D.H Lawrence-Lady Chatterly's Lover

7/28/2019 D.H Lawrence-Lady Chatterly's Lover

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D. H. Lawrence

Lady Chatterley's Lover

Chapter 1

Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically.The cataclys has happened, we are aong the ruins, we start to !uild up new

little ha!itats, to have new little hopes. "t is rather hard work# there is now no sooth

road into the future# !ut we go round, or scra!le over the o!stacles. $e've got to live,

no atter how any skies have fallen.This was ore or less Constance Chatterley's position. The war had !rought the

roof down over her head. %nd she had reali&ed that one ust live and learn.

he arried Clifford Chatterley in 1(1), when he was hoe for a onth on leave.

They had a onth's honeyoon. Then he went !ack to *landers# to !e shipped over to+ngland again si onths later, ore or less in !its. Constance, his wife, was then

twenty-three years old, and he was twenty-nine.His hold on life was arvellous. He didn't die, and the !its seeed to grow

together again. *or two years he reained in the doctor's hands.

Then he was pronounced a cure, and could return to life again, with the lower halfof his !ody, fro the hips down, paralysed for ever.

This was in 1(/. They returned, Clifford and Constance, to his hoe, $rag!y

Hall, the faily 'seat'. His father had died, Clifford was now a !aronet, ir Clifford, and

Constance was Lady Chatterley. They cae to start housekeeping and arried life in therather forlorn hoe of the Chatterleys on a rather inade0uate incoe. Clifford had a

sister, !ut she had departed. Otherwise there were no near relatives. The elder !rotherwas dead in the war. Crippled for ever, knowing he could never have any children,Clifford cae hoe to the soky idlands to keep the Chatterley nae alive while he

could.

He was not really downcast. He could wheel hiself a!out in a wheeled chair,and he had a !ath-chair with a sall otor attachent, so he could drive hiself slowly

round the garden and into the line elancholy park, of which he was really so proud,

though he pretended to !e flippant a!out it.

Having suffered so uch, the capacity for suffering had to soe etent left hi.He reained strange and !right and cheerful, alost, one ight say, chirpy, with his

ruddy, healthy-looking face, and his pale-!lue, challenging !right eyes. His shoulders

were !road and strong, his hands were very strong. He was epensively dressed, andwore handsoe neckties fro 2ond treet. 3et 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 reained was wonderfully preciousto hi. "t was o!vious in the anious !rightness of his eyes, how proud he was, after the

great shock, of !eing alive. 2ut he had !een so uch hurt that soething inside hi had

perished, soe of his feelings had gone. There was a !lank of insentience.


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Constance, his wife, was a ruddy, country-looking girl with soft !rown hair and

sturdy !ody, and slow oveents, full of unusual energy. he had !ig, wondering eyes,

and a soft ild voice, and seeed 4ust to have coe fro her native village. "t was not soat all. Her father was the once well-known 5. %., old ir alcol 5eid. Her other had

!een one of the cultivated *a!ians in the paly, rather pre-5aphaelite days.

2etween artists and cultured socialists, Constance and her sister Hilda had hadwhat ight !e called an aesthetically unconventional up!ringing. They had !een taken to

6aris and *lorence and 5oe to !reathe in art, and they had !een taken also in the other

direction, to the Hague and 2erlin, to great ocialist conventions, where the speakersspoke in every civili&ed tongue, and no one was a!ashed.

The two girls, therefore, were fro an early age not the least daunted !y either art

or ideal politics. "t was their natural atosphere. They were at once cosopolitan and

provincial, with the cosopolitan provincialis of art that goes with pure social ideals.They had !een sent to Dresden at the age of fifteen, for usic aong other things.

