I said Id come. ;obody knows. .They soon will, though, he replied. .!n what then: #he was at a loss for an answer. .Why should they know: she said. .'olks always does, he said fatally. +er lip 0uivered a little. .Well I cant help it, she faltered. .;ay, he said. .3ou can help it by not comin 9 if yer want to, he added, in a lower tone. .2ut I dont want to, she murmured. +e looked away into the wood, and was silent.

.2ut what when folks finds out: he asked at last. .Think about it8 Think how lowered youll feel, one of your husbands servants. #he looked up at his averted face. .Is it, she stammered, .is it that you dont want me: .Think8 he said. .Think what if folks find out #ir lifford an a 9 an everybody talkin 9 .Well, I can go away. .Where to: .!nywhere8 Ive got money of my own. 1y mother left me twenty thousand pounds in trust, and I know lifford cant touch it. I can go away. .2ut appen you dont want to go away. .3es, yes8 I dont care what happens to me. .!y, you think that8 2ut youll care8 3oull have to care, everybody has. 3ouve got to remember your /adyship is carrying on with a game*keeper. Its not as if I was a gentleman. 3es, youd care. 3oud care. .I shouldnt. What do I care about my ladyship8 I hate it really. I feel people are 4eering every time they say it. !nd they are, they are8 (ven you 4eer when you say it. .1e8 'or the first time he looked straight at her, and into her eyes. .I dont 4eer at you, he said. !s he looked into her eyes she saw his own eyes go dark, 0uite dark, the pupils dilating. .7ont you care about a the risk: he asked in a husky voice. .3ou should care. 7ont care when its too late8 There was a curious warning pleading in his voice. .2ut Ive nothing to lose, she said fretfully. .If you knew what it is, youd think Id be glad to lose it. 2ut are you afraid for yourself: .!y8 he said briefly. .I am. Im afraid. Im afraid. Im afraid O things. .What things: she asked. +e gave a curious backward 4erk of his head, indicating the outer world. .Things8 (verybody8 The lot of em. Then he bent down and suddenly kissed her unhappy face. .;ay, I dont care, he said. ./ets have it, an damn the rest. 2ut if you was to feel sorry youd ever done it 9 8 .7ont put me off, she pleaded. +e put his fingers to her cheek and kissed her again suddenly. ./et me come in then, he said softly. .!n take off your mackintosh. +e hung up his gun, slipped out of his wet leather 4acket, and reached for the blankets. .I brought another blanket, he said, .so we can put one over us if you like. .I cant stay long, she said. .7inner is half*past seven. +e looked at her swiftly, then at his watch. .!ll right, he said.

+e shut the door, and lit a tiny light in the hanging hurricane lamp. .One time well have a long time, he said. +e put the blankets down carefully, one folded for her head. Then he sat down a moment on the stool, and drew her to him, holding her close with one arm, feeling for her body with his free hand. #he heard the catch of his intaken breath as he found her. =nder her frail petticoat she was naked. .(h8 what it is to touch thee8 he said, as his finger caressed the delicate, warm, secret skin of her waist and hips. +e put his face down and rubbed his cheek against her belly and against her thighs again and again. !nd again she wondered a little over the sort of rapture it was to him. #he did not understand the beauty he found in her, through touch upon her living secret body, almost the ecstasy of beauty. 'or passion alone is awake to it. !nd when passion is dead, or absent, then the magnificent throb of beauty is incomprehensible and even a little despicable> warm, live beauty of contact, so much deeper than the beauty of vision. #he felt the glide of his cheek on her thighs and belly and buttocks, and the close brushing of his moustache and his soft thick hair, and her knees began to 0uiver. 'ar down in her she felt a new stirring, a new nakedness emerging. !nd she was half afraid. +alf she wished he would not caress her so. +e was encompassing her somehow. 3et she was waiting, waiting. !nd when he came into her, with an intensification of relief and consummation that was pure peace to him, still she was waiting. #he felt herself a little left out. !nd she knew, partly it was her own fault. #he willed herself into this separateness. ;ow perhaps she was condemned to it. #he lay still, feeling his motion within her, his deep*sunk intentness, the sudden 0uiver of him at the springing of his seed, then the slow*subsiding thrust. That thrust of the buttocks, surely it was a little ridiculous. If you were a woman, and a part in all the business, surely that thrusting of the mans buttocks was supremely ridiculous. #urely the man was intensely ridiculous in this posture and this act8 2ut she lay still, without recoil. (ven when he had finished, she did not rouse herself to get a grip on her own satisfaction, as she had done with 1ichaelis> she lay still, and the tears slowly filled and ran from her eyes. +e lay still, too. 2ut he held her close and tried to cover her poor naked legs with his legs, to keep them warm. +e lay on her with a close, undoubting warmth. .!re yer cold: he asked, in a soft, small voice, as if she were close, so close. Whereas she was left out, distant. .;o8 2ut I must go, she said gently. +e sighed, held her closer, then rela)ed to rest again. +e had not guessed her tears. +e thought she was there with him. .I must go, she repeated. +e lifted himself kneeled beside her a moment, kissed the inner side of her thighs, then drew down her skirts, buttoning his own clothes unthinking, not even turning aside, in the faint, faint light from the lantern. .Tha mun come ter th cottage one time, he said, looking down at her with a warm, sure, easy face. 2ut she lay there inert, and was ga"ing up at him thinking: #tranger8 #tranger8 #he even resented him a little. +e put on his coat and looked for his hat, which had fallen, then he slung on his gun. . ome then8 he said, looking down at her with those warm, peaceful sort of eyes. #he rose slowly. #he didnt want to go. #he also rather resented staying. +e helped her with her thin waterproof and saw she was tidy. Then he opened the door. The outside was 0uite dark. The faithful dog under the porch stood up

with pleasure seeing him. The dri""le of rain drifted greyly past upon the darkness. It was 0uite dark. .!h mun tae th lantern, he said. .Thell be nobdy. +e walked 4ust before her in the narrow path, swinging the hurricane lamp low, revealing the wet grass, the black shiny tree*roots like snakes, wan flowers. 'or the rest, all was grey rain*mist and complete darkness. .Tha mun come to the cottage one time, he said, .shall ta: We might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb. It pu""led her, his 0ueer, persistent wanting her, when there was nothing between them, when he never really spoke to her, and in spite of herself she resented the dialect. +is .tha mun come seemed not addressed to her, but some common woman. #he recogni"ed the fo)glove leaves of the riding and knew, more or less, where they were. .Its 0uarter past seven, he said, .youll do it. +e had changed his voice, seemed to feel her distance. !s they turned the last bend in the riding towards the ha"el wall and the gate, he blew out the light. .Well see from here, be said, taking her gently by the arm. 2ut it was difficult, the earth under their feet was a mystery, but he felt his way by tread: he was used to it. !t the gate he gave her his electric torch. .Its a bit lighter in the park, he said> .but take it for fear you get off th path. It was true, there seemed a ghost*glimmer of greyness in the open space of the park. +e suddenly drew her to him and whipped his hand under her dress again, feeling her warm body with his wet, chill hand. .I could die for the touch of a woman like thee, he said in his throat. .If tha would stop another minute. #he felt the sudden force of his wanting her again. .;o, I must run, she said, a little wildly. .!y, he replied, suddenly changed, letting her go. #he turned away, and on the instant she turned back to him saying: .Aiss me. +e bent over her indistinguishable and kissed her on the left eye. #he held her mouth and he softly kissed it, but at once drew away. +e hated mouth kisses. .Ill come tomorrow, she said, drawing away> .if I can, she added. .!y8 not so late, he replied out of the darkness. !lready she could not see him at all. .@oodnight, she said. .@oodnight, your /adyship, his voice. #he stopped and looked back into the wet dark. #he could 4ust see the bulk of him. .Why did you say that: she said. .;ay, he replied. .@oodnight then, run8 #he plunged on in the dark*grey tangible night. #he found the side*door open, and slipped into her room unseen. !s she closed the door the gong sounded, but she would take her bath all the same 9 she must take her bath. .2ut I wont be late any more, she said to herself> .its too annoying. The ne)t day she did not go to the wood. #he went instead with lifford to =thwaite. +e could occasionally go out now in the car, and had got a strong young man as chauffeur, who could help him out of the car if need be. +e particularly wanted to see his godfather, /eslie Winter, who lived at #hipley +all, not far from =thwaite. Winter was an elderly gentleman now, wealthy, one of the

wealthy coal*owners who had had their hey*day in Aing (dwards time. Aing (dward had stayed more than once at #hipley, for the shooting. It was a handsome old stucco hall, very elegantly appointed, for Winter was a bachelor and prided himself on his style> but the place was beset by collieries. /eslie Winter was attached to lifford, but personally did not entertain a great respect for him, because of the photographs in illustrated papers and the literature. The old man was a buck of the Aing (dward school, who thought life was life and the scribbling fellows were something else. Towards onnie the #0uire was always rather gallant> he thought her an attractive demure maiden and rather wasted on lifford, and it was a thousand pities she stood no chance of bringing forth an heir to Wragby. +e himself had no heir. onnie wondered what he would say if he knew that liffords game*keeper had been having intercourse with her, and saying to her .tha mun come to th cottage one time. +e would detest and despise her, for he had come almost to hate the shoving forward of the working classes. ! man of her own class he would not mind, for onnie was gifted from nature with this appearance of demure, submissive maidenliness, and perhaps it was part of her nature. Winter called her .dear child and gave her a rather lovely miniature of an eighteenth*century lady, rather against her will. 2ut onnie was preoccupied with her affair with the keeper. !fter all, 1r Winter, who was really a gentleman and a man of the world, treated her as a person and a discriminating individual> he did not lump her together with all the rest of his female womanhood in his .thee and .tha. #he did not go to the wood that day nor the ne)t, nor the day following. #he did not go so long as she felt, or imagined she felt, the man waiting for her, wanting her. 2ut the fourth day she was terribly unsettled and uneasy. #he still refused to go to the wood and open her thighs once more to the man. #he thought of all the things she might do 9 drive to #heffield, pay visits, and the thought of all these things was repellent. !t last she decided to take a walk, not towards the wood, but in the opposite direction> she would go to 1arehay, through the little iron gate in the other side of the park fence. It was a 0uiet grey day of spring, almost warm. #he walked on unheeding, absorbed in thoughts she was not even conscious of #he was not really aware of anything outside her, till she was startled by the loud barking of the dog at 1arehay 'arm. 1arehay 'arm8 Its pastures ran up to Wragby park fence, so they were neighbours, but it was some time since onnie had called. .2ell8 she said to the big white bull*terrier. .2ell8 have you forgotten me: 7ont you know me: #he was afraid of dogs, and 2ell stood back and bellowed, and she wanted to pass through the farmyard on to the warren path. 1rs 'lint appeared. #he was a woman of onstances own age, had been a school*teacher, but onnie suspected her of being rather a false little thing. .Why, its /ady hatterley8 Why8 !nd 1rs 'lints eyes glowed again, and she flushed like a young girl. .2ell, 2ell. Why8 barking at /ady hatterley8 2ell8 2e 0uiet8 #he darted forward and slashed at the dog with a white cloth she held in her hand, then came forward to onnie. .#he used to know me, said onnie, shaking hands. The 'lints were hatterley tenants. .Of course she knows your /adyship8 #hes 4ust showing off, said 1rs 'lint, glowing and looking up with a sort of flushed confusion, .but its so long since shes seen you. I do hope you are better. .3es thanks, Im all right. .Weve hardly seen you all winter. Will you come in and look at the baby: .Well8 onnie hesitated. .Gust for a minute. 1rs 'lint flew wildly in to tidy up, and onnie came slowly after her, hesitating in the rather dark kitchen where the kettle was boiling by the fire. 2ack came 1rs 'lint. .I do hope youll e)cuse me, she said. .Will you come in here: They went into the living*room, where a baby was sitting on the rag hearth rug, and the table was

roughly set for tea. ! young servant*girl backed down the passage, shy and awkward. The baby was a perky little thing of about a year, with red hair like its father, and cheeky pale*blue eyes. It was a girl, and not to be daunted. It sat among cushions and was surrounded with rag dolls and other toys in modern e)cess. .Why, what a dear she is8 said onnie, .and how shes grown8 ! big girl8 ! big girl8 #he had given it a shawl when it was born, and celluloid ducks for hristmas. .There, Gosephine8 Whos that come to see you: Whos this, Gosephine: /ady hatterley 9 you know /ady hatterley, dont you: The 0ueer pert little mite ga"ed cheekily at onnie. /adyships were still all the same to her. . ome8 Will you come to me: said onnie to the baby. The baby didnt care one way or another, so onnie picked her up and held her in her lap. +ow warm and lovely it was to hold a child in ones lap, and the soft little arms, the unconscious cheeky little legs. .I was 4ust having a rough cup of tea all by myself. /ukes gone to market, so I can have it when I like. Would you care for a cup, /ady hatterley: I dont suppose its what youre used to, but if you would . . . onnie would, though she didnt want to be reminded of what she was used to. There was a great relaying of the table, and the best cups brought and the best tea*pot. .If only you wouldnt take any trouble, said onnie. 2ut if 1rs 'lint took no trouble, where was the fun8 #o onnie played with the child and was amused by its little female dauntlessness, and got a deep voluptuous pleasure out of its soft young warmth. 3oung life8 !nd so fearless8 #o fearless, because so defenceless. !ll the other people, so narrow with fear8 #he had a cup of tea, which was rather strong, and very good bread and butter, and bottled damsons. 1rs 'lint flushed and glowed and bridled with e)citement, as if onnie were some gallant knight. !nd they had a real female chat, and both of them en4oyed it. .Its a poor little tea, though, said 1rs 'lint. .Its much nicer than at home, said onnie truthfully. .Oh*h8 said 1rs 'lint, not believing, of course. 2ut at last onnie rose. .I must go, she said. .1y husband has no idea where I am. +ell be wondering all kinds of things. .+ell never think youre here, laughed 1rs 'lint e)citedly. .+ell be sending the crier round. .@oodbye, Gosephine, said onnie, kissing the baby and ruffling its red, wispy hair. 1rs 'lint insisted on opening the locked and barred front door. onnie emerged in the farms little front garden, shut in by a privet hedge. There were two rows of auriculas by the path, very velvety and rich. ./ovely auriculas, said onnie. .5ecklesses, as /uke calls them, laughed 1rs 'lint. .+ave some. !nd eagerly she picked the velvet and primrose flowers. .(nough8 (nough8 said onnie. They came to the little garden gate.

.Which way were you going: asked 1rs 'lint. .2y the Warren. ./et me see8 Oh yes, the cows are in the gin close. 2ut theyre not up yet. 2ut the gates locked, youll have to climb. .I can climb, said onnie. .6erhaps I can 4ust go down the close with you. They went down the poor, rabbit*bitten pasture. 2irds were whistling in wild evening triumph in the wood. ! man was calling up the last cows, which trailed slowly over the path*worn pasture. .Theyre late, milking, tonight, said 1rs 'lint severely. .They know /uke wont be back till after dark. They came to the fence, beyond which the young fir*wood bristled dense. There was a little gate, but it was locked. In the grass on the inside stood a bottle, empty. .Theres the keepers empty bottle for his milk, e)plained 1rs 'lint. .We bring it as far as here for him, and then he fetches it himself .When: said onnie. .Oh, any time hes around. Often in the morning. Well, goodbye /ady hatterley8 !nd do come again. It was so lovely having you. onnie climbed the fence into the narrow path between the dense, bristling young firs. 1rs 'lint went running back across the pasture, in a sun*bonnet, because she was really a schoolteacher. onstance didnt like this dense new part of the wood> it seemed gruesome and choking. #he hurried on with her head down, thinking of the 'lints baby. It was a dear little thing, but it would be a bit bow*legged like its father. It showed already, but perhaps it would grow out of it. +ow warm and fulfilling somehow to have a baby, and how 1rs 'lint had showed it off8 #he had something anyhow that onnie hadnt got, and apparently couldnt have. 3es, 1rs 'lint had flaunted her motherhood. !nd onnie had been 4ust a bit, 4ust a little bit 4ealous. #he couldnt help it. #he started out of her muse, and gave a little cry of fear. ! man was there. It was the keeper. +e stood in the path like 2alaams ass, barring her way. .+ows this: he said in surprise. .+ow did you come: she panted. .+ow did you: +ave you been to the hut: .;o8 ;o8 I went to 1arehay. +e looked at her curiously, searchingly, and she hung her head a little guiltily. .!nd were you going to the hut now: he asked rather sternly. .;o8 I mustnt. I stayed at 1arehay. ;o one knows where I am. Im late. Ive got to run. .@iving me the slip, like: he said, with a faint ironic smile. .;o8 ;o. ;ot that. Only 9 .Why, what else: he said. !nd he stepped up to her and put his arms around her. #he felt the front of his body terribly near to her, and alive. .Oh, not now, not now, she cried, trying to push him away. .Why not: Its only si) oclock. 3ouve got half an hour. ;ay8 ;ay8 I want you. +e held her fast and she felt his urgency. +er old instinct was to fight for her freedom. 2ut something else in her was strange and inert and heavy. +is body was urgent against her, and she hadnt the heart any more to fight.

+e looked around. . ome 9 come here8 Through here, he said, looking penetratingly into the dense fir*trees, that were young and not more than half*grown. +e looked back at her. #he saw his eyes, tense and brilliant, fierce, not loving. 2ut her will had left her. ! strange weight was on her limbs. #he was giving way. #he was giving up. +e led her through the wall of prickly trees, that were difficult to come through, to a place where was a little space and a pile of dead boughs. +e threw one or two dry ones down, put his coat and waistcoat over them, and she had to lie down there under the boughs of the tree, like an animal, while he waited, standing there in his shirt and breeches, watching her with haunted eyes. 2ut still he was provident 9 he made her lie properly, properly. 3et he broke the band of her underclothes, for she did not help him, only lay inert. +e too had bared the front part of his body and she felt his naked flesh against her as he came into her. 'or a moment he was still inside her, turgid there and 0uivering. Then as he began to move, in the sudden helpless orgasm, there awoke in her new strange thrills rippling inside her. 5ippling, rippling, rippling, like a flapping overlapping of soft flames, soft as feathers, running to points of brilliance, e)0uisite, e)0uisite and melting her all molten inside. It was like bells rippling up and up to a culmination. #he lay unconscious of the wild little cries she uttered at the last. 2ut it was over too soon, too soon, and she could no longer force her own conclusion with her own activity. This was different, different. #he could do nothing. #he could no longer harden and grip for her own satisfaction upon him. #he could only wait, wait and moan in spirit as she felt him withdrawing, withdrawing and contracting, coming to the terrible moment when he would slip out of her and be gone. Whilst all her womb was open and soft, and softly clamouring, like a sea*anemone under the tide, clamouring for him to come in again and make a fulfilment for her. #he clung to him unconscious in passion, and he never 0uite slipped from her, and she felt the soft bud of him within her stirring, and strange rhythms flushing up into her with a strange rhythmic growing motion, swelling and swelling till it filled all her cleaving consciousness, and then began again the unspeakable motion that was not really motion, but pure deepening whirlpools of sensation swirling deeper and deeper through all her tissue and consciousness, till she was one perfect concentric fluid of feeling, and she lay there crying in unconscious inarticulate cries. The voice out of the uttermost night, the life8 The man heard it beneath him with a kind of awe, as his life sprang out into her. !nd as it subsided, he subsided too and lay utterly still, unknowing, while her grip on him slowly rela)ed, and she lay inert. !nd they lay and knew nothing, not even of each other, both lost. Till at last he began to rouse and become aware of his defenceless nakedness, and she was aware that his body was loosening its clasp on her. +e was coming apart> but in her breast she felt she could not bear him to leave her uncovered. +e must cover her now for ever. 2ut he drew away at last, and kissed her and covered her over, and began to cover himself #he lay looking up to the boughs of the tree, unable as yet to move. +e stood and fastened up his breeches, looking round. !ll was dense and silent, save for the awed dog that lay with its paws against its nose. +e sat down again on the brushwood and took onnies hand in silence. #he turned and looked at him. .We came off together that time, he said. #he did not answer. .Its good when its like that. 1ost folks live their lives through and they never know it, he said, speaking rather dreamily. #he looked into his brooding face. .7o they: she said. .!re you glad: +e looked back into her eyes. .@lad, he said, .!y, but never mind. +e did not want her to talk. !nd he bent over her and kissed her, and she felt, so he must kiss her for ever.

!t last she sat up. .7ont people often come off together: she asked with naive curiosity. .! good many of them never. 3ou can see by the raw look of them. +e spoke unwittingly, regretting he had begun. .+ave you come off like that with other women: +e looked at her amused. .I dont know, he said, .I dont know. !nd she knew he would never tell her anything he didnt want to tell her. #he watched his face, and the passion for him moved in her bowels. #he resisted it as far as she could, for it was the loss of herself to herself. +e put on his waistcoat and his coat, and pushed a way through to the path again. The last level rays of the sun touched the wood. .I wont come with you, he said> .better not. #he looked at him wistfully before she turned. +is dog was waiting so an)iously for him to go, and he seemed to have nothing whatever to say. ;othing left. onnie went slowly home, reali"ing the depth of the other thing in her. !nother self was alive in her, burning molten and soft in her womb and bowels, and with this self she adored him. #he adored him till her knees were weak as she walked. In her womb and bowels she was flowing and alive now and vulnerable, and helpless in adoration of him as the most naive woman. It feels like a child, she said to herself it feels like a child in me. !nd so it did, as if her womb, that had always been shut, had opened and filled with new life, almost a burden, yet lovely. .If I had a child8 she thought to herself> .if I had him inside me as a child8 9 and her limbs turned molten at the thought, and she reali"ed the immense difference between having a child to oneself and having a child to a man whom ones bowels yearned towards. The former seemed in a sense ordinary: but to have a child to a man whom one adored in ones bowels and ones womb, it made her feel she was very different from her old self and as if she was sinking deep, deep to the centre of all womanhood and the sleep of creation. It was not the passion that was new to her, it was the yearning adoration. #he knew she had always feared it, for it left her helpless> she feared it still, lest if she adored him too much, then she would lose herself become effaced, and she did not want to be effaced, a slave, like a savage woman. #he must not become a slave. #he feared her adoration, yet she would not at once fight against it. #he knew she could fight it. #he had a devil of self*will in her breast that could have fought the full soft heaving adoration of her womb and crushed it. #he could even now do it, or she thought so, and she could then take up her passion with her own will. !h yes, to be passionate like a 2acchante, like a 2acchanal fleeing through the woods, to call on Iacchos, the bright phallos that had no independent personality behind it, but was pure god*servant to the woman8 The man, the individual, let him not dare intrude. +e was but a temple*servant, the bearer and keeper of the bright phallos, her own. #o, in the flu) of new awakening, the old hard passion flamed in her for a time, and the man dwindled to a contemptible ob4ect, the mere phallos*bearer, to be torn to pieces when his service was performed. #he felt the force of the 2acchae in her limbs and her body, the woman gleaming and rapid, beating down the male> but while she felt this, her heart was heavy. #he did not want it, it was known and barren, birthless> the adoration was her treasure. It was so fathomless, so soft, so deep and so unknown. ;o, no, she would give up her hard bright female power> she was weary of it, stiffened with it> she would sink in the new bath of life, in the depths of her womb and her bowels that sang the voiceless song of adoration. It was early yet to begin to fear the man.

.I walked over by 1arehay, and I had tea with 1rs 'lint, she said to lifford. .I wanted to see the baby. Its so adorable, with hair like red cobwebs. #uch a dear8 1r 'lint had gone to market, so she and I and the baby had tea together. 7id you wonder where I was: .Well, I wondered, but I guessed you had dropped in somewhere to tea, said lifford 4ealously. With a sort of second sight he sensed something new in her, something to him 0uite incomprehensible, hut he ascribed it to the baby. +e thought that all that ailed onnie was that she did not have a baby, automatically bring one forth, so to speak. .I saw you go across the park to the iron gate, my /ady, said 1rs 2olton> .so I thought perhaps youd called at the 5ectory. .I nearly did, then I turned towards 1arehay instead. The eyes of the two women met: 1rs 2oltons grey and bright and searching> onnies blue and veiled and strangely beautiful. 1rs 2olton was almost sure she had a lover, yet how could it be, and who could it be: Where was there a man: .Oh, its so good for you, if you go out and see a bit of company sometimes, said 1rs 2olton. .I was saying to #ir lifford, it would do her ladyship a world of good if shed go out among people more. .3es, Im glad I went, and such a 0uaint dear cheeky baby, lifford, said onnie. .Its got hair 4ust like spider*webs, and bright orange, and the oddest, cheekiest, pale*blue china eyes. Of course its a girl, or it wouldnt be so bold, bolder than any little #ir 'rancis 7rake. .3oure right, my /ady 9 a regular little 'lint. They were always a forward sandy*headed family, said 1rs 2olton. .Wouldnt you like to see it, lifford: Ive asked them to tea for you to see it. .Who: he asked, looking at onnie in great uneasiness. .1rs 'lint and the baby, ne)t 1onday. .3ou can have them to tea up in your room, he said. .Why, dont you want to see the baby: she cried. .Oh, Ill see it, but I dont want to sit through a tea*time with them. .Oh, cried onnie, looking at him with wide veiled eyes. #he did not really see him, he was somebody else. .3ou can have a nice cosy tea up in your room, my /ady, and 1rs 'lint will be more comfortable than if #ir lifford was there, said 1rs 2olton. #he was sure onnie had a lover, and something in her soul e)ulted. 2ut who was he: Who was he: 6erhaps 1rs 'lint would provide a clue. onnie would not take her bath this evening. The sense of his flesh touching her, his very stickiness upon her, was dear to her, and in a sense holy. lifford was very uneasy. +e would not let her go after dinner, and she had wanted so much to be alone. #he looked at him, but was curiously submissive. .#hall we play a game, or shall I read to you, or what shall it be: he asked uneasily. .3ou read to me, said onnie. .What shall I read 9 verse or prose: Or drama: .5ead 5acine, she said. It had been one of his stunts in the past, to read 5acine in the real 'rench grand manner, but he was rusty now, and a little self*conscious> he really preferred the loudspeaker. 2ut onnie was sewing,

sewing a little frock silk of primrose silk, cut out of one of her dresses, for 1rs 'lints baby. 2etween coming home and dinner she had cut it out, and she sat in the soft 0uiescent rapture of herself sewing, while the noise of the reading went on. Inside herself she could feel the humming of passion, like the after*humming of deep bells. lifford said something to her about the 5acine. #he caught the sense after the words had gone. .3es8 3es8 she said, looking up at him. .It is splendid. !gain he was frightened at the deep blue bla"e of her eyes, and of her soft stillness, sitting there. #he had never been so utterly soft and still. #he fascinated him helplessly, as if some perfume about her into)icated him. #o he went on helplessly with his reading, and the throaty sound of the 'rench was like the wind in the chimneys to her. Of the 5acine she heard not one syllable. #he was gone in her own soft rapture, like a forest soughing with the dim, glad moan of spring, moving into bud. #he could feel in the same world with her the man, the nameless man, moving on beautiful feet, beautiful in the phallic mystery. !nd in herself in all her veins, she felt him and his child. +is child was in all her veins, like a twilight. .'or hands she hath none, nor eyes, nor feet, nor golden Treasure of hair . . . #he was like a forest, like the dark interlacing of the oakwood, humming inaudibly with myriad unfolding buds. 1eanwhile the birds of desire were asleep in the vast interlaced intricacy of her body. 2ut liffords voice went on, clapping and gurgling with unusual sounds. +ow e)traordinary it was8 +ow e)traordinary he was, bent there over the book, 0ueer and rapacious and civili"ed, with broad shoulders and no real legs8 What a strange creature, with the sharp, cold infle)ible will of some bird, and no warmth, no warmth at all8 One of those creatures of the afterwards, that have no soul, but an e)tra*alert will, cold will. #he shuddered a little, afraid of him. 2ut then, the soft warm flame of life was stronger than he, and the real things were hidden from him. The reading finished. #he was startled. #he looked up, and was more startled still to see lifford watching her with pale, uncanny eyes, like hate. .Thank you so much8 3ou do read 5acine beautifully8 she said softly. .!lmost as beautifully as you listen to him, he said cruelly. .What are you making: he asked. .Im making a childs dress, for 1rs 'lints baby. +e turned away. ! child8 ! child8 That was all her obsession. .!fter all, he said in a declamatory voice, .one gets all one wants out of 5acine. (motions that are ordered and given shape are more important than disorderly emotions. #he watched him with wide, vague, veiled eyes. .3es, Im sure they are, she said. .The modern world has only vulgari"ed emotion by letting it loose. What we need is classic control. .3es, she said slowly, thinking of him listening with vacant face to the emotional idiocy of the radio. .6eople pretend to have emotions, and they really feel nothing. I suppose that is being romantic. .()actly8 he said. !s a matter of fact, he was tired. This evening had tired him. +e would rather have been with his technical books, or his pit*manager, or listening*in to the radio. 1rs 2olton came in with two glasses of malted milk: for lifford, to make him sleep, and for onnie, to fatten her again. It was a regular night*cap she had introduced.

onnie was glad to go, when she had drunk her glass, and thankful she neednt help lifford to bed. #he took his glass and put it on the tray, then took the tray, to leave it outside. .@oodnight lifford8 do sleep well8 The 5acine gets into one like a dream. @oodnight8 #he had drifted to the door. #he was going without kissing him goodnight. +e watched her with sharp, cold eyes. #o8 #he did not even kiss him goodnight, after he had spent an evening reading to her. #uch depths of callousness in her8 (ven if the kiss was but a formality, it was on such formalities that life depends. #he was a 2olshevik, really. +er instincts were 2olshevistic8 +e ga"ed coldly and angrily at the door whence she had gone. !nger8 !nd again the dread of the night came on him. +e was a network of nerves, anden he was not braced up to work, and so full of energy: or when he was not listening*in, and so utterly neuter: then he was haunted by an)iety and a sense of dangerous impending void. +e was afraid. !nd onnie could keep the fear off him, if she would. 2ut it was obvious she wouldnt, she wouldnt. #he was callous, cold and callous to all that he did for her. +e gave up his life for her, and she was callous to him. #he only wanted her own way. .The lady loves her will. ;ow it was a baby she was obsessed by. Gust so that it should be her own, all her own, and not his8 lifford was so healthy, considering. +e looked so well and ruddy in the face, his shoulders were broad and strong, his chest deep, he had put on flesh. !nd yet, at the same time, he was afraid of death. ! terrible hollow seemed to menace him somewhere, somehow, a void, and into this void his energy would collapse. (nergyless, he felt at times he was dead, really dead. #o his rather prominent pale eyes had a 0ueer look, furtive, and yet a little cruel, so cold: and at the same time, almost impudent. It was a very odd look, this look of impudence: as if he were triumphing over life in spite of life. .Who knoweth the mysteries of the will 9 for it can triumph even against the angels 9 2ut his dread was the nights when he could not sleep. Then it was awful indeed, when annihilation pressed in on him on every side. Then it was ghastly, to e)ist without having any life: lifeless, in the night, to e)ist. 2ut now he could ring for 1rs 2olton. !nd she would always come. That was a great comfort. #he would come in her dressing gown, with her hair in a plait down her back, curiously girlish and dim, though the brown plait was streaked with grey. !nd she would make him coffee or camomile tea, and she would play chess or pi0uet with him. #he had a womans 0ueer faculty of playing even chess well enough, when she was three parts asleep, well enough to make her worth beating. #o, in the silent intimacy of the night, they sat, or she sat and he lay on the bed, with the reading*lamp shedding its solitary light on them, she almost gone in sleep, he almost gone in a sort of fear, and they played, played together 9 then they had a cup of coffee and a biscuit together, hardly speaking, in the silence of night, but being a reassurance to one another. !nd this night she was wondering who /ady hatterleys lover was. !nd she was thinking of her own Ted, so long dead, yet for her never 0uite dead. !nd when she thought of him, the old, old grudge against the world rose up, but especially against the masters, that they had killed him. They had not really killed him. 3et, to her, emotionally, they had. !nd somewhere deep in herself because of it, she was a nihilist, and really anarchic. In her half*sleep, thoughts of her Ted and thoughts of /ady hatterleys unknown lover commingled, and then she felt she shared with the other woman a great grudge against #ir lifford and all he stood for. !t the same time she was playing pi0uet with him, and they were gambling si)pences. !nd it was a source of satisfaction to be playing pi0uet with a baronet, and even losing si)pences to him. When they played cards, they always gambled. It made him forget himself. !nd he usually won. Tonight too he was winning. #o he would not go to sleep till the first dawn appeared. /uckily it began to appear at half past four or thereabouts.

onnie was in bed, and fast asleep all this time. 2ut the keeper, too, could not rest. +e had closed the coops and made his round of the wood, then gone home and eaten supper. 2ut he did not go to bed. Instead he sat by the fire and thought. +e thought of his boyhood in Tevershall, and of his five or si) years of married life. +e thought of his wife, and always bitterly. #he had seemed so brutal. 2ut he had not seen her now since $%$K, in the spring when he 4oined up. 3et there she was, not three miles away, and more brutal than ever. +e hoped never to see her again while he lived. +e thought of his life abroad, as a soldier. India, (gypt, then India again: the blind, thoughtless life with the horses: the colonel who had loved him and whom he had loved: the several years that he had been an officer, a lieutenant with a very fair chance of being a captain. Then the death of the colonel from pneumonia, and his own narrow escape from death: his damaged health: his deep restlessness: his leaving the army and coming back to (ngland to be a working man again. +e was tempori"ing with life. +e had thought he would be safe, at least for a time, in this wood. There was no shooting as yet: he had to rear the pheasants. +e would have no guns to serve. +e would be alone, and apart from life, which was all he wanted. +e had to have some sort of a background. !nd this was his native place. There was even his mother, though she had never meant very much to him. !nd he could go on in life, e)isting from day to day, without conne)ion and without hope. 'or he did not know what to do with himself. +e did not know what to do with himself. #ince he had been an officer for some years, and had mi)ed among the other officers and civil servants, with their wives and families, he had lost all ambition to .get on. There was a toughness, a curious rubbernecked toughness and unlivingness about the middle and upper classes, as he had known them, which 4ust left him feeling cold and different from them. #o, he had come back to his own class. To find there, what he had forgotten during his absence of years, a pettiness and a vulgarity of manner e)tremely distasteful. +e admitted now at last, how important manner was. +e admitted, also, how important it was even to pretend not to care about the halfpence and the small things of life. 2ut among the common people there was no pretence. ! penny more or less on the bacon was worse than a change in the @ospel. +e could not stand it. !nd again, there was the wage*s0uabble. +aving lived among the owning classes, he knew the utter futility of e)pecting any solution of the wage*s0uabble. There was no solution, short of death. The only thing was not to care, not to care about the wages. 3et, if you were poor and wretched you had to care. !nyhow, it was becoming the only thing they did care about. The care about money was like a great cancer, eating away the individuals of all classes. +e refused to care about money. !nd what then: What did life offer apart from the care of money: ;othing. 3et he could live alone, in the wan satisfaction of being alone, and raise pheasants to be shot ultimately by fat men after breakfast. It was futility, futility to the nth power. 2ut why care, why bother: !nd he had not cared nor bothered till now, when this woman had come into his life. +e was nearly ten years older than she. !nd he was a thousand years older in e)perience, starting from the bottom. The conne)ion between them was growing closer. +e could see the day when it would clinch up and they would have to make a life together. .'or the bonds of love are ill to loose8 !nd what then: What then: 1ust he start again, with nothing to start on: 1ust he entangle this woman: 1ust he have the horrible broil with her lame husband: !nd also some sort of horrible broil with his own brutal wife, who hated him: 1isery8 /ots of misery8 !nd he was no longer young and merely buoyant. ;either was he the insouciant sort. (very bitterness and every ugliness would hurt him: and the woman8

2ut even if they got clear of #ir lifford and of his own wife, even if they got clear, what were they going to do: What was he, himself going to do: What was he going to do with his life: 'or he must do something. +e couldnt be a mere hanger*on, on her money and his own very small pension. It was the insoluble. +e could only think of going to !merica, to try a new air. +e disbelieved in the dollar utterly. 2ut perhaps, perhaps there was something else. +e could not rest nor even go to bed. !fter sitting in a stupor of bitter thoughts until midnight, he got suddenly from his chair and reached for his coat and gun. . ome on, lass, he said to the dog. .Were best outside. It was a starry night, but moonless. +e went on a slow, scrupulous, soft*stepping and stealthy round. The only thing he had to contend with was the colliers setting snares for rabbits, particularly the #tacks @ate colliers, on the 1arehay side. 2ut it was breeding season, and even colliers respected it a little. ;evertheless the stealthy beating of the round in search of poachers soothed his nerves and took his mind off his thoughts. 2ut when he had done his slow, cautious beating of his bounds 9 it was nearly a five*mile walk 9 he was tired. +e went to the top of the knoll and looked out. There was no sound save the noise, the faint shuffling noise from #tacks @ate colliery, that never ceased working: and there were hardly any lights, save the brilliant electric rows at the works. The world lay darkly and fumily sleeping. It was half past two. 2ut even in its sleep it was an uneasy, cruel world, stirring with the noise of a train or some great lorry on the road, and flashing with some rosy lightning flash from the furnaces. It was a world of iron and coal, the cruelty of iron and the smoke of coal, and the endless, endless greed that drove it all. Only greed, greed stirring in its sleep. It was cold, and he was coughing. ! fine cold draught blew over the knoll. +e thought of the woman. ;ow he would have given all he had or ever might have to hold her warm in his arms, both of them wrapped in one blanket, and sleep. !ll hopes of eternity and all gain from the past he would have given to have her there, to be wrapped warm with him in one blanket, and sleep, only sleep. It seemed the sleep with the woman in his arms was the only necessity. +e went to the hut, and wrapped himself in the blanket and lay on the floor to sleep. 2ut he could not, he was cold. !nd besides, he felt cruelly his own unfinished nature. +e felt his own unfinished condition of aloneness cruelly. +e wanted her, to touch her, to hold her fast against him in one moment of completeness and sleep. +e got up again and went out, towards the park gates this time: then slowly along the path towards the house. It was nearly four oclock, still clear and cold, but no sign of dawn. +e was used to the dark, he could see well. #lowly, slowly the great house drew him, as a magnet. +e wanted to be near her. It was not desire, not that. It was the cruel sense of unfinished aloneness, that needed a silent woman folded in his arms. 6erhaps he could find her. 6erhaps he could even call her out to him: or find some way in to her. 'or the need was imperious. +e slowly, silently climbed the incline to the hall. Then he came round the great trees at the top of the knoll, on to the drive, which made a grand sweep round a lo"enge of grass in front of the entrance. +e could already see the two magnificent beeches which stood in this big level lo"enge in front of the house, detaching themselves darkly in the dark air. There was the house, low and long and obscure, with one light burning downstairs, in #ir liffords room. 2ut which room she was in, the woman who held the other end of the frail thread which drew him so mercilessly, that he did not know. +e went a little nearer, gun in hand, and stood motionless on the drive, watching the house. 6erhaps even now he could find her, come at her in some way. The house was not impregnable: he was as clever as burglars are. Why not come to her:

+e stood motionless, waiting, while the dawn faintly and imperceptibly paled behind him. +e saw the light in the house go out. 2ut he did not see 1rs 2olton come to the window and draw back the old curtain of dark*blue silk, and stand herself in the dark room, looking out on the half*dark of the approaching day, looking for the longed*for dawn, waiting, waiting for lifford to be really reassured that it was daybreak. 'or when he was sure of daybreak, he would sleep almost at once. #he stood blind with sleep at the window, waiting. !nd as she stood, she started, and almost cried out. 'or there was a man out there on the drive, a black figure in the twilight. #he woke up greyly, and watched, but without making a sound to disturb #ir lifford. The daylight began to rustle into the world, and the dark figure seemed to go smaller and more defined. #he made out the gun and gaiters and baggy 4acket 9 it would be Oliver 1ellors, the keeper. .3es, for there was the dog nosing around like a shadow, and waiting for him8 !nd what did the man want: 7id he want to rouse the house: What was he standing there for, transfi)ed, looking up at the house like a love*sick male dog outside the house where the bitch is: @oodness8 The knowledge went through 1rs 2olton like a shot. +e was /ady hatterleys lover8 +e8 +e8 To think of it8 Why, she, Ivy 2olton, had once been a tiny bit in love with him herself. When he was a lad of si)teen and she a woman of twenty*si). It was when she was studying, and he had helped her a lot with the anatomy and things she had had to learn. +ed been a clever boy, had a scholarship for #heffield @rammar #chool, and learned 'rench and things: and then after all had become an overhead blacksmith shoeing horses, because he was fond of horses, he said: but really because he was frightened to go out and face the world, only hed never admit it. 2ut hed been a nice lad, a nice lad, had helped her a lot, so clever at making things clear to you. +e was 0uite as clever as #ir lifford: and always one for the women. 1ore with women than men, they said. Till hed gone and married that 2ertha outts, as if to spite himself. #ome people do marry to spite themselves, because theyre disappointed of something. !nd no wonder it had been a failure. 9 'or years he was gone, all the time of the war: and a lieutenant and all: 0uite the gentleman, really 0uite the gentleman8 9 Then to come back to Tevershall and go as a game*keeper8 5eally, some people cant take their chances when theyve got them8 !nd talking broad 7erbyshire again like the worst, when she, Ivy 2olton, knew he spoke like any gentleman, really. Well, well8 #o her ladyship had fallen for him8 Well her ladyship wasnt the first: there was something about him. 2ut fancy8 ! Tevershall lad born and bred, and she her ladyship in Wragby +all8 1y word, that was a slap back at the high*and*mighty hatterleys8 2ut he, the keeper, as the day grew, had reali"ed: its no good8 Its no good trying to get rid of your own aloneness. 3ouve got to stick to it all your life. Only at times, at times, the gap will be filled in. !t times8 2ut you have to wait for the times. !ccept your own aloneness and stick to it, all your life. !nd then accept the times when the gap is filled in, when they come. 2ut theyve got to come. 3ou cant force them. With a sudden snap the bleeding desire that had drawn him after her broke. +e had broken it, because it must be so. There must be a coming together on both sides. !nd if she wasnt coming to him, he wouldnt track her down. +e mustnt. +e must go away, till she came. +e turned slowly, ponderingly, accepting again the isolation. +e knew it was better so. #he must come to him: it was no use his trailing after her. ;o use8 1rs 2olton saw him disappear, saw his dog run after him. .Well, well8 she said. .+es the one man I never thought of> and the one man I might have thought of. +e was nice to me when he was a lad, after I lost Ted. Well, well8 Whatever would he say if he knew8

!nd she glanced triumphantly at the already sleeping lifford, as she stepped softly from the room.

