‘I love it!’ And through her mind went the words: It’s the nicest, nicest woman’s arse as is!
‘But that is really rather extraordinary, because there’s no denying it’s an encumbrance. But then I suppose a woman doesn’t take a supreme pleasure in the life of the mind.’
‘Supreme pleasure?’ she said, looking up at him. ‘Is that sort of idiocy the supreme pleasure of the life of the mind? No thank you! Give 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. But so many people, like your famous wind-machine, have only got minds tacked on to their physical corpses.’
He looked at her in wonder.
‘The life of the body,’ he said, ‘is just the life of the animals.’
‘And that’s better than the life of professional corpses. But it’s not true! the human body is only just coming to real life. With the Greeks it gave a lovely flicker, then Plato and Aristotle killed it, and Jesus finished it off. But now the body is coming really to life, it is really rising from the tomb. And It will be a lovely, lovely life in the lovely universe, the life of the human body.’
‘My dear, you speak as if you were ushering it all in! True, you am going away on a holiday: but don’t please be quite so indecently elated about it. Believe me, whatever God 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, Clifford, when I feel that whatever God 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, exactly! And what has caused this extraordinary change in you? running out stark naked in the rain, and playing Bacchante? desire for sensation, or the anticipation of going to Venice?’
‘Both! Do you think it is horrid of me to be so thrilled at going off?’ she said.
‘Rather horrid to show it so plainly.’
‘Then I’ll hide it.’
‘Oh, don’t trouble! You almost communicate a thrill to me. I almost feel that it is I who am going off.’
‘Well, why don’t you come?’
‘We’ve gone over all that. And as a matter of fact, I suppose your greatest thrill comes from being able to say a temporary farewell to all this. Nothing so thrilling, for the moment, as Good-bye-to-all! — But every parting means a meeting elsewhere. And every meeting is a new bondage.’
‘I’m not going to enter any new bondages.’
‘Don’t boast, while the gods are listening,’ he said.
She pulled up short.
‘No! I won’t boast!’ she said.
But she was thrilled, none the less, to be going off: to feel bonds snap. She couldn’t help it.
Clifford, who couldn’t sleep, gambled all night with Mrs Bolton, till she was too sleepy almost to live.
And the day came round for Hilda to arrive. Connie had arranged with Mellors 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.
Mrs Bolton helped Connie to pack.
‘It will be so good for your Ladyship to have a change.’
‘I think it will. You don’t mind having Sir Clifford on your hands alone for a time, do you?’
‘Oh no! I can manage him quite all right. I mean, I can do all he needs me to do. Don’t you think he’s better than he used to be?’
‘Oh much! You do wonders with him.’
‘Do I though! But men are all alike: just babies, and you have to flatter them and wheedle them and let them think they’re having their own way. Don’t you find it so, my Lady?’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t much experience.’
Connie paused in her occupation.
‘Even your husband, did you have to manage him, and wheedle him like a baby?’ she asked, looking at the other woman.
Mrs Bolton paused too.
‘Well!’ she said. ‘I had to do a good bit of coaxing, with him too. But he always knew what I was after, I must say that. But he generally gave in to me.’
‘He was never the lord and master thing?’
‘No! At least there’d be a look in his eyes sometimes, and then I knew I’d got to give in. But usually he gave in to me. No, he was never lord and master. But 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.’
‘And what if you had held out against him?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, I never did. Even when he was in the wrong, if he was fixed, I gave in. You see, I never wanted to break what was between us. And 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 he’s really determined; whether you’re in the right or not, you have to give in. Else you break something. But I must say, Ted ‘ud give in to me sometimes, when I was set on a thing, and in the wrong. So I suppose it cuts both ways.’
‘And that’s how you are with all your patients?’ asked Connie.
‘Oh, That’s different. I don’t care at all, in the same way. I know what’s good for them, or I try to, and then I just contrive to manage them for their own good. It’s not like anybody as you’re really fond of. It’s quite different. Once you’ve been really fond of a man, you can be affectionate to almost any man, if he needs you at all. But it’s not the same thing. You don’t really care. I doubt, once you’ve really cared, if you can ever really care again.’
These words frightened Connie.
‘Do you think one can only care once?’ she asked.
‘Or never. Most women never care, never begin to. They don’t know what it means. Nor men either. But when I see a woman as cares, my heart stands still for her.’
‘And do you think men easily take offence?’
‘Yes! If you wound them on their pride. But aren’t women the same? Only our two prides are a bit different.’
