On a frosty morning with a little February sun, Clifford and Connie went for a walk across the park to the wood. That is, Clifford chuffed in his motor-chair, and Connie walked beside him.
The hard air was still sulphurous, but they were both used to it. Round the near horizon went the haze, opalescent with frost and smoke, and on the top lay the small blue sky; so that it was like being inside an enclosure, always inside. Life always a dream or a frenzy, inside an enclosure.

The sheep coughed in the rough, sere grass of the park, where frost lay bluish in the sockets of the tufts. Across the park ran a path to the wood-gate, a fine ribbon of pink. Clifford had had it newly gravelled with sifted gravel from the pit-bank. When the rock and refuse of the underworld had burned and given off its sulphur, it turned bright pink, shrimp-coloured on dry days, darker, crab-coloured on wet. Now it was pale shrimp-colour, with a bluish-white hoar of frost. It always pleased Connie, this underfoot of sifted, bright pink. It's an ill wind that brings nobody good.

Clifford steered cautiously down the slope of the knoll from the hall, and Connie kept her hand on the chair. In front lay the wood, the hazel thicket nearest, the purplish density of oaks beyond. From the wood's edge rabbits bobbed and nibbled. Rooks suddenly rose in a black train, and went trailing off over the little sky.

Connie opened the wood-gate, and Clifford puffed slowly through into the broad riding that ran up an incline between the clean-whipped thickets of the hazel. The wood was a remnant of the great forest where Robin Hood hunted, and this riding was an old, old thoroughfare coming across country. But now, of course, it was only a riding through the private wood. The road from Mansfield swerved round to the north.

In the wood everything was motionless, the old leaves on the ground keeping the frost on their underside. A jay called harshly, many little birds fluttered. But there was no game; no pheasants. They had been killed off during the war, and the wood had been left unprotected, till now Clifford had got his game-keeper again.

Clifford loved the wood; he loved the old oak-trees. He felt they were his own through generations. He wanted to protect them. He wanted this place inviolate, shut off from the world.

The chair chuffed slowly up the incline, rocking and jolting on the frozen clods. And suddenly, on the left, came a clearing where there was nothing but a ravel of dead bracken, a thin and spindly sapling leaning here and there, big sawn stumps, showing their tops and their grasping roots, lifeless. And patches of blackness where the woodmen had burned the brushwood and rubbish.

This was one of the places that Sir Geoffrey had cut during the war for trench timber. The whole knoll, which rose softly on the right of the riding, was denuded and strangely forlorn. On the crown of the knoll where the oaks had stood, now was bareness; and from there you could look out over the trees to the colliery railway, and the new works at Stacks Gate. Connie had stood and looked, it was a breach in the pure seclusion of the wood. It let in the world. But she didn't tell Clifford.

This denuded place always made Clifford curiously angry. He had been through the war, had seen what it meant. But he didn't get really angry till he saw this bare hill. He was having it replanted. But it made him hate Sir Geoffrey.

Clifford sat with a fixed face as the chair slowly mounted. When they came to the top of the rise he stopped; he would not risk the long and very jolty down-slope. He sat looking at the greenish sweep of the riding downwards, a clear way through the bracken and oaks. It swerved at the bottom of the hill and disappeared; but it had such a lovely easy curve, of knights riding and ladies on palfreys.

`I consider this is really the heart of England,' said Clifford to Connie, as he sat there in the dim February sunshine.

`Do you?' she said, seating herself in her blue knitted dress, on a stump by the path.

`I do! this is the old England, the heart of it; and I intend to keep it intact.'

`Oh yes!' said Connie. But, as she said it she heard the eleven-o'clock hooters at Stacks Gate colliery. Clifford was too used to the sound to notice.

`I want this wood perfect...untouched. I want nobody to trespass in it,' said Clifford.

There was a certain pathos. The wood still had some of the mystery of wild, old England; but Sir Geoffrey's cuttings during the war had given it a blow. How still the trees were, with their crinkly, innumerable twigs against the sky, and their grey, obstinate trunks rising from the brown bracken! How safely the birds flitted among them! And once there had been deer, and archers, and monks padding along on asses. The place remembered, still remembered.

Clifford sat in the pale sun, with the light on his smooth, rather blond hair, his reddish full face inscrutable.

`I mind more, not having a son, when I come here, than any other time,' he said.

`But the wood is older than your family,' said Connie gently.

`Quite!' said Clifford. `But we've preserved it. Except for us it would go...it would be gone already, like the rest of the forest. One must preserve some of the old England!'

`Must one?' said Connie. `If it has to be preserved, and preserved against the new England? It's sad, I know.'

`If some of the old England isn't preserved, there'll be no England at all,' said Clifford. `And we who have this kind of property, and the feeling for it, must preserve it.'

There was a sad pause. `Yes, for a little while,' said Connie.

`For a little while! It's all we can do. We can only do our bit. I feel every man of my family has done his bit here, since we've had the place. One may go against convention, but one must keep up tradition.' Again there was a pause.

`What tradition?' asked Connie.

`The tradition of England! of this!'

`Yes,' she said slowly.

`That's why having a son helps; one is only a link in a chain,' he said.

Connie was not keen on chains, but she said nothing. She was thinking of the curious impersonality of his desire for a son.

`I'm sorry we can't have a son,' she said.

He looked at her steadily, with his full, pale-blue eyes.

`It would almost be a good thing if you had a child by another man, he said. `If we brought it up at Wragby, it would belong to us and to the place. I don't believe very intensely in fatherhood. If we had the child to rear, it would be our own, and it would carry on. Don't you think it's worth considering?'

Connie looked up at him at last. The child, her child, was just an `it' to him. It...it...it!

`But what about the other man?' she asked.

`Does it matter very much? Do these things really affect us very deeply?...You had that lover in Germany...what is it now? Nothing almost. It seems to me that it isn't these little acts and little connexions we make in our lives that matter so very much. They pass away, and where are they? Where...Where are the snows of yesteryear?...It's what endures through one's life that matters; my own life matters to me, in its long continuance and development. But what do the occasional connexions matter? And the occasional sexual connexions especially! If people don't exaggerate them ridiculously, they pass like the mating of birds. And so they should. What does it matter? It's the life-long companionship that matters. It's the living together from day to day, not the sleeping together once or twice. You and I are married, no matter what happens to us. We have the habit of each other. And habit, to my thinking, is more vital than any occasional excitement. The long, slow, enduring thing...that's what we live by...not the occasional spasm of any sort. Little by little, living together, two people fall into a sort of unison, they vibrate so intricately to one another. That's the real secret of marriage, not sex; at least not the simple function of sex. You and I are interwoven in a marriage. If we stick to that we ought to be able to arrange this sex thing, as we arrange going to the dentist; since fate has given us a checkmate physically there.'