%nd they had had a good tie there. They lived freely aong the students, they argued

with the en over philosophical, sociological and artistic atters, they were 4ust as good

as the en theselves# only !etter, since they were woen. %nd they traped off to theforests with sturdy youths !earing guitars, twang-twang7 They sang the $andervogel

songs, and they were free. *ree7 That was the great word. Out in the open world, out inthe forests of the orning, with lusty and splendid-throated young fellows, free to do as

they liked, and--a!ove all--to say what they liked. "t was the talk that attered supreely#

the ipassioned interchange of talk. Love was only a inor accopanient.2oth Hilda and Constance had had their tentative love-affairs !y the tie they

were eighteen. The young en with who they talked so passionately and sang so lustily

and caped under the trees in such freedo wanted, of course, the love conneion. The

girls were dou!tful, !ut then the thing was so uch talked a!out, it was supposed to !e soiportant. %nd the en were so hu!le and craving. $hy couldn't a girl !e 0ueenly, and

give the gift of herself8

o they had given the gift of theselves, each to the youth with who she had theost su!tle and intiate arguents. The arguents, the discussions were the great thing#

the love-aking and conneion were only a sort of priitive reversion and a !it of an

anti-clia. One was less in love with the !oy afterwards, and a little inclined to hatehi, as if he had trespassed on one's privacy and inner freedo. *or, of course, !eing a

girl, one's whole dignity and eaning in life consisted in the achieveent of an a!solute,

a perfect, a pure and no!le freedo. $hat else did a girl's life ean8 To shake off the old

and sordid conneions and su!4ections.%nd however one ight sentientali&e it, this se !usiness was one of the ost

ancient, sordid conneions and su!4ections. 6oets who glorified it were ostly en.

$oen had always known there was soething !etter, soething higher. %nd now theyknew it ore definitely than ever. The !eautiful pure freedo of a woan was infinitely

ore wonderful than any seual love. The only unfortunate thing was that en lagged so

far !ehind woen in the atter. They insisted on the se thing like dogs.%nd a woan had to yield. % an was like a child with his appetites. % woan

had to yield hi what he wanted, or like a child he would pro!a!ly turn nasty and flounce

away and spoil what was a very pleasant conneion. 2ut a woan could yield to a an

without yielding her inner, free self. That the poets and talkers a!out se did not see to


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have taken sufficiently into account. % woan could take a an without really giving

herself away. Certainly she could take hi without giving herself into his power. 5ather

she could use this se thing to have power over hi. *or she only had to hold herself!ack in seual intercourse, and let hi finish and epend hiself without herself coing

to the crisis# and then she could prolong the conneion and achieve her orgas and her

crisis while he was erely her tool.2oth sisters had had their love eperience !y the tie the war cae, and they

were hurried hoe. 9either was ever in love with a young an unless he and she were

ver!ally very near# that is unless they were profoundly interested, T%L:"9; to oneanother. The aa&ing, the profound, the un!elieva!le thrill there was in passionately

talking to soe really clever young an !y the hour, resuing day after day for onths...

this they had never reali&ed till it happened7 The paradisal proise# Thou shalt have en

to talk to7--had never !een uttered. "t was fulfilled !efore they knew what a proise itwas.

%nd if after the roused intiacy of these vivid and soul-enlightened discussions

the se thing !ecae ore or less inevita!le, then let it.

"t arked the end of a chapter. "t had a thrill of its own too# a 0ueer vi!rating thrillinside the !ody, a final spas of self-assertion, like the last word, eciting, and very like

the row of asterisks that can !e put to show the end of a paragraph, and a !reak in thethee.

