Connie was aware, however, of a growing restlessness. Out of her disconnexion, a restlessness was taking possession of her like madness. It twitched her limbs when she didn't want to twitch them, it jerked her spine when she didn't want to jerk upright but preferred to rest comfortably. It thrilled inside her body, in her womb, somewhere, till she felt she must jump into water and swim to get away from it; a mad restlessness. It made her heart beat violently for no reason. And she was getting thinner.
It was just restlessness. She would rush off across the park, abandon Clifford, and lie prone in the bracken. To get away from the house...she must get away from the house and everybody. The work was her one refuge, her sanctuary.

But it was not really a refuge, a sanctuary, because she had no connexion with it. It was only a place where she could get away from the rest. She never really touched the spirit of the wood itself...if it had any such nonsensical thing.

Vaguely she knew herself that she was going to pieces in some way. Vaguely she knew she was out of connexion: she had lost touch with the substantial and vital world. Only Clifford and his books, which did not exist...which had nothing in them! Void to void. Vaguely she knew. But it was like beating her head against a stone.

Her father warned her again: `Why don't you get yourself a beau, Connie? Do you all the good in the world.'

That winter Michaelis came for a few days. He was a young Irishman who had already made a large fortune by his plays in America. He had been taken up quite enthusiastically for a time by smart society in London, for he wrote smart society plays. Then gradually smart society realized that it had been made ridiculous at the hands of a down-at-heel Dublin street-rat, and revulsion came. Michaelis was the last word in what was caddish and bounderish. He was discovered to be anti-English, and to the class that made this discovery this was worse than the dirtiest crime. He was cut dead, and his corpse thrown into the refuse can.

Nevertheless Michaelis had his apartment in Mayfair, and walked down Bond Street the image of a gentleman, for you cannot get even the best tailors to cut their low-down customers, when the customers pay.

Clifford was inviting the young man of thirty at an inauspicious moment in thyoung man's career. Yet Clifford did not hesitate. Michaelis had the ear of a few million people, probably; and, being a hopeless outsider, he would no doubt be grateful to be asked down to Wragby at this juncture, when the rest of the smart world was cutting him. Being grateful, he would no doubt do Clifford `good' over there in America. Kudos! A man gets a lot of kudos, whatever that may be, by being talked about in the right way, especially `over there'. Clifford was a coming man; and it was remarkable what a sound publicity instinct he had. In the end Michaelis did him most nobly in a play, and Clifford was a sort of popular hero. Till the reaction, when he found he had been made ridiculous.

Connie wondered a little over Clifford's blind, imperious instinct to become known: known, that is, to the vast amorphous world he did not himself know, and of which he was uneasily afraid; known as a writer, as a first-class modern writer. Connie was aware from successful, old, hearty, bluffing Sir Malcolm, that artists did advertise themselves, and exert themselves to put their goods over. But her father used channels ready-made, used by all the other R. A.s who sold their pictures. Whereas Clifford discovered new channels of publicity, all kinds. He had all kinds of people at Wragby, without exactly lowering himself. But, determined to build himself a monument of a reputation quickly, he used any handy rubble in the making.

Michaelis arrived duly, in a very neat car, with a chauffeur and a manservant. He was absolutely Bond Street! But at right of him something in Clifford's county soul recoiled. He wasn't exactly... not exactly...in fact, he wasn't at all, well, what his appearance intended to imply. To Clifford this was final and enough. Yet he was very polite to the man; to the amazing success in him. The bitch-goddess, as she is called, of Success, roamed, snarling and protective, round the half-humble, half-defiant Michaelis' heels, and intimidated Clifford completely: for he wanted to prostitute himself to the bitch-goddess, Success also, if only she would have him.

Michaelis obviously wasn't an Englishman, in spite of all the tailors, hatters, barbers, booters of the very best quarter of London. No, no, he obviously wasn't an Englishman: the wrong sort of flattish, pale face and bearing; and the wrong sort of grievance. He had a grudge and a grievance: that was obvious to any true-born English gentleman, who would scorn to let such a thing appear blatant in his own demeanour. Poor Michaelis had been much kicked, so that hes, and the strong queerly-arched brows, the immobile, compressed mouth; that momentary but revealed immobility, an immobility, a timelessness which the Buddha aims at, and which Negroes express sometimes without ever aiming at it; something old, old, and acquiescent in the race! Aeons of acquiescence in race destiny, instead of our individual resistance. And then a swimming throug亠?? And how they enjoyed the various kicks
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姓,佋N0????^6ah, like rats in a dark river. Connie felt a sudden, strange leap of sympathy for him, a leap mingled with compassion, and tinged with repulsion, amounting almost to love. The outsider! The outsider! And they called him a bounder! How much more bounderish and assertive Clifford looked! How much stupideand or let himself go. He knew he had been asked down to Wragby to be made use of, and like an old, shrewd, almost indifferent business man, or big-business man, he let himself be asked questions, and he answered with as little waste of feeling as possible.

`Money!' he said. `Money is a sort of instinct. It's a sort of property of nature in a man to make money. It's nothing you do. It's no trick you play. It's a sort of permanent accident of your own nature; once you start, you make money, and you go on; up to a point, I suppose.'

`But you've got to begin,' said Clifford.

`Oh, quite! You've got to get in. You can do nothing if you are kept outside. You've got to beat your way in. Once you've done that, you can't help it.'