Connie sat and listened in a sort of wonder, and a sort of fear. She did not know if he was right or not. There was Michaelis, whom she loved; so she said to herself. But her love was somehow only an excursion from her marriage with Clifford; the long, slow habit of intimacy, formed through years of suffering and patience. Perhaps the human soul needs excursions, and must not be denied them. But the point of an excursion is that you come home again.

`And wouldn't you mind what man's child I had?' she asked.

`Why, Connie, I should trust your natural instinct of decency and selection. You just wouldn't let the wrong sort of fellow touch you.'

She thought of Michaelis! He was absolutely Clifford's idea of the wrong sort of fellow.

`But men and women may have different feelings about the wrong sort of fellow,' she said.

`No,' he replied. `You care for me. I don't believe you would ever care for a man who was purely antipathetic to me. Your rhythm wouldn't let you.'

She was silent. Logic might be unanswerable because it was so absolutely wrong.

`And should you expect me to tell you?' she asked, glancing up at him almost furtively.

`Not at all, I'd better not know...But you do agree with me, don't you, that the casual sex thing is nothing, compared to the long life lived together? Don't you think one can just subordinate the sex thing to the necessities of a long life? Just use it, since that's what we're driven to? After all, do these temporary excitements matter? Isn't the whole problem of life the slow building up of an integral personality, through the years? living an integrated life? There's no point in a disintegrated life. If lack of sex is going to disintegrate you, then go out and have a love-affair. If lack of a child is going to disintegrate you, then have a child if you possibly can. But only do these things so that you have an integrated life, that makes a long harmonious thing. And you and I can do that together...don't you think?...if we adapt ourselves to the necessities, and at the same time weave the adaptation together into a piece with our steadily-lived life. Don't you agree?'

Connie was a little overwhelmed by his words. She knew he was right theoretically. But when she actually touched her steadily-lived life with him she...hesitated. Was it actually her destiny to go on weaving herself into his life all the rest of her life? Nothing else?

Was it just that? She was to be content to weave a steady life with him, all one fabric, but perhaps brocaded with the occasional flower of an adventure. But how could she know what she would feel next year? How could one ever know? How could one say Yes? for years and years? The little yes, gone on a breath! Why should one be pinned down by that butterfly word? Of course it had to flutter away and be gone, to be followed by other yes's and no's! Like the straying of butterflies.

`I think you're right, Clifford. And as far as I can see I agree with you. Only life may turn quite a new face on it all.'

`But until life turns a new face on it all, you do agree?'

`Oh yes! I think I do, really.'

She was watching a brown spaniel that had run out of a side-path, and was looking towards them with lifted nose, making a soft, fluffy bark. A man with a gun strode swiftly, softly out after the dog, facing their way as if about to attack them; then stopped instead, saluted, and was turning downhill. It was only the new game-keeper, but he had frightened Connie, he seemed to emerge with such a swift menace. That was how she had seen him, like the sudden rush of a threat out of nowhere.

He was a man in dark green velveteens and gaiters...the old style, with a red face and red moustache and distant eyes. He was going quickly downhill.

`Mellors!' called Clifford.

The man faced lightly round, and saluted with a quick little gesture, a soldier!

`Will you turn the chair round and get it started? That makes it easier,' said Clifford.

The man at once slung his gun over his shoulder, and came forward with the same curious swift, yet soft movements, as if keeping invisible. He was moderately tall and lean, and was silent. He did not look at Connie at all, only at the chair.

`Connie, this is the new game-keeper, Mellors. You haven't spoken to her ladyship yet, Mellors?'

`No, Sir!' came the ready, neutral words.

The man lifted his hat as he stood, showing his thick, almost fair hair. He stared straight into Connie's eyes, with a perfect, fearless, impersonal look, as if he wanted to see what she was like. He made her feel shy. She bent her head to him shyly, and he changed his hat to his left hand and made her a slight bow, like a gentleman; but he said nothing at all. He remained for a moment still, with his hat in his hand.

`But you've been here some time, haven't you?' Connie said to him.

`Eight months, Madam...your Ladyship!' he corrected himself calmly.

`And do you like it?'

She looked him in the eyes. His eyes narrowed a little, with irony, perhaps with impudence.

`Why, yes, thank you, your Ladyship! I was reared here...'

He gave another slight bow, turned, put his hat on, and strode to take hold of the chair. His voice on the last words had fallen into the heavy broad drag of the dialect...perhaps also in mockery, because there had been no trace of dialect before. He might almost be a gentleman. Anyhow, he was a curious, quick, separate fellow, alone, but sure of himself.

Clifford started the little engine, the man carefully turned the chair, and set it nose-forwards to the incline that curved gently to the dark hazel thicket.

`Is that all then, Sir Clifford?' asked the man.

`No, you'd better come along in case she sticks. The engine isn't really strong enough for the uphill work.' The man glanced round for his dog...a thoughtful glance. The spaniel looked at him and faintly moved its tail. A little smile, mocking or teasing her, yet gentle, came into his eyes for a moment, then faded away, and his face was expressionless. They went fairly quickly down the slope, the man with his hand on the rail of the chair, steadying it. He looked like a free soldier rather than a servant. And something about him reminded Connie of Tommy Dukes.

When they came to the hazel grove, Connie suddenly ran forward, and opened the gate into the park. As she stood holding it, the two men looked at her in passing, Clifford critically, the other man with a curious, cool wonder; impersonally wanting to see what she looked like. And she saw in his blue, impersonal eyes a look of suffering and detachment, yet a certain warmth. But why was he so aloof, apart?

Clifford stopped the chair, once through the gate, and the man came quickly, courteously, to close it.

`Why did you run to open?' asked Clifford in his quiet, calm voice, that showed he was displeased. `Mellors would have done it.'

`I thought you would go straight ahead,' said Connie. `And leave you to run after us?' said Clifford.

`Oh, well, I like to run sometimes!'

Mellors took the chair again, looking perfectly unheeding, yet Connie felt he noted everything. As he pushed the chair up the steepish rise of the knoll in the park, he breathed rather quickly, through parted lips. He was rather frail really. Curiously full of vitality, but a little frail and quenched. Her woman's instinct sensed it.

Connie fell back, let the chair go on. The day had greyed over; the small blue sky that had poised low on its circular rims of haze was closed in again, the lid was down, there was a raw coldness. It was going to snow. All grey, all grey! the world looked worn out.

The chair waited at the top of the pink path. Clifford looked round for Connie.

`Not tired, are you?' he said.

`Oh, no!' she said.

But she was. A strange, weary yearning, a dissatisfaction had started in her. Clifford did not notice: those were not things he was aware of. But the stranger knew. To Connie, everything in her world and life seemed worn out, and her dissatisfaction was older than the hills.

They came to the house, and around to the back, where there were no steps. Clifford managed to swing himself over on to the low, wheeled house-chair; he was very strong and agile with his arms. Then Connie lifted the burden of his dead legs after him.

The keeper, waiting at attention to be dismissed, watched everything narrowly, missing nothing. He went pale, with a sort of fear, when he saw Connie lifting the inert legs of the man in her arms, into the other chair, Clifford pivoting round as she did so. He was frightened.

