lady chatterly chapter 1 -3

Chapter 1



Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically.
The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build
up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard
work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or
scramble over the obstacles. We've got to live, no matter how many
skies have fallen.

This was more or less Constance Chatterley's position. The war had
brought the roof down over her head. And she had realized that one must
live and learn.

She married Clifford Chatterley in 1917, when he was home for a month
on leave. They had a month's honeymoon. Then he went back to Flanders:
to be shipped over to England again six months later, more or less in
bits. Constance, his wife, was then twenty-three years old, and he was
twenty-nine.

His hold on life was marvellous. He didn't die, and the bits seemed to
grow together again. For two years he remained in the doctor's hands.
Then he was pronounced a cure, and could return to life again, with the
lower half of his body, from the hips down, paralysed for ever.

This was in 1920. They returned, Clifford and Constance, to his home,
Wragby Hall, the family 'seat'. His father had died, Clifford was now a
baronet, Sir Clifford, and Constance was Lady Chatterley. They came to
start housekeeping and married life in the rather forlorn home of the
Chatterleys on a rather inadequate income. Clifford had a sister, but
she had departed. Otherwise there were no near relatives. The elder
brother was dead in the war. Crippled for ever, knowing he could never
have any children, Clifford came home to the smoky Midlands to keep the
Chatterley name alive while he could.

He was not really downcast. He could wheel himself about in a wheeled
chair, and he had a bath-chair with a small motor attachment, so he
could drive himself slowly round the garden and into the fine
melancholy park, of which he was really so proud, though he pretended
to be flippant about it.

Having suffered so much, the capacity for suffering had to some extent
left him. He remained strange and bright and cheerful, almost, one
might say, chirpy, with his ruddy, healthy-looking face, and his
pale-blue, challenging bright eyes. His shoulders were broad and
strong, his hands were very strong. He was expensively dressed, and
wore handsome neckties from Bond Street. Yet still in his face one saw
the watchful look, the slight vacancy of a cripple.

He had so very nearly lost his life, that what remained was wonderfully
precious to him. It was obvious in the anxious brightness of his eyes,
how proud he was, after the great shock, of being alive. But he had
been so much hurt that something inside him had perished, some of his
feelings had gone. There was a blank of insentience.

Constance, his wife, was a ruddy, country-looking girl with soft brown
hair and sturdy body, and slow movements, full of unusual energy. She
had big, wondering eyes, and a soft mild voice, and seemed just to have
come from her native village. It was not so at all. Her father was the
once well-known R. A., old Sir Malcolm Reid. Her mother had been one of
the cultivated Fabians in the palmy, rather pre-Raphaelite days.
Between artists and cultured socialists, Constance and her sister Hilda
had had what might be called an aesthetically unconventional
upbringing. They had been taken to Paris and Florence and Rome to
breathe in art, and they had been taken also in the other direction, to
the Hague and Berlin, to great Socialist conventions, where the
speakers spoke in every civilized tongue, and no one was abashed.

The two girls, therefore, were from an early age not the least daunted
by either art or ideal politics. It was their natural atmosphere. They
were at once cosmopolitan and provincial, with the cosmopolitan
provincialism of art that goes with pure social ideals.

They had been sent to Dresden at the age of fifteen, for music among
other things. And they had had a good time there. They lived freely
among the students, they argued with the men over philosophical,
sociological and artistic matters, they were just as good as the men
themselves: only better, since they were women. And they tramped off to
the forests with sturdy youths bearing guitars, twang-twang! They sang
the Wandervogel songs, and they were free. Free! That was the great
word. Out in the open world, out in the forests of the morning, with
lusty and splendid-throated young fellows, free to do as they liked,
and--above all--to say what they liked. It was the talk that mattered
supremely: the impassioned interchange of talk. Love was only a minor
accompaniment.

Both Hilda and Constance had had their tentative love-affairs by the
time they were eighteen. The young men with whom they talked so
passionately and sang so lustily and camped under the trees in such
freedom wanted, of course, the love connexion. The girls were doubtful,
but then the thing was so much talked about, it was supposed to be so
important. And the men were so humble and craving. Why couldn't a girl
be queenly, and give the gift of herself?

So they had given the gift of themselves, each to the youth with whom
she had the most subtle and intimate arguments. The arguments, the
discussions were the great thing: the love-making and connexion were
only a sort of primitive reversion and a bit of an anti-climax. One was
less in love with the boy afterwards, and a little inclined to hate
him, as if he had trespassed on one's privacy and inner freedom. For,
of course, being a girl, one's whole dignity and meaning in life
consisted in the achievement of an absolute, a perfect, a pure and
noble freedom. What else did a girl's life mean? To shake off the old
and sordid connexions and subjections.

And however one might sentimentalize it, this sex business was one of
the most ancient, sordid connexions and subjections. Poets who
glorified it were mostly men. Women had always known there was
something better, something higher. And now they knew it more
definitely than ever. The beautiful pure freedom of a woman was
infinitely more wonderful than any sexual love. The only unfortunate
thing was that men lagged so far behind women in the matter. They
insisted on the sex thing like dogs.

And a woman had to yield. A man was like a child with his appetites. A
woman had to yield him what he wanted, or like a child he would
probably turn nasty and flounce away and spoil what was a very pleasant
connexion. But a woman could yield to a man without yielding her inner,
free self. That the poets and talkers about sex did not seem to have
taken sufficiently into account. A woman could take a man without
really giving herself away. Certainly she could take him without giving
herself into his power. Rather she could use this sex thing to have
power over him. For she only had to hold herself back in sexual
intercourse, and let him finish and expend himself without herself
coming to the crisis: and then she could prolong the connexion and
achieve her orgasm and her crisis while he was merely her tool.

Both sisters had had their love experience by the time the war came,
and they were hurried home. Neither was ever in love with a young man
unless he and she were verbally very near: that is unless they were
profoundly interested, TALKING to one another. The amazing, the
profound, the unbelievable thrill there was in passionately talking to
some really clever young man by the hour, resuming day after day for
months...this they had never realized till it happened! The paradisal
promise: Thou shalt have men to talk to!--had never been uttered. It
was fulfilled before they knew what a promise it was.