`But could you have made money except by plays?' asked Clifford.

`Oh, probably not! I may be a good writer or I may be a bad one, but a writer and a writer of plays is what I am, and I've got to be. There's no question of that.'

`And you think it's a writer of popular plays that you've got to be?' asked Connie.

`There, exactly!' he said, turning to her in a sudden flash. `There's nothing in it! There's nothing in popularity. There's nothing in the public, if it comes to that. There's nothing really in my plays to make them popular. It's not that. They just are like the weather...the sort that will have to be...for the time being.'

He turned his slow, rather full eyes, that had been drowned in such fathomless disillusion, on Connie, and she trembled a little. He seemed so old...endlessly old, built up of layers of disillusion, going down in him generation after generation, like geological strata; and at the same time he was forlorn like a child. An outcast, in a certain sense; but with the desperate bravery of his rat-like existence.

`At least it's wonderful what you've done at your time of life,' said Clifford contemplatively.

`I'm thirty...yes, I'm thirty!' said Michaelis, sharply and suddenly, with a curious laugh; hollow, triumphant, and bitter.

`And are you alone?' asked Connie.

`How do you mean? Do I live alone? I've got my servant. He's a Greek, so he says, and quite incompetent. But I keep him. And I'm going to marry. Oh, yes, I must marry.'

`It sounds like going to have your tonsils cut,' laughed Connie. `Will it be an effort?'

He looked at her admiringly. `Well, Lady Chatterley, somehow it will! I find... excuse me... I find I can't marry an Englishwoman, not even an Irishwoman...'

`Try an American,' said Clifford.

`Oh, American!' He laughed a hollow laugh. `No, I've asked my man if he will find me a Turk or something...something nearer to the Oriental.'

Connie really wondered at this queer, melancholy specimen of extraordinary success; it was said he had an income of fifty thousand dollars from America alone. Sometimes he was handsome: sometimes as he looked sideways, downwards, and the light fell on him, he had the silent, enduring beauty of a carved ivory Negro mask, with his rather full eyes, and the strong queerly-arched brows, the immobile, compressed mouth; that momentary but revealed immobility, an immobility, a timelessness which the Buddha aims at, and which Negroes express sometimes without ever aiming at it; something old, old, and acquiescent in the race! Aeons of acquiescence in race destiny, instead of our individual resistance. And then a swimming through, like rats in a dark river. Connie felt a sudden, strange leap of sympathy for him, a leap mingled with compassion, and tinged with repulsion, amounting almost to love. The outsider! The outsider! And they called him a bounder! How much more bounderish and assertive Clifford looked! How much stupider!

Michaelis knew at once he had made an impression on her. He turned his full, hazel, slightly prominent eyes on her in a look of pure detachment. He was estimating her, and the extent of the impression he had made. With the English nothing could save him from being the eternal outsider, not even love. Yet women sometimes fell for him...Englishwomen too.

He knew just where he was with Clifford. They were two alien dogs which would have liked to snarl at one another, but which smiled instead, perforce. But with the woman he was not quite so sure.

Breakfast was served in the bedrooms; Clifford never appeared before lunch, and the dining-room was a little dreary. After coffee Michaelis, restless and ill-sitting soul, wondered what he should do. It was a fine November...day fine for Wragby. He looked over the melancholy park. My God! What a place!

He sent a servant to ask, could he be of any service to Lady Chatterley: he thought of driving into Sheffield. The answer came, would he care to go up to Lady Chatterley's sitting-room.

Connie had a sitting-room on the third floor, the top floor of the central portion of the house. Clifford's rooms were on the ground floor, of course. Michaelis was flattered by being asked up to Lady Chatterley's own parlour. He followed blindly after the servant...he never noticed things, or had contact with Isis surroundings. In her room he did glance vaguely round at the fine German reproductions of Renoir and Cézanne.

`It's very pleasant up here,' he said, with his queer smile, as if it hurt him to smile, showing his teeth. `You are wise to get up to the top.'

`Yes, I think so,' she said.

Her room was the only gay, modern one in the house, the only spot in Wragby where her personality was at all revealed. Clifford had never seen it, and she asked very few people up.

Now she and Michaelis sit on opposite sides of the fire and talked. She asked him about himself, his mother and father, his brothers...other people were always something of a wonder to her, and when her sympathy was awakened she was quite devoid of class feeling. Michaelis talked frankly about himself, quite frankly, without affectation, simply revealing his bitter, indifferent, stray-dog's soul, then showing a gleam of revengeful pride in his success.

`But why are you such a lonely bird?' Connie asked him; and again he looked at her, with his full, searching, hazel look.

`Some birds are that way,' he replied. Then, with a touch of familiar irony: `but, look here, what about yourself? Aren't you by way of being a lonely bird yourself?' Connie, a little startled, thought about it for a few moments, and then she said: `Only in a way! Not altogether, like you!'

`Am I altogether a lonely bird?' he asked, with his queer grin of a smile, as if he had toothache; it was so wry, and his eyes were so perfectly unchangingly melancholy, or stoical, or disillusioned or afraid.

`Why?' she said, a little breathless, as she looked at him. `You are, aren't you?'

She felt a terrible appeal coming to her from him, that made her almost lose her balance.

`Oh, you're quite right!' he said, turning his head away, and looking sideways, downwards, with that strange immobility of an old race that is hardly here in our present day. It was that that really made Connie lose her power to see him detached from herself.