Connie pondered this. She began again to have some misgiving about her gag away. After all, was she not giving her man the go-by, if only for a short time? And he knew it. That’s why he was so queer and sarcastic.
Still! the human existence is a good deal controlled by the machine of external circumstance. She was in the power of this machine. She couldn’t extricate herself all in five minutes. She didn’t even want to.
Hilda arrived in good time on Thursday morning, in a nimble two-seater car, with her suit-case strapped firmly behind. She looked as demure and maidenly as ever, but she had the same will of her own. She had the very hell of a will of her own, as her husband had found out. But the husband was now divorcing her.
Yes, she even made it easy for him to do that, though she had no lover. For the time being, she was ‘off’ men. She was very well content to be quite her own mistress: and mistress of her two children, whom she was going to bring up ‘properly’, whatever that may mean.
Connie was only allowed a suit-case, also. But she had sent on a trunk to her father, who was going by train. No use taking a car to Venice. And Italy much too hot to motor in, in July. He was going comfortably by train. He had just come down from Scotland.
So, like a demure arcadian field-marshal, Hilda arranged the material part of the journey. She and Connie sat in the upstairs room, chatting.
‘But Hilda!’ said Connie, a little frightened. ‘I want to stay near here tonight. Not here: near here!’
Hilda fixed her sister with grey, inscrutable eyes. She seemed so calm: and she was so often furious.
‘Where, near here?’ she asked softly.
‘Well, you know I love somebody, don’t you?’
‘I gathered there was something.’
‘Well he lives near here, and I want to spend this last night with him. I must! I’ve promised.’
Connie became insistent.
Hilda bent her Minerva-like head in silence. Then she looked up.
‘Do yo
u want to tell me who he is?’ she said.
‘He’s our game-keeper,’ faltered Connie, and she flushed vividly, like a shamed child.
‘Connie!’ said Hilda, lifting her nose slightly with disgust: a motion she had from her mother.
‘I know: but he’s lovely really. He really understands tenderness,’ said Connie, trying to apologize for him.
Hilda, like a ruddy, rich-coloured Athena, bowed her head and pondered. She was really violently angry. But she dared not show it, because Connie, taking after her father, would straight away become obstreperous and unmanageable.
It was true, Hilda did not like Clifford: his cool assurance that he was somebody! She thought he made use of Connie shamefully and impudently. She had hoped her sister would leave him. But, being solid Scotch middle class, she loathed any ‘lowering’ of oneself or the family. She looked up at last.
‘You’ll regret it,’ she said,
‘I shan’t,’ cried Connie, flushed red. ‘He’s quite the exception. I really love him. He’s lovely as a lover.’
Hilda still pondered.
‘You’ll get over him quite soon,’ she said, ‘and live to be ashamed of yourself because of him.’
‘I shan’t! I hope I’m going to have a child of his.’
‘Connie!’ said Hilda, 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. Hilda pondered.
‘And doesn’t Clifford suspect?’ she said.
‘Oh no! Why should he?’
‘I’ve no doubt you’ve given him plenty of occasion for suspicion,’ said Hilda.
‘Not at all.’
‘And tonight’s business seems quite gratuitous folly. Where does the man live?’
‘In the cottage at the other end of the wood.’
‘Is he a bachelor?’
‘No! His wife left him.’
‘How old?’
‘I don’t know. Older than me.’
Hilda became more angry at every reply, angry as her mother used to be, in a kind of paroxysm. But still she hid it.
‘I would give up tonight’s escapade if I were you,’ she advised calmly.
‘I can’t! I must stay with him tonight, or I can’t go to Venice at all. I just can’t.’
Hilda heard her father over again, and she gave way, out of mere diplomacy. And she consented to drive to Mansfield, both of them, to dinner, to bring Connie back to the lane-end after dark, and to fetch her from the lane-end the next morning, herself sleeping in Mansfield, only half an hour away, good going.
But she was furious. She stored it up against her sister, this balk in her plans.
Connie flung an emerald-green shawl over her window-sill.
On the strength of her anger, Hilda warmed toward Clifford.
After all, he had a mind. And if he had no sex, functionally, all the better: so much the less to quarrel about! Hilda wanted no more of that sex business, where men became nasty, selfish little horrors. Connie really had less to put up with than many women if she did but know it.
And Clifford decided that Hilda, after all, was a decidedly intelligent woman, and would make a man a first-rate helpmate, if he were going in for politics for example. Yes, she had none of Connie’s silliness, Connie was more a child: you had to make excuses 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. Everybody seemed to be panting a little.
‘Good-bye, Connie girl! Come back to me safely.’