`Thanks, then, for the help, Mellors,' said Clifford casually, as he began to wheel down the passage to the servants' quarters.

`Nothing else, Sir?' came the neutral voice, like one in a dream.

`Nothing, good morning!'

`Good morning, Sir.'

`Good morning! it was kind of you to push the chair up that hill...I hope it wasn't heavy for you,' said Connie, looking back at the keeper outside the door.

His eyes came to hers in an instant, as if wakened up. He was aware of her.

`Oh no, not heavy!' he said quickly. Then his voice dropped again into the broad sound of the vernacular: `Good mornin' to your Ladyship!'

`Who is your game-keeper?' Connie asked at lunch.

`Mellors! You saw him,' said Clifford.

`Yes, but where did he come from?'

`Nowhere! He was a Tevershall boy...son of a collier, I believe.'

`And was he a collier himself?'

`Blacksmith on the pit-bank, I believe: overhead smith. But he was keeper here for two years before the war...before he joined up. My father always had a good Opinion of him, so when he came back, and went to the pit for a blacksmith's job, I just took him back here as keeper. I was really very glad to get him...its almost impossible to find a good man round here for a gamekeeper...and it needs a man who knows the people.'

`And isn't he married?'

`He was. But his wife went off with...with various men...but finally with a collier at Stacks Gate, and I believe she's living there still.'

`So this man is alone?'

`More or less! He has a mother in the village...and a child, I believe.'

Clifford looked at Connie, with his pale, slightly prominent blue eyes, in which a certain vagueness was coming. He seemed alert in the foreground, but the background was like the Midlands atmosphere, haze, smoky mist. And the haze seemed to be creeping forward. So when he stared at Connie in his peculiar way, giving her his peculiar, precise information, she felt all the background of his mind filling up with mist, with nothingness. And it frightened her. It made him seem impersonal, almost to idiocy.

And dimly she realized one of the great laws of the human soul: that when the emotional soul receives a wounding shock, which does not kill the body, the soul seems to recover as the body recovers. But this is only appearance. It is really only the mechanism of the re-assumed habit. Slowly, slowly the wound to the soul begins to make itself felt, like a bruise, which Only slowly deepens its terrible ache, till it fills all the psyche. And when we think we have recovered and forgotten, it is then that the terrible after-effects have to be encountered at their worst.

So it was with Clifford. Once he was `well', once he was back at Wragby, and writing his stories, and feeling sure of life, in spite of all, he seemed to forget, and to have recovered all his equanimity. But now, as the years went by, slowly, slowly, Connie felt the bruise of fear and horror coming up, and spreading in him. For a time it had been so deep as to be numb, as it were non-existent. Now slowly it began to assert itself in a spread of fear, almost paralysis. Mentally he still was alert. But the paralysis, the bruise of the too-great shock, was gradually spreading in his affective self.

And as it spread in him, Connie felt it spread in her. An inward dread, an emptiness, an indifference to everything gradually spread in her soul. When Clifford was roused, he could still talk brilliantly and, as it were, command the future: as when, in the wood, he talked about her having a child, and giving an heir to Wragby. But the day after, all the brilliant words seemed like dead leaves, crumpling up and turning to powder, meaning really nothing, blown away on any gust of wind. They were not the leafy words of an effective life, young with energy and belonging to the tree. They were the hosts of fallen leaves of a life that is ineffectual.

So it seemed to her everywhere. The colliers at Tevershall were talking again of a strike, and it seemed to Connie there again it was not a manifestation of energy, it was the bruise of the war that had been in abeyance, slowly rising to the surface and creating the great ache of unrest, and stupor of discontent. The bruise was deep, deep, deep...the bruise of the false inhuman war. It would take many years for the living blood of the generations to dissolve the vast black clot of bruised blood, deep inside their souls and bodies. And it would need a new hope.

Poor Connie! As the years drew on it was the fear of nothingness In her life that affected her. Clifford's mental life and hers gradually began to feel like nothingness. Their marriage, their integrated life based on a habit of intimacy, that he talked about: there were days when it all became utterly blank and nothing. It was words, just so many words. The only reality was nothingness, and over it a hypocrisy of words.

There was Clifford's success: the bitch-goddess! It was true he was almost famous, and his books brought him in a thousand pounds. His photograph appeared everywhere. There was a bust of him in one of the galleries, and a portrait of him in two galleries. He seemed the most modern of modern voices. With his uncanny lame instinct for publicity, he had become in four or five years one of the best known of the young `intellectuals'. Where the intellect came in, Connie did not quite see. Clifford was really clever at that slightly humorous analysis of people and motives which leaves everything in bits at the end. But it was rather like puppies tearing the sofa cushions to bits; except that it was not young and playful, but curiously old, and rather obstinately conceited. It was weird and it was nothing. This was the feeling that echoed and re-echoed at the bottom of Connie's soul: it was all flag, a wonderful display of nothingness; At the same time a display. A display! a display! a display!

Michaelis had seized upon Clifford as the central figure for a play; already he had sketched in the plot, and written the first act. For Michaelis was even better than Clifford at making a display of nothingness. It was the last bit of passion left in these men: the passion for making a display. Sexually they were passionless, even dead. And now it was not money that Michaelis was after. Clifford had never been primarily out for money, though he made it where he could, for money is the seal and stamp of success. And success was what they wanted. They wanted, both of them, to make a real display...a man's own very display of himself that should capture for a time the vast populace.

It was strange...the prostitution to the bitch-goddess. To Connie, since she was really outside of it, and since she had grown numb to the thrill of it, it was again nothingness. Even the prostitution to the bitch-goddess was nothingness, though the men prostituted themselves innumerable times. Nothingness even that.

Michaelis wrote to Clifford about the play. Of course she knew about it long ago. And Clifford was again thrilled. He was going to be displayed again this time, somebody was going to display him, and to advantage. He invited Michaelis down to Wragby with Act I.

Michaelis came: in summer, in a pale-coloured suit and white suede gloves, with mauve orchids for Connie, very lovely, and Act I was a great success. Even Connie was thrilled...thrilled to what bit of marrow she had left. And Michaelis, thrilled by his power to thrill, was really wonderful...and quite beautiful, in Connie's eyes. She saw in him that ancient motionlessness of a race that can't be disillusioned any more, an extreme, perhaps, of impurity that is pure. On the far side of his supreme prostitution to the bitch-goddess he seemed pure, pure as an African ivory mask that dreams impurity into purity, in its ivory curves and planes.

His moment of sheer thrill with the two Chatterleys, when he simply carried Connie and Clifford away, was one of the supreme moments of Michaelis' life. He had succeeded: he had carried them away. Even Clifford was temporarily in love with him...if that is the way one can put it.

So next morning Mick was more uneasy than ever; restless, devoured, with his hands restless in his trousers pockets. Connie had not visited him in the night...and he had not known where to find her. Coquetry!...at his moment of triumph.