He looked up at her with the full glance that saw everything, registered everything. At the same time, the infant crying in the night was crying out of his breast to her, in a way that affected her very womb.

`It's awfully nice of you to think of me,' he said laconically.

`Why shouldn't I think of you?' she exclaimed, with hardly breath to utter it.

He gave the wry, quick hiss of a laugh.

`Oh, in that way!...May I hold your hand for a minute?' he asked suddenly, fixing his eyes on her with almost hypnotic power, and sending out an appeal that affected her direct in the womb.

She stared at him, dazed and transfixed, and he went over and kneeled beside her, and took her two feet close in his two hands, and buried his face in her lap, remaining motionless. She was perfectly dim and dazed, looking down in a sort of amazement at the rather tender nape of his neck, feeling his face pressing her thighs. In all her burning dismay, she could not help putting her hand, with tenderness and compassion, on the defenceless nape of his neck, and he trembled, with a deep shudder.

Then he looked up at her with that awful appeal in his full, glowing eyes. She was utterly incapable of resisting it. From her breast flowed the answering, immense yearning over him; she must give him anything, anything.

He was a curious and very gentle lover, very gentle with the woman, trembling uncontrollably, and yet at the same time detached, aware, aware of every sound outside.

To her it meant nothing except that she gave herself to him. And at length he ceased to quiver any more, and lay quite still, quite still. Then, with dim, compassionate fingers, she stroked his head, that lay on her breast.

When he rose, he kissed both her hands, then both her feet, in their suède slippers, and in silence went away to the end of the room, where he stood with his back to her. There was silence for some minutes. Then he turned and came to her again as she sat in her old place by the fire.

`And now, I suppose you'll hate me!' he said in a quiet, inevitable way. She looked up at him quickly.

`Why should I?' she asked.

`They mostly do,' he said; then he caught himself up. `I mean...a woman is supposed to.'

`This is the last moment when I ought to hate you,' she said resentfully.

`I know! I know! It should be so! You're frightfully good to me...' he cried miserably.

She wondered why he should be miserable. `Won't you sit down again?' she said. He glanced at the door.

`Sir Clifford!' he said, `won't he...won't he be...?' She paused a moment to consider. `Perhaps!' she said. And she looked up at him. `I don't want Clifford to know not even to suspect. It would hurt him so much. But I don't think it's wrong, do you?'

`Wrong! Good God, no! You're only too infinitely good to me...I can hardly bear it.'

He turned aside, and she saw that in another moment he would be sobbing.

`But we needn't let Clifford know, need we?' she pleaded. `It would hurt him so. And if he never knows, never suspects, it hurts nobody.'

`Me!' he said, almost fiercely; `he'll know nothing from me! You see if he does. Me give myself away! Ha! Ha!' he laughed hollowly, cynically, at such an idea. She watched him in wonder. He said to her: `May I kiss your hand arid go? I'll run into Sheffield I think, and lunch there, if I may, and be back to tea. May I do anything for you? May I be sure you don't hate me?---and that you won't?'---he ended with a desperate note of cynicism.

`No, I don't hate you,' she said. `I think you're nice.'

`Ah!' he said to her fiercely, `I'd rather you said that to me than said you love me! It means such a lot more...Till afternoon then. I've plenty to think about till then.' He kissed her hands humbly and was gone.

`I don't think I can stand that young man,' said Clifford at lunch.

`Why?' asked Connie.

`He's such a bounder underneath his veneer...just waiting to bounce us.'

`I think people have been so unkind to him,' said Connie.

`Do you wonder? And do you think he employs his shining hours doing deeds of kindness?'

`I think he has a certain sort of generosity.'

`Towards whom?'

`I don't quite know.'

`Naturally you don't. I'm afraid you mistake unscrupulousness for generosity.'

Connie paused. Did she? It was just possible. Yet the unscrupulousness of Michaelis had a certain fascination for her. He went whole lengths where Clifford only crept a few timid paces. In his way he had conquered the world, which was what Clifford wanted to do. Ways and means...? Were those of Michaelis more despicable than those of Clifford? Was the way the poor outsider had shoved and bounced himself forward in person, and by the back doors, any worse than Clifford's way of advertising himself into prominence? The bitch-goddess, Success, was trailed by thousands of gasping, dogs with lolling tongues. The one that got her first was the real dog among dogs, if you go by success! So Michaelis could keep his tail up.

The queer thing was, he didn't. He came back towards tea-time with a large handful of violets and lilies, and the same hang-dog expression. Connie wondered sometimes if it were a sort of mask to disarm opposition, because it was almost too fixed. Was he really such a sad dog?

His sad-dog sort of extinguished self persisted all the evening, though through it Clifford felt the inner effrontery. Connie didn't feel it, perhaps because it was not directed against women; only against men, and their presumptions and assumptions. That indestructible, inward effrontery in the meagre fellow was what made men so down on Michaelis. His very presence was an affront to a man of society, cloak it as he might in an assumed good manner.

Connie was in love with him, but she managed to sit with her embroidery and let the men talk, and not give herself away. As for Michaelis, he was perfect; exactly the same melancholic, attentive, aloof young fellow of the previous evening, millions of degrees remote from his hosts, but laconically playing up to them to the required amount, and never coming forth to them for a moment. Connie felt he must have forgotten the morning. He had not forgotten. But he knew where he was...in the same old place outside, where the born outsiders are. He didn't take the love-making altogether personally. He knew it would not change him from an ownerless dog, whom everybody begrudges its golden collar, into a comfortable society dog.