Chapter 11
onnie was sorting out one of the Wragby lumber rooms. There were several: the house was a warren, and the family never sold anything. #ir @eofferys father had liked pictures and #ir @eofferys mother had liked cin*uecento furniture. #ir @eoffery himself had liked old carved oak chests, vestry chests. #o it went on through the generations. lifford collected very modern pictures, at very moderate prices. #o in the lumber room there were bad #ir (dwin /andseers and pathetic William +enry +unt birds nests: and other !cademy stuff, enough to frighten the daughter of an 5.!. #he determined to look through it one day, and clear it all. !nd the grotes0ue furniture interested her. Wrapped up carefully to preserve it from damage and dry*rot was the old family cradle, of rosewood. #he had to unwrap it, to look at it. It had a certain charm: she looked at it a longtime. .Its thousand pities it wont be called for, sighed 1rs 2olton, who was helping. .Though cradles like that are out of date nowadays. .It might be called for. I might have a child, said onnie casually, as if saying she might have a new hat. .3ou mean if anything happened to #ir lifford8 stammered 1rs 2olton. .;o8 I mean as things are. Its only muscular paralysis with #ir lifford 9 it doesnt affect him, said onnie, lying as naturally as breathing. lifford had put the idea into her head. +e had said: .Of course I may have a child yet. Im not really mutilated at all. The potency may easily come back, even if the muscles of the hips and legs are paralysed. !nd then the seed may be transferred. +e really felt, when he had his periods of energy and worked so hard at the 0uestion of the mines, as if his se)ual potency were returning. onnie had looked at him in terror. 2ut she was 0uite 0uick* witted enough to use his suggestion for her own preservation. 'or she would have a child if she could: but not his. 1rs 2olton was for a moment breathless, flabbergasted. Then she didnt believe it: she saw in it a ruse. 3et doctors could do such things nowadays. They might sort of graft seed. .Well, my /ady, I only hope and pray you may. It would be lovely for you: and for everybody. 1y word, a child in Wragby, what a difference it would make8 .Wouldnt it8 said onnie. !nd she chose three 5. !. pictures of si)ty years ago, to send to the 7uchess of #hortlands for that ladys ne)t charitable ba"aar. #he was called .the ba"aar duchess, and she always asked all the county to send things for her to sell. #he would be delighted with three framed 5. !.s. #he might even call, on the strength of them. +ow furious lifford was when she called8 2ut oh my dear8 1rs 2olton was thinking to herself. Is it Oliver 1ellors child youre preparing us for: Oh my dear, that would be a Tevershall baby in the Wragby cradle, my word8 Wouldnt shame it, neither8 !mong other monstrosities in this lumber room was a largish black4apanned bo), e)cellently and ingeniously made some si)ty or seventy years ago, and fitted with every imaginable ob4ect. On top was a concentrated toilet set: brushes, bottles, mirrors, combs, bo)es, even three beautiful little ra"ors in safety sheaths, shaving*bowl and all. =nderneath came a sort of escritoire outfit: blotters, pens, ink*bottles, paper, envelopes, memorandum books: and then a perfect sewing*outfit, with three different si"ed scissors, thimbles, needles, silks and cottons, darning egg, all of the very best

0uality and perfectly finished. Then there was a little medicine store, with bottles labelled /audanum, Tincture of 1yrrh, (ss. loves and so on: but empty. (verything was perfectly new, and the whole thing, when shut up, was as big as a small, but fat weekend bag. !nd inside, it fitted together like a pu""le. The bottles could not possibly have spilled: there wasnt room. The thing was wonderfully made and contrived, e)cellent craftsmanship of the Dictorian order. 2ut somehow it was monstrous. #ome hatterley must even have felt it, for the thing had never been used. It had a peculiar soullessness. 3et 1rs 2olton was thrilled. ./ook what beautiful brushes, so e)pensive, even the shaving brushes, three perfect ones8 ;o8 and those scissors8 Theyre the best that money could buy. Oh, I call it lovely8 .7o you: said onnie. .Then you have it. .Oh no, my /ady8 .Of course8 It will only lie here till 7oomsday. If you wont have it, Ill send it to the 7uchess as well as the pictures, and she doesnt deserve so much. 7o have it8 .Oh, your /adyship8 Why, I shall never be able to thank you. .3ou neednt try, laughed onnie. !nd 1rs 2olton sailed down with the huge and very black bo) in her arms, flushing bright pink in her e)citement. 1r 2etts drove her in the trap to her house in the village, with the bo). !nd she had to have a few friends in, to show it: the school*mistress, the chemists wife, 1rs Weedon the undercashiers wife. They thought it marvellous. !nd then started the whisper of /ady hatterleys child. .Wondersll never cease8 said 1rs Weedon. 2ut 1rs 2olton was convinced, if it did come, it would be #ir liffords child. #o there8 ;ot long after, the rector said gently to lifford: .!nd may we really hope for an heir to Wragby: !h, that would be the hand of @od in mercy, indeed8 .Well8 We may hope, said lifford, with a faint irony, and at the same time, a certain conviction. +e had begun to believe it really possible it might even be his child. Then one afternoon came /eslie Winter, #0uire Winter, as everybody called him: lean, immaculate, and seventy: and every inch a gentleman, as 1rs 2olton said to 1rs 2etts. (very millimetre indeed8 !nd with his old*fashioned, rather haw*haw8 manner of speaking, he seemed more out of date than bag wigs. Time, in her flight, drops these fine old feathers. They discussed the collieries. liffords idea was, that his coal, even the poor sort, could be made into hard concentrated fuel that would burn at great heat if fed with certain damp, acidulated air at a fairly strong pressure. It had long been observed that in a particularly strong, wet wind the pit*bank burned very vivid, gave off hardly any fumes, and left a fine powder of ash, instead of the slow pink gravel. .2ut where will you find the proper engines for burning your fuel: asked Winter. .Ill make them myself. !nd Ill use my fuel myself. !nd Ill sell electric power. Im certain I could do it. .If you can do it, then splendid, splendid, my dear boy. +aw8 #plendid8 If I can be of any help, I shall be delighted. Im afraid I am a little out of date, and my collieries are like me. 2ut who knows, when Im gone, there may be men like you. #plendid8 It will employ all the men again, and you wont have to sell your coal, or fail to sell it. ! splendid idea, and I hope it will be a success. If I had

sons of my own, no doubt they would have up*to*date ideas for #hipley: no doubt8 2y the way, dear boy, is there any foundation to the rumour that we may entertain hopes of an heir to Wragby: .Is there a rumour: asked lifford. .Well, my dear boy, 1arshall from 'illingwood asked me, thats all I can say about a rumour. Of course I wouldnt repeat it for the world, if there were no foundation. .Well, #ir, said lifford uneasily, but with strange bright eyes. .There is a hope. There is a hope. Winter came across the room and wrung liffords hand. .1y dear boy, my dear lad, can you believe what it means to me, to hear that8 !nd to hear you are working in the hopes of a son: and that you may again employ every man at Tevershall. !h, my boy8 to keep up the level of the race, and to have work waiting for any man who cares to work8 9 The old man was really moved. ;e)t day onnie was arranging tall yellow tulips in a glass vase. . onnie, said lifford, .did you know there was a rumour that you are going to supply Wragby with a son and heir: onnie felt dim with terror, yet she stood 0uite still, touching the flowers. .;o8 she said. .Is it a 4oke: Or malice: +e paused before he answered: .;either, I hope. I hope it may be a prophecy. onnie went on with her flowers. .I had a letter from 'ather this morning, #he said. .+e wants to know if I am aware he has accepted #ir !le)ander oopers Invitation for me for Guly and !ugust, to the Dilla (smeralda in Denice. .Guly and !ugust: said lifford. .Oh, I wouldnt stay all that time. !re you sure you wouldnt come: .I wont travel abroad, said lifford promptly. #he took her flowers to the window. .7o you mind if I go: she said. 3ou know it was promised, for this summer. .'or how long would you go: .6erhaps three weeks. There was silence for a time. .Well, said lifford slowly, and a little gloomily. .I suppose I could stand it for three weeks: if I were absolutely sure youd want to come back. .I should want to come back, she said, with a 0uiet simplicity, heavy with conviction. #he was thinking of the other man. lifford felt her conviction, and somehow he believed her, he believed it was for him. +e felt immensely relieved, 4oyful at once. .In that case, he said, .I think it would be all right, dont you: .I think so, she said. .3oud en4oy the change: #he looked up at him with strange blue eyes. .I should like to see Denice again, she said, .and to bathe from one of the shingle islands across the lagoon. 2ut you know I loathe the /ido8 !nd I dont fancy I shall like #ir !le)ander ooper and

/ady ooper. 2ut if +ilda is there, and we have a gondola of our own: yes, it will be rather lovely. I do wish youd come. #he said it sincerely. #he would so love to make him happy, in these ways. .!h, but think of me, though, at the @are du ;ord: at alais 0uay8 .2ut why not: I see other men carried in litter*chairs, who have been wounded in the war. 2esides, wed motor all the way. .We should need to take two men. .Oh no8 Wed manage with 'ield. There would always be another man there. 2ut lifford shook his head. .;ot this year, dear8 ;ot this year8 ;e)t year probably Ill try. #he went away gloomily. ;e)t year8 What would ne)t year bring: #he herself did not really want to go to Denice: not now, now there was the other man. 2ut she was going as a sort of discipline: and also because, if she had a child, lifford could think she had a lover in Denice. It was already 1ay, and in Gune they were supposed to start. !lways these arrangements8 !lways ones life arranged for one8 Wheels that worked one and drove one, and over which one had no real control8 It was 1ay, but cold and wet again. ! cold wet 1ay, good for corn and hay8 1uch the corn and hay matter nowadays8 onnie had to go into =thwaite, which was their little town, where the hatterleys were still the hatterleys. #he went alone, 'ield driving her. In spite of 1ay and a new greenness, the country was dismal. It was rather chilly, and there was smoke on the rain, and a certain sense of e)haust vapour in the air. One 4ust had to live from ones resistance. ;o wonder these people were ugly and tough. The car ploughed uphill through the long s0ualid straggle of Tevershall, the blackened brick dwellings, the black slate roofs glistening their sharp edges, the mud black with coal*dust, the pavements wet and black. It was as if dismalness had soaked through and through everything. The utter negation of natural beauty, the utter negation of the gladness of life, the utter absence of the instinct for shapely beauty which every bird and beast has, the utter death of the human intuitive faculty was appalling. The stacks of soap in the grocers shops, the rhubarb and lemons in the greengrocers8 the awful hats in the milliners8 all went by ugly, ugly, ugly, followed by the plaster* and*gilt horror of the cinema with its wet picture announcements, .! Womans /ove8, and the new big 6rimitive chapel, primitive enough in its stark brick and big panes of greenish and raspberry glass in the windows. The Wesleyan chapel, higher up, was of blackened brick and stood behind iron railings and blackened shrubs. The ongregational chapel, which thought itself superior, was built of rusticated sandstone and had a steeple, but not a very high one. Gust beyond were the new school buildings, e)pensivink brick, and gravelled playground inside iron railings, all very imposing, and fi)ing the suggestion of a chapel and a prison. #tandard 'ive girls were having a singing lesson, 4ust finishing the la*me*doh*la e)ercises and beginning a .sweet childrens song. !nything more unlike song, spontaneous song, would be impossible to imagine: a strange bawling yell that followed the outlines of a tune. It was not like savages: savages have subtle rhythms. It was not like animals: animals mean something when they yell. It was like nothing on earth, and it was called singing. onnie sat and listened with her heart in her boots, as 'ield was filling petrol. What could possibly become of such a people, a people in whom the living intuitive faculty was dead as nails, and only 0ueer mechanical yells and uncanny will*power remained: ! coal*cart was coming downhill, clanking in the rain. 'ield started upwards, past the big but weary*looking drapers and clothing shops, the post*office, into the little market*place of forlorn space, where #am 2lack was peering out of the door of the #un, that called itself an inn, not a pub, and where the commercial travellers stayed, and was bowing to /ady hatterleys car.

The church was away to the left among black trees. The car slid on downhill, past the 1iners !rms. It had already passed the Wellington, the ;elson, the Three Tuns, and the #un, now it passed the 1iners !rms, then the 1echanics +all, then the new and almost gaudy 1iners Welfare and so, past a few new .villas, out into the blackened road between dark hedges and dark green fields, towards #tacks @ate. Tevershall8 That was Tevershall8 1errie (ngland8 #hakespeares (ngland8 ;o, but the (ngland of today, as onnie had reali"ed since she had come to live in it. It was producing a new race of mankind, over*conscious in the money and social and political side, on the spontaneous, intuitive side dead, but dead. +alf*corpses, all of them: but with a terrible insistent consciousness in the other half. There was something uncanny and underground about it all. It was an under*world. !nd 0uite incalculable. +ow shall we understand the reactions in half*corpses: When onnie saw the great lorries full of steel*workers from #heffield, weird, distorted smallish beings like men, off for an e)cursion to 1atlock, her bowels fainted and she thought: !h @od, what has man done to man: What have the leaders of men been doing to their fellow men: They have reduced them to less than humanness> and now there can be no fellowship any more8 It is 4ust a nightmare. #he felt again in a wave of terror the grey, gritty hopelessness of it all. With such creatures for the industrial masses, and the upper classes as she knew them, there was no hope, no hope any more. 3et she was wanting a baby, and an heir to Wragby8 !n heir to Wragby8 #he shuddered with dread. 3et 1ellors had come out of all this8 9 3es, but he was as apart from it all as she was. (ven in him there was no fellowship left. It was dead. The fellowship was dead. There was only apartness and hopelessness, as far as all this was concerned. !nd this was (ngland, the vast bulk of (ngland: as onnie knew, since she had motored from the centre of it. The car was rising towards #tacks @ate. The rain was holding off, and in the air came a 0ueer pellucid gleam of 1ay. The country rolled away in long undulations, south towards the 6eak, east towards 1ansfield and ;ottingham. onnie was travelling #outh. !s she rose on to the high country, she could see on her left, on a height above the rolling land, the shadowy, powerful bulk of Warsop astle, dark grey, with below it the reddish plastering of miners dwellings, newish, and below those the plumes of dark smoke and white steam from the great colliery which put so many thousand pounds per annum into the pockets of the 7uke and the other shareholders. The powerful old castle was a ruin, yet it hung its bulk on the low sky*line, over the black plumes and the white that waved on the damp air below. ! turn, and they ran on the high level to #tacks @ate. #tacks @ate, as seen from the highroad, was 4ust a huge and gorgeous new hotel, the oningsby !rms, standing red and white and gilt in barbarous isolation off the road. 2ut if you looked, you saw on the left rows of handsome .modern dwellings, set down like a game of dominoes, with spaces and gardens, a 0ueer game of dominoes that some weird .masters were playing on the surprised earth. !nd beyond these blocks of dwellings, at the back, rose all the astonishing and frightening overhead erections of a really modern mine, chemical works and long galleries, enormous, and of shapes not before known to man. The head*stock and pit*bank of the mine itself were insignificant among the huge new installations. !nd in front of this, the game of dominoes stood forever in a sort of surprise, waiting to be played. This was #tacks @ate, new on the face of the earth, since the war. 2ut as a matter of fact, though even onnie did not know it, downhill half a mile below the .hotel was old #tacks @ate, with a little old colliery and blackish old brick dwellings, and a chapel or two and a shop or two and a little pub or two. 2ut that didnt count any more. The vast plumes of smoke and vapour rose from the new works up above, and this was now #tacks @ate: no chapels, no pubs, even no shops. Only the great works, which are the modern Olympia with temples to all the gods> then the model dwellings: then the hotel. The hotel in actuality was nothing but a miners pub though it looked first*classy.

(ven since onnies arrival at Wragby this new place had arisen on the face of the earth, and the model dwellings had filled with riff*raff drifting in from anywhere, to poach liffords rabbits among other occupations. The car ran on along the uplands, seeing the rolling county spread out. The county8 It had once been a proud and lordly county. In front, looming again and hanging on the brow of the sky*line, was the huge and splendid bulk of hadwick +all, more window than wall, one of the most famous (li"abethan houses. ;oble it stood alone above a great park, but out of date, passed over. It was still kept up, but as a show place. ./ook how our ancestors lorded it8 That was the past. The present lay below. @od alone knows where the future lies. The car was already turning, between little old blackened miners cottages, to descend to =thwaite. !nd =thwaite, on a damp day, was sending up a whole array of smoke plumes and steam, to whatever gods there be. =thwaite down in the valley, with all the steel threads of the railways to #heffield drawn through it, and the coal*mines and the steel*works sending up smoke and glare from long tubes, and the pathetic little corkscrew spire of the church, that is going to tumble down, still pricking the fumes, always affected onnie strangely. It was an old market*town, centre of the dales. One of the chief inns was the hatterley !rms. There, in =thwaite, Wragby was known as Wragby, as if it were a whole place, not 4ust a house, as it was to outsiders: Wragby +all, near Tevershall: Wragby, a .seat. The miners cottages, blackened, stood flush on the pavement, with that intimacy and smallness of colliers dwellings over a hundred years old. They lined all the way. The road had become a street, and as you sank, you forgot instantly the open, rolling country where the castles and big houses still dominated, but like ghosts. ;ow you were 4ust above the tangle of naked railway*lines, and foundries and other .works rose about you, so big you were only aware of walls. !nd iron clanked with a huge reverberating clank, and huge lorries shook the earth, and whistles screamed. 3et again, once you had got right down and into the twisted and crooked heart of the town, behind the church, you were in the world of two centuries ago, in the crooked streets where the hatterley !rms stood, and the old pharmacy, streets which used to lead Out to the wild open world of the castles and stately couchant houses. 2ut at the corner a policeman held up his hand as three lorries loaded with iron rolled past, shaking the poor old church. !nd not till the lorries were past could he salute her ladyship. #o it was. =pon the old crooked burgess streets hordes of oldish blackened miners dwellings crowded, lining the roads out. !nd immediately after these came the newer, pinker rows of rather larger houses, plastering the valley: the homes of more modern workmen. !nd beyond that again, in the wide rolling regions of the castles, smoke waved against steam, and patch after patch of raw reddish brick showed the newer mining settlements, sometimes in the hollows, sometimes gruesomely ugly along the sky*line of the slopes. !nd between, in between, were the tattered remnants of the old coaching and cottage (ngland, even the (ngland of 5obin +ood, where the miners prowled with the dismalness of suppressed sporting instincts, when they were not at work. (ngland, my (ngland8 2ut which is my (ngland: The stately homes of (ngland make good photographs, and create the illusion of a conne)ion with the (li"abethans. The handsome old halls are there, from the days of @ood Fueen !nne and Tom Gones. 2ut smuts fall and blacken on the drab stucco, that has long ceased to be golden. !nd one by one, like the stately homes, they were abandoned. ;ow they are being pulled down. !s for the cottages of (ngland 9 there they are 9 great plasterings of brick dwellings on the hopeless countryside. .;ow they are pulling down the stately homes, the @eorgian halls are going. 'ritchley, a perfect old @eorgian mansion, was even now, as onnie passed in the car, being demolished. It was in perfect repair: till the war the Weatherleys had lived in style there. 2ut now it was too big, too e)pensive, and the country had become too uncongenial. The gentry were departing to pleasanter places, where they could spend their money without having to see how it was made.

This is history. One (ngland blots out another. The mines had made the halls wealthy. ;ow they were blotting them out, as they had already blotted out the cottages. The industrial (ngland blots out the agricultural (ngland. One meaning blots out another. The new (ngland blots out the old (ngland. !nd the continuity is not Organic, but mechanical. onnie, belonging to the leisured classes, had clung to the remnants of the old (ngland. It had taken her years to reali"e that it was really blotted out by this terrifying new and gruesome (ngland, and that the blotting out would go on till it was complete. 'ritchley was gone, (astwood was gone, #hipley was going: #0uire Winters beloved #hipley. onnie called for a moment at #hipley. The park gates, at the back, opened 4ust near the level crossing of the colliery railway> the #hipley colliery itself stood 4ust beyond the trees. The gates stood open, because through the park was a right*of*way that the colliers used. They hung around the park. The car passed the ornamental ponds, in which the colliers threw their newspapers, and took the private drive to the house. It stood above, aside, a very pleasant stucco building from the middle of the eighteenth century. It had a beautiful alley of yew trees, that had approached an older house, and the hall stood serenely spread out, winking its @eorgian panes as if cheerfully. 2ehind, there were really beautiful gardens. onnie liked the interior much better than Wragby. It was much lighter, more alive, shapen and elegant. The rooms were panelled with creamy painted panelling, the ceilings were touched with gilt, and everything was kept in e)0uisite order, all the appointments were perfect, regardless of e)pense. (ven the corridors managed to be ample and lovely, softly curved and full of life. 2ut /eslie Winter was alone. +e had adored his house. 2ut his park was bordered by three of his own collieries. +e had been a generous man in his ideas. +e had almost welcomed the colliers in his park. +ad the miners not made him rich8 #o, when he saw the gangs of unshapely men lounging by his ornamental waters 9 not in the private part of the park, no, he drew the line there 9 he would say: .the miners are perhaps not so ornamental as deer, but they are far more profitable. 2ut that was in the golden 9 monetarily 9 latter half of Fueen Dictorias reign. 1iners were then .good working men. Winter had made this speech, half apologetic, to his guest, the then 6rince of Wales. !nd the 6rince had replied, in his rather guttural (nglish: .3ou are 0uite right. If there were coal under #andringham, I would open a mine on the lawns, and think it first*rate landscape gardening. Oh, I am 0uite willing to e)change roe*deer for colliers, at the price. 3our men are good men too, I hear. 2ut then, the 6rince had perhaps an e)aggerated idea of the beauty of money, and the blessings of industrialism. +owever, the 6rince had been a Aing, and the Aing had died, and now there was another Aing, whose chief function seemed to be to open soup*kitchens. !nd the good working men were somehow hemming #hipley in. ;ew mining villages crowded on the park, and the s0uire felt somehow that the population was alien. +e used to feel, in a good* natured but 0uite grand way, lord of his own domain and of his own colliers. ;ow, by a subtle pervasion of the new spirit, he had somehow been pushed out. It was he who did not belong any more. There was no mistaking it. The mines, the industry, had a will of its own, and this will was against the gentleman*owner. !ll the colliers took part in the will, and it was hard to live up against it. It either shoved you out of the place, or out of life altogether. #0uire Winter, a soldier, had stood it out. 2ut he no longer cared to walk in the park after dinner. +e almost hid, indoors. Once he had walked, bare*headed, and in his patent*leather shoes and purple silk socks, with onnie down to the gate, talking to her in his well*bred rather haw*haw fashion.

2ut when it came to passing the little gangs of colliers who stood and stared without either salute or anything else, onnie felt how the lean, well*bred old man winced, winced as an elegant antelope stag in a cage winces from the vulgar stare. The colliers were not personally hostile: not at all. 2ut their spirit was cold, and shoving him out. !nd, deep down, there was a profound grudge. They .worked for him. !nd in their ugliness, they resented his elegant, well*groomed, well*bred e)istence. .Whos he8 It was the difference they resented. !nd somewhere, in his secret (nglish heart, being a good deal of a soldier, he believed they were right to resent the difference. +e felt himself a little in the wrong, for having all the advantages. ;evertheless he represented a system, and he would not be shoved out. ()cept by death. Which came on him soon after onnies call, suddenly. !nd he remembered lifford handsomely in his will. The heirs at once gave out the order for the demolishing of #hipley. It cost too much to keep up. ;o one would live there. #o it was broken up. The avenue of yews was cut down. The park was denuded of its timber, and divided into lots. It was near enough to =thwaite. In the strange, bald desert of this still*one*more no*mans*land, new little streets of semi*detacheds were run up, very desirable8 The #hipley +all (state8 Within a year of onnies last call, it had happened. There stood #hipley +all (state, an array of red*brick semi*detached .villas in new streets. ;o one would have dreamed that the stucco hall had stood there twelve months before. 2ut this is a later stage of Aing (dwards landscape gardening, the sort that has an ornamental coal* mine on the lawn. One (ngland blots out another. The (ngland of the #0uire Winters and the Wragby +alls was gone, dead. The blotting out was only not yet complete. What would come after: onnie could not imagine. #he could only see the new brick streets spreading into the fields, the new erections rising at the collieries, the new girls in their silk stockings, the new collier lads lounging into the 6ally or the Welfare. The younger generation were utterly unconscious of the old (ngland. There was a gap in the continuity of consciousness, almost !merican: but industrial really. What ne)t: onnie always felt there was no ne)t. #he wanted to hide her head in the sand: or, at least, in the bosom of a living man. The world was so complicated and weird and gruesome8 The common people were so many, and really so terrible. #o she bought as she was going home, and saw the colliers trailing from the pits, grey*black, distorted, one shoulder higher than the other, slurring their heavy ironshod boots. =nderground grey faces, whites of eyes rolling, necks cringing from the pit roof, shoulders Out of shape. 1en8 1en8 !las, in some ways patient and good men. In other ways, non*e)istent. #omething that men should have was bred and killed out of them. 3et they were men. They begot children. One might bear a child to them. Terrible, terrible thought8 They were good and kindly. 2ut they were only half, Only the grey half of a human being. !s yet, they were .good. 2ut even that was the goodness of their halfness. #upposing the dead in them ever rose up8 2ut no, it was too terrible to think of. onnie was absolutely afraid of the industrial masses. They seemed so weird to her. ! life with utterly no beauty in it, no intuition, always .in the pit. hildren from such men8 Oh @od, oh @od8 3et 1ellors had come from such a father. ;ot 0uite. 'orty years had made a difference, an appalling difference in manhood. The iron and the coal had eaten deep into the bodies and souls of the men. Incarnate ugliness, and yet alive8 What would become of them all: 6erhaps with the passing of the coal they would disappear again, off the face of the earth. They had appeared out of nowhere in their thousands, when the coal had called for them. 6erhaps they were only weird fauna of the coal*

seams. reatures of another reality, they were elementals, serving the elements of coal, as the metal* workers were elementals, serving the element of iron. 1en not men, but animas of coal and iron and clay. 'auna of the elements, carbon, iron, silicon: elementals. They had perhaps some of the weird, inhuman beauty of minerals, the lustre of coal, the weight and blueness and resistance of iron, the transparency of glass. (lemental creatures, weird and distorted, of the mineral world8 They belonged to the coal, the iron, the clay, as fish belong to the sea and worms to dead wood. The anima of mineral disintegration8 onnie was glad to be home, to bury her head in the sand. #he was glad even to babble to lifford. 'or her fear of the mining and iron 1idlands affected her with a 0ueer feeling that went all over her, like influen"a. .Of course I had to have tea in 1iss 2entleys shop, she said. .5eally8 Winter would have given you tea. .Oh yes, but I darent disappoint 1iss 2entley. 1iss 2entley was a shallow old maid with a rather large nose and romantic disposition who served tea with a careful intensity worthy of a sacrament. .7id she ask after me: said lifford. .Of course8 9 . may ( ask your /adyship how #ir lifford is8 9 I believe she ranks you even higher than ;urse avell8 .!nd I suppose you said I was blooming. .3es8 !nd she looked as rapt as if I had said the heavens had opened to you. I said if she ever came to Tevershall she was to come to see you. .1e8 Whatever for8 #ee me8 .Why yes, lifford. 3ou cant be so adored without making some slight return. #aint @eorge of appadocia was nothing to you, in her eyes. .!nd do you think shell come: .Oh, she blushed8 and looked 0uite beautiful for a moment, poor thing8 Why dont men marry the women who would really adore them: .The women start adoring too late. 2ut did she say shed come: .Oh8 onnie imitated the breathless 1iss 2entley, .your /adyship, if ever I should dare to presume8 .7are to presume8 how absurd8 2ut I hope to @od she wont turn up. !nd how was her tea: .Oh, /iptons and very strong. 2ut lifford, do you reali"e you are the +oman de la rose of 1iss 2entley and lots like her: .Im not flattered, even then. .They treasure up every one of your pictures in the illustrated papers, and probably pray for you every night. Its rather wonderful. #he went upstairs to change. That evening he said to her: .3ou do think, dont you, that there is something eternal in marriage: #he looked at him. .2ut lifford, you make eternity sound like a lid or a long, long chain that trailed after one, no matter how far one went. +e looked at her, annoyed.

.What I mean, he said, .is that if you go to Denice, you wont go in the hopes of some love affair that you can take au grand srieu', will you: .! love affair in Denice au grand srieu': ;o. I assure you8 ;o, Id never take a love affair in Denice more than au tr,s petit srieu'. #he spoke with a 0ueer kind of contempt. +e knitted his brows, looking at her. oming downstairs in the morning, she found the keepers dog 'lossie sitting in the corridor outside liffords room, and whimpering very faintly. .Why, 'lossie8 she said softly. .What are you doing here: !nd she 0uietly opened liffords door. lifford was sitting up in bed, with the bed*table and typewriter pushed aside, and the keeper was standing at attention at the foot of the bed. 'lossie ran in. With a faint gesture of head and eyes, 1ellors ordered her to the door again, and she slunk out. .Oh, good morning, lifford8 onnie said. .I didnt know you were busy. Then she looked at the keeper, saying good morning to him. +e murmured his reply, looking at her as if vaguely. 2ut she felt a whiff of passion touch her, from his mere presence. .7id I interrupt you, lifford: Im sorry. .;o, its nothing of any importance. #he slipped out of the room again, and up to the blue boudoir on the first floor. #he sat in the window, and saw him go down the drive, with his curious, silent motion, effaced. +e had a natural sort of 0uiet distinction, an aloof pride, and also a certain look of frailty. ! hireling8 One of liffords hirelings8 .The fault, dear 2rutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings. Was he an underling: Was he: What did he think of her: It was a sunny day, and onnie was working in the garden, and 1rs 2olton was helping her. 'or some reason, the two women had drawn together, in one of the unaccountable flows and ebbs of sympathy that e)ist between people. They were pegging down carnations, and putting in small plants for the summer. It was work they both liked. onnie especially felt a delight in putting the soft roots of young plants into a soft black puddle, and cradling them down. On this spring morning she felt a 0uiver in her womb too, as if the sunshine had touched it and made it happy. .It is many years since you lost your husband: she said to 1rs 2olton as she took up another little plant and laid it in its hole. .Twenty*three8 said 1rs 2olton, as she carefully separated the young columbines into single plants. .Twenty*three years since they brought him home. onnies heart gave a lurch, at the terrible finality of it. .2rought him home8 .Why did he get killed, do you think: she asked. .+e was happy with you: It was a womans 0uestion to a woman. 1rs 2olton put aside a strand of hair from her face, with the back of her hand. .I dont know, my /ady8 +e sort of wouldnt give in to things: he wouldnt really go with the rest. !nd then he hated ducking his head for anything on earth. ! sort of obstinacy, that gets itself killed. 3ou see he didnt really care. I lay it down to the pit. +e ought never to have been down pit. 2ut his dad made him go down, as a lad> and then, when youre over twenty, its not very easy to come out. .7id he say he hated it: .Oh no8 ;ever8 +e never said he hated anything. +e 4ust made a funny face. +e was one of those who wouldnt take care: like some of the first lads as went off so blithe to the war and got killed right away. +e wasnt really we""le*brained. 2ut he wouldnt care. I used to say to him: H3ou care

for nought nor nobody8I 2ut he did8 The way he sat when my first baby was born, motionless, and the sort of fatal eyes he looked at me with, when it was over8 I had a bad time, but I had to comfort him. HIts all right, lad, its all right8I I said to him. !nd he gave me a look, and that funny sort of smile. +e never said anything. 2ut I dont believe he had any right pleasure with me at nights after> hed never really let himself go. I used to say to him: Oh, let thysen go, lad8 9 Id talk broad to him sometimes. !nd he said nothing. 2ut he wouldnt let himself go, or he couldnt. +e didnt want me to have any more children. I always blamed his mother, for letting him in th room. +ed no right tave been there. 1en makes so much more of things than they should, once they start brooding. .7id he mind so much: said onnie in wonder. .3es, he sort of couldnt take it for natural, all that pain. !nd it spoilt his pleasure in his bit of married love. I said to him: If I dont care, why should you: Its my look*out8 9 2ut all hed ever say was: Its not right8 .6erhaps he was too sensitive, said onnie. .Thats it8 When you come to know men, thats how they are: too sensitive in the wrong place. !nd I believe, unbeknown to himself he hated the pit, 4ust hated it. +e looked so 0uiet when he was dead, as if hed got free. +e was such a nice*looking lad. It 4ust broke my heart to see him, so still and pure looking, as if hed wanted to die. Oh, it broke my heart, that did. 2ut it was the pit. #he wept a few bitter tears, and onnie wept more. It was a warm spring day, with a perfume of earth and of yellow flowers, many things rising to bud, and the garden still with the very sap of sunshine. .It must have been terrible for you8 said onnie. .Oh, my /ady8 I never reali"ed at first. I could only say: Oh my lad, what did you want to leave me for8 9 That was all my cry. 2ut somehow I felt hed come back. .2ut he didnt want to leave you, said onnie. .Oh no, my /ady8 That was only my silly cry. !nd I kept e)pecting him back. (specially at nights. I kept waking up thinking: Why hes not in bed with me8 9 It was as if my feelings wouldnt believe hed gone. I 4ust felt hed have to come back and lie against me, so I could feel him with me. That was all I wanted, to feel him there with me, warm. !nd it took me a thousand shocks before I knew he wouldnt come back, it took me years. .The touch of him, said onnie. .Thats it, my /ady, the touch of him8 Ive never got over it to this day, and never shall. !nd if theres a heaven above, hell be there, and will lie up against me so I can sleep. onnie glanced at the handsome, brooding face in fear. !nother passionate one out of Tevershall8 The touch of him8 'or the bonds of love are ill to loose8 .Its terrible, once youve got a man into your blood8 she said. .Oh, my /ady8 !nd thats what makes you feel so bitter. 3ou feel folks wanted him killed. 3ou feel the pit fair wanted to kill him. Oh, I felt, if it hadnt been for the pit, an them as runs the pit, thered have been no leaving me. 2ut they all want to separate a woman and a man, if theyre together. .If theyre physically together, said onnie. .Thats right, my /ady8 Theres a lot of hard*hearted folks in the world. !nd every morning when he got up and went to th pit, I felt it was wrong, wrong. 2ut what else could he do: What can a man do: ! 0ueer hate flared in the woman. .2ut can a touch last so long: onnie asked suddenly. .That you could feel him so long:

.Oh my /ady, what else is there to last: hildren grows away from you. 2ut the man, well8 2ut even that theyd like to kill in you, the very thought of the touch of him. (ven your own children8 !h well8 We might have drifted apart, who knows. 2ut the feelings something different. Its appen better never to care. 2ut there, when I look at women whos never really been warmed through by a man, well, they seem to me poor doolowls after all, no matter how they may dress up and gad. ;o, Ill abide by my own. Ive not much respect for people.

Chapter 12
onnie went to the wood directly after lunch. It was really a lovely day, the first dandelions making suns, the first daisies so white. The ha"el thicket was a lace*work, of half*open leaves, and the last dusty perpendicular of the catkins. 3ellow celandines now were in crowds, flat open, pressed back in urgency, and the yellow glitter of themselves. It was the yellow, the powerful yellow of early summer. !nd primroses were broad, and full of pale abandon, thick*clustered primroses no longer shy. The lush, dark green of hyacinths was a sea, with buds rising like pale corn, while in the riding the forget*me*nots were fluffing up, and columbines were unfolding their ink*purple ruches, and there were bits of blue birds eggshell under a bush. (verywhere the bud*knots and the leap of life8 The keeper was not at the hut. (verything was serene, brown chickens running lustily. onnie walked on towards the cottage, because she wanted to find him. The cottage stood in the sun, off the woods edge. In the little garden the double daffodils rose in tufts, near the wide*open door, and red double daisies made a border to the path. There was the bark of a dog, and 'lossie came running. The wide*open door8 so he was at home. !nd the sunlight falling on the red*brick floor8 !s she went up the path, she saw him through the window, sitting at the table in his shirt*sleeves, eating. The dog wuffed softly, slowly wagging her tail. +e rose, and came to the door, wiping his mouth with a red handkerchief still chewing. .1ay I come in: she said. . ome in8 The sun shone into the bare room, which still smelled of a mutton chop, done in a dutch oven before the fire, because the dutch oven still stood on the fender, with the black potato*saucepan on a piece of paper, beside it on the white hearth. The fire was red, rather low, the bar dropped, the kettle singing. On the table was his plate, with potatoes and the remains of the chop> also bread in a basket, salt, and a blue mug with beer. The table*cloth was white oil*cloth, he stood in the shade. .3ou are very late, she said. .7o go on eating8 #he sat down on a wooden chair, in the sunlight by the door. .I had to go to =thwaite, he said, sitting down at the table but not eating. .7o eat, she said. 2ut he did not touch the food. .#hall yave something: he asked her. .#hall yave a cup of tea: t kettles on t boil 9 he half rose again from his chair. .If youll let me make it myself, she said, rising. +e seemed sad, and she felt she was bothering him. .Well, tea*pots in there 9 he pointed to a little, drab corner cupboard> .an cups. !n teas on t mantel ower yer ead, #he got the black tea*pot, and the tin of tea from the mantel*shelf. #he rinsed the tea*pot with hot

water, and stood a moment wondering where to empty it. .Throw it out, he said, aware of her. .Its clean. #he went to the door and threw the drop of water down the path. +ow lovely it was here, so still, so really woodland. The oaks were putting out ochre yellow leaves: in the garden the red daisies were like red plush buttons. #he glanced at the big, hollow sandstone slab of the threshold, now crossed by so few feet. .2ut its lovely here, she said. .#uch a beautiful stillness, everything alive and still. +e was eating again, rather slowly and unwillingly, and she could feel he was discouraged. #he made the tea in silence, and set the tea*pot on the hob, as she knew the people did. +e pushed his plate aside and went to the back place> she heard a latch click, then he came back with cheese on a plate, and butter. #he set the two cups on the table> there were only two. .Will you have a cup of tea: she said. .If you like. #ugars in th cupboard, an theres a little cream 4ug. 1ilks in a 4ug in th pantry. .#hall I take your plate away: she asked him. +e looked up at her with a faint ironical smile. .Why . . . if you like, he said, slowly eating bread and cheese. #he went to the back, into the pent* house scullery, where the pump was. On the left was a door, no doubt the pantry door. #he unlatched it, and almost smiled at the place he called a pantry> a long narrow white*washed slip of a cupboard. 2ut it managed to contain a little barrel of beer, as well as a few dishes and bits of food. #he took a little milk from the yellow 4ug. .+ow do you get your milk: she asked him, when she came back to the table. .'lints8 They leave me a bottle at the warren end. 3ou know, where I met you8 2ut he was discouraged. #he poured out the tea, poising the cream*4ug. .;o milk, he said> then he seemed to hear a noise, and looked keenly through the doorway. .!ppen wed better shut, he said. .It seems a pity, she replied. .;obody will come, will they: .;ot unless its one time in a thousand, but you never know. .!nd even then its no matter, she said. .Its only a cup of tea. .Where are the spoons: +e reached over, and pulled open the table drawer. onnie sat at the table in the sunshine of the doorway. .'lossie8 he said to the dog, who was lying on a little mat at the stair foot. .@o an hark, hark8 +e lifted his finger, and his .hark8 was very vivid. The dog trotted out to reconnoitre. .!re you sad today: she asked him. +e turned his blue eyes 0uickly, and ga"ed direct on her. .#ad8 no, bored8 I had to go getting summonses for two poachers I caught, and, oh well, I dont like people. +e spoke cold, good (nglish, and there was anger in his voice. .7o you hate being a game*keeper: she asked. .2eing a game*keeper, no8 #o long as Im left alone. 2ut when I have to go messing around at the police*station, and various other places, and waiting for a lot of fools to attend to me . . . oh well, I get mad . . . and he smiled, with a certain faint humour.