He went up to her sitting-room in the morning. She knew he would come. And his restlessness was evident. He asked her about his play...did she think it good? He had to hear it praised: that affected him with the last thin thrill of passion beyond any sexual orgasm. And she praised it rapturously. Yet all the while, at the bottom of her soul, she knew it was nothing.

`Look here!' he said suddenly at last. `Why don't you and I make a clean thing of it? Why don't we marry?'

`But I am married,' she said, amazed, and yet feeling nothing.

`Oh that!...he'll divorce you all right...Why don't you and I marry? I want to marry. I know it would be the best thing for me...marry and lead a regular life. I lead the deuce of a life, simply tearing myself to pieces. Look here, you and I, we're made for one another...hand and glove. Why don't we marry? Do you see any reason why we shouldn't?'

Connie looked at him amazed: and yet she felt nothing. These men, they were all alike, they left everything out. They just went off from the top of their heads as if they were squibs, and expected you to be carried heavenwards along with their own thin sticks.

`But I am married already,' she said. `I can't leave Clifford, you know.'

`Why not? but why not?' he cried. `He'll hardly know you've gone, after six months. He doesn't know that anybody exists, except himself. Why the man has no use for you at all, as far as I can see; he's entirely wrapped up in himself.'

Connie felt there was truth in this. But she also felt that Mick was hardly making a display of selflessness.

`Aren't all men wrapped up in themselves?' she asked.

`Oh, more or less, I allow. A man's got to be, to get through. But that's not the point. The point is, what sort of a time can a man give a woman? Can he give her a damn good time, or can't he? If he can't he's no right to the woman...' He paused and gazed at her with his full, hazel eyes, almost hypnotic. `Now I consider,' he added, `I can give a woman the darndest good time she can ask for. I think I can guarantee myself.'

`And what sort of a good time?' asked Connie, gazing on him still with a sort of amazement, that looked like thrill; and underneath feeling nothing at all.

`Every sort of a good time, damn it, every sort! Dress, jewels up to a point, any nightclub you like, know anybody you want to know, live the pace...travel and be somebody wherever you go...Darn it, every sort of good time.'

He spoke it almost in a brilliancy of triumph, and Connie looked at him as if dazzled, and really feeling nothing at all. Hardly even the surface of her mind was tickled at the glowing prospects he offered her. Hardly even her most outside self responded, that at any other time would have been thrilled. She just got no feeling from it, she couldn't `go off'. She just sat and stared and looked dazzled, and felt nothing, only somewhere she smelt the extraordinarily unpleasant smell of the bitch-goddess.

Mick sat on tenterhooks, leaning forward in his chair, glaring at her almost hysterically: and whether he was more anxious out of vanity for her to say Yes! or whether he was more panic-stricken for fear she should say Yes!---who can tell?

`I should have to think about it,' she said. `I couldn't say now. It may seem to you Clifford doesn't count, but he does. When you think how disabled he is...'

`Oh damn it all! If a fellow's going to trade on his disabilities, I might begin to say how lonely I am, and always have been, and all the rest of the my-eye-Betty-Martin sob-stuff! Damn it all, if a fellow's got nothing but disabilities to recommend him...'

He turned aside, working his hands furiously in his trousers pockets. That evening he said to her:

`You're coming round to my room tonight, aren't you? I don't darn know where your room is.'

`All right!' she said.

He was a more excited lover that night, with his strange, small boy's frail nakedness. Connie found it impossible to come to her crisis before he had really finished his. And he roused a certain craving passion in her, with his little boy's nakedness and softness; she had to go on after he had finished, in the wild tumult and heaving of her loins, while he heroically kept himself up, and present in her, with all his will and self-offering, till she brought about her own crisis, with weird little cries.

When at last he drew away from her, he said, in a bitter, almost sneering little voice:

`You couldn't go off at the same time as a man, could you? You'd have to bring yourself off! You'd have to run the show!'

This little speech, at the moment, was one of the shocks of her life. Because that passive sort of giving himself was so obviously his only real mode of intercourse.

`What do you mean?' she said.

`You know what I mean. You keep on for hours after I've gone off...and I have to hang on with my teeth till you bring yourself off by your own exertions.'

She was stunned by this unexpected piece of brutality, at the moment when she was glowing with a sort of pleasure beyond words, and a sort of love for him. Because, after all, like so many modern men, he was finished almost before he had begun. And that forced the woman to be active.

`But you want me to go on, to get my own satisfaction?' she said.

He laughed grimly: `I want it!' he said. `That's good! I want to hang on with my teeth clenched, while you go for me!'

`But don't you?' she insisted.

He avoided the question. `All the darned women are like that,' he said. `Either they don't go off at all, as if they were dead in there...or else they wait till a chap's really done, and then they start in to bring themselves off, and a chap's got to hang on. I never had a woman yet who went off just at the same moment as I did.'

Connie only half heard this piece of novel, masculine information. She was only stunned by his feeling against her...his incomprehensible brutality. She felt so innocent.

`But you want me to have my satisfaction too, don't you?' she repeated.

`Oh, all right! I'm quite willing. But I'm darned if hanging on waiting for a woman to go off is much of a game for a man...'

This speech was one of the crucial blows of Connie's life. It killed something in her. She had not been so very keen on Michaelis; till he started it, she did not want him. It was as if she never positively wanted him. But once he had started her, it seemed only natural for her to come to her own crisis with him. Almost she had loved him for it...almost that night she loved him, and wanted to marry him.

Perhaps instinctively he knew it, and that was why he had to bring down the whole show with a smash; the house of cards. Her whole sexual feeling for him, or for any man, collapsed that night. Her life fell apart from his as completely as if he had never existed.

And she went through the days drearily. There was nothing now but this empty treadmill of what Clifford called the integrated life, the long living together of two people, who are in the habit of being in the same house with one another.

Nothingness! To accept the great nothingness of life seemed to be the one end of living. All the many busy and important little things that make up the grand sum-total of nothingness!

