Lady Chatterley's Lover

Lawrence, David Herbert

Published: 1928
Categorie(s): Fiction, Literary
Source: http://gutenberg.net.au

1
About Lawrence:
David Herbert Lawrence (11 September 1885 - 2 March
1930) was an important and controversial English writer of the
20th century, whose prolific and diverse output included nov-
els, short stories, poems, plays, essays, travel books, paintings,
translations, literary criticism and personal letters. His collec-
ted works represent an extended reflection upon the dehuman-
izing effects of modernity and industrialisation. In them,
Lawrence confronts issues relating to emotional health and vi-
tality, spontaneity, sexuality, and instinctive behaviour.
Lawrence's unsettling opinions earned him many enemies and
he endured hardships, official persecution, censorship and mis-
representation of his creative work throughout the second half
of his life, much of which he spent in a voluntary exile he called
his "savage pilgrimage." At the time of his death, his public
reputation was that of a pornographer who had wasted his con-
siderable talents. E. M. Forster, in an obituary notice, chal-
lenged this widely held view, describing him as "the greatest
imaginative novelist of our generation." Later, the influential
Cambridge critic F. R. Leavis championed both his artistic in-
tegrity and his moral seriousness, placing much of Lawrence's
fiction within the canonical "great tradition" of the English nov-
el. He is now generally valued as a visionary thinker and a sig-
nificant representative of modernism in English literature, al-
though some feminists object to the attitudes toward women
and sexuality found in his works. Source: Wikipedia

Also available on Feedbooks for Lawrence:

Copyright: This work is available for countries where

2
copyright is Life+70.

Note: This book is brought to you by Feedbooks

3
Chapter 1
Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragic-
ally. 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 fu-
ture: 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 in-
adequate 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 at-
tachment, so he could drive himself slowly round the garden

4
and into the line 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 con-
ventions, 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 at-
mosphere. 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 mu-
sic 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

5
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 inter-
change 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 un-
der the trees in such freedom wanted, of course, the love con-
nexion. 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 tres-
passed on one's privacy and inner freedom. For, of course, be-
ing 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 subjec-
tions. Poets who glorified it were mostly men. Women had al-
ways 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

6
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 her-
self 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 her-
self coming to the crisis: and then she could prolong the con-
nexion 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-en-
lightened discussions the sex thing became more or less inevit-
able, 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 passe par la, as somebody puts it. But he was a
man of experience himself, and let life take its course. As for
the mot a nervous invalid in the last few months of her life, she
wanted her girls to be 'free', and to 'fulfil themselves'. She her-
self 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,

7
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 wonder-
ful 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 assert-
ive, more hesitant.
In the actual sex-thrill within the body, the sisters nearly suc-
cumbed 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 chil-
dren, 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.

8
 Both sisters lived in their father's, really their mother's,
Kensington housemixed 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 an-
archy, 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 philo-
sophical essays. She lived with him in a smallish house in West-
minster, 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 be-
come 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. Con-
nie was well-to-do intelligentsia, but he was aristocracy. Not
the big sort, but still it. His father was a baronet, and his moth-
er 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 oth-
er 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 hu-
manity, 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 phe-
nomenon 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.

9
 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. Fath-
ers were ridiculous: his own obstinate one supremely so. And
governments were ridiculous: our own wait-and-see sort espe-
cially so. And armies were ridiculous, and old buffers of gener-
als 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 ridicu-
lous 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 falling 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 ri-
diculously at fault. But Clifford could not take it to heart. To
him the authorities were ridiculous ab ovo, not because of tof-
fee 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 ri-
dicule, 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

10
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 Eng-
land that was really England, so utterly incapable, that he even
thought well of Horatio Bottomley. Sir Geoffrey stood for Eng-
land 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 Eng-
land, England and Lloyd George.
And he wanted Clifford to marry and produce an heir. Clif-
ford 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 ridiculous-
ness 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 curi-
ously 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 de-
fencelessness, 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.

11
 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 any-
how 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 Con-
nie 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.

12
Chapter 2
Connie and Clifford came home to Wragby in the autumn of
1920. Miss Chatterley, still disgusted at her brother's defec-
tion, 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 line 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 vil-
lage 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: unbe-
lievable 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 shunt-
ing trucks, and the hoarse little whistle of the colliery locomot-
ives. 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 al-
ways smelt of something under-earth: sulphur, iron, coal, or
acid. And even on the Christmas roses the smuts settled per-
sistently, 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.

13
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 re-
sentment 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 Mid-
lands 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.

14
 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 of-
ficial 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 of-
fensive 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,

15
assured and uncertain, revealed his nature. His manner was of-
ten offensively supercilious, and then again modest and self-ef-
facing, 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 be-
ings 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; curi-
ous, 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 ul-
tra. They appeared in the most modern magazines, and were
praised and blamed as usual. But to Clifford the blame was

16
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, in-
sistently, 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 fe-
male you could hardly call her a parlour-maid, or even a wo-
man… 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 method-
ical 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 con-
nexion with the thought and expression that had gone before.
Only something new in the world: the Chatterley books, en-
tirely 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.

17
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 fol-
lowed 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 be-
ing a demi-vierge.'
'A demi-vierge!' replied Connie vaguely. 'Why? Why not?'
'Unless you like it, of course!' said her father hastily. To Clif-
ford 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-exist-
ent to one another, and neither could bear to drag in the cor-
pus 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

18
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 any-
thing… no touch, no contact! Only this life with Clifford, this
endless spinning of webs of yarn, of the minutiae of conscious-
ness, 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. Suf-
ficient 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 host-
ess 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 ex-
traordinarily proud of himself.

19
 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 disdain-
ful, 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, be-
cause 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.

20
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 get-
ting 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 every-
body. 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 Clif-
ford 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

21
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 custom-
ers, when the customers pay.
Clifford was inviting the young man of thirty at an inauspi-
cious moment in that young man's career. Yet Clifford did not
hesitate. Michaelis had the ear of a few million people, prob-
ably; 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 be-
ing talked about in the right way, especially 'over there'. Clif-
ford 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 in-
stinct 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. Con-
nie was aware from successful, old, hearty, bluffing Sir Mal-
colm, that artists did advertise themselves, and exert them-
selves to put their goods over. But her father used channels
ready-made, used by all the other R. A.s who sold their pic-
tures. 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

22
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, Suc-
cess 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 Mi-
chaelis 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.'

23
 '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 sud-
denly, 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 Con-
nie. 'Will it be an effort?'
He looked at her admiringly. 'Well, Lady Chatterley, some-
how it will! I find… excuse me… I find I can't marry an English-
woman, 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

24
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 swim-
ming through, like rats in a dark river. Connie felt a sudden,
strange leap of sympathy for him, a leap mingled with compas-
sion, 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 ex-
tent 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 ali-
en 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 ap-
peared 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

25
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 revenge-
ful 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 disil-
lusioned 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

26
the night was crying out of his breast to her, in a way that af-
fected 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 de-
tached, 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 si-
lence 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, inevit-
able 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.'

27
 '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 won-
der. 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 after-
noon 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?'

28
 'I don't quite know.'
'Naturally you don't. I'm afraid you mistake unscrupulous-
ness for generosity.'
Connie paused. Did she? It was just possible. Yet the unscru-
pulousness 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 Mi-
chaelis 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, Suc-
cess, 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 even-
ing, though through it Clifford felt the inner effrontery. Connie
didn't feel it, perhaps because it was not directed against wo-
men; only against men, and their presumptions and assump-
tions. That indestructible, inward effrontery in the meagre fel-
low was what made men so down on Michaelis. His very pres-
ence 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, at-
tentive, 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 be-
grudges its golden collar, into a comfortable society dog.

29
 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 isola-
tion was a necessity to him; just as the appearance of conform-
ity 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, spontan-
eous kindness: almost to tears. Beneath his pale, immobile, dis-
illusioned face, his child's soul was sobbing with gratitude to
the woman, and burning to come to her again; just as his out-
cast 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 child-
like and defenceless about his naked body: as children are na-
ked. His defences were all in his wits and cunning, his very in-
stincts 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 de-
sire 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 in-
side 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.

30
 'Ah, how good!' she whispered tremulously, and she became
quite still, clinging to him. And he lay there in his own isola-
tion, 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 af-
fection. 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 esprance a travers 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 hope-
lessness 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 occa-
sionally in London. She still wanted the physical, sexual thrill
she could get with him by her own activity, his little orgasm be-
ing 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 mechan-
ical 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 in-
side 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 ir-
ritable, how Clifford longed for them again! Perhaps if he'd
known he might even have wished to get her and Michaelis to-
gether again.

31
Chapter 4
Connie always had a foreboding of the hopelessness of her af-
fair with Mick, as people called him. Yet other men seemed to
mean nothing to her. She was attached to Clifford. He wanted
a good deal of her life and she gave it to him. But she wanted a
good deal from the life of a man, and this Clifford did not give
her; could not. There were occasional spasms of Michaelis.
But, as she knew by foreboding, that would come to an end.
Mick couldn't keep anything up. It was part of his very being
that he must break off any connexion, and be loose, isolated,
absolutely lone dog again. It was his major necessity, even
though he always said: She turned me down!
The world is supposed to be full of possibilities, but they nar-
row down to pretty few in most personal experience. There's
lots of good fish in the sea… maybe… but the vast masses seem
to be mackerel or herring, and if you're not mackerel or her-
ring yourself you are likely to find very few good fish in the
sea.
Clifford was making strides into fame, and even money.
People came to see him. Connie nearly always had somebody
at Wragby. But if they weren't mackerel they were herring,
with an occasional cat-fish, or conger-eel.
There were a few regular men, constants; men who had been
at Cambridge with Clifford. There was Tommy Dukes, who had
remained in the army, and was a Brigadier-General. 'The army
leaves me time to think, and saves me from having to face the
battle of life,' he said.
There was Charles May, an Irishman, who wrote scientific-
ally about stars. There was Hammond, another writer. All were
about the same age as Clifford; the young intellectuals of the
day. They all believed in the life of the mind. What you did
apart from that was your private affair, and didn't much mat-
ter. No one thinks of inquiring of another person at what hour

32
he retires to the privy. It isn't interesting to anyone but the
person concerned.
And so with most of the matters of ordinary life… how you
make your money, or whether you love your wife, or if you
have 'affairs'. All these matters concern only the person con-
cerned, and, like going to the privy, have no interest for any-
one else.
'The whole point about the sexual problem,' said Hammond,
who was a tall thin fellow with a wife and two children, but
much more closely connected with a typewriter, 'is that there
is no point to it. Strictly there is no problem. We don't want to
follow a man into the w.c., so why should we want to follow
him into bed with a woman? And therein lies the problem. If we
took no more notice of the one thing than the other, there'd be
no problem. It's all utterly senseless and pointless; a matter of
misplaced curiosity.'
'Quite, Hammond, quite! But if someone starts making love
to Julia, you begin to simmer; and if he goes on, you are soon at
boiling point.'… Julia was Hammond's wife.
'Why, exactly! So I should be if he began to urinate in a
corner of my drawing-room. There's a place for all these
things.'
'You mean you wouldn't mind if he made love to Julia in some
discreet alcove?'
Charlie May was slightly satirical, for he had flirted a very
little with Julia, and Hammond had cut up very roughly.
'Of course I should mind. Sex is a private thing between me
and Julia; and of course I should mind anyone else trying to
mix in.'
'As a matter of fact,' said the lean and freckled Tommy
Dukes, who looked much more Irish than May, who was pale
and rather fat: 'As a matter of fact, Hammond, you have a
strong property instinct, and a strong will to self-assertion, and
you want success. Since I've been in the army definitely, I've
got out of the way of the world, and now I see how inordinately
strong the craving for self-assertion and success is in men. It is
enormously overdeveloped. All our individuality has run that
way. And of course men like you think you'll get through better
with a woman's backing. That's why you're so jealous. That's
what sex is to you… a vital little dynamo between you and Julia,

33
to bring success. If you began to be unsuccessful you'd begin
to flirt, like Charlie, who isn't successful. Married people like
you and Julia have labels on you, like travellers' trunks. Julia is
labelled MRS Arnold B. Hammond—just like a trunk on the rail-
way that belongs to somebody. And you are labelled Arnold B.
Hammond, c/o Mrs Arnold B. Hammond. Oh, you're quite right,
you're quite right! The life of the mind needs a comfortable
house and decent cooking. You're quite right. It even needs
posterity. But it all hinges on the instinct for success. That is
the pivot on which all things turn.'
Hammond looked rather piqued. He was rather proud of the
integrity of his mind, and of his not being a time-server. None
the less, he did want success.
'It's quite true, you can't live without cash,' said May. 'You've
got to have a certain amount of it to be able to live and get
along… even to be free to think you must have a certain
amount of money, or your stomach stops you. But it seems to
me you might leave the labels off sex. We're free to talk to any-
body; so why shouldn't we be free to make love to any woman
who inclines us that way?'
'There speaks the lascivious Celt,' said Clifford.
'Lascivious! well, why not—? I can't see I do a woman any
more harm by sleeping with her than by dancing with her… or
even talking to her about the weather. It's just an interchange
of sensations instead of ideas, so why not?'
'Be as promiscuous as the rabbits!' said Hammond.
'Why not? What's wrong with rabbits? Are they any worse
than a neurotic, revolutionary humanity, full of nervous hate?'
'But we're not rabbits, even so,' said Hammond.
'Precisely! I have my mind: I have certain calculations to
make in certain astronomical matters that concern me almost
more than life or death. Sometimes indigestion interferes with
me. Hunger would interfere with me disastrously. In the same
way starved sex interferes with me. What then?'
'I should have thought sexual indigestion from surfeit would
have interfered with you more seriously,' said Hammond
satirically.
'Not it! I don't over-eat myself and I don't over-fuck myself.
One has a choice about eating too much. But you would abso-
lutely starve me.'

34
 'Not at all! You can marry.'
'How do you know I can? It may not suit the process of my
mind. Marriage might… and would… stultify my mental pro-
cesses. I'm not properly pivoted that way… and so must I be
chained in a kennel like a monk? All rot and funk, my boy. I
must live and do my calculations. I need women sometimes. I
refuse to make a mountain of it, and I refuse anybody's moral
condemnation or prohibition. I'd be ashamed to see a woman
walking around with my name-label on her, address and rail-
way station, like a wardrobe trunk.'
These two men had not forgiven each other about the Julia
flirtation.
'It's an amusing idea, Charlie,' said Dukes, 'that sex is just
another form of talk, where you act the words instead of saying
them. I suppose it's quite true. I suppose we might exchange as
many sensations and emotions with women as we do ideas
about the weather, and so on. Sex might be a sort of normal
physical conversation between a man and a woman. You don't
talk to a woman unless you have ideas in common: that is you
don't talk with any interest. And in the same way, unless you
had some emotion or sympathy in common with a woman you
wouldn't sleep with her. But if you had… '
'If you have the proper sort of emotion or sympathy with a
woman, you ought to sleep with her,' said May. 'It's the only
decent thing, to go to bed with her. Just as, when you are inter-
ested talking to someone, the only decent thing is to have the
talk out. You don't prudishly put your tongue between your
teeth and bite it. You just say out your say. And the same the
other way.'
'No,' said Hammond. 'It's wrong. You, for example, May, you
squander half your force with women. You'll never really do
what you should do, with a fine mind such as yours. Too much
of it goes the other way.'
'Maybe it does… and too little of you goes that way, Ham-
mond, my boy, married or not. You can keep the purity and in-
tegrity of your mind, but it's going damned dry. Your pure
mind is going as dry as fiddlesticks, from what I see of it.
You're simply talking it down.'
Tommy Dukes burst into a laugh.

35
 'Go it, you two minds!' he said. 'Look at me… I don't do any
high and pure mental work, nothing but jot down a few ideas.
And yet I neither marry nor run after women. I think Charlie's
quite right; if he wants to run after the women, he's quite free
not to run too often. But I wouldn't prohibit him from running.
As for Hammond, he's got a property instinct, so naturally the
straight road and the narrow gate are right for him. You'll see
he'll be an English Man of Letters before he's done. A.B.C.
from top to toe. Then there's me. I'm nothing. Just a squib. And
what about you, Clifford? Do you think sex is a dynamo to help
a man on to success in the world?'
Clifford rarely talked much at these times. He never held
forth; his ideas were really not vital enough for it, he was too
confused and emotional. Now he blushed and looked
uncomfortable.
'Well!' he said, 'being myself hors de combat, I don't see I've
anything to say on the matter.'
'Not at all,' said Dukes; 'the top of you's by no means hors de
combat. You've got the life of the mind sound and intact. So let
us hear your ideas.'
'Well,' stammered Clifford, 'even then I don't suppose I have
much idea… I suppose marry-and-have-done-with-it would
pretty well stand for what I think. Though of course between a
man and woman who care for one another, it is a great thing.'
'What sort of great thing?' said Tommy.
'Oh… it perfects the intimacy,' said Clifford, uneasy as a wo-
man in such talk.
'Well, Charlie and I believe that sex is a sort of communica-
tion like speech. Let any woman start a sex conversation with
me, and it's natural for me to go to bed with her to finish it, all
in due season. Unfortunately no woman makes any particular
start with me, so I go to bed by myself; and am none the worse
for it… I hope so, anyway, for how should I know? Anyhow I've
no starry calculations to be interfered with, and no immortal
works to write. I'm merely a fellow skulking in the army… '
Silence fell. The four men smoked. And Connie sat there and
put another stitch in her sewing… Yes, she sat there! She had
to sit mum. She had to be quiet as a mouse, not to interfere
with the immensely important speculations of these highly-
mental gentlemen. But she had to be there. They didn't get on

36
so well without her; their ideas didn't flow so freely. Clifford
was much more hedgy and nervous, he got cold feet much
quicker in Connie's absence, and the talk didn't run. Tommy
Dukes came off best; he was a little inspired by her presence.
Hammond she didn't really like; he seemed so selfish in a men-
tal way. And Charles May, though she liked something about
him, seemed a little distasteful and messy, in spite of his stars.
How many evenings had Connie sat and listened to the mani-
festations of these four men! these, and one or two others.
That they never seemed to get anywhere didn't trouble her
deeply. She liked to hear what they had to say, especially when
Tommy was there. It was fun. Instead of men kissing you, and
touching you with their bodies, they revealed their minds to
you. It was great fun! But what cold minds!
And also it was a little irritating. She had more respect for
Michaelis, on whose name they all poured such withering con-
tempt, as a little mongrel arriviste, and uneducated bounder of
the worst sort. Mongrel and bounder or not, he jumped to his
own conclusions. He didn't merely walk round them with mil-
lions of words, in the parade of the life of the mind.
Connie quite liked the life of the mind, and got a great thrill
out of it. But she did think it overdid itself a little. She loved
being there, amidst the tobacco smoke of those famous even-
ings of the cronies, as she called them privately to herself. She
was infinitely amused, and proud too, that even their talking
they could not do, without her silent presence. She had an im-
mense respect for thought… and these men, at least, tried to
think honestly. But somehow there was a cat, and it wouldn't
jump. They all alike talked at something, though what it was,
for the life of her she couldn't say. It was something that Mick
didn't clear, either.
But then Mick wasn't trying to do anything, but just get
through his life, and put as much across other people as they
tried to put across him. He was really anti-social, which was
what Clifford and his cronies had against him. Clifford and his
cronies were not anti-social; they were more or less bent on
saving mankind, or on instructing it, to say the least.
There was a gorgeous talk on Sunday evening, when the con-
versation drifted again to love.

37
 'Blest be the tie that binds Our hearts in kindred something-
or-other'—
said Tommy Dukes. 'I'd like to know what the tie is… The tie
that binds us just now is mental friction on one another. And,
apart from that, there's damned little tie between us. We bust
apart, and say spiteful things about one another, like all the
other damned intellectuals in the world. Damned everybodies,
as far as that goes, for they all do it. Else we bust apart, and
cover up the spiteful things we feel against one another by say-
ing false sugaries. It's a curious thing that the mental life
seems to flourish with its roots in spite, ineffable and fathom-
less spite. Always has been so! Look at Socrates, in Plato, and
his bunch round him! The sheer spite of it all, just sheer joy in
pulling somebody else to bits… Protagoras, or whoever it was!
And Alcibiades, and all the other little disciple dogs joining in
the fray! I must say it makes one prefer Buddha, quietly sitting
under a bo-tree, or Jesus, telling his disciples little Sunday stor-
ies, peacefully, and without any mental fireworks. No, there's
something wrong with the mental life, radically. It's rooted in
spite and envy, envy and spite. Ye shall know the tree by its
fruit.'
'I don't think we're altogether so spiteful,' protested Clifford.
'My dear Clifford, think of the way we talk each other over,
all of us. I'm rather worse than anybody else, myself. Because I
infinitely prefer the spontaneous spite to the concocted sugar-
ies; now they are poison; when I begin saying what a fine fel-
low Clifford is, etc., etc., then poor Clifford is to be pitied. For
God's sake, all of you, say spiteful things about me, then I shall
know I mean something to you. Don't say sugaries, or I'm
done.'
'Oh, but I do think we honestly like one another,' said
Hammond.
'I tell you we must… we say such spiteful things to one an-
other, about one another, behind our backs! I'm the worst.'
'And I do think you confuse the mental life with the critical
activity. I agree with you, Socrates gave the critical activity a
grand start, but he did more than that,' said Charlie May,
rather magisterially. The cronies had such a curious pomposity
under their assumed modesty. It was all so ex cathedra, and it
all pretended to be so humble.

38
 Dukes refused to be drawn about Socrates.
'That's quite true, criticism and knowledge are not the same
thing,' said Hammond.
'They aren't, of course,' chimed in Berry, a brown, shy young
man, who had called to see Dukes, and was staying the night.
They all looked at him as if the ass had spoken.
'I wasn't talking about knowledge… I was talking about the
mental life,' laughed Dukes. 'Real knowledge comes out of the
whole corpus of the consciousness; out of your belly and your
penis as much as out of your brain and mind. The mind can
only analyse and rationalize. Set the mind and the reason to
cock it over the rest, and all they can do is to criticize, and
make a deadness. I say all they can do. It is vastly important.
My God, the world needs criticizing today… criticizing to
death. Therefore let's live the mental life, and glory in our
spite, and strip the rotten old show. But, mind you, it's like
this: while you live your life, you are in some way an Organic
whole with all life. But once you start the mental life you pluck
the apple. You've severed the connexion between the apple and
the tree: the organic connexion. And if you've got nothing in
your life but the mental life, then you yourself are a plucked
apple… you've fallen off the tree. And then it is a logical neces-
sity to be spiteful, just as it's a natural necessity for a plucked
apple to go bad.'
Clifford made big eyes: it was all stuff to him. Connie secretly
laughed to herself.
'Well then we're all plucked apples,' said Hammond, rather
acidly and petulantly.
'So let's make cider of ourselves,' said Charlie.
'But what do you think of Bolshevism?' put in the brown
Berry, as if everything had led up to it.
'Bravo!' roared Charlie. 'What do you think of Bolshevism?'
'Come on! Let's make hay of Bolshevism!' said Dukes.
'I'm afraid Bolshevism is a large question,' said Hammond,
shaking his head seriously.
'Bolshevism, it seems to me,' said Charlie, 'is just a superlat-
ive hatred of the thing they call the bourgeois; and what the
bourgeois is, isn't quite defined. It is Capitalism, among other
things. Feelings and emotions are also so decidedly bourgeois
that you have to invent a man without them.

39
 'Then the individual, especially the personal man, is bour-
geois: so he must be suppressed. You must submerge
yourselves in the greater thing, the Soviet-social thing. Even an
organism is bourgeois: so the ideal must be mechanical. The
only thing that is a unit, non-organic, composed of many differ-
ent, yet equally essential parts, is the machine. Each man a
machine-part, and the driving power of the machine, hate…
hate of the bourgeois. That, to me, is Bolshevism.'
'Absolutely!' said Tommy. 'But also, it seems to me a perfect
description of the whole of the industrial ideal. It's the factory-
owner's ideal in a nut-shell; except that he would deny that the
driving power was hate. Hate it is, all the same; hate of life it-
self. Just look at these Midlands, if it isn't plainly written up…
but it's all part of the life of the mind, it's a logical
development.'
'I deny that Bolshevism is logical, it rejects the major part of
the premisses,' said Hammond.
'My dear man, it allows the material premiss; so does the
pure mind… exclusively.'
'At least Bolshevism has got down to rock bottom,' said
Charlie.
'Rock bottom! The bottom that has no bottom! The Bolshev-
ists will have the finest army in the world in a very short time,
with the finest mechanical equipment.
'But this thing can't go on… this hate business. There must
be a reaction… ' said Hammond.
'Well, we've been waiting for years… we wait longer. Hate's
a growing thing like anything else. It's the inevitable outcome
of forcing ideas on to life, of forcing one's deepest instincts;
our deepest feelings we force according to certain ideas. We
drive ourselves with a formula, like a machine. The logical
mind pretends to rule the roost, and the roost turns into pure
hate. We're all Bolshevists, only we are hypocrites. The Russi-
ans are Bolshevists without hypocrisy.'
'But there are many other ways,' said Hammond, 'than the
Soviet way. The Bolshevists aren't really intelligent.'
'Of course not. But sometimes it's intelligent to be half-wit-
ted: if you want to make your end. Personally, I consider
Bolshevism half-witted; but so do I consider our social life in
the west half-witted. So I even consider our far-famed mental

40
life half-witted. We're all as cold as cretins, we're all as pas-
sionless as idiots. We're all of us Bolshevists, only we give it
another name. We think we're gods… men like gods! It's just
the same as Bolshevism. One has to be human, and have a
heart and a penis if one is going to escape being either a god
or a Bolshevist… for they are the same thing: they're both too
good to be true.'
Out of the disapproving silence came Berry's anxious
question:
'You do believe in love then, Tommy, don't you?'
'You lovely lad!' said Tommy. 'No, my cherub, nine times out
of ten, no! Love's another of those half-witted performances
today. Fellows with swaying waists fucking little jazz girls with
small boy buttocks, like two collar studs! Do you mean that
sort of love? Or the joint-property, make-a-success-of-it, My-
husband-my-wife sort of love? No, my fine fellow, I don't be-
lieve in it at all!'
'But you do believe in something?'
'Me? Oh, intellectually I believe in having a good heart, a
chirpy penis, a lively intelligence, and the courage to say
''shit!'' in front of a lady.'
'Well, you've got them all,' said Berry.
Tommy Dukes roared with laughter. 'You angel boy! If only I
had! If only I had! No; my heart's as numb as a potato, my
penis droops and never lifts its head up, I dare rather cut him
clean off than say ''shit!'' in front of my mother or my aunt…
they are real ladies, mind you; and I'm not really intelligent,
I'm only a ''mental-lifer''. It would be wonderful to be intelli-
gent: then one would be alive in all the parts mentioned and
unmentionable. The penis rouses his head and says: How do
you do?—to any really intelligent person. Renoir said he
painted his pictures with his penis… he did too, lovely pictures!
I wish I did something with mine. God! when one can only talk!
Another torture added to Hades! And Socrates started it.'
'There are nice women in the world,' said Connie, lifting her
head up and speaking at last.
The men resented it… she should have pretended to hear
nothing. They hated her admitting she had attended so closely
to such talk.

41
 'My God! '' If they be not nice to me What care i how nice
they be?''
'No, it's hopeless! I just simply can't vibrate in unison with a
woman. There's no woman I can really want when I'm faced
with her, and I'm not going to start forcing myself to it… My
God, no! I'll remain as I am, and lead the mental life. It's the
only honest thing I can do. I can be quite happy talking to wo-
men; but it's all pure, hopelessly pure. Hopelessly pure! What
do you say, Hildebrand, my chicken?'
'It's much less complicated if one stays pure,' said Berry.
'Yes, life is all too simple!'

42
Chapter 5
On a frosty morning with a little February sun, Clifford and
Connie went for a walk across the park to the wood. That is,
Clifford chuffed in his motor-chair, and Connie walked beside
him.
The hard air was still sulphurous, but they were both used to
it. Round the near horizon went the haze, opalescent with frost
and smoke, and on the top lay the small blue sky; so that it was
like being inside an enclosure, always inside. Life always a
dream or a frenzy, inside an enclosure.
The sheep coughed in the rough, sere grass of the park,
where frost lay bluish in the sockets of the tufts. Across the
park ran a path to the wood-gate, a fine ribbon of pink. Clifford
had had it newly gravelled with sifted gravel from the pit-bank.
When the rock and refuse of the underworld had burned and
given off its sulphur, it turned bright pink, shrimp-coloured on
dry days, darker, crab-coloured on wet. Now it was pale
shrimp-colour, with a bluish-white hoar of frost. It always
pleased Connie, this underfoot of sifted, bright pink. It's an ill
wind that brings nobody good.
Clifford steered cautiously down the slope of the knoll from
the hall, and Connie kept her hand on the chair. In front lay the
wood, the hazel thicket nearest, the purplish density of oaks
beyond. From the wood's edge rabbits bobbed and nibbled.
Rooks suddenly rose in a black train, and went trailing off over
the little sky.
Connie opened the wood-gate, and Clifford puffed slowly
through into the broad riding that ran up an incline between
the clean-whipped thickets of the hazel. The wood was a rem-
nant of the great forest where Robin Hood hunted, and this rid-
ing was an old, old thoroughfare coming across country. But
now, of course, it was only a riding through the private wood.
The road from Mansfield swerved round to the north.