. ouldnt you be really independent: she asked. .1e: I suppose I could, if you mean manage to e)ist on my pension. I could8 2ut Ive got to work, or I should die. That is, Ive got to have something that keeps me occupied. !nd Im not in a good enough temper to work for myself. Its got to be a sort of 4ob for somebody else, or I should throw it up in a month, out of bad temper. #o altogether Im very well off here, especially lately . . . +e laughed at her again, with mocking humour. .2ut why are you in a bad temper: she asked. .7o you mean you are always in a bad temper: .6retty well, he said, laughing. .I dont 0uite digest my bile. .2ut what bile: she said. .2ile8 he said. .7ont you know what that is: #he was silent, and disappointed. +e was taking no notice of her. .Im going away for a while ne)t month, she said. .3ou are8 Where to: .Denice8 With #ir lifford: 'or how long: .'or a month or so, she replied. . lifford wont go. .+ell stay here: he asked. .3es8 +e hates to travel as he is. .!y, poor devil8 he said, with sympathy. There was a pause. .3ou wont forget me when Im gone, will you: she asked. !gain he lifted his eyes and looked full at her. .'orget: he said. .3ou know nobody forgets. Its not a 0uestion of memory> #he wanted to say: .When then: but she didnt. Instead, she said in a mute kind of voice: .I told lifford I might have a child. ;ow he really looked at her, intense and searching. .3ou did: he said at last. .!nd what did he say: .Oh, he wouldnt mind. +ed be glad, really, so long as it seemed to be his. #he dared not look up at him. +e was silent a long time, then he ga"ed again on her face. .;o mention of me, of course: he said. .;o. ;o mention of you, she said. .;o, hed hardly swallow me as a substitute breeder. Then where are you supposed to be getting the child: .I might have a love*affair in Denice, she said. .3ou might, he replied slowly. .#o thats why youre going: .;ot to have the love*affair, she said, looking up at him, pleading. .Gust the appearance of one, he said. There was silence. +e sat staring out the window, with a faint grin, half mockery, half bitterness, on his face. #he hated his grin. .3ouve not taken any precautions against having a child then: he asked her suddenly. .2ecause I havent.

.;o, she said faintly. .I should hate that. +e looked at her, then again with the peculiar subtle grin out of the window. There was a tense silence. !t last he turned his head and said satirically: .That was why you wanted me, then, to get a child: #he hung her head. .;o. ;ot really, she said. .What then, really: he asked rather bitingly. #he looked up at him reproachfully, saying: .I dont know. +e broke into a laugh. .Then Im damned if I do, he said. There was a long pause of silence, a cold silence. .Well, he said at last. .Its as your /adyship likes. If you get the baby, #ir liffords welcome to it. I shant have lost anything. On the contrary, Ive had a very nice e)perience, very nice indeed8 9 and he stretched in a half*suppressed sort of yawn. .If youve made use of me, he said, .its not the first time Ive been made use of> and I dont suppose its ever been as pleasant as this time> though of course one cant feel tremendously dignified about it. 9 +e stretched again, curiously, his muscles 0uivering, and his 4aw oddly set. .2ut I didnt make use of you, she said, pleading. .!t your /adyships service, he replied. .;o, she said. .I liked your body. .7id you: he replied, and he laughed. .Well, then, were 0uits, because I liked yours. +e looked at her with 0ueer darkened eyes. .Would you like to go upstairs now: he asked her, in a strangled sort of voice. .;o, not here. ;ot now8 she said heavily, though if he had used any power over her, she would have gone, for she had no strength against him. +e turned his face away again, and seemed to forget her. .I want to touch you like you touch me, she said. .Ive never really touched your body. +e looked at her, and smiled again. .;ow: he said. .;o8 ;o8 ;ot here8 !t the hut. Would you mind: .+ow do I touch you: he asked. .When you feel me. +e looked at her, and met her heavy, an)ious eyes. .!nd do you like it when I feel you: he asked, laughing at her still. .3es, do you: she said. .Oh, me8 Then he changed his tone. .3es, he said. .3ou know without asking. Which was true. #he rose and picked up her hat. .I must go, she said. .Will you go: he replied politely. #he wanted him to touch her, to say something to her, but he said nothing, only waited politely. .Thank you for the tea, she said.

.I havent thanked your /adyship for doing me the honours of my tea*pot, he said. #he went down the path, and he stood in the doorway, faintly grinning. 'lossie came running with her tail lifted. !nd onnie had to plod dumbly across into the wood, knowing he was standing there watching her, with that incomprehensible grin on his face. #he walked home very much downcast and annoyed. #he didnt at all like his saying he had been made use of because, in a sense, it was true. 2ut he oughtnt to have said it. Therefore, again, she was divided between two feelings: resentment against him, and a desire to make it up with him. #he passed a very uneasy and irritated tea*time, and at once went up to her room. 2ut when she was there it was no good> she could neither sit nor stand. #he would have to do something about it. #he would have to go back to the hut> if he was not there, well and good. #he slipped out of the side door, and took her way direct and a little sullen. When she came to the clearing she was terribly uneasy. 2ut there he was again, in his shirt*sleeves, stooping, letting the hens out of the coops, among the chicks that were now growing a little gawky, but were much more trim than hen*chickens. #he went straight across to him. .3ou see Ive come8 she said. .!y, I see it8 he said, straightening his back, and looking at her with a faint amusement. .7o you let the hens out now: she asked. .3es, theyve sat themselves to skin and bone, he said. .!n now theyre not all that an)ious to come out an feed. Theres no self in a sitting hen> shes all in the eggs or the chicks. The poor mother*hens> such blind devotion8 even to eggs not their own8 onnie looked at them in compassion. ! helpless silence fell between the man and the woman. .#hall us go i th ut: he asked. .7o you want me: she asked, in a sort of mistrust. .!y, if you want to come. #he was silent. . ome then8 he said. !nd she went with him to the hut. It was 0uite dark when he had shut the door, so he made a small light in the lantern, as before. .+ave you left your underthings off: he asked her. .3es8 .!y, well, then Ill take my things off too. +e spread the blankets, putting one at the side for a coverlet. #he took off her hat, and shook her hair. +e sat down, taking off his shoes and gaiters, and undoing his cord breeches. ./ie down then8 he said, when he stood in his shirt. #he obeyed in silence, and he lay beside her, and pulled the blanket over them both. .There8 he said. !nd he lifted her dress right back, till he came even to her breasts. +e kissed them softly, taking the nipples in his lips in tiny caresses. .(h, but thart nice, thart nice8 he said, suddenly rubbing his face with a snuggling movement against her warm belly. !nd she put her arms round him under his shirt, but she was afraid, afraid of his thin, smooth, naked body, that seemed so powerful, afraid of the violent muscles. #he shrank, afraid.

!nd when he said, with a sort of little sigh: .(h, thart nice8 something in her 0uivered, and something in her spirit stiffened in resistance: stiffened from the terribly physical intimacy, and from the peculiar haste of his possession. !nd this time the sharp ecstasy of her own passion did not overcome her> she lay with her ends inert on his striving body, and do what she might, her spirit seemed to look on from the top of her head, and the butting of his haunches seemed ridiculous to her, and the sort of an)iety of his penis to come to its little evacuating crisis seemed farcical. 3es, this was love, this ridiculous bouncing of the buttocks, and the wilting of the poor, insignificant, moist little penis. This was the divine love8 !fter all, the moderns were right when they felt contempt for the performance> for it was a performance. It was 0uite true, as some poets said, that the @od who created man must have had a sinister sense of humour, creating him a reasonable being, yet forcing him to take this ridiculous posture, and driving him with blind craving for this ridiculous performance. (ven a 1aupassant found it a humiliating anti*clima). 1en despised the intercourse act, and yet did it. old and derisive her 0ueer female mind stood apart, and though she lay perfectly still, her impulse was to heave her loins, and throw the man out, escape his ugly grip, and the butting over*riding of his absurd haunches. +is body was a foolish, impudent, imperfect thing, a little disgusting in its unfinished clumsiness. 'or surely a complete evolution would eliminate this performance, this .function. !nd yet when he had finished, soon over, and lay very very still, receding into silence, and a strange motionless distance, far, farther than the hori"on of her awareness, her heart began to weep. #he could feel him ebbing away, ebbing away, leaving her there like a stone on a shore. +e was withdrawing, his spirit was leaving her. +e knew. !nd in real grief, tormented by her own double consciousness and reaction, she began to weep. +e took no notice, or did not even know. The storm of weeping swelled and shook her, and shook him. .!y8 he said. .It was no good that time. 3ou wasnt there. 9 #o he knew8 +er sobs became violent. .2ut whats amiss: he said. .Its once in a while that way. .I . . . I cant love you, she sobbed, suddenly feeling her heart breaking. . anna ter: Well, dunna fret8 Theres no law says as thas got to. Tae it for what it is. +e still lay with his hand on her breast. 2ut she had drawn both her hands from him. +is words were small comfort. #he sobbed aloud. .;ay, nay8 he said. .Tae the thick wi th thin. This wor a bit o thin for once. #he wept bitterly, sobbing. .2ut I want to love you, and I cant. It only seems horrid. +e laughed a little, half bitter, half amused. .It isna horrid, he said, .even if tha thinks it is. !n tha canna mae it horrid. 7unna fret thysen about lovin me. Thalt niver force thysen to .t. Theres sure to be a bad nut in a basketful. Tha mun tae th rough wi th smooth. +e took his hand away from her breast, not touching her. !nd now she was untouched she took an almost perverse satisfaction in it. #he hated the dialect: the thee and the tha and the thysen. +e could get up if he liked, and stand there, above her, buttoning down those absurd corduroy breeches, straight in front of her. !fter all, 1ichaelis had had the decency to turn away. This man was so assured in himself he didnt know what a clown other people found him, a half*bred fellow. 3et, as he was drawing away, to rise silently and leave her, she clung to him in terror. .7ont8 7ont go8 7ont leave me8 7ont be cross with me8 +old me8 +old me fast8 she whispered in blind fren"y, not even knowing what she said, and clinging to him with uncanny force. It was

from herself she wanted to be saved, from her own inward anger and resistance. 3et how powerful was that inward resistance that possessed her8 +e took her in his arms again and drew her to him, and suddenly she became small in his arms, small and nestling. It was gone, the resistance was gone, and she began to melt in a marvellous peace. !nd as she melted small and wonderful in his arms, she became infinitely desirable to him, all his blood*vessels seemed to scald with intense yet tender desire, for her, for her softness, for the penetrating beauty of her in his arms, passing into his blood. !nd softly, with that marvellous swoon*like caress of his hand in pure soft desire, softly he stroked the silky slope of her loins, down, down between her soft warm buttocks, coming nearer and nearer to the very 0uick of her. !nd she felt him like a flame of desire, yet tender, and she felt herself melting in the flame. #he let herself go. #he felt his penis risen against her with silent ama"ing force and assertion and she let herself go to him #he yielded with a 0uiver that was like death, she went all open to him. !nd oh, if he were not tender to her now, how cruel, for she was all open to him and helpless8 #he 0uivered again at the potent ine)orable entry inside her, so strange and terrible. It might come with the thrust of a sword in her softly*opened body, and that would be death. #he clung in a sudden anguish of terror. 2ut it came with a strange slow thrust of peace, the dark thrust of peace and a ponderous, primordial tenderness, such as made the world in the beginning. !nd her terror subsided in her breast, her breast dared to be gone in peace, she held nothing. #he dared to let go everything, all herself and be gone in the flood. !nd it seemed she was like the sea, nothing but dark waves rising and heaving, heaving with a great swell, so that slowly her whole darkness was in motion, and she was Ocean rolling its dark, dumb mass. Oh, and far down inside her the deeps parted and rolled asunder, in long, fair*travelling billows, and ever, at the 0uick of her, the depths parted and rolled asunder, from the centre of soft plunging, as the plunger went deeper and deeper, touching lower, and she was deeper and deeper and deeper disclosed, the heavier the billows of her rolled away to some shore, uncovering her, and closer and closer plunged the palpable unknown, and further and further rolled the waves of herself away from herself leaving her, till suddenly, in a soft, shuddering convulsion, the 0uick of all her plasm was touched, she knew herself touched, the consummation was upon her, and she was gone. #he was gone, she was not, and she was born: a woman. !h, too lovely, too lovely8 In the ebbing she reali"ed all the loveliness. ;ow all her body clung with tender love to the unknown man, and blindly to the wilting penis, as it so tenderly, frailly, unknowingly withdrew, after the fierce thrust of its potency. !s it drew out and left her body, the secret, sensitive thing, she gave an unconscious cry of pure loss, and she tried to put it back. It had been so perfect8 !nd she loved it so8 !nd only now she became aware of the small, bud*like reticence and tenderness of the penis, and a little cry of wonder and poignancy escaped her again, her womans heart crying out over the tender frailty of that which had been the power. .It was so lovely8 she moaned. .It was so lovely8 2ut he said nothing, only softly kissed her, lying still above her. !nd she moaned with a sort Of bliss, as a sacrifice, and a newborn thing. !nd now in her heart the 0ueer wonder of him was awakened. ! man8 The strange potency of manhood upon her8 +er hands strayed over him, still a little afraid. !fraid of that strange, hostile, slightly repulsive thing that he had been to her, a man. !nd now she touched him, and it was the sons of god with the daughters of men. +ow beautiful he felt, how pure in tissue8 +ow lovely, how lovely, strong, and yet pure and delicate, such stillness of the sensitive body8 #uch utter stillness of potency and delicate flesh. +ow beautiful8 +ow beautiful8 +er hands came timorously down his back, to the soft, smallish globes of the buttocks. 2eauty8 What beauty8 a sudden little flame of new awareness went through her. +ow was it possible, this beauty here, where she had previously only been repelled: The unspeakable beauty to the touch of the warm, living buttocks8 The life within life, the sheer warm, potent loveliness. !nd the strange weight of

the balls between his legs8 What a mystery8 What a strange heavy weight of mystery, that could lie soft and heavy in ones hand8 The roots, root of all that is lovely, the primeval root of all full beauty. #he clung to him, with a hiss of wonder that was almost awe, terror. +e held her close, but he said nothing. +e would never say anything. #he crept nearer to him, nearer, only to be near to the sensual wonder of him. !nd out of his utter, incomprehensible stillness, she felt again the slow momentous, surging rise of the phallus again, the other power. !nd her heart melted out with a kind of awe. !nd this time his being within her was all soft and iridescent, purely soft and iridescent, such as no consciousness could sei"e. +er whole self 0uivered unconscious and alive, like plasm. #he could not know what it was. #he could not remember what it had been. Only that it had been more lovely than anything ever could be. Only that. !nd afterwards she was utterly still, utterly unknowing, she was not aware for how long. !nd he was still with her, in an unfathomable silence along with her. !nd of this, they would never speak. When awareness of the outside began to come back, she clung to his breast, murmuring .1y love8 1y love8 !nd he held her silently. !nd she curled on his breast, perfect. 2ut his silence was fathomless. +is hands held her like flowers, so still aid strange. .Where are you: she whispered to him. .Where are you: #peak to me8 #ay something to me8 +e kissed her softly, murmuring: .!y, my lass8 2ut she did not know what he meant, she did not know where he was. In his silence he seemed lost to her. .3ou love me, dont you: she murmured. .!y, tha knows8 he said. .2ut tell me8 she pleaded. .!y8 !y8 asnt ter felt it: he said dimly, but softly and surely. !nd she clung close to him, closer. +e was so much more peaceful in love than she was, and she wanted him to reassure her. .3ou do love me8 she whispered, assertive. !nd his hands stroked her softly, as if she were a flower, without the 0uiver of desire, but with delicate nearness. !nd still there haunted her a restless necessity to get a grip on love. .#ay youll always love me8 she pleaded. .!y8 he said, abstractedly. !nd she felt her 0uestions driving him away from her. .1ustnt we get up: he said at last. .;o8 she said. 2ut she could feel his consciousness straying, listening to the noises outside. .Itll be nearly dark, he said. !nd she heard the pressure of circumstances in his voice. #he kissed him, with a womans grief at yielding up her hour. +e rose, and turned up the lantern, then began to pull on his clothes, 0uickly disappearing inside them. Then he stood there, above her, fastening his breeches and looking down at her with dark, wide*eyes, his face a little flushed and his hair ruffled, curiously warm and still and beautiful in the dim light of the lantern, so beautiful, she would never tell him how beautiful. It made her want to cling fast to him, to hold him, for there was a warm, half*sleepy remoteness in his beauty that made her want to cry out and clutch him, to have him. #he would never have him. #o she lay on the blanket with curved, soft naked haunches, and he had no idea what she was thinking, but to him too she was beautiful, the soft, marvellous thing he could go into, beyond everything. .I love thee that I call go into thee, he said.

.7o you like me: she said, her heart beating. .It heals it all up, that I can go into thee. I love thee that tha opened to me. I love thee that I came into thee like that. +e bent down and kissed her soft flank, rubbed his cheek against it, then covered it up. .!nd will you never leave me: she said. .7unna ask them things, he said. .2ut you do believe I love you: she said. .Tha loved me 4ust now, wider than iver tha thout tha would. 2ut who knows whatll appen, once tha starts thinkin about it8 .;o, dont say those things8 9 !nd you dont really think that I wanted to make use of you, do you: .+ow: .To have a child 9 : .;ow anybody can ave any childt i th world, he said, as he sat down fastening on his leggings. .!h no8 she cried. .3ou dont mean it: .(h well8 he said, looking at her under his brows. .This wor t best. #he lay still. +e softly opened the door. The sky was dark blue, with crystalline, tur0uoise rim. +e went out, to shut up the hens, speaking softly to his dog. !nd she lay and wondered at the wonder of life, and of being. When he came back she was still lying there, glowing like a gipsy. +e sat on the stool by her. .Tha mun come one naight ter th cottage, afore tha goos> sholl ter: he asked, lifting his eyebrows as he looked at her, his hands dangling between his knees. .#holl ter: she echoed, teasing. +e smiled. .!y, sholl ter: he repeated. .!y8 she said, imitating the dialect sound. .3i8 he said. .3i8 she repeated. .!n slaip wi me, he said. .It needs that. When sholt come: .When sholl I: she said. .;ay, he said, .tha canna dot. When sholt come then: .!ppen #unday, she said. .!ppen a #unday8 !y8 +e laughed at her 0uickly. .;ay, tha canna, he protested. .Why canna I: she said.

Chapter 13
On #unday lifford wanted to go into the wood. It was a lovely morning, the pear*blossom and plum had suddenly appeared in the world in a wonder of white here and there.

It was cruel for lifford, while the world bloomed, to have to be helped from chair to bath*chair. 2ut he had forgotten, and even seemed to have a certain conceit of himself in his lameness. onnie still suffered, having to lift his inert legs into place. 1rs 2olton did it now, or 'ield. #he waited for him at the top of the drive, at the edge of the screen of beeches. +is chair came puffing along with a sort of valetudinarian slow importance. !s he 4oined his wife he said: .#ir lifford on his roaming steed8 .#norting, at least8 she laughed. +e stopped and looked round at the facade of the long, low old brown house. .Wragby doesnt wink an eyelid8 he said. .2ut then why should it8 I ride upon the achievements of the mind of man, and that beats a horse. .I suppose it does. !nd the souls in 6lato riding up to heaven in a two*horse chariot would go in a 'ord car now, she said. .Or a 5olls*5oyce: 6lato was an aristocrat8 .Fuite8 ;o more black horse to thrash and maltreat. 6lato never thought wed go one better than his black steed and his white steed, and have no steeds at all, only an engine8 .Only an engine and gas8 said lifford. .I hope I can have some repairs done to the old place ne)t year. I think I shall have about a thousand to spare for that: but work costs so much8 he added. .Oh, good8 said onnie. .If only there arent more strikes8 .What would be the use of their striking again8 1erely ruin the industry, whats left of it: and surely the owls are beginning to see it8 .6erhaps they dont mind ruining the industry, said onnie. .!h, dont talk like a woman8 The industry fills their bellies, even if it cant keep their pockets 0uite so flush, he said, using turns of speech that oddly had a twang of 1rs 2olton. .2ut didnt you say the other day that you were a conservative*anarchist, she asked innocently. .!nd did you understand what I meant: he retorted. .!ll I meant is, people can be what they like and feel what they like and do what they like, strictly privately, so long as they keep the form of life intact, and the apparatus. onnie walked on in silence a few paces. Then she said, obstinately: .It sounds like saying an egg may go as addled as it likes, so long as it keeps its shell on whole. 2ut addled eggs do break of themselves. .I dont think people are eggs, he said. .;ot even angels eggs, my dear little evangelist. +e was in rather high feather this bright morning. The larks were trilling away over the park, the distant pit in the hollow was fuming silent steam. It was almost like old days, before the war. onnie didnt really want to argue. 2ut then she did not really want to go to the wood with lifford either. #o she walked beside his chair in a certain obstinacy of spirit. .;o, he said. .There will be no more strikes, it. The thing is properly managed. .Why not: .2ecause strikes will be made as good as impossible. .2ut will the men let you: she asked. .We shant ask them. We shall do it while they arent looking: for their own good, to save the

industry. .'or your own good too, she said. .;aturally8 'or the good of everybody. 2ut for their good even more than mine. I can live without the pits. They cant. Theyll starve if there are no pits. Ive got other provision. They looked up the shallow valley at the mine, and beyond it, at the black*lidded houses of Tevershall crawling like some serpent up the hill. M'rom the old brown church the bells were ringing: #unday, #unday, #unday8 .2ut will the men let you dictate terms: she said. .1y dear, they will have to: if one does it gently. .2ut mightnt there be a mutual understanding: .!bsolutely: when they reali"e that the industry comes before the individual. .2ut must you own the industry: she said. .I dont. 2ut to the e)tent I do own it, yes, most decidedly. The ownership of property has now become a religious 0uestion: as it has been since Gesus and #t 'rancis. The point is not: take all thou hast and give to the poor, but use all thou hast to encourage the industry and give work to the poor. Its the only way to feed all the mouths and clothe all the bodies. @iving away all we have to the poor spells starvation for the poor 4ust as much as for us. !nd universal starvation is no high aim. (ven general poverty is no lovely thing. 6overty is ugly. .2ut the disparity: .That is fate. Why is the star Gupiter bigger than the star ;eptune: 3ou cant start altering the make* up of things8 .2ut when this envy and 4ealousy and discontent has once started, she began. .7o, your best to stop it. #omebodys got to be boss of the show. .2ut who is boss of the show: she asked. .The men who own and run the industries. There was a long silence. .It seems to me theyre a bad boss, she said. .Then you suggest what they should do. .They dont take their boss*ship seriously enough, she said. .They take it far more seriously than you take your ladyship, he said. .Thats thrust upon me. I dont really want it, she blurted out. +e stopped the chair and looked at her. .Whos shirking their responsibility now8 he said. .Who is trying to get away now from the responsibility of their own boss*ship, as you call it: .2ut I dont want any boss*ship, she protested. .!h8 2ut that is funk. 3ouve got it: fated to it. !nd you should live up to it. Who has given the colliers all they have thats worth having: all their political liberty, and their education, such as it is, their sanitation, their health*conditions, their books, their music, everything. Who has given it them: +ave colliers given it to colliers: ;o8 !ll the Wragbys and #hipleys in (ngland have given their part, and must go on giving. Theres your responsibility. onnie listened, and flushed very red. .Id like to give something, she said. .2ut Im not allowed. (verything is to be sold and paid for

now> and all the things you mention now, Wragby and #hipley sells them to the people, at a good prof it. (verything is sold. 3ou dont give one heart*beat of real sympathy. !nd besides, who has taken away from the people their natural life and manhood, and given them this industrial horror: Who has done that: .!nd what must I do: he asked, green. .!sk them to come and pillage me: .Why is Tevershall so ugly, so hideous: Why are their lives so hopeless: .They built their own Tevershall, thats part of their display of freedom. They built themselves their pretty Tevershall, and they live their own pretty lives. I cant live their lives for them. (very beetle must live its own life. .2ut you make them work for you. They live the life of your coal*mine. .;ot at all. (very beetle finds its own food. ;ot one man is forced to work for me. .Their lives are industriali"ed and hopeless, and so are ours, she cried. .I dont think they are. Thats 4ust a romantic figure of speech, a relic of the swooning and die*away romanticism. 3ou dont look at all a hopeless figure standing there, onnie my dear. Which was true. 'or her dark*blue eyes were flashing, her colour was hot in her cheeks, she looked full of a rebellious passion far from the de4ection of hopelessness. #he noticed, ill the tussocky places of the grass, cottony young cowslips standing up still bleared in their down. !nd she wondered with rage, why it was she felt lifford was so wrong, yet she couldnt say it to him, she could not say e)actly where he was wrong. .;o wonder the men hate you, she said. .They dont8 he replied. .!nd dont fall into errors: in your sense of the word, they are not men. They are animals you dont understand, and never could. 7ont thrust your illusions on other people. The masses were always the same, and will always be the same. ;eros slaves were e)tremely little different from our colliers or the 'ord motor*car workmen. I mean ;eros mine slaves and his field slaves. It is the masses: they are the unchangeable. !n individual may emerge from the masses. 2ut the emergence doesnt alter the mass. The masses are unalterable. It is one of the most momentous facts of social science. -anem et circenses8 Only today education is one of the bad substitutes for a circus. What is wrong today is that weve made a profound hash of the circuses part of the programme, and poisoned our masses with a little education. When lifford became really roused in his feelings about the common people, onnie was frightened. There was something devastatingly true in what he said. 2ut it was a truth that killed. #eeing her pale and silent, lifford started the chair again, and no more was said till he halted again at the wood gate, which she opened. .!nd what we need to take up now, he said, .is whips, not swords. The masses have been ruled since time began, and till time ends, ruled they will have to be. It is sheer hypocrisy and farce to say they can rule themselves. .2ut can you rule them: she asked. .I: Oh yes8 ;either my mind nor my will is crippled, and I dont rule with my legs. I can do my share of ruling: absolutely, my share> and give me a son, and he will be able to rule his portion after me. .2ut he wouldnt be your own son, of your own ruling class> or perhaps not, she stammered. .I dont care who his father may be, so long as he is a healthy man not below normal intelligence. @ive me the child of any healthy, normally intelligent man, and I will make a perfectly competent hatterley of him. It is not who begets us, that matters, but where fate places us. 6lace any child among the ruling classes, and he will grow up, to his own e)tent, a ruler. 6ut kings and dukes

children among the masses, and theyll be little plebeians, mass products. It is the overwhelming pressure of environment. .Then the common people arent a race, and the aristocrats arent blood, she said. .;o, my child8 !ll that is romantic illusion. !ristocracy is a function, a part of fate. !nd the masses are a functioning of another part of fate. The individual hardly matters. It is a 0uestion of which function you are brought up to and adapted to. It is not the individuals that make an aristocracy: it is the functioning of the aristocratic whole. !nd it is the functioning of the whole mass that makes the common man what he is. .Then there is no common humanity between us all8 .Gust as you like. We all need to fill our bellies. 2ut when it comes to e)pressive or e)ecutive functioning, I believe there is a gulf and an absolute one, between the ruling and the serving classes. The two functions are opposed. !nd the function determines the individual. onnie looked at him with da"ed eyes. .Wont you come on: she said. !nd he started his chair. +e had said his say. ;ow he lapsed into his peculiar and rather vacant apathy, that onnie found so trying. In the wood, anyhow, she was determined not to argue. In front of them ran the open cleft of the riding, between the ha"el walls and the gay grey trees. The chair puffed slowly on, slowly surging into the forget*me*nots that rose up in the drive like milk froth, beyond the ha"el shadows. lifford steered the middle course, where feet passing had kept a channel through the flowers. 2ut onnie, walking behind, had watched the wheels 4olt over the wood*ruff and the bugle, and s0uash the little yellow cups of the creeping*4enny. ;ow they made a wake through the forget*me*nots. !ll the flowers were there, the first bluebells in blue pools, like standing water. .3ou are 0uite right about its being beautiful, said lifford. .It is so ama"ingly. What is *uite so lovely as an (nglish spring8 onnie thought it sounded as if even the spring bloomed by act of 6arliament. !n (nglish spring8 Why not an Irish one: or Gewish: The chair moved slowly ahead, past tufts of sturdy bluebells that stood up like wheat and over grey burdock leaves. When they came to the open place where the trees had been felled, the light flooded in rather stark. !nd the bluebells made sheets of bright blue colour, here and there, sheering off into lilac and purple. !nd between, the bracken was lifting its brown curled heads, like legions of young snakes with a new secret to whisper to (ve. lifford kept the chair going till he came to the brow of the hill> onnie followed slowly behind. The oak*buds were opening soft and brown. (verything came tenderly out of the old hardness. (ven the snaggy craggy oak*trees put out the softest young leaves, spreading thin, brown little wings like young bat* wings in the light. Why had men never any newness in them, any freshness to come forth with8 #tale men8 lifford stopped the chair at the top of the rise and looked down. The bluebells washed blue like flood*water over the broad riding, and lit up the downhill with a warm blueness. .Its a very fine colour in itself, said lifford, .but useless for making a painting. .Fuite8 said onnie, completely uninterested. .#hall I venture as far as the spring: said lifford. .Will the chair get up again: she said. .Well try> nothing venture, nothing win8 !nd the chair began to advance slowly, 4oltingly down the beautiful broad riding washed over with

blue encroaching hyacinths. O last of all ships, through the hyacinthian shallows8 O pinnace on the last wild waters, sailing in the last voyage of our civili"ation8 Whither, O weird wheeled ship, your slow course steering. Fuiet and complacent, lifford sat at the wheel of adventure: in his old black hat and tweed 4acket, motionless and cautious. O aptain, my aptain, our splendid trip is done8 ;ot yet though8 7ownhill, in the wake, came onstance in her grey dress, watching the chair 4olt downwards. They passed the narrow track to the hut. Thank heaven it was not wide enough for the chair: hardly wide enough for one person. The chair reached the bottom of the slope, and swerved round, to disappear. !nd onnie heard a low whistle behind her. #he glanced sharply round: the keeper was striding downhill towards her, his dog keeping behind him. .Is #ir lifford going to the cottage: he asked, looking into her eyes. .;o, only to the well. .!h8 @ood8 Then I can keep out of sight. 2ut I shall see you tonight. I shall wait for you at the park* gate about ten. +e looked again direct into her eyes. .3es, she faltered. They heard the 6app8 6app8 of liffords horn, tooting for onnie. #he . oo*eed8 in reply. The keepers face flickered with a little grimace, and with his hand he softly brushed her breast upwards, from underneath. #he looked at him, frightened, and started running down the hill, calling oo*ee8 again to lifford. The man above watched her, then turned, grinning faintly, back into his path. #he found lifford slowly mounting to the spring, which was halfway up the slope of the dark larch*wood. +e was there by the time she caught him up. .#he did that all right, he said, referring to the chair. onnie looked at the great grey leaves of burdock that grew out ghostly from the edge of the larch* wood. The people call it 5obin +oods 5hubarb. +ow silent and gloomy it seemed by the well8 3et the water bubbled so bright, wonderful8 !nd there were bits of eye*bright and strong blue bugle . . . !nd there, under the bank, the yellow earth was moving. ! mole8 It emerged, rowing its pink hands, and waving its blind gimlet of a face, with the tiny pink nose*tip uplifted. .It seems to see with the end of its nose, said onnie. .2etter than with its eyes8 he said. .Will you drink: .Will you: #he took an enamel mug from a twig on a tree, and stooped to fill it for him. +e drank in sips. Then she stooped again, and drank a little herself. .#o icy8 she said gasping. .@ood, isnt it8 7id you wish: .7id you: .3es, I wished. 2ut I wont tell. #he was aware of the rapping of a woodpecker, then of the wind, soft and eerie through the larches. #he looked up. White clouds were crossing the blue. . louds8 she said. .White lambs only, he replied. ! shadow crossed the little clearing. The mole had swum out on to the soft yellow earth.

.=npleasant little beast, we ought to kill him, said lifford. ./ook8 hes like a parson in a pulpit, she said. #he gathered some sprigs of woodruff and brought them to him. .;ew*mown hay8 he said. .7oesnt it smell like the romantic ladies of the last century, who had their heads screwed on the right way after all8 #he was looking at the white clouds. .I wonder if it will rain, she said. .5ain8 Why8 7o you want it to: They started on the return 4ourney, lifford 4olting cautiously downhill. They came to the dark bottom of the hollow, turned to the right, and after a hundred yards swerved up the foot of the long slope, where bluebells stood in the light. .;ow, old girl8 said lifford, putting the chair to it. It was a steep and 4olty climb. The chair pugged slowly, in a struggling unwilling fashion. #till, she nosed her way up unevenly, till she came to where the hyacinths were all around her, then she balked, struggled, 4erked a little way out of the flowers, then stopped .Wed better sound the horn and see if the keeper will come, said onnie. .+e could push her a bit. 'or that matter, I will push. It helps. .Well let her breathe, said lifford. .7o you mind putting a scotch under the wheel: onnie found a stone, and they waited. !fter a while lifford started his motor again, then set the chair in motion. It struggled and faltered like a sick thing, with curious noises. ./et me push8 said onnie, coming up behind. .;o8 7ont push8 he said angrily. .Whats the good of the damned thing, if it has to be pushed8 6ut the stone under8 There was another pause, then another start> but more ineffectual than before. .3ou must let me push, said she. .Or sound the horn for the keeper. .Wait8 #he waited> and he had another try, doing more harm than good. .#ound the horn then, if you wont let me push, she said. .+ell8 2e 0uiet a moment8 #he was 0uiet a moment: he made shattering efforts with the little motor. .3oull only break the thing down altogether, lifford, she remonstrated> .besides wasting your nervous energy. .If I could only get out and look at the damned thing8 he said, e)asperated. !nd he sounded the horn stridently. .6erhaps 1ellors can see whats wrong. They waited, among the mashed flowers under a sky softly curdling with cloud. In the silence a wood*pigeon began to coo roo*hoo hoo8 roo*hoo hoo8 lifford shut her up with a blast on the horn. The keeper appeared directly, striding in0uiringly round the corner. +e saluted. .7o you know anything about motors: asked lifford sharply. .I am afraid I dont. +as she gone wrong: .!pparently8 snapped lifford. The man crouched solicitously by the wheel, and peered at the little engine.

.Im afraid I know nothing at all about these mechanical things, #ir lifford, he said calmly. .If she has enough petrol and oil 9 .Gust look carefully and see if you can see anything broken, snapped lifford. The man laid his gun against a tree, took oil his coat, and threw it beside it. The brown dog sat guard. Then he sat down on his heels and peered under the chair, poking with his finger at the greasy little engine, and resenting the grease*marks on his clean #unday shirt. .7oesnt seem anything broken, he said. !nd he stood up, pushing back his hat from his forehead, rubbing his brow and apparently studying. .+ave you looked at the rods underneath: asked lifford. .#ee if they are all right8 The man lay flat on his stomach on the floor, his neck pressed back, wriggling under the engine and poking with his finger. onnie thought what a pathetic sort of thing a man was, feeble and small* looking, when he was lying on his belly on the big earth. .#eems all right as far as I can see, came his muffled voice. .I dont suppose you can do anything, said lifford. .#eems as if I cant8 !nd he scrambled up and sat on his heels, collier fashion. .Theres certainly nothing obviously broken. lifford started his engine, then put her in gear. #he would not move. .5un her a bit hard, like, suggested the keeper. lifford resented the interference: but he made his engine bu"" like a blue*bottle. Then she coughed and snarled and seemed to go better. .#ounds as if shed come clear, said 1ellors. 2ut lifford had already 4erked her into gear. #he gave a sick lurch and ebbed weakly forwards. .If I give her a push, shell do it, said the keeper, going behind. .Aeep off8 snapped lifford. .#hell do it by herself. .2ut lifford8 put in onnie from the bank, .you know its too much for her. Why are you so obstinate8 lifford was pale with anger. +e 4abbed at his levers. The chair gave a sort of scurry, reeled on a few more yards, and came to her end amid a particularly promising patch of bluebells. .#hes done8 said the keeper. .;ot power enough. .#hes been up here before, said lifford coldly. .#he wont do it this time, said the keeper. lifford did not reply. +e began doing things with his engine, running her fast and slow as if to get some sort of tune out of her. The wood re*echoed with weird noises. Then he put her in gear with a 4erk, having 4erked off his brake. .3oull rip her inside out, murmured the keeper. The chair charged in a sick lurch sideways at the ditch. . lifford8 cried onnie, rushing forward. 2ut the keeper had got the chair by the rail. lifford, however, putting on all his pressure, managed to steer into the riding, and with a strange noise the chair was fighting the hill. 1ellors pushed steadily behind, and up she went, as if to retrieve herself. .3ou see, shes doing it8 said lifford, victorious, glancing over his shoulder. There he saw the

keepers face. .!re you pushing her: .#he wont do it without. ./eave her alone. I asked you not. .#he wont do it. . let her try8 snarled lifford, with all his emphasis. The keeper stood back: then turned to fetch his coat and gun. The chair seemed to strange immediately. #he stood inert. lifford, seated a prisoner, was white with ve)ation. +e 4erked at the levers with his hand, his feet were no good. +e got 0ueer noises out of her. In savage impatience he moved little handles and got more noises out of her. 2ut she would not budge. ;o, she would not budge. +e stopped the engine and sat rigid with anger. onstance sat on the bank and looked at the wretched and trampled bluebells. .;othing 0uite so lovely as an (nglish spring. .I can do my share of ruling. .What we need to take up now is whips, not swords. .The ruling classes8 The keeper strode up with his coat and gun, 'lossie cautiously at his heels. lifford asked the man to do something or other to the engine. onnie, who understood nothing at all of the technicalities of motors, and who had had e)perience of breakdowns, sat patiently on the bank as if she were a cipher. The keeper lay on his stomach again. The ruling classes and the serving classes8 +e got to his feet and said patiently: .Try her again, then. +e spoke in a 0uiet voice, almost as if to a child. lifford tried her, and 1ellors stepped 0uickly behind and began to push. #he was going, the engine doing about half the work, the man the rest. lifford glanced round, yellow with anger. .Will you get off there8 The keeper dropped his hold at once, and lifford added: .+ow shall I know what she is doing8 The man put his gun down and began to pull on his coat. +ed done. The chair began slowly to run backwards. . lifford, your brake8 cried onnie. #he, 1ellors, and lifford moved at once, onnie and the keeper 4ostling lightly. The chair stood. There was a moment of dead silence. .Its obvious Im at everybodys mercy8 said lifford. +e was yellow with anger. ;o one answered. 1ellors was slinging his gun over his shoulder, his face 0ueer and e)pressionless, save for an abstracted look of patience. The dog 'lossie, standing on guard almost between her masters legs, moved uneasily, eyeing the chair with great suspicion and dislike, and very much perple)ed between the three human beings. The tableau vivant remained set among the s0uashed bluebells, nobody proffering a word. .I e)pect shell have to be pushed, said lifford at last, with an affectation of sang froid. ;o answer. 1ellors abstracted face looked as if he had heard nothing. onnie glanced an)iously at him. lifford too glanced round. .7o you mind pushing her home, 1ellors8 he said in a cool superior tone. .I hope I have said nothing to offend you, he added, in a tone of dislike.

