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 its 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 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.

Clifford was like a hysterical child. He gave Mrs Bolton a terrible shock, sitting up in bed ghastly and blank.

`Why, Sir Clifford, whatever's the matter?'

No answer! She was terrified lest he had had a stroke. She hurried and felt his face, took his pulse.

`Is there a pain? Do try and tell me where it hurts you. Do tell me!'

No answer!

`Oh dear, oh dear! Then I'll telephone to Sheffield for Dr Carrington, and Dr Lecky may as well run round straight away.'

She was moving to the door, when he said in a hollow tone:

`No!'

She stopped and gazed at him. His face was yellow, blank, and like the face of an idiot.

`Do you mean you'd rather I didn't fetch the doctor?'

`Yes! I don't want him,' came the sepulchral voice.

`Oh, but Sir Clifford, you're ill, and I daren't take the responsibility. I must send for the doctor, or I shall be blamed.'

A pause: then the hollow voice said:

`I'm not ill. My wife isn't coming back.'---It was as if an image spoke.

`Not coming back? you mean her ladyship?' Mrs Bolton moved a little nearer to the bed. `Oh, don't you believe it. You can trust her ladyship to come back.'

The image in the bed did not change, but it pushed a letter over the counterpane.

`Read it!' said the sepulchral voice.

`Why, if it's a letter from her ladyship, I'm sure her ladyship wouldn't want me to read her letter to you, Sir Clifford. You can tell me what she says, if you wish.'

`Read it!' repeated the voice.

`Why, if I must, I do it to obey you, Sir Clifford,' she said. And she read the letter.

`Well, I am surprised at her ladyship,' she said. `She promised so faithfully she'd come back!'

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.

She was a little impatient of Sir Clifford. Any man in his senses must have known his wife was in love with somebody else, and was going to leave him. Even, she was sure, Sir Clifford was inwardly absolutely aware of it, only he wouldn't 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. 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!'

But hysteria is dangerous: and she was a nurse, it was her duty to pull him out. Any attempt to rouse his manhood and his pride would only make him worse: for his manhood was dead, temporarily if not finally. He would only squirm softer and softer, like a worm, and become more dislocated.

The only thing was to release his self-pity. Like the lady in Tennyson, he must weep or he must die.

So Mrs Bolton began to weep first. She covered her face with her hand and burst into little wild sobs. `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.

Clifford thought of the way he had been betrayed by the woman Connie, and in a contagion of grief, tears filled his eyes and began to run down his cheeks. He was weeping for himself. Mrs Bolton, 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.

`Now, don't you fret, Sir Clifford!' she said, in a luxury of emotion. `Now, don't you fret, don't, you'll only do yourself an injury!'

His body shivered suddenly in an indrawn breath of silent sobbing, and the tears ran quicker down his face. She laid her hand on his arm, and her own tears fell again. Again the shiver went through him, like a convulsion, and she laid her arm round his shoulder. `There, there! There, there! Don't you fret, then, don't you! Don't you fret!' she moaned to him, while her own tears fell. And 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: `There! There! There! There then! There then! Never you mind! Never you mind, then!'

And 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. He had let himself go altogether, at last.

So at length she kissed him, and rocked him on her bosom, and in her heart she said to herself: `Oh, Sir Clifford! Oh, high and mighty Chatterleys! Is this what you've come down to!' And finally he even went to sleep, like a child. And 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 ridiculous! It was so awful! Such a come-down! So shameful! And it was so upsetting as well.

After this, Clifford became like a child with Mrs Bolton. He would hold her h, 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.

And he lay with a queer, blank face like a child, with a bit of the wonderment of a child. And he would gaze on her with wide, childish eyes, in a relaxation of madonna-worship. It was sheer relaxation on his part, letting go all his manhood, and sinking back to a childish position that was really perverse. And then he would put his hand into her bosom and feel her breasts, and kiss them in exultation, the exultation of perversity, of being a child when he was a man.

Mrs Bolton was both thrilled and ashamed, she both loved and hated it. Yet she never rebuffed nor rebuked him. And 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 exaltation: the perverse and literal rendering of: `except ye become again as a little child'.---While she was the Magna Mater, 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 Clifford 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 question 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 Magna Mater 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 quite inhuman.

And in this Mrs Bolton triumphed. `How he's getting on!' she would say to herself in pride. `And that's my doing! My word, he'd never have got on like this with Lady Chatterley. She was not the one to put a man forward. She wanted too much for herself.'

At the same time, in some corner of her weird female soul, how she despised him and hated him! He was to her the fallen beast, the squirming monster. And 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.

His behaviour with regard to Connie was curious. He insisted on seeing her again. He insisted, moreover, on her coming to Wragby. On this point he was finally and absolutely fixed. Connie had promised to come back to Wragby, faithfully.

