`Because it isn't Duncan that I do love,' she said, looking up at him.

`We only said it was Duncan, to spare your feelings.'

`To spare my feelings?'

`Yes! Because who I really love, and it'll make you hate me, is Mr

Mellors, who was our game-keeper here.'

If he could have sprung out of his chair, he would have done so. His

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.

At length he sat up.

`Do you mean to say you re telling me the truth?' he asked, looking

gruesome.

`Yes! You know I am.'

`And when did you begin with him?'

`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" title="ad.内向；独自地">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?'

`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

knobs. 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 Old Heanor 29 September



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.

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 Naps 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.