Connie was surprised at her own feeling of aversion from Clifford. What
is more, she felt she had always really disliked him. Not hate: there was no
passion in it. But a profound physical dislike. Almost, it seemed to her,
she had married him because she disliked him, in a secret, physical sort of
way. But of course, she had married him really because in a mental way he
attracted her and excited her. He had seemed, in some way, her master,
beyond her.
Now the mental excitement had worn itself out and collapsed, and she
was aware only of the physical aversion. It rose up in her from her depths:
and she realized how it had been eating her life away.
She felt weak and utterly forlorn. She wished some help would come from
outside. But in the whole world there was no help. Society was terrible
because it was insane. Civilized society is insane. Money and so-called love
are its two great manias; money a long way first. The individual asserts
himself in his disconnected insanity in these two modes: money and love.
Look at Michaelis! His life and activity were just insanity. His love was a
sort of insanity.
And Clifford the same. All that talk! All that writing! All that wild
struggling to push himself forwards! It was just insanity. And it was
getting worse, really maniacal.
Connie felt washed-out with fear. But at least, Clifford was shifting
his grip from her on to Mrs Bolton. He did not know it. Like many insane
people, his insanity might be measured by the things he was not aware of the
great desert tracts in his consciousness.
Mrs Bolton was admirable in many ways. But she had that queer sort of
bossiness, endless assertion of her own will, which is one of the signs of
insanity in modern woman. She thought she was utterly subservient and living
for others. Clifford fascinated her because he always, or so of ten,
frustrated her will, as if by a finer instinct. He had a finer, subtler will
of self-assertion than herself. This was his charm for her.
Perhaps that had been his charm, too, for Connie.
`It's a lovely day, today!' Mrs Bolton would say in her caressive,
persuasive voice. `I should think you'd enjoy a little run in your chair
today, the sun's just lovely.'
`Yes? Will you give me that book---there, that yellow one. And I think
I'll have those hyacinths taken out.'
`Why they're so beautiful!' She pronounced it with the `y' sound:
be-yutiful! `And the scent is simply gorgeous.'
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