.;othing at all, #ir lifford8 7o you want me to push that chair: .If you please. The man stepped up to it: but this time it was without effect. The brake was 4ammed. They poked and pulled, and the keeper took off his gun and his coat once more. !nd now lifford said never a word. !t last the keeper heaved the back of the chair off the ground and, with an instantaneous push of his foot, tried to loosen the wheels. +e failed, the chair sank. lifford was clutching the sides. The man gasped with the weight. .7ont do it8 cried onnie to him. .If youll pull the wheel that way, so8 he said to her, showing her how. .;o8 3ou mustnt lift it8 3oull strain yourself, she said, flushed now with anger. 2ut he looked into her eyes and nodded. !nd she had to go and take hold of the wheel, ready. +e heaved and she tugged, and the chair reeled. .'or @ods sake8 cried lifford in terror. 2ut it was all right, and the brake was off. The keeper put a stone under the wheel, and went to sit on the bank, his heart beat and his face white with the effort, semi*conscious. onnie looked at him, and almost cried with anger. There was a pause and a dead silence. #he saw his hands trembling on his thighs. .+ave you hurt yourself: she asked, going to him. .;o. ;o8 +e turned away almost angrily. There was dead silence. The back of liffords fair head did not move. (ven the dog stood motionless. The sky had clouded over. !t last he sighed, and blew his nose on his red handkerchief. .That pneumonia took a lot out of me, he said. ;o one answered. onnie calculated the amount of strength it must have taken to heave up that chair and the bulky lifford: too much, far too much8 If it hadnt killed him8 +e rose, and again picked up his coat, slinging it through the handle of the chair. .!re you ready, then, #ir lifford: .When you are8 +e stooped and took out the scotch, then put his weight against the chair. +e was paler than onnie had ever seen him: and more absent. lifford was a heavy man: and the hill was steep. onnie stepped to the keepers side. .Im going to push too8 she said. !nd she began to shove with a womans turbulent energy of anger. The chair went faster. lifford looked round. .Is that necessary: he said. .Dery8 7o you want to kill the man8 If youd let the motor work while it would 9 2ut she did not finish. #he was already panting. #he slackened off a little, for it was surprisingly hard work. .!y8 slower8 said the man at her side, with a faint smile of his eyes. .!re you sure youve not hurt yourself: she said fiercely. +e shook his head. #he looked at his smallish, short, alive hand, browned by the weather. It was the

hand that caressed her. #he had never even looked at it before. It seemed so still, like him, with a curious inward stillness that made her want to clutch it, as if she could not reach it. !ll her soul suddenly swept towards him: he was so silent, and out of reach8 !nd he felt his limbs revive. #hoving with his left hand, he laid his right on her round white wrist, softly enfolding her wrist, with a caress. !nd the flame of strength went down his back and his loins, reviving him. !nd she bent suddenly and kissed his hand. 1eanwhile the back of liffords head was held sleek and motionless, 4ust in front of them. !t the top of the hill they rested, and onnie was glad to let go. #he had had fugitive dreams of friendship between these two men: one her husband, the other the father of her child. ;ow she saw the screaming absurdity of her dreams. The two males were as hostile as fire and water. They mutually e)terminated one another. !nd she reali"ed for the first time what a 0ueer subtle thing hate is. 'or the first time, she had consciously and definitely hated lifford, with vivid hate: as if he ought to be obliterated from the face of the earth. !nd it was strange, how free and full of life it made her feel, to hate him and to admit it fully to herself. 9 .;ow Ive hated him, I shall never be able to go on living with him, came the thought into her mind. On the level the keeper could push the chair alone. lifford made a little conversation with her, to show his complete composure: about !unt (va, who was at 7ieppe, and about #ir 1alcolm, who had written to ask would onnie drive with him in his small car, to Denice, or would she and +ilda go by train. .Id much rather go by train, said onnie. .I dont like long motor drives, especially when theres dust. 2ut I shall see what +ilda wants. .#he will want to drive her own car, and take you with her, he said. .6robably8 9 I must help up here. 3ouve no idea how heavy this chair is. #he went to the back of the chair, and plodded side by side with the keeper, shoving up the pink path. #he did not care who saw. .Why not let me wait, and fetch 'ield: +e is strong enough for the 4ob, said lifford. .Its so near, she panted. 2ut both she and 1ellors wiped the sweat from their faces when they came to the top. It was curious, but this bit of work together had brought them much closer than they had been before. .Thanks so much, 1ellors, said lifford, when they were at the house door. .I must get a different sort of motor, thats all. Wont you go to the kitchen and have a meal: It must be about time. .Thank you, #ir lifford. I was going to my mother for dinner today, #unday. .!s you like. 1ellors slung into his coat, looked at onnie, saluted, and was gone. onnie, furious, went upstairs. !t lunch she could not contain her feeling. .Why are you so abominably inconsiderate, lifford: she said to him. .Of whom: .Of the keeper8 If that is what you call ruling classes, Im sorry for you. .Why: .! man whos been ill, and isnt strong8 1y word, if I were the serving classes, Id let you wait for service. Id let you whistle. .I 0uite believe it. .If hed been sitting in a chair with paralysed legs, and behaved as you behaved, what would you

have done for him: .1y dear evangelist, this confusing of persons and personalities is in bad taste. .!nd your nasty, sterile want of common sympathy is in the worst taste imaginable. .oblesse oblige8 3ou and your ruling class8 .!nd to what should it oblige me: To have a lot of unnecessary emotions about my game*keeper: I refuse. I leave it all to my evangelist. .!s if he werent a man as much as you are, my word8 .1y game*keeper to boot, and I pay him two pounds a week and give him a house. .6ay him8 What do you think you pay for, with two pounds a week and a house: .+is services. .2ah8 I would tell you to keep your two pounds a week and your house. .6robably he would like to: but cant afford the lu)ury8 .3ou, and rule8 she said. .3ou dont rule, dont flatter yourself. 3ou have only got more than your share of the money, and make people work for you for two pounds a week, or threaten them with starvation. 5ule8 What do you give forth of rule: Why, you re dried up8 3ou only bully with your money, like any Gew or any #chieber8 .3ou are very elegant in your speech, /ady hatterley8 .I assure you, you were very elegant altogether out there in the wood. I was utterly ashamed of you. Why, my father is ten times the human being you are: you gentleman8 +e reached and rang the bell for 1rs 2olton. 2ut he was yellow at the gills. #he went up to her room, furious, saying to herself: .+im and buying people8 Well, he doesnt buy me, and therefore theres no need for me to stay with him. 7ead fish of a gentleman, with his celluloid soul8 !nd how they take one in, with their manners and their mock wistfulness and gentleness. Theyve got about as much feeling as celluloid has. #he made her plans for the night, and determined to get lifford off her mind. #he didnt want to hate him. #he didnt want to be mi)ed up very intimately with him in any sort of feeling. #he wanted him not to know anything at all about herself: and especially, not to know anything about her feeling for the keeper. This s0uabble of her attitude to the servants was an old one. +e found her too familiar, she found him stupidly insentient, tough and indiarubbery where other people were concerned. #he went downstairs calmly, with her old demure bearing, at dinner*time. +e was still yellow at the gills: in for one of his liver bouts, when he was really very 0ueer. 9 +e was reading a 'rench book. .+ave you ever read 6roust: he asked her. .Ive tried, but he bores me. .+es really very e)traordinary. .6ossibly8 2ut he bores me: all that sophistication8 +e doesnt have feelings, he only has streams of words about feelings. Im tired of self*important mentalities. .Would you prefer self*important animalities: .6erhaps8 2ut one might possibly get something that wasnt self*important. .Well, I like 6rousts subtlety and his well*bred anarchy. .It makes you very dead, really.

.There speaks my evangelical little wife. They were at it again, at it again8 2ut she couldnt help fighting him. +e seemed to sit there like a skeleton, sending out a skeletons cold gri""ly will against her. !lmost she could feel the skeleton clutching her and pressing her to its cage of ribs. +e too was really up in arms: and she was a little afraid of him. #he went upstairs as soon as possible, and went to bed 0uite early. 2ut at half past nine she got up, and went outside to listen. There was no sound. #he slipped on a dressing*gown and went downstairs. lifford and 1rs 2olton were playing cards, gambling. They would probably go on until midnight. onnie returned to her room, threw her py4amas on the tossed bed, put on a thin tennis*dress and over that a woollen day*dress, put on rubber tennis*shoes, and then a light coat. !nd she was ready. If she met anybody, she was 4ust going out for a few minutes. !nd in the morning, when she came in again, she would 4ust have been for a little walk in the dew, as she fairly often did before breakfast. 'or the rest, the only danger was that someone should go into her room during the night. 2ut that was most unlikely: not one chance in a hundred. 2etts had not locked up. +e fastened up the house at ten oclock, and unfastened it again at seven in the morning. #he slipped out silently and unseen. There was a half*moon shining, enough to make a little light in the world, not enough to show her up in her dark*grey coat. #he walked 0uickly across the park, not really in the thrill of the assignation, but with a certain anger and rebellion burning in her heart. It was not the right sort of heart to take to a love*meeting. 2ut la guerre comme la guerre8

Chapter 14
When she got near the park*gate, she heard the click of the latch. +e was there, then, in the darkness of the wood, and had seen her8 .3ou are good and early, he said out of the dark. .Was everything all right: .6erfectly easy. +e shut the gate 0uietly after her, and made a spot of light on the dark ground, showing the pallid flowers still standing there open in the night. They went on apart, in silence. .!re you sure you didnt hurt yourself this morning with that chair: she asked. .;o, no8 .When you had that pneumonia, what did it do to you: .Oh nothing8 it left my heart not so strong and the lungs not so elastic. 2ut it always does that. .!nd you ought not to make violent physical efforts: .;ot often. #he plodded on in an angry silence. .7id you hate lifford: she said at last. .+ate him, no8 Ive met too many like him to upset myself hating him. I know beforehand I dont care for his sort, and I let it go at that. .What is his sort: .;ay, you know better than I do. The sort of youngish gentleman a bit like a lady, and no balls. .What balls: .2alls8 ! mans balls8

#he pondered this. .2ut is it a 0uestion of that: she said, a little annoyed. .3ou say a mans got no brain, when hes a fool: and no heart, when hes mean> and no stomach when hes a funker. !nd when hes got none of that spunky wild bit of a man in him, you say hes got no balls. When hes a sort of tame. #he pondered this. .!nd is lifford tame: she asked. .Tame, and nasty with it: like most such fellows, when you come up against em. .!nd do you think youre not tame: .1aybe not 0uite8 !t length she saw in the distance a yellow light. #he stood still. .There is a light8 she said. .I always leave a light in the house, he said. #he went on again at his side, but not touching him, wondering why she was going with him at all. +e unlocked, and they went in, he bolting the door behind them. !s if it were a prison, she thought8 The kettle was singing by the red fire, there were cups on the table. #he sat in the wooden arm*chair by the fire. It was warm after the chill outside. .Ill take off my shoes, they are wet, she said. #he sat with her stockinged feet on the bright steel fender. +e went to the pantry, bringing food: bread and butter and pressed tongue. #he was warm: she took off her coat. +e hung it on the door. .#hall you have cocoa or tea or coffee to drink: he asked. .I dont think I want anything, she said, looking at the table. .2ut you eat. .;ay, I dont care about it. Ill 4ust feed the dog. +e tramped with a 0uiet inevitability over the brick floor, putting food for the dog in a brown bowl. The spaniel looked up at him an)iously. .!y, this is thy supper, tha nedna look as if tha wouldna get it8 he said. +e set the bowl on the stairfoot mat, and sat himself on a chair by the wall, to take off his leggings and boots. The dog instead of eating, came to him again, and sat looking up at him, troubled. +e slowly unbuckled his leggings. The dog edged a little nearer. .Whats amiss wi thee then: !rt upset because theres somebody else here: Thart a female, tha art8 @o an eat thy supper. +e put his hand on her head, and the bitch leaned her head sideways against him. +e slowly, softly pulled the long silky ear. .There8 he said. .There8 @o an eat thy supper8 @o8 +e tilted his chair towards the pot on the mat, and the dog meekly went, and fell to eating. .7o you like dogs: onnie asked him. .;o, not really. Theyre too tame and clinging. +e had taken off his leggings and was unlacing his heavy boots. onnie had turned from the fire.

+ow bare the little room was8 3et over his head on the wall hung a hideous enlarged photograph of a young married couple, apparently him and a bold*faced young woman, no doubt his wife. .Is that you: onnie asked him. +e twisted and looked at the enlargement above his head. .!y8 Taken 4ust afore we was married, when I was twenty*one. +e looked at it impassively. .7o you like it: onnie asked him. ./ike it: ;o8 I never liked the thing. 2ut she fi)ed it all up to have it done, like. +e returned to pulling off his boots. .If you dont like it, why do you keep it hanging there: 6erhaps your wife would like to have it, she said. +e looked up at her with a sudden grin. .#he carted off iverything as was worth taking from th ouse, he said. .2ut she left that8 .Then why do you keep it: for sentimental reasons: .;ay, I niver look at it. I hardly knowed it wor theer. Its bin theer sin we come to this place. .Why dont you burn it: she said. +e twisted round again and looked at the enlarged photograph. It was framed in a brown*and*gilt frame, hideous. It showed a clean*shaven, alert, very young*looking man in a rather high collar, and a somewhat plump, bold young woman with hair fluffed out and crimped, and wearing a dark satin blouse. .It wouldnt be a bad idea, would it: he said. +e had pulled off his boots, and put on a pair of slippers. +e stood up on the chair, and lifted down the photograph. It left a big pale place on the greenish wall*paper. .;o use dusting it now, he said, setting the thing against the wall. +e went to the scullery, and returned with hammer and pincers. #itting where he had sat before, he started to tear off the back*paper from the big frame, and to pull out the sprigs that held the backboard in position, working with the immediate 0uiet absorption that was characteristic of him. +e soon had the nails out: then he pulled out the backboards, then the enlargement itself, in its solid white mount. +e looked at the photograph with amusement. .#hows me for what I was, a young curate, and her for what she was, a bully, he said. .The prig and the bully8 ./et me look8 said onnie. +e did look indeed very clean*shaven and very clean altogether, one of the clean young men of twenty years ago. 2ut even in the photograph his eyes were alert and dauntless. !nd the woman was not altogether a bully, though her 4owl was heavy. There was a touch of appeal in her. .One never should keep these things, said onnie. .That one shouldnt8 One should never have them made8 +e broke the cardboard photograph and mount over his knee, and when it was small enough, put it on the fire. .Itll spoil the fire though, he said. The glass and the backboard he carefully took upstairs. The frame he knocked asunder with a few blows of the hammer, making the stucco fly. Then he

took the pieces into the scullery. .Well burn that tomorrow, he said. .Theres too much plaster*moulding on it. +aving cleared away, he sat down. .7id you love your wife: she asked him. ./ove: he said. .7id you love #ir lifford: 2ut she was not going to be put off. .2ut you cared for her: she insisted. . ared: +e grinned. .6erhaps you care for her now, she said. .1e8 +is eyes widened. .!h no, I cant think of her, he said 0uietly. .Why: 2ut he shook his head. .Then why dont you get a divorce: #hell come back to you one day, said onnie. +e looked up at her sharply. .#he wouldnt come within a mile of me. #he hates me a lot worse than I hate her. .3oull see shell come back to you. .That she never will. Thats done8 It would make me sick to see her. .3ou will see her. !nd youre not even legally separated, are you: .;o. .!h well, then shell come back, and youll have to take her in. +e ga"ed at onnie fi)edly. Then he gave the 0ueer toss of his head. .3ou might be right. I was a fool ever to come back here. 2ut I felt stranded and had to go somewhere. ! mans a poor bit of a wastrel blown about. 2ut youre right. Ill get a divorce and get clear. I hate those things like death, officials and courts and 4udges. 2ut Ive got to get through with it. Ill get a divorce. !nd she saw his 4aw set. Inwardly she e)ulted. .I think I will have a cup of tea now, she said. +e rose to make it. 2ut his face was set. !s they sat at table she asked him: .Why did you marry her: #he was commoner than yourself. 1rs 2olton told me about her. #he could never understand why you married her. +e looked at her fi)edly. .Ill tell you, he said. .The first girl I had, I began with when I was si)teen. #he was a school* masters daughter over at Ollerton, pretty, beautiful really. I was supposed to be a clever sort of young fellow from #heffield @rammar #chool, with a bit of 'rench and @erman, very much up aloft. #he was the romantic sort that hated commonness. #he egged me on to poetry and reading: in a way, she made a man of me. I read and I thought like a house on fire, for her. !nd I was a clerk in 2utterley offices, thin, white*faced fellow fuming with all the things I read. !nd about everything I talked to her: but everything. We talked ourselves into 6ersepolis and Timbuctoo. We were the most literary*cultured couple in ten counties. I held forth with rapture to her, positively with rapture. I simply went up in smoke. !nd she adored me. The serpent in the grass was se). #he somehow didnt have any> at least, not where its supposed to be. I got thinner and cra"ier. Then I said wed got to be lovers. I talked her into it, as usual. #o she let me. I was e)cited, and she never wanted it.

#he 4ust didnt want it. #he adored me, she loved me to talk to her and kiss her: in that way she had a passion for me. 2ut the other, she 4ust didnt want. !nd there are lots of women like her. !nd it was 4ust the other that I did want. #o there we split. I was cruel, and left her. Then I took on with another girl, a teacher, who had made a scandal by carrying on with a married man and driving him nearly out of his mind. #he was a soft, white*skinned, soft sort of a woman, older than me, and played the fiddle. !nd she was a demon. #he loved everything about love, e)cept the se). linging, caressing, creeping into you in every way: but if you forced her to the se) itself, she 4ust ground her teeth and sent out hate. I forced her to it, and she could simply numb me with hate because of it. #o I was balked again. I loathed all that. I wanted a woman who wanted me, and wanted it. .Then came 2ertha outts. Theyd lived ne)t door to us when I was a little lad, so I knew em all right. !nd they were common. Well, 2ertha went away to some place or other in 2irmingham> she said, as a ladys companion> everybody else said, as a waitress or something in a hotel. !nyhow 4ust when I was more than fed up with that other girl, when I was twenty*one, back comes 2ertha, with airs and graces and smart clothes and a sort of bloom on her: a sort of sensual bloom that youd see sometimes on a woman, or on a trolly. Well, I was in a state of murder. I chucked up my 4ob at 2utterley because I thought I was a weed, clerking there: and I got on as overhead blacksmith at Tevershall: shoeing horses mostly. It had been my dads 4ob, and Id always been with him. It was a 4ob I liked: handling horses: and it came natural to me. #o I stopped talking HfineI, as they call it, talking proper (nglish, and went back to talking broad. I still read books, at home: but I blacksmithed and had a pony*trap of my own, and was 1y /ord 7uckfoot. 1y dad left me three hundred pounds when he died. #o I took on with 2ertha, and I was glad she was common. I wanted her to be common. I wanted to be common myself. Well, I married her, and she wasnt bad. Those other HpureI women had nearly taken all the balls out of me, but she was all right that way. #he wanted me, and made no bones about it. !nd I was as pleased as punch. That was what I wanted: a woman who wanted me to fuck her. #o I fucked her like a good un. !nd I think she despised me a bit, for being so pleased about it, and bringin her her breakfast in bed sometimes. #he sort of let things go, didnt get me a proper dinner when I came home from work, and if I said anything, flew out at me. !nd I flew back, hammer and tongs. #he flung a cup at me and I took her by the scruff of the neck and s0uee"ed the life out of her. That sort of thing8 2ut she treated me with insolence. !nd she got sos shed never have me when I wanted her: never. !lways put me off, brutal as you like. !nd then when shed put me right off, and I didnt want her, shed come all lovey*dovey, and get me. !nd I always went. 2ut when I had her, shed never come off when I did. ;ever8 #hed 4ust wait. If I kept back for half an hour, shed keep back longer. !nd when Id come and really finished, then shed start on her own account, and I had to stop inside her till she brought herself off, wriggling and shouting, shed clutch clutch with herself down there, an then shed come off, fair in ecstasy. !nd then shed say: That was lovely8 @radually I got sick of it: and she got worse. #he sort of got harder and harder to bring off, and shed sort of tear at me down there, as if it was a beak tearing at me. 2y @od, you think a womans soft down there, like a fig. 2ut I tell you the old rampers have beaks between their legs, and they tear at you with it till youre sick. #elf8 #elf8 #elf8 all self8 tearing and shouting8 They talk about mens selfishness, but I doubt if it can ever touch a womans blind beakishness, once shes gone that way. /ike an old trull8 !nd she couldnt help it. I told her about it, I told her how I hated it. !nd shed even try. #hed try to lie still and let me work the business. #hed try. 2ut it was no good. #he got no feeling off it, from my working. #he had to work the thing herself, grind her own coffee. !nd it came back on her like a raving necessity, she had to let herself go, and tear, tear, tear, as if she had no sensation in her e)cept in the top of her beak, the very outside top tip, that rubbed and tore. Thats how old whores used to be, so men used to say. It was a low kind of self*will in her, a raving sort of self*will: like in a woman who drinks. Well in the end I couldnt stand it. We slept apart. #he herself had started it, in her bouts when she wanted to be clear of me, when she said I bossed her. #he had started having a room for herself. 2ut the time came when I wouldnt have her coming to my room. I wouldnt. .I hated it. !nd she hated me. 1y @od, how she hated me before that child was born8 I often think

she conceived it out of hate. !nyhow, after the child was born I left her alone. !nd then came the war, and I 4oined up. !nd I didnt come back till I knew she was with that fellow at #tacks @ate. +e broke off, pale in the face. .!nd what is the man at #tacks @ate like: asked onnie. .! big baby sort of fellow, very low*mouthed. #he bullies him, and they both drink. .1y word, if she came back8 .1y @od, yes8 I should 4ust go, disappear again. There was a silence. The pasteboard in the fire had turned to grey ash. .#o when you did get a woman who wanted you, said onnie, .you got a bit too much of a good thing. .!y8 #eems so8 3et even then Id rather have her than the never*never ones: the white love of my youth, and that other poison*smelling lily, and the rest. .What about the rest: said onnie. .The rest: There is no rest. Only to my e)perience the mass of women are like this: most of them want a man, but dont want the se), but they put up with it, as part of the bargain. The more old* fashioned sort 4ust lie there like nothing and let you go ahead. They dont mind afterwards: then they like you. 2ut the actual thing itself is nothing to them, a bit distasteful. !dd most men like it that way. I hate it. 2ut the sly sort of women who are like that pretend theyre not. They pretend theyre passionate and have thrills. 2ut its all cockaloopy. They make it up. Then theres the ones that love everything, every kind of feeling and cuddling and going off, every kind e)cept the natural one. They always make you go off when youre notin the only place you should be, when you go off. 9 Then theres the hard sort, that are the devil to bring off at all, and bring themselves off, like my wife. They want to be the active party. 9 Then theres the sort thats 4ust dead inside: but dead: and they know it. Then theres the sort that puts you out before you really HcomeI, and go on writhing their loins till they bring themselves off against your thighs. 2ut theyre mostly the /esbian sort. Its astonishing how /esbian women are, consciously or unconsciously. #eems to me theyre nearly all /esbian. .!nd do you mind: asked onnie. .I could kill them. When Im with a woman whos really /esbian, I fairly howl in my soul, wanting to kill her. .!nd what do you do: .Gust go away as fast as I can. .2ut do you think /esbian women any worse than homose)ual men: . I do8 2ecause Ive suffered more from them. In the abstract, Ive no idea. When I get with a /esbian woman, whether she knows shes one or not, I see red. ;o, no8 2ut I wanted to have nothing to do with any woman any more. I wanted to keep to myself: keep my privacy and my decency. +e looked pale, and his brows were sombre. .!nd were you sorry when I came along: she asked. .I was sorry and I was glad. .!nd what are you now: .Im sorry, from the outside: all the complications and the ugliness and recrimination thats bound to come, sooner or later. Thats when my blood sinks, and Im low. 2ut when my blood comes up, Im

glad. Im even triumphant. I was really getting bitter. I thought there was no real se) left: never a woman whod really HcomeI naturally with a man: e)cept black women, and somehow, well, were white men: and theyre a bit like mud. .!nd now, are you glad of me: she asked. .3es8 When I can forget the rest. When I cant forget the rest, I want to get under the table and die. .Why under the table: .Why: he laughed. .+ide, I suppose. 2aby8 .3ou do seem to have had awful e)periences of women, she said. .3ou see, I couldnt fool myself. Thats where most men manage. They take an attitude, and accept a lie. I could never fool myself. I knew what I wanted with a woman, and I could never say Id got it when I hadnt. .2ut have you got it now: ./ooks as if I might have. .Then why are you so pale and gloomy: .2ellyful of remembering: and perhaps afraid of myself. #he sat in silence. It was growing late. .!nd do you think its important, a man and a woman: she asked him. .'or me it is. 'or me its the core of my life: if I have a right relation with a woman. .!nd if you didnt get it: .Then Id have to do without. !gain she pondered, before she asked: .!nd do you think youve always been right with women: .@od, no8 I let my wife get to what she was: my fault a good deal. I spoilt her. !nd Im very mistrustful. 3oull have to e)pect it. It takes a lot to make me trust anybody, inwardly. #o perhaps Im a fraud too. I mistrust. !nd tenderness is not to be mistaken. #he looked at him. .3ou dont mistrust with your body, when your blood comes up, she said. .3ou dont mistrust then, do you: .;o, alas8 Thats how Ive got into all the trouble. !nd thats why my mind mistrusts so thoroughly. ./et your mind mistrust. What does it matter8 The dog sighed with discomfort on the mat. The ash*clogged fire sank. .We are a couple of battered warriors, said onnie. .!re you battered too: he laughed. .!nd here we are returning to the fray8 .3es8 I feel really frightened. .!y8 +e got up, and put her shoes to dry, and wiped his own and set them near the fire. In the morning he would grease them. +e poked the ash of pasteboard as much as possible out of the fire. .(ven burnt, its filthy, he said. Then he brought sticks and put them on the hob for the morning. Then he went out awhile with the dog.

When he came back, onnie said: .I want to go out too, for a minute. #he went alone into the darkness. There were stars overhead. #he could smell flowers on the night air. !nd she could feel her wet shoes getting wetter again. 2ut she felt like going away, right away from him and everybody. It was chilly. #he shuddered, and returned to the house. +e was sitting in front of the low fire. .=gh8 old8 she shuddered. +e put the sticks on the fire, and fetched more, till they had a good crackling chimneyful of bla"e. The rippling running yellow flame made them both happy, warmed their faces and their souls. .;ever mind8 she said, taking his hand as he sat silent and remote. .One does ones best. .!y8 +e sighed, with a twist of a smile. #he slipped over to him, and into his arms, as he sat there before the fire. .'orget then8 she whispered. .'orget8 +e held her close, in the running warmth of the fire. The flame itself was like a forgetting. !nd her soft, warm, ripe weight8 #lowly his blood turned, and began to ebb back into strength and reckless vigour again. .!nd perhaps the women really wanted to be there and love you properly, only perhaps they couldnt. 6erhaps it wasnt all their fault, she said. .I know it. 7o you think I dont know what a broken*backed snake thats been trodden on I was myself8 #he clung to him suddenly. #he had not wanted to start all this again. 3et some perversity had made her. .2ut youre not now, she said. .3oure not that now: a broken*backed snake thats been trodden on. .I dont know what I am. Theres black days ahead. .;o8 she protested, clinging to him. .Why: Why: .Theres black days coming for us all and for everybody, he repeated with a prophetic gloom. .;o8 3oure not to say it8 +e was silent. 2ut she could feel the black void of despair inside him. That was the death of all desire, the death of all love: this despair that was like the dark cave inside the men, in which their spirit was lost. .!nd you talk so coldly about se), she said. .3ou talk as if you had only wanted your own pleasure and satisfaction. #he was protesting nervously against him. .;ay8 he said. .I wanted to have my pleasure and satisfaction of a woman, and I never got it: because I could never get my pleasure and satisfaction of her unless she got hers of me at the same time. !nd it never happened. It takes two. .2ut you never believed in your women. 3ou dont even believe really in me, she said. .I dont know what believing in a woman means. .Thats it, you see8 #he still was curled on his lap. 2ut his spirit was grey and absent, he was not there for her. !nd

everything she said drove him further. .2ut what do you believe in: she insisted. .I dont know. .;othing, like all the men Ive ever known, she said. They were both silent. Then he roused himself and said: .3es, I do believe in something. I believe in being warmhearted. I believe especially in being warm* hearted in love, in fucking with a warm heart. I believe if men could fuck with warm hearts, and the women take it warm*heartedly, everything would come all right. Its all this cold*hearted fucking that is death and idiocy. .2ut you dont fuck me cold*heartedly, she protested. .I dont want to fuck you at all. 1y hearts as cold as cold potatoes 4ust now. .Oh8 she said, kissing him mockingly. ./ets have them sautes. +e laughed, and sat erect. .Its a fact8 he said. .!nything for a bit of warm*heartedness. 2ut the women dont like it. (ven you dont really like it. 3ou like good, sharp, piercing cold*hearted fucking, and then pretending its all sugar. Wheres your tenderness for me: 3oure as suspicious of me as a cat is of a dog. I tell you it takes two even to be tender and warm*hearted. 3ou love fucking all right: but you want it to be called something grand and mysterious, 4ust to flatter your own self*importance. 3our own self* importance is more to you, fifty times more, than any man, or being together with a man. .2ut thats what Id say of you. 3our own self*importance is everything to you. .!y8 Dery well then8 he said, moving as if he wanted to rise. ./ets keep apart then. Id rather die than do any more cold*hearted fucking. #he slid away from him, and he stood up. .!nd do you think I want it: she said. .I hope you dont, he replied. .2ut anyhow, you go to bed an Ill sleep down here. #he looked at him. +e was pale, his brows were sullen, he was as distant in recoil as the cold pole. 1en were all alike. .I cant go home till morning, she said. .;o8 @o to bed. Its a 0uarter to one. .I certainly wont, she said. +e went across and picked up his boots. .Then Ill go out8 he said. +e began to put on his boots. #he stared at him. .Wait8 she faltered. .Wait8 Whats come between us: +e was bent over, lacing his boot, and did not reply. The moments passed. ! dimness came over her, like a swoon. !ll her consciousness died, and she stood there wide*eyed, looking at him from the unknown, knowing nothing any more. +e looked up, because of the silence, and saw her wide*eyed and lost. !nd as if a wind tossed him he got up and hobbled over to her, one shoe off and one shoe on, and took her in his arms, pressing her against his body, which somehow felt hurt right through. !nd there he held her, and there she remained. Till his hands reached blindly down and felt for her, and felt under the clothing to where she was

smooth and warm. .1a lass8 he murmured. .1a little lass8 7unna lets light8 7unna lets niver light8 I love thee an th touch on thee. 7unna argue wi me8 7unna8 7unna8 7unna8 /ets be together. #he lifted her face and looked at him. .7ont be upset, she said steadily. .Its no good being upset. 7o you really want to be together with me: #he looked with wide, steady eyes into his face. +e stopped, and went suddenly still, turning his face aside. !ll his body went perfectly still, but did not withdraw. Then he lifted his head and looked into her eyes, with his odd, faintly mocking grin, saying: .!y*ay8 /ets be together on oath. .2ut really: she said, her eyes filling with tears. .!y really8 +eart an belly an cock. +e still smiled faintly down at her, with the flicker of irony in his eyes, and a touch of bitterness. #he was silently weeping, and he lay with her and went into her there on the hearthrug, and so they gained a measure of e0uanimity. !nd then they went 0uickly to bed, for it was growing chill, and they had tired each other out. !nd she nestled up to him, feeling small and enfolded, and they both went to sleep at once, fast in one sleep. !nd so they lay and never moved, till the sun rose over the wood and day was beginning. Then he woke up and looked at the light. The curtains were drawn. +e listened to the loud wild calling of blackbirds and thrushes in the wood. It would be a brilliant morning, about half past five, his hour for rising. +e had slept so fast8 It was such a new day8 The woman was still curled asleep and tender. +is hand moved on her, and she opened her blue wondering eyes, smiling unconsciously into his face. .!re you awake: she said to him. +e was looking into her eyes. +e smiled, and kissed her. !nd suddenly she roused and sat up. .'ancy that I am here8 she said. #he looked round the whitewashed little bedroom with its sloping ceiling and gable window where the white curtains were closed. The room was bare save for a little yellow*painted chest of drawers, and a chair: and the smallish white bed in which she lay with him. .'ancy that we are here8 she said, looking down at him. +e was lying watching her, stroking her breasts with his fingers, under the thin nightdress. When he was warm and smoothed out, he looked young and handsome. +is eyes could look so warm. !nd she was fresh and young like a flower. .I want to take this off8 she said, gathering the thin batiste nightdress and pulling it over her head. #he sat there with bare shoulders and longish breasts faintly golden. +e loved to make her breasts swing softly, like bells. .3ou must take off your py4amas too, she said. .(h, nay8 .3es8 3es8 she commanded. !nd he took off his old cotton py4ama*4acket, and pushed down the trousers. #ave for his hands and wrists and face and neck he was white as milk, with fine slender muscular flesh. To onnie he was suddenly piercingly beautiful again, as when she had seen him that afternoon washing himself. @old of sunshine touched the closed white curtain. #he felt it wanted to come in. .Oh, do lets draw the curtains8 The birds are singing so8 7o let the sun in, she said. +e slipped out of bed with his back to her, naked and white and thin, and went to the window,

stooping a little, drawing the curtains and looking out for a moment. The back was white and fine, the small buttocks beautiful with an e)0uisite, delicate manliness, the back of the neck ruddy and delicate and yet strong. There was an inward, not an outward strength in the delicate fine body. .2ut you are beautiful8 she said. .#o pure and fine8 ome8 #he held her arms out. +e was ashamed to turn to her, because of his aroused nakedness. +e caught his shirt off the floor, and held it to him, coming to her. .;o8 she said still holding out her beautiful slim arms from her dropping breasts. ./et me see you8 +e dropped the shirt and stood still looking towards her. The sun through the low window sent in a beam that lit up his thighs and slim belly and the erect phallos rising darkish and hot*looking from the little cloud of vivid gold*red hair. #he was startled and afraid. .+ow strange8 she said slowly. .+ow strange he stands there8 #o big8 and so dark and cock*sure8 Is he like that: The man looked down the front of his slender white body, and laughed. 2etween the slim breasts the hair was dark, almost black. 2ut at the root of the belly, where the phallos rose thick and arching, it was gold*red, vivid in a little cloud. .#o proud8 she murmured, uneasy. .!nd so lordly8 ;ow I know why men are so overbearing8 2ut hes lovely, really. /ike another being8 ! bit terrifying8 2ut lovely really8 !nd he comes to me8 9 #he caught her lower lip between her teeth, in fear and e)citement. The man looked down in silence at the tense phallos, that did not change. 9 .!y8 he said at last, in a little voice. .!y ma lad8 thare theer right enough. 3i, tha mun rear thy head8 Theer on thy own, eh: an taes no count O nobdy8 Tha maes nowt O me, Gohn Thomas. !rt boss: of me: (h well, thare more cocky than me, an tha says less. Gohn Thomas8 7ost want her: 7ost want my lady Gane: Thas dipped me in again, tha hast. !y, an tha comes up smilin. 9 !) er then8 !) lady Gane8 #ay: /ift up your heads, O ye gates, that the king of glory may come in. !y, th cheek on thee8 unt, thats what thare after. Tell lady Gane tha wants cunt. Gohn Thomas, an th cunt O lady Gane8 9 .Oh, dont tease him, said onnie, crawling on her knees on the bed towards him and putting her arms round his white slender loins, and drawing him to her so that her hanging, swinging breasts touched the tip of the stirring, erect phallos, and caught the drop of moisture. #he held the man fast. ./ie down8 he said. ./ie down8 /et me come8 +e was in a hurry now. !nd afterwards, when they had been 0uite still, the woman had to uncover the man again, to look at the mystery of the phallos. .!nd now hes tiny, and soft like a little bud of life8 she said, taking the soft small penis in her hand. .Isnt he somehow lovely8 so on his own, so strange8 !nd so innocent8 !nd he comes so far into me8 3ou must never insult him, you know. +es mine too. +es not only yours. +es mine8 !nd so lovely and innocent8 !nd she held the penis soft in her hand. +e laughed. .2lest be the tie that binds our hearts in kindred love, he said. .Of course8 she said. .(ven when hes soft and little I feel my heart simply tied to him. !nd how lovely your hair is here8 0uite, 0uite different8 .Thats Gohn Thomass hair, not mine8 he said. .Gohn Thomas8 Gohn Thomas8 and she 0uickly kissed the soft penis, that was beginning to stir again.

.!y8 said the man, stretching his body almost painfully. .+es got his root in my soul, has that gentleman8 !n sometimes I don know what ter do wi him. !y, hes got a will of his own, an its hard to suit him. 3et I wouldnt have him killed. .;o wonder men have always been afraid of him8 she said. .+es rather terrible. The 0uiver was going through the mans body, as the stream of consciousness again changed its direction, turning downwards. !nd he was helpless, as the penis in slow soft undulations filled and surged and rose up, and grew hard, standing there hard and overweening, in its curious towering fashion. The woman too trembled a little as she watched. .There8 Take him then8 +es thine, said the man. !nd she 0uivered, and her own mind melted out. #harp soft waves of unspeakable pleasure washed over her as he entered her, and started the curious molten thrilling that spread and spread till she was carried away with the last, blind flush of e)tremity. +e heard the distant hooters of #tacks @ate for seven oclock. It was 1onday morning. +e shivered a little, and with his face between her breasts pressed her soft breasts up over his ears, to deafen him. #he had not even heard the hooters. #he lay perfectly still, her soul washed transparent. .3ou must get up, mustnt you: he muttered. .What time: came her colourless voice. .#even*oclock blowers a bit sin. .I suppose I must. #he was resenting as she always did, the compulsion from outside. +e sat up and looked blankly out of the window. .3ou do love me, dont you: she asked calmly. +e looked down at her. .Tha knows what tha knows. What dost a) for8 he said, a little fretfully. .I want you to keep me, not to let me go, she said. +is eyes seemed full of a warm, soft darkness that could not think. .When: ;ow: .;ow in your heart. Then I want to come and live with you, always, soon. +e sat naked on the bed, with his head dropped, unable to think. .7ont you want it: she asked. .!y8 he said. Then with the same eyes darkened with another flame of consciousness, almost like sleep, he looked at her. .7unna a) me nowt now, he said. ./et me be. I like thee. I luv thee when tha lies theer. ! womans a lovely thing when ers deep ter fuck, and cunts good. !h luv thee, thy legs, an th shape on thee, an th womanness on thee. !h luv th womanness on thee. !h luv thee wi my bas an wi my heart. 2ut dunna a) me nowt. 7unna mae me say nowt. /et me stop as I am while I can. Tha can a) me iverything after. ;ow let me be, let me be8 !nd softly, he laid his hand over her mound of Denus, on the soft brown maiden*hair, and himself* sat still and naked on the bed, his face motionless in physical abstraction, almost like the face of 2uddha. 1otionless, and in the invisible flame of another consciousness, he sat with his hand on her, and waited for the turn.

!fter a while, he reached for his shirt and put it on, dressed himself swiftly in silence, looked at her once as she still lay naked and faintly golden like a @loire de 7i4on rose on the bed, and was gone. #he heard him downstairs opening the door. !nd still she lay musing, musing. It was very hard to go: to go out of his arms. +e called from the foot of the stairs: .+alf past seven8 #he sighed, and got out of bed. The bare little room8 ;othing in it at all but the small chest of drawers and the smallish bed. 2ut the board floor was scrubbed clean. !nd in the corner by the window gable was a shelf with some books, and some from a circulating library. #he looked. There were books about 2olshevist 5ussia, books of travel, a volume about the atom and the electron, another about the composition of the earths core, and the causes of earth0uakes: then a few novels: then three books on India. #o8 +e was a reader after all. The sun fell on her naked limbs through the gable window. Outside she saw the dog 'lossie roaming round. The ha"el*brake was misted with green, and dark*green dogs*mercury under. It was a clear clean morning with birds flying and triumphantly singing. If only she could stay8 If only there werent the other ghastly world of smoke and iron8 If only he would make her a world. #he came downstairs, down the steep, narrow wooden stairs. #till she would be content with this little house, if only it were in a world of its own. +e was washed and fresh, and the fire was burning. .Will you eat anything: he said. .;o8 Only lend me a comb. #he followed him into the scullery, and combed her hair before the handbreadth of mirror by the back door. Then she was ready to go. #he stood in the little front garden, looking at the dewy flowers, the grey bed of pinks in bud already. .I would like to have all the rest of the world disappear, she said, .and live with you here. .It wont disappear, he said. They went almost in silence through the lovely dewy wood. 2ut they were together in a world of their own. It was bitter to her to go on to Wragby. .I want soon to come and live with you altogether, she said as she left him. +e smiled, unanswering. #he got home 0uietly and unremarked, and went up to her room.