$hen the girls cae hoe for the suer holidays of 1(1


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"n the actual se-thrill within the !ody, the sisters nearly succu!ed to the strange

ale power. 2ut 0uickly they recovered theselves, took the se-thrill as a sensation,

and reained free. $hereas the en, in gratitude to the woan for the se eperience, lettheir souls go out to her. %nd afterwards looked rather as if they had lost a shilling and

found sipence. Connie's an could !e a !it sulky, and Hilda's a !it 4eering. 2ut that is

how en are7 ?ngrateful and never satisfied. $hen you don't have the they hate you!ecause you won't@ and when you do have the they hate you again, for soe other

reason. Or for no reason at all, ecept that they are discontented children, and can't !e

satisfied whatever they get, let a woan do what she ay.However, cae the war, Hilda and Connie were rushed hoe again after having

!een hoe already in ay, to their other's funeral. 2efore Christas of 1(1A !oth their

;eran young en were dead# whereupon the sisters wept, and loved the young en

passionately, !ut underneath forgot the. They didn't eist any ore.2oth sisters lived in their father's, really their other's, :ensington houseied

with the young Ca!ridge group, the group that stood for 'freedo' and flannel trousers,

and flannel shirts open at the neck, and a well-!red sort of eotional anarchy, and a

whispering, ururing sort of voice, and an ultra-sensitive sort of anner. Hilda,however, suddenly arried a an ten years older than herself, an elder e!er of the

sae Ca!ridge group, a an with a fair aount of oney, and a coforta!le faily4o! in the governent# he also wrote philosophical essays. he lived with hi in a

sallish house in $estinster, and oved in that good sort of society of people in the

governent who are not tip-toppers, !ut who are, or would !e, the real intelligent powerin the nation# people who know what they're talking a!out, or talk as if they did.

Connie did a ild for of war-work, and consorted with the flannel-trousers

Ca!ridge intransigents, who gently ocked at everything, so far. Her 'friend' was a

Clifford Chatterley, a young an of twenty-two, who had hurried hoe fro 2onn,where he was studying the technicalities of coal-ining. He had previously spent two

years at Ca!ridge. 9ow he had !ecoe a first lieutenant in a sart regient, so he

could ock at everything ore !ecoingly in unifor.Clifford Chatterley was ore upper-class than Connie. Connie was well-to-do

intelligentsia, !ut he was aristocracy. 9ot the !ig sort, !ut still it. His father was a

!aronet, and his other had !een a viscount's daughter.2ut Clifford, while he was !etter !red than Connie, and ore 'society', was in his

own way ore provincial and ore tiid. He was at his ease in the narrow 'great world',

that is, landed aristocracy society, !ut he was shy and nervous of all that other !ig world

which consists of the vast hordes of the iddle and lower classes, and foreigners. "f thetruth ust !e told, he was 4ust a little !it frightened of iddle-and lower-class huanity,

and of foreigners not of his own class. He was, in soe paralysing way, conscious of his

own defencelessness, though he had all the defence of privilege. $hich is curious, !ut aphenoenon of our day.

Therefore the peculiar soft assurance of a girl like Constance 5eid fascinated hi.

he was so uch ore istress of herself in that outer world of chaos than he was asterof hiself.

9evertheless he too was a re!el# re!elling even against his class. Or perhaps re!el

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. *athers were


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ridiculous# his own o!stinate one supreely so. %nd governents were ridiculous# our

own wait-and-see sort especially so. %nd aries were ridiculous, and old !uffers of

generals altogether, the red-faced :itchener supreely. +ven the war was ridiculous,though it did kill rather a lot of people.

"n fact everything was a little ridiculous, or very ridiculous# certainly everything

connected with authority, whether it were in the ary or the governent or theuniversities, was ridiculous to a degree.

%nd as far as the governing class ade any pretensions to govern, they were

ridiculous too. ir ;eoffrey, Clifford's father, was intensely ridiculous, chopping downhis trees, and weeding en out of his colliery to shove the into the war@ and hiself

!eing so safe and patriotic@ !ut, also, spending ore oney on his country than he'd got.

$hen iss Chatterley--+a--cae down to London fro the idlands to do

soe nursing work, she was very witty in a 0uiet way a!out ir ;eoffrey and hisdeterined patriotis. Her!ert, the elder !rother and heir, laughed outright, though it was

his trees that were falling for trench props. 2ut Clifford only siled a little uneasily.