`But is it any use?' said Mrs Bolton. `Can't you let her go, and be rid of her?'

`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 needn't tell you what effect your letter has had on me [he wrote to Connie to London]. Perhaps you can imagine it if you try, though no doubt you won't 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. 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.

Connie showed this letter to Mellors.
`He wants to begin his revenge on you,' he said, handing the letter back.

Connie was silent. She was somewhat surprised to find that she was afraid of Clifford. She was afraid to go near him. She was afraid of him as if he were evil and dangerous.

`What shall I do?' she said.

`Nothing, if you don't want to do anything.'

She replied, trying to put Clifford off. He answered:

If you don't come back to Wragby now, I shall consider that you are coming back one day, and act accordingly. I shall just go on the same, and wait for you here, if I wait for fifty years.
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:

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 expect me to show pleasure in seeing her.
They went to Wragby. Clifford was away when they arrived. Mrs Bolton received them.
`Oh, your Ladyship, it isn't the happy home-coming we hoped for, is it!' she said.

`Isn't it?' said Connie.

So this woman knew! How much did the rest of the servants know or suspect?

She entered the house, which now she hated with every fibre in her body. The great, rambling mass of a place seemed evil to her, just a menace over her. She was no longer its mistress, she was its victim.

`I can't stay long here,' she whispered to Hilda, terrified.

And she suffered going into her own bedroom, re-entering into possession as if nothing had happened. She hated every minute inside the Wragby walls.

They did not meet Clifford till they went down to dinner. He was dressed, and with a black tie: rather reserved, and very much the superior gentleman. He behaved perfectly politely during the meal and kept a polite sort of conversation going: but it seemed all touched with insanity.

`How much do the servants know?' asked Connie, when the woman was out of the room.

`Of your intentions? Nothing whatsoever.'

`Mrs Bolton knows.'

He changed colour.

`Mrs Bolton is not exactly one of the servants,' he said.

`Oh, I don't mind.'

There was tension till after coffee, when Hilda said she would go up to her room.

Clifford and Connie sat in silence when she had gone. Neither would begin to speak. Connie was so glad that he wasn't taking the pathetic line, she kept him up to as much haughtiness as possible. She just sat silent and looked down at her hands.

`I suppose you don't at all mind having gone back on your word?' he said at last.

`I can't help it,' she murmured.

`But if you can't, who can?'

`I suppose nobody.'

He looked at her with curious cold rage. He was used to her. She was as it were embedded in his will. How dared she now go back on him, and destroy the fabric of his daily existence? How dared she try to cause this derangement of his personality?

`And for what do you want to go back on everything?' he insisted.

`Love!' she said. It was best to be hackneyed.

`Love of Duncan Forbes? But you didn't think that worth having, when you met me. Do you mean to say you now love him better than anything else in life?'

`One changes,' she said.

`Possibly! Possibly you may have whims. But you still have to convince me of the importance of the change. I merely don't believe in your love of Duncan Forbes.'

`But why should you believe in it? You have only to divorce me, not to believe in my feelings.'

`And why should I divorce you?'

`Because I don't want to live here any more. And you really don't want me.'

`Pardon me! I don't change. For my part, since you are my wife, I should prefer that you should stay under my roof in dignity and quiet. Leaving 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, just for some whim of yours.'

After a time of silence she said:

`I can't help it. I've got to go. I expect I shall have a child.'

He too was silent for a time.

`And is it for the child's sake you must go?' he asked at length.

She nodded.

`And why? Is Duncan Forbes so keen on his spawn?'

`Surely keener than you would be,' she said.

`But 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. Do you mean to tell me that Duncan Forbes has a greater hold over you? I don't believe it.'

There was a pause.

`But don't you see,' said Connie. `I must go away from you, and I must live with the man I love.'

`No, I don't see it! I don't give tuppence for your love, nor for the man you love. I don't believe in that sort of cant.'

`But you see, I do.'

`Do you? My dear Madam, you are too intelligent, I assure you, to believe in your own love for Duncan Forbes. Believe me, even now you really care more for me. So why should I give in to such nonsense!'

She felt he was right there. And she felt she could keep silent no longer.

`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 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.

