Lady Chatterley’s Lover. D. H. LawrenceЧитать онлайн книгу.
‘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 suede 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 and 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