And if after the roused intimacy of these vivid and soul-enlightened
discussions the sex thing became more or less inevitable, then let it.
It marked the end of a chapter. It had a thrill of its own too: a queer
vibrating thrill inside the body, a final spasm of self-assertion, like
the last word, exciting, and very like the row of asterisks that can be
put to show the end of a paragraph, and a break in the theme.

When the girls came home for the summer holidays of 1913, when Hilda
was twenty and Connie eighteen, their father could see plainly that
they had had the love experience.

L'amour avait passé par là, as somebody puts it. But he was a man of
experience himself, and let life take its course. As for the mother, a
nervous invalid in the last few months of her life, she wanted her
girls to be 'free', and to 'fulfil themselves'. She herself had never
been able to be altogether herself: it had been denied her. Heaven
knows why, for she was a woman who had her own income and her own way.
She blamed her husband. But as a matter of fact, it was some old
impression of authority on her own mind or soul that she could not get
rid of. It had nothing to do with Sir Malcolm, who left his nervously
hostile, high-spirited wife to rule her own roost, while he went his
own way.

So the girls were 'free', and went back to Dresden, and their music,
and the university and the young men. They loved their respective young
men, and their respective young men loved them with all the passion of
mental attraction. All the wonderful things the young men thought and
expressed and wrote, they thought and expressed and wrote for the young
women. Connie's young man was musical, Hilda's was technical. But they
simply lived for their young women. In their minds and their mental
excitements, that is. Somewhere else they were a little rebuffed,
though they did not know it.

It was obvious in them too that love had gone through them: that is,
the physical experience. It is curious what a subtle but unmistakable
transmutation it makes, both in the body of men and women: the woman
more blooming, more subtly rounded, her young angularities softened,
and her expression either anxious or triumphant: the man much quieter,
more inward, the very shapes of his shoulders and his buttocks less
assertive, more hesitant.

In the actual sex-thrill within the body, the sisters nearly succumbed
to the strange male power. But quickly they recovered themselves, took
the sex-thrill as a sensation, and remained free. Whereas the men, in
gratitude to the woman for the sex experience, let their souls go out
to her. And afterwards looked rather as if they had lost a shilling and
found sixpence. Connie's man could be a bit sulky, and Hilda's a bit
jeering. But that is how men are! Ungrateful and never satisfied. When
you don't have them they hate you because you won't; and when you do
have them they hate you again, for some other reason. Or for no reason
at all, except that they are discontented children, and can't be
satisfied whatever they get, let a woman do what she may.

However, came the war, Hilda and Connie were rushed home again after
having been home already in May, to their mother's funeral. Before
Christmas of 1914 both their German young men were dead: whereupon the
sisters wept, and loved the young men passionately, but underneath
forgot them. They didn't exist any more.

Both sisters lived in their father's, really their mother's Kensington
house, and mixed with the young Cambridge group, the group that stood for
'freedom' and flannel trousers, and flannel shirts open at the neck,
and a well-bred sort of emotional anarchy, and a whispering, murmuring
sort of voice, and an ultra-sensitive sort of manner. Hilda, however,
suddenly married a man ten years older than herself, an elder member of
the same Cambridge group, a man with a fair amount of money, and a
comfortable family job in the government: he also wrote philosophical
essays. She lived with him in a smallish house in Westminster, and
moved in that good sort of society of people in the government who are
not tip-toppers, but who are, or would be, the real intelligent power
in the nation: people who know what they're talking about, or talk as
if they did.

Connie did a mild form of war-work, and consorted with the
flannel-trousers Cambridge intransigents, who gently mocked at
everything, so far. Her 'friend' was a Clifford Chatterley, a young man
of twenty-two, who had hurried home from Bonn, where he was studying
the technicalities of coal-mining. He had previously spent two years at
Cambridge. Now he had become a first lieutenant in a smart regiment, so
he could mock at everything more becomingly in uniform.

Clifford Chatterley was more upper-class than Connie. Connie was
well-to-do intelligentsia, but he was aristocracy. Not the big sort,
but still it. His father was a baronet, and his mother had been a
viscount's daughter.

But Clifford, while he was better bred than Connie, and more 'society',
was in his own way more provincial and more timid. He was at his ease
in the narrow 'great world', that is, landed aristocracy society, but
he was shy and nervous of all that other big world which consists of
the vast hordes of the middle and lower classes, and foreigners. If the
truth must be told, he was just a little bit frightened of middle-and
lower-class humanity, and of foreigners not of his own class. He was,
in some paralysing way, conscious of his own defencelessness, though he
had all the defence of privilege. Which is curious, but a phenomenon of
our day.

Therefore the peculiar soft assurance of a girl like Constance Reid
fascinated him. She was so much more mistress of herself in that outer
world of chaos than he was master of himself.

Nevertheless he too was a rebel: rebelling even against his class. Or
perhaps rebel is too strong a word; far too strong. He was only caught
in the general, popular recoil of the young against convention and
against any sort of real authority. Fathers were ridiculous: his own
obstinate one supremely so. And governments were ridiculous: our own
wait-and-see sort especially so. And armies were ridiculous, and old
buffers of generals altogether, the red-faced Kitchener supremely. Even
the war was ridiculous, though it did kill rather a lot of people.

In fact everything was a little ridiculous, or very ridiculous:
certainly everything connected with authority, whether it were in the
army or the government or the universities, was ridiculous to a degree.
And as far as the governing class made any pretensions to govern, they
were ridiculous too. Sir Geoffrey, Clifford's father, was intensely
ridiculous, chopping down his trees, and weeding men out of his
colliery to shove them into the war; and himself being so safe and
patriotic; but, also, spending more money on his country than he'd got.

When Miss Chatterley--Emma--came down to London from the Midlands to do
some nursing work, she was very witty in a quiet way about Sir Geoffrey
and his determined patriotism. Herbert, the elder brother and heir,
laughed outright, though it was his trees that were felling for trench
props. But Clifford only smiled a little uneasily. Everything was
ridiculous, quite true. But when it came too close and oneself became
ridiculous too...? At least people of a different class, like Connie,
were earnest about something. They believed in something.

They were rather earnest about the Tommies, and the threat of
conscription, and the shortage of sugar and toffee for the children. In
all these things, of course, the authorities were ridiculously at
fault. But Clifford could not take it to heart. To him the authorities
were ridiculous AB OVO, not because of toffee or Tommies.

