`Well，we’vebeenwaitingforyears……wewaitlonger。Hate’sagrowingthinglikeanythingelse。It’stheinevitableoutcomeofforcingideasontolife，offorcingone’sdeepestinstincts；ourdeepestfeelingsweforceaccordingtocertainideas。Wedriveourselveswithaformula，likeamachine。Thelogicalmindpretendstoruletheroost，andtheroostturnsintopurehate。We’reallBolshevists，onlywearehypocrites。TheRussiansareBolshevistswithouthypocrisy。’
`Buttherearemanyotherways，’saidHammond，`thantheSovietway。
TheBolshevistsaren’treallyintelligent。’
`Ofcoursenot。Butsometimesit’sintelligenttobehalf-witted：ifyouwanttomakeyourend。Personally，IconsiderBolshevismhalf-witted；
butsodoIconsideroursociallifeinthewesthalf-witted。SoIevenconsiderourfar-famedmentallifehalf-witted。We’reallascoldascretins，we’reallaspassionlessasidiots。We’reallofusBolshevists，onlywegiveitanothername。Wethinkwe’regods……menlikegods!It’sjustthesameasBolshevism。Onehastobehuman，andhaveaheartandapenisifoneisgoingtoescapebeingeitheragodoraBolshevist……fortheyarethesamething：they’rebothtoogoodtobetrue。’
OutofthedisapprovingsilencecameBerry’sanxiousquestion：
`Youdobelieveinlovethen，Tommy，don’tyou？’
`Youlovelylad!’saidTommy。`No，mycherub，ninetimesoutoften，no!Love’sanotherofthosehalf-wittedperformancestoday。Fellowswithswayingwaistsfuckinglittlejazzgirlswithsmallboybuttocks，liketwocollarstuds!Doyoumeanthatsortoflove？Orthejoint-property，make-a-success-of-it，My-husband-my-wifesortoflove？No，myfinefellow，Idon’tbelieveinitatall!’
`Butyoudobelieveinsomething？’
`Me？Oh，intellectuallyIbelieveinhavingagoodheart，achirpypenis，alivelyintelligence，andthecouragetosay“shit!“infrontofalady。’
`Well，you’vegotthemall，’saidBerry。
TommyDukesroaredwithlaughter。`Youangelboy!IfonlyIhad!IfonlyIhad!No；myheart’sasnumbasapotato，mypenisdroopsandneverliftsitsheadup，Idarerathercuthimcleanoffthansay“shit!“infrontofmymotherormyaunt……theyarerealladies，mindyou；andI’mnotreallyintelligent，I’monlya“mental-lifer“。Itwouldbewonderfultobeintelligent：thenonewouldbealiveinallthepartsmentionedandunmentionable。Thepenisrouseshisheadandsays：Howdoyoudo？——toanyreallyintelligentperson。Renoirsaidhepaintedhispictureswithhispenis……hedidtoo，lovelypictures!IwishIdidsomethingwithmine。
God!whenonecanonlytalk!AnothertortureaddedtoHades!AndSocratesstartedit。’
`Therearenicewomenintheworld，’saidConnie，liftingherheadupandspeakingatlast。
Themenresentedit……sheshouldhavepretendedtohearnothing。Theyhatedheradmittingshehadattendedsocloselytosuchtalk。
`MyGod!“IftheybenotnicetomeWhatcareIhownicetheybe？“
`No，it’shopeless!Ijustsimplycan’tvibrateinunisonwithawoman。
There’snowomanIcanreallywantwhenI’mfacedwithher，andI’mnotgoingtostartforcingmyselftoit……MyGod，no!I’llremainasIam，andleadthementallife。It’stheonlyhonestthingIcando。Icanbequitehappytalkingtowomen；butit’sallpure，hopelesslypure。
Hopelesslypure!Whatdoyousay，Hildebrand，mychicken？’
`It’smuchlesscomplicatedifonestayspure，’saidBerry。
`Yes，lifeisalltoosimple!’