Chapter 15
There was a letter from +ilda on the breakfast*tray. .'ather is going to /ondon this week, and I shall call for you on Thursday week, Gune $&th. 3ou must be ready so that we can go at once. I dont want to waste time at Wragby, its an awful place. I shall probably stay the night at 5etford with the olemans, so I should be with you for lunch, Thursday. Then we could start at teatime, and sleep perhaps in @rantham. It is no use our spending an evening with lifford. If he hates your going, it would be no pleasure to him. #o8 #he was being pushed round on the chess*board again. lifford hated her going, but it was only because he didnt feel safe in her absence. +er presence, for some reason, made him feel safe, and free to do the things he was occupied with. +e was a great deal at the pits, and wrestling in spirit with the almost hopeless problems of getting out his coal in the most economical fashion and then selling it when hed got it out. +e knew he ought to find some way of using it, or converting it, so that he neednt sell it, or neednt have the chagrin of

failing to sell it. 2ut if he made electric power, could he sell that or use it: !nd to convert into oil was as yet too costly and too elaborate. To keep industry alive there must be more industry, like a madness. It was a madness, and it re0uired a madman to succeed in it. Well, he was a little mad. onnie thought so. +is very intensity and acumen in the affairs of the pits seemed like a manifestation of madness to her, his very inspirations were the inspirations of insanity. +e talked to her of all his serious schemes, and she listened in a kind of wonder, and let him talk. Then the flow ceased, and he turned on the loudspeaker, and became a blank, while apparently his schemes coiled on inside him like a kind of dream. !nd every night now he played pontoon, that game of the Tommies, with 1rs 2olton, gambling with si)pences. !nd again, in the gambling he was gone in a kind of unconsciousness, or blank into)ication, or into)ication of blankness, whatever it was. onnie could not bear to see him. 2ut when she had gone to bed, he and 1rs 2olton would gamble on till two and three in the morning, safely, and with strange lust. 1rs 2olton was caught in the lust as much as lifford: the more so, as she nearly always lost. #he told onnie one day: .I lost twenty*three shillings to #ir lifford last night. .!nd did he take the money from you: asked onnie aghast. .Why of course, my /ady8 7ebt of honour8 onnie e)postulated roundly, and was angry with both of them. The upshot was, #ir lifford raised 1rs 2oltons wages a hundred a year, and she could gamble on that. 1eanwhile, it seemed to onnie, lifford was really going deader. #he told him at length she was leaving on the seventeenth. .#eventeenth8 he said. .!nd when will you be back: .2y the twentieth of Guly at the latest. .3es8 the twentieth of Guly. #trangely and blankly he looked at her, with the vagueness of a child, but with the 0ueer blank cunning of an old man. .3ou wont let me down, now, will you: he said. .+ow: .While youre away, I mean, youre sure to come back: .Im as sure as I can be of anything, that I shall come back. .3es8 Well8 Twentieth of Guly8 +e looked at her so strangely. 3et he really wanted her to go. That was so curious. +e wanted her to go, positively, to have her little adventures and perhaps come home pregnant, and all that. !t the same time, he was afraid of her going. #he was 0uivering, watching her real opportunity for leaving him altogether, waiting till the time, herself himself should be ripe. #he sat and talked to the keeper of her going abroad. .!nd then when I come back, she said, .I can tell lifford I must leave him. !nd you and I can go away. They never need even know it is you. We can go to another country, shall we: To !frica or !ustralia. #hall we:

#he was 0uite thrilled by her plan. .3ouve never been to the olonies, have you: he asked her. .;o8 +ave you: .Ive been in India, and #outh !frica, and (gypt. .Why shouldnt we go to #outh !frica: .We might8 he said slowly. .Or dont you want to: she asked. .I dont care. I dont much care what I do. .7oesnt it make you happy: Why not: We shant be poor. I have about si) hundred a year, I wrote and asked. Its not much, but its enough, isnt it: .Its riches to me. .Oh, how lovely it will be8 .2ut I ought to get divorced, and so ought you, unless were going to have complications. There was plenty to think about. !nother day she asked him about himself. They were in the hut, and there was a thunderstorm. .!nd werent you happy, when you were a lieutenant and an officer and a gentleman: .+appy: !ll right. I liked my olonel. .7id you love him: .3es8 I loved him. .!nd did he love you: .3es8 In a way, he loved me. .Tell me about him. .What is there to tell: +e had risen from the ranks. +e loved the army. !nd he had never married. +e was twenty years older than me. +e was a very intelligent man: and alone in the army, as such a man is: a passionate man in his way: and a very clever officer. I lived under his spell while I was with him. I sort of let him run my life. !nd I never regret it. .!nd did you mind very much when he died: .I was as near death myself. 2ut when I came to, I knew another part of me was finished. 2ut then I had always known it would finish in death. !ll things do, as far as that goes. #he sat and ruminated. The thunder crashed outside. It was like being in a little ark in the 'lood. .3ou seem to have such a lot behind you, she said. .7o I: It seems to me Ive died once or twice already. 3et here I am, pegging on, and in for more trouble. #he was thinking hard, yet listening to the storm. .!nd werent you happy as an officer and a gentleman, when your olonel was dead: .;o8 They were a mingy lot. +e laughed suddenly. .The olonel used to say: /ad, the (nglish middle classes have to chew every mouthful thirty times because their guts are so narrow, a bit as big as a pea would give them a stoppage. Theyre the mingiest set of ladylike snipe ever invented: full of conceit of themselves, frightened even if their boot*laces arent correct, rotten as high game, and always in the right. Thats what finishes me up. Aow*tow, kow*tow, arse*licking till their

tongues are tough: yet theyre always in the right. 6rigs on top of everything. 6rigs8 ! generation of ladylike prigs with half a ball each 9 onnie laughed. The rain was rushing down. .+e hated them8 .;o, said he. .+e didnt bother. +e 4ust disliked them. Theres a difference. 2ecause, as he said, the Tommies are getting 4ust as priggish and half*balled and narrow*gutted. Its the fate of mankind, to go that way. .The common people too, the working people: .!ll the lot. Their spunk is gone dead. 1otor*cars and cinemas and aeroplanes suck that last bit out of them. I tell you, every generation breeds a more rabbity generation, with india rubber tubing for guts and tin legs and tin faces. Tin people8 Its all a steady sort of bolshevism 4ust killing off the human thing, and worshipping the mechanical thing. 1oney, money, money8 !ll the modern lot get their real kick out of killing the old human feeling out of man, making mincemeat of the old !dam and the old (ve. Theyre all alike. The world is all alike: kill off the human reality, a 0uid for every foreskin, two 0uid for each pair of balls. What is cunt but machine*fucking8 9 Its all alike. 6ay em money to cut off the worlds cock. 6ay money, money, money to them that will take spunk out of mankind, and leave em all little twiddling machines. +e sat there in the hut, his face pulled to mocking irony. 3et even then, he had one ear set backwards, listening to the storm over the wood. It made him feel so alone. .2ut wont it ever come to an end: she said. .!y, it will. Itll achieve its own salvation. When the last real man is killed, and theyre all tame: white, black, yellow, all colours of tame ones: then theyll all be insane. 2ecause the root of sanity is in the balls. Then theyll all be insane, and theyll make their grand Nauto da fe. 3ou know auto da fe means act of faith: !y, well, theyll make their own grand little act of faith. Theyll offer one another up. .3ou mean kill one another: .I do, duckie8 If we go on at our present rate then in a hundred years time there wont be ten thousand people in this island: there may not be ten. Theyll have lovingly wiped each other out. The thunder was rolling further away. .+ow nice8 she said. .Fuite nice8 To contemplate the e)termination of the human species and the long pause that follows before some other species crops up, it calms you more than anything else. !nd if we go on in this way, with everybody, intellectuals, artists, government, industrialists and workers all frantically killing off the last human feeling, the last bit of their intuition, the last healthy instinct> if it goes on in algebraical progression, as it is going on: then ta*tah8 to the human species8 @oodbye8 darling8 the serpent swallows itself and leaves a void, considerably messed up, but not hopeless. Dery nice8 When savage wild dogs bark in Wragby, and savage wild pit*ponies stamp on Tevershall pit*bank8 te deum laudamus8 onnie laughed, but not very happily. .Then you ought to be pleased that they are all bolshevists, she said. .3ou ought to be pleased that they hurry on towards the end. .#o I am. I dont stop em. 2ecause I couldnt if I would. .Then why are you so bitter: .Im not8 If my cock gives its last crow, I dont mind.

.2ut if you have a child: she said. +e dropped his head. .Why, he said at last. .It seems to me a wrong and bitter thing to do, to bring a child into this world. .;o8 7ont say it8 7ont say it8 she pleaded. .I think Im going to have one. #ay youll he pleased. #he laid her hand on his. .Im pleased for you to be pleased, he said. .2ut for me it seems a ghastly treachery to the unborn creature. .!h no8 she said, shocked. .Then you cant ever really want me8 you cant want me, if you feel that8 !gain he was silent, his face sullen. Outside there was only the threshing of the rain. .Its not 0uite true8 she whispered. .Its not 0uite true8 Theres another truth. #he felt he was bitter now partly because she was leaving him, deliberately going away to Denice. !nd this half pleased her. #he pulled open his clothing and uncovered his belly, and kissed his navel. Then she laid her cheek on his belly and pressed her arm round his warm, silent loins. They were alone in the flood. .Tell me you want a child, in hope8 she murmured, pressing her face against his belly. .Tell me you do8 .Why8 he said at last: and she felt the curious 0uiver of changing consciousness and rela)ation going through his body. .Why Ive thought sometimes if one but tried, here among th colliers even8 Theyre workin bad now, an not earnin much. If a man could say to em: 7unna think o nowt but th money. When it comes ter wants, we want but little. /ets not live for money 9 #he softly rubbed her cheek on his belly, and gathered his balls in her hand. The penis stirred softly, with strange life, but did not rise up. The rain beat bruisingly outside. ./ets live for summat else. /ets not live ter make money, neither for us*selves nor for anybody else. ;ow were forced to. Were forced to make a bit for us*selves, an a fair lot for th bosses. /ets stop it8 2it by bit, lets stop it. We neednt rant an rave. 2it by bit, lets drop the whole industrial life an go back. The least little bit o moneyll do. 'or everybody, me an you, bosses an masters, even th king. The least little bit o moneyll really do. Gust make up your mind to it, an youve got out o th mess. +e paused, then went on: .!n Id tell em: /ook8 /ook at Goe8 +e moves lovely8 /ook how he moves, alive and aware. +es beautiful8 !n look at Gonah8 +es clumsy, hes ugly, because hes niver willin to rouse himself Id tell em: /ook8 look at yourselves8 one shoulder higher than tother, legs twisted, feet all lumps8 What have yer done ter yerselves, wi the blasted work: #poilt yerselves. ;o need to work that much. Take yer clothes off an look at yourselves. 3er ought ter be alive an beautiful, an yer ugly an half dead. #o Id tell em. !n Id get my men to wear different clothes: appen close red trousers, bright red, an little short white 4ackets. Why, if men had red, fine legs, that alone would change them in a month. Theyd begin to be men again, to be men8 !n the women could dress as they liked. 2ecause if once the men walked with legs close bright scarlet, and buttocks nice and showing scarlet under a little white 4acket: then the women ud begin to be women. Its because th men arent men, that th women have to be. 9 !n in time pull down Tevershall and build a few beautiful buildings, that would hold us all. !n clean the country up again. !n not have many children, because the world is overcrowded. .2ut I wouldnt preach to the men: only strip em an say: /ook at yourselves8 Thats workin for money8 9 +ark at yourselves8 Thats working for money. 3ouve been working for money8 /ook at Tevershall8 Its horrible. Thats because it was built while you was working for money. /ook at

your girls8 They dont care about you, you dont care about them. Its because youve spent your time working an caring for money. 3ou cant talk nor move nor live, you cant properly be with a woman. 3oure not alive. /ook at yourselves8 There fell a complete silence. onnie was half listening, and threading in the hair at the root of his belly a few forget*me*nots that she had gathered on the way to the hut. Outside, the world had gone still, and a little icy. .3ouve got four kinds of hair, she said to him. .On your chest its nearly black, and your hair isnt dark on your head: but your moustache is hard and dark red, and your hair here, your love*hair, is like a little brush of bright red*gold mistletoe. Its the loveliest of all8 +e looked down and saw the milky bits of forget*me*nots in the hair on his groin. .!y8 Thats where to put forget*me*nots, in the man*hair, or the maiden*hair. 2ut dont you care about the future: #he looked up at him. .Oh, I do, terribly8 she said. .2ecause when I feel the human world is doomed, has doomed itself by its own mingy beastliness, then I feel the olonies arent far enough. The moon wouldnt be far enough, because even there you could look back and see the earth, dirty, beastly, unsavoury among all the stars: made foul by men. Then I feel Ive swallowed gall, and its eating my inside out, and nowheres far enough away to get away. 2ut when I get a turn, I forget it all again. Though its a shame, whats been done to people these last hundred years: men turned into nothing but labour*insects, and all their manhood taken away, and all their real life. Id wipe the machines off the face of the earth again, and end the industrial epoch absolutely, like a black mistake. 2ut since I cant, an nobody can, Id better hold my peace, an try an live my own life: if Ive got one to live, which I rather doubt. The thunder had ceased outside, but the rain which had abated, suddenly came striking down, with a last blench of lightning and mutter of departing storm. onnie was uneasy. +e had talked so long now, and he was really talking to himself not to her. 7espair seemed to come down on him completely, and she was feeling happy, she hated despair. #he knew her leaving him, which he had only 4ust reali"ed inside himself had plunged him back into this mood. !nd she triumphed a little. #he opened the door and looked at the straight heavy rain, like a steel curtain, and had a sudden desire to rush out into it, to rush away. #he got up, and began swiftly pulling off her stockings, then her dress and underclothing, and he held his breath. +er pointed keen animal breasts tipped and stirred as she moved. #he was ivory*coloured in the greenish light. #he slipped on her rubber shoes again and ran out with a wild little laugh, holding up her breasts to the heavy rain and spreading her arms, and running blurred in the rain with the eurhythmic dance movements she had learned so long ago in 7resden. It was a strange pallid figure lifting and falling, bending so the rain beat and glistened on the full haunches, swaying up again and coming belly*forward through the rain, then stooping again so that only the full loins and buttocks were offered in a kind of homage towards him, repeating a wild obeisance. +e laughed wryly, and threw off his clothes. It was too much. +e 4umped out, naked and white, with a little shiver, into the hard slanting rain. 'lossie sprang before him with a frantic little bark. onnie, her hair all wet and sticking to her head, turned her hot face and saw him. +er blue eyes bla"ed with e)citement as she turned and ran fast, with a strange charging movement, out of the clearing and down the path, the wet boughs whipping her. #he ran, and he saw nothing but the round wet head, the wet back leaning forward in flight, the rounded buttocks twinkling: a wonderful cowering female nakedness in flight. #he was nearly at the wide riding when he came up and flung his naked arm round her soft, naked* wet middle. #he gave a shriek and straightened herself and the heap of her soft, chill flesh came up against his body. +e pressed it all up against him, madly, the heap of soft, chilled female flesh that

became 0uickly warm as flame, in contact. The rain streamed on them till they smoked. +e gathered her lovely, heavy posteriors one in each hand and pressed them in towards him in a fren"y, 0uivering motionless in the rain. Then suddenly he tipped her up and fell with her on the path, in the roaring silence of the rain, and short and sharp, he took her, short and sharp and finished, like an animal. +e got up in an instant, wiping the rain from his eyes. . ome in, he said, and they started running back to the hut. +e ran straight and swift: he didnt like the rain. 2ut she came slower, gathering forget*me*nots and campion and bluebells, running a few steps and watching him fleeing away from her. When she came with her flowers, panting to the hut, he had already started a fire, and the twigs were crackling. +er sharp breasts rose and fell, her hair was plastered down with rain, her face was flushed ruddy and her body glistened and trickled. Wide*eyed and breathless, with a small wet head and full, trickling, naJve haunches, she looked another creature. +e took the old sheet and rubbed her down, she standing like a child. Then he rubbed himself having shut the door of the hut. The fire was bla"ing up. #he ducked her head in the other end of the sheet, and rubbed her wet hair. .Were drying ourselves together on the same towel, we shall 0uarrel8 he said. #he looked up for a moment, her hair all odds and ends. .;o8 she said, her eyes wide. .Its not a towel, its a sheet. !nd she went on busily rubbing her head, while he busily rubbed his. #till panting with their e)ertions, each wrapped in an army blanket, but the front of the body open to the fire, they sat on a log side by side before the bla"e, to get 0uiet. onnie hated the feel of the blanket against her skin. 2ut now the sheet was all wet. #he dropped her blanket and kneeled on the clay hearth, holding her head to the fire, and shaking her hair to dry it. +e watched the beautiful curving drop of her haunches. That fascinated him today. +ow it sloped with a rich down*slope to the heavy roundness of her buttocks8 !nd in between, folded in the secret warmth, the secret entrances8 +e stroked her tail with his hand, long and subtly taking in the curves and the globe*fullness. .Thas got such a nice tail on thee, he said, in the throaty caressive dialect. .Thas got the nicest arse of anybody. Its the nicest, nicest womans arse as is8 !n ivery bit of it is woman, woman sure as nuts. Thart not one o them button*arsed lasses as should be lads, are ter8 Thas got a real soft sloping bottom on thee, as a man loves in is guts. Its a bottom as could hold the world up, it is8 !ll the while he spoke he e)0uisitely stroked the rounded tail, till it seemed as if a slippery sort of fire came from it into his hands. !nd his finger*tips touched the two secret openings to her body, time after time, with a soft little brush of fire. .!n if tha shits an if tha pisses, Im glad. I dont want a woman as couldna shit nor piss. onnie could not help a sudden snort of astonished laughter, but he went on unmoved. .Thart real, tha art8 Thaart real, even a bit of a bitch. +ere tha shits an here tha pisses: an I lay my hand on em both an like thee for it. I like thee for it. Thas got a proper, womans arse, proud of itself. Its none ashamed of itself this isna. +e laid his hand close and firm over her secret places, in a kind of close greeting. .I like it, he said. .I like it8 !n if I only lived ten minutes, an stroked thy arse an got to know it, I should reckon Id lived onelife, see ter8 Industrial system or not8 +eres one o my lifetimes. #he turned round and climbed into his lap, clinging to him. .Aiss me8 she whispered.

!nd she knew the thought of their separation was latent in both their minds, and at last she was sad. #he sat on his thighs, her head against his breast, and her ivory*gleaming legs loosely apart, the fire glowing une0ually upon them. #itting with his head dropped, he looked at the folds of her body in the fire*glow, and at the fleece of soft brown hair that hung down to a point between her open thighs. +e reached to the table behind, and took up her bunch of flowers, still so wet that drops of rain fell on to her. .'lowers stops out of doors all weathers, he said. .They have no houses. .;ot even a hut8 she murmured. With 0uiet fingers he threaded a few forget*me*not flowers in the fine brown fleece of the mound of Denus. .There8 he said. .Theres forget*me*nots in the right place8 #he looked down at the milky odd little flowers among the brown maiden*hair at the lower tip of her body. .7oesnt it look pretty8 she said. .6retty as life, he replied. !nd he stuck a pink campion*bud among the hair. .There8 Thats me where you wont forget me8 Thats 1oses in the bull*rushes. .3ou dont mind, do you, that Im going away: she asked wistfully, looking up into his face. 2ut his face was inscrutable, under the heavy brows. +e kept it 0uite blank. .3ou do as you wish, he said. !nd he spoke in good (nglish. .2ut I wont go if you dont wish it, she said, clinging to him. There was silence. +e leaned and put another piece of wood on the fire. The flame glowed on his silent, abstracted face. #he waited, but he said nothing. .Only I thought it would be a good way to begin a break with lifford. I do want a child. !nd it would give me a chance to, to 9 , she resumed. .To let them think a few lies, he said. .3es, that among other things. 7o you want them to think the truth: .I dont care what they think. .I do8 I dont want them handling me with their unpleasant cold minds, not while Im still at Wragby. They can think what they like when Im finally gone. +e was silent. .2ut #ir lifford e)pects you to come back to him: .Oh, I must come back, she said: and there was silence. .!nd would you have a child in Wragby: he asked. #he closed her arm round his neck. .If you wouldnt take me away, I should have to, she said. .Take you where to: .!nywhere8 away8 2ut right away from Wragby.

.When: .Why, when I come back. .2ut whats the good of coming back, doing the thing twice, if youre once gone: he said. .Oh, I must come back. Ive promised8 Ive promised so faithfully. 2esides, I come back to you, really. .To your husbands game*keeper: .I dont see that that matters, she said. .;o: +e mused a while. .!nd when would you think of going away again, then> finally: When e)actly: .Oh, I dont know. Id come back from Denice. !nd then wed prepare everything. .+ow prepare: .Oh, Id tell lifford. Id have to tell him. .Would you8 +e remained silent. #he put her arms round his neck. .7ont make it difficult for me, she pleaded. .1ake what difficult: .'or me to go to Denice and arrange things. ! little smile, half a grin, flickered on his face. .I dont make it difficult, he said. .I only want to find out 4ust what you are after. 2ut you dont really know yourself. 3ou want to take time: get away and look at it. I dont blame you. I think youre wise. 3ou may prefer to stay mistress of Wragby. I dont blame you. Ive no Wragbys to offer. In fact, you know what youll get out of me. ;o, no, I think youre right8 I really do8 !nd Im not keen on coming to live on you, being kept by you. Theres that too. #he felt somehow as if he were giving her tit for tat. .2ut you want me, dont you: she asked. .7o you want me: .3ou know I do. Thats evident. .Fuite8 !nd when do you want me: .3ou know we can arrange it all when I come back. ;ow Im out of breath with you. I must get calm and clear. .Fuite8 @et calm and clear8 #he was a little offended. .2ut you trust me, dont you: she said. .Oh, absolutely8 #he heard the mockery in his tone. .Tell me then, she said flatly> .do you think it would be better if I dont go to Denice: .Im sure its better if you do go to Denice, he replied in the cool, slightly mocking voice. .3ou know its ne)t Thursday: she said. .3es8

#he now began to muse. !t last she said: .!nd we shall know better where we are when I come back, shant we: .Oh surely8 The curious gulf of silence between them8 .Ive been to the lawyer about my divorce, he said, a little constrainedly. #he gave a slight shudder. .+ave you8 she said. .!nd what did he say: .+e said I ought to have done it before> that may be a difficulty. 2ut since I was in the army, he thinks it will go through all right. If only it doesnt bring her down on my head8 .Will she have to know: .3es8 she is served with a notice: so is the man she lives with, the co*respondent. .Isnt it hateful, all the performances8 I suppose Id have to go through it with lifford. There was a silence. .!nd of course, he said, .I have to live an e)emplary life for the ne)t si) or eight months. #o if you go to Denice, theres temptation removed for a week or two, at least. .!m I temptation8 she said, stroking his face. .Im so glad Im temptation to you8 7ont lets think about it8 3ou frighten me when you start thinking: you roll me out flat. 7ont lets think about it. We can think so much when we are apart. Thats the whole point8 Ive been thinking, I must come to you for another night before I go. I must come once more to the cottage. #hall I come on Thursday night: .Isnt that when your sister will be there: .3es8 2ut she said we would start at tea*time. #o we could start at tea*time. 2ut she could sleep somewhere else and I could sleep with you. .2ut then shed have to know. .Oh, I shall tell her. Ive more or less told her already. I must talk it all over with +ilda. #hes a great help, so sensible. +e was thinking of her plan. .#o youd start off from Wragby at tea*time, as if you were going to /ondon: Which way were you going: .2y ;ottingham and @rantham. .!nd then your sister would drop you somewhere and youd walk or drive back here: #ounds very risky, to me. .7oes it: Well, then, +ilda could bring me back. #he could sleep at 1ansfield, and bring me back here in the evening, and fetch me again in the morning. Its 0uite easy. .!nd the people who see you: .Ill wear goggles and a veil. +e pondered for some time. .Well, he said. .3ou please yourself as usual. .2ut wouldnt it please you: .Oh yes8 Itd please me all right, he said a little grimly. .I might as well smite while the irons hot.

.7o you know what I thought: she said suddenly. .It suddenly came to me. 3ou are the HAnight of the 2urning 6estleI8 .!y8 !nd you: !re you the /ady of the 5ed*+ot 1ortar: .3es8 she said. .3es8 3oure #ir 6estle and Im /ady 1ortar. .!ll right, then Im knighted. Gohn Thomas is #ir Gohn, to your /ady Gane. .3es8 Gohn Thomas is knighted8 Im my*lady*maiden*hair, and you must have flowers too. 3es8 #he threaded two pink campions in the bush of red*gold hair above his penis. .There8 she said. . harming8 harming8 #ir Gohn8 !nd she pushed a bit of forget*me*not in the dark hair of his breast. .!nd you wont forget me there, will you: #he kissed him on the breast, and made two bits of forget*me*not lodge one over each nipple, kissing him again. .1ake a calendar of me8 he said. +e laughed, and the flowers shook from his breast. .Wait a bit8 he said. +e rose, and opened the door of the hut. 'lossie, lying in the porch, got up and looked at him. .!y, its me8 he said. The rain had ceased. There was a wet, heavy, perfumed stillness. (vening was approaching. +e went out and down the little path in the opposite direction from the riding. onnie watched his thin, white figure, and it looked to her like a ghost, an apparition moving away from her. When she could see it no more, her heart sank. #he stood in the door of the hut, with a blanket round her, looking into the drenched, motionless silence. 2ut he was coming back, trotting strangely, and carrying flowers. #he was a little afraid of him, as if he were not 0uite human. !nd when he came near, his eyes looked into hers, but she could not understand the meaning. +e had brought columbines and campions, and new*mown hay, and oak*tufts and honeysuckle in small bud. +e fastened fluffy young oak*sprays round her breasts, sticking in tufts of bluebells and campion: and in her navel he poised a pink campion flower, and in her maiden*hair were forget*me* nots and woodruff. .Thats you in all your glory8 he said. ./ady Gane, at her wedding with Gohn Thomas. !nd he stuck flowers in the hair of his own body, and wound a bit of creeping*4enny round his penis, and stuck a single bell of a hyacinth in his navel. #he watched him with amusement, his odd intentness. !nd she pushed a campion flower in his moustache, where it stuck, dangling under his nose. .This is Gohn Thomas marryin /ady Gane, he said. .!n we mun let onstance an Oliver go their ways. 1aybe 9 +e spread out his hand with a gesture, and then he snee"ed, snee"ing away the flowers from his nose and his navel. +e snee"ed again. .1aybe what: she said, waiting for him to go on. +e looked at her a little bewildered. .(h: he said. .1aybe what: @o on with what you were going to say, she insisted. .!y, what was I going to say:

+e had forgotten. !nd it was one of the disappointments of her life, that he never finished. ! yellow ray of sun shone over the trees. .#un8 he said. .!nd time you went. Time, my /ady, time8 Whats that as flies without wings, your /adyship: Time8 Time8 +e reached for his shirt. .#ay goodnight8 to Gohn Thomas, he said, looking down at his penis. .+es safe in the arms of creeping Genny8 ;ot much burning pestle about him 4ust now. !nd he put his flannel shirt over his head. .! mans most dangerous moment, he said, when his head had emerged, .is when hes getting into his shirt. Then he puts his head in a bag. Thats why I prefer those !merican shirts, that you put on like a 4acket. #he still stood watching him. +e stepped into his short drawers, and buttoned them round the waist. ./ook at Gane8 he said. .In all her blossoms8 Wholl put blossoms on you ne)t year, Ginny: 1e, or somebody else: H@ood*bye, my bluebell, farewell to you8I I hate that song, its early war days. +e then sat down, and was pulling on his stockings. #he still stood unmoving. +e laid his hand on the slope of her buttocks. .6retty little /ady Gane8 he said. .6erhaps in Denice youll find a man wholl put 4asmine in your maiden*hair, and a pomegranate flower in your navel. 6oor little lady Gane8 .7ont say those things8 she said. .3ou only say them to hurt me. +e dropped his head. Then he said, in dialect: .!y, maybe I do, maybe I do8 Well then, Ill say nowt, an ha done wit. 2ut tha mun dress thysen, all go back to thy stately homes of (ngland, how beautiful they stand. Times up8 Times up for #ir Gohn, an for little /ady Gane8 6ut thy shimmy on, /ady hatterley8 Tha might be anybody, standin there be*out even a shimmy, an a few rags o flowers. There then, there then, Ill undress thee, tha bob*tailed young throstle. !nd he took the leaves from her hair, kissing her damp hair, and the flowers from her breasts, and kissed her breasts, and kissed her navel, and kissed her maiden*hair, where he left the flowers threaded. .They mun stop while they will, he said. .#o8 There thart bare again, nowt but a bare*arsed lass an a bit of a /ady Gane8 ;ow put thy shimmy on, for tha mun go, or else /ady hatterleys goin to be late for dinner, an where ave yer been to my pretty maid8 #he never knew how to answer him when he was in this condition of the vernacular. #o she dressed herself and prepared to go a little ignominiously home to Wragby. Or so she felt it: a little ignominiously home. +e would accompany her to the broad riding. +is young pheasants were all right under the shelter. When he and she came out on to the riding, there was 1rs 2olton faltering palely towards them. .Oh, my /ady, we wondered if anything had happened8 .;o8 ;othing has happened. 1rs 2olton looked into the mans face, that was smooth and new*looking with love. #he met his half*laughing, half*mocking eyes. +e always laughed at mischance. 2ut he looked at her kindly. .(vening, 1rs 2olton8 3our /adyship will be all right now, so I can leave you. @ood*night to your /adyship8 @ood*night, 1rs 2olton8 +e saluted and turned away.

Chapter 16
onnie arrived home to an ordeal of cross*0uestioning. lifford had been out at tea*time, had come in 4ust before the storm, and where was her ladyship: ;obody knew, only 1rs 2olton suggested she

had gone for a walk into the wood. Into the wood, in such a storm8 lifford for once let himself get into a state of nervous fren"y. +e started at every flash of lightning, and blenched at every roll of thunder. +e looked at the icy thunder*rain as if it dare the end of the world. +e got more and more worked up. 1rs 2olton tried to soothe him. .#hell be sheltering in the hut, till its over. 7ont worry, her /adyship is all right. .I dont like her being in the wood in a storm like this8 I dont like her being in the wood at all8 #hes been gone now more than two hours. When did she go out: .! little while before you came in. .I didnt see her in the park. @od knows where she is and what has happened to her. .Oh, nothings happened to her. 3oull see, shell be home directly after the rain stops. Its 4ust the rain thats keeping her. 2ut her ladyship did not come home directly the rain stopped. In fact time went by, the sun came out for his last yellow glimpse, and there still was no sign of her. The sun was set, it was growing dark, and the first dinner*gong had rung. .Its no good8 said lifford in a fren"y. .Im going to send out 'ield and 2etts to find her. .Oh dont do that8 cried 1rs 2olton. .Theyll think theres a suicide or something. Oh dont start a lot of talk going. /et me slip over to the hut and see if shes not there. Ill find her all right. #o, after some persuasion, lifford allowed her to go. !nd so onnie had come upon her in the drive, alone and palely loitering. .3ou mustnt mind me coming to look for you, my /ady8 2ut #ir lifford worked himself up into such a state. +e made sure you were struck by lightning, or killed by a falling tree. !nd he was determined to send 'ield and 2etts to the wood to find the body. #o I thought Id better come, rather than set all the servants agog. #he spoke nervously. #he could still see on onnies face the smoothness and the half*dream of passion, and she could feel the irritation against herself. .Fuite8 said onnie. !nd she could say no more. The two women plodded on through the wet world, in silence, while great drops splashed like e)plosions in the wood. 2en they came to the park, onnie strode ahead, and 1rs 2olton panted a little. #he was getting plumper. .+ow foolish of lifford to make a fuss8 said onnie at length, angrily, really speaking to herself. .Oh, you know what men are8 They like working themselves up. 2ut hell be all right as soon as he sees your /adyship. onnie was very angry that 1rs 2olton knew her secret: for certainly she knew it. #uddenly onstance stood still on the path. .Its monstrous that I should have to be followed8 she said, her eyes flashing. .Oh8 your /adyship, dont say that8 +ed certainly have sent the two men, and theyd have come straight to the hut. I didnt know where it was, really. onnie flushed darker with rage, at the suggestion. 3et, while her passion was on her, she could not lie. #he could not even pretend there was nothing between herself and the keeper. #he looked at the other woman, who stood so sly, with her head dropped: yet somehow, in her femaleness, an ally. .Oh well8 she said. .I fit is so it is so. I dont mind8

.Why, youre all right, my /ady8 3ouve only been sheltering in the hut. Its absolutely nothing. They went on to the house. onnie marched in to liffords room, furious with him, furious with his pale, over*wrought fee and prominent eyes. .I must say, I dont think you need send the servants after me, she burst out. .1y @od8 he e)ploded. .Where have you been, woman, 3ouve been gone hours, hours, and in a storm like this8 What the hell do you go to that*bloody wood for: What have you been up to: Its hours even since the rain stopped, hours8 7o you know what time it is: 3oure enough to drive anybody mad. Where have you been: What in the name of hell have you been doing: .!nd what if I dont choose to tell you: #he pulled her hat from her head and shook her hair. +e lied at her with his eyes bulging, and yellow coming into the whites. It was very bad for him to get into these rages: 1rs 2olton had a weary time with him, for days after. onnie felt a sudden 0ualm. 2ut really8 she said, milder. .!nyone would think Id been I dont know where8 I 4ust sat in the hut during all the storm, and made myself a little fire, and was happy. #he spoke now easily. !fter all, why work him up any more8 +e looked at her suspiciously. !nd look at your hair8 he said> .look at yourself8 .3es8 she replied calmly. .I ran out in the rain with no clothes on. +e stared at her speechless. .3ou must be mad8 he said. .Why: To like a shower bath from the rain: .!nd how did you dry yourself: .On an old towel and at the fire. +e still stared at her in a dumbfounded way. .!nd supposing anybody came, he said. .Who would come: .Who: Why, anybody8 !nd 1ellors. 7oes he come: +e must come in the evenings. .3es, he came later, when it had cleared up, to feed the pheasants with corn. #he spoke with ama"ing nonchalance. 1rs 2olton, who was listening in the ne)t room, heard in sheer admiration. To think a woman could carry it off so naturally8 .!nd suppose hed come while you were running about in the rain with nothing on, like a maniac: .I suppose hed have had the fright of his life, and cleared out as fast as he could. lifford still stared at her transfi)ed. What he thought in his under*consciousness he would never know. !nd he was too much taken aback to form one clear thought in his upper consciousness. +e 4ust simply accepted what she said, in a sort of blank. !nd he admired her. +e could not help admiring her. #he looked so flushed and handsome and smooth: love smooth. .!t least, he said, subsiding, .youll be lucky if youve got off without a severe cold. .Oh, I havent got a cold, she replied. #he was thinking to herself of the other mans words: Thas got the nicest womans arse of anybody8 #he wished, she dearly wished she could tell lifford that this had been said her, during the famous thunderstorm. +owever8 #he bore herself rather like an offended 0ueen, and went upstairs to change.