And the authorities felt ridiculous, and behaved in a rather ridiculous
fashion, and it was all a mad hatter's tea-party for a while. Till
things developed over there, and Lloyd George came to save the
situation over here. And this surpassed even ridicule, the flippant
young laughed no more.

In 1916 Herbert Chatterley was killed, so Clifford became heir. He was
terrified even of this. His importance as son of Sir Geoffrey, and
child of Wragby, was so ingrained in him, he could never escape it. And
yet he knew that this too, in the eyes of the vast seething world, was
ridiculous. Now he was heir and responsible for Wragby. Was that not
terrible? and also splendid and at the same time, perhaps, purely
absurd?

Sir Geoffrey would have none of the absurdity. He was pale and tense,
withdrawn into himself, and obstinately determined to save his country
and his own position, let it be Lloyd George or who it might. So cut
off he was, so divorced from the England that was really England, so
utterly incapable, that he even thought well of Horatio Bottomley. Sir
Geoffrey stood for England and Lloyd George as his forebears had stood
for England and St George: and he never knew there was a difference. So
Sir Geoffrey felled timber and stood for Lloyd George and England,
England and Lloyd George.

And he wanted Clifford to marry and produce an heir. Clifford felt his
father was a hopeless anachronism. But wherein was he himself any
further ahead, except in a wincing sense of the ridiculousness of
everything, and the paramount ridiculousness of his own position? For
willy-nilly he took his baronetcy and Wragby with the last seriousness.

The gay excitement had gone out of the war...dead. Too much death and
horror. A man needed support and comfort. A man needed to have an
anchor in the safe world. A man needed a wife.

The Chatterleys, two brothers and a sister, had lived curiously
isolated, shut in with one another at Wragby, in spite of all their
connexions. A sense of isolation intensified the family tie, a sense of
the weakness of their position, a sense of defencelessness, in spite
of, or because of, the title and the land. They were cut off from those
industrial Midlands in which they passed their lives. And they were cut
off from their own class by the brooding, obstinate, shut-up nature of
Sir Geoffrey, their father, whom they ridiculed, but whom they were so
sensitive about.

The three had said they would all live together always. But now Herbert
was dead, and Sir Geoffrey wanted Clifford to marry. Sir Geoffrey
barely mentioned it: he spoke very little. But his silent, brooding
insistence that it should be so was hard for Clifford to bear up
against.

But Emma said No! She was ten years older than Clifford, and she felt
his marrying would be a desertion and a betrayal of what the young ones
of the family had stood for.

Clifford married Connie, nevertheless, and had his month's honeymoon
with her. It was the terrible year 1917, and they were intimate as two
people who stand together on a sinking ship. He had been virgin when he
married: and the sex part did not mean much to him. They were so close,
he and she, apart from that. And Connie exulted a little in this
intimacy which was beyond sex, and beyond a man's 'satisfaction'.
Clifford anyhow was not just keen on his 'satisfaction', as so many men
seemed to be. No, the intimacy was deeper, more personal than that. And
sex was merely an accident, or an adjunct, one of the curious obsolete,
organic processes which persisted in its own clumsiness, but was not
really necessary. Though Connie did want children: if only to fortify
her against her sister-in-law Emma.

But early in 1918 Clifford was shipped home smashed, and there was no
child. And Sir Geoffrey died of chagrin.




Chapter 2



Connie and Clifford came home to Wragby in the autumn of 1920. Miss
Chatterley, still disgusted at her brother's defection, had departed
and was living in a little flat in London.

Wragby was a long low old house in brown stone, begun about the middle
of the eighteenth century, and added on to, till it was a warren of a
place without much distinction. It stood on an eminence in a rather
fine old park of oak trees, but alas, one could see in the near
distance the chimney of Tevershall pit, with its clouds of steam and
smoke, and on the damp, hazy distance of the hill the raw straggle of
Tevershall village, a village which began almost at the park gates, and
trailed in utter hopeless ugliness for a long and gruesome mile:
houses, rows of wretched, small, begrimed, brick houses, with black
slate roofs for lids, sharp angles and wilful, blank dreariness.

Connie was accustomed to Kensington or the Scotch hills or the Sussex
downs: that was her England. With the stoicism of the young she took in
the utter, soulless ugliness of the coal-and-iron Midlands at a glance,
and left it at what it was: unbelievable and not to be thought about.
From the rather dismal rooms at Wragby she heard the rattle-rattle of
the screens at the pit, the puff of the winding-engine, the clink-clink
of shunting trucks, and the hoarse little whistle of the colliery
locomotives. Tevershall pit-bank was burning, had been burning for
years, and it would cost thousands to put it out. So it had to burn.
And when the wind was that way, which was often, the house was full of
the stench of this sulphurous combustion of the earth's excrement. But
even on windless days the air always smelt of something under-earth:
sulphur, iron, coal, or acid. And even on the Christmas roses the smuts
settled persistently, incredible, like black manna from the skies of
doom.

Well, there it was: fated like the rest of things! It was rather awful,
but why kick? You couldn't kick it away. It just went on. Life, like
all the rest! On the low dark ceiling of cloud at night red blotches
burned and quavered, dappling and swelling and contracting, like burns
that give pain. It was the furnaces. At first they fascinated Connie
with a sort of horror; she felt she was living underground. Then she
got used to them. And in the morning it rained.

Clifford professed to like Wragby better than London. This country had
a grim will of its own, and the people had guts. Connie wondered what
else they had: certainly neither eyes nor minds. The people were as
haggard, shapeless, and dreary as the countryside, and as unfriendly.
Only there was something in their deep-mouthed slurring of the dialect,
and the thresh-thresh of their hob-nailed pit-boots as they trailed
home in gangs on the asphalt from work, that was terrible and a bit
mysterious.

There had been no welcome home for the young squire, no festivities, no
deputation, not even a single flower. Only a dank ride in a motor-car
up a dark, damp drive, burrowing through gloomy trees, out to the slope
of the park where grey damp sheep were feeding, to the knoll where the
house spread its dark brown facade, and the housekeeper and her husband
were hovering, like unsure tenants on the face of the earth, ready to
stammer a welcome.