+verything was ridiculous, 0uite true. 2ut when it cae too close and oneself !ecae

ridiculous too...8 %t least people of a different class, like Connie, were earnest a!outsoething. They !elieved in soething.

They were rather earnest a!out the Toies, and the threat of conscription, andthe shortage of sugar and toffee for the children. "n all these things, of course, the

authorities were ridiculously at fault. 2ut Clifford could not take it to heart. To hi the

authorities were ridiculous %2 OBO, not !ecause of toffee or Toies.%nd the authorities felt ridiculous, and !ehaved in a rather ridiculous fashion, and

it was all a ad hatter's tea-party for a while. Till things developed over there, and Lloyd

;eorge cae to save the situation over here. %nd this surpassed even ridicule, the

flippant young laughed no ore."n 1(1 Her!ert Chatterley was killed, so Clifford !ecae heir. He was terrified

even of this. His iportance as son of ir ;eoffrey, and child of $rag!y, was so

ingrained in hi, he could never escape it. %nd yet he knew that this too, in the eyes ofthe vast seething world, was ridiculous. 9ow he was heir and responsi!le for $rag!y.

$as that not terri!le8 and also splendid and at the sae tie, perhaps, purely a!surd8

ir ;eoffrey would have none of the a!surdity. He was pale and tense, withdrawninto hiself, and o!stinately deterined to save his country and his own position, let it !e

Lloyd ;eorge or who it ight. o cut off he was, so divorced fro the +ngland that was

really +ngland, so utterly incapa!le, that he even thought well of Horatio 2ottoley. ir

;eoffrey stood for +ngland and Lloyd ;eorge as his fore!ears had stood for +ngland andt ;eorge# and he never knew there was a difference. o ir ;eoffrey felled ti!er and

stood for Lloyd ;eorge and +ngland, +ngland and Lloyd ;eorge.

%nd he wanted Clifford to arry and produce an heir. Clifford felt his father wasa hopeless anachronis. 2ut wherein was he hiself any further ahead, ecept in a

wincing sense of the ridiculousness of everything, and the paraount ridiculousness of

his own position8 *or willy-nilly he took his !aronetcy and $rag!y with the lastseriousness.

The gay eciteent had gone out of the war... dead. Too uch death and horror.

% an needed support and cofort. % an needed to have an anchor in the safe world. %

an needed a wife.


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The Chatterleys, two !rothers and a sister, had lived curiously isolated, shut in

with one another at $rag!y, in spite of all their conneions. % sense of isolation

intensified the faily tie, a sense of the weakness of their position, a sense ofdefencelessness, in spite of, or !ecause of, the title and the land. They were cut off fro

those industrial idlands in which they passed their lives. %nd they were cut off fro

their own class !y the !rooding, o!stinate, shut-up nature of ir ;eoffrey, their father,who they ridiculed, !ut who they were so sensitive a!out.

The three had said they would all live together always. 2ut now Her!ert was

dead, and ir ;eoffrey wanted Clifford to arry. ir ;eoffrey !arely entioned it# hespoke very little. 2ut his silent, !rooding insistence that it should !e so was hard for

Clifford to !ear up against.

2ut +a said 9o7 he was ten years older than Clifford, and she felt his

arrying would !e a desertion and a !etrayal of what the young ones of the faily hadstood for.

Clifford arried Connie, nevertheless, and had his onth's honeyoon with her.

"t was the terri!le year 1(1), and they were intiate as two people who stand together on

a sinking ship. He had !een virgin when he arried# and the se part did not ean uchto hi. They were so close, he and she, apart fro that. %nd Connie eulted a little in this

intiacy which was !eyond se, and !eyond a an's 'satisfaction'.Clifford anyhow was not 4ust keen on his 'satisfaction', as so any en seeed to

!e. 9o, the intiacy was deeper, ore personal than that. %nd se was erely an

accident, or an ad4unct, one of the curious o!solete, organic processes which persisted inits own clusiness, !ut was not really necessary. Though Connie did want children# if

only to fortify her against her sister-in-law +a.

