“But you make them work for you. They live the life of your coal mine.”
“Not at all. Every beetle finds its own food. Not one man is forced to work for me.”
“Their lives are industrialized and hopeless, and so are ours,” she cried.
“I don’t think they are. That’s just a romantic figure of speech, a relic of the swooning and die-away romanticism. You don’t look at all a hopeless figure standing there, Connie, my dear.”
Which was true. For her dark blue eyes were flashing, color was hot in her cheeks, she looked full of a rebellious passion far from the dejection of hopelessness. She noticed, in the tussocky places of the grass, cottony young cowslips standing up still bleared in their down. And she wondered with rage, why it was she felt Clifford was so wrong, yet she couldn’t say it to him, she could not say exactly where he was wrong.
“No wonder the men hate you,” she said.
“They don’t!” he replied. “And don’t fall into errors: in your sense of the word, they are not men. They are animals you don’t understand and never could. Don’t thrust your illusions on other people. The masses were always the same, and will always be the same. Nero’s slaves were extremely little different from our colliers or the Ford motor-car workmen. I mean Nero’s mine slaves and his field slaves. It is the masses: they are the unchangeable. An individual may emerge from the masses. But the emergence doesn’t alter the mass. The masses are unalterable. It is one of the most momentous facts of social science. Panem et circenses! Only today education is one of the bad substitutes for a circus. What is wrong today is that we’ve made a profound hash of the circuses part of the program, and poisoned our masses with a little education.”
When Clifford became really aroused in his feelings about the common people, Connie was frightened. There was something devastatingly true in what he said. But it was a truth that killed.
Seeing her pale and silent, Clifford started the chair again, and no more was said till he halted again at the wood gate, which she opened.
“And what we need to take up now,” he said, “is whips, not swords. The masses have been ruled since time began, and, till time ends, ruled they will have to be. It is sheer hypocrisy and farce to say they can rule themselves.”
“But can you rule them?” she asked.
“I? Oh, yes! Neither my mind nor my will is crippled, and I don’t rule with my legs. I can do my share of ruling: absolutely, my share; and give me a son, and he will be able to rule his portion after me.”
“But he wouldn’t be your own son, of your own ruling class; or perhaps not,” she stammered.
“I don’t care who his father may be, so long as he is a healthy man not below normal intelligence. Give me the child of any healthy, normally intelligent man, and I will make a perfectly competent Chatterley of him. It is not who begets us that matters, but where fate places us. Place any child among the ruling classes, and he will grow up, to his own extent, a ruler. Put kings’ and dukes’ children among the masses, and they’ll be little plebeians, mass products. It is the overwhelming pressure of environment.”
“Then the common people aren’t a race, and the aristocrats aren’t blood,” she said.
“No, my child! All that is romantic illusion. Aristocracy is a function, a part of fate. And the masses are a functioning of another part of fate. The individual hardly matters. It is a question of which function you are brought up to and adapted to. It is not the individuals that make an aristocracy: it is the functioning of the aristocratic whole. And it is the functioning of the whole mass that makes the common man what he is.”
“Then there is no common humanity between us all!”
“Just as you like. We all need to fill our bellies. But when it comes to expressive or executive functioning, I believe there is a gulf and an absolute one, between the ruling and the serving classes. The two functions are opposed. And the function determines the individual.”
Connie looked at him with dazed eyes.
“Won’t you come on?” she said.
And he started his chair. He had said his say. Now he lapsed into his peculiar and rather vacant apathy, that Connie found so trying. In the wood, anyhow, she was determined not to argue.
In front of them ran the open cleft of the riding, between the hazel walls and the grey trees. The chair puffed slowly on, slowly surging into the forget-me-nots that rose up in the drive like milk froth, beyond the hazel shadows. Clifford steered the middle course, where feet passing had kept a channel through the flowers. But Connie, walking behind, had watched the wheels jolt over the wood-ruff and the bugle, and squash the little yellow cups of the creeping-jenny. Now they made a wake through the forget-me-nots.