There was no communication between Wragby Hall and Tevershall village,
none. No caps were touched, no curtseys bobbed. The colliers merely
stared; the tradesmen lifted their caps to Connie as to an
acquaintance, and nodded awkwardly to Clifford; that was all. Gulf
impassable, and a quiet sort of resentment on either side. At first
Connie suffered from the steady drizzle of resentment that came from
the village. Then she hardened herself to it, and it became a sort of
tonic, something to live up to. It was not that she and Clifford were
unpopular, they merely belonged to another species altogether from the
colliers. Gulf impassable, breach indescribable, such as is perhaps
nonexistent south of the Trent. But in the Midlands and the industrial
North gulf impassable, across which no communication could take place.
You stick to your side, I'll stick to mine! A strange denial of the
common pulse of humanity.

Yet the village sympathized with Clifford and Connie in the abstract.
In the flesh it was--You leave me alone!--on either side.

The rector was a nice man of about sixty, full of his duty, and
reduced, personally, almost to a nonentity by the silent--You leave me
alone!--of the village. The miners' wives were nearly all Methodists.
The miners were nothing. But even so much official uniform as the
clergyman wore was enough to obscure entirely the fact that he was a
man like any other man. No, he was Mester Ashby, a sort of automatic
preaching and praying concern.

This stubborn, instinctive--We think ourselves as good as you, if you
ARE Lady Chatterley!--puzzled and baffled Connie at first extremely.
The curious, suspicious, false amiability with which the miners' wives
met her overtures; the curiously offensive tinge of--Oh dear me! I AM
somebody now, with Lady Chatterley talking to me! But she needn't think
I'm not as good as her for all that!--which she always heard twanging
in the women's half-fawning voices, was impossible. There was no
getting past it. It was hopelessly and offensively nonconformist.

Clifford left them alone, and she learnt to do the same: she just went
by without looking at them, and they stared as if she were a walking
wax figure. When he had to deal with them, Clifford was rather haughty
and contemptuous; one could no longer afford to be friendly. In fact he
was altogether rather supercilious and contemptuous of anyone not in
his own class. He stood his ground, without any attempt at
conciliation. And he was neither liked nor disliked by the people: he
was just part of things, like the pit-bank and Wragby itself.

But Clifford was really extremely shy and self-conscious now he was
lamed. He hated seeing anyone except just the personal servants. For he
had to sit in a wheeled chair or a sort of bath-chair. Nevertheless he
was just as carefully dressed as ever, by his expensive tailors, and he
wore the careful Bond Street neckties just as before, and from the top
he looked just as smart and impressive as ever. He had never been one
of the modern ladylike young men: rather bucolic even, with his ruddy
face and broad shoulders. But his very quiet, hesitating voice, and his
eyes, at the same time bold and frightened, assured and uncertain,
revealed his nature. His manner was often offensively supercilious, and
then again modest and self-effacing, almost tremulous.

Connie and he were attached to one another, in the aloof modern way. He
was much too hurt in himself, the great shock of his maiming, to be
easy and flippant. He was a hurt thing. And as such Connie stuck to him
passionately.

But she could not help feeling how little connexion he really had with
people. The miners were, in a sense, his own men; but he saw them as
objects rather than men, parts of the pit rather than parts of life,
crude raw phenomena rather than human beings along with him. He was in
some way afraid of them, he could not bear to have them look at him now
he was lame. And their queer, crude life seemed as unnatural as that of
hedgehogs.

He was remotely interested; but like a man looking down a microscope,
or up a telescope. He was not in touch. He was not in actual touch with
anybody, save, traditionally, with Wragby, and, through the close bond
of family defence, with Emma. Beyond this nothing really touched him.
Connie felt that she herself didn't really, not really touch him;
perhaps there was nothing to get at ultimately; just a negation of
human contact.

Yet he was absolutely dependent on her, he needed her every moment. Big
and strong as he was, he was helpless. He could wheel himself about in
a wheeled chair, and he had a sort of bath-chair with a motor
attachment, in which he could puff slowly round the park. But alone he
was like a lost thing. He needed Connie to be there, to assure him he
existed at all.

Still he was ambitious. He had taken to writing stories; curious, very
personal stories about people he had known. Clever, rather spiteful,
and yet, in some mysterious way, meaningless. The observation was
extraordinary and peculiar. But there was no touch, no actual contact.
It was as if the whole thing took place in a vacuum. And since the
field of life is largely an artificially-lighted stage today, the
stories were curiously true to modern life, to the modern psychology,
that is.

Clifford was almost morbidly sensitive about these stories. He wanted
everyone to think them good, of the best, NE PLUS ULTRA. They appeared
in the most modern magazines, and were praised and blamed as usual. But
to Clifford the blame was torture, like knives goading him. It was as
if the whole of his being were in his stories.

Connie helped him as much as she could. At first she was thrilled. He
talked everything over with her monotonously, insistently,
persistently, and she had to respond with all her might. It was as if
her whole soul and body and sex had to rouse up and pass into theme
stories of his. This thrilled her and absorbed her.

Of physical life they lived very little. She had to superintend the
house. But the housekeeper had served Sir Geoffrey for many years, and
the dried-up, elderly, superlatively correct female you could hardly
call her a parlour-maid, or even a woman...who waited at table, had
been in the house for forty years. Even the very housemaids were no
longer young. It was awful! What could you do with such a place, but
leave it alone! All these endless rooms that nobody used, all the
Midlands routine, the mechanical cleanliness and the mechanical order!
Clifford had insisted on a new cook, an experienced woman who had
served him in his rooms in London. For the rest the place seemed run by
mechanical anarchy. Everything went on in pretty good order, strict
cleanliness, and strict punctuality; even pretty strict honesty. And
yet, to Connie, it was a methodical anarchy. No warmth of feeling
united it organically. The house seemed as dreary as a disused street.

What could she do but leave it alone? So she left it alone. Miss
Chatterley came sometimes, with her aristocratic thin face, and
triumphed, finding nothing altered. She would never forgive Connie for
ousting her from her union in consciousness with her brother. It was
she, Emma, who should be bringing forth the stories, these books, with
him; the Chatterley stories, something new in the world, that THEY, the
Chatterleys, had put there. There was no other standard. There was no
organic connexion with the thought and expression that had gone before.
Only something new in the world: the Chatterley books, entirely
personal.