43
 In the wood everything was motionless, the old leaves on the
ground keeping the frost on their underside. A jay called
harshly, many little birds fluttered. But there was no game; no
pheasants. They had been killed off during the war, and the
wood had been left unprotected, till now Clifford had got his
game-keeper again.
Clifford loved the wood; he loved the old oak-trees. He felt
they were his own through generations. He wanted to protect
them. He wanted this place inviolate, shut off from the world.
The chair chuffed slowly up the incline, rocking and jolting
on the frozen clods. And suddenly, on the left, came a clearing
where there was nothing but a ravel of dead bracken, a thin
and spindly sapling leaning here and there, big sawn stumps,
showing their tops and their grasping roots, lifeless. And
patches of blackness where the woodmen had burned the
brushwood and rubbish.
This was one of the places that Sir Geoffrey had cut during
the war for trench timber. The whole knoll, which rose softly
on the right of the riding, was denuded and strangely forlorn.
On the crown of the knoll where the oaks had stood, now was
bareness; and from there you could look out over the trees to
the colliery railway, and the new works at Stacks Gate. Connie
had stood and looked, it was a breach in the pure seclusion of
the wood. It let in the world. But she didn't tell Clifford.
This denuded place always made Clifford curiously angry. He
had been through the war, had seen what it meant. But he
didn't get really angry till he saw this bare hill. He was having
it replanted. But it made him hate Sir Geoffrey.
Clifford sat with a fixed face as the chair slowly mounted.
When they came to the top of the rise he stopped; he would not
risk the long and very jolty down-slope. He sat looking at the
greenish sweep of the riding downwards, a clear way through
the bracken and oaks. It swerved at the bottom of the hill and
disappeared; but it had such a lovely easy curve, of knights rid-
ing and ladies on palfreys.
'I consider this is really the heart of England,' said Clifford to
Connie, as he sat there in the dim February sunshine.
'Do you?' she said, seating herself in her blue knitted dress,
on a stump by the path.

44
 'I do! this is the old England, the heart of it; and I intend to
keep it intact.'
'Oh yes!' said Connie. But, as she said it she heard the
eleven-o'clock hooters at Stacks Gate colliery. Clifford was too
used to the sound to notice.
'I want this wood perfect… untouched. I want nobody to tres-
pass in it,' said Clifford.
There was a certain pathos. The wood still had some of the
mystery of wild, old England; but Sir Geoffrey's cuttings during
the war had given it a blow. How still the trees were, with their
crinkly, innumerable twigs against the sky, and their grey, ob-
stinate trunks rising from the brown bracken! How safely the
birds flitted among them! And once there had been deer, and
archers, and monks padding along on asses. The place re-
membered, still remembered.
Clifford sat in the pale sun, with the light on his smooth,
rather blond hair, his reddish full face inscrutable.
'I mind more, not having a son, when I come here, than any
other time,' he said.
'But the wood is older than your family,' said Connie gently.
'Quite!' said Clifford. 'But we've preserved it. Except for us it
would go… it would be gone already, like the rest of the forest.
One must preserve some of the old England!'
'Must one?' said Connie. 'If it has to be preserved, and pre-
served against the new England? It's sad, I know.'
'If some of the old England isn't preserved, there'll be no
England at all,' said Clifford. 'And we who have this kind of
property, and the feeling for it, must preserve it.'
There was a sad pause. 'Yes, for a little while,' said Connie.
'For a little while! It's all we can do. We can only do our bit. I
feel every man of my family has done his bit here, since we've
had the place. One may go against convention, but one must
keep up tradition.' Again there was a pause.
'What tradition?' asked Connie.
'The tradition of England! of this!'
'Yes,' she said slowly.
'That's why having a son helps; one is only a link in a chain,'
he said.

45
 Connie was not keen on chains, but she said nothing. She
was thinking of the curious impersonality of his desire for a
son.
'I'm sorry we can't have a son,' she said.
He looked at her steadily, with his full, pale-blue eyes.
'It would almost be a good thing if you had a child by another
man, he said. 'If we brought it up at Wragby, it would belong to
us and to the place. I don't believe very intensely in father-
hood. If we had the child to rear, it would be our own, and it
would carry on. Don't you think it's worth considering?'
Connie looked up at him at last. The child, her child, was just
an 'it' to him. It… it… it!
'But what about the other man?' she asked.
'Does it matter very much? Do these things really affect us
very deeply?… You had that lover in Germany… what is it now?
Nothing almost. It seems to me that it isn't these little acts and
little connexions we make in our lives that matter so very
much. They pass away, and where are they? Where… Where
are the snows of yesteryear?… It's what endures through one's
life that matters; my own life matters to me, in its long continu-
ance and development. But what do the occasional connexions
matter? And the occasional sexual connexions especially! If
people don't exaggerate them ridiculously, they pass like the
mating of birds. And so they should. What does it matter? It's
the life-long companionship that matters. It's the living togeth-
er from day to day, not the sleeping together once or twice.
You and I are married, no matter what happens to us. We have
the habit of each other. And habit, to my thinking, is more vital
than any occasional excitement. The long, slow, enduring
thing… that's what we live by… not the occasional spasm of
any sort. Little by little, living together, two people fall into a
sort of unison, they vibrate so intricately to one another. That's
the real secret of marriage, not sex; at least not the simple
function of sex. You and I are interwoven in a marriage. If we
stick to that we ought to be able to arrange this sex thing, as
we arrange going to the dentist; since fate has given us a
checkmate physically there.'
Connie sat and listened in a sort of wonder, and a sort of
fear. She did not know if he was right or not. There was Mi-
chaelis, whom she loved; so she said to herself. But her love

46
was somehow only an excursion from her marriage with Clif-
ford; the long, slow habit of intimacy, formed through years of
suffering and patience. Perhaps the human soul needs excur-
sions, and must not be denied them. But the point of an excur-
sion is that you come home again.
'And wouldn't you mind what man's child I had?' she asked.
'Why, Connie, I should trust your natural instinct of decency
and selection. You just wouldn't let the wrong sort of fellow
touch you.'
She thought of Michaelis! He was absolutely Clifford's idea
of the wrong sort of fellow.
'But men and women may have different feelings about the
wrong sort of fellow,' she said.
'No,' he replied. 'You care for me. I don't believe you would
ever care for a man who was purely antipathetic to me. Your
rhythm wouldn't let you.'
She was silent. Logic might be unanswerable because it was
so absolutely wrong.
'And should you expect me to tell you?' she asked, glancing
up at him almost furtively.
'Not at all, I'd better not know… But you do agree with me,
don't you, that the casual sex thing is nothing, compared to the
long life lived together? Don't you think one can just subordin-
ate the sex thing to the necessities of a long life? Just use it,
since that's what we're driven to? After all, do these temporary
excitements matter? Isn't the whole problem of life the slow
building up of an integral personality, through the years? living
an integrated life? There's no point in a disintegrated life. If
lack of sex is going to disintegrate you, then go out and have a
love-affair. If lack of a child is going to disintegrate you, then
have a child if you possibly can. But only do these things so
that you have an integrated life, that makes a long harmonious
thing. And you and I can do that together… don't you think?…
if we adapt ourselves to the necessities, and at the same time
weave the adaptation together into a piece with our steadily-
lived life. Don't you agree?'
Connie was a little overwhelmed by his words. She knew he
was right theoretically. But when she actually touched her
steadily-lived life with him she… hesitated. Was it actually her

47
destiny to go on weaving herself into his life all the rest of her
life? Nothing else?
Was it just that? She was to be content to weave a steady life
with him, all one fabric, but perhaps brocaded with the occa-
sional flower of an adventure. But how could she know what
she would feel next year? How could one ever know? How
could one say Yes? for years and years? The little yes, gone on
a breath! Why should one be pinned down by that butterfly
word? Of course it had to flutter away and be gone, to be fol-
lowed by other yes's and no's! Like the straying of butterflies.
'I think you're right, Clifford. And as far as I can see I agree
with you. Only life may turn quite a new face on it all.'
'But until life turns a new face on it all, you do agree?'
'Oh yes! I think I do, really.'
She was watching a brown spaniel that had run out of a side-
path, and was looking towards them with lifted nose, making a
soft, fluffy bark. A man with a gun strode swiftly, softly out
after the dog, facing their way as if about to attack them; then
stopped instead, saluted, and was turning downhill. It was only
the new game-keeper, but he had frightened Connie, he
seemed to emerge with such a swift menace. That was how she
had seen him, like the sudden rush of a threat out of nowhere.
He was a man in dark green velveteens and gaiters… the old
style, with a red face and red moustache and distant eyes. He
was going quickly downhill.
'Mellors!' called Clifford.
The man faced lightly round, and saluted with a quick little
gesture, a soldier!
'Will you turn the chair round and get it started? That makes
it easier,' said Clifford.
The man at once slung his gun over his shoulder, and came
forward with the same curious swift, yet soft movements, as if
keeping invisible. He was moderately tall and lean, and was si-
lent. He did not look at Connie at all, only at the chair.
'Connie, this is the new game-keeper, Mellors. You haven't
spoken to her ladyship yet, Mellors?'
'No, Sir!' came the ready, neutral words.
The man lifted his hat as he stood, showing his thick, almost
fair hair. He stared straight into Connie's eyes, with a perfect,
fearless, impersonal look, as if he wanted to see what she was

48
like. He made her feel shy. She bent her head to him shyly, and
he changed his hat to his left hand and made her a slight bow,
like a gentleman; but he said nothing at all. He remained for a
moment still, with his hat in his hand.
'But you've been here some time, haven't you?' Connie said
to him.
'Eight months, Madam… your Ladyship!' he corrected him-
self calmly.
'And do you like it?'
She looked him in the eyes. His eyes narrowed a little, with
irony, perhaps with impudence.
'Why, yes, thank you, your Ladyship! I was reared here… '
He gave another slight bow, turned, put his hat on, and
strode to take hold of the chair. His voice on the last words had
fallen into the heavy broad drag of the dialect… perhaps also in
mockery, because there had been no trace of dialect before. He
might almost be a gentleman. Anyhow, he was a curious, quick,
separate fellow, alone, but sure of himself.
Clifford started the little engine, the man carefully turned
the chair, and set it nose-forwards to the incline that curved
gently to the dark hazel thicket.
'Is that all then, Sir Clifford?' asked the man.
'No, you'd better come along in case she sticks. The engine
isn't really strong enough for the uphill work.' The man
glanced round for his dog… a thoughtful glance. The spaniel
looked at him and faintly moved its tail. A little smile, mocking
or teasing her, yet gentle, came into his eyes for a moment,
then faded away, and his face was expressionless. They went
fairly quickly down the slope, the man with his hand on the rail
of the chair, steadying it. He looked like a free soldier rather
than a servant. And something about him reminded Connie of
Tommy Dukes.
When they came to the hazel grove, Connie suddenly ran for-
ward, and opened the gate into the park. As she stood holding
it, the two men looked at her in passing, Clifford critically, the
other man with a curious, cool wonder; impersonally wanting
to see what she looked like. And she saw in his blue, imperson-
al eyes a look of suffering and detachment, yet a certain
warmth. But why was he so aloof, apart?

49
 Clifford stopped the chair, once through the gate, and the
man came quickly, courteously, to close it.
'Why did you run to open?' asked Clifford in his quiet, calm
voice, that showed he was displeased. 'Mellors would have
done it.'
'I thought you would go straight ahead,' said Connie. 'And
leave you to run after us?' said Clifford.
'Oh, well, I like to run sometimes!'
Mellors took the chair again, looking perfectly unheeding,
yet Connie felt he noted everything. As he pushed the chair up
the steepish rise of the knoll in the park, he breathed rather
quickly, through parted lips. He was rather frail really. Curi-
ously full of vitality, but a little frail and quenched. Her
woman's instinct sensed it.
Connie fell back, let the chair go on. The day had greyed
over; the small blue sky that had poised low on its circular rims
of haze was closed in again, the lid was down, there was a raw
coldness. It was going to snow. All grey, all grey! the world
looked worn out.
The chair waited at the top of the pink path. Clifford looked
round for Connie.
'Not tired, are you?' he said.
'Oh, no!' she said.
But she was. A strange, weary yearning, a dissatisfaction had
started in her. Clifford did not notice: those were not things he
was aware of. But the stranger knew. To Connie, everything in
her world and life seemed worn out, and her dissatisfaction
was older than the hills.
They came to the house, and around to the back, where there
were no steps. Clifford managed to swing himself over on to
the low, wheeled house-chair; he was very strong and agile
with his arms. Then Connie lifted the burden of his dead legs
after him.
The keeper, waiting at attention to be dismissed, watched
everything narrowly, missing nothing. He went pale, with a
sort of fear, when he saw Connie lifting the inert legs of the
man in her arms, into the other chair, Clifford pivoting round
as she did so. He was frightened.
'Thanks, then, for the help, Mellors,' said Clifford casually, as
he began to wheel down the passage to the servants' quarters.

50
 'Nothing else, Sir?' came the neutral voice, like one in a
dream.
'Nothing, good morning!'
'Good morning, Sir.'
'Good morning! it was kind of you to push the chair up that
hill… I hope it wasn't heavy for you,' said Connie, looking back
at the keeper outside the door.
His eyes came to hers in an instant, as if wakened up. He
was aware of her.
'Oh no, not heavy!' he said quickly. Then his voice dropped
again into the broad sound of the vernacular: 'Good mornin' to
your Ladyship!'
'Who is your game-keeper?' Connie asked at lunch.
'Mellors! You saw him,' said Clifford.
'Yes, but where did he come from?'
'Nowhere! He was a Tevershall boy… son of a collier, I
believe.'
'And was he a collier himself?'
'Blacksmith on the pit-bank, I believe: overhead smith. But he
was keeper here for two years before the war… before he
joined up. My father always had a good opinion of him, so
when he came back, and went to the pit for a blacksmith's job,
I just took him back here as keeper. I was really very glad to
get him… its almost impossible to find a good man round here
for a gamekeeper… and it needs a man who knows the people.'
'And isn't he married?'
'He was. But his wife went off with… with various men… but
finally with a collier at Stacks Gate, and I believe she's living
there still.'
'So this man is alone?'
'More or less! He has a mother in the village… and a child, I
believe.'
Clifford looked at Connie, with his pale, slightly prominent
blue eyes, in which a certain vagueness was coming. He
seemed alert in the foreground, but the background was like
the Midlands atmosphere, haze, smoky mist. And the haze
seemed to be creeping forward. So when he stared at Connie
in his peculiar way, giving her his peculiar, precise informa-
tion, she felt all the background of his mind filling up with

51
mist, with nothingness. And it frightened her. It made him
seem impersonal, almost to idiocy.
And dimly she realized one of the great laws of the human
soul: that when the emotional soul receives a wounding shock,
which does not kill the body, the soul seems to recover as the
body recovers. But this is only appearance. It is really only the
mechanism of the re-assumed habit. Slowly, slowly the wound
to the soul begins to make itself felt, like a bruise, which only
slowly deepens its terrible ache, till it fills all the psyche. And
when we think we have recovered and forgotten, it is then that
the terrible after-effects have to be encountered at their worst.
So it was with Clifford. Once he was 'well', once he was back
at Wragby, and writing his stories, and feeling sure of life, in
spite of all, he seemed to forget, and to have recovered all his
equanimity. But now, as the years went by, slowly, slowly, Con-
nie felt the bruise of fear and horror coming up, and spreading
in him. For a time it had been so deep as to be numb, as it
were non-existent. Now slowly it began to assert itself in a
spread of fear, almost paralysis. Mentally he still was alert. But
the paralysis, the bruise of the too-great shock, was gradually
spreading in his affective self.
And as it spread in him, Connie felt it spread in her. An in-
ward dread, an emptiness, an indifference to everything gradu-
ally spread in her soul. When Clifford was roused, he could still
talk brilliantly and, as it were, command the future: as when, in
the wood, he talked about her having a child, and giving an
heir to Wragby. But the day after, all the brilliant words
seemed like dead leaves, crumpling up and turning to powder,
meaning really nothing, blown away on any gust of wind. They
were not the leafy words of an effective life, young with energy
and belonging to the tree. They were the hosts of fallen leaves
of a life that is ineffectual.
So it seemed to her everywhere. The colliers at Tevershall
were talking again of a strike, and it seemed to Connie there
again it was not a manifestation of energy, it was the bruise of
the war that had been in abeyance, slowly rising to the surface
and creating the great ache of unrest, and stupor of discontent.
The bruise was deep, deep, deep… the bruise of the false inhu-
man war. It would take many years for the living blood of the
generations to dissolve the vast black clot of bruised blood,

52
deep inside their souls and bodies. And it would need a new
hope.
Poor Connie! As the years drew on it was the fear of nothing-
ness In her life that affected her. Clifford's mental life and hers
gradually began to feel like nothingness. Their marriage, their
integrated life based on a habit of intimacy, that he talked
about: there were days when it all became utterly blank and
nothing. It was words, just so many words. The only reality was
nothingness, and over it a hypocrisy of words.
There was Clifford's success: the bitch-goddess! It was true
he was almost famous, and his books brought him in a thou-
sand pounds. His photograph appeared everywhere. There was
a bust of him in one of the galleries, and a portrait of him in
two galleries. He seemed the most modern of modern voices.
With his uncanny lame instinct for publicity, he had become in
four or five years one of the best known of the young 'intellec-
tuals'. Where the intellect came in, Connie did not quite see.
Clifford was really clever at that slightly humorous analysis of
people and motives which leaves everything in bits at the end.
But it was rather like puppies tearing the sofa cushions to bits;
except that it was not young and playful, but curiously old, and
rather obstinately conceited. It was weird and it was nothing.
This was the feeling that echoed and re-echoed at the bottom
of Connie's soul: it was all flag, a wonderful display of nothing-
ness; At the same time a display. A display! a display! a
display!
Michaelis had seized upon Clifford as the central figure for a
play; already he had sketched in the plot, and written the first
act. For Michaelis was even better than Clifford at making a
display of nothingness. It was the last bit of passion left in
these men: the passion for making a display. Sexually they
were passionless, even dead. And now it was not money that
Michaelis was after. Clifford had never been primarily out for
money, though he made it where he could, for money is the
seal and stamp of success. And success was what they wanted.
They wanted, both of them, to make a real display… a man's
own very display of himself that should capture for a time the
vast populace.
It was strange… the prostitution to the bitch-goddess. To
Connie, since she was really outside of it, and since she had

53
grown numb to the thrill of it, it was again nothingness. Even
the prostitution to the bitch-goddess was nothingness, though
the men prostituted themselves innumerable times. Nothing-
ness even that.
Michaelis wrote to Clifford about the play. Of course she
knew about it long ago. And Clifford was again thrilled. He was
going to be displayed again this time, somebody was going to
display him, and to advantage. He invited Michaelis down to
Wragby with Act I.
Michaelis came: in summer, in a pale-coloured suit and white
suede gloves, with mauve orchids for Connie, very lovely, and
Act I was a great success. Even Connie was thrilled… thrilled
to what bit of marrow she had left. And Michaelis, thrilled by
his power to thrill, was really wonderful… and quite beautiful,
in Connie's eyes. She saw in him that ancient motionlessness of
a race that can't be disillusioned any more, an extreme, per-
haps, of impurity that is pure. On the far side of his supreme
prostitution to the bitch-goddess he seemed pure, pure as an
African ivory mask that dreams impurity into purity, in its ivory
curves and planes.
His moment of sheer thrill with the two Chatterleys, when he
simply carried Connie and Clifford away, was one of the su-
preme moments of Michaelis' life. He had succeeded: he had
carried them away. Even Clifford was temporarily in love with
him… if that is the way one can put it.
So next morning Mick was more uneasy than ever; restless,
devoured, with his hands restless in his trousers pockets. Con-
nie had not visited him in the night… and he had not known
where to find her. Coquetry!… at his moment of triumph.
He went up to her sitting-room in the morning. She knew he
would come. And his restlessness was evident. He asked her
about his play… did she think it good? He had to hear it
praised: that affected him with the last thin thrill of passion
beyond any sexual orgasm. And she praised it rapturously. Yet
all the while, at the bottom of her soul, she knew it was
nothing.
'Look here!' he said suddenly at last. 'Why don't you and I
make a clean thing of it? Why don't we marry?'
'But I am married,' she said, amazed, and yet feeling nothing.

54
 'Oh that!… he'll divorce you all right… Why don't you and I
marry? I want to marry. I know it would be the best thing for
me… marry and lead a regular life. I lead the deuce of a life,
simply tearing myself to pieces. Look here, you and I, we're
made for one another… hand and glove. Why don't we marry?
Do you see any reason why we shouldn't?'
Connie looked at him amazed: and yet she felt nothing. These
men, they were all alike, they left everything out. They just
went off from the top of their heads as if they were squibs, and
expected you to be carried heavenwards along with their own
thin sticks.
'But I am married already,' she said. 'I can't leave Clifford,
you know.'
'Why not? but why not?' he cried. 'He'll hardly know you've
gone, after six months. He doesn't know that anybody exists,
except himself. Why the man has no use for you at all, as far as
I can see; he's entirely wrapped up in himself.'
Connie felt there was truth in this. But she also felt that Mick
was hardly making a display of selflessness.
'Aren't all men wrapped up in themselves?' she asked.
'Oh, more or less, I allow. A man's got to be, to get through.
But that's not the point. The point is, what sort of a time can a
man give a woman? Can he give her a damn good time, or can't
he? If he can't he's no right to the woman… ' He paused and
gazed at her with his full, hazel eyes, almost hypnotic. 'Now I
consider,' he added, 'I can give a woman the darndest good
time she can ask for. I think I can guarantee myself.'
'And what sort of a good time?' asked Connie, gazing on him
still with a sort of amazement, that looked like thrill; and un-
derneath feeling nothing at all.
'Every sort of a good time, damn it, every sort! Dress, jewels
up to a point, any nightclub you like, know anybody you want
to know, live the pace… travel and be somebody wherever you
go… Darn it, every sort of good time.'
He spoke it almost in a brilliancy of triumph, and Connie
looked at him as if dazzled, and really feeling nothing at all.
Hardly even the surface of her mind was tickled at the glowing
prospects he offered her. Hardly even her most outside self re-
sponded, that at any other time would have been thrilled. She
just got no feeling from it, she couldn't 'go off'. She just sat and

55
stared and looked dazzled, and felt nothing, only somewhere
she smelt the extraordinarily unpleasant smell of the bitch-
goddess.
Mick sat on tenterhooks, leaning forward in his chair, glaring
at her almost hysterically: and whether he was more anxious
out of vanity for her to say Yes! or whether he was more panic-
stricken for fear she should say Yes!—who can tell?
'I should have to think about it,' she said. 'I couldn't say now.
It may seem to you Clifford doesn't count, but he does. When
you think how disabled he is… '
'Oh damn it all! If a fellow's going to trade on his disabilities,
I might begin to say how lonely I am, and always have been,
and all the rest of the my-eye-Betty-Martin sob-stuff! Damn it
all, if a fellow's got nothing but disabilities to recommend
him… '
He turned aside, working his hands furiously in his trousers
pockets. That evening he said to her:
'You're coming round to my room tonight, aren't you? I don't
darn know where your room is.'
'All right!' she said.
He was a more excited lover that night, with his strange,
small boy's frail nakedness. Connie found it impossible to come
to her crisis before he had really finished his. And he roused a
certain craving passion in her, with his little boy's nakedness
and softness; she had to go on after he had finished, in the wild
tumult and heaving of her loins, while he heroically kept him-
self up, and present in her, with all his will and self-offering,
till she brought about her own crisis, with weird little cries.
When at last he drew away from her, he said, in a bitter, al-
most sneering little voice:
'You couldn't go off at the same time as a man, could you?
You'd have to bring yourself off! You'd have to run the show!'
This little speech, at the moment, was one of the shocks of
her life. Because that passive sort of giving himself was so ob-
viously his only real mode of intercourse.
'What do you mean?' she said.
'You know what I mean. You keep on for hours after I've gone
off… and I have to hang on with my teeth till you bring yourself
off by your own exertions.'

56
 She was stunned by this unexpected piece of brutality, at the
moment when she was glowing with a sort of pleasure beyond
words, and a sort of love for him. Because, after all, like so
many modern men, he was finished almost before he had be-
gun. And that forced the woman to be active.
'But you want me to go on, to get my own satisfaction?' she
said.
He laughed grimly: 'I want it!' he said. 'That's good! I want to
hang on with my teeth clenched, while you go for me!'
'But don't you?' she insisted.
He avoided the question. 'All the darned women are like
that,' he said. 'Either they don't go off at all, as if they were
dead in there… or else they wait till a chap's really done, and
then they start in to bring themselves off, and a chap's got to
hang on. I never had a woman yet who went off just at the
same moment as I did.'
Connie only half heard this piece of novel, masculine inform-
ation. She was only stunned by his feeling against her… his in-
comprehensible brutality. She felt so innocent.
'But you want me to have my satisfaction too, don't you?' she
repeated.
'Oh, all right! I'm quite willing. But I'm darned if hanging on
waiting for a woman to go off is much of a game for a man… '
This speech was one of the crucial blows of Connie's life. It
killed something in her. She had not been so very keen on Mi-
chaelis; till he started it, she did not want him. It was as if she
never positively wanted him. But once he had started her, it
seemed only natural for her to come to her own crisis with him.
Almost she had loved him for it… almost that night she loved
him, and wanted to marry him.
Perhaps instinctively he knew it, and that was why he had to
bring down the whole show with a smash; the house of cards.
Her whole sexual feeling for him, or for any man, collapsed
that night. Her life fell apart from his as completely as if he
had never existed.
And she went through the days drearily. There was nothing
now but this empty treadmill of what Clifford called the integ-
rated life, the long living together of two people, who are in the
habit of being in the same house with one another.

57
 Nothingness! To accept the great nothingness of life seemed
to be the one end of living. All the many busy and important
little things that make up the grand sum-total of nothingness!

58
Chapter 6
'Why don't men and women really like one another nowadays?'
Connie asked Tommy Dukes, who was more or less her oracle.
'Oh, but they do! I don't think since the human species was
invented, there has ever been a time when men and women
have liked one another as much as they do today. Genuine lik-
ing! Take myself. I really like women better than men; they are
braver, one can be more frank with them.'
Connie pondered this.
'Ah, yes, but you never have anything to do with them!' she
said.
'I? What am I doing but talking perfectly sincerely to a wo-
man at this moment?'
'Yes, talking… '
'And what more could I do if you were a man, than talk per-
fectly sincerely to you?'
'Nothing perhaps. But a woman… '
'A woman wants you to like her and talk to her, and at the
same time love her and desire her; and it seems to me the two
things are mutually exclusive.'
'But they shouldn't be!'
'No doubt water ought not to be so wet as it is; it overdoes it
in wetness. But there it is! I like women and talk to them, and
therefore I don't love them and desire them. The two things
don't happen at the same time in me.'
'I think they ought to.'
'All right. The fact that things ought to be something else
than what they are, is not my department.
Connie considered this. 'It isn't true,' she said. 'Men can love
women and talk to them. I don't see how they can love them
without talking, and being friendly and intimate. How can
they?'