All the flowers were there, the first bluebells in blue pools, like standing water.
“You are quite right about its being beautiful,” said Clifford. “It is so amazingly. What is quite so lovely as an English spring!”
Connie thought it sounded as if even the spring bloomed by Act of Parliament. An English spring! Why not an Irish one? or Jewish? The chair moved slowly ahead, past tufts of sturdy bluebells that stood up like wheat and over grey burdock leaves. Then they came to the open place where the trees had been felled, the light flooded in rather stark. And the bluebells made sheets of bright blue color, here and there, sheering off into lilac and purple. And between, the bracken was lifting its brown curled heads, like legions of young snakes with a new secret to whisper to Eve.
Clifford kept the chair going till he came to the brow of the hill; Connie followed slowly behind. The oak-buds were opening soft and brown. Everything came tenderly out of the old hardness. Even the snaggy craggy oak-trees put out the softest leaves, spreading thin, brown little wings like young bat-wings in the light. Why had men never any newness in them, any freshness to come forth with? Stale men!
Clifford stopped the chair at the top of the rise and looked down. The bluebells washed blue like flood-water over the broad riding, and lit up the down-hill with a warm blueness.
“It’s a very fine color in itself,” said Clifford, “but useless for making a painting.”
“Quite!” said Connie, completely uninterested.
“Shall I venture as far as the spring?” said Clifford.
“Will the chair get up again?” she said.
“We’ll try; nothing venture, nothing win!”
And the chair began to advance slowly, joltingly down the beautiful broad riding washed over with blue encroaching hyacinths. Oh last of all ships, through the hyacinthian shallows! Oh pinnace on the last wild waters, sailing on the last voyage of our civilization! Whither, Oh weird wheeled ship, your slow course steering! Quiet and complacent, Clifford sat at the wheel of adventure: in his old black hat and tweed jacket, motionless and cautious. Oh captain, my Captain, our splendid trip is done! Not yet though! Down-hill in the wake, came Constance in her grey dress, watching the chair jolt downwards.
They passed the narrow track to the hut. Thank heaven it was not wide enough for the chair: hardly wide enough for one person. The chair reached the bottom of the slope, and swerved round, to disappear. And Connie heard a low whistle behind her. She glanced sharply round: the keeper was striding down-hill towards her, his dog keeping behind him.
“Is Sir Clifford going to the cottage?” he asked, looking into her eyes.
“No, only to the well.”
“Ah! Good! Then I can keep out of sight. But I shall see you tonight. I shall wait for you at the park gate about ten.”
He looked again direct into her eyes.
“Yes,” she faltered.
They heard the Papp! Papp! of Clifford’s horn, tooting for Connie. She “Coo-eed!” in reply. The keeper’s face flickered with a little grimace, and with his hand he softly brushed her breast upwards, from underneath. She looked at him, frightened, and started running down the hill, calling Coo-ee! again to Clifford. The man above watched her, then turned, grinning faintly, back into his path.
&nbs
p; She found Clifford slowly mounting to the spring, which was half-way up the slope of the dark larch-wood. He was there by the time she caught him up.
“She did that all right,” he said, referring to the chair.
Connie looked at the great grey leaves of burdock that grew out ghostly from the edge of the larch-wood. The people call it Robin Hood’s Rhubarb. How silent and gloomy it seemed by the well! Yet the water bubbled so bright, wonderful! And there were bits of eye-bright and strong blue bugle. And there, under the bank, the yellow earth was moving. A mole! It emerged, rowing its pink hands, and waving its blind gimlet of a face, with the tiny nose-tip uplifted.
“It seems to see with the end of its nose,” said Connie.
“Better than with its eyes!” he said. “Will you drink?”
“Will you?”
She took an enamel mug from a twig on a tree, and stooped to fill it for him. He drank in sips. Then she stooped again, and drank a little herself.