Connie's father, where he paid a flying visit to Wragby, and in private
to his daughter: As for Clifford's writing, it's smart, but there's
NOTHING IN IT. It won't last! Connie looked at the burly Scottish
knight who had done himself well all his life, and her eyes, her big,
still-wondering blue eyes became vague. Nothing in it! What did he mean
by nothing in it? If the critics praised it, and Clifford's name was
almost famous, and it even brought in money...what did her father mean
by saying there was nothing in Clifford's writing? What else could
there be?

For Connie had adopted the standard of the young: what there was in the
moment was everything. And moments followed one another without
necessarily belonging to one another.

It was in her second winter at Wragby her father said to her: 'I hope,
Connie, you won't let circumstances force you into being a
demi-vierge.'

'A demi-vierge!' replied Connie vaguely. 'Why? Why not?'

'Unless you like it, of course!' said her father hastily. To Clifford
he said the same, when the two men were alone: 'I'm afraid it doesn't
quite suit Connie to be a demi-vierge.'

'A half-virgin!' replied Clifford, translating the phrase to be sure of it.

He thought for a moment, then flushed very red. He was angry and
offended.

'In what way doesn't it suit her?' he asked stiffly.

'She's getting thin...angular. It's not her style. She's not the
pilchard sort of little slip of a girl, she's a bonny Scotch trout.'

'Without the spots, of course!' said Clifford.

He wanted to say something later to Connie about the demi-vierge
business...the half-virgin state of her affairs. But he could not bring
himself to do it. He was at once too intimate with her and not intimate
enough. He was so very much at one with her, in his mind and hers, but
bodily they were non-existent to one another, and neither could bear to
drag in the corpus delicti. They were so intimate, and utterly out of
touch.

Connie guessed, however, that her father had said something, and that
something was in Clifford's mind. She knew that he didn't mind whether
she were demi-vierge or demi-monde, so long as he didn't absolutely
know, and wasn't made to see. What the eye doesn't see and the mind
doesn't know, doesn't exist.

Connie and Clifford had now been nearly two years at Wragby, living
their vague life of absorption in Clifford and his work. Their
interests had never ceased to flow together over his work. They talked
and wrestled in the throes of composition, and felt as if something
were happening, really happening, really in the void.

And thus far it was a life: in the void. For the rest it was
non-existence. Wragby was there, the servants...but spectral, not
really existing. Connie went for walks in the park, and in the woods
that joined the park, and enjoyed the solitude and the mystery, kicking
the brown leaves of autumn, and picking the primroses of spring. But it
was all a dream; or rather it was like the simulacrum of reality. The
oak-leaves were to her like oak-leaves seen ruffling in a mirror, she
herself was a figure somebody had read about, picking primroses that
were only shadows or memories, or words. No substance to her or
anything...no touch, no contact! Only this life with Clifford, this
endless spinning of webs of yarn, of the minutiae of consciousness,
these stories Sir Malcolm said there was nothing in, and they wouldn't
last. Why should there be anything in them, why should they last?
Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. Sufficient unto the moment
is the APPEARANCE of reality.

Clifford had quite a number of friends, acquaintances really, and he
invited them to Wragby. He invited all sorts of people, critics and
writers, people who would help to praise his books. And they were
flattered at being asked to Wragby, and they praised. Connie understood
it all perfectly. But why not? This was one of the fleeting patterns in
the mirror. What was wrong with it?

She was hostess to these people...mostly men. She was hostess also to
Clifford's occasional aristocratic relations. Being a soft, ruddy,
country-looking girl, inclined to freckles, with big blue eyes, and
curling, brown hair, and a soft voice, and rather strong, female loins
she was considered a little old-fashioned and 'womanly'. She was not a
'little pilchard sort of fish', like a boy, with a boy's flat breast
and little buttocks. She was too feminine to be quite smart.

So the men, especially those no longer young, were very nice to her
indeed. But, knowing what torture poor Clifford would feel at the
slightest sign of flirting on her part, she gave them no encouragement
at all. She was quiet and vague, she had no contact with them and
intended to have none. Clifford was extraordinarily proud of himself.

His relatives treated her quite kindly. She knew that the kindliness
indicated a lack of fear, and that these people had no respect for you
unless you could frighten them a little. But again she had no contact.
She let them be kindly and disdainful, she let them feel they had no
need to draw their steel in readiness. She had no real connexion with
them.

Time went on. Whatever happened, nothing happened, because she was so
beautifully out of contact. She and Clifford lived in their ideas and
his books. She entertained...there were always people in the house.
Time went on as the clock does, half past eight instead of half past
seven.




Chapter 3



Connie was aware, however, of a growing restlessness. Out of her
disconnexion, a restlessness was taking possession of her like madness.
It twitched her limbs when she didn't want to twitch them, it jerked
her spine when she didn't want to jerk upright but preferred to rest
comfortably. It thrilled inside her body, in her womb, somewhere, till
she felt she must jump into water and swim to get away from it; a mad
restlessness. It made her heart beat violently for no reason. And she
was getting thinner.

It was just restlessness. She would rush off across the park, abandon
Clifford, and lie prone in the bracken. To get away from the
house...she must get away from the house and everybody. The work was
her one refuge, her sanctuary.

But it was not really a refuge, a sanctuary, because she had no
connexion with it. It was only a place where she could get away from
the rest. She never really touched the spirit of the wood itself...if
it had any such nonsensical thing.

Vaguely she knew herself that she was going to pieces in some way.
Vaguely she knew she was out of connexion: she had lost touch with the
substantial and vital world. Only Clifford and his books, which did not
exist...which had nothing in them! Void to void. Vaguely she knew. But
it was like beating her head against a stone.

Her father warned her again: 'Why don't you get yourself a beau,
Connie? Do you all the good in the world.'

That winter Michaelis came for a few days. He was a young Irishman who
had already made a large fortune by his plays in America. He had been
taken up quite enthusiastically for a time by smart society in London,
for he wrote smart society plays. Then gradually smart society realized
that it had been made ridiculous at the hands of a down-at-heel Dublin
street-rat, and revulsion came. Michaelis was the last word in what was
caddish and bounderish. He was discovered to be anti-English, and to
the class that made this discovery this was worse than the dirtiest
crime. He was cut dead, and his corpse thrown into the refuse can.