The final fact being that at the very bottom of his soul he was an outsider, and anti-social, and he accepted the fact inwardly, no matter how Bond-Streety he was on the outside. His isolation was a necessity to him; just as the appearance of conformity and mixing-in with the smart people was also a necessity.

But occasional love, as a comfort arid soothing, was also a good thing, and he was not ungrateful. On the contrary, he was burningly, poignantly grateful for a piece of natural, spontaneous kindness: almost to tears. Beneath his pale, immobile, disillusioned face, his child's soul was sobbing with gratitude to the woman, and burning to come to her again; just as his outcast soul was knowing he would keep really clear of her.

He found an opportunity to say to her, as they were lighting the candles in the hall:

`May I come?'

`I'll come to you,' she said.

`Oh, good!'

He waited for her a long time...but she came.

He was the trembling excited sort of lover, whose crisis soon came, and was finished. There was something curiously childlike and defenceless about his naked body: as children are naked. His defences were all in his wits and cunning, his very instincts of cunning, and when these were in abeyance he seemed doubly naked and like a child, of unfinished, tender flesh, and somehow struggling helplessly.

He roused in the woman a wild sort of compassion and yearning, and a wild, craving physical desire. The physical desire he did not satisfy in her; he was always come and finished so quickly, then shrinking down on her breast, and recovering somewhat his effrontery while she lay dazed, disappointed, lost.

But then she soon learnt to hold him, to keep him there inside her when his crisis was over. And there he was generous and curiously potent; he stayed firm inside her, giving to her, while she was active...wildly, passionately active, coming to her own crisis. And as he felt the frenzy of her achieving her own orgasmic satisfaction from his hard, erect passivity, he had a curious sense of pride and satisfaction.

`Ah, how good!' she whispered tremulously, and she became quite still, clinging to him. And he lay there in his own isolation, but somehow proud.

He stayed that time only the three days, and to Clifford was exactly the same as on the first evening; to Connie also. There was no breaking down his external man.

He wrote to Connie with the same plaintive melancholy note as ever, sometimes witty, and touched with a queer, sexless affection. A kind of hopeless affection he seemed to feel for her, and the essential remoteness remained the same. He was hopeless at the very core of him, and he wanted to be hopeless. He rather hated hope. `Une immense espérance a traversé la terre', he read somewhere, and his comment was:`---and it's darned-well drowned everything worth having.'

Connie never really understood him, but, in her way, she loved him. And all the time she felt the reflection of his hopelessness in her. She couldn't quite, quite love in hopelessness. And he, being hopeless, couldn't ever quite love at all.

So they went on for quite a time, writing, and meeting occasionally in London. She still wanted the physical, sexual thrill she could get with him by her own activity, his little orgasm being over. And he still wanted to give it her. Which was enough to keep them connected.

And enough to give her a subtle sort of self-assurance, something blind and a little arrogant. It was an almost mechanical confidence in her own powers, and went with a great cheerfulness.

She was terrifically cheerful at Wragby. And she used all her aroused cheerfulness and satisfaction to stimulate Clifford, so that he wrote his best at this time, and was almost happy in his strange blind way. He really reaped the fruits of the sensual satisfaction she got out of Michaelis' male passivity erect inside her. But of course he never knew it, and if he had, he wouldn't have said thank you!

Yet when those days of her grand joyful cheerfulness and stimulus were gone, quite gone, and she was depressed and irritable, how Clifford longed for them again! Perhaps if he'd known he might even have wished to get her and Michaelis together again.

然而，康妮感着一种日见增大的不安的感觉。因为她与一切隔绝，所以不安的感觉便疯狂似地把她占据。当她要宁静时，这种不安便牵动着她的四肢；当她要舒适地休息时，这种不安便挺直着她的脊骨。它在她的身内，子宫里，和什么地方跳动着，直至她觉得非跳进水里去游泳以摆脱它不可。这是一种疯狂的不安。它使她的心毫无理由地狂跳起来。她渐渐地消瘦了。

这种不安，有时使她狂奔着穿过林园，丢开了克利福，在羊齿草丛中俯卧着。这样她便可以摆脱她的家……她得摆脱她的家和一切的人。树林象是她唯一的安身处，她的避难地。

但是树林却不是一个真正的安身避难的地方，因为她和树林并没有真正的接触。这只是她可以摆脱其他一切的一个地方罢了。她从来没有接触树林本身的精神……假如树林真有这种怪诞的东西的话。

朦胧地，她知道自己是渐渐地萎靡凋谢了；朦胧地，她知道自己和一切都没有联系，她已与实质的、有生命的世界脱离关系。她只有克利福和他的书，而这些书是没有生命的……里面是空无一物的，只是一个一个的空洞罢了。她朦胧地知道，她虽然朦胧地知道，但是她却觉得好象自己的头碰在石头上一样。

她的父亲又惊醒地说：“康妮，你为什么不找个情人呢？那于你是大有益处的。”