“亲爱的克利福，我恐怕你预料的事情是实现了。是的，我爱上了另一个人。我很希望你将提出离婚。---我住在旦肯的家里。我告诉过你，我们在威尼斯时曾在一块。我很替你抱憾，但是请你把这事情平心静气的看吧。你实在是不再需要我了。而我呢，回勒格贝去是件难堪的事，我是十分抱歉的，但是请你原恕我吧，请你提出离婚，而另找个比我更好的人吧、我实在不是你所需要的人，我认为我是太无忍耐性，太自私了，我决不能回去和你同居了。一切我是替你觉得非常抱歉的，但是如果你平心静气地看这事情，你当知道这并不是那么可怖的事，对我个人来说，你实在并不真正在乎我，那么，请你原谅我而抛弃我吧。”

在克利福的内心里，其实是不惊讶这么一封信的来到的。他的心中老早就知道她要离开他。但是外表上，他是绝对不愿承认的。所以，在外表上看来，这封信给了他一个最可怖的打击，因为他对于她的信任的外层是一向平静的。

我们大家不都一样么？我们用意志的力量，去强制着内在的直觉的东西不表露出来，一旦这种强制失效了的时候，便造成了一种恐怖的状态。于是打击之来，便十倍难受了。

克利福象个患歇斯底里症的孩子，他狞恶地、失神地在床上坐起来，把波太太吓着了。”

“怎么，克利福男爵，你怎么了？”

没有回答！她害怕他病势发作了，慌忙地摸摸他的脸，探探他的脉。

“什么地方疼痛么？告诉我什么地方疼痛，请你告诉我吧！”

没有回答！

“老天老天！那么我要打电话到雪非尔德叫加凌东医生，我请勒基医生马上来。”

她正向门边越过去时，听见他的重浊的声音说：

“不！”她停住了，凝视着他，他的脸是黄的，失神的，象个白痴的脸。

“你是要我不要找医生么？”

“是的！我不需要医生。”他的幽冥的声音说。

“但是，克利福男爵哟，你是病了，我可不敢负这责任。我得叫医生来，否则人们要责备我的。”

停了一会，然后那重浊的声音说：

“我没有病，我的女人不回来了。”---这仿佛是石像在说。

“不回来了？你是说夫人么？波太太走近床边说，“啊，别相信这话，你放心，夫人是一定会回来的。”

床上的石像依旧不动，只是把一封信在被单上推了过来。

“读吧！”幽冥的声音说。

“这是夫人的信，我确信夫人是不愿我看她写给你的信的，克利福男爵，如果你愿意的话，请你告诉我什么好了。”

“读吧！”那声音重新说道。

“好吧，克利福男爵，这是我顺从你啊。”她说。

她读了那封信。

“唔，太太真使我奇怪，”她说，“她曾那么忠实地答应回来的！”

床上那只脸孔上的粗野的但是失神的表情似乎加深了，波太太不安地望着他，她知道她所要对付是什么；男性的歇斯底里，这种讨厌的病，她从前在看护士兵的时候，已经验过多少了。

她有点讨厌克利福男爵，无论哪个头胸清醒的男子，都应该知道他的女人爱上了别人而要离开他了。虽然她也知道，克利福的内心里是绝对明白的，不过他不肯承认罢了，假如他承认了它而作某种准备，假如他承认了它而与他的女人尽力避克这种事变，那才算是大丈夫的行为，但是不然！他明明知道，却又老是瞒阂自己说事情并非如此，他明明觉得恶魔在扭着他的尾巴！却又装模作佯说是那是使向他微笑，这种虚伪的情境，引出了现在这种虚伪的脱血病的发作：歇斯底里，这是癫狂的一种形式，她心里有点恨恨地想道：“所以有这种事情，都是因为他太想自己了，他全副心神都在想他的不死的自我，于是当打击一来的时候，他便象是在自己的绷带里绞结着的木乃伊，瞧瞧他！”

但是歇斯底里是危险的，她是个看护，去拯救他，那是她的义务，想把他的大丈夫气与自尊心鼓舞起来，那只是于他有损无益的，因为他的大丈夫气已死了一如果不是地，那么至少是暂时地，他只会象一只虫子似地越卷越软，越挣扎越脱血的。

唯一可做的事情是解放他的自怜心。好象丁尼生笔下的贵妇一般，他得痛哭一场，否则，他定要一命鸣呼了。

于是波太太开始先哭起来，她用手掩着脸孔，舞舞噎噎地哭着。“我从没有想到夫人竟做得出来，我从没有想到！”她鸣咽着说。她突然亿起了她往日所是的忧苦悲伤，眼泪为她自己的不幸而流了，一经开始了，她的眼泪是真切的，因为她有她自己的林哭的事情。

克利福想着他怎样给这妇人康妮所背叛，而且波太太的悉苦传染了他，不禁泪水盈盈，而开始流了下来，他是为自己而哭的，彼太太看见了他的失神的脸上流着眼泪时，忙用小手绢揩干她自己的两颊，向他斜倾着。“不要烦恼，克利福男爵！”他在一种强烈的感动中说，“不要烦恼吧，不，那于你是有害的。”

