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,