59
 'Well,' he said, 'I don't know. What's the use of my generaliz-
ing? I only know my own case. I like women, but I don't desire
them. I like talking to them; but talking to them, though it
makes me intimate in one direction, sets me poles apart from
them as far as kissing is concerned. So there you are! But don't
take me as a general example, probably I'm just a special case:
one of the men who like women, but don't love women, and
even hate them if they force me into a pretence of love, or an
entangled appearance.
'But doesn't it make you sad?'
'Why should it? Not a bit! I look at Charlie May, and the rest
of the men who have affairs… No, I don't envy them a bit! If
fate sent me a woman I wanted, well and good. Since I don't
know any woman I want, and never see one… why, I presume
I'm cold, and really like some women very much.'
'Do you like me?'
'Very much! And you see there's no question of kissing
between us, is there?'
'None at all!' said Connie. 'But oughtn't there to be?'
'Why, in God's name? I like Clifford, but what would you say
if I went and kissed him?'
'But isn't there a difference?'
'Where does it lie, as far as we're concerned? We're all intel-
ligent human beings, and the male and female business is in
abeyance. Just in abeyance. How would you like me to start
acting up like a continental male at this moment, and parading
the sex thing?'
'I should hate it.'
'Well then! I tell you, if I'm really a male thing at all, I never
run across the female of my species. And I don't miss her, I just
like women. Who's going to force me into loving or pretending
to love them, working up the sex game?'
'No, I'm not. But isn't something wrong?'
'You may feel it, I don't.'
'Yes, I feel something is wrong between men and women. A
woman has no glamour for a man any more.'
'Has a man for a woman?'
She pondered the other side of the question.
'Not much,' she said truthfully.

60
 'Then let's leave it all alone, and just be decent and simple,
like proper human beings with one another. Be damned to the
artificial sex-compulsion! I refuse it!'
Connie knew he was right, really. Yet it left her feeling so
forlorn, so forlorn and stray. Like a chip on a dreary pond, she
felt. What was the point, of her or anything?
It was her youth which rebelled. These men seemed so old
and cold. Everything seemed old and cold. And Michaelis let
one down so; he was no good. The men didn't want one; they
just didn't really want a woman, even Michaelis didn't.
And the bounders who pretended they did, and started work-
ing the sex game, they were worse than ever.
It was just dismal, and one had to put up with it. It was quite
true, men had no real glamour for a woman: if you could fool
yourself into thinking they had, even as she had fooled herself
over Michaelis, that was the best you could do. Meanwhile you
just lived on and there was nothing to it. She understood per-
fectly well why people had cocktail parties, and jazzed, and
Charlestoned till they were ready to drop. You had to take it
out some way or other, your youth, or it ate you up. But what a
ghastly thing, this youth! You felt as old as Methuselah, and yet
the thing fizzed somehow, and didn't let you be comfortable. A
mean sort of life! And no prospect! She almost wished she had
gone off with Mick, and made her life one long cocktail party,
and jazz evening. Anyhow that was better than just mooning
yourself into the grave.
On one of her bad days she went out alone to walk in the
wood, ponderously, heeding nothing, not even noticing where
she was. The report of a gun not far off startled and angered
her.
Then, as she went, she heard voices, and recoiled. People!
She didn't want people. But her quick ear caught another
sound, and she roused; it was a child sobbing. At once she at-
tended; someone was ill-treating a child. She strode swinging
down the wet drive, her sullen resentment uppermost. She felt
just prepared to make a scene.
Turning the corner, she saw two figures in the drive beyond
her: the keeper, and a little girl in a purple coat and moleskin
cap, crying.

61
 'Ah, shut it up, tha false little bitch!' came the man's angry
voice, and the child sobbed louder.
Constance strode nearer, with blazing eyes. The man turned
and looked at her, saluting coolly, but he was pale with anger.
'What's the matter? Why is she crying?' demanded Con-
stance, peremptory but a little breathless.
A faint smile like a sneer came on the man's face. 'Nay, yo
mun ax 'er,' he replied callously, in broad vernacular.
Connie felt as if he had hit her in the face, and she changed
colour. Then she gathered her defiance, and looked at him, her
dark blue eyes blazing rather vaguely.
'I asked you,' she panted.
He gave a queer little bow, lifting his hat. 'You did, your
Ladyship,' he said; then, with a return to the vernacular: 'but I
canna tell yer.' And he became a soldier, inscrutable, only pale
with annoyance.
Connie turned to the child, a ruddy, black-haired thing of
nine or ten. 'What is it, dear? Tell me why you're crying!' she
said, with the conventionalized sweetness suitable. More viol-
ent sobs, self-conscious. Still more sweetness on Connie's part.
'There, there, don't you cry! Tell me what they've done to
you!'… an intense tenderness of tone. At the same time she felt
in the pocket of her knitted jacket, and luckily found a
sixpence.
'Don't you cry then!' she said, bending in front of the child.
'See what I've got for you!'
Sobs, snuffles, a fist taken from a blubbered face, and a black
shrewd eye cast for a second on the sixpence. Then more sobs,
but subduing. 'There, tell me what's the matter, tell me!' said
Connie, putting the coin into the child's chubby hand, which
closed over it.
'It's the… it's the… pussy!'
Shudders of subsiding sobs.
'What pussy, dear?'
After a silence the shy fist, clenching on sixpence, pointed in-
to the bramble brake.
'There!'
Connie looked, and there, sure enough, was a big black cat,
stretched out grimly, with a bit of blood on it.
'Oh!' she said in repulsion.

62
 'A poacher, your Ladyship,' said the man satirically.
She glanced at him angrily. 'No wonder the child cried,' she
said, 'if you shot it when she was there. No wonder she cried!'
He looked into Connie's eyes, laconic, contemptuous, not hid-
ing his feelings. And again Connie flushed; she felt she had
been making a scene, the man did not respect her.
'What is your name?' she said playfully to the child. 'Won't
you tell me your name?'
Sniffs; then very affectedly in a piping voice: 'Connie
Mellors!'
'Connie Mellors! Well, that's a nice name! And did you come
out with your Daddy, and he shot a pussy? But it was a bad
pussy!'
The child looked at her, with bold, dark eyes of scrutiny, siz-
ing her up, and her condolence.
'I wanted to stop with my Gran,' said the little girl.
'Did you? But where is your Gran?'
The child lifted an arm, pointing down the drive. 'At th'
cottidge.'
'At the cottage! And would you like to go back to her?'
Sudden, shuddering quivers of reminiscent sobs. 'Yes!'
'Come then, shall I take you? Shall I take you to your Gran?
Then your Daddy can do what he has to do.' She turned to the
man. 'It is your little girl, isn't it?'
He saluted, and made a slight movement of the head in
affirmation.
'I suppose I can take her to the cottage?' asked Connie.
'If your Ladyship wishes.'
Again he looked into her eyes, with that calm, searching de-
tached glance. A man very much alone, and on his own.
'Would you like to come with me to the cottage, to your Gran,
dear?'
The child peeped up again. 'Yes!' she simpered.
Connie disliked her; the spoilt, false little female. Neverthe-
less she wiped her face and took her hand. The keeper saluted
in silence.
'Good morning!' said Connie.
It was nearly a mile to the cottage, and Connie senior was
well bored by Connie junior by the time the game-keeper's

63
picturesque little home was in sight. The child was already as
full to the brim with tricks as a little monkey, and so self-
assured.
At the cottage the door stood open, and there was a rattling
heard inside. Connie lingered, the child slipped her hand, and
ran indoors.
'Gran! Gran!'
'Why, are yer back a'ready!'
The grandmother had been blackleading the stove, it was
Saturday morning. She came to the door in her sacking apron,
a blacklead-brush in her hand, and a black smudge on her
nose. She was a little, rather dry woman.
'Why, whatever?' she said, hastily wiping her arm across her
face as she saw Connie standing outside.
'Good morning!' said Connie. 'She was crying, so I just
brought her home.'
The grandmother looked around swiftly at the child:
'Why, wheer was yer Dad?'
The little girl clung to her grandmother's skirts and
simpered.
'He was there,' said Connie, 'but he'd shot a poaching cat,
and the child was upset.'
'Oh, you'd no right t'ave bothered, Lady Chatterley, I'm sure!
I'm sure it was very good of you, but you shouldn't 'ave
bothered. Why, did ever you see!'—and the old woman turned
to the child: 'Fancy Lady Chatterley takin' all that trouble over
yer! Why, she shouldn't 'ave bothered!'
'It was no bother, just a walk,' said Connie smiling.
'Why, I'm sure 'twas very kind of you, I must say! So she was
crying! I knew there'd be something afore they got far. She's
frightened of 'im, that's wheer it is. Seems 'e's almost a
stranger to 'er, fair a stranger, and I don't think they're two
as'd hit it off very easy. He's got funny ways.'
Connie didn't know what to say.
'Look, Gran!' simpered the child.
The old woman looked down at the sixpence in the little girl's
hand.
'An' sixpence an' all! Oh, your Ladyship, you shouldn't, you
shouldn't. Why, isn't Lady Chatterley good to yer! My word,
you're a lucky girl this morning!'

64
 She pronounced the name, as all the people did:
Chat'ley.—Isn't Lady Chat'ley good to you!'—Connie couldn't
help looking at the old woman's nose, and the latter again
vaguely wiped her face with the back of her wrist, but missed
the smudge.
Connie was moving away 'Well, thank you ever so much,
Lady Chat'ley, I'm sure. Say thank you to Lady Chat'ley!'—this
last to the child.
'Thank you,' piped the child.
'There's a dear!' laughed Connie, and she moved away, say-
ing 'Good morning', heartily relieved to get away from the
contact.
Curious, she thought, that that thin, proud man should have
that little, sharp woman for a mother!
And the old woman, as soon as Connie had gone, rushed to
the bit of mirror in the scullery, and looked at her face. Seeing
it, she stamped her foot with impatience. 'Of course she had to
catch me in my coarse apron, and a dirty face! Nice idea she'd
get of me!'
Connie went slowly home to Wragby. 'Home!'… it was a
warm word to use for that great, weary warren. But then it was
a word that had had its day. It was somehow cancelled. All the
great words, it seemed to Connie, were cancelled for her gen-
eration: love, joy, happiness, home, mother, father, husband,
all these great, dynamic words were half dead now, and dying
from day to day. Home was a place you lived in, love was a
thing you didn't fool yourself about, joy was a word you applied
to a good Charleston, happiness was a term of hypocrisy used
to bluff other people, a father was an individual who enjoyed
his own existence, a husband was a man you lived with and
kept going in spirits. As for sex, the last of the great words, it
was just a cocktail term for an excitement that bucked you up
for a while, then left you more raggy than ever. Frayed! It was
as if the very material you were made of was cheap stuff, and
was fraying out to nothing.
All that really remained was a stubborn stoicism: and in that
there was a certain pleasure. In the very experience of the
nothingness of life, phase after phase, tape after tape, there
was a certain grisly satisfaction. So that's that! Always this was
the last utterance: home, love, marriage, Michaelis: So that's

65
that! And when one died, the last words to life would be: So
that's that!
Money? Perhaps one couldn't say the same there. Money one
always wanted. Money, Success, the bitch-goddess, as Tommy
Dukes persisted in calling it, after Henry James, that was a per-
manent necessity. You couldn't spend your last sou, and say fi-
nally: So that's that! No, if you lived even another ten minutes,
you wanted a few more sous for something or other. Just to
keep the business mechanically going, you needed money. You
had to have it. Money you have to have. You needn't really
have anything else. So that's that!
Since, of course, it's not your own fault you are alive. Once
you are alive, money is a necessity, and the only absolute ne-
cessity. All the rest you can get along without, at a pinch. But
not money. Emphatically, that's that!
She thought of Michaelis, and the money she might have had
with him; and even that she didn't want. She preferred the
lesser amount which she helped Clifford to make by his writ-
ing. That she actually helped to make.—'Clifford and I togeth-
er, we make twelve hundred a year out of writing'; so she put it
to herself. Make money! Make it! Out of nowhere. Wring it out
of the thin air! The last feat to be humanly proud of! The rest
all-my-eye-Betty-Martin.
So she plodded home to Clifford, to join forces with him
again, to make another story out of nothingness: and a story
meant money. Clifford seemed to care very much whether his
stories were considered first-class literature or not. Strictly,
she didn't care. Nothing in it! said her father. Twelve hundred
pounds last year! was the retort simple and final.
If you were young, you just set your teeth, and bit on and
held on, till the money began to flow from the invisible; it was a
question of power. It was a question of will; a subtle, subtle,
powerful emanation of will out of yourself brought back to you
the mysterious nothingness of money a word on a bit of paper.
It was a sort of magic, certainly it was triumph. The bitch-god-
dess! Well, if one had to prostitute oneself, let it be to a bitch-
goddess! One could always despise her even while one prosti-
tuted oneself to her, which was good.
Clifford, of course, had still many childish taboos and fet-
ishes. He wanted to be thought 'really good', which was all

66
cock-a-hoopy nonsense. What was really good was what actu-
ally caught on. It was no good being really good and getting
left with it. It seemed as if most of the 'really good' men just
missed the bus. After all you only lived one life, and if you
missed the bus, you were just left on the pavement, along with
the rest of the failures.
Connie was contemplating a winter in London with Clifford,
next winter. He and she had caught the bus all right, so they
might as well ride on top for a bit, and show it.
The worst of it was, Clifford tended to become vague, absent,
and to fall into fits of vacant depression. It was the wound to
his psyche coming out. But it made Connie want to scream. Oh
God, if the mechanism of the consciousness itself was going to
go wrong, then what was one to do? Hang it all, one did one's
bit! Was one to be let down absolutely?
Sometimes she wept bitterly, but even as she wept she was
saying to herself: Silly fool, wetting hankies! As if that would
get you anywhere!
Since Michaelis, she had made up her mind she wanted noth-
ing. That seemed the simplest solution of the otherwise insol-
uble. She wanted nothing more than what she'd got; only she
wanted to get ahead with what she'd got: Clifford, the stories,
Wragby, the Lady-Chatterley business, money and fame, such
as it was… she wanted to go ahead with it all. Love, sex, all
that sort of stuff, just water-ices! Lick it up and forget it. If you
don't hang on to it in your mind, it's nothing. Sex especially…
nothing! Make up your mind to it, and you've solved the prob-
lem. Sex and a cocktail: they both lasted about as long, had the
same effect, and amounted to about the same thing.
But a child, a baby! That was still one of the sensations. She
would venture very gingerly on that experiment. There was the
man to consider, and it was curious, there wasn't a man in the
world whose children you wanted. Mick's children! Repulsive
thought! As lief have a child to a rabbit! Tommy Dukes? he was
very nice, but somehow you couldn't associate him with a baby,
another generation. He ended in himself. And out of all the rest
of Clifford's pretty wide acquaintance, there was not a man
who did not rouse her contempt, when she thought of having a
child by him. There were several who would have been quite

67
possible as lover, even Mick. But to let them breed a child on
you! Ugh! Humiliation and abomination.
So that was that!
Nevertheless, Connie had the child at the back of her mind.
Wait! wait! She would sift the generations of men through her
sieve, and see if she couldn't find one who would do.—'Go ye
into the streets and by ways of Jerusalem, and see if you can
find a man.' It had been impossible to find a man in the Jerus-
alem of the prophet, though there were thousands of male hu-
mans. But a man! c'est une autre chose!
She had an idea that he would have to be a foreigner: not an
Englishman, still less an Irishman. A real foreigner.
But wait! wait! Next winter she would get Clifford to London;
the following winter she would get him abroad to the South of
France, Italy. Wait! She was in no hurry about the child. That
was her own private affair, and the one point on which, in her
own queer, female way, she was serious to the bottom of her
soul. She was not going to risk any chance comer, not she! One
might take a lover almost at any moment, but a man who
should beget a child on one… wait! wait! it's a very different
matter.—'Go ye into the streets and byways of Jerusalem… ' It
was not a question of love; it was a question of a man. Why,
one might even rather hate him, personally. Yet if he was the
man, what would one's personal hate matter? This business
concerned another part of oneself.
It had rained as usual, and the paths were too sodden for
Clifford's chair, but Connie would go out. She went out alone
every day now, mostly in the wood, where she was really alone.
She saw nobody there.
This day, however, Clifford wanted to send a message to the
keeper, and as the boy was laid up with influenza, somebody
always seemed to have influenza at Wragby, Connie said she
would call at the cottage.
The air was soft and dead, as if all the world were slowly dy-
ing. Grey and clammy and silent, even from the shuffling of the
collieries, for the pits were working short time, and today they
were stopped altogether. The end of all things!
In the wood all was utterly inert and motionless, only great
drops fell from the bare boughs, with a hollow little crash. For

68
the rest, among the old trees was depth within depth of grey,
hopeless inertia, silence, nothingness.
Connie walked dimly on. From the old wood came an ancient
melancholy, somehow soothing to her, better than the harsh in-
sentience of the outer world. She liked the inwardness of the
remnant of forest, the unspeaking reticence of the old trees.
They seemed a very power of silence, and yet a vital presence.
They, too, were waiting: obstinately, stoically waiting, and giv-
ing off a potency of silence. Perhaps they were only waiting for
the end; to be cut down, cleared away, the end of the forest,
for them the end of all things. But perhaps their strong and ar-
istocratic silence, the silence of strong trees, meant something
else.
As she came out of the wood on the north side, the keeper's
cottage, a rather dark, brown stone cottage, with gables and a
handsome chimney, looked uninhabited, it was so silent and
alone. But a thread of smoke rose from the chimney, and the
little railed-in garden in the front of the house was dug and
kept very tidy. The door was shut.
Now she was here she felt a little shy of the man, with his
curious far-seeing eyes. She did not like bringing him orders,
and felt like going away again. She knocked softly, no one
came. She knocked again, but still not loudly. There was no an-
swer. She peeped through the window, and saw the dark little
room, with its almost sinister privacy, not wanting to be
invaded.
She stood and listened, and it seemed to her she heard
sounds from the back of the cottage. Having failed to make
herself heard, her mettle was roused, she would not be
defeated.
So she went round the side of the house. At the back of the
cottage the land rose steeply, so the back yard was sunken,
and enclosed by a low stone wall. She turned the corner of the
house and stopped. In the little yard two paces beyond her, the
man was washing himself, utterly unaware. He was naked to
the hips, his velveteen breeches slipping down over his slender
loins. And his white slim back was curved over a big bowl of
soapy water, in which he ducked his head, shaking his head
with a queer, quick little motion, lifting his slender white arms,
and pressing the soapy water from his ears, quick, subtle as a

69
weasel playing with water, and utterly alone. Connie backed
away round the corner of the house, and hurried away to the
wood. In spite of herself, she had had a shock. After all, merely
a man washing himself, commonplace enough, Heaven knows!
Yet in some curious way it was a visionary experience: it had
hit her in the middle of the body. She saw the clumsy breeches
slipping down over the pure, delicate, white loins, the bones
showing a little, and the sense of aloneness, of a creature
purely alone, overwhelmed her. Perfect, white, solitary nudity
of a creature that lives alone, and inwardly alone. And beyond
that, a certain beauty of a pure creature. Not the stuff of
beauty, not even the body of beauty, but a lambency, the
warm, white flame of a single life, revealing itself in contours
that one might touch: a body!
Connie had received the shock of vision in her womb, and
she knew it; it lay inside her. But with her mind she was in-
clined to ridicule. A man washing himself in a back yard! No
doubt with evil-smelling yellow soap! She was rather annoyed;
why should she be made to stumble on these vulgar privacies?
So she walked away from herself, but after a while she sat
down on a stump. She was too confused to think. But in the coil
of her confusion, she was determined to deliver her message to
the fellow. She would not he balked. She must give him time to
dress himself, but not time to go out. He was probably prepar-
ing to go out somewhere.
So she sauntered slowly back, listening. As she came near,
the cottage looked just the same. A dog barked, and she
knocked at the door, her heart beating in spite of herself.
She heard the man coming lightly downstairs. He opened the
door quickly, and startled her. He looked uneasy himself, but
instantly a laugh came on his face.
'Lady Chatterley!' he said. 'Will you come in?'
His manner was so perfectly easy and good, she stepped over
the threshold into the rather dreary little room.
'I only called with a message from Sir Clifford,' she said in
her soft, rather breathless voice.
The man was looking at her with those blue, all-seeing eyes
of his, which made her turn her face aside a little. He thought
her comely, almost beautiful, in her shyness, and he took com-
mand of the situation himself at once.

70
 'Would you care to sit down?' he asked, presuming she would
not. The door stood open.
'No thanks! Sir Clifford wondered if you would and she de-
livered her message, looking unconsciously into his eyes again.
And now his eyes looked warm and kind, particularly to a wo-
man, wonderfully warm, and kind, and at ease.
'Very good, your Ladyship. I will see to it at once.'
Taking an order, his whole self had changed, glazed over
with a sort of hardness and distance. Connie hesitated, she
ought to go. But she looked round the clean, tidy, rather dreary
little sitting-room with something like dismay.
'Do you live here quite alone?' she asked.
'Quite alone, your Ladyship.'
'But your mother… ?'
'She lives in her own cottage in the village.'
'With the child?' asked Connie.
'With the child!'
And his plain, rather worn face took on an indefinable look of
derision. It was a face that changed all the time, baking.
'No,' he said, seeing Connie stand at a loss, 'my mother
comes and cleans up for me on Saturdays; I do the rest myself.'
Again Connie looked at him. His eyes were smiling again, a
little mockingly, but warm and blue, and somehow kind. She
wondered at him. He was in trousers and flannel shirt and a
grey tie, his hair soft and damp, his face rather pale and worn-
looking. When the eyes ceased to laugh they looked as if they
had suffered a great deal, still without losing their warmth. But
a pallor of isolation came over him, she was not really there for
him.
She wanted to say so many things, and she said nothing.
Only she looked up at him again, and remarked:
'I hope I didn't disturb you?'
The faint smile of mockery narrowed his eyes.
'Only combing my hair, if you don't mind. I'm sorry I hadn't a
coat on, but then I had no idea who was knocking. Nobody
knocks here, and the unexpected sounds ominous.'
He went in front of her down the garden path to hold the
gate. In his shirt, without the clumsy velveteen coat, she saw
again how slender he was, thin, stooping a little. Yet, as she
passed him, there was something young and bright in his fair

71
hair, and his quick eyes. He would be a man about thirty-seven
or eight.
She plodded on into the wood, knowing he was looking after
her; he upset her so much, in spite of herself.
And he, as he went indoors, was thinking: 'She's nice, she's
real! She's nicer than she knows.'
She wondered very much about him; he seemed so unlike a
game-keeper, so unlike a working-man anyhow; although he
had something in common with the local people. But also
something very uncommon.
'The game-keeper, Mellors, is a curious kind of person,' she
said to Clifford; 'he might almost be a gentleman.'
'Might he?' said Clifford. 'I hadn't noticed.'
'But isn't there something special about him?' Connie
insisted.
'I think he's quite a nice fellow, but I know very little about
him. He only came out of the army last year, less than a year
ago. From India, I rather think. He may have picked up certain
tricks out there, perhaps he was an officer's servant, and im-
proved on his position. Some of the men were like that. But it
does them no good, they have to fall back into their old places
when they get home again.'
Connie gazed at Clifford contemplatively. She saw in him the
peculiar tight rebuff against anyone of the lower classes who
might be really climbing up, which she knew was characteristic
of his breed.
'But don't you think there is something special about him?'
she asked.
'Frankly, no! Nothing I had noticed.'
He looked at her curiously, uneasily, half-suspiciously. And
she felt he wasn't telling her the real truth; he wasn't telling
himself the real truth, that was it. He disliked any suggestion
of a really exceptional human being. People must be more or
less at his level, or below it.
Connie felt again the tightness, niggardliness of the men of
her generation. They were so tight, so scared of life!

72
Chapter 7
When Connie went up to her bedroom she did what she had
not done for a long time: took off all her clothes, and looked at
herself naked in the huge mirror. She did not know what she
was looking for, or at, very definitely, yet she moved the lamp
till it shone full on her.
And she thought, as she had thought so often, what a frail,
easily hurt, rather pathetic thing a human body is, naked;
somehow a little unfinished, incomplete!
She had been supposed to have rather a good figure, but now
she was out of fashion: a little too female, not enough like an
adolescent boy. She was not very tall, a bit Scottish and short;
but she had a certain fluent, down-slipping grace that might
have been beauty. Her skin was faintly tawny, her limbs had a
certain stillness, her body should have had a full, down-slipping
richness; but it lacked something.
Instead of ripening its firm, down-running curves, her body
was flattening and going a little harsh. It was as if it had not
had enough sun and warmth; it was a little greyish and sapless.
Disappointed of its real womanhood, it had not succeeded in
becoming boyish, and unsubstantial, and transparent; instead
it had gone opaque.
Her breasts were rather small, and dropping pear-shaped.
But they were unripe, a little bitter, without meaning hanging
there. And her belly had lost the fresh, round gleam it had had
when she was young, in the days of her German boy, who
really loved her physically. Then it was young and expectant,
with a real look of its own. Now it was going slack, and a little
flat, thinner, but with a slack thinness. Her thighs, too, they
used to look so quick and glimpsy in their female roundness,
somehow they too were going flat, slack, meaningless.
Her body was going meaningless, going dull and opaque, so
much insignificant substance. It made her feel immensely

73
depressed and hopeless. What hope was there? She was old,
old at twenty-seven, with no gleam and sparkle in the flesh.
Old through neglect and denial, yes, denial. Fashionable wo-
men kept their bodies bright like delicate porcelain, by extern-
al attention. There was nothing inside the porcelain; but she
was not even as bright as that. The mental life! Suddenly she
hated it with a rushing fury, the swindle!
She looked in the other mirror's reflection at her back, her
waist, her loins. She was getting thinner, but to her it was not
becoming. The crumple of her waist at the back, as she bent
back to look, was a little weary; and it used to be so gay-look-
ing. And the longish slope of her haunches and her buttocks
had lost its gleam and its sense of richness. Gone! Only the
German boy had loved it, and he was ten years dead, very
nearly. How time went by! Ten years dead, and she was only
twenty-seven. The healthy boy with his fresh, clumsy sensuality
that she had then been so scornful of! Where would she find it
now? It was gone out of men. They had their pathetic, two-
seconds spasms like Michaelis; but no healthy human sensual-
ity, that warms the blood and freshens the whole being.
Still she thought the most beautiful part of her was the long-
sloping fall of the haunches from the socket of the back, and
the slumberous, round stillness of the buttocks. Like hillocks of
sand, the Arabs say, soft and downward-slipping with a long
slope. Here the life still lingered hoping. But here too she was
thinner, and going unripe, astringent.
But the front of her body made her miserable. It was already
beginning to slacken, with a slack sort of thinness, almost
withered, going old before it had ever really lived. She thought
of the child she might somehow bear. Was she fit, anyhow?
She slipped into her nightdress, and went to bed, where she
sobbed bitterly. And in her bitterness burned a cold indigna-
tion against Clifford, and his writings and his talk: against all
the men of his sort who defrauded a woman even of her own
body.
Unjust! Unjust! The sense of deep physical injustice burned
to her very soul.
But in the morning, all the same, she was up at seven, and
going downstairs to Clifford. She had to help him in all the in-
timate things, for he had no man, and refused a woman-

74
servant. The housekeeper's husband, who had known him as a
boy, helped him, and did any heavy lifting; but Connie did the
personal things, and she did them willingly. It was a demand
on her, but she had wanted to do what she could.
So she hardly ever went away from Wragby, and never for
more than a day or two; when Mrs Betts, the housekeeper, at-
tended to Clifford. He, as was inevitable in the course of time,
took all the service for granted. It was natural he should.
And yet, deep inside herself, a sense of injustice, of being de-
frauded, had begun to burn in Connie. The physical sense of in-
justice is a dangerous feeling, once it is awakened. It must
have outlet, or it eats away the one in whom it is aroused. Poor
Clifford, he was not to blame. His was the greater misfortune.
It was all part of the general catastrophe.
And yet was he not in a way to blame? This lack of warmth,
this lack of the simple, warm, physical contact, was he not to
blame for that? He was never really warm, nor even kind, only
thoughtful, considerate, in a well-bred, cold sort of way! But
never warm as a man can be warm to a woman, as even
Connie's father could be warm to her, with the warmth of a
man who did himself well, and intended to, but who still could
comfort a woman with a bit of his masculine glow.
But Clifford was not like that. His whole race was not like
that. They were all inwardly hard and separate, and warmth to
them was just bad taste. You had to get on without it, and hold
your own; which was all very well if you were of the same class
and race. Then you could keep yourself cold and be very estim-
able, and hold your own, and enjoy the satisfaction of holding
it. But if you were of another class and another race it wouldn't
do; there was no fun merely holding your own, and feeling you
belonged to the ruling class. What was the point, when even
the smartest aristocrats had really nothing positive of their
own to hold, and their rule was really a farce, not rule at all?
What was the point? It was all cold nonsense.
A sense of rebellion smouldered in Connie. What was the
good of it all? What was the good of her sacrifice, her devoting
her life to Clifford? What was she serving, after all? A cold spir-
it of vanity, that had no warm human contacts, and that was as
corrupt as any low-born Jew, in craving for prostitution to the
bitch-goddess, Success. Even Clifford's cool and contactless