Chapters5
OnafrostymorningwithalittleFebruarysun，CliffordandConniewentforawalkacrosstheparktothewood。Thatis，Cliffordchuffedinhismotor-chair，andConniewalkedbesidehim。
Thehardairwasstillsulphurous，buttheywerebothusedtoit。Roundthenearhorizonwentthehaze，opalescentwithfrostandsmoke，andonthetoplaythesmallbluesky；sothatitwaslikebeinginsideanenclosure，alwaysinside。Lifealwaysadreamorafrenzy，insideanenclosure。
Thesheepcoughedintherough，seregrassofthepark，wherefrostlaybluishinthesocketsofthetufts。Acrosstheparkranapathtothewood-gate，afineribbonofpink。Cliffordhadhaditnewlygravelledwithsiftedgravelfromthepit-bank。Whentherockandrefuseoftheunderworldhadburnedandgivenoffitssulphur，itturnedbrightpink，shrimp-colouredondrydays，darker，crab-colouredonwet。Nowitwaspaleshrimp-colour，withabluish-whitehoaroffrost。ItalwayspleasedConnie，thisunderfootofsifted，brightpink。It’sanillwindthatbringsnobodygood。
Cliffordsteeredcautiouslydowntheslopeoftheknollfromthehall，andConniekeptherhandonthechair。Infrontlaythewood，thehazelthicketnearest，thepurplishdensityofoaksbeyond。Fromthewood’sedgerabbitsbobbedandnibbled。Rookssuddenlyroseinablacktrain，andwenttrailingoffoverthelittlesky。
Connieopenedthewood-gate，andCliffordpuffedslowlythroughintothebroadridingthatranupaninclinebetweentheclean-whippedthicketsofthehazel。ThewoodwasaremnantofthegreatforestwhereRobinHoodhunted，andthisridingwasanold，oldthoroughfarecomingacrosscountry。
Butnow，ofcourse，itwasonlyaridingthroughtheprivatewood。TheroadfromMansfieldswervedroundtothenorth。
Inthewoodeverythingwasmotionless，theoldleavesonthegroundkeepingthefrostontheirunderside。Ajaycalledharshly，manylittlebirdsfluttered。Buttherewasnogame；nopheasants。Theyhadbeenkilledoffduringthewar，andthewoodhadbeenleftunprotected，tillnowCliffordhadgothisgame-keeperagain。
Cliffordlovedthewood；helovedtheoldoak-trees。Hefelttheywerehisownthroughgenerations。Hewantedtoprotectthem。Hewantedthisplaceinviolate，shutofffromtheworld。
Thechairchuffedslowlyuptheincline，rockingandjoltingonthefrozenclods。Andsuddenly，ontheleft，cameaclearingwheretherewasnothingbutaravelofdeadbracken，athinandspindlysaplingleaninghereandthere，bigsawnstumps，showingtheirtopsandtheirgraspingroots，lifeless。Andpatchesofblacknesswherethewoodmenhadburnedthebrushwoodandrubbish。
ThiswasoneoftheplacesthatSirGeoffreyhadcutduringthewarfortrenchtimber。Thewholeknoll，whichrosesoftlyontherightoftheriding，wasdenudedandstrangelyforlorn。Onthecrownoftheknollwheretheoakshadstood，nowwasbareness；andfromthereyoucouldlookoutoverthetreestothecollieryrailway，andthenewworksatStacksGate。
Conniehadstoodandlooked，itwasabreachinthepureseclusionofthewood。Itletintheworld。Butshedidn’ttellClifford。