Nevertheless Michaelis had his apartment in Mayfair, and walked down
Bond Street the image of a gentleman, for you cannot get even the best
tailors to cut their low-down customers, when the customers pay.

Clifford was inviting the young man of thirty at an inauspicious moment
in that young man's career. Yet Clifford did not hesitate. Michaelis had
the ear of a few million people, probably; and, being a hopeless
outsider, he would no doubt be grateful to be asked down to Wragby at
this juncture, when the rest of the smart world was cutting him. Being
grateful, he would no doubt do Clifford 'good' over there in America.
Kudos! A man gets a lot of kudos, whatever that may be, by being talked
about in the right way, especially 'over there'. Clifford was a coming
man; and it was remarkable what a sound publicity instinct he had. In
the end Michaelis did him most nobly in a play, and Clifford was a sort
of popular hero. Till the reaction, when he found he had been made
ridiculous.

Connie wondered a little over Clifford's blind, imperious instinct to
become known: known, that is, to the vast amorphous world he did not
himself know, and of which he was uneasily afraid; known as a writer,
as a first-class modern writer. Connie was aware from successful, old,
hearty, bluffing Sir Malcolm, that artists did advertise themselves,
and exert themselves to put their goods over. But her father used
channels ready-made, used by all the other R. A.s who sold their
pictures. Whereas Clifford discovered new channels of publicity, all
kinds. He had all kinds of people at Wragby, without exactly lowering
himself. But, determined to build himself a monument of a reputation
quickly, he used any handy rubble in the making.

Michaelis arrived duly, in a very neat car, with a chauffeur and a
manservant. He was absolutely Bond Street! But at sight of him
something in Clifford's county soul recoiled. He wasn't exactly... not
exactly...in fact, he wasn't at all, well, what his appearance intended
to imply. To Clifford this was final and enough. Yet he was very polite
to the man; to the amazing success in him. The bitch-goddess, as she is
called, of Success, roamed, snarling and protective, round the
half-humble, half-defiant Michaelis' heels, and intimidated Clifford
completely: for he wanted to prostitute himself to the bitch-goddess,
Success also, if only she would have him.

Michaelis obviously wasn't an Englishman, in spite of all the tailors,
hatters, barbers, booters of the very best quarter of London. No, no,
he obviously wasn't an Englishman: the wrong sort of flattish, pale
face and bearing; and the wrong sort of grievance. He had a grudge and
a grievance: that was obvious to any true-born English gentleman, who
would scorn to let such a thing appear blatant in his own demeanour.
Poor Michaelis had been much kicked, so that he had a slightly
tail-between-the-legs look even now. He had pushed his way by sheer
instinct and sheerer effrontery on to the stage and to the front of it,
with his plays. He had caught the public. And he had thought the
kicking days were over. Alas, they weren't... They never would be. For
he, in a sense, asked to be kicked. He pined to be where he didn't
belong...among the English upper classes. And how they enjoyed the
various kicks they got at him! And how he hated them!

Nevertheless he travelled with his manservant and his very neat car,
this Dublin mongrel.

There was something about him that Connie liked. He didn't put on airs
to himself, he had no illusions about himself. He talked to Clifford
sensibly, briefly, practically, about all the things Clifford wanted to
know. He didn't expand or let himself go. He knew he had been asked
down to Wragby to be made use of, and like an old, shrewd, almost
indifferent business man, or big-business man, he let himself be asked
questions, and he answered with as little waste of feeling as possible.

'Money!' he said. 'Money is a sort of instinct. It's a sort of property
of nature in a man to make money. It's nothing you do. It's no trick
you play. It's a sort of permanent accident of your own nature; once
you start, you make money, and you go on; up to a point, I suppose.'

'But you've got to begin,' said Clifford.

'Oh, quite! You've got to get IN. You can do nothing if you are kept
outside. You've got to beat your way in. Once you've done that, you
can't help it.'

'But could you have made money except by plays?' asked Clifford.

'Oh, probably not! I may be a good writer or I may be a bad one, but a
writer and a writer of plays is what I am, and I've got to be. There's
no question of that.'

'And you think it's a writer of popular plays that you've got to be?'
asked Connie.

'There, exactly!' he said, turning to her in a sudden flash. 'There's
nothing in it! There's nothing in popularity. There's nothing in the
public, if it comes to that. There's nothing really in my plays to make
them popular. It's not that. They just are like the weather...the sort
that will HAVE to be...for the time being.'

He turned his slow, rather full eyes, that had been drowned in such
fathomless disillusion, on Connie, and she trembled a little. He seemed
so old...endlessly old, built up of layers of disillusion, going down
in him generation after generation, like geological strata; and at the
same time he was forlorn like a child. An outcast, in a certain sense;
but with the desperate bravery of his rat-like existence.

'At least it's wonderful what you've done at your time of life,' said
Clifford contemplatively.

'I'm thirty...yes, I'm thirty!' said Michaelis, sharply and suddenly,
with a curious laugh; hollow, triumphant, and bitter.

'And are you alone?' asked Connie.

'How do you mean? Do I live alone? I've got my servant. He's a Greek,
so he says, and quite incompetent. But I keep him. And I'm going to
marry. Oh, yes, I must marry.'

'It sounds like going to have your tonsils cut,' laughed Connie. 'Will
it be an effort?'

He looked at her admiringly. 'Well, Lady Chatterley, somehow it will! I
find... excuse me... I find I can't marry an Englishwoman, not even an
Irishwoman...'

'Try an American,' said Clifford.

'Oh, American!' He laughed a hollow laugh. 'No, I've asked my man if he
will find me a Turk or something...something nearer to the Oriental.'

Connie really wondered at this queer, melancholy specimen of
extraordinary success; it was said he had an income of fifty thousand
dollars from America alone. Sometimes he was handsome: sometimes as he
looked sideways, downwards, and the light fell on him, he had the
silent, enduring beauty of a carved ivory Negro mask, with his rather
full eyes, and the strong queerly-arched brows, the immobile,
compressed mouth; that momentary but revealed immobility, an
immobility, a timelessness which the Buddha aims at, and which Negroes
express sometimes without ever aiming at it; something old, old, and
acquiescent in the race! Aeons of acquiescence in race destiny, instead
of our individual resistance. And then a swimming through, like rats in
a dark river. Connie felt a sudden, strange leap of sympathy for him, a
leap mingled with compassion, and tinged with repulsion, amounting
almost to love. The outsider! The outsider! And they called him a
bounder! How much more bounderish and assertive Clifford looked! How
much stupider!