2ut early in 1(1 Clifford was shipped hoe sashed, and there was no child.

%nd ir ;eoffrey died of chagrin.

Chapter

Connie and Clifford cae hoe to $rag!y in the autun of 1(/. iss Chatterley, stilldisgusted at her !rother's defection, had departed and was living in a little flat in London.

$rag!y was a long low old house in !rown stone, !egun a!out the iddle of the

eighteenth century, and added on to, till it was a warren of a place without uch

distinction. "t stood on an einence in a rather line old park of oak trees, !ut alas, onecould see in the near distance the chiney of Tevershall pit, with its clouds of stea and

soke, and on the dap, ha&y distance of the hill the raw straggle of Tevershall village, a

village which !egan alost at the park gates, and trailed in utter hopeless ugliness for along and gruesoe ile# houses, rows of wretched, sall, !egried, !rick houses, with

!lack slate roofs for lids, sharp angles and wilful, !lank dreariness.

Connie was accustoed to :ensington or the cotch hills or the usse downs#that was her +ngland. $ith the stoicis of the young she took in the utter, soulless

ugliness of the coal-and-iron idlands at a glance, and left it at what it was# un!elieva!le

and not to !e thought a!out.


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*ro the rather disal roos at $rag!y 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 locootives. Tevershall pit-!ank was !urning, had!een !urning for years, and it would cost thousands to put it out. o it had to !urn.

%nd when the wind was that way, which was often, the house was full of the

stench of this sulphurous co!ustion of the earth's ecreent. 2ut even on windless daysthe air always selt of soething under-earth# sulphur, iron, coal, or acid. %nd even on

the Christas roses the suts settled persistently, incredi!le, like !lack anna fro the

skies of doo.$ell, there it was# fated like the rest of things7 "t was rather awful, !ut why kick8

3ou couldn't kick it away. "t 4ust went on. Life, like all the rest7 On the low dark ceiling

of cloud at night red !lotches !urned and 0uavered, dappling and swelling and

contracting, like !urns that give pain. "t was the furnaces. %t first they fascinated Conniewith a sort of horror@ she felt she was living underground. Then she got used to the.

%nd in the orning it rained.

Clifford professed to like $rag!y !etter than London. This country had a gri

will of its own, and the people had guts. Connie wondered what else they had# certainlyneither eyes nor inds. The people were as haggard, shapeless, and dreary as the

countryside, and as unfriendly.Only there was soething in their deep-outhed slurring of the dialect, and the

thresh-thresh of their ho!-nailed pit-!oots as they trailed hoe in gangs on the asphalt

fro work, that was terri!le and a !it ysterious.There had !een no welcoe hoe for the young s0uire, no festivities, no

deputation, not even a single flower. Only a dank ride in a otor-car up a dark, dap

drive, !urrowing through glooy trees, out to the slope of the park where grey dap

sheep were feeding, to the knoll where the house spread its dark !rown facade, and thehousekeeper and her hus!and were hovering, like unsure tenants on the face of the earth,

ready to staer a welcoe.

There was no counication !etween $rag!y Hall and Tevershall village, none.9o caps were touched, no curtseys !o!!ed. The colliers erely stared@ the tradesen

lifted their caps to Connie as to an ac0uaintance, and nodded awkwardly to Clifford@ that

was all. ;ulf ipassa!le, and a 0uiet sort of resentent on either side. %t first Conniesuffered fro the steady dri&&le of resentent that cae fro the village. Then she

hardened herself to it, and it !ecae a sort of tonic, soething to live up to. "t was not

that she and Clifford were unpopular, they erely !elonged to another species altogether

fro the colliers. ;ulf ipassa!le, !reach indescri!a!le, such as is perhaps noneistentsouth of the Trent. 2ut in the idlands and the industrial 9orth gulf ipassa!le, across

which no counication could take place.

3ou stick to your side, "'ll stick to ine7 % strange denial of the coon pulse ofhuanity.