他忍下了一声呜咽，身体颤抖起来，脸上的泪流得更急了，她的手放在他的臀上，她自己的泪又流起来，他重新颤抖着，好象痉挛似的，她把手臂绕着他的肩膊。“好了，好了！不要烦恼了！不，不要烦恼了！”她一边流泪，一边悲哀地对他说。她把他引近着她，她的两臂环绕着他的宽大的肩膊；他的脸依在她的胸膛上呜咽着，震动着他的宽大的肩膊，同时她温柔地爱抚着他的头发说：“好了！好了！好了！别发愁了！别发愁了！”

他把两臂楼抱着她，好象孩子似地偎依着她，他的眼泪把她浆三蝗白围裙和浅蓝色的衣裳弄湿了。他终于把自己完全放任了。

过了一会，她吻着他，把他在她怀里摇着。她的心里说：“啊，克利福里男爵哟，网！作威作福的查太莱哟！你终于到了这步田地了！”最后，他甚至象孩于似地人曰了。她觉得疲乏极了，回到她的房里去，笑着又哭着，她也给她自己的歇斯底里所占据了。多可笑！多可怕！这么一个下场！多可耻！而且是多混掩！。

以后，克利福对于波太太变成小孩一般了。他有时握着她的手，把他的头依在她的胸怀里。当她轻轻地吻了吻他时，他说：“是的！吻我吧！吻我吧！”当她用海绵洗涤他雄伟的身体时，他也一样要说：吻我吧！”好让她随便在他身上的什么地方，半打趣地轻吻着。

他的脸孔怪异地，失神地，象一个孩子那样惊愕地躺在床上，他有时用他的孩子似的大眼睛凝视她，沉溺在一种圣母的崇拜里。他完全沉溺了，所有他的大丈夫气都抛弃了。堕落地返回孩童状态了。他的手有时要放在她的怀里，触摸着她的乳房，在那里热烈地吻着，这是一种自以为孩子的人的堕落的热烈。

波太太觉得又喜悦又害羞，又爱又恨。可是她从不推却他和斥责他。他们之间在肉体上更亲近了。这种堕落的亲近，使他成为一个似乎天真的孩子，惊异错愕得好象一种宗教的热：这是“除非您再成了小孩的堕落的真切的表觉她呢，却是富有权力的伟大圣母，把这大孩子完全慑服在她的意志与怜爱之下。

奇异的是当这个变成了大孩子的克利福---几年来他就渐渐地变成了孩子了一到外界去时，他竟比从前锐利而灵敏得多了。这个堕落的大孩子，现在是个真正的事业家了，如果有关他的利益的问题来了的时候，他是个绝对的男性，锐利得象一根针，坚固得象一块钢，当他和其男子在一块的时候，对于人的目的物的造求上，对于他的煤矿业的发展上，他有一种差不多神秘的狡黠、刻薄和动用自如的力量，那仿佛是他自己的忍受性和他的卖身于伟大圣线了他一种对于物质问题的敏锐观察，赋予他一种超人的力量。他的沉经济效益与私情，和他的大丈夫气的完全消失，似乎给了他一种冷酷的，差不多幻像的，适于事业的第二天性。在事业上，他确实是超人的。

在这一点上，波太太是得意扬扬的，她有时骄傲地对她自己说：“他是多么得手了！这都是我一手做成的！老实说，他和查太莱男爵夫人的时候是从来没有这么得手过的。她不是一种能够推进男人的人，她太为她自己着想了。”

同时，在她的古怪的、女性的灵魂的某一角落里，她多么轻蔑他，憎恶他！在她看来，他是个倒仆了的野兽，只会动的怪物，她一边竭力地帮助他，鼓舞他，一边却在他经日的健全女性的最深最远处，残酷地、无限地轻蔑他，她觉得一个最卑下的流氓都胜他一筹。

克利福对于康妮的态度是奇怪的。他坚持着要再见他一面；他尤其坚持着要她到勒格贝来；这一点他是决定性的，绝对不可动摇的。因为康妮曾经忠实地答应回勒格贝来的。

“那有什么用呢？”波太太说，“难道你不能让她走，摆脱她么？”

“不！她说过她要回来，她便得回来。”

波太太不再反对他了。她知道她对付着是什么。

我不用告诉你的信对我的影响怎样，如果你肯替我想象一下，你也许可以想象出来；不过无疑地你是不愿劳驾替我一想的。

我的回答只有这一句：在我决定什么以前，我定要在勒格贝这儿亲自见你一面，你曾忠实地答应回勒格贝来，你得履行这个允诺，我非在这儿和往常一样亲自见你之后，我不能相信什么，或明白什么。不用说，这边没有人狐疑什么，所以你的归来是自然的，待我们继谈过后，如果你还觉得主意不变，那么无纤疑地我们是可以找个解决办法的。

