“Spiritually blown out, so to speak!”
“No, but seriously, without joking: do you think there is anything in it?”
She looked at him again.
“Physically wasting?” she said. “I see you getting fatter, and I’m not wasting myself. Do you think the sun is smaller than he used to be? He’s not to me. And I suppose the apple Adam offered Eve wasn’t really much bigger, if any, than one of our orange pippins. Do you think it was?”
“Well, hear how he goes on: ‘It is thus slowly passing, with a slowness inconceivable in our measures of time, to new creative conditions, amid which the physical world, as we at present know it, will be represented by a ripple barely to be distinguished from nonentity.’ ”
She listened with a glisten of amusement. All sorts of improper things suggested themselves. But she only said:
“What silly hocus-pocus! As if his little conceited consciousness could know what was happening as slowly as all that! It only means he’s a physical failure on the earth, so he wants to make the whole universe a physical failure. Priggish little impertinence!”
“Oh, but listen! Don’t interrupt the great man’s solemn words! ‘The present type of order in the world has risen from an unimaginable past, and will find its grave in an unimaginable future. There remains the inexhaustive realm of abstract forms, and creativity with its shifting character ever determined afresh by its own creatures, and God, upon whose wisdom all forms of order depend.’ There, that’s how he winds up!”
Connie sat listening contemptuously.
“He’s spiritually blown out,” she said. “What a lot of stuff! Unimaginables, and types of order in graves, and realms of abstract forms, and creativity with a shifty character, and God mixed up with forms of order! Why it’s idiotic!”
“I must say, it is a little vaguely conglomerate, a mixture of gases, so to speak,” said Clifford. “Still, I think there is something in the idea that the universe is physically wasting and spiritually ascending.”
“Do you? Then let it ascend, so long as it leaves me safely and solidly physically here below.”
“Do you like your physique?” he asked.
“I love it!” And through her mind went the words: It’s the nicest, nicest woman’s arse as is!
“But that is really rather extraordinary, because there’s no denying it’s an encumbrance. But then I suppose a woman doesn’t take a supreme pleasure in the life of the mind.”
“Supreme pleasure?” she said, looking up at him. “Is that sort of idiocy the supreme pleasure of the life of the mind? No thank you! Give me the body. I believe the life of the body is a greater reality than the life of the mind: when the body is really wakened to life. But so many people, like your famous wind-machine, have only got minds tacked on to their physical corpses.”
He looked at her in wonder.
“The life of the body,” he said, “is just the life of the animals.”
“And that’s better than the life of professional corpses. But it’s not true! The human body is only just coming to real life. With the Greeks it gave a lovely flicker, then Plato and Aristotle killed it, and Jesus finished it off. But now the body is coming really to life, it is really rising from the tomb. And it will be a lovely, lovely life in the lovely universe, the life of the human body.”
“My dear, you speak as if you were ushering it all in! True, you are going away on a holiday: but don’t please be quite so indecently elated about it. Believe me, whatever God there is is slowly eliminating the guts and alimentary system from the human being, to evolve a higher, more spiritual being.”
“Why should I believe you, Clifford, when I feel that whatever God there is has at last wakened up in my guts, as you call them, and is rippling so happily there, like dawn. Why should I believe you, when I feel so very much the contrary?”
“Oh, exactly! And what has caused this extraordinary change in you? Running out stark naked in the rain, and playing Bacchante? Desire for sensation, or the anticipation of going to Venice?”
“Both! Do you think it is horrid of me to be so thrilled at going off?” she said.
“Rather horrid to show it so plainly.”
“Then I’ll hide it.”
“Oh, don’t trouble! You almost communicate a thrill to me. I almost feel that it is I who am going off.”
“Well, why don’t you come?”
“We’ve gone over all that. And as a matter of fact, I suppose your greatest thrill comes from being able to say a temporary farewell to all this. Nothing so thrilling, for the moment, as Goodbye-to-it-all! But every parting means a meeting elsewhere. And every meeting is a new bondage.”
“I’m not going to enter any new bondages.”
“Don’t boast, while the gods are listening,” he said.
She pulled up short.
“No! I won’t boast!” she said.
But she was thrilled, none the less, to be going off: to feel bonds snap. She couldn’t help it.
Clifford, who couldn’t sleep, gambled all night with Mrs. Bolton, till she was too sleepy almost to live.
And the day came round for Hilda to arrive. Connie had arranged with Mellors that if everything promised well for their night together, she would hang a green shawl out of the window. If there were frustration, a red one.
Mrs. Bolton helped Connie to pack.
“It will be so good for your ladyship to have a change.”
“I think it will. You don’t mind having Sir Clifford on your hands alone for a time, do you?”
“Oh, no! I can manage him quite all right. I mean, I can do all he needs me to do. Don’t you think he’s better than he used to be?”
“Oh much! You do wonders with him.”
“Do I though! But men are all alike: just babies, and you have to flatter them and wheedle them and let them think they’re having their own way. Don’t you find it so, my Lady!”
“I’m afraid I haven’t much experience.”
Connie paused in her