75
assurance that he belonged to the ruling class didn't prevent
his tongue lolling out of his mouth, as he panted after the
bitch-goddess. After all, Michaelis was really more dignified in
the matter, and far, far more successful. Really, if you looked
closely at Clifford, he was a buffoon, and a buffoon is more hu-
miliating than a bounder.
As between the two men, Michaelis really had far more use
for her than Clifford had. He had even more need of her. Any
good nurse can attend to crippled legs! And as for the heroic
effort, Michaelis was a heroic rat, and Clifford was very much
of a poodle showing off.
There were people staying in the house, among them
Clifford's Aunt Eva, Lady Bennerley. She was a thin woman of
sixty, with a red nose, a widow, and still something of a grande
dame. She belonged to one of the best families, and had the
character to carry it off. Connie liked her, she was so perfectly
simple and frank, as far as she intended to be frank, and super-
ficially kind. Inside herself she was a past-mistress in holding
her own, and holding other people a little lower. She was not at
all a snob: far too sure of herself. She was perfect at the social
sport of coolly holding her own, and making other people defer
to her.
She was kind to Connie, and tried to worm into her woman's
soul with the sharp gimlet of her well-born observations.
'You're quite wonderful, in my opinion,' she said to Connie.
'You've done wonders for Clifford. I never saw any budding
genius myself, and there he is, all the rage.' Aunt Eva was
quite complacently proud of Clifford's success. Another feather
in the family cap! She didn't care a straw about his books, but
why should she?
'Oh, I don't think it's my doing,' said Connie.
'It must be! Can't be anybody else's. And it seems to me you
don't get enough out of it.'
'How?'
'Look at the way you are shut up here. I said to Clifford: If
that child rebels one day you'll have yourself to thank!'
'But Clifford never denies me anything,' said Connie.
'Look here, my dear child'—and Lady Bennerley laid her thin
hand on Connie's arm. 'A woman has to live her life, or live to

76
repent not having lived it. Believe me!' And she took another
sip of brandy, which maybe was her form of repentance.
'But I do live my life, don't I?'
'Not in my idea! Clifford should bring you to London, and let
you go about. His sort of friends are all right for him, but what
are they for you? If I were you I should think it wasn't good
enough. You'll let your youth slip by, and you'll spend your old
age, and your middle age too, repenting it.'
Her ladyship lapsed into contemplative silence, soothed by
the brandy.
But Connie was not keen on going to London, and being
steered into the smart world by Lady Bennerley. She didn't feel
really smart, it wasn't interesting. And she did feel the peculi-
ar, withering coldness under it all; like the soil of Labrador,
which his gay little flowers on its surface, and a foot down is
frozen.
Tommy Dukes was at Wragby, and another man, Harry Win-
terslow, and Jack Strangeways with his wife Olive. The talk
was much more desultory than when only the cronies were
there, and everybody was a bit bored, for the weather was bad,
and there was only billiards, and the pianola to dance to.
Olive was reading a book about the future, when babies
would be bred in bottles, and women would be 'immunized'.
'Jolly good thing too!' she said. 'Then a woman can live her
own life.' Strangeways wanted children, and she didn't.
'How'd you like to be immunized?' Winterslow asked her,
with an ugly smile.
'I hope I am; naturally,' she said. 'Anyhow the future's going
to have more sense, and a woman needn't be dragged down by
her functions.'
'Perhaps she'll float off into space altogether,' said Dukes.
'I do think sufficient civilization ought to eliminate a lot of
the physical disabilities,' said Clifford. 'All the love-business for
example, it might just as well go. I suppose it would if we could
breed babies in bottles.'
'No!' cried Olive. 'That might leave all the more room for
fun.'
'I suppose,' said Lady Bennerley, contemplatively, 'if the love-
business went, something else would take its place. Morphia,

77
perhaps. A little morphine in all the air. It would be wonder-
fully refreshing for everybody.'
'The government releasing ether into the air on Saturdays,
for a cheerful weekend!' said Jack. 'Sounds all right, but where
should we be by Wednesday?'
'So long as you can forget your body you are happy,' said
Lady Bennerley. 'And the moment you begin to be aware of
your body, you are wretched. So, if civilization is any good, it
has to help us to forget our bodies, and then time passes hap-
pily without our knowing it.'
'Help us to get rid of our bodies altogether,' said Winterslow.
'It's quite time man began to improve on his own nature, espe-
cially the physical side of it.'
'Imagine if we floated like tobacco smoke,' said Connie.
'It won't happen,' said Dukes. 'Our old show will come flop;
our civilization is going to fall. It's going down the bottomless
pit, down the chasm. And believe me, the only bridge across
the chasm will be the phallus!'
'Oh do! Dobe impossible, General!' cried Olive.
'I believe our civilization is going to collapse,' said Aunt Eva.
'And what will come after it?' asked Clifford.
'I haven't the faintest idea, but something, I suppose,' said
the elderly lady.
'Connie says people like wisps of smoke, and Olive says im-
munized women, and babies in bottles, and Dukes says the
phallus is the bridge to what comes next. I wonder what it will
really be?' said Clifford.
'Oh, don't bother! let's get on with today,' said Olive. 'Only
hurry up with the breeding bottle, and let us poor women off.'
'There might even be real men, in the next phase,' said
Tommy. 'Real, intelligent, wholesome men, and wholesome
nice women! Wouldn't that be a change, an enormous change
from us? we're not men, and the women aren't women. We're
only cerebrating make-shifts, mechanical and intellectual ex-
periments. There may even come a civilization of genuine men
and women, instead of our little lot of clever-jacks, all at the
intelligence-age of seven. It would be even more amazing than
men of smoke or babies in bottles.'
'Oh, when people begin to talk about real women, I give up,'
said Olive.

78
 'Certainly nothing but the spirit in us is worth having,' said
Winterslow.
'Spirits!' said Jack, drinking his whisky and soda.
'Think so? Give me the resurrection of the body!' said Dukes.
'But it'll come, in time, when we've shoved the cerebral stone
away a bit, the money and the rest. Then we'll get a democracy
of touch, instead of a democracy of pocket.'
Something echoed inside Connie: 'Give me the democracy of
touch, the resurrection of the body!' She didn't at all know
what it meant, but it comforted her, as meaningless things may
do.
Anyhow everything was terribly silly, and she was exasper-
atedly bored by it all, by Clifford, by Aunt Eva, by Olive and
Jack, and Winterslow, and even by Dukes. Talk, talk, talk! What
hell it was, the continual rattle of it!
Then, when all the people went, it was no better. She contin-
ued plodding on, but exasperation and irritation had got hold
of her lower body, she couldn't escape. The days seemed to
grind by, with curious painfulness, yet nothing happened. Only
she was getting thinner; even the housekeeper noticed it, and
asked her about herself. Even Tommy Dukes insisted she was
not well, though she said she was all right. Only she began to
be afraid of the ghastly white tombstones, that peculiar loath-
some whiteness of Carrara marble, detestable as false teeth,
which stuck up on the hillside, under Tevershall church, and
which she saw with such grim painfulness from the park. The
bristling of the hideous false teeth of tombstones on the hill af-
fected her with a grisly kind of horror. She felt the time not far
off when she would be buried there, added to the ghastly host
under the tombstones and the monuments, in these filthy
Midlands.
She needed help, and she knew it: so she wrote a little cri du
coeur to her sister, Hilda. 'I'm not well lately, and I don't know
what's the matter with me.'
Down posted Hilda from Scotland, where she had taken up
her abode. She came in March, alone, driving herself in a
nimble two-seater. Up the drive she came, tooting up the in-
cline, then sweeping round the oval of grass, where the two
great wild beech-trees stood, on the flat in front of the house.

79
 Connie had run out to the steps. Hilda pulled up her car, got
out, and kissed her sister.
'But Connie!' she cried. 'Whatever is the matter?'
'Nothing!' said Connie, rather shamefacedly; but she knew
how she had suffered in contrast to Hilda. Both sisters had the
same rather golden, glowing skin, and soft brown hair, and
naturally strong, warm physique. But now Connie was thin and
earthy-looking, with a scraggy, yellowish neck, that stuck out
of her jumper.
'But you're ill, child!' said Hilda, in the soft, rather breathless
voice that both sisters had alike. Hilda was nearly, but not
quite, two years older than Connie.
'No, not ill. Perhaps I'm bored,' said Connie a little
pathetically.
The light of battle glowed in Hilda's face; she was a woman,
soft and still as she seemed, of the old amazon sort, not made
to fit with men.
'This wretched place!' she said softly, looking at poor, old,
lumbering Wragby with real hate. She looked soft and warm
herself, as a ripe pear, and she was an amazon of the real old
breed.
She went quietly in to Clifford. He thought how handsome
she looked, but also he shrank from her. His wife's family did
not have his sort of manners, or his sort of etiquette. He con-
sidered them rather outsiders, but once they got inside they
made him jump through the hoop.
He sat square and well-groomed in his chair, his hair sleek
and blond, and his face fresh, his blue eyes pale, and a little
prominent, his expression inscrutable, but well-bred. Hilda
thought it sulky and stupid, and he waited. He had an air of
aplomb, but Hilda didn't care what he had an air of; she was up
in arms, and if he'd been Pope or Emperor it would have been
just the same.
'Connie's looking awfully unwell,' she said in her soft voice,
fixing him with her beautiful, glowering grey eyes. She looked
so maidenly, so did Connie; but he well knew the tone of Scot-
tish obstinacy underneath.
'She's a little thinner,' he said.
'Haven't you done anything about it?'

80
 'Do you think it necessary?' he asked, with his suavest Eng-
lish stiffness, for the two things often go together.
Hilda only glowered at him without replying; repartee was
not her forte, nor Connie's; so she glowered, and he was much
more uncomfortable than if she had said things.
'I'll take her to a doctor,' said Hilda at length. 'Can you sug-
gest a good one round here?'
'I'm afraid I can't.'
'Then I'll take her to London, where we have a doctor we
trust.'
Though boiling with rage, Clifford said nothing.
'I suppose I may as well stay the night,' said Hilda, pulling off
her gloves, 'and I'll drive her to town tomorrow.'
Clifford was yellow at the gills with anger, and at evening the
whites of his eyes were a little yellow too. He ran to liver. But
Hilda was consistently modest and maidenly.
'You must have a nurse or somebody, to look after you per-
sonally. You should really have a manservant,' said Hilda as
they sat, with apparent calmness, at coffee after dinner. She
spoke in her soft, seemingly gentle way, but Clifford felt she
was hitting him on the head with a bludgeon.
'You think so?' he said coldly.
'I'm sure! It's necessary. Either that, or Father and I must
take Connie away for some months. This can't go on.'
'What can't go on?'
'Haven't you looked at the child!' asked Hilda, gazing at him
full stare. He looked rather like a huge, boiled crayfish at the
moment; or so she thought.
'Connie and I will discuss it,' he said.
'I've already discussed it with her,' said Hilda.
Clifford had been long enough in the hands of nurses; he
hated them, because they left him no real privacy. And a
manservant!… he couldn't stand a man hanging round him. Al-
most better any woman. But why not Connie?
The two sisters drove off in the morning, Connie looking
rather like an Easter lamb, rather small beside Hilda, who held
the wheel. Sir Malcolm was away, but the Kensington house
was open.
The doctor examined Connie carefully, and asked her all
about her life. 'I see your photograph, and Sir Clifford's, in the

81
illustrated papers sometimes. Almost notorieties, aren't you?
That's how the quiet little girls grow up, though you're only a
quiet little girl even now, in spite of the illustrated papers. No,
no! There's nothing organically wrong, but it won't do! It won't
do! Tell Sir Clifford he's got to bring you to town, or take you
abroad, and amuse you. You've got to be amused, got to! Your
vitality is much too low; no reserves, no reserves. The nerves of
the heart a bit queer already: oh, yes! Nothing but nerves; I'd
put you right in a month at Cannes or Biarritz. But it mustn't
go on, mustn't, I tell you, or I won't be answerable for con-
sequences. You're spending your life without renewing it.
You've got to be amused, properly, healthily amused. You're
spending your vitality without making any. Can't go on, you
know. Depression! Avoid depression!'
Hilda set her jaw, and that meant something.
Michaelis heard they were in town, and came running with
roses. 'Why, whatever's wrong?' he cried. 'You're a shadow of
yourself. Why, I never saw such a change! Why ever didn't you
let me know? Come to Nice with me! Come down to Sicily! Go
on, come to Sicily with me. It's lovely there just now. You want
sun! You want life! Why, you're wasting away! Come away with
me! Come to Africa! Oh, hang Sir Clifford! Chuck him, and
come along with me. I'll marry you the minute he divorces you.
Come along and try a life! God's love! That place Wragby
would kill anybody. Beastly place! Foul place! Kill anybody!
Come away with me into the sun! It's the sun you want, of
course, and a bit of normal life.'
But Connie's heart simply stood still at the thought of
abandoning Clifford there and then. She couldn't do it. No…
no! She just couldn't. She had to go back to Wragby.
Michaelis was disgusted. Hilda didn't like Michaelis, but she
almost preferred him to Clifford. Back went the sisters to the
Midlands.
Hilda talked to Clifford, who still had yellow eyeballs when
they got back. He, too, in his way, was overwrought; but he
had to listen to all Hilda said, to all the doctor had said, not
what Michaelis had said, of course, and he sat mum through
the ultimatum.

82
 'Here is the address of a good manservant, who was with an
invalid patient of the doctor's till he died last month. He is
really a good man, and fairly sure to come.'
'But I'm not an invalid, and I will not have a manservant,'
said Clifford, poor devil.
'And here are the addresses of two women; I saw one of
them, she would do very well; a woman of about fifty, quiet,
strong, kind, and in her way cultured… '
Clifford only sulked, and would not answer.
'Very well, Clifford. If we don't settle something by to-mor-
row, I shall telegraph to Father, and we shall take Connie
away.'
'Will Connie go?' asked Clifford.
'She doesn't want to, but she knows she must. Mother died of
cancer, brought on by fretting. We're not running any risks.'
So next day Clifford suggested Mrs Bolton, Tevershall parish
nurse. Apparently Mrs Betts had thought of her. Mrs Bolton
was just retiring from her parish duties to take up private nurs-
ing jobs. Clifford had a queer dread of delivering himself into
the hands of a stranger, but this Mrs Bolton had once nursed
him through scarlet fever, and he knew her.
The two sisters at once called on Mrs Bolton, in a newish
house in a row, quite select for Tevershall. They found a rather
good-looking woman of forty-odd, in a nurse's uniform, with a
white collar and apron, just making herself tea in a small
crowded sitting-room.
Mrs Bolton was most attentive and polite, seemed quite nice,
spoke with a bit of a broad slur, but in heavily correct English,
and from having bossed the sick colliers for a good many years,
had a very good opinion of herself, and a fair amount of assur-
ance. In short, in her tiny way, one of the governing class in
the village, very much respected.
'Yes, Lady Chatterley's not looking at all well! Why, she used
to be that bonny, didn't she now? But she's been failing all
winter! Oh, it's hard, it is. Poor Sir Clifford! Eh, that war, it's a
lot to answer for.'
And Mrs Bolton would come to Wragby at once, if Dr Shard-
low would let her off. She had another fortnight's parish nurs-
ing to do, by rights, but they might get a substitute, you know.

83
 Hilda posted off to Dr Shardlow, and on the following Sunday
Mrs Bolton drove up in Leiver's cab to Wragby with two trunks.
Hilda had talks with her; Mrs Bolton was ready at any moment
to talk. And she seemed so young! The way the passion would
flush in her rather pale cheek. She was forty-seven.
Her husband, Ted Bolton, had been killed in the pit, twenty-
two years ago, twenty-two years last Christmas, just at Christ-
mas time, leaving her with two children, one a baby in arms.
Oh, the baby was married now, Edith, to a young man in Boots
Cash Chemists in Sheffield. The other one was a schoolteacher
in Chesterfield; she came home weekends, when she wasn't
asked out somewhere. Young folks enjoyed themselves
nowadays, not like when she, Ivy Bolton, was young.
Ted Bolton was twenty-eight when he was killed in an explo-
sion down th' pit. The butty in front shouted to them all to lie
down quick, there were four of them. And they all lay down in
time, only Ted, and it killed him. Then at the inquiry, on the
masters' side they said Ted had been frightened, and trying to
run away, and not obeying orders, so it was like his fault really.
So the compensation was only three hundred pounds, and they
made out as if it was more of a gift than legal compensation,
because it was really the man's own fault. And they wouldn't
let her have the money down; she wanted to have a little shop.
But they said she'd no doubt squander it, perhaps in drink! So
she had to draw it thirty shillings a week. Yes, she had to go
every Monday morning down to the offices, and stand there a
couple of hours waiting her turn; yes, for almost four years she
went every Monday. And what could she do with two little chil-
dren on her hands? But Ted's mother was very good to her.
When the baby could toddle she'd keep both the children for
the day, while she, Ivy Bolton, went to Sheffield, and attended
classes in ambulance, and then the fourth year she even took a
nursing course and got qualified. She was determined to be in-
dependent and keep her children. So she was assistant at Uth-
waite hospital, just a little place, for a while. But when the
Company, the Tevershall Colliery Company, really Sir Geoffrey,
saw that she could get on by herself, they were very good to
her, gave her the parish nursing, and stood by her, she would
say that for them. And she'd done it ever since, till now it was
getting a bit much for her; she needed something a bit lighter,

84
there was such a lot of traipsing around if you were a district
nurse.
'Yes, the Company's been very good to me, I always say it.
But I should never forget what they said about Ted, for he was
as steady and fearless a chap as ever set foot on the cage, and
it was as good as branding him a coward. But there, he was
dead, and could say nothing to none of 'em.'
It was a queer mixture of feelings the woman showed as she
talked. She liked the colliers, whom she had nursed for so long;
but she felt very superior to them. She felt almost upper class;
and at the same time a resentment against the ruling class
smouldered in her. The masters! In a dispute between masters
and men, she was always for the men. But when there was no
question of contest, she was pining to be superior, to be one of
the upper class. The upper classes fascinated her, appealing to
her peculiar English passion for superiority. She was thrilled to
come to Wragby; thrilled to talk to Lady Chatterley, my word,
different from the common colliers' wives! She said so in so
many words. Yet one could see a grudge against the Chatter-
leys peep out in her; the grudge against the masters.
'Why, yes, of course, it would wear Lady Chatterley out! It's a
mercy she had a sister to come and help her. Men don't think,
high and low-alike, they take what a woman does for them for
granted. Oh, I've told the colliers off about it many a time. But
it's very hard for Sir Clifford, you know, crippled like that. They
were always a haughty family, standoffish in a way, as they've
a right to be. But then to be brought down like that! And it's
very hard on Lady Chatterley, perhaps harder on her. What she
misses! I only had Ted three years, but my word, while I had
him I had a husband I could never forget. He was one in a
thousand, and jolly as the day. Who'd ever have thought he'd
get killed? I don't believe it to this day somehow, I've never be-
lieved it, though I washed him with my own hands. But he was
never dead for me, he never was. I never took it in.'
This was a new voice in Wragby, very new for Connie to
hear; it roused a new ear in her.
For the first week or so, Mrs Bolton, however, was very quiet
at Wragby, her assured, bossy manner left her, and she was
nervous. With Clifford she was shy, almost frightened, and

85
silent. He liked that, and soon recovered his self-possession,
letting her do things for him without even noticing her.
'She's a useful nonentity!' he said. Connie opened her eyes in
wonder, but she did not contradict him. So different are im-
pressions on two different people!
And he soon became rather superb, somewhat lordly with the
nurse. She had rather expected it, and he played up without
knowing. So susceptible we are to what is expected of us! The
colliers had been so like children, talking to her, and telling
her what hurt them, while she bandaged them, or nursed them.
They had always made her feel so grand, almost super-human
in her administrations. Now Clifford made her feel small, and
like a servant, and she accepted it without a word, adjusting
herself to the upper classes.
She came very mute, with her long, handsome face, and
downcast eyes, to administer to him. And she said very humbly:
'Shall I do this now, Sir Clifford? Shall I do that?'
'No, leave it for a time. I'll have it done later.'
'Very well, Sir Clifford.'
'Come in again in half an hour.'
'Very well, Sir Clifford.'
'And just take those old papers out, will you?'
'Very well, Sir Clifford.'
She went softly, and in half an hour she came softly again.
She was bullied, but she didn't mind. She was experiencing the
upper classes. She neither resented nor disliked Clifford; he
was just part of a phenomenon, the phenomenon of the high-
class folks, so far unknown to her, but now to be known. She
felt more at home with Lady Chatterley, and after all it's the
mistress of the house matters most.
Mrs Bolton helped Clifford to bed at night, and slept across
the passage from his room, and came if he rang for her in the
night. She also helped him in the morning, and soon valeted
him completely, even shaving him, in her soft, tentative
woman's way. She was very good and competent, and she soon
knew how to have him in her power. He wasn't so very differ-
ent from the colliers after all, when you lathered his chin, and
softly rubbed the bristles. The stand-offishness and the lack of
frankness didn't bother her; she was having a new experience.

86
 Clifford, however, inside himself, never quite forgave Connie
for giving up her personal care of him to a strange hired wo-
man. It killed, he said to himself, the real flower of the intimacy
between him and her. But Connie didn't mind that. The fine
flower of their intimacy was to her rather like an orchid, a bulb
stuck parasitic on her tree of life, and producing, to her eyes, a
rather shabby flower.
Now she had more time to herself she could softly play the
piano, up in her room, and sing: 'Touch not the nettle, for the
bonds of love are ill to loose.' She had not realized till lately
how ill to loose they were, these bonds of love. But thank
Heaven she had loosened them! She was so glad to be alone,
not always to have to talk to him. When he was alone he
tapped-tapped-tapped on a typewriter, to infinity. But when he
was not 'working', and she was there, he talked, always talked;
infinite small analysis of people and motives, and results, char-
acters and personalities, till now she had had enough. For
years she had loved it, until she had enough, and then suddenly
it was too much. She was thankful to be alone.
It was as if thousands and thousands of little roots and
threads of consciousness in him and her had grown together
into a tangled mass, till they could crowd no more, and the
plant was dying. Now quietly, subtly, she was unravelling the
tangle of his consciousness and hers, breaking the threads
gently, one by one, with patience and impatience to get clear.
But the bonds of such love are more ill to loose even than most
bonds; though Mrs Bolton's coming had been a great help.
But he still wanted the old intimate evenings of talk with
Connie: talk or reading aloud. But now she could arrange that
Mrs Bolton should come at ten to disturb them. At ten o'clock
Connie could go upstairs and be alone. Clifford was in good
hands with Mrs Bolton.
Mrs Bolton ate with Mrs Betts in the housekeeper's room,
since they were all agreeable. And it was curious how much
closer the servants' quarters seemed to have come; right up to
the doors of Clifford's study, when before they were so remote.
For Mrs Betts would sometimes sit in Mrs Bolton's room, and
Connie heard their lowered voices, and felt somehow the
strong, other vibration of the working people almost invading

87
the sitting-room, when she and Clifford were alone. So
changed was Wragby merely by Mrs Bolton's coming.
And Connie felt herself released, in another world, she felt
she breathed differently. But still she was afraid of how many
of her roots, perhaps mortal ones, were tangled with Clifford's.
Yet still, she breathed freer, a new phase was going to begin in
her life.

88
Chapter 8
Mrs Bolton also kept a cherishing eye on Connie, feeling she
must extend to her her female and professional protection. She
was always urging her ladyship to walk out, to drive to Uth-
waite, to be in the air. For Connie had got into the habit of sit-
ting still by the fire, pretending to read; or to sew feebly, and
hardly going out at all.
It was a blowy day soon after Hilda had gone, that Mrs
Bolton said: 'Now why don't you go for a walk through the
wood, and look at the daffs behind the keeper's cottage?
They're the prettiest sight you'd see in a day's march. And you
could put some in your room; wild daffs are always so cheerful-
looking, aren't they?'
Connie took it in good part, even daffs for daffodils. Wild daf-
fodils! After all, one could not stew in one's own juice. The
spring came back… 'Seasons return, but not to me returns
Day, or the sweet approach of Ev'n or Morn.'
And the keeper, his thin, white body, like a lonely pistil of an
invisible flower! She had forgotten him in her unspeakable de-
pression. But now something roused… 'Pale beyond porch and
portal'… the thing to do was to pass the porches and the
portals.
She was stronger, she could walk better, and iii the wood the
wind would not be so tiring as it was across the bark, flatten
against her. She wanted to forget, to forget the world, and all
the dreadful, carrion-bodied people. 'Ye must be born again! I
believe in the resurrection of the body! Except a grain of wheat
fall into the earth and die, it shall by no means bring forth.
When the crocus cometh forth I too will emerge and see the
sun!' In the wind of March endless phrases swept through her
consciousness.
Little gusts of sunshine blew, strangely bright, and lit up the
celandines at the wood's edge, under the hazel-rods, they

89
spangled out bright and yellow. And the wood was still, stiller,
but yet gusty with crossing sun. The first windflowers were
out, and all the wood seemed pale with the pallor of endless
little anemones, sprinkling the shaken floor. 'The world has
grown pale with thy breath.' But it was the breath of
Persephone, this time; she was out of hell on a cold morning.
Cold breaths of wind came, and overhead there was an anger
of entangled wind caught among the twigs. It, too, was caught
and trying to tear itself free, the wind, like Absalom. How cold
the anemones looked, bobbing their naked white shoulders
over crinoline skirts of green. But they stood it. A few first
bleached little primroses too, by the path, and yellow buds un-
folding themselves.
The roaring and swaying was overhead, only cold currents
came down below. Connie was strangely excited in the wood,
and the colour flew in her cheeks, and burned blue in her eyes.
She walked ploddingly, picking a few primroses and the first
violets, that smelled sweet and cold, sweet and cold. And she
drifted on without knowing where she was.
Till she came to the clearing, at the end of the wood, and saw
the green-stained stone cottage, looking almost rosy, like the
flesh underneath a mushroom, its stone warmed in a burst of
sun. And there was a sparkle of yellow jasmine by the door; the
closed door. But no sound; no smoke from the chimney; no dog
barking.
She went quietly round to the back, where the bank rose up;
she had an excuse, to see the daffodils.
And they were there, the short-stemmed flowers, rustling
and fluttering and shivering, so bright and alive, but with
nowhere to hide their faces, as they turned them away from
the wind.
They shook their bright, sunny little rags in bouts of distress.
But perhaps they liked it really; perhaps they really liked the
tossing.
Constance sat down with her back to a young pine-tree, that
wayed against her with curious life, elastic, and powerful,
rising up. The erect, alive thing, with its top in the sun! And
she watched the daffodils turn golden, in a burst of sun that
was warm on her hands and lap. Even she caught the faint,
tarry scent of the flowers. And then, being so still and alone,

90
she seemed to bet into the current of her own proper destiny.
She had been fastened by a rope, and jagging and snarring like
a boat at its moorings; now she was loose and adrift.
The sunshine gave way to chill; the daffodils were in shadow,
dipping silently. So they would dip through the day and the
long cold night. So strong in their frailty!
She rose, a little stiff, took a few daffodils, and went down.
She hated breaking the flowers, but she wanted just one or two
to go with her. She would have to go back to Wragby and its
walls, and now she hated it, especially its thick walls. Walls! Al-
ways walls! Yet one needed them in this wind.
When she got home Clifford asked her:
'Where did you go?'
'Right across the wood! Look, aren't the little daffodils ador-
able? To think they should come out of the earth!'
'Just as much out of air and sunshine,' he said.
'But modelled in the earth,' she retorted, with a prompt con-
tradiction, that surprised her a little.
The next afternoon she went to the wood again. She followed
the broad riding that swerved round and up through the
larches to a spring called John's Well. It was cold on this hill-
side, and not a flower in the darkness of larches. But the icy
little spring softly pressed upwards from its tiny well-bed of
pure, reddish-white pebbles. How icy and clear it was! Bril-
liant! The new keeper had no doubt put in fresh pebbles. She
heard the faint tinkle of water, as the tiny overflow trickled
over and downhill. Even above the hissing boom of the larch-
wood, that spread its bristling, leafless, wolfish darkness on
the down-slope, she heard the tinkle as of tiny water-bells.
This place was a little sinister, cold, damp. Yet the well must
have been a drinking-place for hundreds of years. Now no
more. Its tiny cleared space was lush and cold and dismal.
She rose and went slowly towards home. As she went she
heard a faint tapping away on the right, and stood still to
listen. Was it hammering, or a woodpecker? It was surely
hammering.
She walked on, listening. And then she noticed a narrow
track between young fir-trees, a track that seemed to lead
nowhere. But she felt it had been used. She turned down it ad-
venturously, between the thick young firs, which gave way