That evening, lifford wanted to be nice to her. +e was reading one of the latest scientific*religious books: he had a streak of a spurious sort of religion in him, and was egocentrically concerned with the future of his own ego. It was like his habit to make conversation to onnie about some book, since the conversation between them had to be made, almost chemically. They had almost chemically to concoct it in their heads. .What do you think of this, by the way: he said, reaching for his book. .3oud have no need to cool your ardent body by running out in the rain, if only we have a few more aeons of evolution behind us. !h, here it is8 9 HThe universe shows us two aspects: on one side it is physically wasting, on the other it is spiritually ascending.I onnie listened, e)pecting more. 2ut lifford was waiting. #he looked at him in surprise. .!nd if it spiritually ascends, she said, .what does it leave down below, in the place where its tail used to be: .!h8 he said. .Take the man for what he means. ascending is the opposite of his wasting, I presume. .#piritually blown out, so to speak8 .;o, but seriously, without 4oking: do you think there is anything in it: #he looked at him again. .6hysically wasting: she said. .I see you getting fatter, and Im sot wasting myself. 7o you think the sun is smaller than he used to be: +es not to me. !nd I suppose the apple !dam offered (ve wasnt really much bigger, if any, than one of our orange pippins. 7o you think it was: .Well, hear how he goes on: HIt is thus slowly passing, with a slowness inconceivable in our measures of time, to new creative conditions, amid which the physical world, as we at present know it, will he represented by a ripple barely to be distinguished from nonentity.I #he listened with a glisten of amusement. !ll sorts of improper things suggested themselves. 2ut she only said: .What silly hocus*pocus8 !s if his little conceited consciousness could know what was happening as slowly as all that8 It only means hes a physical failure on the earth, so he wants to make the whole universe a physical failure. 6riggish little impertinence8 .Oh, but listen8 7ont interrupt the great mans solemn words8 9 HThe present type of order in the world has risen from an unimaginable part, and will find its grave in an unimaginable future. There remains the ine)haustive realm of abstract forms, and creativity with its shifting character ever determined afresh by its own creatures, and @od, upon whose wisdom all forms of order depend.I 9 There, thats how he winds up8 onnie sat listening contemptuously. .+es spiritually blown out, she said. .What a lot of stuff8 =nimaginables, and types of order in graves, and realms of abstract forms, and creativity with a shifty character, and @od mi)ed up with forms of order8 Why, its idiotic8 .I must say, it is a little vaguely conglomerate, a mi)ture of gases, so to speak, said lifford. .#till, I think there is something in the idea that the universe is physically wasting and spiritually ascending. .7o you: Then let it ascend, so long as it leaves me safely and solidly physically here below. .7o you like your physi0ue: he asked. .I love it8 !nd through her mind went the words: Its the nicest, nicest womans arse as is8 .2ut that is really rather e)traordinary, because theres no denying its an encumbrance. 2ut then I

suppose a woman doesnt take a supreme pleasure in the life of the mind. .#upreme pleasure: she said, looking up at him. .Is that sort of idiocy the supreme pleasure of the life of the mind: ;o thank you8 @ive me the body. I believe the life of the body is a greater reality than the life of the mind: when the body is really wakened to life. 2ut so many people, like your famous wind*machine, have only got minds tacked on to their physical corpses. +e looked at her in wonder. .The life of the body, he said, .is 4ust the life of the animals. .!nd thats better than the life of professional corpses. 2ut its not true8 the human body is only 4ust coming to real life. With the @reeks it gave a lovely flicker, then 6lato and !ristotle killed it, and Gesus finished it off. 2ut now the body is coming really to life, it is really rising from the tomb. !nd It will be a lovely, lovely life in the lovely universe, the life of the human body. .1y dear, you speak as if you were ushering it all in8 True, you am going away on a holiday: but dont please be 0uite so indecently elated about it. 2elieve me, whatever @od there is is slowly eliminating the guts and alimentary system from the human being, to evolve a higher, more spiritual being. .Why should I believe you, lifford, when I feel that whatever @od there is has at last wakened up in my guts, as you call them, and is rippling so happily there, like dawn. Why should I believe you, when I feel so very much the contrary: .Oh, e)actly8 !nd what has caused this e)traordinary change in you: running out stark naked in the rain, and playing 2acchante: desire for sensation, or the anticipation of going to Denice: .2oth8 7o you think it is horrid of me to be so thrilled at going off: she said. .5ather horrid to show it so plainly. .Then Ill hide it. .Oh, dont trouble8 3ou almost communicate a thrill to me. I almost feel that it is I who am going off. .Well, why dont you come: .Weve gone over all that. !nd as a matter of fact, I suppose your greatest thrill comes from being able to say a temporary farewell to all this. ;othing so thrilling, for the moment, as @ood*bye*to* all8 9 2ut every parting means a meeting elsewhere. !nd every meeting is a new bondage. .Im not going to enter any new bondages. .7ont boast, while the gods are listening, he said. #he pulled up short. .;o8 I wont boast8 she said. 2ut she was thrilled, none the less, to be going off: to feel bonds snap. #he couldnt help it. lifford, who couldnt sleep, gambled all night with 1rs 2olton, till she was too sleepy almost to live. !nd the day came round for +ilda to arrive. onnie had arranged with 1ellors that if everything promised well for their night together, she would hang a green shawl out of the window. If there were frustration, a red one. 1rs 2olton helped onnie to pack. .It will be so good for your /adyship to have a change. .I think it will. 3ou dont mind having #ir lifford on your hands alone for a time, do you:

.Oh no8 I can manage him 0uite all right. I mean, I can do all he needs me to do. 7ont you think hes better than he used to be: .Oh much8 3ou do wonders with him. .7o I though8 2ut men are all alike: 4ust babies, and you have to flatter them and wheedle them and let them think theyre having their own way. 7ont you find it so, my /ady: .Im afraid I havent much e)perience. onnie paused in her occupation. .(ven your husband, did you have to manage him, and wheedle him like a baby: she asked, looking at the other woman. 1rs 2olton paused too. .Well8 she said. .I had to do a good bit of coa)ing, with him too. 2ut he always knew what I was after, I must say that. 2ut he generally gave in to me. .+e was never the lord and master thing: .;o8 !t least thered be a look in his eyes sometimes, and then I knew I7 got to give in. 2ut usually he gave in to me. ;o, he was never lord and master. 2ut neither was I. I knew when I could go no further with him, and then I gave in: though it cost me a good bit, sometimes. .!nd what if you had held out against him: .Oh, I dont know, I never did. (ven when he was in the wrong, if he was fi)ed, I gave in. 3ou see, I never wanted to break what was between us. !nd if you really set your will against a man, that finishes it. If you care for a man, you have to give in to him once hes really determined> whether youre in the right or not, you have to give in. (lse you break something. 2ut I must say, Ted ud give in to me sometimes, when I was set on a thing, and in the wrong. #o I suppose it cuts both ways. .!nd thats how you are with all your patients: asked onnie. .Oh, Thats different. I dont care at all, in the same way. I know whats good for them, or I try to, and then I 4ust contrive to manage them for their own good. Its not like anybody as youre really fond of. Its 0uite different. Once youve been really fond of a man, you can be affectionate to almost any man, if he needs you at all. 2ut its not the same thing. 3ou dont really care. I doubt, once youve really cared, if you can ever really care again. These words frightened onnie. .7o you think one can only care once: she asked. .Or never. 1ost women never care, never begin to. They dont know what it means. ;or men either. 2ut when I see a woman as cares, my heart stands still for her. .!nd do you think men easily take offence: .3es8 If you wound them on their pride. 2ut arent women the same: Only our two prides are a bit different. onnie pondered this. #he began again to have some misgiving about her gag away. !fter all, was she not giving her man the go*by, if only for a short time: !nd he knew it. Thats why he was so 0ueer and sarcastic. #till8 the human e)istence is a good deal controlled by the machine of e)ternal circumstance. #he was in the power of this machine. #he couldnt e)tricate herself all in five minutes. #he didnt even want to. +ilda arrived in good time on Thursday morning, in a nimble two*seater car, with her suit*case

strapped firmly behind. #he looked as demure and maidenly as ever, but she had the same will of her own. #he had the very hell of a will of her own, as her husband had found out. 2ut the husband was now divorcing her. 3es, she even made it easy for him to do that, though she had no lover. 'or the time being, she was .off men. #he was very well content to be 0uite her own mistress: and mistress of her two children, whom she was going to bring up .properly, whatever that may mean. onnie was only allowed a suit*case, also. 2ut she had sent on a trunk to her father, who was going by train. ;o use taking a car to Denice. !nd Italy much too hot to motor in, in Guly. +e was going comfortably by train. +e had 4ust come down from #cotland. #o, like a demure arcadian field*marshal, +ilda arranged the material part of the 4ourney. #he and onnie sat in the upstairs room, chatting. .2ut +ilda8 said onnie, a little frightened. .I want to stay near here tonight. ;ot here: near here8 +ilda fi)ed her sister with grey, inscrutable eyes. #he seemed so calm: and she was so often furious. .Where, near here: she asked softly. .Well, you know I love somebody, dont you: .I gathered there was something. .Well he lives near here, and I want to spend this last night with him must8 Ive promised. onnie became insistent. +ilda bent her 1inerva*like head in silence. Then she looked up. .7o you want to tell me who he is: she said. .+es our game*keeper, faltered onnie, and she flushed vividly, like a shamed child. . onnie8 said +ilda, lifting her nose slightly with disgust: a she had from her mother. .I know: but hes lovely really. +e really understands tenderness, said onnie, trying to apologi"e for him. +ilda, like a ruddy, rich*coloured !thena, bowed her head and pondered #he was really violently angry. 2ut she dared not show it, because onnie, taking after her father, would straight away become obstreperous and unmanageable. It was true, +ilda did not like lifford: his cool assurance that he was somebody8 #he thought he made use of onnie shamefully and impudently. #he had hoped her sister would leave him. 2ut, being solid #cotch middle class, she loathed any .lowering of oneself or the family. #he looked up at last. .3oull regret it, she said, .I shant, cried onnie, flushed red. .+es 0uite the e)ception. I really love him. +es lovely as a lover. +ilda still pondered. .3oull get over him 0uite soon, she said, .and live to be ashamed of yourself because of him. .I shant8 I hope Im going to have a child of his. . $onnie8 said +ilda, hard as a hammer*stroke, and pale with anger. .I shall if I possibly can. I should be fearfully proud if I had a child by him. It was no use talking to her. +ilda pondered. .!nd doesnt lifford suspect: she said.

.Oh no8 Why should he: .Ive no doubt youve given him plenty of occasion for suspicion, said +ilda. .;ot it all. .!nd tonights business seems 0uite gratuitous folly. Where does the man live: .In the cottage at the other end of the wood. .Is he a bachelor: .;o8 +is wife left him. .+ow old: .I dont know. Older than me. +ilda became more angry at every reply, angry as her mother used to be, in a kind of paro)ysm. 2ut still she hid it. .I would give up tonights escapade if I were you, she advised calmly. .I cant8 I must stay with him tonight, or I cant go to Denice at all. I 4ust cant. +ilda heard her father over again, and she gave way, out of mere diplomacy. !nd she consented to drive to 1ansfield, both of them, to dinner, to bring onnie back to the lane*end after dark, and to fetch her from the lane*end the ne)t morning, herself sleeping in 1ansfield, only half an hour away, good going. 2ut she was furious. #he stored it up against her sister, this balk in her plans. onnie flung an emerald*green shawl over her window*sill. On the strength of her anger, +ilda warmed toward lifford. !fter all, he had a mind. !nd if he had no se), functionally, all the better: so much the less to 0uarrel about8 +ilda wanted no more of that se) business, where men became nasty, selfish little horrors. onnie really had less to put up with than many women if she did but know it. !nd lifford decided that +ilda, after all, was a decidedly intelligent woman, and would make a man a first*rate helpmate, if he were going in for politics for e)ample. 3es, she had none of onnies silliness, onnie was more a child: you had to make e)cuses for her, because she was not altogether dependable. There was an early cup of tea in the hall, where doors were open to let in the sun. (verybody seemed to be panting a little. .@ood*bye, onnie girl8 ome back to me safely. .@ood*bye, lifford8 3es, I shant be long. onnie was almost tender. .@ood*bye, +ilda8 3ou will keep an eye on her, wont you: .Ill even keep two8 said +ilda. .#he shant go very far astray. .Its a promise8 .@ood*bye, 1rs 2olton8 I know youll look after #ir lifford nobly. .Ill do what I can, your /adyship. .!nd write to me if there is any news, and tell me about #ir lifford, how he is. .Dery good, your /adyship, I will. !nd have a good time, and come back and cheer us up. (verybody waved. The car went off onnie looked back and saw lifford, sitting at the top of the steps in his house*chair. !fter all, he was her husband: Wragby was her home: circumstance had

done it. 1rs hambers held the gate and wished her ladyship a happy holiday. The car slipped out of the dark spinney that masked the park, on to the highroad where the colliers were trailing home. +ilda turned to the rosshill 5oad, that was not a main road, but ran to 1ansfield. onnie put on goggles. They ran beside the railway, which was in a cutting below them. Then they crossed the cutting on a bridge. .Thats the lane to the cottage8 said onnie. +ilda glanced at it impatiently. .Its a frightful pity we cant go straight off8 she said. We could have been in 6all 1all by nine oclock. .Im sorry for your sake, said onnie, from behind her goggles. They were soon at 1ansfield, that once*romantic, now utterly disheartening colliery town. +ilda stopped at the hotel named in the motor*car book, and took a room. The whole thing was utterly uninteresting, and she was almost too angry to talk. +owever, onnie had to tell her something of the mans history. . "e8 "e8 What name do you call him by: 3ou only say he, said +ilda. .Ive never called him by any name: nor he me: which is curious, when you come to think of it. =nless we say /ady Gane and Gohn Thomas. 2ut his name is Oliver 1ellors. .!nd how would you like to be 1rs Oliver 1ellors, instead of /ady hatterley: .Id love it. There was nothing to be done with onnie. !nd anyhow, if the man had been a lieutenant in the army in India for four or five years, he must be more or less presentable. !pparently he had character. +ilda began to relent a little. .2ut youll be through with him in awhile, she said, .and then youll be ashamed of having been connected with him. One cant mi) up with the working people. .2ut you are such a socialist8 youre always on the side of the working classes. .I may be on their side in a political crisis, but being on their side makes me know how impossible it is to mi) ones life with theirs. ;ot out of snobbery, but 4ust because the whole rhythm is different. +ilda had lived among the real political intellectuals, so she was disastrously unanswerable. The nondescript evening in the hotel dragged out, and at last they had a nondescript dinner. Then onnie slipped a few things into a little silk bag, and combed her hair once more. .!fter all, +ilda, she said, .love can be wonderful: when you feel you live, and are in the very middle of creation. It was almost like bragging on her part. .I suppose every mos0uito feels the same, said +ilda. .7o you think it does: +ow nice for it8 The evening was wonderfully clear and long*lingering, even in the small town. It would be half* light all night. With a face like a mask, from resentment, +ilda started her car again, and the two sped back on their traces, taking the other road, through 2olsover. onnie wore her goggles and disguising cap, and she sat in silence. 2ecause of +ildas Opposition, she was fiercely on the sidle of the man, she would stand by him through thick and thin. They had their head*lights on, by the time they passed rosshill, and the small lit*up train that chuffed past in the cutting made it seem like real night. +ilda had calculated the turn into the lane at the bridge*end. #he slowed up rather suddenly and swerved off the road, the lights glaring white

into the grassy, overgrown lane. onnie looked out. #he saw a shadowy figure, and she opened the door. .+ere we are8 she said softly. 2ut +ilda had switched off the lights, and was absorbed backing, making the turn. .;othing on the bridge: she asked shortly. .3oure all right, said the malls voice. #he backed on to the bridge, reversed, let the car run forwards a few yards along the road, then backed into the lane, under a wych*elm tree, crushing the grass and bracken. Then all the lights went out. onnie stepped down. The man stood under the trees. .7id you wait long: onnie asked. .;ot so very, he replied. They both waited for +ilda to get out. 2ut +ilda shut the door of the car and sat tight. .This is my sister +ilda. Wont you come and speak to her: +ilda8 This is 1r 1ellors. The keeper lifted his hat, but went no nearer. .7o walk down to the cottage with us, +ilda, onnie pleaded. .Its not far. .What about the car: .6eople do leave them on the lanes. 3ou have the key. +ilda was silent, deliberating. Then she looked backwards down the lane. . an I back round the bush: she said. .Oh yes8 said the keeper. #he backed slowly round the curve, out of sight of the road, locked the car, and got down. It was night, but luminous dark. The hedges rose high and wild, by the unused lane, and very dark seeming. There was a fresh sweet scent on the air. The keeper went ahead, then came onnie, then +ilda, and in silence. +e lit up the difficult places with a flash*light torch, and they went on again, while an owl softly hooted over the oaks, and 'lossie padded silently around. ;obody could speak. There was nothing to say. !t length onnie saw the yellow light of the house, and her heart beat fast. #he was a little frightened. They trailed on, still in Indian file. +e unlocked the door and preceded them into the warm but bare little room. The fire burned low and red in the grate. The table was set with two plates and two glasses on a proper white table*cloth for Once. +ilda shook her hair and looked round the bare, cheerless room. Then she summoned her courage and looked at the man. +e was moderately tall, and thin, and she thought him good*looking. +e kept a 0uiet distance of his own, and seemed absolutely unwilling to speak. .7o sit down, +ilda, said onnie. .7o8 he said. . an I make you tea or anything, or will you drink a glass of beer: Its moderately cool. .2eer8 said onnie. .2eer for me, please8 said +ilda, with a mock sort of shyness. +e looked at her and blinked. +e took a blue 4ug and tramped to the scullery. When he came back with the beer, his face had changed again. onnie sat down by the door, and +ilda sat in his seat, with the back to the wall, against the window corner.

.That is his chair, said onnie softly. !nd +ilda rose as if it had burnt her. .#it yer still, sit yer still8 Tae ony cheer as yon a mind to, none of us is th big bear, he said, with complete e0uanimity. !nd he brought +ilda a glass, and poured her beer first from the blue 4ug. .!s for cigarettes, he said, .Ive got none, but appen youve got your own. I dunna smoke, mysen. #hall y eat summat: +e turned direct to onnie. .#hall teat a smite o summat, if I bring it thee: Tha can usually do wi a bite. +e spoke the vernacular with a curious calm assurance, as if he were the landlord of the Inn. .What is there: asked onnie, flushing. .2oiled ham, cheese, pickled wanuts, if yer like. 9 ;owt much. .3es, said onnie. .Wont you, +ilda: +ilda looked up at him. .Why do you speak 3orkshire: she said softly. .That8 Thats non 3orkshire, thats 7erby. +e looked back at her with that faint, distant grin. .7erby, then8 Why do you speak 7erby: 3ou spoke natural (nglish at first. .7id !h though: !n canna !h change if !hm a mind to .t: ;ay, nay, let me talk 7erby if it suits me. If yon nowt against it. .It sounds a little affected, said +ilda. .!y, appen so8 !n up i Tevershall yod sound affected. +e looked again at her, with a 0ueer calculating distance, along his cheek*bone: as if to say: 3i, an who are you: +e tramped away to the pantry for the food. The sisters sat in silence. +e brought another plate, and knife and fork. The he said: .!n if its the same to you, I sll tae my coat off like I allers do. !nd he took off his coat, and hung it on the peg, then sat down to table in his shirt*sleeves: a shirt of thin, cream*coloured flannel. .(lp yerselves8 he said. .(lp yerselves8 7unna wait fr a)in8 +e cut the bread, then sat motionless. +ilda felt, as onnie once used to, his power of silence and distance. #he saw his smallish, sensitive, loose hand on the table. +e was no simple working man, not he: he was acting8 acting8 .#till8 she said, as she took a little cheese. .It would be more natural if you spoke to us in normal (nglish, not in vernacular. +e looked at her, feeling her devil of a will. .Would it: he said in the normal (nglish. .Would it: Would anything that was said between you and me be 0uite natural, unless you said you wished me to hell before your sister ever saw me again: and unless I said something almost as unpleasant back again: Would anything else be natural: .Oh yes8 said +ilda. .Gust good manners would be 0uite natural. .#econd nature, so to speak8 he said: then he began to laugh. .;ay, he said. .Im weary o manners. /et me be8 +ilda was frankly baffled and furiously annoyed. !fter all, he might show that he reali"ed he was

being honoured. Instead of which, with his play*acting and lordly airs, he seemed to think it was he who was conferring the honour. Gust impudence8 6oor misguided onnie, in the mans clutches8 The three ate in silence. +ilda looked to see what his table*manners were like. #he could not help reali"ing that he was instinctively much more delicate and well*bred than herself. #he had a certain #cottish clumsiness. !nd moreover, he had all the 0uiet self*contained assurance of the (nglish, no loose edges. It would be very difficult to get the better of him. 2ut neither would he get the better of her. .!nd do you really think, she said, a little more humanly, .its worth the risk. .Is what worth what risk: .This escapade with my sister. +e flickered his irritating grin. .3o maun a) er8 Then he looked at onnie. .Tha comes o thine own accord, lass, doesnt ter: Its non me as forces thee: onnie looked at +ilda. .I wish you wouldnt cavil, +ilda. .;aturally I dont want to. 2ut someone has to think about things. 3ouve got to have some sort of continuity in your life. 3ou cant 4ust go making a mess. There was a moments pause. .(h, continuity8 he said. .!n what by that: What continuity ave yer got i your life: I thought you was gettin divorced. What continuitys that: ontinuity o yer own stubbornness. I can see that much. !n what goods it goin to do yer: 3oull be sick o yer continuity afore yer a fat sight older. ! stubborn woman an er own self*will: ay, they make a fast continuity, they do. Thank heaven, it isnt me as as got th andlin of yer8 .What right have you to speak like that to me: said +ilda. .5ight8 What right ha yo ter start harnessin other folks i your continuity: /eave folks to their own continuities. .1y dear man, do you think I am concerned with you: said +ilda softly. .!y, he said. .3o are. 'or its a force*put. 3o more or less my sister*in*law. .#till far from it, I assure you. .;ot a that far, I assure you. Ive got my own sort o continuity, back your life8 @ood as yours, any day. !n if your sister there comes ter me for a bit o cunt an tenderness, she knows what shes after. #hes been in my bed afore: which you avent, thank the /ord, with your continuity. There was a dead pause, before he added: . 9 (h, I dont wear me breeches arse*forrards. !n if I get a windfall, I thank my stars. ! man gets a lot of en4oyment out o that lass theer, which is more than anybody gets out o th likes o you. Which is a pity, for you might appen a bin a good apple, .stead of a handsome crab. Women like you needs proper graftin. +e was looking at her with an odd, flickering smile, faintly sensual and appreciative. .!nd men like you, she said, .ought to be segregated: 4ustifying their own vulgarity and selfish lust. .!y, maam8 Its a mercy theres a few men left like me. 2ut you deserve what you get: to be left severely alone. +ilda had risen and gone to the door. +e rose and took his coat from the peg.

.I can find my way 0uite well alone, she said. .I doubt you cant, he replied easily. They tramped in ridiculous file down the lane again, in silence. !n owl still hooted. +e knew he ought to shoot it. The car stood untouched, a little dewy. +ilda got in and started the engine. The other two waited. .!ll I mean, she said from her entrenchment, .is that I doubt if youll find its been worth it, either of you8 .One mans meat is another mans poison, he said, out of the darkness. .2ut its meat an drink to me. The lights flared out. .7ont make me wait in the morning, .;o, I wont. @oodnight8 The car rose slowly on to the highroad, then slid swiftly away, leaving the night silent. onnie timidly took his arm, and they went down the lane. +e did not speak. !t length she drew him to a standstill. .Aiss me8 she murmured. .;ay, wait a bit8 /et me simmer down, he said. That amused her. #he still kept hold of his arm, and they went 0uickly down the lane, in silence. #he was so glad to be with him, 4ust now. #he shivered, knowing that +ilda might have snatched her away. +e was inscrutably silent. When they were in the cottage again, she almost 4umped with pleasure, that she should be free of her sister. .2ut you were horrid to +ilda, she said to him. .#he should ha been slapped in time. .2ut why: and shes so nice. +e didnt answer, went round doing the evening chores, with a 0uiet, inevitable sort of motion. +e was outwardly angry, but not with her. #o onnie felt. !nd his anger gave him a peculiar handsomeness, an inwardness and glisten that thrilled her and made her limbs go molten. #till he took no notice of her. Till he sat down and began to unlace his boots. Then he looked up at her from under his brows, on which the anger still sat firm. .#hant you go up: he said. .Theres a candle8 +e 4erked his head swiftly to indicate the candle burning on the table. #he took it obediently, and he watched the full curve of her hips as she went up the first stairs. It was a night of sensual passion, in which she was a little startled and almost unwilling: yet pierced again with piercing thrills of sensuality, different, sharper, more terrible than the thrills of tenderness, but, at the moment, more desirable. Though a little frightened, she let him have his way, and the reckless, shameless sensuality shook her to her foundations, stripped her to the very last, and made a different woman of her. It was not really love. It was not voluptuousness. It was sensuality sharp and searing as fire, burning the soul to tinder. 2urning out the shames, the deepest, oldest shames, in the most secret places. It cost her an effort to let him have his way and his will of her. #he had to be a passive, consenting thing, like a slave, a

physical slave. 3et the passion licked round her, consuming, and when the sensual flame of it pressed through her bowels and breast, she really thought she was dying: yet a poignant, marvellous death. #he had often wondered what !bElard meant, when he said that in their year of love he and +EloJse had passed through all the stages and refinements of passion. The same thing, a thousand years ago: ten thousand years ago8 The same on the @reek vases, everywhere8 The refinements of passion, the e)travagances of sensuality8 !nd necessary, forever necessary, to burn out false shames and smelt out the heaviest ore of the body into purity. With the fire of sheer sensuality. In the short summer night she learnt so much. #he would have thought a woman would have died of shame. Instead of which, the shame died. #hame, which is fear: the deep Organic shame, the old, old physical fear which crouches in the bodily roots of us, and can only be chased away by the sensual fire, at last it was roused up and routed by the phallic hunt of the man, and she came to the very heart of the 4ungle of herself. #he felt, now, she had come to the real bed*rock of her nature, and was essentially shameless. #he was her sensual self, naked and unashamed. #he felt a triumph, almost a vainglory. #o8 That was how it was8 That was life8 That was how oneself really was8 There was nothing left to disguise or be ashamed of. #he shared her ultimate nakedness with a man, another being. !nd what a reckless devil the man was8 really like a devil8 One had to be strong to bear him. 2ut it took some getting at, the core of the physical 4ungle, the last and deepest recess of organic shame. The phallos alone could e)plore it. !nd how he had pressed in on her8 !nd how, in fear, she had hated it. 2ut how she had really wanted it8 #he knew now. !t the bottom of her soul, fundamentally, she had needed this phallic hunting Out, she had secretly wanted it, and she had believed that she would never get it. ;ow suddenly there it was, and a man was sharing her last and final nakedness, she was shameless. What liars poets and everybody were8 They made one think one wanted sentiment. When what one supremely wanted was this piercing, consuming, rather awful sensuality. To find a man who dared do it, without shame or sin or final misgiving8 If he had been ashamed afterwards, and made one feel ashamed, how awful8 What a pity most men are so doggy, a bit shameful, like lifford8 /ike 1ichaelis even8 2oth sensually a bit doggy and humiliating. The supreme pleasure of the mind8 !nd what is that to a woman: What is it, really, to the man either8 +e becomes merely messy and doggy, even in his mind. It needs sheer sensuality even to purify and 0uicken the mind. #heer fiery sensuality, not messiness. !h, @od, how rare a thing a man is8 They are all dogs that trot and sniff and copulate. To have found a man who was not afraid and not ashamed8 #he looked at him now, sleeping so like a wild animal asleep, gone, gone in the remoteness of it. #he nestled down, not to be away from him. Till his rousing waked her completely. +e was sitting up in bed, looking down at her. #he saw her own nakedness in his eyes, immediate knowledge of her. !nd the fluid, male knowledge of herself seemed to flow to her from his eyes and wrap her voluptuously. Oh, how voluptuous and lovely it was to have limbs and body half*asleep, heavy and suffused with passion. .Is it time to wake up: she said. .+alf past si). #he had to be at the lane*end at eight. !lways, always, always this compulsion on one8 .I might make the breakfast and bring it up here> should I: he said. .Oh yes8 'lossie whimpered gently below. +e got up and threw off his py4amas, and rubbed himself with a towel. When the human being is full of courage and full of life, how beautiful it is8 #o she thought, as she watched him in silence.

.7raw the curtain, will you: The sun was shining already on the tender green leaves of morning, and the wood stood bluey* fresh, in the nearness. #he sat up in bed, looking dreamily out through the dormer window, her naked arms pushing her naked breasts together. +e was dressing himself. #he was half*dreaming of life, a life together with him: 4ust a life. +e was going, fleeing from her dangerous, crouching nakedness. .+ave I lost my nightie altogether: she said. +e pushed his hand down in the bed, and pulled out the bit of flimsy silk. .I knowed I felt silk at my ankles, he said. 2ut the night*dress was slit almost in two. .;ever mind8 she said. .It belongs here, really. Ill leave it. .!y, leave it, I can put it between my legs at night, for company. Theres no name nor mark on it, is there: #he slipped on the torn thing, and sat dreamily looking out of the window. The window was Open, the air of morning drifted in, and the sound of birds. 2irds flew continuously past. Then she saw 'lossie roaming out. It was morning. 7ownstairs she heard him making the fire, pumping water, going out at the back door. 2y and by came the smell of bacon, and at length he came upstairs with a huge black tray that would only 4ust go through the door. +e set the tray on the bed, and poured out the tea. onnie s0uatted in her torn nightdress, and fell on her food hungrily. +e sat on the one chair, with his plate on his knees. .+ow good it is8 she said. .+ow nice to have breakfast together. +e ate in silence, his mind on the time that was 0uickly passing. That made her remember. .Oh, how I wish I could stay here with you, and Wragby were a million miles away8 Its Wragby Im going away from really. 3ou know that, dont you: .!y8 .!nd you promise we will live together and have a life together, you and me8 3ou promise me, dont you: .!y8 When we can. .3es8 !nd we will8 we will, wont we: she leaned over, making the tea spill, catching his wrist. .!y8 he said, tidying up the tea. .We cant possibly not live together now, can we: she said appealingly. +e looked up at her with his flickering grin. .;o8 he said. .Only youve got to start in twenty*five minutes. .+ave I: she cried. #uddenly he held up a warning finger, and rose to his feet. 'lossie had given a short bark, then three loud sharp yaps of warning. #ilent, he put his plate on the tray and went downstairs. onstance heard him go down the garden path. ! bicycle bell tinkled outside there. .1orning, 1r 1ellors8 5egistered letter8 .Oh ay8 @ot a pencil: .+ere yare8

There was a pause. . anada8 said the strangers voice. .!y8 Thats a mate o mine out there in 2ritish olumbia. 7unno what hes got to register. .!ppen sent ya fortune, like. .1ore like wants summat. 6ause. .Well8 /ovely day again8 .!y8 .1orning8 .1orning8 !fter a time he came upstairs again, looking a little angry. .6ostman, he said. .Dery early8 she replied. .5ural round> hes mostly here by seven, when he does come. .7id your mate send you a fortune: .;o8 Only some photographs and papers about a place out there in 2ritish olumbia. .Would you go there: .I thought perhaps we might. .Oh yes8 I believe its lovely8 2ut he was put out by the postmans coming. .Them damn bikes, theyre on you afore you know where you are. I hope he twigged nothing. .!fter all, what could he twig8 .3ou must get up now, and get ready. Im 4ust goin ter look round outside. #he saw him go reconnoitring into the lane, with dog and gun. #he went downstairs and washed, and was ready by the time he came back, with the few things in the little silk bag. +e locked up, and they set off, but through the wood, not down the lane. +e was being wary. .7ont you think one lives for times like last night: she said to him. .!y8 2ut theres the rest otimes to think on, he replied, rather short. They plodded on down the overgrown path, he in front, in silence. .!nd we will live together and make a life together, wont we: she pleaded. .!y8 he replied, striding on without looking round. .When t time comes8 Gust now youre off to Denice or somewhere. #he followed him dumbly, with sinking heart. Oh, now she was wae to go8 !t last he stopped. .Ill 4ust strike across here, he said, pointing to the right. 2ut she flung her arms round his neck, and clung to him. .2ut youll keep the tenderness for me, wont you: she whispered. .I loved last night. 2ut youll keep the tenderness for me, wont you: +e kissed her and held her close for a moment. Then he sighed, and kissed her again.

.I must go an look if th cars there. +e strode over the low brambles and bracken, leaving a trail through the fern. 'or a minute or two he was gone. Then he came striding back. . ars not there yet, he said. .2ut theres the bakers cart on t road. +e seemed an)ious and troubled. .+ark8 They heard a car softly hoot as it came nearer. It slowed up on the bridge. #he plunged with utter mournfulness in his track through the fern, and came to a huge holly hedge. +e was 4ust behind her. .+ere8 @o through there8 he said, pointing to a gap. .I shant come out. #he looked at him in despair. 2ut he kissed her and made her go. #he crept in sheer misery through the holly and through the wooden fence, stumbled down the little ditch and up into the lane, where +ilda was 4ust getting out of the car in ve)ation. .Why youre there8 said +ilda. .Wheres he: .+es not coming. onnies face was running with tears as she got into the car with her little bag. +ilda snatched up the motoring helmet with the disfiguring goggles. .6ut it on8 she said. !nd onnie pulled on the disguise, then the long motoring coat, and she sat down, a goggling inhuman, unrecogni"able creature. +ilda started the car with a businesslike motion. They heaved out of the lane, and were away down the road. onnie had looked round, but there was no sight of him. !way8 !way8 #he sat in bitter tears. The parting had come so suddenly, so une)pectedly. It was like death. .Thank goodness youll be away from him for some time8 said +ilda, turning to avoid rosshill village.

Chapter 17
.3ou see, +ilda, said onnie after lunch, when they were nearing /ondon, .you have never known either real tenderness or real sensuality: and if you do know them, with the same person, it makes a great difference. .'or mercys sake dont brag about your e)periences8 said +ilda. .Ive never met the man yet who was capable of intimacy with a woman, giving himself up to her. That was what I wanted. Im not keen on their self*satisfied tenderness, and their sensuality. Im not content to be any mans little petsy*wetsy, nor his chair plaisir either. I wanted a complete intimacy, and I didnt get it. Thats enough for me. onnie pondered this. omplete intimacy8 #he supposed that meant revealing everything concerning yourself to the other person, and his revealing everything concerning himself. 2ut that was a bore. !nd all that weary self*consciousness between a man and a woman8 a disease8 .I think youre too conscious of yourself all the time, with everybody, she said to her sister. .I hope at least I havent a slave nature, said +ilda. .2ut perhaps you have8 6erhaps you are a slave to your own idea of yourself. +ilda drove in silence for some time after this piece of unheard of insolence from that chit onnie. .!t least Im not a slave to somebody elses idea of me: and the somebody else a servant of my husbands, she retorted at last, in crude anger.

.3ou see, its not so, said onnie calmly. #he had always let herself be dominated by her elder sister. ;ow, though somewhere inside herself she was weeping, she was free of the dominion of other women. !h8 that in itself was a relief, like being given another life: to be free of the strange dominion and obsession of other women. +ow awful they were, women8 #he was glad to be with her father, whose favourite she had always been. #he and +ilda stayed in a little hotel off 6all 1all, and #ir 1alcolm was in his club. 2ut he took his daughters out in the evening, and they liked going with him. +e was still handsome and robust, though 4ust a little afraid of the new world that had sprung up around him. +e had got a second wife in #cotland, younger than himself and richer. 2ut he had as many holidays away from her as possible: 4ust as with his first wife. onnie sat ne)t to him at the opera. +e was moderately stout, and had stout thighs, but they were still strong and well*knit, the thighs of a healthy man who had taken his pleasure in life. +is good* humoured selfishness, his dogged sort of independence, his unrepenting sensuality, it seemed to onnie she could see them all in his well*knit straight thighs. Gust a man8 !nd now becoming an old man, which is sad. 2ecause in his strong, thick male legs there was none of the alert sensitiveness and power of tenderness which is the very essence of youth, that which never dies, once it is there. onnie woke up to the e)istence of legs. They became more important to her than faces, which are no longer very real. +ow few people had live, alert legs8 #he looked at the men in the stalls. @reat puddingy thighs in black pudding*cloth, or lean wooden sticks in black funeral stuff, or well*shaped young legs without any meaning whatever, either sensuality or tenderness or sensitiveness, 4ust mere leggy ordinariness that pranced around. ;ot even any sensuality like her fathers. They were all daunted, daunted out of e)istence. 2ut the women were not daunted. The awful mill*posts of most females8 really shocking, really enough to 4ustify murder8 Or the poor thin pegs8 or the trim neat things in silk stockings, without the slightest look of life8 !wful, the millions of meaningless legs prancing meaninglessly around8 2ut she was not happy in /ondon. The people seemed so spectral and blank. They had no alive happiness, no matter how brisk and good*looking they were. It was all barren. !nd onnie had a womans blind craving for happiness, to be assured of happiness. In 6aris at any rate she felt a bit of sensuality still. 2ut what a weary, tired, worn*out sensuality. Worn*out for lack of tenderness. Oh8 6aris was sad. One of the saddest towns: weary of its now* mechanical sensuality, weary of the tension of money, money, money, weary even of resentment and conceit, 4ust weary to death, and still not sufficiently !mericani"ed or /ondoni"ed to hide the weariness under a mechanical 4ig*4ig*4ig8 !h, these manly he*men, these flOneurs, the oglers, these eaters of good dinners8 +ow weary they were8 weary, worn*out for lack of a little tenderness, given and taken. The efficient, sometimes charming women knew a thing or two about the sensual realities: they had that pull over their 4igging (nglish sisters. 2ut they knew even less of tenderness. 7ry, with the endless dry tension of will, they too were wearing out. The human world was 4ust getting worn out. 6erhaps it would turn fiercely destructive. ! sort of anarchy8 lifford and his conservative anarchy8 6erhaps it wouldnt be conservative much longer. 6erhaps it would develop into a very radical anarchy. onnie found herself shrinking and afraid of the world. #ometimes she was happy for a little while in the 2oulevards or in the 2ois or the /u)embourg @ardens. 2ut already 6aris was full of !mericans and (nglish, strange !mericans in the oddest uniforms, and the usual dreary (nglish that are so hopeless abroad. #he was glad to drive on. It was suddenly hot weather, so +ilda was going through #wit"erland and over the 2renner, then through the 7olomites down to Denice. +ilda loved all the managing and the driving and being mistress of the show. onnie was 0uite content to keep 0uiet.

!nd the trip was really 0uite nice. Only onnie kept saying to herself: Why dont I really care8 Why am I never really thrilled: +ow awful, that I dont really care about the landscape any more8 2ut I dont. Its rather awful. Im like #aint 2ernard, who could sail down the lake of /ucerne without ever noticing that there were even mountain and green water. I 4ust dont care for landscape any more. Why should one stare at it: Why should one: I refuse to. ;o, she found nothing vital in 'rance or #wit"erland or the Tyrol or Italy. #he 4ust was carted through it all. !nd it was all less real than Wragby. /ess real than the awful Wragby8 #he felt she didnt care if she never saw 'rance or #wit"erland or Italy again. Theyd keep. Wragby was more real. !s for people8 people were all alike, with very little difference. They all wanted to get money out of you: or, if they were travellers, they wanted to get en4oyment, perforce, like s0uee"ing blood out of a stone. 6oor mountains8 poor landscape8 it all had to be s0uee"ed and s0uee"ed and s0uee"ed again, to provide a thrill, to provide en4oyment. What did people mean, with their simply determined en4oying of themselves: ;o8 said onnie to herself Id rather be at Wragby, where I can go about and be still, and not stare at anything or do any performing of any sort. This tourist performance of en4oying oneself is too hopelessly humiliating: its such a failure. #he wanted to go back to Wragby, even to lifford, even to poor crippled lifford. +e wasnt such a fool as this swarming holidaying lot, anyhow. 2ut in her inner consciousness she was keeping touch with the other man. #he mustnt let her conne)ion with him go: oh, she mustnt let it go, or she was lost, lost utterly in this world of riff* raffy e)pensive people and 4oy*hogs. Oh, the 4oy*hogs8 Oh .en4oying oneself8 !nother modern form of sickness. They left the car in 1estre, in a garage, and took the regular steamer over to Denice. It was a lovely summer afternoon, the shallow lagoon rippled, the full sunshine made Denice, turning its back to them across the water, look dim. !t the station 0uay they changed to a gondola, giving the man the address. +e was a regular gondolier in a white*and*blue blouse, not very good*looking, not at all impressive. .3es8 The Dilla (smeralda8 3es8 I know it8 I have been the gondolier for a gentleman there. 2ut a fair distance out8 +e seemed a rather childish, impetuous fellow. +e rowed with a certain e)aggerated impetuosity, through the dark side*canals with the horrible, slimy green walls, the canals that go through the poorer 0uarters, where the washing hangs high up on ropes, and there is a slight, or strong, odour of sewage. 2ut at last he came to one of the open canals with pavement on either side, and looping bridges, that run straight, at right*angles to the @rand anal. The two women sat under the little awning, the man was perched above, behind them. .!re the signorine staying long at the Dilla (smeralda: he asked, rowing easy, and .wiping his perspiring face with a white*and*blue handkerchief. .#ome twenty days: we are both married ladies, said +ilda, in her curious hushed voice, that made her Italian sound so foreign. .!h8 Twenty days8 said the man. There was a pause. !fter which he asked: .7o the signore want a gondolier for the twenty days or so that they will stay at the Dilla (smeralda: Or by the day, or by the week: onnie and +ilda considered. In Denice, it is always preferable to have ones own gondola, as it is preferable to have ones own car on land.

