《Lady Chatterley's Lover》　CHAPTER14
　　　　by D·H·Lawrence

When she got near the park-gate, she heard the click of the latch.
He was there, then, in the darkness of the wood, and had seen her!

`You are good and early,' he said out of the dark. `Was everything all
right?'

`Perfectly easy.'

He shut the gate quietly after her, and made a spot of light on the
dark ground, showing the pallid flowers still standing there open in
the night. They went on apart, in silence.

`Are you sure you didn't hurt yourself this morning with that chair?'
she asked.

`No, no!'

`When you had that pneumonia, what did it do to you?'

`Oh nothing! it left my heart not so strong and the lungs not so elastic.
But it always does that.'

`And you ought not to make violent physical efforts?'

`Not often.'

She plodded on in an angry silence.

`Did you hate Clifford?' she said at last.

`Hate him, no! I've met too many like him to upset myself hating him.
I know beforehand I don't care for his sort, and I let it go at that.'

`What is his sort?'

`Nay, you know better than I do. The sort of youngish gentleman a bit
like a lady, and no balls.'

`What balls?'

`Balls! A man's balls!'

She pondered this.

`But is it a question of that?' she said, a little annoyed.

`You say a man's got no brain, when he's a fool: and no heart, when
he's mean; and no stomach when he's a funker. And when he's got none
of that spunky wild bit of a man in him, you say he's got no balls.
When he's a sort of tame.'

She pondered this.

`And is Clifford tame?' she asked.

`Tame, and nasty with it: like most such fellows, when you come up
against 'em.'

`And do you think you're not tame?'

`Maybe not quite!'

At length she saw in the distance a yellow light.

She stood still.

`There is a light!' she said.

`I always leave a light in the house,' he said.

She went on again at his side, but not touching him, wondering why
she was going with him at all.

He unlocked, and they went in, he bolting the door behind them. As
if it were a prison, she thought! The kettle was singing by the red
fire, there were cups on the table.

She sat in the wooden arm-chair by the fire. It was warm after the
chill outside.

`I'll take off my shoes, they are wet,' she said.

She sat with her stockinged feet on the bright steel fender. He went
to the pantry, bringing food: bread and butter and pressed tongue. She
was warm: she took off her coat. He hung it on the door.

`Shall you have cocoa or tea or coffee to drink?' he asked.

`I don't think I want anything,' she said, looking at the table. `But
you eat.'

`Nay, I don't care about it. I'll just feed the dog.'

He tramped with a quiet inevitability over the brick floor, putting
food for the dog in a brown bowl. The spaniel looked up at him anxiously.

`Ay, this is thy supper, tha nedna look as if tha wouldna get it!'
he said.

He set the bowl on the stairfoot mat, and sat himself on a chair by
the wall, to take off his leggings and boots. The dog instead of eating,
came to him again, and sat looking up at him, troubled.

He slowly unbuckled his leggings. The dog edged a little nearer.

`What's amiss wi' thee then? Art upset because there's somebody else
here? Tha'rt a female, tha art! Go an' eat thy supper.'

He put his hand on her head, and the bitch leaned her head sideways
against him. He slowly, softly pulled the long silky ear.

`There!' he said. `There! Go an' eat thy supper! Go!'

He tilted his chair towards the pot on the mat, and the dog meekly
went, and fell to eating.

`Do you like dogs?' Connie asked him.

`No, not really. They're too tame and clinging.'

He had taken off his leggings and was unlacing his heavy boots. Connie
had turned from the fire. How bare the little room was! Yet over his
head on the wall hung a hideous enlarged photograph of a young married
couple, apparently him and a bold-faced young woman, no doubt his wife.

`Is that you?' Connie asked him.

He twisted and looked at the enlargement above his head.

`Ay! Taken just afore we was married, when I was twenty-one.' He looked
at it impassively.

`Do you like it?' Connie asked him.

`Like it? No! I never liked the thing. But she fixed it all up to have
it done, like.'

He returned to pulling off his boots.

`If you don't like it, why do you keep it hanging there? Perhaps your
wife would like to have it,' she said.

He looked up at her with a sudden grin.

`She carted off iverything as was worth taking from th' 'ouse,' he
said. `But she left that!'

`Then why do you keep it? for sentimental reasons?'

`Nay, I niver look at it. I hardly knowed it wor theer. It's bin theer
sin' we come to this place.'

`Why don't you burn it?' she said.