康妮把这封信给梅乐士看。

“他想开始报复了。”他一边说，一迅把信交还她。

康妮默默无言。她有点惊异，为什么她怕起克利福来了，她怕到他那里去，她怕他，仿佛他是个危险的恶人。

“我怎么好呢？”她说。

“不要管他，如果你不愿意。”

她回了封信给克利福，想推辞这个会见，他复信说：如果你现在不回勒格贝来，我将判断你总有一天要回来的，我便依这判断行事，我将继续在这儿等候你，等五十年也成。

她被吓住了。这是一种阴险的威吓手段，她很知道他是这么说便这么做的。他将不提出离婚，于是孩子便要成为他的，除非她有证明不是。

经过一番忧苦焦虎过后，她决定请希尔达陷她到勒格贝去。她把这个决定通知克利福，他回信说：

我不欢迎人的筋姊，但是我也不绝以闭门羹。毫无疑义，你的

背弃义务与责任是她怂恿的，那么请你不要以为我将有一副笑脸

去见她。

她们到勒格贝时，适值克利福出去了，波太大出来迎接她们。

“呵，夫人！这并不是我们所期望的‘欣然归来’啊！”她说。

“可不是！”康妮说。

“原来这妇人知道了！不知道其他的仆人知道多小，猜疑我小了呢？”

她进了大门，现在这屋于是她恨之入骨的了，这种宽大散漫的地方，好象是个险恶的东西在她头上威吓着。她现在不是它的主妇，而是它的受难者了。

“我不能在此久留。”她恐怖地对希尔达低语道。

她很难过地进到她寝室里去，重新占有了这间房子，仿佛没有发生过什么事似的！在勒格贝四壁内的每一分钟，她感觉得憎恶。

直至她们下楼去晚餐的时候才会着克利福，他穿了晚服，结下了一条黑领带，他态度拘谨显得狠绅士的样子，在席间，他是十足文雅的，引领着一种文雅的谈话，可是一切都象带着一种狂昧。

“仆人们都知道了么？”当女仆出去了时，康妮问道。

“你的事么？一点也不知道。”

“但是波太太却知道了。”

他的颜色变了。

“正确地说，波太太并不是个仆人呢。”他说。

“啊，那我无所谓的。”

咖啡过后，当希尔达说要回房里去时，情势紧张起来了。

她走后，克利福和康妮静坐着，两个人都不愿开口。康妮见他并不激动感情，心中倒觉舒泰。她竭力使他守着这种高傲的神气，她只静坐着，低头望着自己的两手。

“我想你可以把你的话收吧？”他终于开口了。

“我可不能。”她喃喃地说。

“但是你不能，谁能呢？”

“我想没有人能。”

他怪冷酷地、狂怒地望着她。他是习愤了她的人，她可以说是他的生命和意志的一部分，她现在怎么胆敢对他失信，而把他日常生活的组织破坏了？她怎么胆敢把他的人格摇动了！

“什么原因使你叛背一切？”他坚持着说。

“爱情！”她说，还是说这句老话为妙。

“对旦肯·霍布斯的爱情？但是当你见到我的时候，你不觉得那是值得的吧？你不是想使我相信你爱他甚于一切吧！”

“一个人是要变的。”她说。

“也许！也许你是反复的。可是你还得使我确信这种变迁的重要。我简直不能相信你爱旦肯·堆布斯。”

“为什么你定要相信呢？你只要提出离婚，而不必相信我的感情。”

“为什么我定要提出离婚？”

“因为我不愿再在这儿生活了。而你实在也不需要我了。”

“你错了！我是不变的，在我这方面看来，你既是我的妻，我便愿你高贵地、安静地住在我的家里。一切感情的问题搁一在边一我确告你，我这方面搁开了不少，我觉得仅仅为了你的反复，便把勒格贝这儿的生活秩序破坏，便把这高尚的日常生活打碎，于我那是死一般难的。”

静默了一会，她说：

“我没有法子。我一定得离开，我想我要有个孩子了。”

他也静默了一会，然后说：

“是为了孩子的缘故你才要走么？”

她点了点头。

“为什么？难道旦肯·布斯这样重视他的小生命？”

“无纤疑地比你重视。”她说。

“但是我告诉你，我需要我的妻了，我不觉得有什么让她走的理由。要是她喜欢在我家里生个孩子，我不觉得有什么不便，而孩于是受欢迎；只要合理而尊重生活的秩序，你想告诉我旦肯·霍布斯对你的魔力较大么？我不相信。”

他沉默了一会。

“但是你不明白，”康妮说，“我一定要离开你，我一定要和我所爱的人生活去。”

