LADY CHATTERLEY'S LOVER (The Uncensored Edition). D. H. Lawrence

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 gamekeeper, 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 gamekeeper, 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 СКАЧАТЬ