LADY CHATTERLEY'S LOVER (The Uncensored Edition). D. H. Lawrence
sixpence. Then more sobs, but subduing. ‘There, tell me what’s the matter, tell me!’ said Connie, putting the coin into the child’s chubby hand, which closed over it.
‘It’s the… it’s the… pussy!’
Shudders of subsiding sobs.
‘What pussy, dear?’
After a silence the shy fist, clenching on sixpence, pointed into the bramble brake.
‘There!’
Connie looked, and there, sure enough, was a big black cat, stretched out grimly, with a bit of blood on it.
‘Oh!’ she said in repulsion.
‘A poacher, your Ladyship,’ said the man satirically.
She glanced at him angrily. ‘No wonder the child cried,’ she said, ‘if you shot it when she was there. No wonder she cried!’
He looked into Connie’s eyes, laconic, contemptuous, not hiding his feelings. And again Connie flushed; she felt she had been making a scene, the man did not respect her.
‘What is your name?’ she said playfully to the child. ‘Won’t you tell me your name?’
Sniffs; then very affectedly in a piping voice: ‘Connie Mellors!’
‘Connie Mellors! Well, that’s a nice name! And did you come out with your Daddy, and he shot a pussy? But it was a bad pussy!’
The child looked at her, with bold, dark eyes of scrutiny, sizing her up, and her condolence.
‘I wanted to stop with my Gran,’ said the little girl.
‘Did you? But where is your Gran?’
The child lifted an arm, pointing down the drive. ‘At th’ cottidge.’
‘At the cottage! And would you like to go back to her?’
Sudden, shuddering quivers of reminiscent sobs. ‘Yes!’
‘Come then, shall I take you? Shall I take you to your Gran? Then your Daddy can do what he has to do.’ She turned to the man. ‘It is your little girl, isn’t it?’
He saluted, and made a slight movement of the head in affirmation.
‘I suppose I can take her to the cottage?’ asked Connie.
‘If your Ladyship wishes.’
Again he looked into her eyes, with that calm, searching detached glance. A man very much alone, and on his own.
‘Would you like to come with me to the cottage, to your Gran, dear?’
The child peeped up again. ‘Yes!’ she simpered.
Connie disliked her; the spoilt, false little female. Nevertheless she wiped her face and took her hand. The keeper saluted in silence.
‘Good morning!’ said Connie.
It was nearly a mile to the cottage, and Connie senior was well bored by Connie junior by the time the game-keeper’s picturesque little home was in sight. The child was already as full to the brim with tricks as a little monkey, and so self-assured.
At the cottage the door stood open, and there was a rattling heard inside. Connie lingered, the child slipped her hand, and ran indoors.
‘Gran! Gran!’
‘Why, are yer back a’ready!’
The grandmother had been blackleading the stove, it was Saturday morning. She came to the door in her sacking apron, a blacklead-brush in her hand, and a black smudge on her nose. She was a little, rather dry woman.
‘Why, whatever?’ she said, hastily wiping her arm across her face as she saw Connie standing outside.
‘Good morning!’ said Connie. ‘She was crying, so I just brought her home.’
The grandmother looked around swiftly at the child:
‘Why, wheer was yer Dad?’
The little girl clung to her grandmother’s skirts and simpered.
‘He was there,’ said Connie, ‘but he’d shot a poaching cat, and the child was upset.’
‘Oh, you’d no right t’ave bothered, Lady Chatterley, I’m sure! I’m sure it was very good of you, but you shouldn’t ‘ave bothered. Why, did ever you see!’—and the old woman turned to the child: ‘Fancy Lady Chatterley takin’ all that trouble over yer! Why, she shouldn’t ‘ave bothered!’
‘It was no bother, just a walk,’ said Connie smiling.
‘Why, I’m sure ‘twas very kind of you, I must say! So she was crying! I knew there’d be something afore they got far. She’s frightened of ‘im, that’s wheer it is. Seems ‘e’s almost a stranger to ‘er, fair a stranger, and I don’t think they’re two as’d hit it off very easy. He’s got funny ways.’
Connie didn’t know what to say.
‘Look, Gran!’ simpered the child.
The old woman looked down at the sixpence in the little girl’s hand.
‘An’ sixpence an’ all! Oh, your Ladyship, you shouldn’t, you shouldn’t. Why, isn’t Lady Chatterley good to yer! My word, you’re a lucky girl this morning!’
She pronounced the name, as all the people did: Chat’ley.—Isn’t Lady Chat’ley good to you!’—Connie couldn’t help looking at the old woman’s nose, and the latter again vaguely wiped her face with the back of her wrist, but missed the smudge.
Connie was moving away ‘Well, thank you ever so much, Lady Chat’ley, I’m sure. Say thank you to Lady Chat’ley!’—this last to the child.
‘Thank you,’ piped the child.
‘There’s a dear!’ laughed Connie, and she moved away, saying ‘Good morning’, heartily relieved to get away from the contact.
Curious, she thought, that that thin, proud man should have that little, sharp woman for a mother!
And the old woman, as soon as Connie had gone, rushed to the bit of mirror in the scullery, and looked at her face. Seeing it, she stamped her foot with impatience. ‘Of course she had to catch me in my coarse apron, and a dirty face! Nice idea she’d get of me!’
Connie went slowly home to Wragby. ‘Home!’… it was a warm word to use for that great, weary warren. But then it was a word that had had its day. It was somehow cancelled. All the great words, it seemed to Connie, were cancelled for her generation: love, joy, happiness, home, mother, father, husband, all these great, dynamic words were half dead now, and dying from day to day. Home was a place you lived in, love was a thing you didn’t fool yourself about, joy was a word you applied to a good Charleston, happiness was a term of hypocrisy used to bluff other people, a father was an individual who enjoyed his own existence, a husband was a man you lived with and kept going in spirits. As for sex, the last of the great words, it was just a cocktail term for an excitement that bucked you up for a while, then left you more raggy than ever. Frayed! It was as if the very material you were made of was cheap stuff, and was fraying out to nothing.
All that really remained was a stubborn stoicism: and in that there was a certain pleasure. In the very experience of the nothingness of life, phase after phase, tape after tape, there was a certain grisly satisfaction. So that’s that! Always this was the last utterance: home, love, marriage, Michaelis: So that’s that! And when one died, the last words to life would be: So that’s that!
Money? Perhaps one couldn’t say the same there. Money one always wanted. Money, Success, the bitch-goddess, as Tommy Dukes persisted in calling it, after Henry James, that was a permanent necessity. You couldn’t spend your last sou, and say finally: So that’s that! No, if you lived even another ten minutes, you wanted a few more sous