91
soon to the old oak wood. She followed the track, and the ham-
mering grew nearer, in the silence of the windy wood, for trees
make a silence even in their noise of wind.
She saw a secret little clearing, and a secret little hot made
of rustic poles. And she had never been here before! She real-
ized it was the quiet place where the growing pheasants were
reared; the keeper in his shirt-sleeves was kneeling, hammer-
ing. The dog trotted forward with a short, sharp bark, and the
keeper lifted his face suddenly and saw her. He had a startled
look in his eyes.
He straightened himself and saluted, watching her in silence,
as she came forward with weakening limbs. He resented the in-
trusion; he cherished his solitude as his only and last freedom
in life.
'I wondered what the hammering was,' she said, feeling weak
and breathless, and a little afraid of him, as he looked so
straight at her.
'Ah'm gettin' th' coops ready for th' young bods,' he said, in
broad vernacular.
She did not know what to say, and she felt weak. 'I should
like to sit down a bit,' she said.
'Come and sit 'ere i' th' 'ut,' he said, going in front of her to
the hut, pushing aside some timber and stuff, and drawing out
a rustic chair, made of hazel sticks.
'Am Ah t' light yer a little fire?' he asked, with the curious
na‹vet‚ of the dialect.
'Oh, don't bother,' she replied.
But he looked at her hands; they were rather blue. So he
quickly took some larch twigs to the little brick fire-place in the
corner, and in a moment the yellow flame was running up the
chimney. He made a place by the brick hearth.
'Sit 'ere then a bit, and warm yer,' he said.
She obeyed him. He had that curious kind of protective au-
thority she obeyed at once. So she sat and warmed her hands
at the blaze, and dropped logs on the fire, whilst outside he
was hammering again. She did not really want to sit, poked in
a corner by the fire; she would rather have watched from the
door, but she was being looked after, so she had to submit.
The hut was quite cosy, panelled with unvarnished deal, hav-
ing a little rustic table and stool beside her chair, and a

92
carpenter's bench, then a big box, tools, new boards, nails; and
many things hung from pegs: axe, hatchet, traps, things in
sacks, his coat. It had no window, the light came in through the
open door. It was a jumble, but also it was a sort of little
sanctuary.
She listened to the tapping of the man's hammer; it was not
so happy. He was oppressed. Here was a trespass on his pri-
vacy, and a dangerous one! A woman! He had reached the
point where all he wanted on earth was to be alone. And yet he
was powerless to preserve his privacy; he was a hired man,
and these people were his masters.
Especially he did not want to come into contact with a wo-
man again. He feared it; for he had a big wound from old con-
tacts. He felt if he could not be alone, and if he could not be
left alone, he would die. His recoil away from the outer world
was complete; his last refuge was this wood; to hide himself
there!
Connie grew warm by the fire, which she had made too big:
then she grew hot. She went and sat on the stool in the door-
way, watching the man at work. He seemed not to notice her,
but he knew. Yet he worked on, as if absorbedly, and his brown
dog sat on her tail near him, and surveyed the untrustworthy
world.
Slender, quiet and quick, the man finished the coop he was
making, turned it over, tried the sliding door, then set it aside.
Then he rose, went for an old coop, and took it to the chopping
log where he was working. Crouching, he tried the bars; some
broke in his hands; he began to draw the nails. Then he turned
the coop over and deliberated, and he gave absolutely no sign
of awareness of the woman's presence.
So Connie watched him fixedly. And the same solitary alone-
ness she had seen in him naked, she now saw in him clothed:
solitary, and intent, like an animal that works alone, but also
brooding, like a soul that recoils away, away from all human
contact. Silently, patiently, he was recoiling away from her
even now. It was the stillness, and the timeless sort of pa-
tience, in a man impatient and passionate, that touched
Connie's womb. She saw it in his bent head, the quick quiet
hands, the crouching of his slender, sensitive loins; something
patient and withdrawn. She felt his experience had been

93
deeper and wider than her own; much deeper and wider, and
perhaps more deadly. And this relieved her of herself; she felt
almost irresponsible.
So she sat in the doorway of the hut in a dream, utterly un-
aware of time and of particular circumstances. She was so drif-
ted away that he glanced up at her quickly, and saw the utterly
still, waiting look on her face. To him it was a look of waiting.
And a little thin tongue of fire suddenly flickered in his loins, at
the root of his back, and he groaned in spirit. He dreaded with
a repulsion almost of death, any further close human contact.
He wished above all things she would go away, and leave him
to his own privacy. He dreaded her will, her female will, and
her modern female insistency. And above all he dreaded her
cool, upper-class impudence of having her own way. For after
all he was only a hired man. He hated her presence there.
Connie came to herself with sudden uneasiness. She rose.
The afternoon was turning to evening, yet she could not go
away. She went over to the man, who stood up at attention, his
worn face stiff and blank, his eyes watching her.
'It is so nice here, so restful,' she said. 'I have never been
here before.'
'No?'
'I think I shall come and sit here sometimes.
'Yes?'
'Do you lock the hut when you're not here?'
'Yes, your Ladyship.'
'Do you think I could have a key too, so that I could sit here
sometimes? Are there two keys?'
'Not as Ah know on, ther' isna.'
He had lapsed into the vernacular. Connie hesitated; he was
putting up an opposition. Was it his hut, after all?
'Couldn't we get another key?' she asked in her soft voice,
that underneath had the ring of a woman determined to get
her way.
'Another!' he said, glancing at her with a flash of anger,
touched with derision.
'Yes, a duplicate,' she said, flushing.
Appen Sir Clifford 'ud know,' he said, putting her off.

94
 'Yes!' she said, 'he might have another. Otherwise we could
have one made from the one you have. It would only take a day
or so, I suppose. You could spare your key for so long.'
'Ah canna tell yer, m'Lady! Ah know nob'dy as ma'es keys
round 'ere.'
Connie suddenly flushed with anger.
'Very well!' she said. 'I'll see to it.'
'All right, your Ladyship.'
Their eyes met. His had a cold, ugly look of dislike and con-
tempt, and indifference to what would happen. Hers were hot
with rebuff.
But her heart sank, she saw how utterly he disliked her,
when she went against him. And she saw him in a sort of
desperation.
'Good afternoon!'
'Afternoon, my Lady!' He saluted and turned abruptly away.
She had wakened the sleeping dogs of old voracious anger in
him, anger against the self-willed female. And he was power-
less, powerless. He knew it!
And she was angry against the self-willed male. A servant
too! She walked sullenly home.
She found Mrs Bolton under the great beech-tree on the
knoll, looking for her.
'I just wondered if you'd be coming, my Lady,' the woman
said brightly.
'Am I late?' asked Connie.
'Oh only Sir Clifford was waiting for his tea.'
'Why didn't you make it then?'
'Oh, I don't think it's hardly my place. I don't think Sir Clif-
ford would like it at all, my Lady.'
'I don't see why not,' said Connie.
She went indoors to Clifford's study, where the old brass
kettle was simmering on the tray.
'Am I late, Clifford?' she said, putting down the few flowers
and taking up the tea-caddy, as she stood before the tray in her
hat and scarf. 'I'm sorry! Why didn't you let Mrs Bolton make
the tea?'
'I didn't think of it,' he said ironically. 'I don't quite see her
presiding at the tea-table.'

95
 'Oh, there's nothing sacrosanct about a silver tea-pot,' said
Connie.
He glanced up at her curiously.
'What did you do all afternoon?' he said.
'Walked and sat in a sheltered place. Do you know there are
still berries on the big holly-tree?'
She took off her scarf, but not her hat, and sat down to make
tea. The toast would certainly be leathery. She put the tea-cosy
over the tea-pot, and rose to get a little glass for her violets.
The poor flowers hung over, limp on their stalks.
'They'll revive again!' she said, putting them before him in
their glass for him to smell.
'Sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes,' he quoted.
'I don't see a bit of connexion with the actual violets,' she
said. 'The Elizabethans are rather upholstered.'
She poured him his tea.
'Do you think there is a second key to that little hut not far
from John's Well, where the pheasants are reared?' she said.
'There may be. Why?'
'I happened to find it today - and I'd never seen it before. I
think it's a darling place. I could sit there sometimes, couldn't
I?'
'Was Mellors there?'
'Yes! That's how I found it: his hammering. He didn't seem to
like my intruding at all. In fact he was almost rude when I
asked about a second key.'
'What did he say?'
'Oh, nothing: just his manner; and he said he knew nothing
about keys.'
'There may be one in Father's study. Betts knows them all,
they're all there. I'll get him to look.'
'Oh do!' she said.
'So Mellors was almost rude?'
'Oh, nothing, really! But I don't think he wanted me to have
the freedom of the castle, quite.'
'I don't suppose he did.'
'Still, I don't see why he should mind. It's not his home, after
all! It's not his private abode. I don't see why I shouldn't sit
there if I want to.'

96
 'Quite!' said Clifford. 'He thinks too much of himself, that
man.'
'Do you think he does?'
'Oh, decidedly! He thinks he's something exceptional. You
know he had a wife he didn't get on with, so he joined up in
1915 and was sent to India, I believe. Anyhow he was black-
smith to the cavalry in Egypt for a time; always was connected
with horses, a clever fellow that way. Then some Indian colonel
took a fancy to him, and he was made a lieutenant. Yes, they
gave him a commission. I believe he went back to India with
his colonel, and up to the north-west frontier. He was ill; he
was a pension. He didn't come out of the army till last year, I
believe, and then, naturally, it isn't easy for a man like that to
get back to his own level. He's bound to flounder. But he does
his duty all right, as far as I'm concerned. Only I'm not having
any of the Lieutenant Mellors touch.'
'How could they make him an officer when he speaks broad
Derbyshire?'
'He doesn't… except by fits and starts. He can speak per-
fectly well, for him. I suppose he has an idea if he's come down
to the ranks again, he'd better speak as the ranks speak.'
'Why didn't you tell me about him before?'
'Oh, I've no patience with these romances. They're the ruin of
all order. It's a thousand pities they ever happened.'
Connie was inclined to agree. What was the good of discon-
tented people who fitted in nowhere?
In the spell of fine weather Clifford, too, decided to go to the
wood. The wind was cold, but not so tiresome, and the sun-
shine was like life itself, warm and full.
'It's amazing,' said Connie, 'how different one feels when
there's a really fresh fine day. Usually one feels the very air is
half dead. People are killing the very air.'
'Do you think people are doing it?' he asked.
'I do. The steam of so much boredom, and discontent and an-
ger out of all the people, just kills the vitality in the air. I'm
sure of it.'
'Perhaps some condition of the atmosphere lowers the vital-
ity of the people?' he said.
'No, it's man that poisons the universe,' she asserted.
'Fouls his own nest,' remarked Clifford.

97
 The chair puffed on. In the hazel copse catkins were hanging
pale gold, and in sunny places the wood-anemones were wide
open, as if exclaiming with the joy of life, just as good as in
past days, when people could exclaim along with them. They
had a faint scent of apple-blossom. Connie gathered a few for
Clifford.
He took them and looked at them curiously.
'Thou still unravished bride of quietness,' he quoted. 'It
seems to fit flowers so much better than Greek vases.'
'Ravished is such a horrid word!' she said. 'It's only people
who ravish things.'
'Oh, I don't know… snails and things,' he said.
'Even snails only eat them, and bees don't ravish.'
She was angry with him, turning everything into words. Vi-
olets were Juno's eyelids, and windflowers were on ravished
brides. How she hated words, always coming between her and
life: they did the ravishing, if anything did: ready-made words
and phrases, sucking all the life-sap out of living things.
The walk with Clifford was not quite a success. Between him
and Connie there was a tension that each pretended not to no-
tice, but there it was. Suddenly, with all the force of her female
instinct, she was shoving him off. She wanted to be clear of
him, and especially of his consciousness, his words, his obses-
sion with himself, his endless treadmill obsession with himself,
and his own words.
The weather came rainy again. But after a day or two she
went out in the rain, and she went to the wood. And once
there, she went towards the hut. It was raining, but not so
cold, and the wood felt so silent and remote, inaccessible in the
dusk of rain.
She came to the clearing. No one there! The hut was locked.
But she sat on the log doorstep, under the rustic porch, and
snuggled into her own warmth. So she sat, looking at the rain,
listening to the many noiseless noises of it, and to the strange
soughings of wind in upper branches, when there seemed to be
no wind. Old oak-trees stood around, grey, powerful trunks,
rain-blackened, round and vital, throwing off reckless limbs.
The ground was fairly free of undergrowth, the anemones
sprinkled, there was a bush or two, elder, or guelder-rose, and
a purplish tangle of bramble: the old russet of bracken almost

98
vanished under green anemone ruffs. Perhaps this was one of
the unravished places. Unravished! The whole world was
ravished.
Some things can't be ravished. You can't ravish a tin of
sardines. And so many women are like that; and men. But the
earth… !
The rain was abating. It was hardly making darkness among
the oaks any more. Connie wanted to go; yet she sat on. But
she was getting cold; yet the overwhelming inertia of her inner
resentment kept her there as if paralysed.
Ravished! How ravished one could be without ever being
touched. Ravished by dead words become obscene, and dead
ideas become obsessions.
A wet brown dog came running and did not bark, lifting a
wet feather of a tail. The man followed in a wet black oilskin
jacket, like a chauffeur, and face flushed a little. She felt him
recoil in his quick walk, when he saw her. She stood up in the
handbreadth of dryness under the rustic porch. He saluted
without speaking, coming slowly near. She began to withdraw.
'I'm just going,' she said.
'Was yer waitin' to get in?' he asked, looking at the hut, not
at her.
'No, I only sat a few minutes in the shelter,' she said, with
quiet dignity.
He looked at her. She looked cold.
'Sir Clifford 'adn't got no other key then?' he asked.
'No, but it doesn't matter. I can sit perfectly dry under this
porch. Good afternoon!' She hated the excess of vernacular in
his speech.
He watched her closely, as she was moving away. Then he
hitched up his jacket, and put his hand in his breeches pocket,
taking out the key of the hut.
Appen yer'd better 'ave this key, an' Ah min fend for t' bods
some other road.'
She looked at him.
'What do you mean?' she asked.
'I mean as 'appen Ah can find anuther pleece as'll du for
rearin' th' pheasants. If yer want ter be 'ere, yo'll non want me
messin' abaht a' th' time.'

99
 She looked at him, getting his meaning through the fog of
the dialect.
'Why don't you speak ordinary English?' she said coldly.
'Me! AH thowt it WOR ordinary.'
She was silent for a few moments in anger.
'So if yer want t' key, yer'd better tacit. Or 'appen Ah'd better
gi'e 't yer termorrer, an' clear all t' stuff aht fust. Would that du
for yer?'
She became more angry.
'I didn't want your key,' she said. 'I don't want you to clear
anything out at all. I don't in the least want to turn you out of
your hut, thank you! I only wanted to be able to sit here some-
times, like today. But I can sit perfectly well under the porch,
so please say no more about it.'
He looked at her again, with his wicked blue eyes.
'Why,' he began, in the broad slow dialect. 'Your Ladyship's
as welcome as Christmas ter th' hut an' th' key an' iverythink
as is. On'y this time O' th' year ther's bods ter set, an' Ah've got
ter be potterin' abaht a good bit, seein' after 'em, an' a'. Winter
time Ah ned 'ardly come nigh th' pleece. But what wi' spring,
an' Sir Clifford wantin' ter start th' pheasants… An' your
Ladyship'd non want me tinkerin' around an' about when she
was 'ere, all the time.'
She listened with a dim kind of amazement.
'Why should I mind your being here?' she asked.
He looked at her curiously.
'T'nuisance on me!' he said briefly, but significantly. She
flushed. 'Very well!' she said finally. 'I won't trouble you. But I
don't think I should have minded at all sitting and seeing you
look after the birds. I should have liked it. But since you think
it interferes with you, I won't disturb you, don't be afraid. You
are Sir Clifford's keeper, not mine.'
The phrase sounded queer, she didn't know why. But she let
it pass.
'Nay, your Ladyship. It's your Ladyship's own 'ut. It's as your
Ladyship likes an' pleases, every time. Yer can turn me off at a
wik's notice. It wor only… '
'Only what?' she asked, baffled.
He pushed back his hat in an odd comic way.

100
 'On'y as 'appen yo'd like the place ter yersen, when yer did
come, an' not me messin' abaht.'
'But why?' she said, angry. 'Aren't you a civilized human be-
ing? Do you think I ought to be afraid of you? Why should I
take any notice of you and your being here or not? Why is it
important?'
He looked at her, all his face glimmering with wicked
laughter.
'It's not, your Ladyship. Not in the very least,' he said.
'Well, why then?' she asked.
'Shall I get your Ladyship another key then?'
'No thank you! I don't want it.'
'Ah'll get it anyhow. We'd best 'ave two keys ter th' place.'
'And I consider you are insolent,' said Connie, with her col-
our up, panting a little.
'Nay, nay!' he said quickly. 'Dunna yer say that! Nay, nay! I
niver meant nuthink. Ah on'y thought as if yo' come 'ere, Ah s'd
ave ter clear out, an' it'd mean a lot of work, settin' up some-
wheres else. But if your Ladyship isn't going ter take no notice
O' me, then… it's Sir Clifford's 'ut, an' everythink is as your
Ladyship likes, everythink is as your Ladyship likes an' pleases,
barrin' yer take no notice O' me, doin' th' bits of jobs as Ah've
got ter do.'
Connie went away completely bewildered. She was not sure
whether she had been insulted and mortally of fended, or not.
Perhaps the man really only meant what he said; that he
thought she would expect him to keep away. As if she would
dream of it! And as if he could possibly be so important, he and
his stupid presence.
She went home in confusion, not knowing what she thought
or felt.

101
Chapter 9
Connie was surprised at her own feeling of aversion from Clif-
ford. 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 col-
lapsed, 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 soci-
ety is insane. Money and so-called love are its two great mani-
as; 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.

102
Clifford fascinated her because he always, or so often, frus-
trated 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 caress-
ive, 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.'
'The scent is what I object to,' he said. 'It's a little funereal.'
'Do you think so!' she exclaimed in surprise, just a little of-
fended, but impressed. And she carried the hyacinths out of
the room, impressed by his higher fastidiousness.
'Shall I shave you this morning, or would you rather do it
yourself?' Always the same soft, caressive, subservient, yet
managing voice.
'I don't know. Do you mind waiting a while. I'll ring when I'm
ready.'
'Very good, Sir Clifford!' she replied, so soft and submissive,
withdrawing quietly. But every rebuff stored up new energy of
will in her.
When he rang, after a time, she would appear at once. And
then he would say:
'I think I'd rather you shaved me this morning.'
Her heart gave a little thrill, and she replied with extra
softness:
'Very good, Sir Clifford!'
She was very deft, with a soft, lingering touch, a little slow.
At first he had resented the infinitely soft touch of her fingers
on his face. But now he liked it, with a growing voluptuous-
ness. He let her shave him nearly every day: her face near his,
her eyes so very concentrated, watching that she did it right.
And gradually her fingertips knew his cheeks and lips, his jaw
and chin and throat perfectly. He was well-fed and well-liking,
his face and throat were handsome enough and he was a
gentleman.
She was handsome too, pale, her face rather long and abso-
lutely still, her eyes bright, but revealing nothing. Gradually,

103
with infinite softness, almost with love, she was getting him by
the throat, and he was yielding to her.
She now did almost everything for him, and he felt more at
home with her, less ashamed of accepting her menial offices,
than with Connie. She liked handling him. She loved having his
body in her charge, absolutely, to the last menial offices. She
said to Connie one day: 'All men are babies, when you come to
the bottom of them. Why, I've handled some of the toughest
customers as ever went down Tevershall pit. But let anything
ail them so that you have to do for them, and they're babies,
just big babies. Oh, there's not much difference in men!'
At first Mrs Bolton had thought there really was something
different in a gentleman, a real gentleman, like Sir Clifford. So
Clifford had got a good start of her. But gradually, as she came
to the bottom of him, to use her own term, she found he was
like the rest, a baby grown to man's proportions: but a baby
with a queer temper and a fine manner and power in its con-
trol, and all sorts of odd knowledge that she had never
dreamed of, with which he could still bully her.
Connie was sometimes tempted to say to him:
'For God's sake, don't sink so horribly into the hands of that
woman!' But she found she didn't care for him enough to say it,
in the long run.
It was still their habit to spend the evening together, till ten
o'clock. Then they would talk, or read together, or go over his
manuscript. But the thrill had gone out of it. She was bored by
his manuscripts. But she still dutifully typed them out for him.
But in time Mrs Bolton would do even that.
For Connie had suggested to Mrs Bolton that she should
learn to use a typewriter. And Mrs Bolton, always ready, had
begun at once, and practised assiduously. So now Clifford
would sometimes dictate a letter to her, and she would take it
down rather slowly, but correctly. And he was very patient,
spelling for her the difficult words, or the occasional phrases in
French. She was so thrilled, it was almost a pleasure to in-
struct her.
Now Connie would sometimes plead a headache as an excuse
for going up to her room after dinner.
'Perhaps Mrs Bolton will play piquet with you,' she said to
Clifford.

104
 'Oh, I shall be perfectly all right. You go to your own room
and rest, darling.'
But no sooner had she gone, than he rang for Mrs Bolton,
and asked her to take a hand at piquet or bezique, or even
chess. He had taught her all these games. And Connie found it
curiously objectionable to see Mrs Bolton, flushed and tremu-
lous like a little girl, touching her queen or her knight with un-
certain fingers, then drawing away again. And Clifford, faintly
smiling with a half-teasing superiority, saying to her:
'You must say j'adoube!'
She looked up at him with bright, startled eyes, then mur-
mured shyly, obediently:
'J'adoube!'
Yes, he was educating her. And he enjoyed it, it gave him a
sense of power. And she was thrilled. She was coming bit by
bit into possession of all that the gentry knew, all that made
them upper class: apart from the money. That thrilled her. And
at the same time, she was making him want to have her there
with him. It was a subtle deep flattery to him, her genuine
thrill.
To Connie, Clifford seemed to be coming out in his true col-
ours: a little vulgar, a little common, and uninspired; rather fat.
Ivy Bolton's tricks and humble bossiness were also only too
transparent. But Connie did wonder at the genuine thrill which
the woman got out of Clifford. To say she was in love with him
would be putting it wrongly. She was thrilled by her contact
with a man of the upper class, this titled gentleman, this au-
thor who could write books and poems, and whose photograph
appeared in the illustrated newspapers. She was thrilled to a
weird passion. And his 'educating' her roused in her a passion
of excitement and response much deeper than any love affair
could have done. In truth, the very fact that there could BE no
love affair left her free to thrill to her very marrow with this
other passion, the peculiar passion of knowing, knowing as he
knew.
There was no mistake that the woman was in some way in
love with him: whatever force we give to the word love. She
looked so handsome and so young, and her grey eyes were
sometimes marvellous. At the same time, there was a lurking
soft satisfaction about her, even of triumph, and private

105
satisfaction. Ugh, that private satisfaction. How Connie loathed
it!
But no wonder Clifford was caught by the woman! She abso-
lutely adored him, in her persistent fashion, and put herself ab-
solutely at his service, for him to use as he liked. No wonder he
was flattered!
Connie heard long conversations going on between the two.
Or rather, it was mostly Mrs Bolton talking. She had unloosed
to him the stream of gossip about Tevershall village. It was
more than gossip. It was Mrs Gaskell and George Eliot and
Miss Mitford all rolled in one, with a great deal more, that
these women left out.' Once started, Mrs Bolton was better
than any book, about the lives of the people. She knew them all
so intimately, and had such a peculiar, flamey zest in all their
affairs, it was wonderful, if just a TRIFLE humiliating to listen
to her. At first she had not ventured to 'talk Tevershall', as she
called it, to Clifford. But once started, it went on. Clifford was
listening for 'material', and he found it in plenty. Connie real-
ized that his so-called genius was just this: a perspicuous talent
for personal gossip, clever and apparently detached. Mrs
Bolton, of course, was very warm when she 'talked Tevershall'.
Carried away, in fact. And it was marvellous, the things that
happened and that she knew about. She would have run to
dozens of volumes.
Connie was fascinated, listening to her. But afterwards al-
ways a little ashamed. She ought not to listen with this queer
rabid curiosity. After all, one may hear the most private affairs
of other people, but only in a spirit of respect for the strug-
gling, battered thing which any human soul is, and in a spirit of
fine, discriminative sympathy. For even satire is a form of sym-
pathy. It is the way our sympathy flows and recoils that really
determines our lives. And here lies the vast importance of the
novel, properly handled. It can inform and lead into new places
the flow of our sympathetic consciousness, and it can lead our
sympathy away in recoil from things gone dead. Therefore, the
novel, properly handled, can reveal the most secret places of
life: for it is in the passional secret places of life, above all, that
the tide of sensitive awareness needs to ebb and flow, cleans-
ing and freshening.

