Clifford made big eyes: it was all stuff to him. Connie secretly laughed to herself.
Well then were all plucked apples, said Hammond, rather acidly and petulantly.
So lets make cider of ourselves, said Charlie.
But what do you think of Bolshevism? put in the brown Berry, as if everything had led up to it.
Bravo! roared Charlie. What do you think of Bolshevism?
Come on! Lets make hay of Bolshevism! said Dukes.
Im afraid Bolshevism is a large question, said Hammond, shaking his head seriously.
Bolshevism, it seems to me, said Charlie, is just a superlative hatred of the thing they call the bourgeois; and what the bourgeois is, isnt quite defined. It is Capitalism, among other things. Feelings and emotions are also so decidedly bourgeois that you have to invent a man without them.
Then the individual, especially the personal man, is bourgeois: so he must be suppressed. You must submerge yourselves in the greater thing, the Soviet-social thing. Even an organism is bourgeois: so the ideal must be mechanical. The only thing that is a unit, non-organic, composed of many different, yet equally essential parts, is the machine. Each man a machine-part, and the driving power of the machine, hate hate of the bourgeois. That, to me, is Bolshevism.
Absolutely! said Tommy. But also, it seems to me a perfect description of the whole of the industrial ideal. Its the factory-owners ideal in a nut-shell; except that he would deny that the driving power was hate. Hate it is, all the same; hate of life itself. Just look at these Midlands, if it isnt plainly written up but its all part of the life of the mind, its a logical development.
I deny that Bolshevism is logical, it rejects the major part of the premisses, said Hammond.
My dear man, it allows the material premiss; so does the pure mind exclusively.
At least Bolshevism has got down to rock bottom, said Charlie.
Rock bottom! The bottom that has no bottom! The Bolshevists will have the finest army in the world in a very short time, with the finest mechanical equipment.
But this thing cant go on this hate business. There must be a reaction said Hammond.
Well, weve been waiting for years we wait longer. Hates a growing thing like anything else. Its the inevitable outcome of forcing ideas on to life, of forcing ones deepest instincts; our deepest feelings we force according to certain ideas. We drive ourselves with a formula, like a machine. The logical mind pretends to rule the roost, and the roost turns into pure hate. Were all Bolshevists, only we are hypocrites. The Russians are Bolshevists without hypocrisy.
But there are many other ways, said Hammond, than the Soviet way. The Bolshevists arent really intelligent.
Of course not. But sometimes its intelligent to be half-witted: if you want to make your end. Personally, I consider Bolshevism half-witted; but so do I consider our social life in the west half-witted. So I even consider our far-famed mental life half-witted. Were all as cold as cretins, were all as passionless as idiots. Were all of us Bolshevists, only we give it another name. We think were gods men like gods! Its just the same as Bolshevism. One has to be human, and have a heart and a penis if one is going to escape being either a god or a Bolshevist for they are the same thing: theyre both too good to be true.
Out of the disapproving silence came Berrys anxious question:
You do believe in love then, Tommy, dont you?
You lovely lad! said Tommy. No, my cherub, nine times out of ten, no! Loves another of those half-witted performances today. Fellows with swaying waists fucking little jazz girls with small boy buttocks, like two collar studs! Do you mean that sort of love? Or the joint-property, make-a-success-of-it, My-husband-my-wife sort of love? No, my fine fellow, I dont believe in it at all!
But you do believe in something?
Me? Oh, intellectually I believe in having a good heart, a chirpy penis, a lively intelligence, and the courage to say shit! in front of a lady.
Well, youve got them all, said Berry.
Tommy Dukes roared with laughter. You angel boy! If only I had! If only I had! No; my hearts as numb as a potato, my penis droops and never lifts its head up, I dare rather cut him clean off than say shit! in front of my mother or my aunt they are real ladies, mind you; and Im not really intelligent, Im only a mental-lifer. It would be wonderful to be intelligent: then one would be alive in all the parts mentioned and unmentionable. The penis rouses his head and says: How do you do? to any really intelligent person. Renoir said he painted his pictures with his penis[39] he did too, lovely pictures! I wish I did something with mine. God! when one can only talk! Another torture added to Hades![40] And Socrates started it.
There are nice women in the world, said Connie, lifting her head up and speaking at last.
The men resented it she should have pretended to hear nothing. They hated her admitting she had attended so closely to such talk.
My God!
If they be not nice to me
What care i how nice they be?
No, its hopeless! I just simply cant vibrate in unison with a woman. Theres no woman I can really want when Im faced with her, and Im not going to start forcing myself to it My God, no! Ill remain as I am, and lead the mental life. Its the only honest thing I can do. I can be quite happy talking to women; but its all pure, hopelessly pure. Hopelessly pure! What do you say, Hildebrand, my chicken?
Its much less complicated if one stays pure, said Berry.
Yes, life is all too simple!
Chapter 5
On a frosty morning with a little February sun, Clifford and Connie went for a walk across the park to the wood. That is, Clifford chuffed in his motor-chair, and Connie walked beside him.
The hard air was still sulphurous, but they were both used to it. Round the near horizon went the haze, opalescent with frost and smoke, and on the top lay the small blue sky; so that it was like being inside an enclosure, always inside. Life always a dream or a frenzy, inside an enclosure.