Michaelis knew at once he had made an impression on her. He turned his
full, hazel, slightly prominent eyes on her in a look of pure
detachment. He was estimating her, and the extent of the impression he
had made. With the English nothing could save him from being the
eternal outsider, not even love. Yet women sometimes fell for
him...Englishwomen too.

He knew just where he was with Clifford. They were two alien dogs which
would have liked to snarl at one another, but which smiled instead,
perforce. But with the woman he was not quite so sure.

Breakfast was served in the bedrooms; Clifford never appeared before
lunch, and the dining-room was a little dreary. After coffee Michaelis,
restless and ill-sitting soul, wondered what he should do. It was a
fine November day; fine for Wragby. He looked over the melancholy
park. My God! What a place!

He sent a servant to ask, could he be of any service to Lady
Chatterley: he thought of driving into Sheffield. The answer came,
would he care to go up to Lady Chatterley's sitting-room.

Connie had a sitting-room on the third floor, the top floor of the
central portion of the house. Clifford's rooms were on the ground
floor, of course. Michaelis was flattered by being asked up to Lady
Chatterley's own parlour. He followed blindly after the servant...he
never noticed things, or had contact with his surroundings. In her
room he did glance vaguely round at the fine German reproductions of
Renoir and Cezanne.

'It's very pleasant up here,' he said, with his queer smile, as if it
hurt him to smile, showing his teeth. 'You are wise to get up to the
top.'

'Yes, I think so,' she said.

Her room was the only gay, modern one in the house, the only spot in
Wragby where her personality was at all revealed. Clifford had never
seen it, and she asked very few people up.

Now she and Michaelis sit on opposite sides of the fire and talked. She
asked him about himself, his mother and father, his brothers...other
people were always something of a wonder to her, and when her sympathy
was awakened she was quite devoid of class feeling. Michaelis talked
frankly about himself, quite frankly, without affectation, simply
revealing his bitter, indifferent, stray-dog's soul, then showing a
gleam of revengeful pride in his success.

'But why are you such a lonely bird?' Connie asked him; and again he
looked at her, with his full, searching, hazel look.

'Some birds ARE that way,' he replied. Then, with a touch of familiar
irony: 'but, look here, what about yourself? Aren't you by way of being
a lonely bird yourself?' Connie, a little startled, thought about it
for a few moments, and then she said: 'Only in a way! Not altogether,
like you!'

'Am I altogether a lonely bird?' he asked, with his queer grin of a
smile, as if he had toothache; it was so wry, and his eyes were so
perfectly unchangingly melancholy, or stoical, or disillusioned or
afraid.

'Why?' she said, a little breathless, as she looked at him. 'You are,
aren't you?'

She felt a terrible appeal coming to her from him, that made her almost
lose her balance.

'Oh, you're quite right!' he said, turning his head away, and looking
sideways, downwards, with that strange immobility of an old race that
is hardly here in our present day. It was that that really made Connie
lose her power to see him detached from herself.

He looked up at her with the full glance that saw everything,
registered everything. At the same time, the infant crying in the night
was crying out of his breast to her, in a way that affected her very
womb.

'It's awfully nice of you to think of me,' he said laconically.

'Why shouldn't I think of you?' she exclaimed, with hardly breath to
utter it.

He gave the wry, quick hiss of a laugh.

'Oh, in that way!...May I hold your hand for a minute?' he asked
suddenly, fixing his eyes on her with almost hypnotic power, and
sending out an appeal that affected her direct in the womb.

She stared at him, dazed and transfixed, and he went over and kneeled
beside her, and took her two feet close in his two hands, and buried
his face in her lap, remaining motionless. She was perfectly dim and
dazed, looking down in a sort of amazement at the rather tender nape of
his neck, feeling his face pressing her thighs. In all her burning
dismay, she could not help putting her hand, with tenderness and
compassion, on the defenceless nape of his neck, and he trembled, with
a deep shudder.

Then he looked up at her with that awful appeal in his full, glowing
eyes. She was utterly incapable of resisting it. From her breast flowed
the answering, immense yearning over him; she must give him anything,
anything.

He was a curious and very gentle lover, very gentle with the woman,
trembling uncontrollably, and yet at the same time detached, aware,
aware of every sound outside.

To her it meant nothing except that she gave herself to him. And at
length he ceased to quiver any more, and lay quite still, quite still.
Then, with dim, compassionate fingers, she stroked his head, that lay
on her breast.

When he rose, he kissed both her hands, then both her feet, in their
suede slippers, and in silence went away to the end of the room, where
he stood with his back to her. There was silence for some minutes. Then
he turned and came to her again as she sat in her old place by the
fire.

'And now, I suppose you'll hate me!' he said in a quiet, inevitable
way. She looked up at him quickly.

'Why should I?' she asked.

'They mostly do,' he said; then he caught himself up. 'I mean...a woman
is supposed to.'

'This is the last moment when I ought to hate you,' she said
resentfully.

'I know! I know! It should be so! You're FRIGHTFULLY good to me...' he
cried miserably.

She wondered why he should be miserable. 'Won't you sit down again?'
she said. He glanced at the door.

'Sir Clifford!' he said, 'won't he...won't he be...?' She paused a
moment to consider. 'Perhaps!' she said. And she looked up at him. 'I
don't want Clifford to know not even to suspect. It WOULD hurt him so
much. But I don't think it's wrong, do you?'

'Wrong! Good God, no! You're only too infinitely good to me...I can
hardly bear it.'

He turned aside, and she saw that in another moment he would be
sobbing.

'But we needn't let Clifford know, need we?' she pleaded. 'It would
hurt him so. And if he never knows, never suspects, it hurts nobody.'

'Me!' he said, almost fiercely; 'he'll know nothing from me! You see if
he does. Me give myself away! Ha! Ha!' he laughed hollowly, cynically,
at such an idea. She watched him in wonder. He said to her: 'May I kiss
your hand and go? I'll run into Sheffield I think, and lunch there, if
I may, and be back to tea. May I do anything for you? May I be sure you
don't hate me?--and that you won't?'--he ended with a desperate note of
cynicism.