He twisted round again and looked at the enlarged photograph. It was
framed in a brown-and-gilt frame, hideous. It showed a clean-shaven,
alert, very young-looking man in a rather high collar, and a somewhat
plump, bold young woman with hair fluffed out and crimped, and wearing
a dark satin blouse.

`It wouldn't be a bad idea, would it?' he said.

He had pulled off his boots, and put on a pair of slippers. He stood
up on the chair, and lifted down the photograph. It left a big pale
place on the greenish wall-paper.

`No use dusting it now,' he said, setting the thing against the wall.

He went to the scullery, and returned with hammer and pincers. Sitting
where he had sat before, he started to tear off the back-paper from
the big frame, and to pull out the sprigs that held the backboard in
position, working with the immediate quiet absorption that was characteristic
of him.

He soon had the nails out: then he pulled out the backboards, then
the enlargement itself, in its solid white mount. He looked at the photograph
with amusement.

`Shows me for what I was, a young curate, and her for what she was,
a bully,' he said. `The prig and the bully!'

`Let me look!' said Connie.

He did look indeed very clean-shaven and very clean altogether, one
of the clean young men of twenty years ago. But even in the photograph
his eyes were alert and dauntless. And the woman was not altogether
a bully, though her jowl was heavy. There was a touch of appeal in her.

`One never should keep these things,' said Connie. `That one shouldn't!
One should never have them made!'

He broke the cardboard photograph and mount over his knee, and when
it was small enough, put it on the fire.

`It'll spoil the fire though,' he said.

The glass and the backboard he carefully took upstairs.

The frame he knocked asunder with a few blows of the hammer, making
the stucco fly. Then he took the pieces into the scullery.

`We'll burn that tomorrow,' he said. `There's too much plaster-moulding
on it.'

Having cleared away, he sat down.

`Did you love your wife?' she asked him.

`Love?' he said. `Did you love Sir Clifford?'

But she was not going to be put off.

`But you cared for her?' she insisted.

`Cared?' He grinned.

`Perhaps you care for her now,' she said.

`Me!' His eyes widened. `Ah no, I can't think of her,' he said quietly.

`Why?'

But he shook his head.

`Then why don't you get a divorce? She'll come back to you one day,'
said Connie.

He looked up at her sharply.

`She wouldn't come within a mile of me. She hates me a lot worse than
I hate her.'

`You'll see she'll come back to you.'

`That she never will. That's done! It would make me sick to see her.'

`You will see her. And you're not even legally separated, are you?'

`No.'

`Ah well, then she'll come back, and you'll have to take her in.'

He gazed at Connie fixedly. Then he gave the queer toss of his head.

`You might be right. I was a fool ever to come back here. But I felt
stranded and had to go somewhere. A man's a poor bit of a wastrel blown
about. But you're right. I'll get a divorce and get clear. I hate those
things like death, officials and courts and judges. But I've got to
get through with it. I'll get a divorce.'

And she saw his jaw set. Inwardly she exulted. `I think I will have
a cup of tea now,' she said. He rose to make it. But his face was set.
As they sat at table she asked him:

`Why did you marry her? She was commoner than yourself. Mrs Bolton
told me about her. She could never understand why you married her.'

He looked at her fixedly.

`I'll tell you,' he said. `The first girl I had, I began with when
I was sixteen. She was a school-master's daughter over at Ollerton,
pretty, beautiful really. I was supposed to be a clever sort of young
fellow from Sheffield Grammar School, with a bit of French and German,
very much up aloft. She was the romantic sort that hated commonness.
She egged me on to poetry and reading: in a way, she made a man of me.
I read and I thought like a house on fire, for her. And I was a clerk
in Butterley offices, thin, white-faced fellow fuming with all the things
I read. And about everything I talked to her: but everything. We talked
ourselves into Persepolis and Timbuctoo. We were the most literary-cultured
couple in ten counties. I held forth with rapture to her, positively
with rapture. I simply went up in smoke. And she adored me. The serpent
in the grass was sex. She somehow didn't have any; at least, not where
it's supposed to be. I got thinner and crazier. Then I said we'd got
to be lovers. I talked her into it, as usual. So she let me. I was excited,
and she never wanted it. She just didn't want it. She adored me, she
loved me to talk to her and kiss her: in that way she had a passion
for me. But the other, she just didn't want. And there are lots of women
like her. And it was just the other that I did want. So there we split.
I was cruel, and left her. Then I took on with another girl, a teacher,
who had made a scandal by carrying on with a married man and driving
him nearly out of his mind. She was a soft, white-skinned, soft sort
of a woman, older than me, and played the fiddle. And she was a demon.
She loved everything about love, except the sex. Clinging, caressing,
creeping into you in every way: but if you forced her to the sex itself,
she just ground her teeth and sent out hate. I forced her to it, and
she could simply numb me with hate because of it. So I was balked again.
I loathed all that. I wanted a woman who wanted me, and wanted it.

