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ST. MAWR
him, even a French cocotte was utterly devoid of the right sort
of sex. She couldn’t really move him. She couldn’t satisfy the
furtiveness in him. He needed this plaintive, squeaky, darkfringed Indian quality, something furtive and soft and ratlike, really to rouse him.
Nevertheless, he was ready to trade his sex, which, in his
opinion, every white woman was secretly pining for, for the
white woman’s money and social privileges. In the day-time,
all the thrill and excitement of the white man’s motor-cars
and moving pictures and ice-cream sodas, and so forth. In the
night, the soft, watery-soft warmth of an Indian or half-Indian
woman. This was Phoenix’s idea of life for himself.
Meanwhile, if a white woman gave him the privileges of
the white man’s world, he would do his duty by her as far as
all that went.
Lou, sitting very, very still beside him as he drove the
car – he was not a very good driver, not quick and marvellous
as some white men are, particularly some French chauffeurs
she had known, but usually a little behindhand in his movements – she knew more or less all that he felt. More or less she
divined as a woman does. Even from a certain rather assured
stupidity of his shoulders, and a certain rather stupid assertiveness of his knees, she knew him.
But she did not judge him too harshly. Somewhere deep,
deep in herself she knew she too was at fault. And this made
her sometimes inclined to humble herself, as a woman, before
the furtive assertiveness of this underground, ‘knowing’ savage. He was so different from Rico.
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
Yet, after all, was he? In his rootlessness, his drifting, his
real meaninglessness, was he different from Rico? And his
childish, spellbound absorption in the motor-car, or in the
moving pictures, or in an ice-cream soda – was it very different from Rico? Anyhow, was it really any better? Pleasanter,
perhaps, to a woman, because of the childishness of it.
The same with his opinion of himself as a sexual male! So
childish, really, it was almost thrilling to a woman. But then, so
stupid also, with that furtive lurking in holes and imagining it
could not be detected He imagined he kept himself dark, in his
sexual rat-holes. He imagined he was not detected.
No, no, Lou was not such a fool as she looked, in his eyes,
anyhow. She knew what she wanted. She wanted relief from
the nervous tension and irritation of her life, she wanted to escape from the friction which is the whole stimulus in modern
social life. She wanted to be still: only that, to be very, very still,
and recover her own soul.
When Phoenix presumed she was looking for some secretly sexual male such as himself, he was ridiculously mistaken.
Even the illusion of the beautiful St. Mawr was gone. And
Phoenix, roaming round like a sexual rat in promiscuous back
yards! – Merci, mon cher! For that was all he was: a sexual rat
in the great barn-yard of man’s habitat, looking for female rats!
Merci, mon cher! You are had.
Nevertheless, in his very mistakenness, he was a relief to
her. His mistake was amusing rather than impressive. And
the fact that one half of his intelligence was a complete dark
blank, that too was a relief.
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ST. MAWR
Strictly, and perhaps in the best sense, he was a servant. His
very unconsciousness and his very limitation served as a shelter, as one shelters within the limitations of four walls. The
very decided limits to his intelligence were a shelter to her.
They made her feel safe.
But that feeling of safety did not deceive her. It was the
feeling one derived from having a true servant attached to
one, a man whose psychic limitations left him incapable of
anything but service, and whose strong fl ow of natural life, at
the same time, made him need to serve.
And Lou, sitting there so very still and frail, yet self-contained, had not lived for nothing. She no longer wanted to fool
herself. She had no desire at all to fool herself into thinking
that a Phoenix might be a husband and a mate. No desire that
way at all. His obtuseness was a servant’s obtuseness. She was
grateful to him for serving, and she paid him a wage. Moreover, she provided him with something to do, to occupy his
life. In a sense, she gave him his life, and rescued him from his
own boredom. It was a balance.
He did not know what she was thinking. There was a certain physical sympathy between them. His obtuseness made
him think it was also a sexual sympathy.
“It’s a nice trip, you and me,” he said suddenly, turning and
looking her in the eyes with an excited look, and ending on
a foolish little laugh.
She realised that she should have sat in the back seat.
“But it’s a bad road,” she said. “Hadn’t you better stop and
put the sides of the hood up? Your engine is boiling.”
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
He looked away with a quick switch of interest to the red
thermometer in front of his machine.
“She’s boiling,” he said, stopping, and getting out with
a quick alacrity to go to look at the engine.
Lou got out also, and went to the back seat, shutting the
door decisively.
“I think I’ll ride at the back,” she said, “it gets so frightfully
hot in front when the engine heats up. – Do you think she
needs some water? Have you got some in the canteen?”
“She’s full,” he said, peering into the steaming valve.
“You can run a bit out, if you think there’s any need. I wonder if it’s much farther!”
“Quién sabe!” said he, slightly impertinent.