“So icy!” she said, gasping.
“Good, isn’t it! Did you wish?”
“Did you?”
“Yes, I wished. But I won’t tell.”
She was aware of the rapping of a woodpecker, then of the wind, soft and eerie through the larches. She looked up. White clouds were crossing the blue.
“Clouds!” she said.
“White lambs only,” he replied.
A shadow crossed the little clearing. The mole had swum out on to the soft yellow earth.
“Unpleasant little beast, we ought to kill him,” said Clifford.
“Look! he’s like a parson in a pulpit,” said she.
She gathered some sprigs of woodruff and brought them to him.
“New-mown hay!” he said. “Doesn’t it smell like the romantic ladies of the last century, who had their heads screwed on the right way after all!”
She was looking at the white clouds.
“I wonder if it will rain,” she said.
“Rain! Why! Do you want it to?”
They started on the return journey, Clifford jolting cautiously down-hill. They came to the dark bottom of the hollow, turned to the right, and after a hundred yards swerved up the foot of the long slope, where bluebells stood in the light.
“Now, old girl!” said Clifford, putting the chair to it.
It was a steep and jolty climb. The chair plugged slowly, in a struggling unwilling fashion. Still, she nosed her way up unevenly, till she came to where the hyacinths were all around her, then she balked, struggled, jerked a little way out of the flowers, then stopped.
“We’d better sound the horn and see if the keeper will come,” said Connie. “He could push her a bit. For that matter, I will push. It helps.”
“We’ll let her breathe,” said Clifford. “Do you mind putting a scotch under the wheel?”
Connie found a stone, and they waited. After a while Clifford started his motor again, then set the chair in motion. It struggled and faltered like a sick thing, with curious noises.
“Let me push!” said Connie, coming up behind.
“No! Don’t push!” he said angrily. “What’s the good of the damned thing, if it has to be pushed! Put the stone under!”
There was another pause, then another start; but more ineffectual than before.
“You must let me push,” she said. “Or sound the horn for the keeper.”
“Wait!”
She waited; and he had another try, doing more harm than good.
“Sound the horn, then, if you won’t let me push,” she said.
“Hell! Be quiet a moment!”
She was quiet a moment: he made shattering efforts with the little motor.
“You’ll only break the thing down altogether, Clifford,’’ she remonstrated: “besides wasting your nervous energy.”
“If I could only get out and look at the damned thing!” he said, exasperated. And he sounded the horn stridently. “Perhaps Mellors can see what’s wrong.”
They waited, among the mashed flowers under a sky softly curdling with clouds. In the silence a wood-pigeon began to coo, roo-hoo hoo! roo-hoo hoo! Clifford shut her up with a blast on the horn.
The keeper appeared directly, striding inquiringly round the corner. He saluted.
“Do you know anything about motors?” asked Clifford sharply.
“I’m afraid I don’t. Has she gone wrong?”
“Apparently!” snapped Clifford.
The man crouched solicitously by the wheel, and peered at the little engine.
“I’m afraid I know nothing at all about these mechanical things, Sir Clifford,” he said calmly. “If she has enough petrol and oil—”
“Just look carefully and see if you can see anything broken,” snapped Clifford.
The man laid his gun against a tree, took off his coat and threw it beside it. The brown dog sat guard. Then he sat down on his heels and peered under the chair, poking with his finger at the greasy little engine, and resenting the grease-marks on his clean Sunday shirt.
“Doesn’t seem anything broken,” he said. And he stood up, pushing back his hat from his forehead, rubbing his brow and apparently studying.
“Have you looked at the rods underneath?” asked Clifford. “See if they are all right!”
The man lay flat on his stomach on the floor, his neck pressed back, wriggling under the engine and poking with his finger. Connie thought what a pathetic sort of thing a man was, feeble and small looking, when he was lying on his belly on the big earth.
“Seems all right as far as I can see,” came his muffled voice.
“I don’t suppose you can do anything,” said Clifford.