'No, I don't hate you,' she said. 'I think you're nice.'

'Ah!' he said to her fiercely, 'I'd rather you said that to me than
said you love me! It means such a lot more...Till afternoon then. I've
plenty to think about till then.' He kissed her hands humbly and was
gone.

'I don't think I can stand that young man,' said Clifford at lunch.

'Why?' asked Connie.

'He's such a bounder underneath his veneer...just waiting to bounce
us.'

'I think people have been so unkind to him,' said Connie.

'Do you wonder? And do you think he employs his shining hours doing
deeds of kindness?'

'I think he has a certain sort of generosity.'

'Towards whom?'

'I don't quite know.'

'Naturally you don't. I'm afraid you mistake unscrupulousness for
generosity.'

Connie paused. Did she? It was just possible. Yet the unscrupulousness
of Michaelis had a certain fascination for her. He went whole lengths
where Clifford only crept a few timid paces. In his way he had
conquered the world, which was what Clifford wanted to do. Ways and
means...? Were those of Michaelis more despicable than those of
Clifford? Was the way the poor outsider had shoved and bounced himself
forward in person, and by the back doors, any worse than Clifford's way
of advertising himself into prominence? The bitch-goddess, Success, was
trailed by thousands of gasping dogs with lolling tongues. The one
that got her first was the real dog among dogs, if you go by success!
So Michaelis could keep his tail up.

The queer thing was, he didn't. He came back towards tea-time with a
large handful of violets and lilies, and the same hang-dog expression.
Connie wondered sometimes if it were a sort of mask to disarm
opposition, because it was almost too fixed. Was he really such a sad
dog?

His sad-dog sort of extinguished self persisted all the evening, though
through it Clifford felt the inner effrontery. Connie didn't feel it,
perhaps because it was not directed against women; only against men,
and their presumptions and assumptions. That indestructible, inward
effrontery in the meagre fellow was what made men so down on Michaelis.
His very presence was an affront to a man of society, cloak it as he
might in an assumed good manner.

Connie was in love with him, but she managed to sit with her embroidery
and let the men talk, and not give herself away. As for Michaelis, he
was perfect; exactly the same melancholic, attentive, aloof young
fellow of the previous evening, millions of degrees remote from his
hosts, but laconically playing up to them to the required amount, and
never coming forth to them for a moment. Connie felt he must have
forgotten the morning. He had not forgotten. But he knew where he
was...in the same old place outside, where the born outsiders are. He
didn't take the love-making altogether personally. He knew it would not
change him from an ownerless dog, whom everybody begrudges its golden
collar, into a comfortable society dog.

The final fact being that at the very bottom of his soul he WAS an
outsider, and anti-social, and he accepted the fact inwardly, no matter
how Bond-Streety he was on the outside. His isolation was a necessity
to him; just as the appearance of conformity and mixing-in with the
smart people was also a necessity.

But occasional love, as a comfort and soothing, was also a good thing,
and he was not ungrateful. On the contrary, he was burningly,
poignantly grateful for a piece of natural, spontaneous kindness:
almost to tears. Beneath his pale, immobile, disillusioned face, his
child's soul was sobbing with gratitude to the woman, and burning to
come to her again; just as his outcast soul was knowing he would keep
really clear of her.

He found an opportunity to say to her, as they were lighting the
candles in the hall:

'May I come?'

'I'll come to you,' she said.

'Oh, good!'

He waited for her a long time...but she came.

He was the trembling excited sort of lover, whose crisis soon came, and
was finished. There was something curiously childlike and defenceless
about his naked body: as children are naked. His defences were all in
his wits and cunning, his very instincts of cunning, and when these
were in abeyance he seemed doubly naked and like a child, of
unfinished, tender flesh, and somehow struggling helplessly.

He roused in the woman a wild sort of compassion and yearning, and a
wild, craving physical desire. The physical desire he did not satisfy
in her; he was always come and finished so quickly, then shrinking down
on her breast, and recovering somewhat his effrontery while she lay
dazed, disappointed, lost.

But then she soon learnt to hold him, to keep him there inside her when
his crisis was over. And there he was generous and curiously potent; he
stayed firm inside her, giving to her, while she was active...wildly,
passionately active, coming to her own crisis. And as he felt the
frenzy of her achieving her own orgasmic satisfaction from his hard,
erect passivity, he had a curious sense of pride and satisfaction.

'Ah, how good!' she whispered tremulously, and she became quite still,
clinging to him. And he lay there in his own isolation, but somehow
proud.

He stayed that time only the three days, and to Clifford was exactly
the same as on the first evening; to Connie also. There was no breaking
down his external man.

He wrote to Connie with the same plaintive melancholy note as ever,
sometimes witty, and touched with a queer, sexless affection. A kind of
hopeless affection he seemed to feel for her, and the essential
remoteness remained the same. He was hopeless at the very core of him,
and he wanted to be hopeless. He rather hated hope. 'UNE IMMENSE
ESPERANCE A TRAVERSE LA TERRE', he read somewhere, and his comment
was:'--and it's darned-well drowned everything worth having.'

Connie never really understood him, but, in her way, she loved him. And
all the time she felt the reflection of his hopelessness in her. She
couldn't quite, quite love in hopelessness. And he, being hopeless,
couldn't ever quite love at all.

So they went on for quite a time, writing, and meeting occasionally in
London. She still wanted the physical, sexual thrill she could get with
him by her own activity, his little orgasm being over. And he still
wanted to give it her. Which was enough to keep them connected.

And enough to give her a subtle sort of self-assurance, something blind
and a little arrogant. It was an almost mechanical confidence in her
own powers, and went with a great cheerfulness.

She was terrifically cheerful at Wragby. And she used all her aroused
cheerfulness and satisfaction to stimulate Clifford, so that he wrote
his best at this time, and was almost happy in his strange blind way.
He really reaped the fruits of the sensual satisfaction she got out of
Michaelis' male passivity erect inside her. But of course he never knew
it, and if he had, he wouldn't have said thank you!

Yet when those days of her grand joyful cheerfulness and stimulus were
gone, quite gone, and she was depressed and irritable, how Clifford
longed for them again! Perhaps if he'd known he might even have wished
to get her and Michaelis together again.