A Hot Love Story. Lady Chatterley's Lover. D. H. Lawrence. Chapter 19. |
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Double your pleasure, double your fun! Two very naughty nymphs!
Dear
Clifford, 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
Duncan in his flat. I told you he was at Venice with us. I'm awfully unhappy
for your sake: but do try to take it quietly. You don't really need me any
more, and I can't bear to come back to Wragby. I'm awfully sorry. But do try to
forgive me, and divorce me and find someone better. I'm not really the right
person for you, I am too impatient and selfish, I suppose. But I can't ever
come back to live with you again. And I feel so frightfully sorry about it all,
for your sake. But if you don't let yourself get worked up, you'll see you
won't mind so frightfully. You didn't really care about me personally. So do
forgive me and get rid of me.
Clifford
was not inwardly surprised to get this letter. Inwardly, he had known for a
long time she was leaving him. But he had absolutely refused any outward
admission of it. Therefore, outwardly, it came as the most terrible blow and
shock to him, He had kept the surface of his confidence in her quite serene.
And
that is how we are. By strength of will we cut off our 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.
'Why,
Sir Clifford, whatever's the matter?'
She was
moving to the door, when he said in a hollow tone:
'No!'
The
face in the bed seemed to deepen its expression of wild, but motionless
distraction. Mrs Bolton looked at it and was worried. She knew what she was up
against: male hysteria. She had not nursed soldiers without learning something
about that very unpleasant disease.
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. But no! he knew it, and all the time tried to kid himself it wasn't so. He 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. He's so wrapped up in his own immortal self, that when he does get a shock he's like a mummy tangled in its own bandages.
Look at
him!'
'I would never have believed it of her ladyship, I wouldn't!'
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.
Never you mind, then!'
He would hold her hand, and
rest his head on her breast, and when she once lightly kissed him, he said!
'Yes! Do kiss me! Do kiss me!' And when she sponged his great blond body, he
would say the same! 'Do kiss me!' and she would lightly kiss his body,
anywhere, half in mockery.
'No!
She said she was coming back, and she's got to come.'
Mrs
Bolton opposed him no more. She knew what she was dealing with.
I can
only say one thing in answer: I must see you personally, here at Wragby, before
I can do anything. You promised faithfully to come back to Wragby, and I hold
you to the promise. I don't believe anything nor understand anything until I
see you personally, here under normal circumstances. I needn't tell you that
nobody here suspects anything, so your return would be quite 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.
'Nothing,
if you don't want to do anything.'
She was
frightened. This was bullying of an insidious sort. She had no doubt he meant
what he said. He would not divorce her, and the child would be his, unless she
could find some means of establishing its illegitimacy.
After a
time of worry and harassment, she decided to go to Wragby. Hilda would go with
her. She wrote this to Clifford. He replied:
A nymph leading another man astray! What a naughty girl!
'Mrs
Bolton is not exactly one of the servants,' he said.
'But if
you can't, who can?'
After a
time of silence she said:
'And is
it for the child's sake you must go?' he asked at length.
At
length he sat up.
'Do you
mean to say you're telling me the truth?' he asked, looking gruesome.
'In the
spring.'
He was
silent like some beast in a trap.
'And it
was you, then, in the bedroom at the cottage?'
So he
had really inwardly known all the time.
'Yes!'
He
still leaned forward in his chair, gazing at her like a cornered beast.
'My
God, you ought to be wiped off the face of the earth!'
'Why?'
she ejaculated faintly.
But he
seemed not to hear.
'That
scum! That bumptious lout! That miserable cad! And carrying on with him all the
time, while you were here and he was one of my servants! My God, my God, is
there any end to the beastly lowness of women!'
He was
beside himself with rage, as she knew he would be.
'And
you mean to say you want to have a child to a cad like that?'
'Yes!
I'm going to.'
'You're
going to! You mean you're sure! How long have you been sure?'
'Since
June.'
He was
speechless, and the queer blank look of a child came over him again.
'You'd
wonder,' he said at last, 'that such beings were ever allowed to be born.'
'What
beings?' she asked.
He
looked at her weirdly, without an answer. It was obvious, he couldn't even
accept the fact of the existence of Mellors, in any connexion with his own
life. It was sheer, unspeakable, impotent hate.
'And do
you mean to say you'd marry him?--and bear his foul name?' he asked at length.
'Yes,
that's what I want.'
He was again
as if dumbfounded.
'Yes!'
he said at last. 'That proves that what I've always thought about you is
correct: you're not normal, you're not in your right senses. You're one of
those half-insane, perverted women who must run after depravity, the nostalgie
de la boue.'