`Then came Bertha Coutts. They'd lived next door to us when I was a
little lad, so I knew 'em all right. And they were common. Well, Bertha
went away to some place or other in Birmingham; she said, as a lady's
companion; everybody else said, as a waitress or something in a hotel.
Anyhow just when I was more than fed up with that other girl, when I
was twenty-one, back comes Bertha, with airs and graces and smart clothes
and a sort of bloom on her: a sort of sensual bloom that you'd see sometimes
on a woman, or on a trolly. Well, I was in a state of murder. I chucked
up my job at Butterley because I thought I was a weed, clerking there:
and I got on as overhead blacksmith at Tevershall: shoeing horses mostly.
It had been my dad's job, and I'd always been with him. It was a job
I liked: handling horses: and it came natural to me. So I stopped talking
"fine", as they call it, talking proper English, and went
back to talking broad. I still read books, at home: but I blacksmithed
and had a pony-trap of my own, and was My Lord Duckfoot. My dad left
me three hundred pounds when he died. So I took on with Bertha, and
I was glad she was common. I wanted her to be common. I wanted to be
common myself. Well, I married her, and she wasn't bad. Those other
"pure" women had nearly taken all the balls out of me, but
she was all right that way. She wanted me, and made no bones about it.
And I was as pleased as punch. That was what I wanted: a woman who wanted
me to fuck her. So I fucked her like a good un. And I think she despised
me a bit, for being so pleased about it, and bringin' her her breakfast
in bed sometimes. She sort of let things go, didn't get me a proper
dinner when I came home from work, and if I said anything, flew out
at me. And I flew back, hammer and tongs. She flung a cup at me and
I took her by the scruff of the neck and squeezed the life out of her.
That sort of thing! But she treated me with insolence. And she got so's
she'd never have me when I wanted her: never. Always put me off, brutal
as you like. And then when she'd put me right off, and I didn't want
her, she'd come all lovey-dovey, and get me. And I always went. But
when I had her, she'd never come off when I did. Never! She'd just wait.
If I kept back for half an hour, she'd keep back longer. And when I'd
come and really finished, then she'd start on her own account, and I
had to stop inside her till she brought herself off, wriggling and shouting,
she'd clutch clutch with herself down there, an' then she'd come off,
fair in ecstasy. And then she'd say: That was lovely! Gradually I got
sick of it: and she got worse. She sort of got harder and harder to
bring off, and she'd sort of tear at me down there, as if it was a beak
tearing at me. By God, you think a woman's soft down there, like a fig.
But I tell you the old rampers have beaks between their legs, and they
tear at you with it till you're sick. Self! Self! Self! all self! tearing
and shouting! They talk about men's selfishness, but I doubt if it can
ever touch a woman's blind beakishness, once she's gone that way. Like
an old trull! And she couldn't help it. I told her about it, I told
her how I hated it. And she'd even try. She'd try to lie still and let
me work the business. She'd try. But it was no good. She got no feeling
off it, from my working. She had to work the thing herself, grind her
own coffee. And it came back on her like a raving necessity, she had
to let herself go, and tear, tear, tear, as if she had no sensation
in her except in the top of her beak, the very outside top tip, that
rubbed and tore. That's how old whores used to be, so men used to say.
It was a low kind of self-will in her, a raving sort of self-will: like
in a woman who drinks. Well in the end I couldn't stand it. We slept
apart. She herself had started it, in her bouts when she wanted to be
clear of me, when she said I bossed her. She had started having a room
for herself. But the time came when I wouldn't have her coming to my
room. I wouldn't.

`I hated it. And she hated me. My God, how she hated me before that
child was born! I often think she conceived it out of hate. Anyhow,
after the child was born I left her alone. And then came the war, and
I joined up. And I didn't come back till I knew she was with that fellow
at Stacks Gate.

He broke off, pale in the face.

`And what is the man at Stacks Gate like?' asked Connie.

`A big baby sort of fellow, very low-mouthed. She bullies him, and
they both drink.'

`My word, if she came back!'

`My God, yes! I should just go, disappear again.'

