A BRACE AND A HALF OF GAMEKEEPERS
© Helen Croom (1996)
CHAPTER TWO - John
Thomas and Lady Jane
"He wanted... to give a glimpse of the living spontaneous tenderness in a man... He wanted to do away with the nasty thrill of dirty stories."1
It is easy to believe this statement when one reads JTLJ. The predominant feeling of the novel is one of tenderness, gentle emotions and great beauty, but it also incorporates the passionate sexual descriptions of the third version Lawrence has abandoned the politics of TFLC to a greater extent; Parkin no longer has any faith in political reform:
"I shouldn't care if the bolshevists blew up one half of the world and the capitalists blew up the other half, to spite them, so long as they left me and you a rabbit-hole apiece to creep in, and meet underground like the rabbits do." (369)
Individuality, separateness, is the important thing.
Neither does class feature strongly in this novel. In fact, Lawrence now denies that a class system any longer exists:
"Vitally, organically, in the old organic sense of society, there were no more classes. That organic system had collapsed. So she need not have any class-mistrust of Parkin and he need have none of her." (301)
Thus, Lawrence avoids some of the difficulties with the relationship which were evident in TFLC because of that version's preoccupation with class. As Lawrence's emphasis shifts towards the curative powers of sex, it is more important for there to be the possibility of a future for the lovers, otherwise these tender people will wither amongst the masses and Lawrence's prophecy of doom for the human race will be realised. He and Connie have accepted the fact that he is an individual, and as such cannot survive according to the customs of the proletariat. Lawrence makes this point through Connies eyes when she feels that she can see the inexplicable 'danger of death' (325) on Parkin when he is working at the steelworks, and also in Mrs Bolton's story of her sensitive man, Ted, whose spirit was wounded by such close contact with people, leaving him open to the danger, which then became the reality, of death at the age of twenty eight.
Connie feels that sex is egoism, acquisitiveness, self-seeking and they both consciously withdraw from each other whilst unconsciously coming together. Following the inevitability of their first sexual encounter Lawrence uses the imagery of the spring forest to portray Connie's awakening feelings: "the trees making the silent effort to open their buds... the heave of the great weight of powerful sap in all the trees, upwards, outwards, to the bud-tips." (124) This style of imagery is used throughout this version and always to beautiful effect:
"She could feel her body, like the dark interlacing of the boughs of the oak-wood, humming inaudibly with myriad, unfolding buds. Meanwhile the birds of desire had their heads on their shoulders, asleep in delight, in the vast interlaced intricacy of her body." (139)
Immediately after Parkin has made, almost brutal, love to her in the forest (culminating in Lawrence's paramount achievement of the sex act, simultaneous orgasm) Connie's emotions and thoughts are volatile. Her lover is at once: a mere sex object; a god; an awakener of her whole self and an oppressor. Lawrence is probably at his best when describing the complex emotions one can feel at any moment in time. When Parkin is discussing the poachers with Clifford, Connie feels aroused by his presence; impressed by his coolness in her presence; aggrieved by this coolness and, finally, scornful of his self- important striding down the drive: "yet she went that very evening to the hut." (169) Similarly, the contrast between the seemingly ridiculousness of the sex act until she is overcome by passion, when everything takes on a new beauty. But just as suddenly she feels irritated by his satisfaction and forces herself to keep apart, "the body of her loved it, but her spirit wanted to get away." (174) The split between body and spirit is, of course, a favourite theme with Lawrence.
But it is the tenderness which really shines through in this novel. In both of the other versions Connie and the gamekeeper's relationship seems rooted in lust with affection coming later, but in this version the tenderness is plain from the beginning. The first time he sees her in the clearing near the hut "he looked at her, and seeing her so thin and so lost-seeming, something stirred in his bowels." (93) When Connie goes to the cottage to look for him one afternoon they have a very gentle experience of each other: she begs him "kiss me, because you like me, not because you want me", (183) and they sit silent, she on his lap, in perfect peace for the whole afternoon, he dozing while she sleeps contentedly. This is one of the most tender passages in all three of the books. Likewise, again in the cottage, but on another occasion, she asks him why he married Bertha Coutts. His reluctant description of his sexual difficulty, and Bertha's tenderness in helping him to conquer it, adds to the reader's understanding of his sensitive character and his ability to view bjectively someone he has come, for other reasons, to despise.
When Parkin is going to Sheffield, to the steelworks, Connie extracts a promise from him that if he cannot thrive on the work he must let her set him up on a farm or in some other business. She tells him that he has a gift for life which he must be careful of. He suggests that his character is too feminine but rejects the idea of manliness with its connotation of brutality. He rationalises his beliefs about accepting her money by saying that if he has to work for a capitalist then she may as well be the capitalist, but he must first try the steelworks to see if he can manage like other men. But he makes an impassioned plea to Connie regarding their future:
"Ah luv thee!... But tha wunna want ter ma'e me feel sma', shall ter? Let me be mysen, an' let me feel as if tha wor littler than me! Dunna ma'e me feel sma', and down! - else I canna stop wi' thee... I've got ter feel as if I was bringin' the money 'ome, I canna help it. Tha can laugh at me... I like thee ter laugh at me! But be nice to me, an' dunna be big! For I feel I've got no place in the world, an' no mortal worth to nobody, if not to thee." (334)
Not a speech for the feminists, perhaps! Parkin eventually comes to see that they are necessary to each other and that to deny this destiny because of circumstance is to lose everything, possibly even life itself. He writes:
"'I've always felt cooped in and small, except with you... I don't really care about money, though I'll earn my living somehow... But if you can set me up, next year, so that I can be my own boss, and keep to myself, I'll take it from you... and I know there won't be anything lost because I trust you." (370)
and that he believes, "I should soon be dead, even then, but for thee just now." (334)
Connie does indeed find Parkin "dulled, stupefied, almost extinguished", by the work in Sheffield and his contact with the masses' battle with life. Lawrence makes clear his feelings in the passage below, which is rather long, but which is quoted in full because it is not only indicative of the author's philosophy but is also typical of the delicate descriptions in this version.
"The wood was like a sanctuary of life itself... Life is so soft and quiet, and cannot be seized... Whoever wants life must go softly towards life, softly as one would go towards a deer and a fawn that was nestling under a tree. One gesture of violence, one violent assertion of self-will, and life is gone... And softly, gently, with infinitely sensitive hands and feet, and a heart that is full and free from self-will, you must approach life again, and come at last into touch... Come with greed and the will-to-self towards another human being, and you clutch a thorny demon that will leave poisonous stings. But with quietness, with an abandon of self-assertion and a fullness of the deep, true self one can approach another human being and know the delicate best of life, the touch... Fight one does and must, against the enemies of life. But when you come to life itself, you must come as the flower does, naked and defenceless and infinitely in touch."
And so it is seen that Lawrence feels that some people, the individuals of life, cannot live amongst the general people without losing their tenderness and separateness, their gift for life which if only it could be harnessed would make the world a better place, but which, by its very nature, cannot be harnessed.