一个二月的有淡淡阳光的降霜的早晨，克利福和康妮出去散步，穿过大花园向树林里走去，克利福驶着他的小自动车，康妮在他旁边步行。

严冷的空气里依然带着硫磺气味，但是他们俩都已习惯于这种气味了。近处的天边，笼罩着一种蛋白石色的霜和烟混成雾，顶上便是一块小小的青天。因此；使人觉得是被磁禁在一个围子里，老是在围子里。生命老是象个梦幻或疯狂，被关禁在一个围子里。

一些绵羊在园中的干枯的乱草丛里嗤喘着，那儿的草窝里积着一些带蓝色的霜，一条浅红色的小路，象一条美丽的带子似的。婉蜒地横过大花园直至树林门口。克利福新近才叫人在这小路上铺了一层从煤坑边取来的筛过的沙砾。这些焚烧过而没有硫磺传的沙砾。在天气干燥的时候，呈着鲜明的浅红的虾色，在天气阴湿的时候，便呈着更浓的蟹色。现在这条小路是呈着淡谈的虾色，上面铺着灰白带蓝的薄霜、康妮很喜欢这条铺着细沙的鲜玫瑰色的路径。天下事有时是有弊亦有利的。

克利福小心地从他们的房屋所在的小山丘上，向着斜坡驶了下去。康妮在旁边用手扶着车子。树林在他们的面前展开着，最近处是擦树丛林，稍远处便是带紫色的浓密的橡树林。树林的边缘，一些兔子在那儿跳跃着或咀嚼着，一群小乌鸦突然地飞了起来，在那小小的天空里翱翔而过。

康妮把树林的门开了，克利福慢慢地驶了过去，到了一条宽大的马路。这马路向着一个斜坡上去，两旁是修剪得很整齐的擦林。这树林是从前罗宾汉打猎的大森林的残余，而这条马路是从前横经这个乡野的很古很古的大道。但是现在，这只是一条私人树林里的马路了。从曼斯非尔德来的的路，至此往北折转。

树林里，一切都静息着。地上千叶子的背面藏着一层范霜。一只鸟粗哑地叫着，许多小鸟震着翼。但是这儿已没有供人狞猎的野兽，也没有雄鸡。因为在大战时都给人杀光了。树林也荒着没人看管，一直到现在，克利福才再雇了一个守猎的人。

克利福深爱这个树林，他深爱那些老橡树。他觉得它们经过了许多世代都是属于他的，他要保护它们，他要使这个地方不为人所侵犯，紧紧地关闭着，使之与世界隔绝。

小车子馒慢地驶上斜坡，在冰陈了的泥块上颠簸着前进，忽然左边现出一块空地，是儿只有一丛枯稿了的蕨草，四下杂布着一些斜倾的细长的小树，几根锯断了的大树桩，毫无生气地露着顶和根；还有几处乌黑的地方，那是樵夫们焚烧树枝乱草和废物过后的痕迹。

这是大战中佐费来男爵伐木以供战壕之用的一个地方，在马路的右边渐次隆起的圆丘，一片光溜溜，怪荒芜的。圆丘的顶上，从前有的话多橡树，现在一株也没有了。在那儿，你从树梢上望去，可以看见煤矿场的铁道和史曲门的新工厂。康妮站在那儿远眺着。这几是与世界隔绝的树林中的一个开口。从这开口咱使可与世相通。但是她并不告诉克利福。

这块光地，常常便克利福觉得非常地忿怒。他曾参与大战，他知道战争是怎么一回事，但是大战并没有使他忿怒，直至他看见了这光溜溜的小山之后，才真正地忿怒起来。他现在正叫人重新植些树木。不过这小山使他看了便怨恨他的父亲。

小车儿徐徐地向上前进，克利福坐在车里，呆板地向前望着。当他们到了最高处时，他把车停住，他不肯向那不平的斜坡冒险下去了。他望着那条马路向下降落里在蕨草和橡树中间形成的一个开口。这马路在小山脚下拐弯而淹没，但是它的迂回是这样的美好而自然，令人联想起往日的骑士们和乘马的贵妇们在这儿行乐的情形。

“我认为这儿是真正的英格兰的心。”在二月谈淡的阳光下坐着的克利福对康妮这样说。

“是吗？”康妮说着，却听见了史德门煤矿场发来的十一点钟的气笛声。克利福是太习惯于这声音了，他一点也没有注意。

“我要使这个树林完整……无疆。谁也不许侵犯它。”克利福说。

克利福这话里，带着某种愤慨悲伤的情绪。这树林还保存着一点荒野的老英格兰时代的什么神秘东西，但是大战时候佐佛来罗爵的伐木却把它损伤了。那些树木是多么静穆，无数弯曲的树枝向天空上伸，灰色的树干，倔强地从棕争的蕨草丛中直立！鸟雀在这些树木间飞翻着，多么安稳！从前，这儿有过鹿，有过弓手，也有过骑驴得得地经过的道士。这地方还没有忘记，还追忆着呢。

巨利福静坐着，灰白和阳光照着他的光滑的近全栗色的头发，照着他的圆满红润的、不可思仪的脸孔。

“当我来到这儿时，我比平时尤其觉得无后的缺感。”他说。

“但是这树林比你的家族还要老呢。”康妮温和地说。

“的确！”克利福说。“但这是我们把它保存的。没有我们，它定已消灭了，象其余的森林似的早巳消灭了，我们定要保存点老英格兰的东西。”

“一定要么？”康妮说，“甚至这老英格兰不能自几存在，甚至这老英格兰是反对新英格兰的东西，连英格兰本身都要没有了。”克利福说。“我们已有着这块土，而且我们爱它，那么锭要保存它。”

两人忧郁地静默了一会。

“是人，在一个短时间内。”康妮说。

“在一个短时间内！这是我他仅能做到的，我们只能尽我们的职份。我觉得自从我们有这块地以来，我们家族中每个男子都曾在这儿尽过他的职份，一个人可以超越习俗之处，但是传统馈例是定要维持的。”

他们又静默了一会。

“什么传统惯例？”康妮问。

“英格兰的传统惯例！就是这个！

“啊！”她徐徐地说。

“这是不得不有个儿子的原因，一个人不过是一条链索中的一环啊。”他说。

康妮并不喜欢这链索的话，但是她并不说什么，她觉得他那种求于的欲望是怪异地不尽人情的。

“可惜我们不能有个儿子。”他说。

他的淡蓝色的眼睛凝视着她。

“要是你能和另一个男人生个儿子，那也许是件好事。”他说，“要是我们把这孩子在勒格贝养大，他便要成为我们和的这块地方的。我不太相信什么父道，要是我们养他，他便是我们的，而继承我们。你不觉得这是件值得考虑的事么？”

．康妮终于指起眼睛向他望着。孩子，她的孩子，于他渤是个物件似的，是个物件似的！

“但是另一个什么男人呢？”她问道。

“那有什么大关系？难道这种事情和我们有什么很大的影响么？……你在德国时不是有过情人么？……现在怎么了？不是差不多什么都没有了么？我觉得在生命里，我们所做的那些小动作，和我们与他人发生的那些小关系，并不怎么重要。那—切都要消逝。而且谁知道那一切都消逝到哪儿去了呢，哪儿是旧年的自雪……在一个人生命中能持久的东西，这才是重要的东西。我自己的生命，在她的长久的持续与发展里，于我是重要的，但是与人发生的偶尔关系，特别是那偶尔的性的关系，有什么重要呢？这种种关系，如果人不把它们可笑的张大起来，事情便象鸟交尾似地过去。事情本来应该这样，那有什么重要呢？重要的是终身的结合，重要的是一天一天的共同生活并不是那一两次的苟合。你和我，无论发生怎样的事情，我们终是夫妻。我们彼此习惯着在一块。我觉得习惯是比任何偶尔的兴奋都重要的。我们所凭以生活的，是那长久的、缓慢的、持续的东西，并不是什么偶然的瞬息的快感。两个人住在一块，一步一步地达到一致。他们的感觉密切地交贯着。结婚的真谛便是这个，并不是性行为，尤其不是那简单的性作用。你和我由结婚而互相联系着。命运已经不幸地把我们的肉体关系斩断了，我们只要能够维持着结婚的基本东西，这性的问题我想中可以容易解结的——不见得比找牙种医生治牙更难解决的。”