“真的，我不明白！我毫不相信你的爱和你的爱人，我不相信这种胡言乱语。”

“也许，但是我确相信。”

“是么？我亲爱的太太，你没有这么愚蠢去相信人对旦肯的爱情的。相信我吧，即在此刻，你还是比较爱我呢，那么为什么我要去相信这种荒唐的故事！”

她觉得他的话是对的！她忍不住要对他和盘托出来了。

“我真正爱的并不是旦肯。”她仰望着他说，“我们说是旦肯，为的是要不伤你的感情。”

“不伤我的感情？

“是的！因为我真正钟爱的人。是要使你憎恨我的，他是梅乐士先生，我们往日的守猎人。”

假如他可以的话，他一定从椅子里跳出来了，他的脸色变黄了。他凝视着她，他的眼睛象大难临头似的突了出来。

然后他倒在椅子里，喘着气，两眼朝着天花板。

然后．他坐了起来。

“你说的是真话么？”他样子很可怖地问道。

“是的，你知道我说的是真话。”

“那是什么时候开始的？”

“春天。”

他静默着，象一只坠入陷阱里的兽。

“以，在村舍寝室里的就是你么？”

原来他的内心里早就晓得了。

“是的！”

他依旧在他椅子里向前弯着身，象一只陷于绝境的野兽似地凝视着她。

“天哪！你这种人真应该人大地上歼灭！”

“为什么？”她喃喃地说。

但是他好象没有听见她。

“那贱东西！那鲁莽下流！那卑鄙无赖！你在这儿的时候，竟和他发生了关系，和我的一个仆人发生关系！天！天哪！女人的下贱究竟有没有止境！”

她愤怒极了，这是她所预料的。

“你竞要这么一个无赖的汉的孩子么？”

“是的！我等待着。”

“你等待着！你的确相信么？从什么时候起你的确相信？”

“从六月起。”

他夫言了，他的样子又象个孩子那么惊异而失神了。

“真怪，”他最后说，“这么一种人也容许生在世上。”

“什么一种人？”她问道。

他神秘地望着她，没有回答。显然他不能承认梅乐士的存在，而与他没有任何关系，那是绝对的、不能言宣的、无力的憎恨。

“你有意要嫁他么？……接受他的秽名么？”他终于问道。

“是的，那是我所欲望的。”

他又目瞪口呆了。

“是的！”那最后说，“那证明我一向对你的想法没有错；你是变态的，你是狂妄的，你是一种半癫狂的堕落女了，你一定要追逐污浊的东西，‘没有烂泥便要发愁的’。”

突然，他差不多成为狂热的道德家了。他觉得自己是善的化身。而梅乐士、康妮这种人，是贱与恶的化身，他好象头上罩了圣光似的飘飘然了。

“那么，你还是离了婚把我丢弃了吧？”她说。

“不！你要到那里去，你尽管去，但害我却不提出离婚。”他痴呆地说。

“为什么不？”

他静默着，象一个呆子似的，执锄地静默着。

“你竟要承认你这孩于是你的合法的孩子和继承人么？”她说。

“我毫不关心孩子么。”

“但是如果他是个男孩那么他将成为你的合法孩子，他将继承你的爵位和这勒格贝啊。”

“我毫不关心这一切。”他说。

“但是你不得不关心！我将竭我的力量不使这孩子成为你的合法孩子，我宁愿他是个私生儿，而属于我一倘然他不能属于梅乐士。”

“你喜欢怎样做就怎样做。”

他的态度是不变的。

“但是为什么不离婚？”她说，“你可以拿旦肯做个借口，真正的名字是必提出的，而旦肯也同意了。”

“我决不提出离婚。”他执意说，好象已经钉了一日钉似的。

“但是为什么？因我是我要求的么？”

“因为我照我的意向而行，而我的意向是不想离婚。”

再谈也无益了。她回到楼去，把这结果告诉希尔达。

“我们最好明天走吧，让他静静地神智清醒起来。”希尔达说。

这样，康妮把她私人的东西收拾了半夜。第二天早上，她把她的箱子叫人送到车站去，也没有告诉克利福。她决意只在午餐前去见他道别。

但是她对波太太说：

“我得和你道别了，波太太，你知道什么缘故。，但是我相信你不会对人说的。”

“啊，相信我吧，夫人，唉！我们大家都难受得很，的确。但是我希望你和那位先生将来幸福。”

“那位先生！那便是梅乐士先生，我爱他。克利福男爵知道的。但是别对人说，假如那天你以为克利福男爵愿意离婚时，让我知道吧，好不好？我愿我能好好地和我所爱的人结婚呢。”

“我自然啦，夫人！啊，一切都信任我吧，我将尽忠于克利福男爵，我也将尽忠于您，因为我明白你们双方都是对的。”