3et the village sypathi&ed with Clifford and Connie in the a!stract.

"n the flesh it was--3ou leave e alone7--on either side.The rector was a nice an of a!out sity, full of his duty, and reduced, personally,

alost to a nonentity !y the silent--3ou leave e alone7--of the village. The iners'

wives were nearly all ethodists.


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The iners were nothing. 2ut even so uch official unifor as the clergyan

wore was enough to o!scure entirely the fact that he was a an like any other an. 9o,

he was ester %sh!y, a sort of autoatic preaching and praying concern.This stu!!orn, instinctive--$e think ourselves as good as you, if you %5+ Lady

Chatterley7--pu&&led and !affled Connie at first etreely.

The curious, suspicious, false aia!ility with which the iners' wives et herovertures@ the curiously offensive tinge of--Oh dear e7 " % soe!ody now, with Lady

Chatterley talking to e7 2ut she needn't think "' not as good as her for all that7--which

she always heard twanging in the woen's half-fawning voices, was ipossi!le. Therewas no getting past it. "t was hopelessly and offensively nonconforist.

Clifford left the alone, and she learnt to do the sae# she 4ust went !y without

looking at the, and they stared as if she were a walking wa figure. $hen he had to deal

with the, Clifford was rather haughty and conteptuous@ one could no longer afford to!e friendly. "n fact he was altogether rather supercilious and conteptuous of anyone not

in his own class. He stood his ground, without any attept at conciliation. %nd he was

neither liked nor disliked !y the people# he was 4ust part of things, like the pit-!ank and

$rag!y itself.2ut Clifford was really etreely shy and self-conscious now he was laed. He

hated seeing anyone ecept 4ust the personal servants. *or he had to sit in a wheeled chairor a sort of !ath-chair. 9evertheless he was 4ust as carefully dressed as ever, !y his

epensive tailors, and he wore the careful 2ond treet neckties 4ust as !efore, and fro

the top he looked 4ust as sart and ipressive as ever. He had never !een one of theodern ladylike young en# rather !ucolic even, with his ruddy face and !road

shoulders. 2ut his very 0uiet, hesitating voice, and his eyes, at the sae tie !old and

frightened, assured and uncertain, revealed his nature. His anner was often offensively

supercilious, and then again odest and self-effacing, alost treulous.Connie and he were attached to one another, in the aloof odern way. He was

uch too hurt in hiself, the great shock of his aiing, to !e easy and flippant. He was

a hurt thing. %nd as such Connie stuck to hi passionately.2ut she could not help feeling how little conneion he really had with people. The

iners were, in a sense, his own en@ !ut he saw the as o!4ects rather than en, parts

of the pit rather than parts of life, crude raw phenoena rather than huan !eings alongwith hi. He was in soe way afraid of the, he could not !ear to have the look at hi

now he was lae. %nd their 0ueer, crude life seeed as unnatural as that of hedgehogs.

He was reotely interested@ !ut like a an looking down a icroscope, or up a

telescope. He was not in touch. He was not in actual touch with any!ody, save,traditionally, with $rag!y, and, through the close !ond of faily defence, with +a.

2eyond this nothing really touched hi.

Connie felt that she herself didn't really, not really touch hi@ perhaps there wasnothing to get at ultiately@ 4ust a negation of huan contact.

3et he was a!solutely dependent on her, he needed her every oent. 2ig and

strong as he was, he was helpless. He could wheel hiself a!out in a wheeled chair, andhe had a sort of !ath-chair with a otor attachent, in which he could puff slowly round

the park. 2ut alone he was like a lost thing. He needed Connie to !e there, to assure hi

he eisted at all.


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till he was a!itious. He had taken to writing stories@ curious, very personal

stories a!out people he had known. Clever, rather spiteful, and yet, in soe ysterious

way, eaningless. The o!servation was etraordinary and peculiar. 2ut there was notouch, no actual contact.