康妮坐在那儿，在士种惊愕和恐怖的情绪中听着，她不知道他说得究竟有理还是无理。她爱蔑克里斯，至少她自己这样想。但是她的爱不过是她和克利福的结婚生活中的一种开心的小旅行罢了。她和克利福的结婚生活，那便是由多年的苦痛和忍耐所造成的又长又慢的亲密的习惯。也许人类的灵魂是需要些开心的小旅行的，而且不可去拒绝这个需要的。但是所谓旅行，那是终得归家来的。

“无论什么男人使我生的孩子你都不介意么”她问道。

“用得着么，康妮？我相信你的选择的本能是高尚的。你决不会让一人坏男人接触你的。”

她想起了蔑克里斯！他是克利福所认为坏男人的那种人。

“但是，男人和女人对于坏男人的看法也许是不同的。”她说。

“不见得。”他答道，“你是看重我的。我不相信你要找个我所绝不喜欢的男人，你一定不会那样做的。

她静默着，逻辑谬误到绝点时，是不容人答辨的。

“我要是有了个男人，你要我告诉你么？”她偷偷地向他望了一望。

“一点也不要。我还是不知道的好……不过，偶尔的性行为，和长久的共同生活比起来，科不算什么，这一点你和我意见一致，不是不？你相信长久的共同生滔比性欲的事里董要吧？我们已到了不得不如此的地步，那么以性欲上只好请便罢，是不是？总之，那些一瞬的兴奋有什么重要关系呢？难道生命的整个问题，不是在累车积月地、慢慢地、创造一个完备的人格么？不是生活于一种完备的生活中么？一种不完备的生活是没有意义的。如果缺少性的满足使你不完备，那么找一个对手去。如果没有儿子使你不完备，那么，只要你能够，生个孩子罢，不过，做这种事要以获得一个完备的生活为目的。要以获得一个长久而和谐的完备生活为目的。这，你和我是可以共同去做的……你说是不是……我们是能够，如果我们能使自己适应于需要，而同时把这种适应和我们持久的共同生活打成一片。你的意见是不是这样？”

康妮觉得有点给这些话语压倒了。她知道他在理论上是对的。但是在事实上，当她考虑到和他过着那种持续的生活时……她不禁犹豫了。难道真是她的命中注定了，要把她今后的一生都断送给这个人么？就这样完全绍了么？

只这样就完结了么？她只好知足地去和他组成一种持续的共同生活，组成一块布似的，也许偶尔地，在这布上绣上一朵浪漫的花。但是她怎能知道明年她又要如何感觉呢？谁能知道？谁能说一个年年有效的“是”宇？这个小小的“是”，是一出气便溜出来的！一个人为什么定要对这轻如蝴蝶的一个安负长久的责任呢？这个小宇儿，当然要象蝴蝶似地飘飘飞逝，好让其他的“是”和“不”替上的！

“我相信你是对的，克利福。就我所能判断的说，我和你意见相同，不过生活也许要完全改变面目的。”

“但是生活没有完全改变面目以前，你是同意罢？”

“呵，是的！我相信我的确同意。”

她看见了头棕色的猎犬，从路穷的小径里跑了出来，向他们望着，举着嘴，轻轻吠着，一个带着枪的人，轨快地跟着猩犬，向他们走来．仿佛要向他们攻击的样子。但是他突然站住了，向他们行了一个礼，然后回转头向山下走去，这不过是个新来的守猎人，但是他却把康妮吓了一跳，他出现得这样的突然，象是一种骤然的威吓，从虚无中跑出来。

这人穿着深绿色的线绒衣，带着脚绊……老式的样子，红润的脸孔，红的髭须，和冷淡的眼睛。他正迅速地向山下走土

“梅乐士！”克利福喊道。

那人轻快地回转了身，迅速地用一种姿势，行了个兵士的礼。

“你可以把我的车子转过来，再把它推动吗？这样比较好走一些。”克利福说。

那人马上把枪挂在肩上，用那种同样的奇异的姿态定了上来，又敏捷又从容好象他要使自己不能人看见似的。他是中等的身材，有点消瘦，很缄默，他一点也不看康妮，只望着那车子。

“康妮，这是新来的守猎人，叫梅乐士。你还没有和太太说过话罢，梅乐士？”

没有，先生。”这回答又快又冷淡。

这人脱下了他的帽子，露着他的浓密的近金栗色的头发。他用那种充分的，无惧的、平淡的视线，向康妮的眼里直望着，好象他要看看她是怎样一个人似的，他使她觉得羞怯。她羞怯地低下了头。他把帽子放在左手里，微微地向她鞠了一个躬，象个绅士似的。但是他一句话也不说，他手里拿着帽子，站在那儿静默了一会。

“你在这儿有些日子了吧，是不是？”康妮问他道。

“八个月了，太太……男爵夫人！”他镇静地改正了称呼说。

“你喜欢在这儿吗？”

她地望着他的眼睛，他带着讥讽的，也许是鲁莽的神气，把眼睛闭了一半。

“啊，是的，谢谢你，夫人！我是在这儿生长的……”他又轻轻地鞠了一个躬，然后回转身去，把帽子带上，走过去握着车子，他的声调，说到最后几个字时，带着沉重的拖连的音……也许这也是由于侮慢罢，因为他开头说话时，并不带一点儿土音的。他差不多可说是个绅士呢，无论如何，他是一个奇异的、灵敏的、孤独的人，虽然孤独，但他却有自信心。

克利福把机器开动了，那人小心地把车子移转过来；使它面向着那渐次地向着幽间的榛林下去的山直线。

“还有什么事么，克利福男爵？”他问道。

“是人，你还是跟我们去好，万一车子地走不动了的话，这机器上山用实在是不够力的。”

那人的眼睛，接心地探望着他的猎犬望着他，微微地摇着尾巴，一种轻轻的微笑，嘲讽的或戏弄的但是和蔼的微笑，显现在那人的眼里，一会儿便消失了，他的脸上也毫无了表情了。他们下着山坡，车子走得有点快，那人扶着车背，使它安稳地前进，他的神气，与其说是仆役，不如说是个自由的兵士。他有点什么地方使康妮想起了唐米·督克斯。

当他们赤到擦树丛林时，康妮突然跑到前头去把窗门打开了。康妮扶着那扇开着的门，两个男人经过时都向她望着，克利福带着非难的神气，另一个是带着一种冷静的惊异的样子，想看看她究竟是怎样一个人，她看见他的蓝色的平淡的眼睛里，带着一种苦痛的超脱的神情，但是这眼睛里有着一种什么热力，但是他为什么这样的孤高，这样的远隔呢？