She relapsed into her own stillness. She realised how careful, how very careful she must be of relaxing into sympathy,
and reposing, as it were, on Phoenix. He would read it as a sexual appeal. Perhaps he couldn’t help it. She had only herself to
blame. He was obtuse, as a man and a savage. He had only one
interpretation, sex, for any woman’s approach to him.
And she knew, with the last clear knowledge of weary disillusion, that she did not want to be mixed up in Phoenix’s sexual promiscuities. The very thought was an insult to her. The
crude, clumsy servant-male: no, no, not that. He was a good
fellow, a very good fellow, as far as he went. But he fell far short
of physical intimacy.
“No, no,” she said to herself, “I was wrong to ride in the
front seat with him. I must sit alone, just alone. Because sex,
mere sex, is repellent to me. I will never prostitute myself again.
Unless something touches my very spirit, the very quick of me,
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ST. MAWR
I will stay alone, just alone. Alone, and give myself only to the
unseen presences, serve only the other, unseen presences.”
She understood now the meaning of the Vestal Virgins, the
Virgins of the holy fi re in the old temples. They were symbolic of herself, of woman weary of the embrace of incompetent
men, weary, weary, weary of all that, turning to the unseen
gods, the unseen spirits, the hidden fi re, and devoting herself
to that, and that alone. Receiving thence her pacifi cation and
her fulfi lment.
Not these little, incompetent, childish self-opinionated
men! Not these to touch her. She watched Phoenix’s rather
stupid shoulders as he drove the car on between the piñon
trees and the cedars of the narrow mesa ridge, to the mountain
foot. He was a good fellow. But let him run among women of
his own sort. Something was beyond him. And this something
must remain beyond him, never allow itself to come within
his reach. Otherwise he would paw it and mess it up, and be as
miserable as a child that has broken its father’s watch.
No, no! She had loved an American, and lived with him for
a fortnight. She had had a long, intimate friendship with an
Italian. Perhaps it was love on his part. And she had yielded to
him. Then her love and marriage to Rico.
And what of it all? Nothing. It was almost nothing. It was as
if only the outside of herself, her top layers, were human. This
inveigled her into intimacies. As soon as the intimacy penetrated, or attempted to penetrate, inside her, it was a disaster.
Just a humiliation and a breaking down.
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
Within these outer layers of herself lay the successive inner sanctuaries of herself. And these were inviolable. She accepted it.
“I am not a marrying woman,” she said to herself. “I’m not
a lover nor a mistress nor a wife. It is no good. Love can’t really
come into me from the outside, and I can never, never mate
with any man, since the mystic new man will never come to
me. No, no, let me know myself and my role. I am one of the
eternal Virgins, serving the eternal fi re. My dealings with men
have only broken my stillness and messed up my doorways. It
has been my own fault. I ought to stay virgin, and still, very,
very still, and serve the most perfect service. I want my temple
and my loneliness and my Apollo mystery of the inner fi re.
And with men, only the delicate, subtler, more remote relations. No coming near. A coming near only breaks the delicate
veils, and broken veils, like broken fl owers, only lead to rottenness.”
She felt a great peace inside herself as she made this realisation. And a thankfulness. Because, after all, it seemed to her
that the hidden fi re was alive and burning in this sky, over the
desert, in the mountains. She felt a certain latent holiness in
the very atmosphere, a young, spring-fi re of latent holiness,
such as she had never felt in Europe or in the East. “For me,”
she said, as she looked away at the mountains in shadow and
the pale, warm desert beneath, with wings of shadow upon it:
“For me, this place is sacred. It is blessed.”
But as she watched Phoenix: as she remembered the motorcars and tourists, and the rather dreary Mexicans of Santa Fe,
and the lurking, invidious Indians, with something of a rat-
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ST. MAWR
like secretiveness and defeatedness in their bearing, she realised that the latent fi re of the vast landscape struggled under
a great weight of dirt-like inertia. She had to mind the dirt,
most carefully and vividly avoid it and keep it away from her,
here in this place that at last seemed sacred to her.
The motor-car climbed up, past the tall pine trees, to the
foot of the mountains, and came at last to a wire gate, where
nothing was to be expected. Phoenix opened the gate, and they
drove on, through more trees, into a clearing where dried-up
bean plants were yellow.
“This man got no water for his beans,” said Phoenix. “Not
got much beans this year.”
They climbed slowly up the incline, through more pine
trees, and out into another clearing, where a couple of horses
were grazing. And there they saw the ranch itself, little low
cabins with patched roofs, under a few pine trees, and facing
the long twelve-acre clearing, or fi eld, where the Michaelmas
daisies were purple mist, and spangled with clumps of yellow
fl owers.