Suddenly
he had become almost wistfully moral, seeing himself the incarnation of good,
and people like Mellors and Connie the incarnation of mud, of evil. He seemed
to be growing vague, inside a nimbus.
'So
don't you think you'd better divorce me and have done with it?' she said.
'No!
You can go where you like, but I shan't divorce you,' he said idiotically.
'Why
not?'
He 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.'
'But if
it's a boy it will be legally your son, and it will inherit your title, and
have Wragby.'
'I care
nothing about that,' he said.
'But
you must! I shall prevent the child from being legally yours, if I can. I'd so
much rather it were illegitimate, and mine: if it can't be Mellors'.'
'Do as
you like about that.'
He was
immovable.
'And
won't you divorce me?' she said. 'You can use Duncan as a pretext! There'd be
no need to bring in the real name. Duncan doesn't mind.'
' I
shall never divorce you,' he said, as if a nail had been driven in.
'But
why? Because I want you to?'
The gentleman is looking into his girlfriends eyes.
'Because
I follow my own inclination, and I'm not inclined to.'
It was
useless. She went upstairs and told Hilda the upshot.
'Better
get away tomorrow,' said Hilda, 'and let him come to his senses.'
So
Connie spent half the night packing her really private and personal effects. In
the morning she had her trunks sent to the station, without telling Clifford.
She decided to see him only to say good-bye, before lunch.
But she
spoke to Mrs Bolton.
'I must
say good-bye to you, Mrs Bolton, you know why. But I can trust you not to
talk.'
'Oh,
you can trust me, your Ladyship, though it's a sad blow for us here, indeed.
But I hope you'll be happy with the other gentleman.'
'The
other gentleman! It's Mr Mellors, and I care for him. Sir Clifford knows. But
don't say anything to anybody. And if one day you think Sir Clifford may be
willing to divorce me, let me know, will you? I should like to be properly
married to the man I care for.'
'I'm
sure you would, my Lady. Oh, you can trust me. I'll be faithful to Sir
Clifford, and I'll be faithful to you, for I can see you're both right in your
own ways.'
'Thank
you! And look! I want to give you this--may I?' So Connie left Wragby once
more, and went on with Hilda to Scotland. Mellors went into the country and got
work on a farm. The idea was, he should get his divorce, if possible, whether
Connie got hers or not. And for six months he should work at farming, so that
eventually he and Connie could have some small farm of their own, into which he
could put his energy. For 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.
So they
would have to wait till spring was in, till the baby was born, till the early
summer came round again.
The
Grange Farm
I got
on here with a bit of contriving, because I knew Richards, the company
engineer, in the army. It is a farm belonging to Butler and Smitham Colliery
Company, they use it for raising hay and oats for the pit-ponies; not a private
concern. But they've got cows and pigs and all the rest of it, and I get thirty
shillings a week as labourer. Rowley, the farmer, puts me on to as many jobs as
he can, so that I can learn as much as possible between now and next Easter.
I've not heard a thing about Bertha. I've no idea why she didn't show up at the
divorce, nor where she is nor what she's up to. But if I keep quiet till March
I suppose I shall be free. And don't you bother about Sir Clifford. He'll want
to get rid of you one of these days. If he leaves you alone, it's a lot.
I've
got lodging in a bit of an old cottage in Engine Row very decent. The man is
engine-driver at High Park, tall, with a beard, and very chapel. The woman is a
birdy bit of a thing who loves anything superior. King's English and allow-me! all
the time. But they lost their only son in the war, and it's sort of knocked a
hole in them. There's a long gawky lass of a daughter training for a
school-teacher, and I help her with her lessons sometimes, so we're quite the
family. But they're very decent people, and only too kind to me. I expect I'm
more coddled than you are.
I like
farming all right. It's not inspiring, but then I don't ask to be inspired. I'm
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 six rather fine Herefords. Oat-harvest is just over and I enjoyed it, in
spite of sore hands and a lot of rain. I don't take much notice of people, but
get on with them all right. Most things one just 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 they're not going to alter anything. As everybody says, the Notts-Derby
miners have got their hearts in the right place. But 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 don't cheer me much: not enough of the old fighting-cock in them. They
talk a lot about nationalization, nationalization of royalties, nationalization
of the whole industry. But you can't nationalize coal and leave all the other
industries as they are. They talk about putting coal to new uses, like Sir
Clifford is trying to do. It may work here and there, but not as a general
thing, I doubt. Whatever you make you've got to sell it. The men are very
apathetic. They feel the whole damned thing is doomed, and I believe it is. And
they are doomed along with it. Some of the young ones spout about a Soviet, but
there's not much conviction in them. There's no sort of conviction about
anything, except that it's all a muddle and a hole. Even under a Soviet you've
still got to sell coal: and that's the difficulty.