“谢谢你！波太太！我接受我这点谢忱——可以吗？”

于是康妮重新离开勒格贝，和希尔达到苏格兰去了。梅乐士呢，他已经在一个农场里找到了工作，到乡间去了，他的计划是，无论康妮能否离婚，但他是要离婚的一如果可能。他要在农场里作六个月的工，这样，以后他和康妮或可有个他们自己的小农场，那么他的精力便有用处了。因为他得工作，甚至是劳苦的工作。他得谋自己的生活；甚至康妮有钱帮助他开始。

这样，他们得等着，等到春天，等到孩子出世，等到初夏再来的时候。

吉兰治农场，九月二十九日书。

经过一番进行后，我在这儿找到工作了，因为我在军队里的时候认识里查土，他现在是公司里的工程师。这农场是属于拔拉·斯登煤矿公司的，他们在这几种植刍袜和燕麦，以供给煤矿里工作的小马的食料，这并不是个私人的农场。但是他们还有牛、猪和其他一切，我的工资是每星期三十先令，农场的管理人罗莱，尽量给我种种不同的工作，这样，我从现在到复活节间可以尽量的学习。白黛的消息我毫无所闻。我不知道为什么她在离婚案中不出面；我更不知道她在哪儿和弄什么鬼。但是，如果我静默地忍耐到三月，我想我便可以自由了。而你呢，不要为了克利福的事而烦恼，最近总有一天他要摆脱你的。如果他不纠缠你，那已经是太好了。

我寄寓在一个很不错的老村舍里。居停主人是个海帕克的机关手，身材高大，长着一贪胡须，是个很信教的人。他的女人是有点象鸟儿的那种人，她喜欢一切上流东西和文雅的英语，满口都是“请允洗！”可是他们的唯—儿子大战中丢了命，这仿佛在他们中间凿了一个洞。还有一位是他们的高大的傻女儿，她准备着将来做个小学教员，我有时帮她预备功课，所以我是俨然家庭一分子了。但是他们都是正直的人，而且对我是太好了。我想我是比你更受人姑息了。

农场的工作我倒还喜欢。这种工作虽不律津有味，但我并不求津津有味。我是习惯于马的人；乳牛虽则是很女性的东西，可是对我有一种镇静的作用。当然捋关奶的时候，我坐着把头依在它的身上，我觉得很是解闷。这儿有六条希尔福来的够漂亮的乳牛。我们刚把燕麦收获完了。虽然天下着雨，而且两手受了不少的伤，却给了我乐趣。我不太关心这儿的人，但是我和他们倒还合得来。有许多东西是人们最好不理的。

矿业很萧条了。这儿是个煤矿区，和达娃斯哈一样，但是地方倒好些。有时我到酒店里和工人们谈叙起来，他们都怨声满口，但是他们决意不去变更什么，大家都说，诺特斯。代贝的矿工们氦都在适当的位置，但是在这种不需要他们的世界里，他们的心以外的其他生理部分，一定是在不适当的位置了，我喜欢他们，但是他们是不太令人激励的；他们缺少老雄鸡的斗争精神。他们大谈国有义，利益国有和全部工业国有等等。但是你不能只把煤矿国有，而其他的工业听其自然，他们说要给煤炭找些新的用途，这和克利福男爵的想法一样。在局部也许可以成功，但是在全国、全世界都成功却是疑问了。不管你把煤炭变成什么，你总得有个销路才行。工人们都是很冷淡的。他们觉得什么都没有救药了。这一点我是相信的。于是他们自己也跟着不可救药了。其中有些年轻的人，佩佩而谈要一个苏维埃，但是他们自己却没有什么确信。他们除了确信一切都是黑漆一团以外，再没有对什么的克确信了，即使在一个苏维埃之下，煤炭还是要卖的，困难便在这里了。

我们既有了这庞大的工业群众，而他们又非吃饭不可，所以这该死的把戏就得将就演下去。妇女们现在比男子们更其絮絮不休，而且她们的看法更有把握。男子们是软弱的，他们觉得灾祸将临，于是他们苟且将事，仿佛毫无办法。大家尽管讲来讲去，却没有人知道怎么样年轻的癫狂起来，因为他们没有钱花了。他们的整个生命就是花钱，现在他们没有钱可花了。我们的文明和我们的教育便是这样：叫群众为花钱而生活，然后金钱便流出来了。煤坑晨现在一星期只作两天、两天半的工了，而又没有转好的征兆，即使冬天来了也不见得会好转。二十五到三十先令的工钱，怎么养活一家人呢？妇女们是最癫狂的，而我们今日花钱是癫狂的，也算是她们。