.What is there at the Dilla: what boats: .There is a motor*launch, also a gondola. 2ut 9 The but meant: they wont be your property. .+ow much do you charge: It was about thirty shillings a day, or ten pounds a week. .Is that the regular price: asked +ilda. ./ess, #ignora, less. The regular price 9 The sisters considered. .Well, said +ilda, .come tomorrow morning, and we will arrange it. What is your name: +is name was @iovanni, and he wanted to know at what time he should come, and then for whom should he say he was waiting. +ilda had no card. onnie gave him one of hers. +e glanced at it swiftly, with his hot, southern blue eyes, then glanced again. .!h8 he said, lighting up. .1ilady8 1ilady, isnt it: .1ilady ostan"a8 said onnie. +e nodded, repeating: .1ilady ostan"a8 and putting the card carefully away in his blouse. The Dilla (smeralda was 0uite a long way out, on the edge of the lagoon looking towards hioggia. It was not a very old house, and pleasant, with the terraces looking seawards, and below, 0uite a big garden with dark trees, walled in from the lagoon. Their host was a heavy, rather coarse #cotchman who had made a good fortune in Italy before the war, and had been knighted for his ultrapatriotism during the war. +is wife was a thin, pale, sharp kind of person with no fortune of her own, and the misfortune of having to regulate her husbands rather sordid amorous e)ploits. +e was terribly tiresome with the servants. 2ut having had a slight stroke during the winter, he was now more manageable. The house was pretty full. 2esides #ir 1alcolm and his two daughters, there were seven more people, a #cotch couple, again with two daughters> a young Italian ontessa, a widow> a young @eorgian prince, and a youngish (nglish clergyman who had had pneumonia and was being chaplain to #ir !le)ander for his healths sake. The prince was penniless, good*looking, would make an e)cellent chauffeur, with the necessary impudence, and basta8 The ontessa was a 0uiet little puss with a game on somewhere. The clergyman was a raw simple fellow from a 2ucks vicarage: luckily he had left his wife and two children at home. !nd the @uthries, the family of four, were good solid (dinburgh middle class, en4oying everything in a solid fashion, and daring everything while risking nothing. onnie and +ilda ruled out the prince at once. The @uthries were more or less their own sort, substantial, hut boring: and the girls wanted husbands. The chaplain was not a had fellow, but too deferential. #ir !le)ander, after his slight stroke, had a terrible heaviness his 4oviality, but he was still thrilled at the presence of so many handsome young women. /ady ooper was a 0uiet, catty person who had a thin time of it, poor thing, and who watched every other woman with a cold watchfulness that had become her second nature, and who said cold, nasty little things which showed what an utterly low opinion she had of all human nature. #he was also 0uite venomously overbearing with the servants, onnie found: but in a 0uiet way. !nd she skilfully behaved so that #ir !le)ander should think that he was lord and monarch of the whole caboosh, with his stout, would*be*genial paunch, and his utterly boring 4okes, his humourosity, as +ilda called it. #ir 1alcolm was painting. 3es, he still would do a Denetian lagoonscape, now and then, in contrast to his #cottish landscapes. #o in the morning he was rowed off with a huge canvas, to his .site. ! little later, /ady ooper would he rowed off into the heart of the city, with sketching*block and colours. #he was an inveterate watercolour painter, and the house was full of rose*coloured palaces,

dark canals, swaying bridges, medieval facades, and so on. ! little later the @uthries, the prince, the countess, #ir !le)ander, and sometimes 1r /ind, the chaplain, would go off to the /ido, where they would bathe> coming home to a late lunch at half past one. The house*party, as a house*party, was distinctly boring. 2ut this did not trouble the sisters. They were out all the time. Their father took them to the e)hibition, miles and miles of weary paintings. +e took them to all the cronies of his in the Dilla /ucchese, he sat with them on warm evenings in the pia""a, having got a table at 'lorians: he took them to the theatre, to the @oldoni plays. There were illuminated water*fPtes, there were dances. This was a holiday*place of all holiday*places. The /ido, with its acres of sun*pinked or py4amaed bodies, was like a strand with an endless heap of seals come up for mating. Too many people in the pia""a, too many limbs and trunks of humanity on the /ido, too many gondolas, too many motor*launches, too many steamers, too many pigeons, too many ices, too many cocktails, too many menservants wanting tips, too many languages rattling, too much, too much sun, too much smell of Denice, too many cargoes of strawberries, too many silk shawls, too many huge, raw*beef slices of watermelon on stalls: too much en4oyment, altogether far too much en4oyment8 onnie and +ilda went around in their sunny frocks. There were do"ens of people they knew, do"ens of people knew them. 1ichaelis turned up like a bad penny. .+ullo8 Where you staying: ome and have an ice*cream or something8 ome with me somewhere in my gondola. (ven 1ichaelis almost sun*burned: though sun*cooked is more appropriate to the look of the mass of human flesh. It was pleasant in a way. It was almost en4oyment. 2ut anyhow, with all the cocktails, all the lying in warmish water and sunbathing on hot sand in hot sun, 4a""ing with your stomach up against some fellow in the warm nights, cooling off with ices, it was a complete narcotic. !nd that was what they all wanted, a drug: the slow water, a drug> the sun, a drug> 4a"", a drug> cigarettes, cocktails, ices, vermouth. To be drugged8 (n4oyment8 (n4oyment8 +ilda half liked being drugged. #he liked looking at all the women, speculating about them. The women were absorbingly interested in the women. +ow does she look8 what man has she captured: what fun is she getting out of it: 9 The men were like great dogs in white flannel trousers, waiting to be patted, waiting to wallow, waiting to plaster some womans stomach against their own, in 4a"". +ilda liked 4a"", because she could plaster her stomach against the stomach of some so*called man, and let him control her movement from the visceral centre, here and there across the floor, and then she could break loose and ignore .the creature. +e had been merely made use of. 6oor onnie was rather unhappy. #he wouldnt 4a"", because she simply couldnt plaster her stomach against some .creatures stomach. #he hated the conglomerate mass of nearly nude flesh on the /ido: there was hardly enough water to wet them all. #he disliked #ir !le)ander and /ady ooper. #he did not want 1ichaelis or anybody else trailing her. The happiest times were when she got +ilda to go with her away across the lagoon, far across to some lonely shingle*bank, where they could bathe 0uite alone, the gondola remaining on the inner side of the reef. Then @iovanni got another gondolier to help him, because it was a long way and he sweated terrifically in the sun. @iovanni was very nice: affectionate, as the Italians are, and 0uite passionless. The Italians are not passionate: passion has deep reserves. They are easily moved, and often affectionate, but they rarely have any abiding passion of any sort. #o @iovanni was already devoted to his ladies, as he had been devoted to cargoes of ladies in the past. +e was perfectly ready to prostitute himself to them, if they wanted hint: he secretly hoped they would want him. They would give him a handsome present, and it would come in very handy, as he was 4ust going to be married. +e told them about his marriage, and they were suitably interested.

+e thought this trip to some lonely bank across the lagoon probably meant business: business being lamore, love. #o he got a mate to help him, for it was a long way> and after all, they were two ladies. Two ladies, two mackerels8 @ood arithmetic8 2eautiful ladies, too8 +e was 4ustly proud of them. !nd though it was the #ignora who paid him and gave him orders, he rather hoped it would be the young milady who would select hint for lamore. #he would give more money too. The mate he brought was called 7aniele. +e was not a regular gondolier, so he had none of the cadger and prostitute about him. +e was a sandola man, a sandola being a big boat that brings in fruit and produce from the islands. 7aniele was beautiful, tall and well*shapen, with a light round head of little, close, pale*blond curls, and a good*looking mans face, a little like a lion, and long*distance blue eyes. +e was not effusive, lo0uacious, and bibulous like @iovanni. +e was silent and he rowed with a strength and ease as if he were alone on the water. The ladies were ladies, remote from him. +e did not even look at them. +e looked ahead. +e was a real man, a little angry when @iovanni drank too much wine and rowed awkwardly, with effusive shoves of the great oar. +e was a man as 1ellors was a man, unprostituted. onnie pitied the wife of the easily*overflowing @iovanni. 2ut 7anieles wife would be one of those sweet Denetian women of the people whom one still sees, modest and flower*like in the back of that labyrinth of a town. !h, how sad that man first prostitutes woman, then woman prostitutes man. @iovanni was pining to prostitute himself, dribbling like a dog, wanting to give himself to a woman. !nd for money8 onnie looked at Denice far off, low and rose*coloured upon the water. 2uilt of money, blossomed of money, and dead with money. The money*deadness8 1oney, money, money, prostitution and deadness. 3et 7aniele was still a man capable of a mans free allegiance. +e did not wear the gondoliers blouse: only the knitted blue 4ersey. +e was a little wild, uncouth and proud. #o he was hireling to the rather doggy @iovanni who was hireling again to two women. #o it is8 When Gesus refused the devils money, he left the devil like a Gewish banker, master of the whole situation. onnie would come home from the bla"ing light of the lagoon in a kind of stupor, to find letters from home. lifford wrote regularly. +e wrote very good letters: they might all have been printed in a book. !nd for this reason onnie found them not very interesting. #he lived in the stupor of the light of the lagoon, the lapping saltiness of the water, the space, the emptiness, the nothingness: but health, health, complete stupor of health. It was gratifying, and she was lulled away in it, not caring for anything. 2esides, she was pregnant. #he knew now. #o the stupor of sunlight and lagoon salt and sea*bathing and lying on shingle and finding shells and drifting away, away in a gondola, was completed by the pregnancy inside her, another fullness of health, satisfying and stupefying. #he had been at Denice a fortnight, and she was to stay another ten days or a fortnight. The sunshine bla"ed over any count of time, and the fullness of physical health made forgetfulness complete. #he was in a sort of stupor of well*being. 'rom which a letter of lifford roused her. We too have had our mild local e)citement. It appears the truant wife of 1ellors, the keeper, turned up at the cottage and found herself unwelcome. +e packed her off, and locked the door. 5eport has it, however, that when he returned from the wood he found the no longer fair lady firmly established in his bed, in puris naturalibus> or one should say, in impuris naturalibus. #he had broken a window and got in that way. =nable to evict the somewhat man*handled Denus from his couch, he beat a retreat and retired, it is said, to his mothers house in Tevershall. 1eanwhile the Denus of #tacks @ate is established in the cottage, which she claims is her home, and !pollo, apparently, is domiciled in Tevershall.

I repeat this from hearsay, as 1ellors has not come to me personally. I had this particular bit of local garbage from our garbage bird, our ibis, our scavenging turkey*bu""ard, 1rs 2olton. I would not have repeated it had she not e)claimed: her /adyship will go no more to the wood if that womans going to be about8 I like your picture of #ir 1alcolm striding into the sea with white hair blowing and pink flesh glowing. I envy you that sun. +ere it rains. 2ut I dont envy #ir 1alcolm his inveterate mortal carnality. +owever, it suits his age. !pparently one grows more carnal and more mortal as one grows older. Only youth has a taste of immortality 9 This news affected onnie in her state of semi*stupefied ell being with ve)ation amounting to e)asperation. ;ow she ad got to be bothered by that beast of a woman8 ;ow she must start and fret8 #he had no letter from 1ellors. They had agreed not to write at all, but now she wanted to hear from him personally. !fter all, he was the father of the child that was coming. /et him write8 2ut how hateful8 ;ow everything was messed up. +ow foul those low people were8 +ow nice it was here, in the sunshine and the indolence, compared to that dismal mess of that (nglish 1idlands8 !fter all, a clear sky was almost the most important thing in life. #he did not mention the fact of her pregnancy, even to +ilda. #he wrote to 1rs 2olton for e)act information. 7uncan 'orbes, an artist friend of theirs, had arrived at the Dilla (smeralda, coming north from 5ome. ;ow he made a third in the gondola, and he bathed with them across the lagoon, and was their escort: a 0uiet, almost taciturn young man, very advanced in his art. #he had a letter from 1rs 2olton: 3ou will be pleased, I am sure, my /ady, when you see #ir lifford. +es looking 0uite blooming and working very hard, and very hopeful. Of course he is looking forward to seeing you among us again. It is a dull house without my /ady, and we shall all welcome her presence among us once more. !bout 1r 1ellors, I dont know how much #ir lifford told you. It seems his wife came back all of a sudden one afternoon, and he found her sitting on the doorstep when he came in from the wood. #he said she was come back to him and wanted to live with him again, as she was his legal wife, and he wasnt going to divorce her. 2ut he wouldnt have anything to do with her, and wouldnt let her in the house, and did not go in himself> he went back into the wood without ever opening the door. 2ut when he came back after dark, he found the house broken into, so he went upstairs to see what shed done, and he found her in bed without a rag on her. +e offered her money, but she said she was his wife and he must take her back. I dont know what sort of a scene they had. +is mother told me about it, shes terribly upset. Well, he told her hed die rather than ever live with her again, so he took his things and went straight to his mothers on Tevershall hill. +e stopped the night and went to the wood ne)t day through the park, never going near the cottage. It seems he never saw his wife that day. 2ut the day after she was at her brother 6ans at 2eggarlee, swearing and carrying on, saying she was his legal wife, and that hed beers having women at the cottage, because shed found a scent*bottle in his drawer, and gold*tipped cigarette*ends on the ash*heap, and I dont know what all. Then it seems the postman 'red Airk says he heard somebody talking in 1r 1ellors bedroom early one morning, and a motor*car had been in the lane. 1r 1ellors stayed on with his mother, and went to the wood through the park, and it seems she stayed on at the cottage. Well, there was no end of talk. #o at last 1r 1ellors and Tom 6hillips went to the cottage and fetched away most of the furniture and bedding, and unscrewed the handle of the pump, so she was forced to go. 2ut instead of going back to #tacks @ate she went and lodged with that 1rs #wain at 2eggarlee, because her brother 7ans wife wouldnt have her. !nd she kept going to old 1rs 1ellors house, to catch him, and she began swearing hed got in bed with her in the

cottage and she went to a lawyer to make him pay her an allowance. #hes grown heavy, and more common than ever, and as strong as a bull. !nd she goes about saying the most awful things about him, how he has women at the cottage, and how he behaved to her when they were married, the low, beastly things he did to her, and I dont know what all. Im sure its awful, the mischief a woman can do, once she starts talking. !nd no matter how low she may be, therell be some as will believe her, and some of the dirt will stick. Im sure the way she makes out that 1r 1ellors was one of those low, beastly men with women, is simply shocking. !nd people are only too ready to believe things against anybody, especially things like that. #he declared shell never leave him alone while he lives. Though what I say is, if he was so beastly to her, why is she so an)ious to go back to him: 2ut of course shes coming near her change of life, for shes years older than he is. !nd these common, violent women always go partly insane whets the change of life comes upon them 9 This was a nasty blow to onnie. +ere she was, sure as life, coming in for her share of the lowness and dirt. #he felt angry with him for not having got clear of a 2ertha outts: nay, for ever having married her. 6erhaps he had a certain hankering after lowness. onnie remembered the last night she had spent with him, and shivered. +e had known all that sensuality, even with a 2ertha outts8 It was really rather disgusting. It would be well to be rid of him, clear of him altogether. +e was perhaps really common, really low. #he had a revulsion against the whole affair, and almost envied the @uthrie girls their gawky ine)perience and crude maidenliness. !nd she now dreaded the thought that anybody would know about herself and the keeper. +ow unspeakably humiliating8 #he was weary, afraid, and felt a craving for utter respectability, even for the vulgar and deadening respectability of the @uthrie girls. If lifford knew about her affair, how unspeakably humiliating8 #he was afraid, terrified of society and its unclean bite. #he almost wished she could get rid of the child again, and be 0uite clear. In short, she fell into a state of funk. !s for the scent*bottle, that was her own folly. #he had not been able to refrain from perfuming his one or two handkerchiefs and his shirts in the drawer, 4ust out of childishness, and she had left a little bottle of otys Wood*violet perfume, half empty, among his things. #he wanted him to remember her in the perfume. !s for the cigarette*ends, they were +ildas. #he could not help confiding a little in 7uncan 'orbes. #he didnt say she had been the keepers lover, she only said she liked him, and told 'orbes the history of the man. .Oh, said 'orbes, .youll see, theyll never rest till theyve pulled the man down and done him its. If he has refused to creep up into the middle classes, when he had a chance> and if hes a man who stands up for his own se), then theyll do him in. Its the one thing they wont let you be, straight and open in your se). 3ou can be as dirty as you like. In fact the more dirt you do on se) the better they like it. 2ut if you believe in your own se), and wont have it done dirt to: theyll down you. Its the one insane taboo left: se) as a natural and vital thing. They wont have it, and theyll kill you before theyll let you have it. 3oull see, theyll hound that man down. !nd whats he done, after all: If hes made love to his wife all ends on, hasnt he a right to: #he ought to be proud of it. 2ut you see, even a low bitch like that turns on him, and uses the hyena instinct of the mob against se), to pull him down. 3ou have a snivel and feel sinful or awful about your se), before youre allowed to have any. Oh, theyll hound the poor devil down. onnie had a revulsion in the opposite direction now. What had he done, after all: what had he done to herself, onnie, but give her an e)0uisite pleasure and a sense of freedom and life: +e had released her warm, natural se)ual flow. !nd for that they would hound him down. ;o no, it should not be. #he saw the image of him, naked white with tanned face and hands, looking down and addressing his erect penis as if it were another being, the odd grin flickering on his face. !nd she heard his voice again: Thas got the nicest womans arse of anybody8 !nd she felt his hand warmly and softly closing over her tail again, over her secret places, like a benediction. !nd the warmth ran through her womb, and the little flames flickered in her knees, and she said: Oh, no8 I

mustnt go back on it8 I must not go back on him. I must stick to him and to what I had of him, through everything. I had no warm, flamy life till he gave it me. !nd I wont go back on it. #he did a rash thing. #he sent a letter to Ivy 2olton, enclosing a note to the keeper, and asking 1rs 2olton to give it him. !nd she wrote to him: I am very much distressed to hear of all the trouble your wife is making for you, but dont mind it, it is only a sort of hysteria. It will all blow over as suddenly as it came. 2ut Im awfully sorry about it, and I do hope you are not minding very much. !fter all, it isnt worth it. #he is only a hysterical woman who wants to hurt you. I shall be home in ten days time, and I do hope everything will be all right. ! few days later came a letter from lifford. +e was evidently upset. I am delighted to hear you are prepared to leave Denice on the si)teenth. 2ut if you are en4oying it, dont hurry home. We miss you, Wragby misses you. 2ut it is essential that you should get your full amount of sunshine, sunshine and py4amas, as the advertisements of the /ido say. #o please do stay on a little longer, if it is cheering you up and preparing you for our sufficiently awful winter. (ven today, it rains. I am assiduously, admirably looked after by 1rs 2olton. #he is a 0ueer specimen. The more I live, the more I reali"e what strange creatures human beings are. #ome of them might Gust as well have a hundred legs, like a centipede, or si), like a lobster. The human consistency and dignity one has been led to e)pect from ones fellow*men seem actually none)istent. One doubts if they e)ist to any startling degree even is oneself. The scandal of the keeper continues and gets bigger like a snowball. 1rs 2olton keeps me informed. #he reminds me of a fish which, though dumb, seems to be breathing silent gossip through its gills, while ever it lives. !ll goes through the sieve of her gills, and nothing surprises her. It is as if the events of other peoples lives were the necessary o)ygen of her own. #he is preoccupied with tie 1ellors scandal, and if I will let her begin, she takes me down to the depths. +er great indignation, which even then is like the indignation of an actress playing a role, is against the wife of 1ellors, whom she persists in calling 2ertha ourts. I have been to the depths of the muddy lies of the 2ertha outtses of this world, and when, released from the current of gossip, I slowly rise to the surface again, I look at the daylight its wonder that it ever should be. It seems to me absolutely true, that our world, which appears to us the surface of all things, is really the bottom of a deep ocean: all our trees are submarine growths, and we are weird, scaly*clad submarine fauna, feeding ourselves on offal like shrimps. Only occasionally the soul rises gasping through the fathomless fathoms under which we live, far up to the surface of the ether, where there is true air. I am convinced that the air we normally breathe is a kind of water, and men and women are a species of fish. 2ut sometimes the soul does come up, shoots like a kittiwake into the light, with ecstasy, after having preyed on the submarine depths. It is our mortal destiny, I suppose, to prey upon the ghastly suba0ueous life of our fellow*men, in the submarine 4ungle of mankind. 2ut our immortal destiny is to escape, once we have swallowed our swimmy catch, up again into the bright ether, bursting out from the surface of Old Ocean into real light. Then one reali"es ones eternal nature. When I hear 1rs 2olton talk, I feel myself plunging down, down, to the depths where the fish of human secrets wriggle and swim. arnal appetite makes one sei"e a beakful of prey: then up, up again, out of the dense into the ethereal, from the wet into the dry. To you I can tell the whole process. 2ut with 1rs 2olton I only feel the downward plunge, down, horribly, among the sea* weeds and the pallid monsters of the very bottom. I am afraid we are going to lose our game*keeper. The scandal of the truant wife, instead of dying down, has reverberated to greater and greater dimensions. +e is accused of all unspeakable things and curiously enough, the woman has managed to get the bulk of the colliers wives behind her,

gruesome fish, and the village is putrescent with talk. I hear this 2ertha outts besieges 1ellors in his mothers house, having ransacked the cottage and the hut. #he sei"ed one day upon her own daughter, as that chip of the female block was returning from school> but the little one, instead of kissing the loving mothers hand, bit it firmly, and so received from the other hand a smack in the face which sent her reeling into the gutter: whence she was rescued by an indignant and harassed grandmother. The woman has blown off an ama"ing 0uantity of poison*gas. #he has aired in detail all those incidents of her con4ugal life which are usually buried down in the deepest grave of matrimonial silence, between married couples. +aving chosen to e)hume them, after ten years of burial, she has a weird array. I hear these details from /inley and the doctor: the latter being amused. Of course there is really nothing in it. +umanity has always had a strange avidity for unusual se)ual postures, and if a man likes to use his wife, as 2envenuto ellini says, .in the Italian way, well that is a matter of taste. 2ut I had hardly e)pected our game*keeper to be up to so many tricks. ;o doubt 2ertha outts herself first put him up to them. In any case, it is a matter of their own personal s0ualor, and nothing to do with anybody else. +owever, everybody listens: as I do myself. ! do"en years ago, common decency would have hushed the thing. 2ut common decency no longer e)ists, and the colliers wives are all up in arms and unabashed in voice. One would think every child in Tevershall, for the last fifty years, had been an immaculate conception, and every one of our nonconformist females was a shining Goan of !rc. That our estimable game*keeper should have about him a touch of 5abelais seems to make him more monstrous and shocking than a murderer like rippen. 3et these people in Tevershall are a loose lot, if one is to believe all accounts. The trouble is, however, the e)ecrable 2ertha outts has not confined herself to her own e)periences and sufferings. #he has discovered, at the top of her voice, that her husband has been .keeping women down at the cottage, and has made a few random shots at naming the women. This has brought a few decent names trailing through the mud, and the thing has gone 0uite considerably too far. !n in4unction has been taken out against the woman. I have had to interview 1ellors about the business, as it was impossible to keep the woman away from the wood. +e goes about as usual, with his 1iller*of*the*7ee air, I care for nobody, no not I, if nobody care for me8 ;evertheless, I shrewdly suspect he feels like a dog with a tin can tied to its tail: though he makes a very good show of pretending the tin can isnt there. 2ut I heard that in the village the women call away their children if he is passing, as if he were the 1ar0uis de #ade in person. +e goes on with a certain impudence, but I am afraid the tin can is firmly tied to his tail, and that inwardly he repeats, like 7on 5odrigo in the #panish ballad: .!h, now it bites me where I most have sinned8 I asked him if he thought he would be able to attend to his duty in the wood, and he said he did not think he had neglected it. I told him it was a nuisance to have the woman trespassing: to which he replied that he had no power to arrest her. Then I hinted at the scandal and its unpleasant course. .!y, he said. .folks should do their own fuckin, then they wouldnt want to listen to a lot of clatfart about another mans. +e said it with some bitterness, and no doubt it contains the real germ of truth. The mode of putting it, however, is neither delicate nor respectful. I hinted as much, and then I heard the tin can rattle again. .Its not for a man the shape youre in, #ir lifford, to twit me for havin a cod atween my legs. These things, said indiscriminately to all and sundry, of course do not help him at all, and the rector, and 'inley, and 2urroughs all think it would be as well if the man left the place. I asked him if it was true that he entertained ladies down at the cottage, and all he said was: .Why, whats that to you, #ir lifford: I told him I intended to have decency observed on my estate, to

which he replied: .Then you mun button the mouths o a th women. 9 When I pressed him about his manner of life at the cottage, he said: .#urely you might mae a scandal out o me an my bitch 'lossie. 3ouve missed summat there. !s a matter of fact, for an e)ample of impertinence hed be hard to beat. I asked him if it would be easy for him to find another 4ob. +e said: .If youre hintin that youd like to shunt me out of this 4ob, itd be easy as wink. #o he made no trouble at all about leaving at the end of ne)t week, and apparently is willing to initiate a young fellow, Goe hambers, into as many mysteries of the craft as possible. I told him I would give him a months wages e)tra, when he left. +e said hed rather I kept my money, as Id no occasion to ease my conscience. I asked him what he meant, and he said: .3ou dont owe me nothing e)tra, #ir lifford, so dont pay me nothing e)tra. If you think you see my shirt hanging out, 4ust tell me. Well, there is the end of it for the time being. The woman has gone away: we dont know where to: but she is liable to arrest if she shows her face in Tevershall. !nd I heard she is mortally afraid of gaol, because she merits it so well. 1ellors will depart on #aturday week, and the place will soon become normal again. 1eanwhile, my dear onnie, if you would en4oy to stay in Denice or in #wit"erland till the beginning of !ugust, I should be glad to think you were out of all this bu"" of nastiness, which will have died 0uite away by the end of the month. #o you see, we arc deep*sea monsters, and when the lobster walks on mud, he stirs it up for everybody. We must perforce take it philosophically. The irritation, and the lack of any sympathy in any direction, of liffords letter, had a bad effect on onnie. 2ut she understood it better when she received the following from 1ellors: The cat is out of the bag, along with various other pussies. 3ou have heard that my wife 2ertha came back to my unloving arms, and took up her abode in the cottage: where, to speak disrespectfully, she smelled a rat, in the shape of a little bottle of oty. Other evidence she did not find, at least for some days, when she began to howl about the burnt photograph. #he noticed the glass and the back*board in the s0uare bedroom. =nfortunately, on the back*board somebody had scribbled little sketches, and the initials, several times repeated: . #. 5. This, however, afforded no clue until she broke into the hut, and found one of your books, an autobiography of the actress Gudith, with your name, onstance #tewart 5eid, on the front page. !fter this, for some days she went round loudly saying that my paramour was no less a person than /ady hatterley herself. The news came at last to the rector, 1r 2urroughs, and to #ir lifford. They then proceeded to take legal steps against my liege lady, who for her part disappeared, having always had a mortal fear of the police. #ir lifford asked to see me, so I went to him. +e talked around things and seemed annoyed with me. Then he asked if I knew that even her ladyships name had been mentioned. I said I never listened to scandal, and was surprised to hear this bit from #ir lifford himself. +e said, of course it was a great insult, and I told him there was Fueen 1ary on a calendar in the scullery, no doubt because +er 1a4esty formed part of my harem. 2ut he didnt appreciate the sarcasm. +e as good as told me I was a disreputable character who walked about with my breeches buttons undone, and I as good as told him hed nothing to unbutton anyhow, so he gave me the sack, and I leave on #aturday week, and the place thereof shall know me no more. I shall go to /ondon, and my old landlady, 1rs Inger, $& oburg #0uare, will either give me a room or will find one for me. 2e sure your sins will find you out, especially if youre married and her names 2ertha 9 There was not a word about herself, or to her. onnie resented this. +e might have said some few words of consolation or reassurance. 2ut she knew he was leaving her free, free to go back to Wragby and to lifford. #he resented that too. +e need riot be so falsely chivalrous. #he wished he

had said to lifford: .3es, she is my lover and my mistress and I am proud of it8 2ut his courage wouldnt carry him so far. #o her name was coupled with his in Tevershall8 It was a mess. 2ut that would soon die down. #he was angry, with the complicated and confused anger that made her inert. #he did not know what to do nor what to say, so she said and did nothing. #he went on at Denice 4ust the same, rowing out in the gondola with 7uncan 'orbes, bathing, letting the days slip by. 7uncan, who had been rather depressingly in love with her ten years ago, was in love with her again. 2ut she said to him: .I only want one thing of men, and that is, that they should leave me alone. #o 7uncan left her alone: really 0uite pleased to be able to. !ll the same, he offered her a soft stream of a 0ueer, inverted sort of love. +e wanted to be with her. .+ave you ever thought, he said to her one day, .how very little people are connected with one another. /ook at 7aniele8 +e is handsome as a son of the sun. 2ut see how alone he looks in his handsomeness. 3et I bet he has a wife and family, and couldnt possibly go away from them. .!sk him, said onnie. 7uncan did so. 7aniele said he was married, and had two children, both male, aged seven and nine. 2ut he betrayed no emotion over the fact. .6erhaps only people who are capable of real togetherness have that look of being alone in the universe, said onnie. .The others have a certain stickiness, they stick to the mass, like @iovanni. .!nd, she thought to herself, .like you, 7uncan.

Chapter 18
#he had to make up her mind what to do. #he would leave Denice on the #aturday that he was leaving Wragby: in si) days time. This would bring her to /ondon on the 1onday following, and she would then see him. #he wrote to him to the /ondon address, asking him to send her a letter to +artlands hotel, and to call for her on the 1onday evening at seven. Inside herself she was curiously and complicatedly angry, and all her responses were numb. #he refused to confide even in +ilda, and +ilda, offended by her steady silence, had become rather intimate with a 7utch woman. onnie hated these rather stifling intimacies between women, intimacy into which +ilda always entered ponderously. #ir 1alcolm decided to travel with onnie, and 7uncan could come on with +ilda. The old artist always did himself well: he took berths on the Orient ()press, in spite of onnies dislike of trains de lu'e, the atmosphere of vulgar depravity there is aboard them nowadays. +owever, it would make the 4ourney to 6aris shorter. #ir 1alcolm was always uneasy going back to his wife. It was habit carried over from the first wife. 2ut there would be a house*party for the grouse, and he wanted to be well ahead. onnie, sunburnt and handsome, sat in silence, forgetting all about the landscape. .! little dull for you, going back to Wragby, said her father, noticing her glumness. .Im not sure I shall go back to Wragby, she said, with startling abruptness, looking into his eyes with her big blue eyes. +is big blue eyes took on the frightened look of a man whose social conscience is not 0uite clear. .3ou mean youll stay on in 6aris a while: .;o8 I mean never go back to Wragby. +e was bothered by his own little problems, and sincerely hoped he was getting none of hers to shoulder.

.+ows that, all at once: he asked. .Im going to have a child. It was the first time she had uttered the words to any living soul, and it seemed to mark a cleavage in her life. .+ow do you know: said her father. #he smiled. .+ow should I know: .2ut not liffords child, of course: .;o8 !nother mans. #he rather en4oyed tormenting him. .7o I know the man: asked #ir 1alcolm. .;o8 3ouve never seen him. There was a long pause. .!nd what are your plans: .I dont know. Thats the point. .;o patching it up with lifford: .I suppose lifford would take it, said onnie. .+e told me, after last time you talked to him, he wouldnt mind if I had a child, so long as I went about it discreetly. .Only sensible thing he could say, under the circumstances. Then I suppose itll be all right. .In what way: said onnie, looking into her fathers eyes. They were big blue eyes rather like her own, but with a certain uneasiness in them, a look sometimes of an uneasy little boy, sometimes a look of sullen selfishness, usually good*humoured and wary. .3ou can present lifford with an heir to all the hatterleys, and put another baronet in Wragby. #ir 1alcolms face smiled with a half*sensual smile. .2ut I dont think I want to, she said. .Why not: 'eeling entangled with the other man: Well8 If you want the truth from me, my child, its this. The world goes on. Wragby stands and will go on standing. The world is more or less a fi)ed thing and, e)ternally, we have to adapt ourselves to it. 6rivately, in my private opinion, we can please ourselves. (motions change. 3ou may like one man this year and another ne)t. 2ut Wragby still stands. #tick by Wragby as far as Wragby sticks by you. Then please yourself. 2ut youll get very little out of making a break. 3ou can make a break if you wish. 3ou have an independent income, the only thing that never lets you down. 2ut you wont get much out of it. 6ut a little baronet in Wragby. Its an amusing thing to do. !nd #ir 1alcolm sat back and smiled again. onnie did not answer. .I hope you had a real man at last, he said to her after a while, sensually alert. .I did. Thats the trouble. There arent many of them about, she said. .;o, by @od8 he mused. .There arent8 Well, my dear, to look at you, he was a lucky man. #urely he wouldnt make trouble for you: .Oh no8 +e leaves me my own mistress entirely. .Fuite8 Fuite8 ! genuine man would.

#ir 1alcolm was pleased. onnie was his favourite daughter, he had always liked the female in her. ;ot so much of her mother in her as in +ilda. !nd he had always disliked lifford. #o he was pleased, and very tender with his daughter, as if the unborn child were his child. +e drove with her to +artlands hotel, and saw her installed: then went round to his club. #he had refused his company for the evening. #he found a letter from 1ellors. I wont come round to your hotel, but Ill wait for you outside the @olden ock in !dam #treet at seven. There he stood, tall and slender, and so different, in a formal suit of thin dark cloth. +e had a natural distinction, but he had not the cut*to*pattern look of her class. 3et, she saw at once, he could go anywhere. +e had a native breeding which was really much nicer than the cut*to*pattern class thing. .!h, there you are8 +ow well you look8 .3es8 2ut not you. #he looked in his face an)iously. It was thin, and the cheekbones showed. 2ut his eyes smiled at her, and she felt at home with him. There it was: suddenly, the tension of keeping up her appearances fell from her. #omething flowed out of him physically, that made her feel inwardly at ease and happy, at home. With a womans now alert instinct for happiness, she registered it at once. .Im happy when hes there8 ;ot all the sunshine of Denice had given her this inward e)pansion and warmth. .Was it horrid for you: she asked as she sat opposite him at table. +e was too thin> she saw it now. +is hand lay as she knew it, with the curious loose forgottenness of a sleeping animal. #he wanted so much to take it and kiss it. 2ut she did not 0uite dare. .6eople are always horrid, he said. .!nd did you mind very much: .I minded, as I always shall mind. !nd I knew I was a fool to mind. .7id you feel like a dog with a tin can tied to its tail: lifford said you felt like that. +e looked at her. It was cruel of her at that moment: for his pride had suffered bitterly. .I suppose I did, he said. #he never knew the fierce bitterness with which he resented insult. There was a long pause. .!nd did you miss me: she asked. .I was glad you were out of it. !gain there was a pause. .2ut did people believe about you and me: she asked. .;o8 I dont think so for a moment. .7id lifford: .I should say not. +e put it off without thinking about it. 2ut naturally it made him want to see the last of me. .Im going to have a child. The e)pression died utterly out of his face, out of his whole body. +e looked at her with darkened eyes, whose look she could not understand at all: like some dark*flamed spirit looking at her.

.#ay youre glad8 she pleaded, groping for his hand. !nd she saw a certain e)ultance spring up in him. 2ut it was netted down by things she could not understand. .Its the future, he said. .2ut arent you glad: she persisted. .I have such a terrible mistrust of the future. .2ut you neednt be troubled by any responsibility. lifford would have it as his own, hed be glad. #he saw him go pale, and recoil under this. +e did not answer. .#hall I go back to lifford and put a little baronet into Wragby: she asked. +e looked at her, pale and very remote. The ugly little grin flickered on his face. .3ou wouldnt have to tell him who the father was: .Oh8 she said> .hed take it even then, if I wanted him to. +e thought for a time. .!y8 he said at last, to himself. .I suppose he would. There was silence. ! big gulf was between them. .2ut you dont want me to go back to lifford, do you: she asked him. .What do you want yourself: he replied. .I want to live with you, she said simply. In spite of himself, little flames ran over his belly as he heard her say it, and he dropped his head. Then he looked up at her again, with those haunted eyes. .If its worth it to you, he said. .Ive got nothing. .3ouve got more than most men. ome, you know it, she said. .In one way, I know it. +e was silent for a time, thinking. Then he resumed: .They used to say I had too much of the woman in me. 2ut its not that. Im not a woman not because I dont want to shoot birds, neither because I dont want to make money, or get on. I could have got on in the army, easily, but I didnt like the army. Though I could manage the men all right: they liked me and they had a bit of a holy fear of me when I got mad. ;o, it was stupid, dead*handed higher authority that made the army dead: absolutely fool*dead. I like men, and men like me. 2ut I cant stand the twaddling bossy impudence of the people who run this world. Thats why I cant get on. I hate the impudence of money, and I hate the impudence of class. #o in the world as it is, what have I to offer a woman: .2ut why offer anything: Its not a bargain. Its 4ust that we love one another, she said. .;ay, nay8 Its more than that. /iving is moving and moving on. 1y life wont go down the proper gutters, it 4ust wont. #o Im a bit of a waste ticket by myself. !nd Ive no business to take a woman into my life, unless my life does something and gets somewhere, inwardly at least, to keep us both fresh. ! man must offer a woman some meaning in his life, if its going to be an isolated life, and if shes a genuine woman. I cant be 4ust your male concubine. .Why not: she said. .Why, because I cant. !nd you would soon hate it. .!s if you couldnt trust me, she said. The grin flickered on his face. .The money is yours, the position is yours, the decisions will lie with you. Im not 4ust my /adys

fucker, after all. .What else are you: .3ou may well ask. It no doubt is invisible. 3et Im something to myself at least. I can see the point of my own e)istence, though I can 0uite understand nobody elses seeing it. .!nd will your e)istence have less point, if you live with me: +e paused a long time before replying: .It might. #he too stayed to think about it. .!nd what is the point of your e)istence: .I tell you, its invisible. I dont believe in the world, not in money, nor in advancement, nor in the future of our civili"ation. If theres got to be a future for humanity, therell have to be a very big change from what now is. .!nd what will the real future have to be like: .@od knows8 I can feel something inside me, all mi)ed up with a lot of rage. 2ut what it really amounts to, I dont know. .#hall I tell you: she said, looking into his face. .#hall I tell you what you have that other men dont have, and that will make the future: #hall I tell you: .Tell me then, he replied. .Its the courage of your own tenderness, thats what it is: like when you put your hand on my tail and say Ive got a pretty tail. The grin came flickering on his face. .That8 he said. Then he sat thinking. .!y8 he said. .3oure right. Its that really. Its that all the way through. I knew it with the men. I had to be in touch with them, physically, and not go back on it. I had to be bodily aware of them and a bit tender to them, even if I put em through hell. Its a 0uestion of awareness, as 2uddha said. 2ut even he fought shy of the bodily awareness, and that natural physical tenderness, which is the best, even between men> in a proper manly way. 1akes em really manly, not so monkeyish. !y8 its tenderness, really> its cunt*awareness. #e) is really only touch, the closest of all touch. !nd its touch were afraid of. Were only half*conscious, and half alive. Weve got to come alive and aware. (specially the (nglish have got to get into touch with one another, a bit delicate and a bit tender. Its our crying need. #he looked at him. .Then why are you afraid of me: she said. +e looked at her a long time before he answered. .Its the money, really, and the position. Its the world in you. .2ut isnt there tenderness in me: she said wistfully. +e looked down at her, with darkened, abstract eyes. .!y8 It comes an goes, like in me. .2ut cant you trust it between you and me: she asked, ga"ing an)iously at him. #he saw his face all softening down, losing its armour. .1aybe8 he said. They were both silent.