106
 But the novel, like gossip, can also excite spurious sympath-
ies and recoils, mechanical and deadening to the psyche. The
novel can glorify the most corrupt feelings, so long as they are
conventionally 'pure'. Then the novel, like gossip, becomes at
last vicious, and, like gossip, all the more vicious because it is
always ostensibly on the side of the angels. Mrs Bolton's gossip
was always on the side of the angels. 'And he was such a BAD
fellow, and she was such a nice woman.' Whereas, as Connie
could see even from Mrs Bolton's gossip, the woman had been
merely a mealy-mouthed sort, and the man angrily honest. But
angry honesty made a 'bad man' of him, and mealy-mouthed-
ness made a 'nice woman' of her, in the vicious, conventional
channelling of sympathy by Mrs Bolton.
For this reason, the gossip was humiliating. And for the same
reason, most novels, especially popular ones, are humiliating
too. The public responds now only to an appeal to its vices.
Nevertheless, one got a new vision of Tevershall village from
Mrs Bolton's talk. A terrible, seething welter of ugly life it
seemed: not at all the flat drabness it looked from outside. Clif-
ford of course knew by sight most of the people mentioned,
Connie knew only one or two. But it sounded really more like a
Central African jungle than an English village.
'I suppose you heard as Miss Allsopp was married last week!
Would you ever! Miss Allsopp, old James' daughter, the boot-
and-shoe Allsopp. You know they built a house up at Pye Croft.
The old man died last year from a fall; eighty-three, he was, an'
nimble as a lad. An' then he slipped on Bestwood Hill, on a
slide as the lads 'ad made last winter, an' broke his thigh, and
that finished him, poor old man, it did seem a shame. Well, he
left all his money to Tattie: didn't leave the boys a penny. An'
Tattie, I know, is five years—yes, she's fifty-three last autumn.
And you know they were such Chapel people, my word! She
taught Sunday school for thirty years, till her father died. And
then she started carrying on with a fellow from Kinbrook, I
don't know if you know him, an oldish fellow with a red nose,
rather dandified, Willcock, as works in Harrison's woodyard.
Well he's sixty-five, if he's a day, yet you'd have thought they
were a pair of young turtle-doves, to see them, arm in arm, and
kissing at the gate: yes, an' she sitting on his knee right in the
bay window on Pye Croft Road, for anybody to see. And he's

107
got sons over forty: only lost his wife two years ago. If old
James Allsopp hasn't risen from his grave, it's because there is
no rising: for he kept her that strict! Now they're married and
gone to live down at Kinbrook, and they say she goes round in
a dressing-gown from morning to night, a veritable sight. I'm
sure it's awful, the way the old ones go on! Why they're a lot
worse than the young, and a sight more disgusting. I lay it
down to the pictures, myself. But you can't keep them away. I
was always saying: go to a good instructive film, but do for
goodness sake keep away from these melodramas and love
films. Anyhow keep the children away! But there you are,
grown-ups are worse than the children: and the old ones beat
the band. Talk about morality! Nobody cares a thing. Folks
does as they like, and much better off they are for it, I must
say. But they're having to draw their horns in nowadays, now
th' pits are working so bad, and they haven't got the money.
And the grumbling they do, it's awful, especially the women.
The men are so good and patient! What can they do, poor
chaps! But the women, oh, they do carry on! They go and show
off, giving contributions for a wedding present for Princess
Mary, and then when they see all the grand things that's been
given, they simply rave: who's she, any better than anybody
else! Why doesn't Swan & Edgar give me one fur coat, instead
of giving her six. I wish I'd kept my ten shillings! What's she
going to give me, I should like to know? Here I can't get a new
spring coat, my dad's working that bad, and she gets van-loads.
It's time as poor folks had some money to spend, rich ones 'as
'ad it long enough. I want a new spring coat, I do, an' wheer
am I going to get it? I say to them, be thankful you're well fed
and well clothed, without all the new finery you want! And they
fly back at me: ''Why isn't Princess Mary thankful to go about
in her old rags, then, an' have nothing! Folks like her get van-
loads, an' I can't have a new spring coat. It's a damned shame.
Princess! Bloomin' rot about Princess! It's munney as matters,
an' cos she's got lots, they give her more! Nobody's givin' me
any, an' I've as much right as anybody else. Don't talk to me
about education. It's munney as matters. I want a new spring
coat, I do, an' I shan't get it, cos there's no munney… '' That's
all they care about, clothes. They think nothing of giving seven
or eight guineas for a winter coat—colliers' daughters, mind

108
you—and two guineas for a child's summer hat. And then they
go to the Primitive Chapel in their two-guinea hat, girls as
would have been proud of a three-and-sixpenny one in my day.
I heard that at the Primitive Methodist anniversary this year,
when they have a built-up platform for the Sunday School chil-
dren, like a grandstand going almost up to th' ceiling, I heard
Miss Thompson, who has the first class of girls in the Sunday
School, say there'd be over a thousand pounds in new Sunday
clothes sitting on that platform! And times are what they are!
But you can't stop them. They're mad for clothes. And boys the
same. The lads spend every penny on themselves, clothes,
smoking, drinking in the Miners' Welfare, jaunting off to Shef-
field two or three times a week. Why, it's another world. And
they fear nothing, and they respect nothing, the young don't.
The older men are that patient and good, really, they let the
women take everything. And this is what it leads to. The wo-
men are positive demons. But the lads aren't like their dads.
They're sacrificing nothing, they aren't: they're all for self. If
you tell them they ought to be putting a bit by, for a home, they
say: That'll keep, that will, I'm goin' t' enjoy myself while I can.
Owt else'll keep! Oh, they're rough an' selfish, if you like.
Everything falls on the older men, an' it's a bad outlook all
round.'
Clifford began to get a new idea of his own village. The place
had always frightened him, but he had thought it more or less
stable. Now—?
'Is there much Socialism, Bolshevism, among the people?' he
asked.
'Oh!' said Mrs Bolton, 'you hear a few loud-mouthed ones.
But they're mostly women who've got into debt. The men take
no notice. I don't believe you'll ever turn our Tevershall men in-
to reds. They're too decent for that. But the young ones blether
sometimes. Not that they care for it really. They only want a bit
of money in their pocket, to spend at the Welfare, or go gad-
ding to Sheffield. That's all they care. When they've got no
money, they'll listen to the reds spouting. But nobody believes
in it, really.'
'So you think there's no danger?'
'Oh no! Not if trade was good, there wouldn't be. But if
things were bad for a long spell, the young ones might go

109
funny. I tell you, they're a selfish, spoilt lot. But I don't see how
they'd ever do anything. They aren't ever serious about any-
thing, except showing off on motor-bikes and dancing at the
Palais-de-danse in Sheffield. You can't make them serious. The
serious ones dress up in evening clothes and go off to the Pally
to show off before a lot of girls and dance these new Charle-
stons and what not. I'm sure sometimes the bus'll be full of
young fellows in evening suits, collier lads, off to the Pally: let
alone those that have gone with their girls in motors or on
motor-bikes. They don't give a serious thought to a thing—save
Doncaster races, and the Derby: for they all of them bet on
every race. And football! But even football's not what it was,
not by a long chalk. It's too much like hard work, they say. No,
they'd rather be off on motor-bikes to Sheffield or Nottingham,
Saturday afternoons.'
'But what do they do when they get there?'
'Oh, hang around—and have tea in some fine tea-place like
the Mikado—and go to the Pally or the pictures or the Empire,
with some girl. The girls are as free as the lads. They do just
what they like.'
'And what do they do when they haven't the money for these
things?'
'They seem to get it, somehow. And they begin talking nasty
then. But I don't see how you're going to get bolshevism, when
all the lads want is just money to enjoy themselves, and the
girls the same, with fine clothes: and they don't care about an-
other thing. They haven't the brains to be socialists. They
haven't enough seriousness to take anything really serious, and
they never will have.'
Connie thought, how extremely like all the rest of the classes
the lower classes sounded. Just the same thing over again,
Tevershall or Mayfair or Kensington. There was only one class
nowadays: moneyboys. The moneyboy and the moneygirl, the
only difference was how much you'd got, and how much you
wanted.
Under Mrs Bolton's influence, Clifford began to take a new
interest in the mines. He began to feel he belonged. A new sort
of self-assertion came into him. After all, he was the real boss
in Tevershall, he was really the pits. It was a new sense of
power, something he had till now shrunk from with dread.

110
 Tevershall pits were running thin. There were only two col-
lieries: Tevershall itself, and New London. Tevershall had once
been a famous mine, and had made famous money. But its best
days were over. New London was never very rich, and in ordin-
ary times just got along decently. But now times were bad, and
it was pits like New London that got left.
'There's a lot of Tevershall men left and gone to Stacks Gate
and Whiteover,' said Mrs Bolton. 'You've not seen the new
works at Stacks Gate, opened after the war, have you, Sir Clif-
ford? Oh, you must go one day, they're something quite new:
great big chemical works at the pit-head, doesn't look a bit like
a colliery. They say they get more money out of the chemical
by-products than out of the coal—I forget what it is. And the
grand new houses for the men, fair mansions! of course it's
brought a lot of riff-raff from all over the country. But a lot of
Tevershall men got on there, and doin' well, a lot better than
our own men. They say Tevershall's done, finished: only a ques-
tion of a few more years, and it'll have to shut down. And New
London'll go first. My word, won't it be funny when there's no
Tevershall pit working. It's bad enough during a strike, but my
word, if it closes for good, it'll be like the end of the world.
Even when I was a girl it was the best pit in the country, and a
man counted himself lucky if he could on here. Oh, there's
been some money made in Tevershall. And now the men say
it's a sinking ship, and it's time they all got out. Doesn't it
sound awful! But of course there's a lot as'll never go till they
have to. They don't like these new fangled mines, such a depth,
and all machinery to work them. Some of them simply dreads
those iron men, as they call them, those machines for hewing
the coal, where men always did it before. And they say it's
wasteful as well. But what goes in waste is saved in wages, and
a lot more. It seems soon there'll be no use for men on the face
of the earth, it'll be all machines. But they say that's what folks
said when they had to give up the old stocking frames. I can re-
member one or two. But my word, the more machines, the
more people, that's what it looks like! They say you can't get
the same chemicals out of Tevershall coal as you can out of
Stacks Gate, and that's funny, they're not three miles apart.
But they say so. But everybody says it's a shame something
can't be started, to keep the men going a bit better, and

111
employ the girls. All the girls traipsing off to Sheffield every
day! My word, it would be something to talk about if Tevershall
Collieries took a new lease of life, after everybody saying
they're finished, and a sinking ship, and the men ought to leave
them like rats leave a sinking ship. But folks talk so much, of
course there was a boom during the war. When Sir Geoffrey
made a trust of himself and got the money safe for ever, some-
how. So they say! But they say even the masters and the own-
ers don't get much out of it now. You can hardly believe it, can
you! Why I always thought the pits would go on for ever and
ever. Who'd have thought, when I was a girl! But New
England's shut down, so is Colwick Wood: yes, it's fair haunt-
ing to go through that coppy and see Colwick Wood standing
there deserted among the trees, and bushes growing up all
over the pit-head, and the lines red rusty. It's like death itself,
a dead colliery. Why, whatever should we do if Tevershall shut
down—? It doesn't bear thinking of. Always that throng it's
been, except at strikes, and even then the fan-wheels didn't
stand, except when they fetched the ponies up. I'm sure it's a
funny world, you don't know where you are from year to year,
you really don't.'
It was Mrs Bolton's talk that really put a new fight into Clif-
ford. His income, as she pointed out to him, was secure, from
his father's trust, even though it was not large. The pits did not
really concern him. It was the other world he wanted to cap-
ture, the world of literature and fame; the popular world, not
the working world.
Now he realized the distinction between popular success and
working success: the populace of pleasure and the populace of
work. He, as a private individual, had been catering with his
stories for the populace of pleasure. And he had caught on. But
beneath the populace of pleasure lay the populace of work,
grim, grimy, and rather terrible. They too had to have their
providers. And it was a much grimmer business, providing for
the populace of work, than for the populace of pleasure. While
he was doing his stories, and 'getting on' in the world, Tever-
shall was going to the wall.
He realized now that the bitch-goddess of Success had two
main appetites: one for flattery, adulation, stroking and tickling
such as writers and artists gave her; but the other a grimmer

112
appetite for meat and bones. And the meat and bones for the
bitch-goddess were provided by the men who made money in
industry.
Yes, there were two great groups of dogs wrangling for the
bitch-goddess: the group of the flatterers, those who offered
her amusement, stories, films, plays: and the other, much less
showy, much more savage breed, those who gave her meat, the
real substance of money. The well-groomed showy dogs of
amusement wrangled and snarled among themselves for the fa-
vours of the bitch-goddess. But it was nothing to the silent
fight-to-the-death that went on among the indispensables, the
bone-bringers.
But under Mrs Bolton's influence, Clifford was tempted to
enter this other fight, to capture the bitch-goddess by brute
means of industrial production. Somehow, he got his pecker
up.
In one way, Mrs Bolton made a man of him, as Connie never
did. Connie kept him apart, and made him sensitive and con-
scious of himself and his own states. Mrs Bolton made hint
aware only of outside things. Inwardly he began to go soft as
pulp. But outwardly he began to be effective.
He even roused himself to go to the mines once more: and
when he was there, he went down in a tub, and in a tub he was
hauled out into the workings. Things he had learned before the
war, and seemed utterly to have forgotten, now came back to
him. He sat there, crippled, in a tub, with the underground
manager showing him the seam with a powerful torch. And he
said little. But his mind began to work.
He began to read again his technical works on the coal-min-
ing industry, he studied the government reports, and he read
with care the latest things on mining and the chemistry of coal
and of shale which were written in German. Of course the most
valuable discoveries were kept secret as far as possible. But
once you started a sort of research in the field of coal-mining, a
study of methods and means, a study of by-products and the
chemical possibilities of coal, it was astounding the ingenuity
and the almost uncanny cleverness of the modern technical
mind, as if really the devil himself had lent fiend's wits to the
technical scientists of industry. It was far more interesting
than art, than literature, poor emotional half-witted stuff, was

113
this technical science of industry. In this field, men were like
gods, or demons, inspired to discoveries, and fighting to carry
them out. In this activity, men were beyond any mental age cal-
culable. But Clifford knew that when it did come to the emo-
tional and human life, these self-made men were of a mental
age of about thirteen, feeble boys. The discrepancy was enorm-
ous and appalling.
But let that be. Let man slide down to general idiocy in the
emotional and 'human' mind, Clifford did not care. Let all that
go hang. He was interested in the technicalities of modern
coal-mining, and in pulling Tevershall out of the hole.
He went down to the pit day after day, he studied, he put the
general manager, and the overhead manager, and the under-
ground manager, and the engineers through a mill they had
never dreamed of. Power! He felt a new sense of power flowing
through him: power over all these men, over the hundreds and
hundreds of colliers. He was finding out: and he was getting
things into his grip.
And he seemed verily to be re-born. Now life came into him!
He had been gradually dying, with Connie, in the isolated
private life of the artist and the conscious being. Now let all
that go. Let it sleep. He simply felt life rush into him out of the
coal, out of the pit. The very stale air of the colliery was better
than oxygen to him. It gave him a sense of power, power. He
was doing something: and he was going to do something. He
was going to win, to win: not as he had won with his stories,
mere publicity, amid a whole sapping of energy and malice.
But a man's victory.
At first he thought the solution lay in electricity: convert the
coal into electric power. Then a new idea came. The Germans
invented a new locomotive engine with a self feeder, that did
not need a fireman. And it was to be fed with a new fuel, that
burnt in small quantities at a great heat, under peculiar
conditions.
The idea of a new concentrated fuel that burnt with a hard
slowness at a fierce heat was what first attracted Clifford.
There must be some sort of external stimulus of the burning of
such fuel, not merely air supply. He began to experiment, and
got a clever young fellow, who had proved brilliant in chem-
istry, to help him.

114
 And he felt triumphant. He had at last got out of himself. He
had fulfilled his life-long secret yearning to get out of himself.
Art had not done it for him. Art had only made it worse. But
now, now he had done it.
He was not aware how much Mrs Bolton was behind him. He
did not know how much he depended on her. But for all that, it
was evident that when he was with her his voice dropped to an
easy rhythm of intimacy, almost a trifle vulgar.
With Connie, he was a little stiff. He felt he owed her
everything, and he showed her the utmost respect and consid-
eration, so long as she gave him mere outward respect. But it
was obvious he had a secret dread of her. The new Achilles in
him had a heel, and in this heel the woman, the woman like
Connie, his wife, could lame him fatally. He went in a certain
half-subservient dread of her, and was extremely nice to her.
But his voice was a little tense when he spoke to her, and he
began to be silent whenever she was present.
Only when he was alone with Mrs Bolton did he really feel a
lord and a master, and his voice ran on with her almost as eas-
ily and garrulously as her own could run. And he let her shave
him or sponge all his body as if he were a child, really as if he
were a child.

115
Chapter 10
Connie was a good deal alone now, fewer people came to
Wragby. Clifford no longer wanted them. He had turned
against even the cronies. He was queer. He preferred the ra-
dio, which he had installed at some expense, with a good deal
of success at last. He could sometimes get Madrid or Frank-
furt, even there in the uneasy Midlands.
And he would sit alone for hours listening to the loudspeaker
bellowing forth. It amazed and stunned Connie. But there he
would sit, with a blank entranced expression on his face, like a
person losing his mind, and listen, or seem to listen, to the un-
speakable thing.
Was he really listening? Or was it a sort of soporific he took,
whilst something else worked on underneath in him? Connie
did now know. She fled up to her room, or out of doors to the
wood. A kind of terror filled her sometimes, a terror of the in-
cipient insanity of the whole civilized species.
But now that Clifford was drifting off to this other weirdness
of industrial activity, becoming almost a creature, with a hard,
efficient shell of an exterior and a pulpy interior, one of the
amazing crabs and lobsters of the modern, industrial and finan-
cial world, invertebrates of the crustacean order, with shells of
steel, like machines, and inner bodies of soft pulp, Connie her-
self was really completely stranded.
She was not even free, for Clifford must have her there. He
seemed to have a nervous terror that she should leave him. The
curious pulpy part of him, the emotional and humanly-individu-
al part, depended on her with terror, like a child, almost like an
idiot. She must be there, there at Wragby, a Lady Chatterley,
his wife. Otherwise he would be lost like an idiot on a moor.
This amazing dependence Connie realized with a sort of hor-
ror. She heard him with his pit managers, with the members of
his Board, with young scientists, and she was amazed at his

116
shrewd insight into things, his power, his uncanny material
power over what is called practical men. He had become a
practical man himself and an amazingly astute and powerful
one, a master. Connie attributed it to Mrs Bolton's influence
upon him, just at the crisis in his life.
But this astute and practical man was almost an idiot when
left alone to his own emotional life. He worshipped Connie. She
was his wife, a higher being, and he worshipped her with a
queer, craven idolatry, like a savage, a worship based on
enormous fear, and even hate of the power of the idol, the
dread idol. All he wanted was for Connie to swear, to swear not
to leave him, not to give him away.
'Clifford,' she said to him—but this was after she had the key
to the hut—'Would you really like me to have a child one day?'
He looked at her with a furtive apprehension in his rather
prominent pale eyes.
'I shouldn't mind, if it made no difference between us,' he
said.
'No difference to what?' she asked.
'To you and me; to our love for one another. If it's going to af-
fect that, then I'm all against it. Why, I might even one day
have a child of my own!'
She looked at him in amazement.
'I mean, it might come back to me one of these days.'
She still stared in amazement, and he was uncomfortable.
'So you would not like it if I had a child?' she said.
'I tell you,' he replied quickly, like a cornered dog, 'I am quite
willing, provided it doesn't touch your love for me. If it would
touch that, I am dead against it.'
Connie could only be silent in cold fear and contempt. Such
talk was really the gabbling of an idiot. He no longer knew
what he was talking about.
'Oh, it wouldn't make any difference to my feeling for you,'
she said, with a certain sarcasm.
'There!' he said. 'That is the point! In that case I don't mind
in the least. I mean it would be awfully nice to have a child run-
ning about the house, and feel one was building up a future for
it. I should have something to strive for then, and I should
know it was your child, shouldn't I, dear? And it would seem
just the same as my own. Because it is you who count in these

117
matters. You know that, don't you, dear? I don't enter, I am a
cypher. You are the great I-am! as far as life goes. You know
that, don't you? I mean, as far as I am concerned. I mean, but
for you I am absolutely nothing. I live for your sake and your
future. I am nothing to myself'
Connie heard it all with deepening dismay and repulsion. It
was one of the ghastly half-truths that poison human existence.
What man in his senses would say such things to a woman! But
men aren't in their senses. What man with a spark of honour
would put this ghastly burden of life-responsibility upon a wo-
man, and leave her there, in the void?
Moreover, in half an hour's time, Connie heard Clifford talk-
ing to Mrs Bolton, in a hot, impulsive voice, revealing himself
in a sort of passionless passion to the woman, as if she were
half mistress, half foster-mother to him. And Mrs Bolton was
carefully dressing him in evening clothes, for there were im-
portant business guests in the house.
Connie really sometimes felt she would die at this time. She
felt she was being crushed to death by weird lies, and by the
amazing cruelty of idiocy. Clifford's strange business efficiency
in a way over-awed her, and his declaration of private worship
put her into a panic. There was nothing between them. She
never even touched him nowadays, and he never touched her.
He never even took her hand and held it kindly. No, and be-
cause they were so utterly out of touch, he tortured her with
his declaration of idolatry. It was the cruelty of utter impot-
ence. And she felt her reason would give way, or she would die.
She fled as much as possible to the wood. One afternoon, as
she sat brooding, watching the water bubbling coldly in John's
Well, the keeper had strode up to her.
'I got you a key made, my Lady!' he said, saluting, and he
offered her the key.
'Thank you so much!' she said, startled.
'The hut's not very tidy, if you don't mind,' he said. 'I cleared
it what I could.'
'But I didn't want you to trouble!' she said.
'Oh, it wasn't any trouble. I am setting the hens in about a
week. But they won't be scared of you. I s'll have to see to
them morning and night, but I shan't bother you any more than
I can help.'

118
 'But you wouldn't bother me,' she pleaded. 'I'd rather not go
to the hut at all, if I am going to be in the way.'
He looked at her with his keen blue eyes. He seemed kindly,
but distant. But at least he was sane, and wholesome, if even
he looked thin and ill. A cough troubled him.
'You have a cough,' she said.
'Nothing—a cold! The last pneumonia left me with a cough,
but it's nothing.'
He kept distant from her, and would not come any nearer.
She went fairly often to the hut, in the morning or in the af-
ternoon, but he was never there. No doubt he avoided her on
purpose. He wanted to keep his own privacy.
He had made the hut tidy, put the little table and chair near
the fireplace, left a little pile of kindling and small logs, and put
the tools and traps away as far as possible, effacing himself.
Outside, by the clearing, he had built a low little roof of boughs
and straw, a shelter for the birds, and under it stood the live
coops. And, one day when she came, she found two brown hens
sitting alert and fierce in the coops, sitting on pheasants' eggs,
and fluffed out so proud and deep in all the heat of the ponder-
ing female blood. This almost broke Connie's heart. She, her-
self was so forlorn and unused, not a female at all, just a mere
thing of terrors.
Then all the live coops were occupied by hens, three brown
and a grey and a black. All alike, they clustered themselves
down on the eggs in the soft nestling ponderosity of the female
urge, the female nature, fluffing out their feathers. And with
brilliant eyes they watched Connie, as she crouched before
them, and they gave short sharp clucks of anger and alarm, but
chiefly of female anger at being approached.
Connie found corn in the corn-bin in the hut. She offered it to
the hens in her hand. They would not eat it. Only one hen
pecked at her hand with a fierce little jab, so Connie was
frightened. But she was pining to give them something, the
brooding mothers who neither fed themselves nor drank. She
brought water in a little tin, and was delighted when one of the
hens drank.
Now she came every day to the hens, they were the only
things in the world that warmed her heart. Clifford's protesta-
tions made her go cold from head to foot. Mrs Bolton's voice

119
made her go cold, and the sound of the business men who
came. An occasional letter from Michaelis affected her with the
same sense of chill. She felt she would surely die if it lasted
much longer.
Yet it was spring, and the bluebells were coming in the wood,
and the leaf-buds on the hazels were opening like the spatter
of green rain. How terrible it was that it should be spring, and
everything cold-hearted, cold-hearted. Only the hens, fluffed so
wonderfully on the eggs, were warm with their hot, brooding
female bodies! Connie felt herself living on the brink of fainting
all the time.
Then, one day, a lovely sunny day with great tufts of prim-
roses under the hazels, and many violets dotting the paths, she
came in the afternoon to the coops and there was one tiny, tiny
perky chicken tinily prancing round in front of a coop, and the
mother hen clucking in terror. The slim little chick was greyish
brown with dark markings, and it was the most alive little
spark of a creature in seven kingdoms at that moment. Connie
crouched to watch in a sort of ecstasy. Life, life! pure, sparky,
fearless new life! New life! So tiny and so utterly without fear!
Even when it scampered a little, scrambling into the coop
again, and disappeared under the hen's feathers in answer to
the mother hen's wild alarm-cries, it was not really frightened,
it took it as a game, the game of living. For in a moment a tiny
sharp head was poking through the gold-brown feathers of the
hen, and eyeing the Cosmos.
Connie was fascinated. And at the same time, never had she
felt so acutely the agony of her own female forlornness. It was
becoming unbearable.
She had only one desire now, to go to the clearing in the
wood. The rest was a kind of painful dream. But sometimes she
was kept all day at Wragby, by her duties as hostess. And then
she felt as if she too were going blank, just blank and insane.
One evening, guests or no guests, she escaped after tea. It
was late, and she fled across the park like one who fears to be
called back. The sun was setting rosy as she entered the wood,
but she pressed on among the flowers. The light would last
long overhead.
She arrived at the clearing flushed and semi-conscious. The
keeper was there, in his shirt-sleeves, just closing up the coops

120
for the night, so the little occupants would be safe. But still one
little trio was pattering about on tiny feet, alert drab mites, un-
der the straw shelter, refusing to be called in by the anxious
mother.
'I had to come and see the chickens!' she said, panting, glan-
cing shyly at the keeper, almost unaware of him. 'Are there any
more?'
'Thurty-six so far!' he said. 'Not bad!'
He too took a curious pleasure in watching the young things
come out.
Connie crouched in front of the last coop. The three chicks
had run in. But still their cheeky heads came poking sharply
through the yellow feathers, then withdrawing, then only one
beady little head eyeing forth from the vast mother-body.
'I'd love to touch them,' she said, putting her fingers gingerly
through the bars of the coop. But the mother-hen pecked at her
hand fiercely, and Connie drew back startled and frightened.
'How she pecks at me! She hates me!' she said in a wonder-
ing voice. 'But I wouldn't hurt them!'
The man standing above her laughed, and crouched down be-
side her, knees apart, and put his hand with quiet confidence
slowly into the coop. The old hen pecked at him, but not so sav-
agely. And slowly, softly, with sure gentle fingers, he felt
among the old bird's feathers and drew out a faintly-peeping
chick in his closed hand.
'There!' he said, holding out his hand to her. She took the
little drab thing between her hands, and there it stood, on its
impossible little stalks of legs, its atom of balancing life trem-
bling through its almost weightless feet into Connie's hands.
But it lifted its handsome, clean-shaped little head boldly, and
looked sharply round, and gave a little 'peep'. 'So adorable! So
cheeky!' she said softly.
The keeper, squatting beside her, was also watching with an
amused face the bold little bird in her hands. Suddenly he saw
a tear fall on to her wrist.
And he stood up, and stood away, moving to the other coop.
For suddenly he was aware of the old flame shooting and leap-
ing up in his loins, that he had hoped was quiescent for ever.
He fought against it, turning his back to her. But it leapt, and
leapt downwards, circling in his knees.

121
 He turned again to look at her. She was kneeling and holding
her two hands slowly forward, blindly, so that the chicken
should run in to the mother-hen again. And there was
something so mute and forlorn in her, compassion flamed in
his bowels for her.
Without knowing, he came quickly towards her and crouched
beside her again, taking the chick from her hands, because she
was afraid of the hen, and putting it back in the coop. At the
back of his loins the fire suddenly darted stronger.
He glanced apprehensively at her. Her face was averted, and
she was crying blindly, in all the anguish of her generation's
forlornness. His heart melted suddenly, like a drop of fire, and
he put out his hand and laid his fingers on her knee.
'You shouldn't cry,' he said softly.
But then she put her hands over her face and felt that really
her heart was broken and nothing mattered any more.
He laid his hand on her shoulder, and softly, gently, it began
to travel down the curve of her back, blindly, with a blind
stroking motion, to the curve of her crouching loins. And there
his hand softly, softly, stroked the curve of her flank, in the
blind instinctive caress.
She had found her scrap of handkerchief and was blindly try-
ing to dry her face.
'Shall you come to the hut?' he said, in a quiet, neutral voice.
And closing his hand softly on her upper arm, he drew her up
and led her slowly to the hut, not letting go of her till she was
inside. Then he cleared aside the chair and table, and took a
brown, soldier's blanket from the tool chest, spreading it
slowly. She glanced at his face, as she stood motionless.
His face was pale and without expression, like that of a man
submitting to fate.
'You lie there,' he said softly, and he shut the door, so that it
was dark, quite dark.
With a queer obedience, she lay down on the blanket. Then
she felt the soft, groping, helplessly desirous hand touching
her body, feeling for her face. The hand stroked her face softly,
softly, with infinite soothing and assurance, and at last there
was the soft touch of a kiss on her cheek.
She lay quite still, in a sort of sleep, in a sort of dream. Then
she quivered as she felt his hand groping softly, yet with queer

122
thwarted clumsiness, among her clothing. Yet the hand knew,
too, how to unclothe her where it wanted. He drew down the
thin silk sheath, slowly, carefully, right down and over her feet.
Then with a quiver of exquisite pleasure he touched the warm
soft body, and touched her navel for a moment in a kiss. And
he had to come in to her at once, to enter the peace on earth of
her soft, quiescent body. It was the moment of pure peace for
him, the entry into the body of the woman.
She lay still, in a kind of sleep, always in a kind of sleep. The
activity, the orgasm was his, all his; she could strive for herself
no more. Even the tightness of his arms round her, even the in-
tense movement of his body, and the springing of his seed in
her, was a kind of sleep, from which she did not begin to rouse
till he had finished and lay softly panting against her breast.
Then she wondered, just dimly wondered, why? Why was this
necessary? Why had it lifted a great cloud from her and given
her peace? Was it real? Was it real?
Her tormented modern-woman's brain still had no rest. Was
it real? And she knew, if she gave herself to the man, it was
real. But if she kept herself for herself it was nothing. She was
old; millions of years old, she felt. And at last, she could bear
the burden of herself no more. She was to be had for the tak-
ing. To be had for the taking.
The man lay in a mysterious stillness. What was he feeling?
What was he thinking? She did not know. He was a strange
man to her, she did not know him. She must only wait, for she
did not dare to break his mysterious stillness. He lay there with
his arms round her, his body on hers, his wet body touching
hers, so close. And completely unknown. Yet not unpeaceful.
His very stillness was peaceful.
She knew that, when at last he roused and drew away from
her. It was like an abandonment. He drew her dress in the
darkness down over her knees and stood a few moments, ap-
parently adjusting his own clothing. Then he quietly opened
the door and went out.
She saw a very brilliant little moon shining above the after-
glow over the oaks. Quickly she got up and arranged herself
she was tidy. Then she went to the door of the hut.
All the lower wood was in shadow, almost darkness. Yet the
sky overhead was crystal. But it shed hardly any light. He came

123
through the lower shadow towards her, his face lifted like a
pale blotch.
'Shall we go then?' he said.
'Where?'
'I'll go with you to the gate.'
He arranged things his own way. He locked the door of the
hut and came after her.
'You aren't sorry, are you?' he asked, as he went at her side.
'No! No! Are you?' she said.
'For that! No!' he said. Then after a while he added: 'But
there's the rest of things.'
'What rest of things?' she said.
'Sir Clifford. Other folks. All the complications.'
'Why complications?' she said, disappointed.
'It's always so. For you as well as for me. There's always
complications.' He walked on steadily in the dark.
'And are you sorry?' she said.
'In a way!' he replied, looking up at the sky. 'I thought I'd
done with it all. Now I've begun again.'
'Begun what?'
'Life.'
'Life!' she re-echoed, with a queer thrill.
'It's life,' he said. 'There's no keeping clear. And if you do
keep clear you might almost as well die. So if I've got to be
broken open again, I have.'
She did not quite see it that way, but still 'It's just love,' she
said cheerfully.
'Whatever that may be,' he replied.
They went on through the darkening wood in silence, till they
were almost at the gate.
'But you don't hate me, do you?' she said wistfully.
'Nay, nay,' he replied. And suddenly he held her fast against
his breast again, with the old connecting passion. 'Nay, for me
it was good, it was good. Was it for you?'
'Yes, for me too,' she answered, a little untruthfully, for she
had not been conscious of much.
He kissed her softly, softly, with the kisses of warmth.
'If only there weren't so many other people in the world,' he
said lugubriously.