The sheep coughed in the rough, sere grass of the park, where frost lay bluish in the sockets of the tufts. Across the park ran a path to the wood-gate, a fine ribbon of pink. Clifford had had it newly gravelled with sifted gravel from the pit-bank. When the rock and refuse of the underworld had burned and given off its sulphur, it turned bright pink, shrimp-coloured on dry days, darker, crab-coloured on wet. Now it was pale shrimp-colour, with a bluish-white hoar of frost. It always pleased Connie, this underfoot of sifted, bright pink. Its an ill wind that brings nobody good.
Clifford steered cautiously down the slope of the knoll from the hall, and Connie kept her hand on the chair. In front lay the wood, the hazel thicket nearest, the purplish density of oaks beyond. From the woods edge rabbits bobbed and nibbled. Rooks suddenly rose in a black train, and went trailing off over the little sky.
Connie opened the wood-gate, and Clifford puffed slowly through into the broad riding that ran up an incline between the clean-whipped thickets of the hazel. The wood was a remnant of the great forest where Robin Hood hunted, and this riding was an old, old thoroughfare coming across country. But now, of course, it was only a riding through the private wood. The road from Mansfield swerved round to the north.
Clifford steered cautiously down the slope of the knoll from the hall, and Connie kept her hand on the chair. In front lay the wood, the hazel thicket nearest, the purplish density of oaks beyond. From the woods edge rabbits bobbed and nibbled. Rooks suddenly rose in a black train, and went trailing off over the little sky.
Connie opened the wood-gate, and Clifford puffed slowly through into the broad riding that ran up an incline between the clean-whipped thickets of the hazel. The wood was a remnant of the great forest where Robin Hood hunted, and this riding was an old, old thoroughfare coming across country. But now, of course, it was only a riding through the private wood. The road from Mansfield swerved round to the north.
In the wood everything was motionless, the old leaves on the ground keeping the frost on their underside. A jay called harshly, many little birds fluttered. But there was no game; no pheasants. They had been killed off during the war, and the wood had been left unprotected, till now Clifford had got his game-keeper again.
Clifford loved the wood; he loved the old oak-trees. He felt they were his own through generations. He wanted to protect them. He wanted this place inviolate, shut off from the world.
The chair chuffed slowly up the incline, rocking and jolting on the frozen clods. And suddenly, on the left, came a clearing where there was nothing but a ravel of dead bracken, a thin and spindly sapling leaning here and there, big sawn stumps, showing their tops and their grasping roots, lifeless. And patches of blackness where the woodmen had burned the brushwood and rubbish.
This was one of the places that Sir Geoffrey had cut during the war for trench timber. The whole knoll, which rose softly on the right of the riding, was denuded and strangely forlorn. On the crown of the knoll where the oaks had stood, now was bareness; and from there you could look out over the trees to the colliery railway, and the new works at Stacks Gate. Connie had stood and looked, it was a breach in the pure seclusion of the wood. It let in the world. But she didnt tell Clifford.
This denuded place always made Clifford curiously angry. He had been through the war, had seen what it meant. But he didnt get really angry till he saw this bare hill. He was having it replanted. But it made him hate Sir Geoffrey.
Clifford sat with a fixed face as the chair slowly mounted. When they came to the top of the rise he stopped; he would not risk the long and very jolty down-slope. He sat looking at the greenish sweep of the riding downwards, a clear way through the bracken and oaks. It swerved at the bottom of the hill and disappeared; but it had such a lovely easy curve, of knights riding and ladies on palfreys.
I consider this is really the heart of England, said Clifford to Connie, as he sat there in the dim February sunshine.
Do you? she said, seating herself in her blue knitted dress, on a stump by the path.
I do! this is the old England, the heart of it; and I intend to keep it intact.
Oh yes! said Connie. But, as she said it she heard the eleven-oclock hooters at Stacks Gate colliery. Clifford was too used to the sound to notice.
I want this wood perfect untouched. I want nobody to trespass in it, said Clifford.
There was a certain pathos. The wood still had some of the mystery of wild, old England; but Sir Geoffreys cuttings during the war had given it a blow. How still the trees were, with their crinkly, innumerable twigs against the sky, and their grey, obstinate trunks rising from the brown bracken! How safely the birds flitted among them! And once there had been deer, and archers, and monks padding along on asses. The place remembered, still remembered.
Clifford sat in the pale sun, with the light on his smooth, rather blond hair, his reddish full face inscrutable.
I mind more, not having a son, when I come here, than any other time, he said.
But the wood is older than your family, said Connie gently.
Quite! said Clifford. But weve preserved it. Except for us it would go it would be gone already, like the rest of the forest. One must preserve some of the old England!
Must one? said Connie. If it has to be preserved, and preserved against the new England? Its sad, I know.
If some of the old England isnt preserved, therell be no England at all, said Clifford. And we who have this kind of property, and the feeling for it, must preserve it.
There was a sad pause. Yes, for a little while, said Connie.
For a little while! Its all we can do. We can only do our bit. I feel every man of my family has done his bit here, since weve had the place. One may go against convention, but one must keep up tradition. Again there was a pause.
What tradition? asked Connie.
The tradition of England! of this!
Yes, she said slowly.
Thats 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.
Im sorry we cant 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 dont believe very intensely in fatherhood. If we had the child to rear, it would be our own, and it would carry on. Dont you think its 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 isnt 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?.. Its what endures through ones 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 dont exaggerate them ridiculously, they pass like the mating of birds. And so they should. What does it matter? Its the life-long companionship that matters. Its 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 thats 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. Thats 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 wouldnt you mind what mans child I had? she asked.
Why, Connie, I should trust your natural instinct of decency and selection. You just wouldnt let the wrong sort of fellow touch you.