“Seems as if I can’t!” And he scrambled up and sat on his heels, collier fashion. “There’s certainly nothing obviously broken.”
Clifford started his engine, then put her in gear. She would not move.
“Run her a bit hard, like,” suggested the keeper.
Clifford resented the interference: but he made his engine buzz like a blue-bottle. Then she coughed and snarled and seemed to go better.
“Sounds as if she’d come clear,” said Mellors.
But Clifford had already jerked her into gear. She gave a sick lurch and ebbed weakly forwards.
“If I give her a push, she’ll do it,” said the keeper, going behind.
“Keep off!” snapped Clifford. “She’ll do it by herself.”
“But, Clifford!” put in Connie from the bank, “you know it’s too much for her. Why are you so obstinate!”
Clifford was pale with anger. He jabbed at his levers. The chair gave a sort of scurry, reeled on a few more yards, and came to her end amid a particularly promising patch of bluebells.
“She’s done!” said the keeper. “Not power enough.”
“She’s been up here before,” said Clifford coldly.
“She won’t do it this time,” said the keeper.
Clifford did not reply. He began doing things with his engine, running her fast and slow as if to get some sort of tune out of her. The wood re-echoed with weird noises. Then he put her in gear with a jerk, having jerked off his brake.
“You’ll rip her inside out,” murmured the keeper.
The chair charged in a sick lurch sideways at the ditch.
“Clifford!” cried Connie, rushing forward.
But the keeper had got the chair by the rail. Clifford, however, putting on all his pressure, managed to steer into the riding, and with a strange noise the chair was fighting the hill. Mellors pushed steadily behind, and up she went, as if to retrieve herself.
“You see, she’s doing it!” said Clifford victorious, glancing over his shoulder. There he saw the keeper’s face.
“Are you pushing her?”
“She won’t do it without.”
“Leave her alone. I asked you not.”
“She won’t do it.”
“Let her try!” snarled Clifford, with all his emphasis.
The keeper stood back: then turned to fetch
his coat and gun. The chair seemed to strangle immediately. She stood inert. Clifford, seated a prisoner, was white with vexation. He jerked at the levers with his hand, his feet were no good. He got queer noises out of her. In savage impatience he moved little handles and got more noises out of her. But she would not budge. No, she would not budge. He stopped the engine and sat rigid with anger.
Constance sat on the bank and looked at the wretched and trampled bluebells. “Nothing quite so lovely as an English spring.” “I can do my share of ruling.” “What we need to take up now is whips, not swords.” “The ruling classes!”
The keeper strode up with his coat and gun, Flossie cautiously at his heels. Clifford asked the man to do something or other to the engine. Connie, who understood nothing at all of the technicalities of motors, and who had had experience of breakdowns, sat patiently on the bank as if she were a cipher. The keeper lay on his stomach again. The ruling classes and the serving classes!
He got to his feet and said patiently:
“Try her again, then.”
He spoke in a quiet voice, almost as if to a child.
Clifford tried her, and Mellors stepped quickly behind and began to push. She was going, the engine doing about half the work, the man the rest.
Clifford glanced round yellow with anger.
“Will you get off there!”
The keeper dropped his hold at once, and Clifford added: “How shall I know what she is doing!”
The man put his gun down and began to pull on his coat. He’d done.
The chair began slowly to run backwards.
“Clifford, your brake!” cried Connie.
She, Mellors, and Clifford moved at once, Connie and the keeper jostling lightly. The chair stood. There was a moment of dead silence.
“It’s obvious I’m at everybody’s mercy!” said Clifford. He was yellow with anger.
No one answered. Mellors was slinging his gun over his shoulder, his face queer and expressionless, save for an abstracted look of patience. The dog Flossie, standing on guard almost between her master’s legs, moved uneasily, eyeing the chair with great suspicion and dislike, and very much perplexed between the three human beings. The tableau vivant remained set among the squashed bluebells, nobody proffering a word.