当他们通过园门后，克利福把车子停住了，那个人赶忙跑了回去，谦恭地把园门关好。

“你为什么那样忙着开门呢？这事梅乐士会做的。”克利福问道，他的镇静泰然的声音，表示着他是不高兴的。

“我想这样你可以一直开进去，不必停着等。”康妮说。

“那么让你在质面跑着赶上来么？”克利福问道。

呵！我人时倒喜欢跑一跑呢？”

梅乐十回来重新扶着车子，好象什么都没有听见的样子，可民康妮却觉得他留意着一切，当他在林园里推着车子上那有点峻峭的山丘财，他嘴唇张着，呼吸有点急了起来。他并不怎样强壮呵”虽然他是奇异地充满着生气，但是他是有点脆弱和干涸的。她的妇人的本能感知这个。

康妮蹬在后边，让车子继续前行，天色变成了灰暗了，雾环绕着的那块小青天合拢了，好象盖上了盖子似的。这时天气严冷起来，雪就要下了，一切都是灰色，全是灰色！世界好象是衰疲了。

车子在那浅红色的路尽头等着，克利福转头来看康妮来了没有。

“不累吗？”他问道。

“啊，不！”她说。

但是她实在是累了。一种奇异的疲乏的感觉，一种渴慕着什么，不满着什么的感觉，充满着她。克利福并没有注意到：这种事情不是他所能知觉的。但是那个生疏的人却觉晓着，闪妮觉得在她的环境和她的生命里，一切都衰败了，她觉得她的不满的心情，比那些小山还要古老。

他们到了屋前，车子绕到后门去，那儿是没有阶沿的。好容易克利福她从那小车里把自己投到家里用的轮椅里。他的两臂是又敏捷又有力的。然后康妮把他那沉重的两条死了的‘腿搬了了过去。

那守猎人，一边等待着主人的辞退，一边端详地、无遗地注视着这一切，当他看见康妮把克利福的两条死腿抱起来放到轮椅里去时，他恐怖得脸色苍白起来。他觉得惊骇了。

“梅乐士，谢谢你的帮忙。”克利福漠然地说，说着把椅子向走郎里滚去。

“没有别的事情了么，先生？”那平淡、旬在做梦的声音说道。

“没有了，早安！”

“早安。先生。”

“早安！谢谢你把车子上山来……我想你不觉得太重吧？”康妮望着门外的那个守猎的人说道。

他的眼睛立刻和他的相遇了，好象梦中醒转的样子。他的心里已有了她了。’

“呵，不，中重J他迅速地说。然后人的声音又带了那沉重的土腔：“夫人，早安！”

午餐的时候，康妮问道：“你的守猎人是谁？”

“梅乐十！你已经见过他了。”克利福说。

“是的，但是他是从哪儿来的？”

“从虚无中来的。这是达娃斯哈人……一个煤矿工厂的儿子，我相信。”

“他自己也曾做过矿工吗？”

做过矿场的铁匠，—我相信，做过铁匠的工头。在大战前……在他没有去投这国以前，他曾在这儿当过两年守猎人。我的父亲很看得超他；所以当他回来要在矿场里再当铁匠的时候，我叫他地这儿再当守猎人，我实在很喜欢得到他……在边儿要找个好的守猎人，差不多是件不可能的事……那非要一个熟识附近居民的人不行的。”

“他结了婚没有？”

“他曾结过婚。不过他的女人跟了几个不同的男子……最后是跟了一个史德门的矿工走了。我相信她现在还在史德门罢。”

“那么他现在是孤身一个人了？”

“多少是！他有个母亲任在村里……他还有一个孩子，我相信。”

克利福用他那无光彩的稍为突出的蓝眼睛望着她，这眼睛里显现着某种暗昧的东西。在外表上看来，他好象是精明活泼的，但是在背面，他便同米德兰一带的气氛似的，烟雾沉沉。这烟雾好象蔓延起来，所以当他用那奇特的样子注视着康妮，一边简明地回答着她的问话时，她觉得克利福的心灵的背后，给烟雾和虚无充满了。这使她害怕起来，这种神气使他似乎失去了人性，而差不多成为一个白痴了。

模糊地，她感悟了人类灵魂的一条伟大的法则，那便是当一个人受了刨伤的打南昌，而肉体没有被击死的时候，灵魂便好象和肉体一样痊愈起来，但这只是外表罢了，实在那不过是习惯恢复过来的一种机械作用。慢慢地，馒慢地，灵魂的创伤开始显露，好象一个伤痕，起极是轻微的，但是慢慢地它的痛楚加重起来，直至把灵魂的全部充满了。正当我们相信自己是痊愈了，而且把它忘记了的时候，那可怖的反应才最难忍受是被人觉察出来。

克利福正外在这种情境中，当他觉得“痊愈”时，当他回到勒格贝时，他写着小说，相信着无论怎样他的生命是安全了，他好象把过去不幸的遭遇忘记了，而精神的均衡也恢‘复了。但是现在，一年一年地过去了，侵慢地，慢慢地，康妮觉得那可惊可怖的创伤回复起来，把他布满了。好些日子以来，那创伤是深伏着，好象没有那回事似地不被人觉察，现在，这创伤徐徐地在惊悸的、几乎是疯痪的开展中使人觉着了。精神上，他仍然是安好的，但是那疯瘫——那太大的打击过后的创伤——渐渐地开展在他的感觉之中了。

虽然那创伤中在他身上开展，康妮却觉得开展到她身上来了。一种对于所有事物的内在的惊怖，空虎、冷淡，一步一步地开展在她的灵魂里了，当克利福好的时候，他还能兴致勃勃地谈论，或可以说是，他还能支配将来，譬如在树林里时，他还对她说着要有个孩子给勒格贝一个继承的人。但是第二天，这一切漂亮话只象是些枯死的树叶，绉缩着而成为碎粉，毫无意义，一阵风便给吹散了。这些话并不是有真生命的苍经的树上叶子，富有青春力量。它们只是一个无目的的生命的一阵落叶。

她不觉得一切都是无目的的。这娃斯哈的矿工又说着要罢工了，而康妮觉得那不是力量的表现，那不过是大战留下的一个创伤，隐伏了一些时日后，慢慢浮现出来，而产生了这种不安的大痛苦和不满现状的恐怖。那虚伪的不人道的大战所留下的创伤是太深了，太深了……那定要好些时日，才能使后代人的活血去把深藏在他们的灵魂和肉里面的无限的创伤的黑白块溶解。那定要有一个新的希望才行。

可怜的康妮！岁月悠悠地过去，她在她的生命的空虚之前战栗着。克利福和她自己的精神生活，渐渐地觉得变为空虚了。他们的结婚生活，克利福所常说的那种基于亲密习惯的完备生活，有些日子竟成为完全的空洞。纯粹的虚无了。那只是些漂亮的言词。全是些漂亮的言词。在这些虚伪的言词上面，唯一的真实但是空虚。