"t was as if the whole thing took place in a vacuu. %nd since the field of life is

largely an artificially-lighted stage today, the stories were curiously true to odern life,to the odern psychology, that is.

Clifford was alost or!idly sensitive a!out these stories. He wanted everyone to

think the good, of the !est, 9+ 6L? ?LT5%. They appeared in the ost odernaga&ines, and were praised and !laed as usual. 2ut to Clifford the !lae was torture,

like knives goading hi. "t was as if the whole of his !eing were in his stories.

Connie helped hi as uch as she could. %t first she was thrilled. He talked

everything over with her onotonously, insistently, persistently, and she had to respondwith all her ight. "t was as if her whole soul and !ody and se had to rouse up and pass

into thee stories of his. This thrilled her and a!sor!ed her.

Of physical life they lived very little. he had to superintend the house. 2ut the

housekeeper had served ir ;eoffrey for any years, and the dried-up, elderly,superlatively correct feale you could hardly call her a parlour-aid, or even a woan...

who waited at ta!le, had !een in the house for forty years. +ven the very houseaidswere no longer young. "t was awful7 $hat could you do with such a place, !ut leave it

alone7 %ll these endless roos that no!ody used, all the idlands routine, the echanical

cleanliness and the echanical order7Clifford had insisted on a new cook, an eperienced woan who had served hi

in his roos in London. *or the rest the place seeed run !y echanical anarchy.

+verything went on in pretty good order, strict cleanliness, and strict punctuality@ even

pretty strict honesty. %nd yet, to Connie, it was a ethodical anarchy. 9o warth offeeling united it organically. The house seeed as dreary as a disused street.

$hat could she do !ut leave it alone8 o she left it alone. iss Chatterley cae

soeties, with her aristocratic thin face, and triuphed, finding nothing altered. hewould never forgive Connie for ousting her fro her union in consciousness with her

!rother. "t was she, +a, who should !e !ringing forth the stories, these !ooks, with

hi@ the Chatterley stories, soething new in the world, that TH+3, the Chatterleys, hadput there. There was no other standard. There was no organic conneion with the thought

and epression that had gone !efore.

Only soething new in the world# the Chatterley !ooks, entirely personal.

Connie's father, where he paid a flying visit to $rag!y, and in private to hisdaughter# %s for Clifford's writing, it's sart, !ut there's 9OTH"9; "9 "T. "t won't last7

Connie looked at the !urly cottish knight who had done hiself well all his life, and her

eyes, her !ig, still-wondering !lue eyes !ecae vague. 9othing in it7 $hat did he ean!y nothing in it8 "f the critics praised it, and Clifford's nae was alost faous, and it

even !rought in oney... what did her father ean !y saying there was nothing in

Clifford's writing8 $hat else could there !e8*or Connie had adopted the standard of the young# what there was in the oent

was everything. %nd oents followed one another without necessarily !elonging to one

another.


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11/208

pilchard sort of fish', like a !oy, with a !oy's flat !reast and little !uttocks. he was too

feinine to !e 0uite sart.

o the en, especially those no longer young, were very nice to her indeed. 2ut,knowing what torture poor Clifford would feel at the slightest sign of flirting on her part,

she gave the no encourageent at all. he was 0uiet and vague, she had no contact with

the and intended to have none. Clifford was etraordinarily proud of hiself.His relatives treated her 0uite kindly. he knew that the kindliness indicated a

lack of fear, and that these people had no respect for you unless you could frighten the a

little. 2ut again she had no contact.he let the !e kindly and disdainful, she let the feel they had no need to draw

their steel in readiness. he had no real conneion with the.

Tie went on. $hatever happened, nothing happened, !ecause she was so

!eautifully out of contact. he and Clifford lived in their ideas and his !ooks. heentertained... there were always people in the house.

Tie went on as the clock does, half past eight instead of half past seven.

Chapter

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D.H Lawrence-Lady Chatterly's Lover