There was a silence. The pasteboard in the fire had turned to grey
ash.

`So when you did get a woman who wanted you,' said Connie, `you got
a bit too much of a good thing.'

`Ay! Seems so! Yet even then I'd rather have her than the never-never
ones: the white love of my youth, and that other poison-smelling lily,
and the rest.'

`What about the rest?' said Connie.

`The rest? There is no rest. Only to my experience the mass of women
are like this: most of them want a man, but don't want the sex, but
they put up with it, as part of the bargain. The more old-fashioned
sort just lie there like nothing and let you go ahead. They don't mind
afterwards: then they like you. But the actual thing itself is nothing
to them, a bit distasteful. Add most men like it that way. I hate it.
But the sly sort of women who are like that pretend they're not. They
pretend they're passionate and have thrills. But it's all cockaloopy.
They make it up. Then there's the ones that love everything, every kind
of feeling and cuddling and going off, every kind except the natural
one. They always make you go off when you're not in the only place you
should be, when you go off.---Then there's the hard sort, that are the
devil to bring off at all, and bring themselves off, like my wife. They
want to be the active party.---Then there's the sort that's just dead
inside: but dead: and they know it. Then there's the sort that puts
you out before you really "come", and go on writhing their
loins till they bring themselves off against your thighs. But they're
mostly the Lesbian sort. It's astonishing how Lesbian women are, consciously
or unconsciously. Seems to me they're nearly all Lesbian.'

`And do you mind?' asked Connie.

`I could kill them. When I'm with a woman who's really Lesbian, I fairly
howl in my soul, wanting to kill her.'

`And what do you do?'

`Just go away as fast as I can.'

`But do you think Lesbian women any worse than homosexual men?'

`I do! Because I've suffered more from them. In the abstract, I've
no idea. When I get with a Lesbian woman, whether she knows she's one
or not, I see red. No, no! But I wanted to have nothing to do with any
woman any more. I wanted to keep to myself: keep my privacy and my decency.'

He looked pale, and his brows were sombre.

`And were you sorry when I came along?' she asked.

`I was sorry and I was glad.'

`And what are you now?'

`I'm sorry, from the outside: all the complications and the ugliness
and recrimination that's bound to come, sooner or later. That's when
my blood sinks, and I'm low. But when my blood comes up, I'm glad. I'm
even triumphant. I was really getting bitter. I thought there was no
real sex left: never a woman who'd really "come" naturally
with a man: except black women, and somehow, well, we're white men:
and they're a bit like mud.'

`And now, are you glad of me?' she asked.

`Yes! When I can forget the rest. When I can't forget the rest, I want
to get under the table and die.'

`Why under the table?'

`Why?' he laughed. `Hide, I suppose. Baby!'

`You do seem to have had awful experiences of women,' she said.

`You see, I couldn't fool myself. That's where most men manage. They
take an attitude, and accept a lie. I could never fool myself. I knew
what I wanted with a woman, and I could never say I'd got it when I
hadn't.'

`But have you got it now?'

`Looks as if I might have.'

`Then why are you so pale and gloomy?'

`Bellyful of remembering: and perhaps afraid of myself.'

She sat in silence. It was growing late.

`And do you think it's important, a man and a woman?' she asked him.

`For me it is. For me it's the core of my life: if I have a right relation
with a woman.'

`And if you didn't get it?'

`Then I'd have to do without.'

Again she pondered, before she asked:

`And do you think you've always been right with women?'

`God, no! I let my wife get to what she was: my fault a good deal.
I spoilt her. And I'm very mistrustful. You'll have to expect it. It
takes a lot to make me trust anybody, inwardly" title="ad.内向；独自地">inwardly. So perhaps I'm a fraud
too. I mistrust. And tenderness is not to be mistaken.'

She looked at him.

`You don't mistrust with your body, when your blood comes up,' she
said. `You don't mistrust then, do you?'

`No, alas! That's how I've got into all the trouble. And that's why
my mind mistrusts so thoroughly.'

`Let your mind mistrust. What does it matter!'

The dog sighed with discomfort on the mat. The ash-clogged fire sank.

`We are a couple of battered warriors,' said Connie.

`Are you battered too?' he laughed. `And here we are returning to the
fray!'

`Yes! I feel really frightened.'

`Ay!'

He got up, and put her shoes to dry, and wiped his own and set them
near the fire. In the morning he would grease them. He poked the ash
of pasteboard as much as possible out of the fire. `Even burnt, it's