你想对他们说生活和花钱是不同的事么！那是徒劳的。假如他们所受的是生活的教育，而不是找钱的花的教育，那么二十五个先令对于他们也就可以快活够用了。假如男子们如我说的都穿上了紧身红裤子，那么他们便不会那么想钱了。假如他们可以舞蹈，跳跃，狂歌，高视阔步，而且漂亮起来，那么腰包虽很瘦，他们也可以满足了。假如他们知道享受女人的福，而让女人也享受他们的福，那就好了！他们应该学习怎样使自己赤裸裸无畏和漂亮起来，怎样唱合唱的歌和跳那旧日的合跳的舞，怎样雕刻他们所坐的凳子和刺绣他们自己的标识。那时他们便不需要金钱了。这是解决工业问题的唯一方法：教练人民生活，在美中生活，而不需花钱，但这是不可能的。我们今日都是智力有限的人，而广大的群众连思想也不应该，因为他们不能思想。他们应该生动、活泼，而崇拜伟大的自然神潘(Pan)，只有他才永久是群众之神。少数的人，如果他们喜欢的话，尽可另有更高等的崇拜。但是让群众是些异端吧。

但是矿工们却不是些异端，他们不配。他们是一群半死的可怜虫：他们对于他们的女人毫无生气，对于生命毫无生气。年轻的一有机会便带些女人坐摩托单车兜风、跳舞，但是他们从头到脚都死了。而且那是要钱的事，钱这东西，你有了的时候，它便毒害你；你没收有的时候，它便饿死你。

这一切一定使你觉得厌烦起来，可是我不愿多说我自己的事，而我也没有什么事可产，我的心不愿多说我自己的事，而我也没有什么事可说。我的心不愿多想你，那不过使我们两人更觉茫无头绪罢了，介理，不用说，我现在的生命之目的，便是你和我同居。实在我是惧怕的。我觉得恶魔在空中，他将度图把我们捉住。或者这不是恶魔，而是贪财鬼。这鬼不是旁的，我想只是贪钱而厌生的群众之总意志罢了。总之，我觉和量些粗大的贪婪的白手在空中，想把任何努力生活，努力摆脱金钱的束缚而生活的人的咽喉扼着，把你的老命挤了出来。坏日子就要来了。坏日子就要来了，朋友们，坏日子就要来了！如果事情照这样下去，这些工业群众的将来，便只有死与毁灭。我有时觉得我的心肠都化成水了，而你却正等待着一个我的孩子！但是不要紧。世界过去的所有坏日子，都不能把人的心花摧毁，甚至没有摧毁女子的爱情，所以我对你的欲望和你我间的小光明，也不会被摧毁的。明年我们便要在一块了。虽然我惧怕，但是我相信你我终必结合的，一个得竭力抵抗挣扎以后，才能相信什么事物。一个人对于将来的唯一的保证，便信他自己有最好的东西和它的权力。那么我相信我们间的小火把。现在，在我看来，这是世界上唯一的东西了。我没有朋友，没有知已的朋友。只有你。现在，那小火把是我生命中唯一在怀的东西了。至于孩子呢，那是旁枝末叶。你与我间的那把熊熊之火，便是我的“圣灵降临”人们往日所信的“圣灵降临”是不太对的。“我”与“上帝”这无论如何是有点傲慢的。但是你与我间的熊小火，那便是可持的东西了！那便是我所坚持的，而且要坚持到底的，管他什么克利宝和白黛，煤矿公司和政府，以及追逐金钱的群众。

这便是此刻我不欲多想你的缘故。那只使我痛苦，而且无益，你的无离我，是我所难受的。但是如果我开始烦闷起来，什么东西梗要耗损了。忍耐吧，不折不扣地忍耐吧！不久便要到我的第四二冬天了。我过去的所有冬天是在无可奈何中过去了。但是这个冬天，我要坚依着我的“圣灵降临”的小火把而尝点和平滋味。我将不让世人的气息把它吹熄。我信仰一种微妙的神秘，这种神秘是不让人摧毁心花的。虽然你在格兰而我在米德兰，虽然我不能把你拥在怀中，夹在两腿间，但是我心里却有你在。我的灵魂温柔地在“圣灵降临”的小火把中，和你一起翱翔着，这好象是性交时的和平一样。我们在性交的时候，便产生了那种火焰。即使植物的花，也是由太阳与大地相交而产生的。但这是不易的事情，需要忍与长久的等待。

因此，我现在爱贞洁了，因为那是从性交中产生出来的和平。现在，我觉得能守贞洁是可爱的了。我爱这贞洁和雪花之爱雪一样。我爱这贞洁，它是我们的性交和和平的静顿，它在我们中间，好象一朵熊熊白火似的雪