We've
got this great industrial population, and they've 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. Anyhow,
nobody knows what should be done in spite of all the talk, the young ones get
mad because they've no money to spend. Their whole life depends on spending
money, and now they've got none to spend. That's our civilization 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
there's 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.
But then they're the maddest for spending, nowadays.
You have lovely eyes young lady!
If you
could only tell them that living and spending isn't the same thing! But it's 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 wouldn't 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. And 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 wouldn't need money. And that's the only way to solve the industrial
problem: train the people to be able to live and live in handsomeness, without
needing to spend. But you can't do it. They're all one-track minds nowadays.
Whereas the mass of people oughtn't even to try to think, because they can't.
They should be alive and frisky, and acknowledge the great god Pan. He's the
only god for the masses, forever. The few can go in for higher cults if they
like. But let the mass be forever pagan.
But the
colliers aren't pagan, far from it. They're 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 jazz when they get a chance, But they're very dead. And it
needs money. Money poisons you when you've got it, and starves you when you
haven't.
I'm
sure you're sick of all this. But I don't want to harp on myself, and I've
nothing happening to me. I don't like to think too much about you, in my head,
that only makes a mess of us both. But, of course, what I live for now is for
you and me to live together. I'm frightened, really. I feel the devil in the
air, and he'll try to get us. Or not the devil, Mammon: which I think, after
all, is only the mass-will of people, wanting money and hating life. Anyhow, 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 squeeze the life out.
There's a bad time coming. There's a bad time coming, boys, there's a bad time
coming! If things go on as they are, there's 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. But never
mind. All the bad times that ever have been, haven't been able to blow the
crocus out: not even the love of women. So they won't be able to blow out my
wanting you, nor the little glow there is between you and me. We'll be together
next year. And though I'm frightened, I believe in your being with me. A man
has to fend and fettle for the best, and then trust in something beyond
himself. You can't insure against the future, except by really believing in the
best bit of you, and in the power beyond it. So I believe in the little flame
between us. For me now, it's the only thing in the world. I've got no friends,
not inward friends. Only you. And now the little flame is all I care about in
my life. There's the baby, but that is a side issue. It's my Pentecost, the
forked flame between me and you. The old Pentecost isn't quite right. Me and
God is a bit uppish, somehow. But the little forked flame between me and you:
there you are! That's what I abide by, and will abide by, Cliffords and
Berthas, colliery companies and governments and the money-mass of people all
notwithstanding.
That's
why I don't like to start thinking about you actually. It only tortures me, and
does you no good. I don't want you to be away from me. But if I start fretting
it wastes something. Patience, always patience. This is my fortieth winter. And
I can't help all the winters that have been. But this winter I'll stick to my
little Pentecost flame, and have some peace. And I won't let the breath of
people blow it out. I believe in a higher mystery, that doesn't let even the
crocus be blown out. And if you're in Scotland and I'm in the Midlands, and I
can't put my arms round you, and wrap my legs round you, yet I've got something
of you. My soul softly flaps in the little Pentecost flame with you, like the
peace of fucking. We fucked a flame into being. Even the flowers are fucked
into being between the sun and the earth. But it's a delicate thing, and takes
patience and the long pause.
So 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. And when the real spring comes, when the drawing together comes,
then we can fuck the little flame brilliant and yellow, brilliant. But not now,
not yet! Now 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. How can men want wearisomely to philander. What a
misery to be like Don Juan, 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 can't touch you. If I could sleep with my arms round
you, the ink could stay in the bottle. We could be chaste together just as we
can fuck together. But we have to be separate for a while, and I suppose it is
really the wiser way. If only one were sure.
Never
mind, never mind, we won't get worked up. We really trust in the little flame,
and in the unnamed god that shields it from being blown out. There's so much of
you here with me, really, that it's a pity you aren't all here.
Never
mind about Sir Clifford. If you don't hear anything from him, never mind. He
can't really do anything to you. Wait, he will want to get rid of you at last,
to cast you out. And if he doesn't, we'll manage to keep clear of him. But he
will. In the end he will want to spew you out as the abominable thing.
Now I
can't even leave off writing to you.
But a
great deal of us is together, and we can but abide by it, and steer our courses
to meet soon. John Thomas says good-night to Lady Jane, a little droopingly,
but with a hopeful heart.
That's all folks!
A Hot Love Story presents Lady Chatterley's Lover written by D. H. Lawrence. Chapter 19. |
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