那年冬天，蔑克里斯来这儿住了几天，他是个年轻的爱尔兰人，他写的剧本在美国上演，赚过一笔大钱。曾经有一个时候，他受过伦敦时髦社会很热烈的欢迎；因为他所写的都是时髦社会的剧本。后来，这般时髦社会的人们，渐渐地明白了自己实在被这达布林的流氓所嘲弄了，于是来了一个反动。蔑克里斯这个字成为最下流、最被轻视的宇了。他们发觉他是反对英国的，这一点，在发觉的人看来，是罪大恶极的。从此，伦敦和时髦社会把他诟骂得体无完肤，把他象一件脏东西似的丢在垃圾桶里。

可是蔑克里斯却住在贵族助梅惠区里，而且走过帮德街时，竟是仪表堂堂，俨然贵绅；因为只要你有钱，纵令你是个下流人。最好的裁缝师也不会拒绝你的光顾的。”

这个三十岁的青年，虽然正在走着倒霉运气，但是克利福却不犹豫地把他请到勒格贝来。蔑克里斯大概拥有几百万的听众；而正当他现在被时髦社会所遗弃不时，居然被请到勒格贝来，他无疑地是要感激的。既然他心中感激，那么他无疑地便要帮助克利福在美国成名起来，不露马脚的吹嘘，是可以使人赫然出名的，不管出的是什么名——尤其是在美国，克利福是个未来的作家，而且是个很慕虚名的人。还有一层便是蔑克里斯曾把他在一出剧本里描写得伟大高贵，使克利福成了一种大众的英雄——直至他发觉了自己实在是受人嘲弄了的时候为止。

克利福这种盲目的、迫切的沽名钓誉的天性，他这种要使那浮游无定的大干世界——其实这种世界是他自己所不认识而且惧怕的——知道他，知道他是一个作家，一个第一流的新作家的天性，是有点使康妮惊异的。从她的强壮的、善于引答人彀的老父亲麦尔肯爵士本身，康妮知道艺术家们也是用吹牛方法使自己的货色抬高的。但是她的父亲用的是些老方法，这些老方法是其他皇家艺术学会的会员们兜售他们的作品时所通用的。至于克利福呢，他发现各种各样的新宣传方法。他把各种各样的人请到勒格贝来，他虽则不至于奴颜婶膝，但是他因为急于成名，所以凡是可用的手段都采用了。

蔑克里斯坐着一部漂亮的汽车，带了一个车夫和一个男仆来到了，他穿得漂亮极了；但是一看见了他，克利福的乡绅的心里便感到一种退缩。这蔑克里斯并不是……不确是……其实一点也不是……表里一致的。这一点在克利福看来是毫无疑义了，可是克利福对他是很有礼貌的；对他的惊人的成功是含着无限羡慕的。所谓“成功”的财神，在半谦卑半傲慢的蔑克里斯的脚跟边，张牙舞爪地徘徊着，保护着他。把克利福整个威吓着了；因为他自己也是想卖身与财神，也想成功的，如果她肯接受他的话。

不管伦敦最阔绰的的区域里裁缝师、帽子商人、理发匠、鞋匠怎样打扮蔑克里斯，他都显然地不是一个英国人。不，不，他显然地不是英国人；他的平板而苍白的脸孔；他的高兴举止和他的怨恨，都不是一个英国人所有的。他抱着怨恨，愤懑，让这种感情在举止上流露出来，这是一个真正的英国绅士所不齿为的。可怜的蔑克里斯，因为他受过的冷眼和攻击太多了，所以现在还是处处留神，时时担心，有点象狗似的尾巴藏在两腿间。他全凭着他的本能，尤其是他真厚脸皮，用他的戏剧在社会上层替自己打开了一条路，直至赫然成名。他的剧本得到了观众的欢心。他以为受人冷眼和攻击的日子过去了。唉，那知道这种日子没有过去……而且永不会过去呢！因为这玲眼和攻击之来，在某种意义上说，是他咎由自取的。他渴望着到不属于他的英国上流社会里去生活。但是他们多么写意地给他以种种攻击！而他是多么痛恨他们！

然而这达布林的杂种狗，却带着仆人，乘着漂亮的汽车，处到旅行。

他有的地方使康妮喜欢，他并不摆架感，他对自己不抱幻想。克利福所要知道的事情，他说得又有理，又简洁，又实际。他并不夸张或任性。他知道克利福请他到勒格贝来为的是要利用他，因此他象—个狡猾老练的大腹贾似的，态度差不多冷静地让人盘问种种问题，而他也从容大方地回答。

“金钱！”他说。“金钱是一种天性，弄钱是一个男子所有的天赋本能。不论你干什么：都是为钱；不论你弄什么把戏，也是为钱，这是你的天性中一种永久的事。你一旦开始了赚钱，你便继续赚下去；直至某种地步，我想。”

“但是你得会开始才行。”克利福说。

“啊，当然呀，你得进到里面去，如果你不能进去，便什么也不行，你得打出一条进路；一旦有了进路，你就可以前行无阻了。”

“但是除了写剧本外，还有弄钱的方法么？”克利福问道。

“啊，大概没有了！我也许是个好作家，或者是个坏作家，但我总是一个戏剧作家，我不能成为别的东西。这是毫无疑义的。”

“你以为你必定要成为一个成功的戏剧作家么？”康妮问道。

“对了，的确！”他突然地回转头去向她说：“那是没有什么的！成功没有什么，甚至大众也没有什么。我的戏剧里，实在没有什么可使戏剧成功的东西。没有的。它们简直就是成功的戏剧罢了，和天气一样……是一种不得不这样的东西……至少目前是这样。”