.I want you to hold me in your arms, she said. .I want you to tell me you are glad we are having a child. #he looked so lovely and warm and wistful, his bowels stirred towards her. .I suppose we can go to my room, he said. .Though its scandalous again. 2ut she saw the forgetfulness of the world coming over him again, his face taking the soft, pure look of tender passion. They walked by the remoter streets to oburg #0uare, where he had a room at the top of the house, an attic room where he cooked for himself on a gas ring. It was small, but decent and tidy. #he took off her things, and made him do the same. #he was lovely in the soft first flush of her pregnancy. .I ought to leave you alone, he said. .;o8 she said. ./ove me8 /ove me, and say youll keep me. #ay youll keep me8 #ay youll never let me go, to the world nor to anybody. #he crept close against him, clinging fast to his thin, strong naked body, the only home she had ever known. .Then Ill keep thee, he said. .If tha wants it, then Ill keep thee. +e held her round and fast. .!nd say youre glad about the child, she repeated. .Aiss it8 Aiss my womb and say youre glad its there. 2ut that was more difficult for him. .Ive a dread of puttin children i th world, he said. .Ive such a dread o th future for em. .2ut youve put it into me. 2e tender to it, and that will be its future already. Aiss it8 +e 0uivered, because it was true. .2e tender to it, and that will be its future. 9 !t that moment he felt a sheer love for the woman. +e kissed her belly and her mound of Denus, to kiss close to the womb and the foetus within the womb. .Oh, you love me8 3ou love me8 she said, in a little cry like one of her blind, inarticulate love cries. !nd he went in to her softly, feeling the stream of tenderness flowing in release from his bowels to hers, the bowels of compassion kindled between them. !nd he reali"ed as he went into her that this was the thing he had to do, to e into tender touch, without losing his pride or his dignity or his integrity as a man. !fter all, if she had money and means, and he had none, he should be too proud and honourable to hold back his tenderness from her on that account. .I stand for the touch of bodily awareness between human beings, he said to himself, .and the touch of tenderness. !nd she is my mate. !nd it is a battle against the money, and the machine, and the insentient ideal monkeyishness of the world. !nd she will stand behind me there. Thank @od Ive got a woman8 Thank @od Ive got a woman who is with me, and tender and aware of me. Thank @od shes not a bully, nor a fool. Thank @od shes a tender, aware woman. !nd as his seed sprang in her, his soul sprang towards her too, in the creative act that is far more than procreative. #he was 0uite determined now that there should be no parting between him and her. 2ut the ways and means were still to settle. .7id you hate 2ertha outts: she asked him. .7ont talk to me about her. .3es8 3ou must let me. 2ecause once you liked her. !nd once you were as intimate with her as you

are with me. #o you have to tell me. Isnt it rather terrible, when youve been intimate with her, to hate her so: Why is it: .I dont know. #he sort of kept her will ready against me, always, always: her ghastly female will: her freedom8 ! womans ghastly freedom that ends in the most beastly bullying8 Oh, she always kept her freedom against me, like vitriol in my face. .2ut shes not free of you even now. 7oes she still love you: .;o, no8 If shes not free of me, its because shes got that mad rage, she must try to bully me. .2ut she must have loved you. .;o8 Well, in specks she did. #he was drawn to me. !nd I think even that she hated. #he loved me in moments. 2ut she always took it back, and started bullying. +er deepest desire was to bully me, and there was no altering her. +er will was wrong, from the first. .2ut perhaps she felt you didnt really love her, and she wanted to make you. .1y @od, it was bloody making. .2ut you didnt really love her, did you: 3ou did her that wrong. .+ow could I: I began to. I began to love her. 2ut somehow, she always ripped me up. ;o, dont lets talk of it. It was a doom, that was. !nd she was a doomed woman. This last time, Id have shot her like I shoot a stoat, if Id but been allowed: a raving, doomed thing in the shape of a woman8 If only I could have shot her, and ended the whole misery8 It ought to be allowed. When a woman gets absolutely possessed by her own will, her own will set against everything, then its fearful, and she should be shot at last. .!nd shouldnt men be shot at last, if they get possessed by their own will: .!y8 9 the same8 2ut I must get free of her, or shell be at me again. I wanted to tell you. I must get a divorce if I possibly can. #o we must be careful. We mustnt really be seen together, you and I. I never, never could stand it if she came down on me and you. onnie pondered this. .Then we cant be together: she said. .;ot for si) months or so. 2ut I think my divorce will go through in #eptember> then till 1arch. .2ut the baby will probably be born at the end of 'ebruary, she said. +e was silent. .I could wish the liffords and 2erthas all dead, he said. .Its not being very tender to them, she said. .Tender to them: 3ea, even then the tenderest thing you could do for them, perhaps, would be to give them death. They cant live8 They only frustrate life. Their souls are awful inside them. 7eath ought to be sweet to them. !nd I ought to be allowed to shoot them. .2ut you wouldnt do it, she said. .I would though8 and with less 0ualms than I shoot a weasel. It anyhow has a prettiness and a loneliness. 2ut they are legion. Oh, Id shoot them. .Then perhaps it is 4ust as well you darent. .Well. onnie had now plenty to think of. It was evident he wanted absolutely to be free of 2ertha outts. !nd she felt he was right. The last attack had been too grim. 9 This meant her living alone, till spring. 6erhaps she could get divorced from lifford. 2ut how: If 1ellors were named, then there

was an end to his divorce. +ow loathsome8 ouldnt one go right away, to the far ends of the earth, and be free from it all: One could not. The far ends of the world are not five minutes from haring ross, nowadays. While the wireless is active, there are no far ends of the earth. Aings of 7ahomey and /amas of Tibet listen in to /ondon and ;ew 3ork. 6atience8 6atience8 The world is a vast and ghastly intricacy of mechanism, and one has to be very wary, not to get mangled by it. onnie confided in her father. .3ou see, 'ather, he was liffords game*keeper: but he was an officer in the army in India. Only he is like olonel . (. 'lorence, who preferred to become a private soldier again. #ir 1alcolm, however, had no sympathy with the unsatisfactory mysticism of the famous . (. 'lorence. +e saw too much advertisement behind all the humility. It looked 4ust like the sort of conceit the knight most loathed, the conceit of self*abasement. .Where did your game*keeper spring from: asked #ir 1alcolm irritably. .+e was a colliers son in Tevershall. 2ut hes absolutely presentable. The knighted artist became more angry. ./ooks to me like a gold*digger, he said. .!nd youre a pretty easy gold*mine, apparently. .;o, 'ather, its not like that. 3oud know if you saw him. +es a man. lifford always detested him for not being humble. .!pparently he had a good instinct, for once. What #ir 1alcolm could not bear was the scandal of his daughters having an intrigue with a game* keeper. +e did not mind the intrigue: he minded the scandal. .I care nothing about the fellow. +es evidently been able to get round you all right. 2ut, by @od, think of all the talk. Think of your step*mother how shell take it8 .I know, said onnie. .Talk is beastly: especially if you live in society. !nd he wants so much to get his own divorce. I thought we might perhaps say it was another mans child, and not mention 1ellors name at all. .!nother mans8 What other mans: .6erhaps 7uncan 'orbes. +e has been our friend all his life. .!nd hes a fairly well*known artist. !nd hes fond of me. .Well Im damned8 6oor 7uncan8 !nd whats he going to get out of it: .I dont know. 2ut he might rather like it, even. .+e might, might he: Well, hes a funny man if he does. Why, youve never even had an affair with him, have you: .;o8 2ut he doesnt really want it. +e only loves me to be near him, but not to touch him. .1y @od, what a generation8 .+e would like me most of all to be a model for him to paint from. Only I never wanted to. .@od help him8 2ut he looks down*trodden enough for anything. .#till, you wouldnt mind so much the talk about him: .1y @od, onnie, all the bloody contriving8 .I know8 Its sickening8 2ut what can I do:

. ontriving, conniving> conniving, contriving8 1akes a man think hes lived too long. . ome, 'ather, if you havent done a good deal of contriving and conniving in your time, you may talk. .2ut it was different, I assure you. .Its always different. +ilda arrived, also furious when she heard of the new developments. !nd she also simply could not stand the thought of a public scandal about her sister and a game*keeper. Too, too humiliating8 .Why should we not 4ust disappear, separately, to 2ritish olumbia, and have no scandal: said onnie. 2ut that was no good. The scandal would come out 4ust the same. !nd if onnie was going with the man, shed better be able to marry him. This was +ildas opinion. #ir 1alcolm wasnt sure. The affair might still blow over. .2ut will you see him, 'ather: 6oor #ir 1alcolm8 he was by no means keen on it. !nd poor 1ellors, he was still less keen. 3et the meeting took place: a lunch in a private room at the club, the two men alone, looking one another up and down. #ir 1alcolm drank a fair amount of whisky, 1ellors also drank. !nd they talked all the while about India, on which the young man was well informed. This lasted during the meal. Only when coffee was served, and the waiter had gone, #ir 1alcolm lit a cigar and said, heartily: .Well, young man, and what about my daughter: The grin flickered on 1ellors face. .Well, #ir, and what about her: .3ouve got a baby in her all right. .I have that honour8 grinned 1ellors. .+onour, by @od8 #ir 1alcolm gave a little s0uirting laugh, and became #cotch and lewd. .+onour8 +ow was the going, eh: @ood, my boy, what: .@ood8 .Ill bet it was8 +a*ha8 1y daughter, chip of the old block, what8 I never went back on a good bit of fucking, myself. Though her mother, oh, holy saints8 +e rolled his eyes to heaven. .2ut you warmed her up, oh, you warmed her up, I can see that. +a*ha8 1y blood in her8 3ou set fire to her haystack all right. +a*ha*ha8 I was 4olly glad of it, I can tell you. #he needed it. Oh, shes a nice girl, shes a nice girl, and I knew shed be good going, if only some damned man would set her stack on fire8 +a*ha*ha8 ! game*keeper, eh, my boy8 2loody good poacher, if you ask me. +a*ha8 2ut now, look here, speaking seriously, what are we going to do about it: #peaking seriously, you know8 #peaking seriously, they didnt get very far. 1ellors, though a little tipsy, was much the soberer of the two. +e kept the conversation as intelligent as possible: which isnt saying much. .#o youre a game*keeper8 Oh, youre 0uite right8 That sort of game is worth a mans while, eh, what: The test of a woman is when you pinch her bottom. 3ou can tell 4ust by the feel of her bottom if shes going to come up all right. +a*ha8 I envy you, my boy. +ow old are you: .Thirty*nine. The knight lifted his eyebrows.

.!s much as that8 Well, youve another good twenty years, by the look of you. Oh, game*keeper or not, youre a good cock. I can see that with one eye shut. ;ot like that blasted lifford8 ! lily* livered hound with never a fuck in him, never had. I like you, my boy, Ill bet youve a good cod on you> oh, youre a bantam, I can see that. 3oure a fighter. @ame*keeper8 +a*ha, by crikey, I wouldnt trust my game to you8 2ut look here, seriously, what are we going to do about it: The worlds full of blasted old women. #eriously, they didnt do anything about it, e)cept establish the old free*masonry of male sensuality between them. .!nd look here, my boy, if ever I can do anything for you, you can rely on me. @ame*keeper8 hrist, but its rich8 I like it8 Oh, I like it8 #hows the girls got spunk. What: !fter all, you know, she has her own income, moderate, moderate, but above starvation. !nd Ill leave her what Ive got. 2y @od, I will. #he deserves it for showing spunk, in a world of old women. Ive been struggling to get myself clear of the skirts of old women for seventy years, and havent managed it yet. 2ut youre the man, I can see that. .Im glad you think so. They usually tell me, in a sideways fashion, that Im the monkey. .Oh, they would8 1y dear fellow, what could you be but a monkey, to all the old women: They parted most genially, and 1ellors laughed inwardly all the time for the rest of the day. The following day he had lunch with onnie and +ilda, at some discreet place. .Its a very great pity its such an ugly situation all round, said +ilda. .I had a lot o fun out of it, said he. .I think you might have avoided putting children into the world until you were both free to marry and have children. .The /ord blew a bit too soon on the spark, said he. .I think the /ord had nothing to do with it. Of course, onnie has enough money to keep you both, but the situation is unbearable. .2ut then you dont have to bear more than a small corner of it, do you: said he. .If youd been in her own class. .Or if Id been in a cage at the Qoo. There was silence. .I think, said +ilda, .it will be best if she names 0uite another man as co*respondent and you stay out of it altogether. .2ut I thought Id put my foot right in. .I mean in the divorce proceedings. +e ga"ed at her in wonder. onnie had not dared mention the 7uncan scheme to him. .I dont follow, he said. .We have a friend who would probably agree to be named as co*respondent, so that your name need not appear, said +ilda. .3ou mean a man: .Of course8 .2ut shes got no other: +e looked in wonder at onnie.

.;o, no8 she said hastily. .Only that old friendship, 0uite simple, no love. .Then why should the fellow take the blame: If hes had nothing out of you: .#ome men are chivalrous and dont only count what they get out of a woman, said +ilda. .One for me, eh: 2ut whos the 4ohnny: .! friend whom weve known since we were children in #cotland, an artist. .7uncan 'orbes8 he said at once, for onnie had talked to him. .!nd how would you shift the blame on to him: .They could stay together in some hotel, or she could even stay in his apartment. .#eems to me like a lot of fuss for nothing, he said. .What else do you suggest: said +ilda. .If your name appears, you will get no divorce from your wife, who is apparently 0uite an impossible person to be mi)ed up with. .!ll that8 he said grimly. There was a long silence. .We could go right away, he said. .There is no right away for onnie, said +ilda. . lifford is too well known. !gain the silence of pure frustration. .The world is what it is. If you want to live together without being persecuted, you will have to marry. To marry, you both have to be divorced. #o how are you both going about it: +e was silent for a long time. .+ow are you going about it for us: he said. .We will see if 7uncan will consent to figure as co*respondent: then we must get lifford to divorce onnie: and you must go on with your divorce, and you must both keep apart till you are free. .#ounds like a lunatic asylum. .6ossibly8 !nd the world would look on you as lunatics: or worse. .What is worse: . riminals, I suppose. .+ope I can plunge in the dagger a few more times yet, he said, grinning. Then he was silent, and angry. .Well8 he said at last. .I agree to anything. The world is a raving idiot, and no man can kill it: though Ill do my best. 2ut you re right. We must rescue ourselves as best we can. +e looked in humiliation, anger, weariness and misery at onnie. .1a lass8 he said. .The worlds goin to put salt on thy tail. .;ot if we dont let it, she said. #he minded this conniving against the world less than he did. 7uncan, when approached, also insisted on seeing the delin0uent game*keeper, so there was a dinner, this time in his flat: the four of them. 7uncan was a rather short, broad, dark*skinned, taciturn +amlet of a fellow with straight black hair and a weird eltic conceit of himself. +is art was all tubes and valves and spirals and strange colours, ultra*modern, yet with a certain power, even a certain purity of form and tone: only 1ellors thought it cruel and repellent. +e did not venture to say so, for 7uncan was almost insane on the point of his art: it was a personal cult, a

personal religion with him. They were looking at the pictures in the studio, and 7uncan kept his smallish brown eyes on the other man. +e wanted to hear what the game*keeper would say. +e knew already onnies and +ildas opinions. .It is like a pure bit of murder, said 1ellors at last> a speech 7uncan by no means e)pected from a game*keeper. .!nd who is murdered: asked +ilda, rather coldly and sneeringly. .1e8 It murders all the bowels of compassion in a man. ! wave of pure hate came out of the artist. +e heard the note of dislike in the other mans voice, and the note of contempt. !nd he himself loathed the mention of bowels of compassion. #ickly sentiment8 1ellors stood rather tall and thin, worn*looking, ga"ing with flickering detachment that was something like the dancing of a moth on the wing, at the pictures. .6erhaps stupidity is murdered> sentimental stupidity, sneered the artist. .7o you think so: I think all these tubes and corrugated vibrations are stupid enough for anything, and pretty sentimental. They show a lot of self*pity and an awful lot of nervous self*opinion, seems to me. In another wave of hate the artists face looked yellow. 2ut with a sort of silent hauteur he turned the pictures to the wall. .I think we may go to the dining*room, he said. !nd they trailed off, dismally. !fter coffee, 7uncan said: .I dont at all mind posing as the father of onnies child. 2ut only on the condition that shell come and pose as a model for me. Ive wanted her for years, and shes always refused. +e uttered it with the dark finality of an in0uisitor announcing an auto da fe. .!h8 said 1ellors. .3ou only do it on condition, then: .Fuite8 I only do it on that condition. The artist tried to put the utmost contempt of the other person into his speech. +e put a little too much. .2etter have me as a model at the same time, said 1ellors. .2etter do us in a group, Dulcan and Denus under the net of art. I used to be a blacksmith, before I was a game*keeper. .Thank you, said the artist. .I dont think Dulcan has a figure that interests me. .;ot even if it was tubified and titivated up: There was no answer. The artist was too haughty for further words. It was a dismal party, in which the artist henceforth steadily ignored the presence of the other man, and talked only briefly, as if the words were wrung out of the depths of his gloomy portentousness, to the women. .3ou didnt like him, but hes better than that, really. +es really kind, onnie e)plained as they left. .+es a little black pup with a corrugated distemper, said 1ellors. .;o, he wasnt nice today. .!nd will you go and be a model to him: .Oh, I dont really mind any more. +e wont touch me. !nd I dont mind anything, if it paves the way to a life together for you and me.

.2ut hell only shit on you on canvas. .I dont care. +ell only be painting his own feelings for me, and I dont mind if he does that. I wouldnt have him touch me, not for anything. 2ut if he thinks he can do anything with his owlish arty staring, let him stare. +e can make as many empty tubes and corrugations out of me as he likes. Its his funeral. +e hated you for what you said: that his tubified art is sentimental and self* important. 2ut of course its true.

Chapter 1
7ear lifford, I am afraid what you foresaw has happened. I am really in love with another man, and do hope you will divorce me. I am staying at present with 7uncan its his flat. I told you he was at Denice with us. Im awfully unhappy for your sake: but do try to take it 0uietly. 3ou dont really need me any more, and I cant bear to come back to Wragby. Im awfully sorry. 2ut do try to forgive me, and divorce me and find someone better. Im not really the right person for you, I am too impatient and selfish, I suppose. 2ut I cant ever come back to live with you again. !nd I feel so frightfully sorry about it all, for your sake. 2ut if you dont let yourself get worked up, youll see you wont mind so frightfully. 3ou didnt really care about me personally. #o do forgive me and get rid of me. lifford was not inwardly surprised to get this letter. Inwardly, he had known for a long time she was leaving him. 2ut he had absolutely refused any outward admission of it. Therefore, outwardly, it came as the most terrible blow and shock to him, +e had kept the surface of his confidence in her 0uite serene. !nd that is how we are, 2y strength of will we cut of four inner intuitive knowledge from admitted consciousness. This causes a state of dread, or apprehension, which makes the blow ten times worse when it does fall. lifford was like a hysterical child. +e gave 1rs 2olton a terrible shock, sitting up in bed ghastly and blank. .Why, #ir lifford, whatevers the matter: ;o answer8 #he was terrified lest he had had a stroke. #he hurried and felt his face, took his pulse. .Is there a pain: 7o try and tell me where it hurts you. 7o tell me8 ;o answer8 .Oh dear, oh dear8 Then Ill telephone to #heffield for 7r arrington, and 7r /ecky may as well run round straight away. #he was moving to the door, when he said in a hollow tone: .;o8 #he stopped and ga"ed at him. +is face was yellow, blank, and like the face of an idiot. .7o you mean youd rather I didnt fetch the doctor: .3es8 I dont want him, came the sepulchral voice. .Oh, but #ir lifford, youre ill, and I darent take the responsibility. I must send for the doctor, or I shall be blamed. ! pause: then the hollow voice said: .Im not ill. 1y wife isnt coming back. 9 It was as if an image spoke. .;ot coming back: you mean her ladyship: 1rs 2olton moved a little nearer to the bed. .Oh, dont you believe it. 3ou can trust her ladyship to come back.

The image in the bed did not change, but it pushed a letter over the counterpane. .5ead it8 said the sepulchral voice. .Why, if its a letter from her ladyship, Im sure her ladyship wouldnt want me to read her letter to you, #ir lifford. 3ou can tell me what she says, if you wish. .5ead it8 repeated the voice. .Why, if I must, I do it to obey you, #ir lifford, she said. !nd she read the letter. .Well, I am surprised at her ladyship, she said. .#he promised so faithfully shed come back8 The face in the bed seemed to deepen its e)pression of wild, but motionless distraction. 1rs 2olton looked at it and was worried. #he knew what she was up against: male hysteria. #he had not nursed soldiers without learning something about that very unpleasant disease. #he was a little impatient of #ir lifford. !ny man in his senses must have known his wife was in love with somebody else, and was going to leave him. (ven, she was sure, #ir lifford was inwardly absolutely aware of it, only he wouldnt admit it to himself. If he would have admitted it, and prepared himself for it: or if he would have admitted it, and actively struggled with his wife against it: that would have been acting like a man. 2ut no8 he knew it, and all the time tried to kid himself it wasnt so. +e felt the devil twisting his tail, and pretended it was the angels smiling on him. This state of falsity had now brought on that crisis of falsity and dislocation, hysteria, which is a form of insanity. .It comes, she thought to herself, hating him a little, .because he always thinks of himself. +es so wrapped up in his own immortal self, that when he does get a shock hes like a mummy tangled in its own bandages. /ook at him8 2ut hysteria is dangerous: and she was a nurse, it was her duty to pull him out. !ny attempt to rouse his manhood and his pride would only make him worse: for his manhood was dead, temporarily if not finally. +e would only s0uirm softer and softer, like a worm, and become more dislocated. The only thing was to release his self*pity. /ike the lady in Tennyson, he must weep or he must die. #o 1rs 2olton began to weep first. #he covered her face with her hand and burst into little wild sobs. .I would never have believed it of her ladyship, I wouldnt8 she wept, suddenly summoning up all her old grief and sense of woe, and weeping the tears of her own bitter chagrin. Once she started, her weeping was genuine enough, for she had had something to weep for. lifford thought of the way he had been betrayed by the woman onnie, and in a contagion of grief, tears filled his eyes and began to run down his cheeks. +e was weeping for himself. 1rs 2olton, as soon as she saw the tears running over his blank face, hastily wiped her own wet cheeks on her little handkerchief, and leaned towards him. .;ow, dont you fret, #ir lifford8 she said, in a lu)ury of emotion. .;ow, dont you fret, dont, youll only do yourself an in4ury8 +is body shivered suddenly in an indrawn breath of silent sobbing, and the tears ran 0uicker down his face. #he laid her hand on his arm, and her own tears fell again. !gain the shiver went through him, like a convulsion, and she laid her arm round his shoulder. .There, there8 There, there8 7ont you fret, then, dont you8 7ont you fret8 she moaned to him, while her own tears fell. !nd she drew him to her, and held her arms round his great shoulders, while he laid his face on her bosom and sobbed, shaking and hulking his huge shoulders, whilst she softly stroked his dusky*blond hair and said: .There8 There8 There8 There then8 There then8 ;ever you mind8 ;ever you mind, then8 !nd he put his arms round her and clung to her like a child, wetting the bib of her starched white apron, and the bosom of her pale*blue cotton dress, with his tears. +e had let himself go altogether, at last. #o at length she kissed him, and rocked him on her bosom, and in her heart she said to herself: .Oh, #ir lifford8 Oh, high and mighty hatterleys8 Is this what youve come down to8 !nd finally he

even went to sleep, like a child. !nd she felt worn out, and went to her own room, where she laughed and cried at once, with a hysteria of her own. It was so ridiculous8 It was so awful8 #uch a come*down8 #o shameful8 !nd it was so upsetting as well. !fter this, lifford became like a child with 1rs 2olton. +e would hold her h, and rest his head on her breast, and when she once lightly kissed him, he said8 .3es8 7o kiss me8 7o kiss me8 !nd when she sponged his great blond body, he would say the same8 .7o kiss me8 and she would lightly kiss his body, anywhere, half in mockery. !nd he lay with a 0ueer, blank face like a child, with a bit of the wonderment of a child. !nd he would ga"e on her with wide, childish eyes, in a rela)ation of madonna*worship. It was sheer rela)ation on his part, letting go all his manhood, and sinking back to a childish position that was really perverse. !nd then he would put his hand into her bosom and feel her breasts, and kiss them in e)ultation, the e)ultation of perversity, of being a child when he was a man. 1rs 2olton was both thrilled and ashamed, she both loved and hated it. 3et she never rebuffed nor rebuked him. !nd they drew into a closer physical intimacy, an intimacy of perversity, when he was a child stricken with an apparent candour and an apparent wonderment, that looked almost like a religious e)altation: the perverse and literal rendering of: .e)cept ye become again as a little child. 9 While she was the 1agna 1ater, full of power and potency, having the great blond child*man under her will and her stroke entirely. The curious thing was that when this child*man, which lifford was now and which he had been becoming for years, emerged into the world, it was much sharper and keener than the real man he used to be. This perverted child*man was now a real business*man> when it was a 0uestion of affairs, he was an absolute he*man, sharp as a needle, and impervious as a bit of steel. When he was out among men, seeking his own ends, and .making good his colliery workings, he had an almost uncanny shrewdness, hardness, and a straight sharp punch. It was as if his very passivity and prostitution to the 1agna 1ater gave him insight into material business affairs, and lent him a certain remarkable inhuman force. The wallowing in private emotion, the utter abasement of his manly self, seemed to lend him a second nature, cold, almost visionary, business*clever. In business he was 0uite inhuman. !nd in this 1rs 2olton triumphed. .+ow hes getting on8 she would say to herself in pride. .!nd thats my doing8 1y word, hed never have got on like this with /ady hatterley. #he was not the one to put a man forward. #he wanted too much for herself. !t the same time, in some corner of her weird female soul, how she despised him and hated him8 +e was to her the fallen beast, the s0uirming monster. !nd while she aided and abetted him all she could, away in the remotest corner of her ancient healthy womanhood she despised him with a savage contempt that knew no bounds. The merest tramp was better than he. +is behaviour with regard to onnie was curious. +e insisted on seeing her again. +e insisted, moreover, on her coming to Wragby. On this point he was finally and absolutely fi)ed. onnie had promised to come back to Wragby, faithfully. .2ut is it any use: said 1rs 2olton. . ant you let her go, and be rid of her: .;o8 #he said she was coming back, and shes got to come. 1rs 2olton opposed him no more. #he knew what she was dealing with. I neednt tell you what effect your letter has had on me Rhe wrote to onnie to /ondonS. 6erhaps you can imagine it if you try, though no doubt you wont trouble to use your imagination on my behalf. I can only say one thing in answer: I must see you personally, here at Wragby, before I can do anything. 3ou promised faithfully to come back to Wragby, and I hold you to the promise. I dont believe anything nor understand anything until I see you personally, here under normal

circumstances. I neednt tell you that nobody here suspects anything, so your return would be 0uite normal. Then if you feel, after we have talked things over, that you still remain in the same mind, no doubt we can come to terms. onnie showed this letter to 1ellors. .+e wants to begin his revenge on you, he said, handing the letter back. onnie was silent. #he was somewhat surprised to find that she was afraid of lifford. #he was afraid to go near him. #he was afraid of him as if he were evil and dangerous. .What shall I do: she said. .;othing, if you dont want to do anything. #he replied, trying to put lifford off. +e answered: If you dont come back to Wragby now, I shall consider that you are coming back one day, and act accordingly. I shall 4ust go on the same, and wait for you here, if I wait for fifty years. #he was frightened. This was bullying of an insidious sort. #he had no doubt he meant what he said. +e would not divorce her, and the child would be his, unless she could find some means of establishing its illegitimacy. !fter a time of worry and harassment, she decided to go to Wragby. +ilda would go with her. #he wrote this to lifford. +e replied: I shall not welcome your sister, but I shall not deity her the door. I have no doubt she has connived at your desertion of your duties and responsibilities, so do not e)pect me to show pleasure in seeing her. They went to Wragby. lifford was away when they arrived. 1rs 2olton received them. .Oh, your /adyship, it isnt the happy home*coming we hoped for, is it8 she said. .Isnt it: said onnie. #o this woman knew8 +ow much did the rest of the servants know or suspect: #he entered the house, which now she hated with every fibre in her body. The great, rambling mass of a place seemed evil to her, 4ust a menace over her. #he was no longer its mistress, she was its victim. .I cant stay long here, she whispered to +ilda, terrified. !nd she suffered going into her own bedroom, re*entering into possession as if nothing had happened. #he hated every minute inside the Wragby walls. They did not meet lifford till they went down to dinner. +e was dressed, and with a black tie: rather reserved, and very much the superior gentleman. +e behaved perfectly politely during the meal and kept a polite sort of conversation going: but it seemed all touched with insanity. .+ow much do the servants know: asked onnie, when the woman was out of the room. .Of your intentions: ;othing whatsoever. .1rs 2olton knows. +e changed colour. .1rs 2olton is not e)actly one of the servants, he said. .Oh, I dont mind. There was tension till after coffee, when +ilda said she would go up to her room. lifford and onnie sat in silence when she had gone. ;either would begin to speak. onnie was so

glad that he wasnt taking the pathetic line, she kept him up to as much haughtiness as possible. #he 4ust sat silent and looked down at her hands. .I suppose you dont at all mind having gone back on your word: he said at last. .I cant help it, she murmured. .2ut if you cant, who can: .I suppose nobody. +e looked at her with curious cold rage. +e was used to her. #he was as it were embedded in his will. +ow dared she now go back on him, and destroy the fabric of his daily e)istence: +ow dared she try to cause this derangement of his personality: .!nd for what do you want to go back on everything: he insisted. ./ove8 she said. It was best to be hackneyed. ./ove of 7uncan 'orbes: 2ut you didnt think that worth having, when you met me. 7o you mean to say you now love him better than anything else in life: .One changes, she said. .6ossibly8 6ossibly you may have whims. 2ut you still have to convince me of the importance of the change. I merely dont believe in your love of 7uncan 'orbes. .2ut why should you believe in it: 3ou have only to divorce me, not to believe in my feelings. .!nd why should I divorce you: .2ecause I dont want to live here any more. !nd you really dont want me. .6ardon me8 I dont change. 'or my part, since you are my wife, I should prefer that you should stay under my roof in dignity and 0uiet. /eaving aside personal feelings, and I assure you, on my part it is leaving aside a great deal, it is bitter as death to me to have this order of life broken up, here in Wragby, and the decent round of daily life smashed, 4ust for some whim of yours. !fter a time of silence she said: .I cant help it. Ive got to go. I e)pect I shall have a child. +e too was silent for a time. .!nd is it for the childs sake you must go: he asked at length. #he nodded. .!nd why: Is 7uncan 'orbes so keen on his spawn: .#urely keener than you would be, she said. .2ut really: I want my wife, and I see no reason for letting her go. If she likes to bear a child under my roof, she is welcome, and the child is welcome: provided that the decency and order of life is preserved. 7o you mean to tell me that 7uncan 'orbes has a greater hold over you: I dont believe it. There was a pause. .2ut dont you see, said onnie. .I must go away from you, and I must live with the man I love. .;o, I dont see it8 I dont give tuppence for your love, nor for the man you love. I dont believe in that sort of cant. .2ut you see, I do. .7o you: 1y dear 1adam, you are too intelligent, I assure you, to believe in your own love for 7uncan 'orbes. 2elieve me, even now you really care more for me. #o why should I give in to such

nonsense8 #he felt he was right there. !nd she felt she could keep silent no longer. .2ecause it isnt 7uncan that I do love, she said, looking up at him. .We only said it was 7uncan, to spare your feelings. .To spare my feelings: .3es8 2ecause who I really love, and itll make you hate me, is 1r 1ellors, who was our game* keeper here. If he could have sprung out of his chair, he would have done so. +is face went yellow, and his eyes bulged with disaster as he glared at her. Then he dropped back in the chair, gasping and looking up at the ceiling. !t length he sat up. .7o you mean to say you re telling me the truth: he asked, looking gruesome. .3es8 3ou know I am. .!nd when did you begin with him: .In the spring. +e was silent like some beast in a trap. .!nd it was you, then, in the bedroom at the cottage: #o he had really inwardly known all the time. .3es8 +e still leaned forward in his chair, ga"ing at her like a cornered beast. .1y @od, you ought to be wiped off the face of the earth8 .Why: she e4aculated faintly. 2ut he seemed not to hear. .That scum8 That bumptious lout8 That miserable cad8 !nd carrying on with him all the time, while you were here and he was one of my servants8 1y @od, my @od, is there any end to the beastly lowness of women8 +e was beside himself with rage, as she knew he would be. .!nd you mean to say you want to have a child to a cad like that: .3es8 Im going to. .3oure going to8 3ou mean youre sure8 +ow long have you been sure: .#ince Gune. +e was speechless, and the 0ueer blank look of a child came over him again. .3oud wonder, he said at last, .that such beings were ever allowed to be born. .What beings: she asked. +e looked at her weirdly, without an answer. It was obvious, he couldnt even accept the fact of the e)istence of 1ellors, in any conne)ion with his own life. It was sheer, unspeakable, impotent hate. .!nd do you mean to say youd marry him: 9 and bear his foul name: he asked at length. .3es, thats what I want.

+e was again as if dumbfounded. .3es8 he said at last. .That proves that what Ive always thought about you is correct: youre not normal, youre not in your right senses. 3oure one of those half*insane, perverted women who must run after depravity, the nostalgie de la boue. #uddenly he had become almost wistfully moral, seeing himself the incarnation of good, and people like 1ellors and onnie the incarnation of mud, of evil. +e seemed to be growing vague, inside a nimbus. .#o dont you think youd better divorce me and have done with it: she said. .;o8 3ou can go where you like, but I shant divorce you, he said idiotically. .Why not: +e was silent, in the silence of imbecile obstinacy. .Would you even let the child be legally yours, and your heir: she said. .I care nothing about the child. .2ut if its a boy it will be legally your son, and it will inherit your title, and have Wragby. .I care nothing about that, he said. .2ut you must8 I shall prevent the child from being legally yours, if I can. Id so much rather it were illegitimate, and mine: if it cant be 1ellors. .7o as you like about that. +e was immovable. .!nd wont you divorce me: she said. .3ou can use 7uncan as a prete)t8 Thered be no need to bring in the real name. 7uncan doesnt mind. . I shall never divorce you, he said, as if a nail had been driven in. .2ut why: 2ecause I want you to: .2ecause I follow my own inclination, and Im not inclined to. It was useless. #he went upstairs and told +ilda the upshot. .2etter get away tomorrow, said +ilda, .and let him come to his senses. #o onnie spent half the night packing her really private and personal effects. In the morning she had her trunks sent to the station, without telling lifford. #he decided to see him only to say good* bye, before lunch. 2ut she spoke to 1rs 2olton. .I must say good*bye to you, 1rs 2olton, you know why. 2ut I can trust you not to talk. .Oh, you can trust me, your /adyship, though its a sad blow for us here, indeed. 2ut I hope youll be happy with the other gentleman. .The other gentleman8 Its 1r 1ellors, and I care for him. #ir lifford knobs. 2ut dont say anything to anybody. !nd if one day you think #ir lifford may be willing to divorce me, let me know, will you: I should like to be properly married to the man I care for. .Im sure you would, my /ady. Oh, you can trust me. Ill be faithful to #ir lifford, and Ill be faithful to you, for I can see youre both right in your own ways. .Thank you8 !nd look8 I want to give you this 9 may I: #o onnie left Wragby once more, and went on with +ilda to #cotland. 1ellors went into the country and got work on a farm. The idea was, he should get his divorce, if possible, whether onnie got hers or not. !nd for si) months he

should work at farming, so that eventually he and onnie could have some small farm of their own, into which he could put his energy. 'or he would have to have some work, even hard work, to do, and he would have to make his own living, even if her capital started him. #o they would have to wait till spring was in, till the baby was born, till the early summer came round again. The /range 0arm &ld "eanor 12 3eptember I got on here with a bit of contriving, because I knew 5ichards, the company engineer, in the army. It is a farm belonging to 2utler and #mitham olliery ompany, they use it for raising hay and oats for the pit*ponies> not a private concern. 2ut theyve got cows and pigs and all the rest of it, and I get thirty shillings a week as labourer. 5owley, the farmer, puts me on to as many 4obs as he can, so that I can learn as much as possible between now and ne)t (aster. Ive not heard a thing about 2ertha. Ive no idea why she didnt show up at the divorce, nor where she is nor what shes up to. 2ut if I keep 0uiet till 1arch I suppose I shall be free. !nd dont you bother about #ir lifford. +ell want to get rid of you one of these days. If he leaves you alone, its a lot. Ive got lodging in a bit of an old cottage in (ngine 5ow very decent. The man is engine*driver at +igh 6ark, tall, with a beard, and very chapel. The woman is a birdy bit of a thing who loves anything superior. Aings (nglish and allow*me8 all the time. 2ut they lost their only son in the war, and its sort of knocked a hole in them. Theres a long gawky lass of a daughter training for a school*teacher, and I help her with her lessons sometimes, so were 0uite the family. 2ut theyre very decent people, and only too kind to me. I e)pect Im more coddled than you are. I like farming all right. Its not inspiring, but then I dont ask to be inspired. Im used to horses, and cows, though they are very female, have a soothing effect on me. When I sit with my head in her side, milking, I feel very solaced. They have si) rather fine +erefords. Oat*harvest is 4ust over and I en4oyed it, in spite of sore hands and a lot of rain. I dont take much notice of people, but get on with them all right. 1ost things one 4ust ignores. The pits are working badly> this is a colliery district like Tevershall. only prettier. I sometimes sit in the Wellington and talk to the men. They grumble a lot, but theyre not going to alter anything. !s everybody says, the ;otts*7erby miners have got their hearts in the right place. 2ut the rest of their anatomy must be in the wrong place, in a world that has no use for them. I like them, but they dont cheer me much: not enough of the old fighting*cock in them. They talk a lot about nationali"ation, nationali"ation of royalties, nationali"ation of the whole industry. 2ut you cant nationali"e coal and leave all the other industries as they are. They talk about putting coal to new uses, like #ir lifford is trying to do. It may work here and there, but not as a general thing. I doubt. Whatever you make youve got to sell it. The men are very apathetic. They feel the whole damned thing is doomed, and I believe it is. !nd they are doomed along with it. #ome of the young ones spout about a #oviet, but theres not much conviction in them. Theres no sort of conviction about anything, e)cept that its all a muddle and a hole. (ven under a #oviet youve still got to sell coal: and thats the difficulty. Weve got this great industrial population, and theyve got to be fed, so the damn show has to be kept going somehow. The women talk a lot more than the men, nowadays, and they are a sight more cock*sure. The men are limp, they feel a doom somewhere, and they go about as if there was nothing to be done. !nyhow, nobody knows what should be done in spite of all the talk, the young ones get mad because theyve no money to spend. Their whole life depends on spending money, and now theyve got none to spend. Thats our civili"ation and our education: bring up the masses to depend entirely on spending money, and then the money gives out. The pits are working two days, two and a half days a week, and theres no sign of betterment even for the winter. It means a man bringing up a family on twenty*five and thirty shillings. The women are the maddest of all. 2ut then theyre the maddest for spending, nowadays. If you could only tell them that living and spending isnt the same thing8 2ut its no good. If only they were educated to live instead of earn and spend, they could manage very happily on twenty*

five shillings. If the men wore scarlet trousers as I said, they wouldnt think so much of money: if they could dance and hop and skip, and sing and swagger and be handsome, they could do with very little cash. !nd amuse the women themselves, and be amused by the women. They ought to learn to be naked and handsome, and to sing in a mass and dance the old group dances, and carve the stools they sit on, and embroider their own emblems. Then they wouldnt need money. !nd thats the only way to solve the industrial problem: train the people to be able to live and live in handsomeness, without needing to spend. 2ut you cant do it. Theyre all one*track minds nowadays. Whereas the mass of people oughtnt even to try to think, because they cant. They should be alive and frisky, and acknowledge the great god 6an. +es the only god for the masses, forever. The few can go in for higher cults if they like. 2ut let the mass be forever pagan. 2ut the colliers arent pagan, far from it. Theyre a sad lot, a deadened lot of men: dead to their women, dead to life. The young ones scoot about on motor*bikes with girls, and 4a"" when they get a chance, 2ut theyre very dead. !nd it needs money. 1oney poisons you when youve got it, and starves you when you havent. Im sure youre sick of all this. 2ut I dont want to harp on myself, and Ive nothing happening to me. I dont like to think too much about you, in my head, that only makes a mess of us both. 2ut, of course, what I live for now is for you and me to live together. Im frightened, really. I feel the devil in the air, and hell try to get us. Or not the devil, 1ammon: which I think, after all, is only the mass*will of people, wanting money and hating life. !nyhow, I feel great grasping white hands in the air, wanting to get hold of the throat of anybody who tries to live, to live beyond money, and s0uee"e the life out. Theres a bad time coming. Theres a bad time coming, boys, theres a bad time coming8 If things go on as they are, theres nothing lies in the future but death and destruction, for these industrial masses. I feel my inside turn to water sometimes, and there you are, going to have a child by me. 2ut never mind. !ll the bad times that ever have been, havent been able to blow the crocus out: not even the love of women. #o they wont be able to blow out my wanting you, nor the little glow there is between you and me. Well be together ne)t year. !nd though Im frightened, I believe in your being with me. ! man has to fend and fettle for the best, and then trust in something beyond himself. 3ou cant insure against the future, e)cept by really believing in the best bit of you, and in the power beyond it. #o I believe in the little flame between us. 'or me now, its the only thing in the world. Ive got no friends, not inward friends. Only you. !nd now the little flame is all I care about in my life. Theres the baby, but that is a side issue. Its my 6entecost, the forked flame between me and you. The old 6entecost isnt 0uite right. 1e and @od is a bit uppish, somehow. 2ut the little forked flame between me and you: there you are8 Thats what I abide by, and will abide by, liffords and 2erthas, colliery companies and governments and the money*mass of people all notwithstanding. Thats why I dont like to start thinking about you actually. It only tortures me, and does you no good. I dont want you to be away from me. 2ut if I start fretting it wastes something. 6atience, always patience. This is my fortieth winter. !nd I cant help all the winters that have been. 2ut this winter Ill stick to my little 6entecost flame, and have some peace. !nd I wont let the breath of people blow it out. I believe in a higher mystery, that doesnt let even the crocus be blown out. !nd if youre in #cotland and Im in the 1idlands, and I cant put my arms round you, and wrap my legs round you, yet Ive got something of you. 1y soul softly ;aps in the little 6entecost flame with you, like the peace of fucking. We fucked a flame into being. (ven the flowers are fucked into being between the sun and the earth. 2ut its a delicate thing, and takes patience and the long pause. #o I love chastity now, because it is the peace that comes of fucking. I love being chaste now. I love it as snowdrops love the snow. I love this chastity, which is the pause of peace of our fucking, between us now like a snowdrop of forked white fire. !nd when the real spring comes, when the drawing together comes, then we can fuck the little flame brilliant and yellow, brilliant. 2ut not now, not yet8 ;ow is the time to be chaste, it is so good to be chaste, like a river of cool water in my soul. I love the chastity now that it flows between us. It is like fresh water and rain. +ow can men want wearisomely to philander. What a misery to be like 7on Guan, and impotent ever to fuck

oneself into peace, and the little flame alight, impotent and unable to be chaste in the cool between* whiles, as by a river. Well, so many words, because I cant touch you. If I could sleep with my arms round you, the ink could stay in the bottle. We could be chaste together 4ust as we can fuck together. 2ut we have to be separate for a while, and I suppose it is really the wiser way. If only one were sure. ;ever mind, never mind, we wont get worked up. We really trust in the little flame, and in the unnamed god that shields it from being blown out. Theres so much of you here with me, really, that its a pity you arent all here. ;ever mind about #ir lifford. If you dont hear anything from him, never mind. +e cant really do anything to you. Wait, he will want to get rid of you at last, to cast you out. !nd if he doesnt, well manage to keep clear of him. 2ut he will. In the end he will want to spew you out as the abominable thing. ;ow I cant even leave off writing to you. 2ut a great deal of us is together, and we can but abide by it, and steer our courses to meet soon. Gohn Thomas says good*night to /ady Gane, a little droopingly, but with a hopeful heart.