当然，那儿也有克利福的成功，那成功的财运，他差不多是著名了，他的书一年可以赚一千镑，他的像片随处都是；在一个画展里有一幅他的半身像，还有其它两处画展也有他的肖像在。他的作品似乎是最人时中最人时的东西。凭他的宣传的本能，那残废者的奇异的本能，在四五年之间，他已成为青年”知识界”中最出名的一个了。康妮就不太清楚究竟才智在哪里。的确，克利福幽默地对于人的分析，动机的考究，未了把一节弄成碎片，在这一点上，他的技巧是很出色的‘但是那的些象小狗儿的戏滤，把沙发上的垫枕撕了个破碎的样子，不同的便是克利福并不是那样天真，那样戏谑，而是奇异地老成持重，和固执地夸张自大罢了。“那是悼异的，空虚的。”这便是康妮的灵魂深处所反复地觉着的：“那一切都是空虚，一个空虚的、令人惊异的熔耀。”然而，那终是一个炫耀！一个炫耀！一个炫耀啊！

蔑克里斯把克利福拿来做他的一个剧本的中心人物；剧情已经拟好，第一幕也已经写完了。因为蔑克里斯对于空虚的弦耀。比克利福更高明。他们这些人的所有的热情只剩下这个熔耀的热情，在性欲上，他们是没有热情的，甚至是死的。现在，蔑克里斯所欲望的不是金钱了，克利福呢，他从来就没有把金钱看得最重要，但是他能够弄钱时还是不肯放松的。因为金钱是成功的象征。成功，这便是他们所欲望的。他们俩都想弄个美丽的核耀，凡一个人所能做到的自我的熔耀全做出来，以博得民众一时欢心。

奇怪哟，这种对于财运的买身。自从康妮跳出了这圈套以来，自从她惊愕得麻木了以来，这一切只是空虚。甚至这种对于财运的卖身，克利福快活得很，他又要在焙耀之中了，而这一次，却是他人把他来焙耀，而且是有利于自己的熔耀呢。他请蔑克里斯把写就了的第一幕带到地勒格贝来。

蔑克里斯来了：那是夏天，他穿着一套灰白的衣裳，戴着羔皮的手套。他带了些可爱的浅紫色的兰花给康妮。第一幕的读出是个大大的成功。甚至康妮也迷醉了……迷醉到骨髓里了。蔑克里斯呢，他也迷醉了——为了他自已有这样迷醉入的能力。在康妮的眼睛里，他这时真上卓越非凡，而且十分漂亮。她从他身上，看出了一种再不迷于幻景的人类的古老的滞息情态，一种极端的不纯洁，而这不纯洁到了极端，也许说是纯洁的。在他的至高无上的卖身于财运的远处看来，他似乎是纯洁的，纯洁得象非洲的象牙面具似的。那象牙面具上的阴处和阳处的不纯洁，都给梦幻变为纯洁了。

当他使查太莱夫妇神迷惊服的时候，这是蔑克里斯生命中最可贵的片刻，他已经成功了，他使他们惊报了，甚至克利福一时都钟情于他了……如果我们可以这样说的话。

第二天，蔑克显得比一向更不安：躁急着，自抑着，两只不安的手插在裤袋里，康妮在夜间没有去找他；而他又不知到哪间屋去找她。正值他在得意的时候，这种撩人的风情真好苦人呵！

他跑到楼上她的起坐室里去。她知道他要来的。她看出了他的不安。他问她对于那幕剧的意见……她是否觉得好！他需要受人赞美，那可以给他一种微妙的热情的颤战，这颤战比性欲极度满足时的颤战更甚。她对他的剧本是空虚无物的。

“喂！”他最后突然地说道：“你和我为什么不把事情干脆地做去呢？为什么我们不结婚呢？”

．“但是我已经结婚了。”她惊愕地说，但是她并不感觉着什么。

“呵！那有什么关系！他可以和你离婚的。你问我为什么不结婚呢？我是想结婚的。我知道这对我是最好的事情……结婚而过个正常生活。我现在过的是一种非人的生活，这种生活简直把我的精神和肉体都撕碎了。喂，你看，你和我，我们真是天生一对……好象手和手套一样。我们为什么不结婚呢？你有什么理由不让我们结婚呢？”

康妮望着他，惊愕着，但是并不感觉着什么。男从都是一个样儿：他们是不顾一切的。他们象火箭似地向天上冒，而希望你跟着他们的小竿儿同上天去。

“但是我已经结了婚的人了。”她说，“你知道我是不能丢弃克利福的。”

“为什么不能？为什么不能？他叫道，“半年一过，他便不觉得你没有了，除了他自己的存在以外，别人的存在于他是无关紧要的。依我所知道，你于他是无用的，他只想着他自己。”

康妮觉得这话很真切。但是她也觉得蔑克不过是个自私自利的人罢了。

“难道所有的男人不都是只想着他自己么？”她问道。

“是的，多少是的，我承认。一个人不得不如此达到他的目的。不过问题并不在这里。问题是一个男人所能给与女人的是什么：他能否使他快乐？要是他不能的疾，他对这女人使没有权利……”他停着，用他那几乎催眠的，褐色的圆眼睛望着她，“我，我认为我能够给一个女人她所要求的一切幸福。我可以保证这个。”

“什么样的幸福呢？”康妮问着，总是以那种甸是热情，其实宛无感觉的惊愕神气望着他。

“各种各样的幸福和快乐，衣裳，珠宝，无论哪个夜总会，只要你愿意去，无论哪个人，只要你愿意认识；所有的时髦东西……旅行，和到处受人尊重；……总之，各种各样的幸福和快乐。”

他佯洋得意地说着，康妮望着他，象是被迷惑着，而实际她却毫无感觉，所有这些金碧辉煌的允诺，连她的心的外表都感动。在其他的时候，她的自我的最外的部分，要是听了蔑克这番话，是要感到颤战的，现在甚至一点感应都没有了。她简直不觉得有任何感觉，她不能“动”。她只是端坐着，象是被迷惑着，实在毫无所感，她不过觉得什么地方有一种钱财的臭味。

蔑克如坐针毯似的，在椅子里身子向前倾图，用一种歇斯底里病者似的神气向她注视着，他究竟是由于虚荣心而期望着她说“是”呢，不是惊悸着她真的说了出来？谁能知道？

“我得想一想。”她说，“现在我不能回答你，你可以把克利福看着不算什么，但是他是紧要的。如果你想一想他是多么需要……”

“老天爷啊，如果一个人细看起我们所需要的东西，我很可以说我是多么孤独无依，一向就是孤独无依而需要跳出这种情态哟。老天爷！如果一个人什么东西都没有，只有拿自己的无能去乞人怜爱……”

他转过身去，两只手愤怒