ThisdenudedplacealwaysmadeCliffordcuriouslyangry。Hehadbeenthroughthewar，hadseenwhatitmeant。Buthedidn’tgetreallyangrytillhesawthisbarehill。Hewashavingitreplanted。ButitmadehimhateSirGeoffrey。
Cliffordsatwithafixedfaceasthechairslowlymounted。Whentheycametothetopoftherisehestopped；hewouldnotriskthelongandveryjoltydown-slope。Hesatlookingatthegreenishsweepoftheridingdownwards，aclearwaythroughthebrackenandoaks。Itswervedatthebottomofthehillanddisappeared；butithadsuchalovelyeasycurve，ofknightsridingandladiesonpalfreys。
`IconsiderthisisreallytheheartofEngland，’saidCliffordtoConnie，ashesatthereinthedimFebruarysunshine。
`Doyou？’shesaid，seatingherselfinherblueknitteddress，onastumpbythepath。
`Ido!thisistheoldEngland，theheartofit；andIintendtokeepitintact。’
`Ohyes!’saidConnie。But，asshesaiditsheheardtheeleven-o’clockhootersatStacksGatecolliery。Cliffordwastoousedtothesoundtonotice。
`Iwantthiswoodperfect……untouched。Iwantnobodytotrespassinit，’saidClifford。
Therewasacertainpathos。Thewoodstillhadsomeofthemysteryofwild，oldEngland；butSirGeoffrey’scuttingsduringthewarhadgivenitablow。Howstillthetreeswere，withtheircrinkly，innumerabletwigsagainstthesky，andtheirgrey，obstinatetrunksrisingfromthebrownbracken!Howsafelythebirdsflittedamongthem!Andoncetherehadbeendeer，andarchers，andmonkspaddingalongonasses。Theplaceremembered，stillremembered。
Cliffordsatinthepalesun，withthelightonhissmooth，ratherblondhair，hisreddishfullfaceinscrutable。
`Imindmore，nothavingason，whenIcomehere，thananyothertime，’
hesaid。
`Butthewoodisolderthanyourfamily，’saidConniegently。
`Quite!’saidClifford。`Butwe’vepreservedit。Exceptforusitwouldgo……itwouldbegonealready，liketherestoftheforest。OnemustpreservesomeoftheoldEngland!’
`Mustone？’saidConnie。`Ifithastobepreserved，andpreservedagainstthenewEngland？It’ssad，Iknow。’
`IfsomeoftheoldEnglandisn’tpreserved，there’llbenoEnglandatall，’saidClifford。`Andwewhohavethiskindofproperty，andthefeelingforit，mustpreserveit。’
Therewasasadpause。`Yes，foralittlewhile，’saidConnie。
`Foralittlewhile!It’sallwecando。Wecanonlydoourbit。Ifeeleverymanofmyfamilyhasdonehisbithere，sincewe’vehadtheplace。
Onemaygoagainstconvention，butonemustkeepuptradition。’Againtherewasapause。
`Whattradition？’askedConnie。
`ThetraditionofEngland!ofthis!’
`Yes，’shesaidslowly。
`That’swhyhavingasonhelps；oneisonlyalinkinachain，’hesaid。
Conniewasnotkeenonchains，butshesaidnothing。Shewasthinkingofthecuriousimpersonalityofhisdesireforason。
`I’msorrywecan’thaveason，’shesaid。
Helookedathersteadily，withhisfull，pale-blueeyes。
`Itwouldalmostbeagoodthingifyouhadachildbyanotherman，hesaid。`IfwebroughtitupatWragby，itwouldbelongtousandtotheplace。Idon’tbelieveveryintenselyinfatherhood。Ifwehadthechildtorear，itwouldbeourown，anditwouldcarryon。Don’tyouthinkit’sworthconsidering？’
Connielookedupathimatlast。Thechild，herchild，wasjustan`it’
tohim。It……it……it!