他的沉溺在无底的幻灭中的迟钝而微突的眼睛，转向康妮望着，她觉得微微战栗起来。他的样于是这样的老……无限的老；他似乎是个一代一代的幻灭累积而成的东西，和地层一样；而同时他又象个孤零的小孩子。在某种意义上，他是个被社会唾弃的人，但是他却象一只老鼠似的竭力挣扎地生活着。

“总之，在你这样年纪已有这种成就。是可惊的。”克利福沉思着说。’

“我今年三十岁了……是的，三十岁了！”蔑克里斯一边锐敏地说，一边怪异地笑着，这笑是空洞的，得意的，而又带苦味的。

“你还是独身一个人么？”康妮问道。

“你问的是什么意思？你问我独自生活着么？我却有个仆人。据她自己说，她是个希腊人，这是个什么也不会做的家伙。但是我却留着他，而我呢，我要结婚了。啊，是的，我定要结婚了。”

“你把结婚说得好象你要割掉你的扁桃腺似的。”康妮笑着说，“难道结婚是这样困难的么？”

他景慕地望着她，“是人，查太莱夫人，那是有点困难的！我觉得……请你原谅我这句话……我觉得我不能跟一个英国女子，甚至不能跟一个爱尔兰女于结婚……”

“那么娶—个美国女子！”克利福说。

“啊，美国女子！”他空洞地笑了起来，“不，我会叫我的仆人替我找个土耳其女人，或者一个……一个什么近于东方的女人。”

这个奇特的、沮丧的、大成大就的人，真使康妮觉得奇怪。人说，单在美国方面，他就有五万金元的进款。有时他是漂亮的，当他向地下或向旁边注视时，光线照在他的上面，他象一个象牙雕刻的黑人似的，有着一种沉静持久的美。他的眼睛有点突出，眉毛浓厚而奇异地糨曲着，嘴部紧缩而固定，这种暂时的但是显露的镇静，是佛所有意追求而黑人有时超自然流露出来的，是一种很老的、种族所默认的东西！多少世代以来，它就为种族的命运所默认，而不顾我们个别的反抗。然后，悄悄地浮游而度，象一只老鼠在一条黑暗的河里一样。

康妮突然奇异地对他同情起来。她的同情里有怜悯，却也带点憎恶，这种同情差不多近于爱情了。这个受人排挤、受人唾弃的人！人们说他浅薄无聊！但是克利福比他显得浅薄无聊得多，自作聪明得多！而且蠢笨得多呢。

蔑克里斯立刻知道她对他有了一种印象。他那有点浮突的褐色的眼睛，怪不经意地望着她。他打量着她，打量着她对于他的印象的深浅。他和英国人在一起的时候，是永远受人冷待的。甚至有爱情也不中用。可是女子们却有时为他颠倒……是的，甚至于英国女子们呢。

他分明知道他和克利福的关系如何。他们俩象是一对异种的狗，原应互相张牙舞爪的，而因情境所迫，便不得不挂着一副笑脸。但是和一个女人的关系如何，他却不太摸得着头脑了。

早餐是开在各人寝室里的。克利福在午餐以前从不出来，饭厅里总是有点忧闷。喝过咖啡后，蔑克里斯恍恍惚惚地烦燥起来，不知做什么好。这是十一月的一个美丽的日子……在勒格贝，这算是美丽的了。他望了那凄凉的园林。上帝哟！什么一块地方！

他叫仆人去问查太莱夫人要他帮什么忙不，因为他打算乘火车到雪非尔德走走。仆人回来说，查太莱夫人请他上她的起坐室里坐坐。

康妮的起坐室是三楼，这是屋座中部的最高层楼。克利福的住所，不待言是在楼下了。他觉得很荣耀的被请到查太莱夫人的私人客室里去。他盲目地跟着仆人……他是从不注意外界事物或与他的四周的事物有所接触的。可是在她的小客室里，他却模糊地望了一望那些美丽的德国复制的勒瓦和塞扎纳①的作品。

①勒努瓦(Rbnoir)塞扎纳(Cexanne)颤是法国近代印象源大画家．

“这房子真是可爱。”他一边说一边奇异地微笑，露着牙齿，仿佛这的，“住在这样的高楼上，你真是聪明啊。”

“可不是吗？”她说。

她的房子，是这大厅里唯一的华丽新式的房子，在勒格贝，只有这个地方能够表现点她的个性。克利福是从来没有看过这房子的，而她也很少请人上这儿来。

现在，她和蔑克里斯在火炉边相对坐着谈话。她问他关于他自己、他的父母；他的兄弟的事情……他人的事情，康妮总是觉得有趣而神秘的，而当她有了同情的时候，阶级的成见便全没有了。蔑克里斯爽直地说着他自己的事，爽直地、诚实地披露着他那痛苦的、冷淡的、丧家狗的心情，然后流露着他的成功后的复仇的高傲。

“但是你为什么还是这么孤寂呢？”康妮问道。

他的微突的、刺探的、褐色的眼睛，又向她望着。

“有的人是这样的。”他答道。然后他用着一种利落的，讽刺的口气说：“但是，你自己呢？你自己不是个孤寂的人么？”康妮听了有点吃惊，沉思了一会，然后答道：“也许有点儿；但并不是全然孤寂着，和你一样！”