124
 She laughed. They were at the gate to the park. He opened it
for her.
'I won't come any further,' he said.
'No!' And she held out her hand, as if to shake hands. But he
took it in both his.
'Shall I come again?' she asked wistfully.
'Yes! Yes!'
She left him and went across the park.
He stood back and watched her going into the dark, against
the pallor of the horizon. Almost with bitterness he watched
her go. She had connected him up again, when he had wanted
to be alone. She had cost him that bitter privacy of a man who
at last wants only to be alone.
He turned into the dark of the wood. All was still, the moon
had set. But he was aware of the noises of the night, the en-
gines at Stacks Gate, the traffic on the main road. Slowly he
climbed the denuded knoll. And from the top he could see the
country, bright rows of lights at Stacks Gate, smaller lights at
Tevershall pit, the yellow lights of Tevershall and lights every-
where, here and there, on the dark country, with the distant
blush of furnaces, faint and rosy, since the night was clear, the
rosiness of the outpouring of white-hot metal. Sharp, wicked
electric lights at Stacks Gate! An undefinable quick of evil in
them! And all the unease, the ever-shifting dread of the indus-
trial night in the Midlands. He could hear the winding-engines
at Stacks Gate turning down the seven-o'clock miners. The pit
worked three shifts.
He went down again into the darkness and seclusion of the
wood. But he knew that the seclusion of the wood was illusory.
The industrial noises broke the solitude, the sharp lights,
though unseen, mocked it. A man could no longer be private
and withdrawn. The world allows no hermits. And now he had
taken the woman, and brought on himself a new cycle of pain
and doom. For he knew by experience what it meant.
It was not woman's fault, nor even love's fault, nor the fault
of sex. The fault lay there, out there, in those evil electric lights
and diabolical rattlings of engines. There, in the world of the
mechanical greedy, greedy mechanism and mechanized greed,
sparkling with lights and gushing hot metal and roaring with
traffic, there lay the vast evil thing, ready to destroy whatever

125
did not conform. Soon it would destroy the wood, and the blue-
bells would spring no more. All vulnerable things must perish
under the rolling and running of iron.
He thought with infinite tenderness of the woman. Poor for-
lorn thing, she was nicer than she knew, and oh! so much too
nice for the tough lot she was in contact with. Poor thing, she
too had some of the vulnerability of the wild hyacinths, she
wasn't all tough rubber-goods and platinum, like the modern
girl. And they would do her in! As sure as life, they would do
her in, as they do in all naturally tender life. Tender! Some-
where she was tender, tender with a tenderness of the growing
hyacinths, something that has gone out of the celluloid women
of today. But he would protect her with his heart for a little
while. For a little while, before the insentient iron world and
the Mammon of mechanized greed did them both in, her as
well as him.
He went home with his gun and his dog, to the dark cottage,
lit the lamp, started the fire, and ate his supper of bread and
cheese, young onions and beer. He was alone, in a silence he
loved. His room was clean and tidy, but rather stark. Yet the
fire was bright, the hearth white, the petroleum lamp hung
bright over the table, with its white oil-cloth. He tried to read a
book about India, but tonight he could not read. He sat by the
fire in his shirt-sleeves, not smoking, but with a mug of beer in
reach. And he thought about Connie.
To tell the truth, he was sorry for what had happened, per-
haps most for her sake. He had a sense of foreboding. No
sense of wrong or sin; he was troubled by no conscience in that
respect. He knew that conscience was chiefly fear of society, or
fear of oneself. He was not afraid of himself. But he was quite
consciously afraid of society, which he knew by instinct to be a
malevolent, partly-insane beast.
The woman! If she could be there with him, and there were
nobody else in the world! The desire rose again, his penis
began to stir like a live bird. At the same time an oppression, a
dread of exposing himself and her to that outside Thing that
sparkled viciously in the electric lights, weighed down his
shoulders. She, poor young thing, was just a young female
creature to him; but a young female creature whom he had
gone into and whom he desired again.

126
 Stretching with the curious yawn of desire, for he had been
alone and apart from man or woman for four years, he rose and
took his coat again, and his gun, lowered the lamp and went
out into the starry night, with the dog. Driven by desire and by
dread of the malevolent Thing outside, he made his round in
the wood, slowly, softly. He loved the darkness and folded him-
self into it. It fitted the turgidity of his desire which, in spite of
all, was like a riches; the stirring restlessness of his penis, the
stirring fire in his loins! Oh, if only there were other men to be
with, to fight that sparkling electric Thing outside there, to
preserve the tenderness of life, the tenderness of women, and
the natural riches of desire. If only there were men to fight
side by side with! But the men were all outside there, glorying
in the Thing, triumphing or being trodden down in the rush of
mechanized greed or of greedy mechanism.
Constance, for her part, had hurried across the park, home,
almost without thinking. As yet she had no afterthought. She
would be in time for dinner.
She was annoyed to find the doors fastened, however, so that
she had to ring. Mrs Bolton opened.
'Why there you are, your Ladyship! I was beginning to won-
der if you'd gone lost!' she said a little roguishly. 'Sir Clifford
hasn't asked for you, though; he's got Mr Linley in with him,
talking over something. It looks as if he'd stay to dinner,
doesn't it, my Lady?'
'It does rather,' said Connie.
'Shall I put dinner back a quarter of an hour? That would
give you time to dress in comfort.'
'Perhaps you'd better.'
Mr Linley was the general manager of the collieries, an eld-
erly man from the north, with not quite enough punch to suit
Clifford; not up to post-war conditions, nor post-war colliers
either, with their 'ca' canny' creed. But Connie liked Mr Linley,
though she was glad to be spared the toadying of his wife.
Linley stayed to dinner, and Connie was the hostess men
liked so much, so modest, yet so attentive and aware, with big,
wide blue eyes and a soft repose that sufficiently hid what she
was really thinking. Connie had played this woman so much, it
was almost second nature to her; but still, decidedly second.

127
Yet it was curious how everything disappeared from her con-
sciousness while she played it.
She waited patiently till she could go upstairs and think her
own thoughts. She was always waiting, it seemed to be her
forte.
Once in her room, however, she felt still vague and confused.
She didn't know what to think. What sort of a man was he,
really? Did he really like her? Not much, she felt. Yet he was
kind. There was something, a sort of warm naive kindness,
curious and sudden, that almost opened her womb to him. But
she felt he might be kind like that to any woman. Though even
so, it was curiously soothing, comforting. And he was a pas-
sionate man, wholesome and passionate. But perhaps he
wasn't quite individual enough; he might be the same with any
woman as he had been with her. It really wasn't personal. She
was only really a female to him.
But perhaps that was better. And after all, he was kind to the
female in her, which no man had ever been. Men were very
kind to the person she was, but rather cruel to the female, des-
pising her or ignoring her altogether. Men were awfully kind to
Constance Reid or to Lady Chatterley; but not to her womb
they weren't kind. And he took no notice of Constance or of
Lady Chatterley; he just softly stroked her loins or her breasts.
She went to the wood next day. It was a grey, still afternoon,
with the dark-green dogs-mercury spreading under the hazel
copse, and all the trees making a silent effort to open their
buds. Today she could almost feel it in her own body, the huge
heave of the sap in the massive trees, upwards, up, up to the
bud-tips, there to push into little flamey oak-leaves, bronze as
blood. It was like a ride running turgid upward, and spreading
on the sky.
She came to the clearing, but he was not there. She had only
half expected him. The pheasant chicks were running lightly
abroad, light as insects, from the coops where the fellow hens
clucked anxiously. Connie sat and watched them, and waited.
She only waited. Even the chicks she hardly saw. She waited.
The time passed with dream-like slowness, and he did not
come. She had only half expected him. He never came in the
afternoon. She must go home to tea. But she had to force her-
self to leave.

128
 As she went home, a fine drizzle of rain fell.
'Is it raining again?' said Clifford, seeing her shake her hat.
'Just drizzle.'
She poured tea in silence, absorbed in a sort of obstinacy.
She did want to see the keeper today, to see if it were really
real. If it were really real.
'Shall I read a little to you afterwards?' said Clifford.
She looked at him. Had he sensed something?
'The spring makes me feel queer—I thought I might rest a
little,' she said.
'Just as you like. Not feeling really unwell, are you?'
'No! Only rather tired—with the spring. Will you have Mrs
Bolton to play something with you?'
'No! I think I'll listen in.'
She heard the curious satisfaction in his voice. She went up-
stairs to her bedroom. There she heard the loudspeaker begin
to bellow, in an idiotically velveteen-genteel sort of voice,
something about a series of street-cries, the very cream of gen-
teel affectation imitating old criers. She pulled on her old violet
coloured mackintosh, and slipped out of the house at the side
door.
The drizzle of rain was like a veil over the world, mysterious,
hushed, not cold. She got very warm as she hurried across the
park. She had to open her light waterproof.
The wood was silent, still and secret in the evening drizzle of
rain, full of the mystery of eggs and half-open buds, half un-
sheathed flowers. In the dimness of it all trees glistened naked
and dark as if they had unclothed themselves, and the green
things on earth seemed to hum with greenness.
There was still no one at the clearing. The chicks had nearly
all gone under the mother-hens, only one or two last adventur-
ous ones still dibbed about in the dryness under the straw roof
shelter. And they were doubtful of themselves.
So! He still had not been. He was staying away on purpose.
Or perhaps something was wrong. Perhaps she should go to
the cottage and see.
But she was born to wait. She opened the hut with her key. It
was all tidy, the corn put in the bin, the blankets folded on the
shelf, the straw neat in a corner; a new bundle of straw. The

129
hurricane lamp hung on a nail. The table and chair had been
put back where she had lain.
She sat down on a stool in the doorway. How still everything
was! The fine rain blew very softly, filmily, but the wind made
no noise. Nothing made any sound. The trees stood like power-
ful beings, dim, twilit, silent and alive. How alive everything
was!
Night was drawing near again; she would have to go. He was
avoiding her.
But suddenly he came striding into the clearing, in his black
oilskin jacket like a chauffeur, shining with wet. He glanced
quickly at the hut, half-saluted, then veered aside and went on
to the coops. There he crouched in silence, looking carefully at
everything, then carefully shutting the hens and chicks up safe
against the night.
At last he came slowly towards her. She still sat on her stool.
He stood before her under the porch.
'You come then,' he said, using the intonation of the dialect.
'Yes,' she said, looking up at him. 'You're late!'
'Ay!' he replied, looking away into the wood.
She rose slowly, drawing aside her stool.
'Did you want to come in?' she asked.
He looked down at her shrewdly.
'Won't folks be thinkin' somethink, you comin' here every
night?' he said.
'Why?' She looked up at him, at a loss. 'I said I'd come.
Nobody knows.'
'They soon will, though,' he replied. 'An' what then?'
She was at a loss for an answer.
'Why should they know?' she said.
'Folks always does,' he said fatally.
Her lip quivered a little.
'Well I can't help it,' she faltered.
'Nay,' he said. 'You can help it by not comin'—if yer want to,'
he added, in a lower tone.
'But I don't want to,' she murmured.
He looked away into the wood, and was silent.
'But what when folks finds out?' he asked at last. 'Think
about it! Think how lowered you'll feel, one of your husband's
servants.'

130
 She looked up at his averted face.
'Is it,' she stammered, 'is it that you don't want me?'
'Think!' he said. 'Think what if folks find out Sir Clifford an'
a'—an' everybody talkin'—'
'Well, I can go away.'
'Where to?'
'Anywhere! I've got money of my own. My mother left me
twenty thousand pounds in trust, and I know Clifford can't
touch it. I can go away.'
'But 'appen you don't want to go away.'
'Yes, yes! I don't care what happens to me.'
'Ay, you think that! But you'll care! You'll have to care, every-
body has. You've got to remember your Ladyship is carrying on
with a game-keeper. It's not as if I was a gentleman. Yes, you'd
care. You'd care.'
'I shouldn't. What do I care about my ladyship! I hate it
really. I feel people are jeering every time they say it. And they
are, they are! Even you jeer when you say it.'
'Me!'
For the first time he looked straight at her, and into her eyes.
'I don't jeer at you,' he said.
As he looked into her eyes she saw his own eyes go dark,
quite dark, the pupils dilating.
'Don't you care about a' the risk?' he asked in a husky voice.
'You should care. Don't care when it's too late!'
There was a curious warning pleading in his voice.
'But I've nothing to lose,' she said fretfully. 'If you knew what
it is, you'd think I'd be glad to lose it. But are you afraid for
yourself?'
'Ay!' he said briefly. 'I am. I'm afraid. I'm afraid. I'm afraid O'
things.'
'What things?' she asked.
He gave a curious backward jerk of his head, indicating the
outer world.
'Things! Everybody! The lot of 'em.'
Then he bent down and suddenly kissed her unhappy face.
'Nay, I don't care,' he said. 'Let's have it, an' damn the rest.
But if you was to feel sorry you'd ever done it—!'
'Don't put me off,' she pleaded.

131
 He put his fingers to her cheek and kissed her again
suddenly.
'Let me come in then,' he said softly. 'An' take off your
mackintosh.'
He hung up his gun, slipped out of his wet leather jacket, and
reached for the blankets.
'I brought another blanket,' he said, 'so we can put one over
us if you like.'
'I can't stay long,' she said. 'Dinner is half-past seven.'
He looked at her swiftly, then at his watch.
'All right,' he said.
He shut the door, and lit a tiny light in the hanging hurricane
lamp. 'One time we'll have a long time,' he said.
He put the blankets down carefully, one folded for her head.
Then he sat down a moment on the stool, and drew her to him,
holding her close with one arm, feeling for her body with his
free hand. She heard the catch of his intaken breath as he
found her. Under her frail petticoat she was naked.
'Eh! what it is to touch thee!' he said, as his finger caressed
the delicate, warm, secret skin of her waist and hips. He put
his face down and rubbed his cheek against her belly and
against her thighs again and again. And again she wondered a
little over the sort of rapture it was to him. She did not under-
stand the beauty he found in her, through touch upon her liv-
ing secret body, almost the ecstasy of beauty. For passion
alone is awake to it. And when passion is dead, or absent, then
the magnificent throb of beauty is incomprehensible and even
a little despicable; warm, live beauty of contact, so much deep-
er than the beauty of vision. She felt the glide of his cheek on
her thighs and belly and buttocks, and the close brushing of his
moustache and his soft thick hair, and her knees began to
quiver. Far down in her she felt a new stirring, a new naked-
ness emerging. And she was half afraid. Half she wished he
would not caress her so. He was encompassing her somehow.
Yet she was waiting, waiting.
And when he came into her, with an intensification of relief
and consummation that was pure peace to him, still she was
waiting. She felt herself a little left out. And she knew, partly it
was her own fault. She willed herself into this separateness.
Now perhaps she was condemned to it. She lay still, feeling his

132
motion within her, his deep-sunk intentness, the sudden quiver
of him at the springing of his seed, then the slow-subsiding
thrust. That thrust of the buttocks, surely it was a little ridicu-
lous. If you were a woman, and a part in all the business,
surely that thrusting of the man's buttocks was supremely ri-
diculous. Surely the man was intensely ridiculous in this pos-
ture and this act!
But she lay still, without recoil. Even when he had finished,
she did not rouse herself to get a grip on her own satisfaction,
as she had done with Michaelis; she lay still, and the tears
slowly filled and ran from her eyes.
He lay still, too. But he held her close and tried to cover her
poor naked legs with his legs, to keep them warm. He lay on
her with a close, undoubting warmth.
'Are yer cold?' he asked, in a soft, small voice, as if she were
close, so close. Whereas she was left out, distant.
'No! But I must go,' she said gently.
He sighed, held her closer, then relaxed to rest again.
He had not guessed her tears. He thought she was there with
him.
'I must go,' she repeated.
He lifted himself kneeled beside her a moment, kissed the in-
ner side of her thighs, then drew down her skirts, buttoning his
own clothes unthinking, not even turning aside, in the faint,
faint light from the lantern.
'Tha mun come ter th' cottage one time,' he said, looking
down at her with a warm, sure, easy face.
But she lay there inert, and was gazing up at him thinking:
Stranger! Stranger! She even resented him a little.
He put on his coat and looked for his hat, which had fallen,
then he slung on his gun.
'Come then!' he said, looking down at her with those warm,
peaceful sort of eyes.
She rose slowly. She didn't want to go. She also rather resen-
ted staying. He helped her with her thin waterproof and saw
she was tidy.
Then he opened the door. The outside was quite dark. The
faithful dog under the porch stood up with pleasure seeing
him. The drizzle of rain drifted greyly past upon the darkness.
It was quite dark.

133
 'Ah mun ta'e th' lantern,' he said. 'The'll be nob'dy.'
He walked just before her in the narrow path, swinging the
hurricane lamp low, revealing the wet grass, the black shiny
tree-roots like snakes, wan flowers. For the rest, all was grey
rain-mist and complete darkness.
'Tha mun come to the cottage one time,' he said, 'shall ta?
We might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb.'
It puzzled her, his queer, persistent wanting her, when there
was nothing between them, when he never really spoke to her,
and in spite of herself she resented the dialect. His 'tha mun
come' seemed not addressed to her, but some common woman.
She recognized the foxglove leaves of the riding and knew,
more or less, where they were.
'It's quarter past seven,' he said, 'you'll do it.' He had
changed his voice, seemed to feel her distance. As they turned
the last bend in the riding towards the hazel wall and the gate,
he blew out the light. 'We'll see from here,' be said, taking her
gently by the arm.
But it was difficult, the earth under their feet was a mystery,
but he felt his way by tread: he was used to it. At the gate he
gave her his electric torch. 'It's a bit lighter in the park,' he
said; 'but take it for fear you get off th' path.'
It was true, there seemed a ghost-glimmer of greyness in the
open space of the park. He suddenly drew her to him and
whipped his hand under her dress again, feeling her warm
body with his wet, chill hand.
'I could die for the touch of a woman like thee,' he said in his
throat. 'If tha' would stop another minute.'
She felt the sudden force of his wanting her again.
'No, I must run,' she said, a little wildly.
'Ay,' he replied, suddenly changed, letting her go.
She turned away, and on the instant she turned back to him
saying: 'Kiss me.'
He bent over her indistinguishable and kissed her on the left
eye. She held her mouth and he softly kissed it, but at once
drew away. He hated mouth kisses.
'I'll come tomorrow,' she said, drawing away; 'if I can,' she
added.
'Ay! not so late,' he replied out of the darkness. Already she
could not see him at all.

134
 'Goodnight,' she said.
'Goodnight, your Ladyship,' his voice.
She stopped and looked back into the wet dark. She could
just see the bulk of him. 'Why did you say that?' she said.
'Nay,' he replied. 'Goodnight then, run!'
She plunged on in the dark-grey tangible night. She found
the side-door open, and slipped into her room unseen. As she
closed the door the gong sounded, but she would take her bath
all the same—she must take her bath. 'But I won't be late any
more,' she said to herself; 'it's too annoying.'
The next day she did not go to the wood. She went instead
with Clifford to Uthwaite. He could occasionally go out now in
the car, and had got a strong young man as chauffeur, who
could help him out of the car if need be. He particularly
wanted to see his godfather, Leslie Winter, who lived at Ship-
ley Hall, not far from Uthwaite. Winter was an elderly gentle-
man now, wealthy, one of the wealthy coal-owners who had
had their hey-day in King Edward's time. King Edward had
stayed more than once at Shipley, for the shooting. It was a
handsome old stucco hall, very elegantly appointed, for Winter
was a bachelor and prided himself on his style; but the place
was beset by collieries. Leslie Winter was attached to Clifford,
but personally did not entertain a great respect for him, be-
cause of the photographs in illustrated papers and the literat-
ure. The old man was a buck of the King Edward school, who
thought life was life and the scribbling fellows were something
else. Towards Connie the Squire was always rather gallant; he
thought her an attractive demure maiden and rather wasted on
Clifford, and it was a thousand pities she stood no chance of
bringing forth an heir to Wragby. He himself had no heir.
Connie wondered what he would say if he knew that
Clifford's game-keeper had been having intercourse with her,
and saying to her 'tha mun come to th' cottage one time.' He
would detest and despise her, for he had come almost to hate
the shoving forward of the working classes. A man of her own
class he would not mind, for Connie was gifted from nature
with this appearance of demure, submissive maidenliness, and
perhaps it was part of her nature. Winter called her 'dear child'
and gave her a rather lovely miniature of an eighteenth-cen-
tury lady, rather against her will.

135
 But Connie was preoccupied with her affair with the keeper.
After all, Mr Winter, who was really a gentleman and a man of
the world, treated her as a person and a discriminating indi-
vidual; he did not lump her together with all the rest of his fe-
male womanhood in his 'thee' and 'tha'.
She did not go to the wood that day nor the next, nor the day
following. She did not go so long as she felt, or imagined she
felt, the man waiting for her, wanting her. But the fourth day
she was terribly unsettled and uneasy. She still refused to go to
the wood and open her thighs once more to the man. She
thought of all the things she might do—drive to Sheffield, pay
visits, and the thought of all these things was repellent. At last
she decided to take a walk, not towards the wood, but in the
opposite direction; she would go to Marehay, through the little
iron gate in the other side of the park fence. It was a quiet grey
day of spring, almost warm. She walked on unheeding, ab-
sorbed in thoughts she was not even conscious of She was not
really aware of anything outside her, till she was startled by
the loud barking of the dog at Marehay Farm. Marehay Farm!
Its pastures ran up to Wragby park fence, so they were neigh-
bours, but it was some time since Connie had called.
'Bell!' she said to the big white bull-terrier. 'Bell! have you
forgotten me? Don't you know me?' She was afraid of dogs, and
Bell stood back and bellowed, and she wanted to pass through
the farmyard on to the warren path.
Mrs Flint appeared. She was a woman of Constance's own
age, had been a school-teacher, but Connie suspected her of
being rather a false little thing.
'Why, it's Lady Chatterley! Why!' And Mrs Flint's eyes
glowed again, and she flushed like a young girl. 'Bell, Bell.
Why! barking at Lady Chatterley! Bell! Be quiet!' She darted
forward and slashed at the dog with a white cloth she held in
her hand, then came forward to Connie.
'She used to know me,' said Connie, shaking hands. The
Flints were Chatterley tenants.
'Of course she knows your Ladyship! She's just showing off,'
said Mrs Flint, glowing and looking up with a sort of flushed
confusion, 'but it's so long since she's seen you. I do hope you
are better.'
'Yes thanks, I'm all right.'

136
 'We've hardly seen you all winter. Will you come in and look
at the baby?'
'Well!' Connie hesitated. 'Just for a minute.'
Mrs Flint flew wildly in to tidy up, and Connie came slowly
after her, hesitating in the rather dark kitchen where the kettle
was boiling by the fire. Back came Mrs Flint.
'I do hope you'll excuse me,' she said. 'Will you come in
here?'
They went into the living-room, where a baby was sitting on
the rag hearth rug, and the table was roughly set for tea. A
young servant-girl backed down the passage, shy and
awkward.
The baby was a perky little thing of about a year, with red
hair like its father, and cheeky pale-blue eyes. It was a girl, and
not to be daunted. It sat among cushions and was surrounded
with rag dolls and other toys in modern excess.
'Why, what a dear she is!' said Connie, 'and how she's grown!
A big girl! A big girl!'
She had given it a shawl when it was born, and celluloid
ducks for Christmas.
'There, Josephine! Who's that come to see you? Who's this,
Josephine? Lady Chatterley—you know Lady Chatterley, don't
you?'
The queer pert little mite gazed cheekily at Connie. Lady-
ships were still all the same to her.
'Come! Will you come to me?' said Connie to the baby.
The baby didn't care one way or another, so Connie picked
her up and held her in her lap. How warm and lovely it was to
hold a child in one's lap, and the soft little arms, the uncon-
scious cheeky little legs.
'I was just having a rough cup of tea all by myself. Luke's
gone to market, so I can have it when I like. Would you care for
a cup, Lady Chatterley? I don't suppose it's what you're used
to, but if you would… '
Connie would, though she didn't want to be reminded of
what she was used to. There was a great relaying of the table,
and the best cups brought and the best tea-pot.
'If only you wouldn't take any trouble,' said Connie.
But if Mrs Flint took no trouble, where was the fun! So Con-
nie played with the child and was amused by its little female

137
dauntlessness, and got a deep voluptuous pleasure out of its
soft young warmth. Young life! And so fearless! So fearless, be-
cause so defenceless. All the other people, so narrow with fear!
She had a cup of tea, which was rather strong, and very good
bread and butter, and bottled damsons. Mrs Flint flushed and
glowed and bridled with excitement, as if Connie were some
gallant knight. And they had a real female chat, and both of
them enjoyed it.
'It's a poor little tea, though,' said Mrs Flint.
'It's much nicer than at home,' said Connie truthfully.
'Oh-h!' said Mrs Flint, not believing, of course.
But at last Connie rose.
'I must go,' she said. 'My husband has no idea where I am.
He'll be wondering all kinds of things.'
'He'll never think you're here,' laughed Mrs Flint excitedly.
'He'll be sending the crier round.'
'Goodbye, Josephine,' said Connie, kissing the baby and ruff-
ling its red, wispy hair.
Mrs Flint insisted on opening the locked and barred front
door. Connie emerged in the farm's little front garden, shut in
by a privet hedge. There were two rows of auriculas by the
path, very velvety and rich.
'Lovely auriculas,' said Connie.
'Recklesses, as Luke calls them,' laughed Mrs Flint. 'Have
some.'
And eagerly she picked the velvet and primrose flowers.
'Enough! Enough!' said Connie.
They came to the little garden gate.
'Which way were you going?' asked Mrs Flint.
'By the Warren.'
'Let me see! Oh yes, the cows are in the gin close. But
they're not up yet. But the gate's locked, you'll have to climb.'
'I can climb,' said Connie.
'Perhaps I can just go down the close with you.'
They went down the poor, rabbit-bitten pasture. Birds were
whistling in wild evening triumph in the wood. A man was call-
ing up the last cows, which trailed slowly over the path-worn
pasture.
'They're late, milking, tonight,' said Mrs Flint severely. 'They
know Luke won't be back till after dark.'

