第五章（第3/13页）

克利福德依然安坐着，暗淡的阳光照耀着他那柔顺的金发，那难以捉摸的绯红脸庞。

"I mind more, not having a son, when I come here, than any other time," he said.

“身处此地，我比任何时候都感到没有子嗣的缺憾。”他感慨道。

"But the wood is older than your family," said Connie gently.

“但这树林比查泰莱家族更加古老。”康妮柔声说。

"Quite!" said Clifford. "But we've preserved it. Except for us it would go...it would be gone already, like the rest of the forest. One must preserve some of the old England!” "Must one?" said Connie. "If it has to be preserved, and preserved against the new England? It's sad, I know.” "If some of the old England isn't preserved, there'll be no England at all," said Clifford. "And we who have this kind of property, and the feeling for it, must preserve it." There was a sad pause. "Yes, for a little while," said Connie.

“说的没错！”克利福德说。“然而却是我们把它保存下来。假若没有我们，它早已灰飞烟灭……消失得无踪无影，就像森林的其他部分。必须为保护英格兰古老的精髓而努力！”“必须这样做么？”康妮提出疑问。“即使保护它意味着与新英格兰背道而驰？我明白，这实在令人难过。”“如果对古老的留存不管不顾，那么英格兰将无从寻觅踪迹了。”克利福德说。“因此，既然我们拥有此类产业，且对其怀有深情，就必须为保存它尽心竭力。”两人双双陷入沉默，只剩空气中飘荡的哀伤气氛。“话虽如此，但也只能保存相当短的时间。”康妮说。

"For a little while! It's all we can do. We can only do our bit. I feel every man of my family has done his bit here, since we've had the place. One may go against convention, but one must keep up tradition.” Again there was a pause.

“相当短的时间！这已经是我们所能做的一切。我们只能做好自己的分内的事。我觉得自从拥有这片土地，查泰莱家族的每名成员都尽到了自己的本分。反对陋俗固然可行，但保留传统更加必要。”沉默再度降临。

"What tradition?" asked Connie.

“什么传统？”康妮问。

"The tradition of England! of this!" "Yes," she said slowly.

“英格兰的传统！拉格比的传统！”“是的。”她慢吞吞地应道。

"That's why having a son helps; one is only a link in a chain," he said.

“因此，有个儿子才能作数；每个人都不过是链条中的一环而已。”他解释道。

Connie was not keen on chains, but she said nothing. She was thinking of the curious impersonality of his desire for a son.

康妮有些反感关于链条的话题，但却并没有表露出来。她在想，丈夫求子的愿望实在有些难以理解，又不切实际。

"I'm sorry we can't have a son," she said.

“很遗憾我们没法拥有自己的儿子。”她说。

He looked at her steadily, with his full, pale-blue eyes.

他那淡蓝色的双眸目不转睛地注视着她。

"It would almost be a good thing if you had a child by another man, he said. "If we brought it up at Wragby, it would belong to us and to the place. I don't believe very intensely in fatherhood. If we had the child to rear, it would be our own, and it would carry on. Don't you think it's worth considering?” Connie looked up at him at last. The child, her child, was just an "it" to him. It...it...it! "But what about the other man?" she asked.

“如果你和其他男人生个孩子，也算是个不错的主意。”他说。“只要我们在拉格比将它养育成人，它就会属于我们，属于这片土地。我对血脉传承不太感冒。只要我们将它养大，它就是我们的孩子，让查泰莱的姓氏得以延续。难道你不认为这值得考虑么？”康妮终于抬起头，望着眼前这个男人。孩子，她的孩子，对于他而言，只是“它”而已，跟没有生命的东西无异。它……只不过是件工具……延续香火的工具！“可那个男人怎么办？”她问。

"Does it matter very much? Do these things really affect us very deeply?... You had that lover in Germany...what is it now? Nothing almost. It seems to me that it isn't these little acts and little connexions we make in our lives that matter so very much. They pass away, and where are they? Where… Where are the snows of yesteryear?... It's what endures through one's life that matters; my own life matters to me, in its long continuance and development. But what do the occasional connexions matter? And the occasional sexual connexions especially! If people don't exaggerate them ridiculously, they pass like the mating of birds. And so they should. What does it matter? It's the life-long companionship that matters. It's the living together from day to day, not the sleeping together once or twice. You and I are married, no matter what happens to us. We have the habit of each other. And habit, to my thinking, is more vital than any occasional excitement. The long, slow, enduring thing...that's what we live by...not the occasional spasm of any sort. Little by little, living together, two people fall into a sort of unison, they vibrate so intricately to one another. That's the real secret of marriage, not sex; at least not the simple function of sex. You and I are interwoven in a marriage. If we stick to that we ought to be able to arrange this sex thing, as we arrange going to the dentist; since fate has given us a checkmate physically there.” Connie sat and listened in a sort of wonder, and a sort of fear. She did not know if he was right or not. There was Michaelis, whom she loved; so she said to herself. But her love was somehow only an excursion from her marriage with Clifford; the long, slow habit of intimacy, formed through years of suffering and patience. Perhaps the human soul needs excursions, and must not be denied them. But the point of an excursion is that you come home again.