`Butwhatabouttheotherman？’sheasked。
`Doesitmatterverymuch？Dothesethingsreallyaffectusverydeeply？……YouhadthatloverinGermany……whatisitnow？Nothingalmost。Itseemstomethatitisn’ttheselittleactsandlittleconnexionswemakeinourlivesthatmattersoverymuch。Theypassaway，andwherearethey？Where……Wherearethesnowsofyesteryear？……It’swhatenduresthroughone’slifethatmatters；myownlifematterstome，initslongcontinuanceanddevelopment。
Butwhatdotheoccasionalconnexionsmatter？Andtheoccasionalsexualconnexionsespecially!Ifpeopledon’texaggeratethemridiculously，theypasslikethematingofbirds。Andsotheyshould。Whatdoesitmatter？
It’sthelife-longcompanionshipthatmatters。It’sthelivingtogetherfromdaytoday，notthesleepingtogetheronceortwice。YouandIaremarried，nomatterwhathappenstous。Wehavethehabitofeachother。
Andhabit，tomythinking，ismorevitalthananyoccasionalexcitement。
Thelong，slow，enduringthing……that’swhatweliveby……nottheoccasionalspasmofanysort。Littlebylittle，livingtogether，twopeoplefallintoasortofunison，theyvibratesointricatelytooneanother。That’stherealsecretofmarriage，notsex；atleastnotthesimplefunctionofsex。
YouandIareinterwoveninamarriage。Ifwesticktothatweoughttobeabletoarrangethissexthing，aswearrangegoingtothedentist；
sincefatehasgivenusacheckmatephysicallythere。’
Conniesatandlistenedinasortofwonder，andasortoffear。Shedidnotknowifhewasrightornot。TherewasMichaelis，whomsheloved；
soshesaidtoherself。ButherlovewassomehowonlyanexcursionfromhermarriagewithClifford；thelong，slowhabitofintimacy，formedthroughyearsofsufferingandpatience。Perhapsthehumansoulneedsexcursions，andmustnotbedeniedthem。Butthepointofanexcursionisthatyoucomehomeagain。
`Andwouldn’tyoumindwhatman’schildIhad？’sheasked。
`Why，Connie，Ishouldtrustyournaturalinstinctofdecencyandselection。
Youjustwouldn’tletthewrongsortoffellowtouchyou。’
ShethoughtofMichaelis!HewasabsolutelyClifford’sideaofthewrongsortoffellow。
`Butmenandwomenmayhavedifferentfeelingsaboutthewrongsortoffellow，’shesaid。
`No，’hereplied。`Youcareforme。Idon’tbelieveyouwouldevercareforamanwhowaspurelyantipathetictome。Yourrhythmwouldn’tletyou。’
Shewassilent。Logicmightbeunanswerablebecauseitwassoabsolutelywrong。
`Andshouldyouexpectmetotellyou？’sheasked，glancingupathimalmostfurtively。
`Notatall，I’dbetternotknow……Butyoudoagreewithme，don’tyou，thatthecasualsexthingisnothing，comparedtothelonglifelivedtogether？
Don’tyouthinkonecanjustsubordinatethesexthingtothenecessitiesofalonglife？Justuseit，sincethat’swhatwe’redrivento？Afterall，dothesetemporaryexcitementsmatter？Isn’tthewholeproblemoflifetheslowbuildingupofanintegralpersonality，throughtheyears？livinganintegratedlife？There’snopointinadisintegratedlife。Iflackofsexisgoingtodisintegrateyou，thengooutandhavealove-affair。Iflackofachildisgoingtodisintegrateyou，thenhaveachildifyoupossiblycan。Butonlydothesethingssothatyouhaveanintegratedlife，thatmakesalongharmoniousthing。AndyouandIcandothattogether……don’tyouthink？……ifweadaptourselvestothenecessities，andatthesametimeweavetheadaptationtogetherintoapiecewithoursteadily-livedlife。Don’tyouagree？’
Conniewasalittleoverwhelmedbyhiswords。Sheknewhewasrighttheoretically。Butwhensheactuallytouchedhersteadily-livedlifewithhimshe……hesitated。Wasitactuallyherdestinytogoonweavingherselfintohislifealltherestofherlife？Nothingelse？
Wasitjustthat？Shewastobecontenttoweaveasteadylifewithhim，allonefabric，butperhapsbrocadedwiththeoccasionalflowerofanadventure。Buthowcouldsheknowwhatshewouldfeelnextyear？Howcouldoneeverknow？HowcouldonesayYes？foryearsandyears？Thelittleyes，goneonabreath!Whyshouldonebepinneddownbythatbutterflyword？Ofcourseithadtoflutterawayandbegone，tobefollowedbyotheryes’sandno’s!Likethestrayingofbutterflies。
`Ithinkyou’reright，Clifford。AndasfarasIcanseeIagreewithyou。Onlylifemayturnquiteanewfaceonitall。’
`Butuntillifeturnsanewfaceonitall，youdoagree？’
`Ohyes!IthinkIdo，really。’