“我是全然地孤寂的人么？”他一边问，一边苦笑着，好象他牙痛似的，多么做作的微笑！他的眼睛带着十分忧郁的、忍痛的、幻灭的和惧怕的神气。

“但是，”她说，看见了他的神气，有点喘气起来：“你的确是孤寂的，不是么？”

她觉得从他那里发出了一种急迫的求援，她差不多颠倒了。

“是的，的确！”他说着，把头转了过去，向旁边地下望着，静默着，好象古代人类般的那种奇异的静默，看见了他冷淡她的这种神气，使康妮气馁了。

他抬起头直望着她，他看见一切，而且记住一切。同时，象一个深夜哭喊的小孩，他从他的内心向她哭喊着，直使她的子宫深处都感动了。

“你这样关心我，你真是太好了。”他简括地说。

“为什么我不关心你呢？”他发着那种强勉的、疾嘶的、常嘶声的苦笑。

“啊，那么……我可以握一下你的手吗？”他突然问道，两眼差不多用催眠力似地疑视着她。他用这恳求；直感动到她的子宫深处。

她神魂颠倒地呆望着他，他定了过来，在她旁边跪下。两手紧紧地扭着她的两脚，他的脸伏在她的膝上，一动也不动。她已完他地迷感着了，在一种惊骇中俯望着他的柔嫩的颈背，觉着他的脸孔紧压着她的大腿。她茫然自失了，不由得把她的手，温柔地，伶悯地放在他的无抵抗的颓背上。他全身战栗起来。

跟着，他始起头，用那闪光的，带着可怖的恳求的两眼望着她；她完全地不能自主了，她的胸怀里泛流着一种对他回答的无限的欲望，她可以给他一切的一切。

他是个奇怪而娇弱的情人，对女人很是娇弱，不能自制地战栗着，而同时，却又冷静地默听着外界的一切动静。

在她呢，她除了知道自己的委身与他以外，其他一初都不在意了。惭渐地，他不战栗了，安静起来了，十分安静起来了。她怜悯地爱抚着他依在她胸前的头。

当他站起来的时候，他吻着她的双手，吻着她的穿着羔羊皮拖鞋的双脚。默默地走开到房子的那一边，背向着她站着。两个人都静默了一会。然后，他转身向她回来，她依旧坐在火炉旁边的那个老地方。

“现在，我想你要恨我了。”他温和地，无可奈何地说道。她迅速地向他仰望着。

“为什么要恨你呢？”她问道。

“女子们多数是这样的。”他说，然后又改正说：“我的意思是说……，人家认为女于是这样的。”

“我即使要根你，也决不在此刻恨你。”她捧捧地说。

“我知道的！我知道的！应该是这样的！你对我真是太好了……。”他悲惨地叫道。

她奇怪着为什么他要这样的悲惨。“你不再坐下么？”她说。他向门边望了一望。

“克利福男爵！”他说，“他，他不会……？”她沉思了一会，说道；“也许！”然后她仰望着他，“我不愿意克利福知道……，甚至不愿让他猜疑什么，那定要使他太痛苦了。但是我并不以为那有什么错处，你说是不是？”

“错处！好天爷呀，决没有的，你只是对我太好罢了……好到使我有点受不了罢了，这有什么错处？”

他转过身去，她看见他差不多要哭了。

“但是我们不必让克利福知道，是不是？”她恳求着说，“那一来定要使他太痛苦了。假如他永不知道，永不猜疑，那么大家都好。”

“我！”他差不多凶暴地说，“我不会让他知道什么的！你看罢。我，我自己去泄露！哈！哈！”想到这个，他不禁空洞地冷笑起来。她惊异地望着他。他对她说：“我可以吻吻你的手再走吗？我想到雪非尔德走一趟，在那儿午餐，如果你喜欢的话，午后我将回这里来喝茶，我可以替你做点什么事么？我可以确信你不恨我么——你不会恨我罢？”他用着一种不顾一切口气说完这些话。

“不，我不恨你。”她说，“我觉得你可爱。”

“啊！”他兴奋地对她说：“我听你说这话，比听你说你爱我更喜欢！这里面的意思深得多呢……那么下午再会罢，我现在要想的事情多着呢。”他谦恭的吻了她的两手，然后走了。

在午餐的时候．克利福说：“这青年我真看不惯。”

“为什么？”康妮问道。

“他是个金玉其外，败絮其中的家伙……他时时准备着向我们攻击。”

“我想大家都对他太坏了。”康妮说。

“你惊怪这个么？难道你以为他天天干的是些好事么？”

“我相信他是有某种宽宏慷慨的气量的。”

“对谁宽宏慷慨？”

“我倒不知道。”

“当然你不知道啊，我恐怕你把任性妄为认作宽宏慷慨了。”

康妮不做声，这是真的么？也许。可是蔑克里斯的任性妄为，有着某种使她迷惑的地方。他已经飞黄腾达了，而克利福只在匍匐地开始。他已用他的方式把世界征服了，这是克利福所求之不得的。说到方法和手段吗？难道蔑克里斯的方法和手段，比克利福的更卑下么？难道克利福的自吹自擂的登台术，比那可怜无助的人以自力狰扎前进的方法更高明么？“成功”的财神后面，跟着成千的张嘴垂舌的狗儿。那个先得到她的便是狗中之真狗！所以蔑克里斯是可以高举着他的尾巴的。