‘Good-bye, Clifford! Yes, I shan’t be long.’ Connie was almost tender.
‘Good-bye, Hilda! You will keep an eye on her, won’t you?’
‘I’ll even keep two!’ said Hilda. ‘She shan’t go very far astray.’
‘It’s a promise!’
‘Good-bye, Mrs Bolton! I know you’ll look after Sir Clifford nobly.’
‘I’ll do what I can, your Ladyship.’
‘And write to me if there is any news, and tell me about Sir Clifford, how he is.’
‘Very good, your Ladyship, I will. And have a good time, and come back and cheer us up.’
Everybody waved. The car went off Connie looked back and saw Clifford, sitting at the top of the steps in his house-chair. After all, he was her husband: Wragby was her home: circumstance had done it.
Mrs Chambers 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. Hilda turned to the Crosshill Road, that was not a main road, but ran to Mansfield. Connie put on goggles. They ran beside the railway, which was in a cutting below them. Then they crossed the cutting on a bridge.
‘That’s the lane to the cottage!’ said Connie.
Hilda glanced at it impatiently.
‘It’s a frightful pity we can’t go straight off!’ she said. We could have been in Pall Mall by nine o’clock.’
‘I’m sorry for your sake,’ said Connie, from behind her goggles.
They were soon at Mansfield, that once-romantic, now utterly disheartening colliery town. Hilda 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. However, Connie had to tell her something of the man’s history.
‘He! He! What name do you call him by? You only say he,’ said Hilda.
‘I’ve never called him by any name: nor he me: which is curious, when you come to think of it. Unless we say Lady Jane and John Thomas. But his name is Oliver Mellors.’
‘And how would you like to be Mrs Oliver Mellors, instead of Lady Chatterley?’
‘I’d love it.’
There was nothing to be done with Connie. And 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. Apparently he had character. Hilda began to relent a little.
‘But you’ll be through with him in awhile,’ she said, ‘and then you’ll be ashamed of having been connected with him. One can’t mix up with the working people.’
‘But you are such a socialist! you’re 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 mix one’s life with theirs. Not out of snobbery, but just because the whole rhythm is different.’
Hilda 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 Connie slipped a few things into a little silk bag, and combed her hair once more.
‘After all, Hilda,’ 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 mosquito feels the same,’ said Hilda. ‘Do you think it does? How nice for it!’
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, Hilda started her car again, and the two sped back on their traces, taking the other road, through Bolsover.
Connie wore her goggles and disguising cap, and she sat in silence. Because of Hilda’s 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 Crosshill, and the small lit-up train that chuffed past in the cutting made it seem like real night. Hilda had calculated the turn into the lane at the bridge-end. She slowed up rather suddenly and swerved off the road, the lights glaring white into the grassy, overgrown lane. Connie looked out. She saw a shadowy figure, and she opened the door.
‘Here we are!’ she said softly.
But Hilda had switched off the lights, and was absorbed backing, making the t
urn.
‘Nothing on the bridge?’ she asked shortly.
‘You’re all right,’ said the man’s voice.
She 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. Connie stepped down. The man stood under the trees.
‘Did you wait long?’ Connie asked.
‘Not so very,’ he replied.
They both waited for Hilda to get out. But Hilda shut the door of the car and sat tight.
‘This is my sister Hilda. Won’t you come and speak to her? Hilda! This is Mr Mellors.’
The keeper lifted his hat, but went no nearer.
‘Do walk down to the cottage with us, Hilda,’ Connie pleaded. ‘It’s not far.’
‘What about the car?’
‘People do leave them on the lanes. You have the key.’
Hilda was silent, deliberating. Then she looked backwards down the lane.
‘Can I back round the bush?’ she said.
‘Oh yes!’ said the keeper.
She 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 Connie, then Hilda, and in silence. He lit up the difficult places with a flash-light torch, and they went on again, while an owl softly hooted over the oaks, and Flossie padded silently around. Nobody could speak. There was nothing to say.
At length Connie saw the yellow light of the house, and her heart beat fast. She was a little frightened. They trailed on, still in Indian file.
He 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. Hilda shook her hair and looked round the bare, cheerless room. Then she summoned her courage and looked at the man.
He was moderately tall, and thin, and she thought him good-looking. He kept a quiet distance of his own, and seemed absolutely unwilling to speak.
‘Do sit down, Hilda,’ said Connie.
‘Do!’ he said. ‘Can I make you tea or anything, or will you drink a glass of beer? It’s moderately cool.’
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence Page 504