“Not got no alfalfa here neither!” said Phoenix, as the car
waded past the fl owers. “Must be a dry place up here. Got no
water, sure they haven’t.”
Yet it was the place Lou wanted. In an instant, her heart
sprang to it. The instant the car stopped, and she saw the two
cabins inside the rickety fence, the rather broken corral beyond, and behind all, tall, blue balsam pines, the round hills,
the solid up-rise of the mountain fl ank: and getting down,
she looked across the purple and gold of the clearing, downwards at the ring of pine trees standing so still, so crude and
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
untameable, the motionless desert beyond the bristles of the
pine crests, a thousand feet below: and beyond the desert, blue
mountains, and far, far-off blue mountains in Arizona: “This is
the place,” she said to herself.
This little tumbledown ranch, only a homestead of a hundred and sixty acres, was, as it were, man’s last effort towards
the wild heart of the Rockies, at this point. Sixty years before,
a restless schoolmaster had wandered out from the East, looking for gold among the mountains. He found a very little, then
no more. But the mountains had got hold of him, he could not
go back.
There was a little trickling spring of pure water, a thread
of treasure perhaps better than gold. So the schoolmaster
took up a homestead on the lot where this little spring arose.
He struggled, and got himself his log cabin erected, his fence
put up, sloping at the mountain-side through the pine trees
and dropping into the hollows where the ghost-white mariposa lilies stood leafl ess and naked in fl ower, in spring, on tall,
invisible stems. He made the long clearing for alfalfa.
And fell so into debt that he had to trade his homestead
away, to clear his debt. Then he made a tiny living teaching the
children of the few American prospectors who had squatted in
the valleys, beside the Mexicans.
The trader who got the ranch tackled it with a will. He
built another log cabin and a big corral, and brought water
from the canyon two miles and more across the mountain
slope, in a little runnel ditch, and more water, piped a mile or
more down the little canyon immediately above the cabins. He
got a fl ow of water for his houses: for being a true American, he
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ST. MAWR
felt he could not really say he had conquered his environment
till he had got running water, taps, and wash-hand basins inside his house.
Taps, running water and wash-hand basins he accomplished. And, undaunted through the years, he prepared the
basin for a fountain in the little fenced-in enclosure, and he
built a little bath-house. After a number of years, he sent up
the enamelled bath-tub to be put in the little log bath-house
on the little wild ranch hung right against the savage Rockies,
above the desert.
But here the mountains fi nished him. He was a trader
down below, in the Mexican village. This little ranch was, as it
were, his hobby, his ideal. He and his New England wife spent
their summers there: and turned on the taps in the cabins and
turned them off again, and felt really that civilisation had conquered.
All this plumbing from the savage ravines of the canyons – . one of them nameless to this day – cost, however,
money. In fact, the ranch cost a great deal of money. But it was
all to be got back. The big clearing was to be irrigated for alfalfa, the little clearing for beans, and the third clearing, under
the corral, for potatoes. All these things the trader could trade
to the Mexicans, very advantageously.
And, moreover, since somebody had started a praise of the
famous goats’ cheese made by Mexican peasants in New Mexico, goats there should be.
Goats there were: fi ve hundred of them, eventually. And
they fed chiefl y in the wild mountain hollows, the no-man’sland. The Mexicans call them fi re-mouths, because everything
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
they nibble dies. Not because of their fl aming mouths, really,
but because they nibble a live plant down, down to the quick,
till it can put forth no more.
So, the energetic trader, in the course of fi ve or six years,
had got the ranch ready. The long three-roomed cabin was for
him and his New England wife. In the two-roomed cabin lived
the Mexican family who really had charge of the ranch. For
the trader was mostly fi xed to his store, seventeen miles away,
down in the Mexican village.
The ranch lay over eight thousand feet up, the snows of
winter came deep and the white goats, looking dirty yellow,
swam in snow with their poor curved horns poking out like
dead sticks. But the corral had a long, cosy, shut-in goat-shed
all down one side, and into this crowded the fi ve hundred,
their acrid goat smell rising like hot acid over the snow. And
the thin, pock-marked Mexican threw them alfalfa out of the
log barn. Until the hot sun sank the snow again, and froze
the surface, when patter-patter went the two thousand little
goat-hoofs, over the silver-frozen snow, up at the mountain.
Nibble, nibble, nibble, the fi re-mouths, at every tender twig.
And the goat-bell climbed, and the baaing came from among
the dense and shaggy pine trees. And sometimes, in a soft drift
under the trees, a goat, or several goats, went through, into the
white depths, and some were lost thus, to reappear dead and
frozen at the thaw.
By evening, they were driven down again, like a dirty yellowish-white stream carrying dark sticks on its yeasty surface,
tripping and bleating over the frozen snow, past the bustling
dark green pine trees, down to the trampled mess of the corral.
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