奇怪的是他并不这样做。他在午后茶点的时候，拿着一柬紫罗兰和百合花回来，依旧带着那丧家狗神气。康妮有时自问着，他这种神气，这种不变的神气，是不是拿来克敌的一种假面具，他真是一条可怜的狗吗？

他整个晚上坚持着那种用以掩藏自己的丧家狗的神气，虽然克利福已看穿了这神气里面的厚颜无耻。康妮却看不出来，也许因为他这种厚颜无耻并不是对付女人的，而是对付男子和他们的傲慢专横的。蔑克里斯这种不可毁灭的内在的厚颜无耻，便是使男子们憎恶他的原因。只要他一出现，不管他装得多么斯文得体，上流人便要引以为耻了。

康妮是爱上他了。但是她却没法自抑着真情，坐在那儿刺着绣，让他们去谈话。至于蔑克里斯呢，他毫不露出破绽，完全和昨天晚上一样，忧郁，专心，而又冷漠，和主人主妇象远隔得几百万里路似的，只和他们礼尚往来着，却不愿自献殷勤。康妮觉得他一定忘掉了早上的事了。但是他并没有忘掉。他知道他所处的境地……他仍旧是在外面的老地方，在那些天生成而被摈弃的人所处的那个地方。这回的恋爱，他毫不重视。因为他知道这恋爱是不会把他从一只无主的狗——从一只带着金颈圈而受人怨骂的无主狗，变成一只享福的上流家的狗的。

在他的灵魂深处，他的确是个反对社会的、局外的人、他内心里也承认这个，虽然他外表上穿得多么人时，他的离众孤立，在他看来，是必需的；正如他表面上是力求从众，奔走高门，也是必须一样。

但是偶然的恋爱一下，藉以安慰舒神，也是件好事，而且他并不是个忘思负义的人；反之，他对于一切自然的，出自心愿的恩爱，是热切的感激，感激到几乎流泪的。在他的苍白的、固定的、幻灭的脸孔后面，他的童子的灵魂，对那女人感恩地啜泣着，他焦急地要去亲近她；同时，他的被人摈弃的灵魂，却知道他实在是不愿与她纠缠的。

当他们在客厅里点着蜡烛要就寝的时候，他得了个机会对她说。

“我可以找你吗？”

“不，我来找你。”她说。

“啊，好罢！，，

他等了好久……但是她终于来了。

他是一种颤战而兴奋的情人，快感很快地来到，一会儿便完了。他的赤裸裸的身体，有一种象孩子似的无抵抗的希奇的东西：他象一个赤裸裸的孩童。他的抵抗力全在他的机智和狡猾之中，在他的狡猾的本能深处，而当这本能假寐着的时候，他显得加倍的赤裸，加倍地象一个孩子，皮肉松懈无力，却在拼命地挣扎着。

他引起了康妮的一种狂野的怜爱和温情，引起了她的一种狂野的渴望的肉欲。但是他没有满足他的肉欲，他的快感来得太快了。然后他萎缩在她的胸膛上，他的无耻的本能苏醒着，而她这时，却昏迷地，失望地，麻木地躺在那儿。

但是过了一会，她立刻觉得要紧紧地搂着他，使它留在她那里面，一任她动作着……一任她疯狂地热烈地动作着，直至她得到了她的最高快感。当地觉着她的疯狂的极度快感，是由他硬直的固守中得来的时候，他不禁奇异地觉得自得和满足。

“啊！多么好。”她颤战地低语着。她紧贴着他，现在她完全镇定下来了，而他呢，却孤寂地躺在那儿，可是带着骄傲神气。

他这次只住了三天，他对克利福的态度，和第一天晚上一样：对康妮也是一样，他的外表是毫无改变的。

他用着平时那种不平而忧郁的语调和康妮通信，有时写得很精彩。但总是渲染着一种奇异的无性爱的爱情。他好象觉得对她的爱情是一种无望的爱情，他们间原来的隔阂是不变的。他的深心处是没有希望的，而他也不愿有希望。他对于希望存有一种恨心。他在什么地方读过这句话：“一个庞大的希望穿过了大地。”他添了一个注说：“这希望把一切有价值的东西都扫荡无余了。”

康妮实在并不了解他；但是她自己觉得爱他。她的心里时时都感觉到他的失望。她是不能深深地、深深地爱而不存在希望的。而他呢，因为没有希望在心里，所以决不能深爱。

这样，他们继续了好久，互相通着信，偶尔也在伦敦相会。她依旧喜欢在他的极度快感完毕后，用自力得到的那种强烈的肉的快感。他也依旧喜欢去满足她。只这一点便足以维持他们间的关系。

她在勒格贝非常地快活。她用这种快活和满意去激励克利福，所以他在这时的作品写得最好，而且他几乎奇异地、盲目的觉得快活。其实，他是收获着她从蔑克里斯坚挺在她里面时，用自力得到的性的满足的果子。但是，他当然不知道这个的，要是知道了，他是决不会道谢的！

然而，当她的心花怒放地快乐而使人激励的日子过去了时，完全过去了时，她变成颓丧而易怒时，克利福是多么晦气啊！要是他知道个中因果，也许他还愿意她和蔑克里斯重新相聚呢。