138
 They came to the fence, beyond which the young fir-wood
bristled dense. There was a little gate, but it was locked. In the
grass on the inside stood a bottle, empty.
'There's the keeper's empty bottle for his milk,' explained
Mrs Flint. 'We bring it as far as here for him, and then he
fetches it himself'
'When?' said Connie.
'Oh, any time he's around. Often in the morning. Well, good-
bye Lady Chatterley! And do come again. It was so lovely hav-
ing you.'
Connie climbed the fence into the narrow path between the
dense, bristling young firs. Mrs Flint went running back across
the pasture, in a sun-bonnet, because she was really a school-
teacher. Constance didn't like this dense new part of the wood;
it seemed gruesome and choking. She hurried on with her head
down, thinking of the Flints' baby. It was a dear little thing, but
it would be a bit bow-legged like its father. It showed already,
but perhaps it would grow out of it. How warm and fulfilling
somehow to have a baby, and how Mrs Flint had showed it off!
She had something anyhow that Connie hadn't got, and appar-
ently couldn't have. Yes, Mrs Flint had flaunted her mother-
hood. And Connie had been just a bit, just a little bit jealous.
She couldn't help it.
She started out of her muse, and gave a little cry of fear. A
man was there.
It was the keeper. He stood in the path like Balaam's ass,
barring her way.
'How's this?' he said in surprise.
'How did you come?' she panted.
'How did you? Have you been to the hut?'
'No! No! I went to Marehay.'
He looked at her curiously, searchingly, and she hung her
head a little guiltily.
'And were you going to the hut now?' he asked rather
sternly. 'No! I mustn't. I stayed at Marehay. No one knows
where I am. I'm late. I've got to run.'
'Giving me the slip, like?' he said, with a faint ironic smile.
'No! No. Not that. Only—'

139
 'Why, what else?' he said. And he stepped up to her and put
his arms around her. She felt the front of his body terribly near
to her, and alive.
'Oh, not now, not now,' she cried, trying to push him away.
'Why not? It's only six o'clock. You've got half an hour. Nay!
Nay! I want you.'
He held her fast and she felt his urgency. Her old instinct
was to fight for her freedom. But something else in her was
strange and inert and heavy. His body was urgent against her,
and she hadn't the heart any more to fight.
He looked around.
'Come—come here! Through here,' he said, looking penetrat-
ingly into the dense fir-trees, that were young and not more
than half-grown.
He looked back at her. She saw his eyes, tense and brilliant,
fierce, not loving. But her will had left her. A strange weight
was on her limbs. She was giving way. She was giving up.
He led her through the wall of prickly trees, that were diffi-
cult to come through, to a place where was a little space and a
pile of dead boughs. He threw one or two dry ones down, put
his coat and waistcoat over them, and she had to lie down
there under the boughs of the tree, like an animal, while he
waited, standing there in his shirt and breeches, watching her
with haunted eyes. But still he was provident—he made her lie
properly, properly. Yet he broke the band of her underclothes,
for she did not help him, only lay inert.
He too had bared the front part of his body and she felt his
naked flesh against her as he came into her. For a moment he
was still inside her, turgid there and quivering. Then as he
began to move, in the sudden helpless orgasm, there awoke in
her new strange thrills rippling inside her. Rippling, rippling,
rippling, like a flapping overlapping of soft flames, soft as
feathers, running to points of brilliance, exquisite, exquisite
and melting her all molten inside. It was like bells rippling up
and up to a culmination. She lay unconscious of the wild little
cries she uttered at the last. But it was over too soon, too soon,
and she could no longer force her own conclusion with her own
activity. This was different, different. She could do nothing.
She could no longer harden and grip for her own satisfaction
upon him. She could only wait, wait and moan in spirit as she

140
felt him withdrawing, withdrawing and contracting, coming to
the terrible moment when he would slip out of her and be
gone. Whilst all her womb was open and soft, and softly clam-
ouring, like a sea-anemone under the tide, clamouring for him
to come in again and make a fulfilment for her. She clung to
him unconscious in passion, and he never quite slipped from
her, and she felt the soft bud of him within her stirring, and
strange rhythms flushing up into her with a strange rhythmic
growing motion, swelling and swelling till it filled all her cleav-
ing consciousness, and then began again the unspeakable mo-
tion that was not really motion, but pure deepening whirlpools
of sensation swirling deeper and deeper through all her tissue
and consciousness, till she was one perfect concentric fluid of
feeling, and she lay there crying in unconscious inarticulate
cries. The voice out of the uttermost night, the life! The man
heard it beneath him with a kind of awe, as his life sprang out
into her. And as it subsided, he subsided too and lay utterly
still, unknowing, while her grip on him slowly relaxed, and she
lay inert. And they lay and knew nothing, not even of each oth-
er, both lost. Till at last he began to rouse and become aware
of his defenceless nakedness, and she was aware that his body
was loosening its clasp on her. He was coming apart; but in her
breast she felt she could not bear him to leave her uncovered.
He must cover her now for ever.
But he drew away at last, and kissed her and covered her
over, and began to cover himself She lay looking up to the
boughs of the tree, unable as yet to move. He stood and
fastened up his breeches, looking round. All was dense and si-
lent, save for the awed dog that lay with its paws against its
nose. He sat down again on the brushwood and took Connie's
hand in silence.
She turned and looked at him. 'We came off together that
time,' he said.
She did not answer.
'It's good when it's like that. Most folks live their lives
through and they never know it,' he said, speaking rather
dreamily.
She looked into his brooding face.
'Do they?' she said. 'Are you glad?'

141
 He looked back into her eyes. 'Glad,' he said, 'Ay, but never
mind.' He did not want her to talk. And he bent over her and
kissed her, and she felt, so he must kiss her for ever.
At last she sat up.
'Don't people often come off together?' she asked with naive
curiosity.
'A good many of them never. You can see by the raw look of
them.' He spoke unwittingly, regretting he had begun.
'Have you come off like that with other women?'
He looked at her amused.
'I don't know,' he said, 'I don't know.'
And she knew he would never tell her anything he didn't
want to tell her. She watched his face, and the passion for him
moved in her bowels. She resisted it as far as she could, for it
was the loss of herself to herself.
He put on his waistcoat and his coat, and pushed a way
through to the path again.
The last level rays of the sun touched the wood. 'I won't come
with you,' he said; 'better not.'
She looked at him wistfully before she turned. His dog was
waiting so anxiously for him to go, and he seemed to have
nothing whatever to say. Nothing left.
Connie went slowly home, realizing the depth of the other
thing in her. Another self was alive in her, burning molten and
soft in her womb and bowels, and with this self she adored
him. She adored him till her knees were weak as she walked.
In her womb and bowels she was flowing and alive now and
vulnerable, and helpless in adoration of him as the most naive
woman. It feels like a child, she said to herself it feels like a
child in me. And so it did, as if her womb, that had always been
shut, had opened and filled with new life, almost a burden, yet
lovely.
'If I had a child!' she thought to herself; 'if I had him inside
me as a child!'—and her limbs turned molten at the thought,
and she realized the immense difference between having a
child to oneself and having a child to a man whom one's bowels
yearned towards. The former seemed in a sense ordinary: but
to have a child to a man whom one adored in one's bowels and
one's womb, it made her feel she was very different from her

142
old self and as if she was sinking deep, deep to the centre of all
womanhood and the sleep of creation.
It was not the passion that was new to her, it was the yearn-
ing adoration. She knew she had always feared it, for it left her
helpless; she feared it still, lest if she adored him too much,
then she would lose herself become effaced, and she did not
want to be effaced, a slave, like a savage woman. She must not
become a slave. She feared her adoration, yet she would not at
once fight against it. She knew she could fight it. She had a
devil of self-will in her breast that could have fought the full
soft heaving adoration of her womb and crushed it. She could
even now do it, or she thought so, and she could then take up
her passion with her own will.
Ah yes, to be passionate like a Bacchante, like a Bacchanal
fleeing through the woods, to call on Iacchos, the bright phal-
los that had no independent personality behind it, but was pure
god-servant to the woman! The man, the individual, let him not
dare intrude. He was but a temple-servant, the bearer and
keeper of the bright phallos, her own.
So, in the flux of new awakening, the old hard passion flamed
in her for a time, and the man dwindled to a contemptible ob-
ject, the mere phallos-bearer, to be torn to pieces when his ser-
vice was performed. She felt the force of the Bacchae in her
limbs and her body, the woman gleaming and rapid, beating
down the male; but while she felt this, her heart was heavy.
She did not want it, it was known and barren, birthless; the ad-
oration was her treasure.
It was so fathomless, so soft, so deep and so unknown. No,
no, she would give up her hard bright female power; she was
weary of it, stiffened with it; she would sink in the new bath of
life, in the depths of her womb and her bowels that sang the
voiceless song of adoration. It was early yet to begin to fear the
man.
'I walked over by Marehay, and I had tea with Mrs Flint,' she
said to Clifford. 'I wanted to see the baby. It's so adorable, with
hair like red cobwebs. Such a dear! Mr Flint had gone to mar-
ket, so she and I and the baby had tea together. Did you won-
der where I was?'
'Well, I wondered, but I guessed you had dropped in some-
where to tea,' said Clifford jealously. With a sort of second

143
sight he sensed something new in her, something to him quite
incomprehensible, but he ascribed it to the baby. He thought
that all that ailed Connie was that she did not have a baby,
automatically bring one forth, so to speak.
'I saw you go across the park to the iron gate, my Lady,' said
Mrs Bolton; 'so I thought perhaps you'd called at the Rectory.'
'I nearly did, then I turned towards Marehay instead.'
The eyes of the two women met: Mrs Bolton's grey and
bright and searching; Connie's blue and veiled and strangely
beautiful. Mrs Bolton was almost sure she had a lover, yet how
could it be, and who could it be? Where was there a man?
'Oh, it's so good for you, if you go out and see a bit of com-
pany sometimes,' said Mrs Bolton. 'I was saying to Sir Clifford,
it would do her ladyship a world of good if she'd go out among
people more.'
'Yes, I'm glad I went, and such a quaint dear cheeky baby,
Clifford,' said Connie. 'It's got hair just like spider-webs, and
bright orange, and the oddest, cheekiest, pale-blue china eyes.
Of course it's a girl, or it wouldn't be so bold, bolder than any
little Sir Francis Drake.'
'You're right, my Lady—a regular little Flint. They were al-
ways a forward sandy-headed family,' said Mrs Bolton.
'Wouldn't you like to see it, Clifford? I've asked them to tea
for you to see it.'
'Who?' he asked, looking at Connie in great uneasiness. 'Mrs
Flint and the baby, next Monday.'
'You can have them to tea up in your room,' he said.
'Why, don't you want to see the baby?' she cried.
'Oh, I'll see it, but I don't want to sit through a tea-time with
them.'
'Oh,' cried Connie, looking at him with wide veiled eyes.
She did not really see him, he was somebody else.
'You can have a nice cosy tea up in your room, my Lady, and
Mrs Flint will be more comfortable than if Sir Clifford was
there,' said Mrs Bolton.
She was sure Connie had a lover, and something in her soul
exulted. But who was he? Who was he? Perhaps Mrs Flint
would provide a clue.

144
 Connie would not take her bath this evening. The sense of his
flesh touching her, his very stickiness upon her, was dear to
her, and in a sense holy.
Clifford was very uneasy. He would not let her go after din-
ner, and she had wanted so much to be alone. She looked at
him, but was curiously submissive.
'Shall we play a game, or shall I read to you, or what shall it
be?' he asked uneasily.
'You read to me,' said Connie.
'What shall I read—verse or prose? Or drama?'
'Read Racine,' she said.
It had been one of his stunts in the past, to read Racine in
the real French grand manner, but he was rusty now, and a
little self-conscious; he really preferred the loudspeaker. But
Connie was sewing, sewing a little frock silk of primrose silk,
cut out of one of her dresses, for Mrs Flint's baby. Between
coming home and dinner she had cut it out, and she sat in the
soft quiescent rapture of herself sewing, while the noise of the
reading went on.
Inside herself she could feel the humming of passion, like the
after-humming of deep bells.
Clifford said something to her about the Racine. She caught
the sense after the words had gone.
'Yes! Yes!' she said, looking up at him. 'It is splendid.'
Again he was frightened at the deep blue blaze of her eyes,
and of her soft stillness, sitting there. She had never been so
utterly soft and still. She fascinated him helplessly, as if some
perfume about her intoxicated him. So he went on helplessly
with his reading, and the throaty sound of the French was like
the wind in the chimneys to her. Of the Racine she heard not
one syllable.
She was gone in her own soft rapture, like a forest soughing
with the dim, glad moan of spring, moving into bud. She could
feel in the same world with her the man, the nameless man,
moving on beautiful feet, beautiful in the phallic mystery. And
in herself in all her veins, she felt him and his child. His child
was in all her veins, like a twilight.
'For hands she hath none, nor eyes, nor feet, nor golden
Treasure of hair… '

145
 She was like a forest, like the dark interlacing of the oak-
wood, humming inaudibly with myriad unfolding buds. Mean-
while the birds of desire were asleep in the vast interlaced in-
tricacy of her body.
But Clifford's voice went on, clapping and gurgling with un-
usual sounds. How extraordinary it was! How extraordinary he
was, bent there over the book, queer and rapacious and civil-
ized, with broad shoulders and no real legs! What a strange
creature, with the sharp, cold inflexible will of some bird, and
no warmth, no warmth at all! One of those creatures of the af-
terwards, that have no soul, but an extra-alert will, cold will.
She shuddered a little, afraid of him. But then, the soft warm
flame of life was stronger than he, and the real things were
hidden from him.
The reading finished. She was startled. She looked up, and
was more startled still to see Clifford watching her with pale,
uncanny eyes, like hate.
'Thank you so much! You do read Racine beautifully!' she
said softly.
'Almost as beautifully as you listen to him,' he said cruelly.
'What are you making?' he asked.
'I'm making a child's dress, for Mrs Flint's baby.'
He turned away. A child! A child! That was all her obsession.
'After all,' he said in a declamatory voice, 'one gets all one
wants out of Racine. Emotions that are ordered and given
shape are more important than disorderly emotions.
She watched him with wide, vague, veiled eyes. 'Yes, I'm
sure they are,' she said.
'The modern world has only vulgarized emotion by letting it
loose. What we need is classic control.'
'Yes,' she said slowly, thinking of him listening with vacant
face to the emotional idiocy of the radio. 'People pretend to
have emotions, and they really feel nothing. I suppose that is
being romantic.'
'Exactly!' he said.
As a matter of fact, he was tired. This evening had tired him.
He would rather have been with his technical books, or his pit-
manager, or listening-in to the radio.

146
 Mrs Bolton came in with two glasses of malted milk: for Clif-
ford, to make him sleep, and for Connie, to fatten her again. It
was a regular night-cap she had introduced.
Connie was glad to go, when she had drunk her glass, and
thankful she needn't help Clifford to bed. She took his glass
and put it on the tray, then took the tray, to leave it outside.
'Goodnight Clifford! Dosleep well! The Racine gets into one
like a dream. Goodnight!'
She had drifted to the door. She was going without kissing
him goodnight. He watched her with sharp, cold eyes. So! She
did not even kiss him goodnight, after he had spent an evening
reading to her. Such depths of callousness in her! Even if the
kiss was but a formality, it was on such formalities that life de-
pends. She was a Bolshevik, really. Her instincts were Bolshev-
istic! He gazed coldly and angrily at the door whence she had
gone. Anger!
And again the dread of the night came on him. He was a net-
work of nerves, and when he was not braced up to work, and
so full of energy: or when he was not listening-in, and so ut-
terly neuter: then he was haunted by anxiety and a sense of
dangerous impending void. He was afraid. And Connie could
keep the fear off him, if she would. But it was obvious she
wouldn't, she wouldn't. She was callous, cold and callous to all
that he did for her. He gave up his life for her, and she was cal-
lous to him. She only wanted her own way. 'The lady loves her
will.'
Now it was a baby she was obsessed by. Just so that it should
be her own, all her own, and not his!
Clifford was so healthy, considering. He looked so well and
ruddy in the face, his shoulders were broad and strong, his
chest deep, he had put on flesh. And yet, at the same time, he
was afraid of death. A terrible hollow seemed to menace him
somewhere, somehow, a void, and into this void his energy
would collapse. Energyless, he felt at times he was dead, really
dead.
So his rather prominent pale eyes had a queer look, furtive,
and yet a little cruel, so cold: and at the same time, almost im-
pudent. It was a very odd look, this look of impudence: as if he
were triumphing over life in spite of life. 'Who knoweth the

147
mysteries of the will—for it can triumph even against the
angels—'
But his dread was the nights when he could not sleep. Then
it was awful indeed, when annihilation pressed in on him on
every side. Then it was ghastly, to exist without having any life:
lifeless, in the night, to exist.
But now he could ring for Mrs Bolton. And she would always
come. That was a great comfort. She would come in her dress-
ing gown, with her hair in a plait down her back, curiously girl-
ish and dim, though the brown plait was streaked with grey.
And she would make him coffee or camomile tea, and she
would play chess or piquet with him. She had a woman's queer
faculty of playing even chess well enough, when she was three
parts asleep, well enough to make her worth beating. So, in the
silent intimacy of the night, they sat, or she sat and he lay on
the bed, with the reading-lamp shedding its solitary light on
them, she almost gone in sleep, he almost gone in a sort of
fear, and they played, played together—then they had a cup of
coffee and a biscuit together, hardly speaking, in the silence of
night, but being a reassurance to one another.
And this night she was wondering who Lady Chatterley's lov-
er was. And she was thinking of her own Ted, so long dead, yet
for her never quite dead. And when she thought of him, the
old, old grudge against the world rose up, but especially
against the masters, that they had killed him. They had not
really killed him. Yet, to her, emotionally, they had. And some-
where deep in herself because of it, she was a nihilist, and
really anarchic.
In her half-sleep, thoughts of her Ted and thoughts of Lady
Chatterley's unknown lover commingled, and then she felt she
shared with the other woman a great grudge against Sir Clif-
ford and all he stood for. At the same time she was playing pi-
quet with him, and they were gambling sixpences. And it was a
source of satisfaction to be playing piquet with a baronet, and
even losing sixpences to him.
When they played cards, they always gambled. It made him
forget himself. And he usually won. Tonight too he was win-
ning. So he would not go to sleep till the first dawn appeared.
Luckily it began to appear at half past four or thereabouts.

148
 Connie was in bed, and fast asleep all this time. But the keep-
er, too, could not rest. He had closed the coops and made his
round of the wood, then gone home and eaten supper. But he
did not go to bed. Instead he sat by the fire and thought.
He thought of his boyhood in Tevershall, and of his five or six
years of married life. He thought of his wife, and always bit-
terly. She had seemed so brutal. But he had not seen her now
since 1915, in the spring when he joined up. Yet there she was,
not three miles away, and more brutal than ever. He hoped
never to see her again while he lived.
He thought of his life abroad, as a soldier. India, Egypt, then
India again: the blind, thoughtless life with the horses: the col-
onel who had loved him and whom he had loved: the several
years that he had been an officer, a lieutenant with a very fair
chance of being a captain. Then the death of the colonel from
pneumonia, and his own narrow escape from death: his dam-
aged health: his deep restlessness: his leaving the army and
coming back to England to be a working man again.
He was temporizing with life. He had thought he would be
safe, at least for a time, in this wood. There was no shooting as
yet: he had to rear the pheasants. He would have no guns to
serve. He would be alone, and apart from life, which was all he
wanted. He had to have some sort of a background. And this
was his native place. There was even his mother, though she
had never meant very much to him. And he could go on in life,
existing from day to day, without connexion and without hope.
For he did not know what to do with himself.
He did not know what to do with himself. Since he had been
an officer for some years, and had mixed among the other of-
ficers and civil servants, with their wives and families, he had
lost all ambition to 'get on'. There was a toughness, a curious
rubbernecked toughness and unlivingness about the middle
and upper classes, as he had known them, which just left him
feeling cold and different from them.
So, he had come back to his own class. To find there, what he
had forgotten during his absence of years, a pettiness and a
vulgarity of manner extremely distasteful. He admitted now at
last, how important manner was. He admitted, also, how im-
portant it was even to pretend not to care about the halfpence
and the small things of life. But among the common people

149
there was no pretence. A penny more or less on the bacon was
worse than a change in the Gospel. He could not stand it.
And again, there was the wage-squabble. Having lived
among the owning classes, he knew the utter futility of expect-
ing any solution of the wage-squabble. There was no solution,
short of death. The only thing was not to care, not to care
about the wages.
Yet, if you were poor and wretched you had to care. Anyhow,
it was becoming the only thing they did care about. The care
about money was like a great cancer, eating away the individu-
als of all classes. He refused to care about money.
And what then? What did life offer apart from the care of
money? Nothing.
Yet he could live alone, in the wan satisfaction of being
alone, and raise pheasants to be shot ultimately by fat men
after breakfast. It was futility, futility to the NTH power.
But why care, why bother? And he had not cared nor
bothered till now, when this woman had come into his life. He
was nearly ten years older than she. And he was a thousand
years older in experience, starting from the bottom. The con-
nexion between them was growing closer. He could see the day
when it would clinch up and they would have to make a life to-
gether. 'For the bonds of love are ill to loose!'
And what then? What then? Must he start again, with noth-
ing to start on? Must he entangle this woman? Must he have
the horrible broil with her lame husband? And also some sort
of horrible broil with his own brutal wife, who hated him?
Misery! Lots of misery! And he was no longer young and
merely buoyant. Neither was he the insouciant sort. Every bit-
terness and every ugliness would hurt him: and the woman!
But even if they got clear of Sir Clifford and of his own wife,
even if they got clear, what were they going to do? What was
he, himself going to do? What was he going to do with his life?
For he must do something. He couldn't be a mere hanger-on,
on her money and his own very small pension.
It was the insoluble. He could only think of going to America,
to try a new air. He disbelieved in the dollar utterly. But per-
haps, perhaps there was something else.

150
 He could not rest nor even go to bed. After sitting in a stupor
of bitter thoughts until midnight, he got suddenly from his
chair and reached for his coat and gun.
'Come on, lass,' he said to the dog. 'We're best outside.'
It was a starry night, but moonless. He went on a slow,
scrupulous, soft-stepping and stealthy round. The only thing he
had to contend with was the colliers setting snares for rabbits,
particularly the Stacks Gate colliers, on the Marehay side. But
it was breeding season, and even colliers respected it a little.
Nevertheless the stealthy beating of the round in search of
poachers soothed his nerves and took his mind off his
thoughts.
But when he had done his slow, cautious beating of his
bounds—it was nearly a five-mile walk—he was tired. He went
to the top of the knoll and looked out. There was no sound save
the noise, the faint shuffling noise from Stacks Gate colliery,
that never ceased working: and there were hardly any lights,
save the brilliant electric rows at the works. The world lay
darkly and fumily sleeping. It was half past two. But even in its
sleep it was an uneasy, cruel world, stirring with the noise of a
train or some great lorry on the road, and flashing with some
rosy lightning flash from the furnaces. It was a world of iron
and coal, the cruelty of iron and the smoke of coal, and the
endless, endless greed that drove it all. Only greed, greed stir-
ring in its sleep.
It was cold, and he was coughing. A fine cold draught blew
over the knoll. He thought of the woman. Now he would have
given all he had or ever might have to hold her warm in his
arms, both of them wrapped in one blanket, and sleep. All
hopes of eternity and all gain from the past he would have giv-
en to have her there, to be wrapped warm with him in one
blanket, and sleep, only sleep. It seemed the sleep with the wo-
man in his arms was the only necessity.
He went to the hut, and wrapped himself in the blanket and
lay on the floor to sleep. But he could not, he was cold. And be-
sides, he felt cruelly his own unfinished nature. He felt his own
unfinished condition of aloneness cruelly. He wanted her, to
touch her, to hold her fast against him in one moment of com-
pleteness and sleep.

151
 He got up again and went out, towards the park gates this
time: then slowly along the path towards the house. It was
nearly four o'clock, still clear and cold, but no sign of dawn. He
was used to the dark, he could see well.
Slowly, slowly the great house drew him, as a magnet. He
wanted to be near her. It was not desire, not that. It was the
cruel sense of unfinished aloneness, that needed a silent wo-
man folded in his arms. Perhaps he could find her. Perhaps he
could even call her out to him: or find some way in to her. For
the need was imperious.
He slowly, silently climbed the incline to the hall. Then he
came round the great trees at the top of the knoll, on to the
drive, which made a grand sweep round a lozenge of grass in
front of the entrance. He could already see the two magnificent
beeches which stood in this big level lozenge in front of the
house, detaching themselves darkly in the dark air.
There was the house, low and long and obscure, with one
light burning downstairs, in Sir Clifford's room. But which
room she was in, the woman who held the other end of the frail
thread which drew him so mercilessly, that he did not know.
He went a little nearer, gun in hand, and stood motionless on
the drive, watching the house. Perhaps even now he could find
her, come at her in some way. The house was not impregnable:
he was as clever as burglars are. Why not come to her?
He stood motionless, waiting, while the dawn faintly and im-
perceptibly paled behind him. He saw the light in the house go
out. But he did not see Mrs Bolton come to the window and
draw back the old curtain of dark-blue silk, and stand herself in
the dark room, looking out on the half-dark of the approaching
day, looking for the longed-for dawn, waiting, waiting for Clif-
ford to be really reassured that it was daybreak. For when he
was sure of daybreak, he would sleep almost at once.
She stood blind with sleep at the window, waiting. And as
she stood, she started, and almost cried out. For there was a
man out there on the drive, a black figure in the twilight. She
woke up greyly, and watched, but without making a sound to
disturb Sir Clifford.
The daylight began to rustle into the world, and the dark fig-
ure seemed to go smaller and more defined. She made out the
gun and gaiters and baggy jacket—it would be Oliver Mellors,

152
the keeper. 'Yes, for there was the dog nosing around like a
shadow, and waiting for him'!
And what did the man want? Did he want to rouse the house?
What was he standing there for, transfixed, looking up at the
house like a love-sick male dog outside the house where the
bitch is?
Goodness! The knowledge went through Mrs Bolton like a
shot. He was Lady Chatterley's lover! He! He!
To think of it! Why, she, Ivy Bolton, had once been a tiny bit
in love with him herself. When he was a lad of sixteen and she
a woman of twenty-six. It was when she was studying, and he
had helped her a lot with the anatomy and things she had had
to learn. He'd been a clever boy, had a scholarship for Shef-
field Grammar School, and learned French and things: and
then after all had become an overhead blacksmith shoeing
horses, because he was fond of horses, he said: but really be-
cause he was frightened to go out and face the world, only he'd
never admit it.
But he'd been a nice lad, a nice lad, had helped her a lot, so
clever at making things clear to you. He was quite as clever as
Sir Clifford: and always one for the women. More with women
than men, they said.
Till he'd gone and married that Bertha Coutts, as if to spite
himself. Some people do marry to spite themselves, because
they're disappointed of something. And no wonder it had been
a failure.—For years he was gone, all the time of the war: and a
lieutenant and all: quite the gentleman, really quite the gentle-
man!—Then to come back to Tevershall and go as a game-
keeper! Really, some people can't take their chances when
they've got them! And talking broad Derbyshire again like the
worst, when she, Ivy Bolton, knew he spoke like any gentle-
man, really.
Well, well! So her ladyship had fallen for him! Well her lady-
ship wasn't the first: there was something about him. But
fancy! A Tevershall lad born and bred, and she her ladyship in
Wragby Hall! My word, that was a slap back at the high-and-
mighty Chatterleys!
But he, the keeper, as the day grew, had realized: it's no
good! It's no good trying to get rid of your own aloneness.
You've got to stick to it all your life. Only at times, at times, the

153
gap will be filled in. At times! But you have to wait for the
times. Accept your own aloneness and stick to it, all your life.
And then accept the times when the gap is filled in, when they
come. But they've got to come. You can't force them.
With a sudden snap the bleeding desire that had drawn him
after her broke. He had broken it, because it must be so. There
must be a coming together on both sides. And if she wasn't
coming to him, he wouldn't track her down. He mustn't. He
must go away, till she came.
He turned slowly, ponderingly, accepting again the isolation.
He knew it was better so. She must come to him: it was no use
his trailing after her. No use!
Mrs Bolton saw him disappear, saw his dog run after him.
'Well, well!' she said. 'He's the one man I never thought of;
and the one man I might have thought of. He was nice to me
when he was a lad, after I lost Ted. Well, well! Whatever would
he say if he knew!'
And she glanced triumphantly at the already sleeping Clif-
ford, as she stepped softly from the room.

154
Chapter 11
Connie was sorting out one of the Wragby lumber rooms.
There were several: the house was a warren, and the family
never sold anything. Sir Geoffery's father had liked pictures
and Sir Geoffery's mother had liked cinquecento furniture. Sir
Geoffery himself had liked old carved oak chests, vestry chests.
So it went on through the generations. Clifford collected very
modern pictures, at very moderate prices.
So in the lumber room there were bad Sir Edwin Landseers
and pathetic William Henry Hunt birds' nests: and other
Academy stuff, enough to frighten the daughter of an R.A. She
determined to look through it one day, and clear it all. And the
grotesque furniture interested her.
Wrapped up carefully to preserve it from damage and dry-rot
was the old family cradle, of rosewood. She had to unwrap it,
to look at it. It had a certain charm: she looked at it a long
time.
'It's thousand pities it won't be called for,' sighed Mrs Bolton,
who was helping. 'Though cradles like that are out of date
nowadays.'
'It might be called for. I might have a child,' said Connie cas-
ually, as if saying she might have a new hat.
'You mean if anything happened to Sir Clifford!' stammered
Mrs Bolton.
'No! I mean as things are. It's only muscular paralysis with
Sir Clifford—it doesn't affect him,' said Connie, lying as natur-
ally as breathing.
Clifford had put the idea into her head. He had said: 'Of
course I may have a child yet. I'm not really mutilated at all.
The potency may easily come back, even if the muscles of the
hips and legs are paralysed. And then the seed may be
transferred.'

155
 He really felt, when he had his periods of energy and worked
so hard at the question of the mines, as if his sexual potency
were returning. Connie had looked at him in terror. But she
was quite quick-witted enough to use his suggestion for her
own preservation. For she would have a child if she could: but
not his.
Mrs Bolton was for a moment breathless, flabbergasted.
Then she didn't believe it: she saw in it a ruse. Yet doctors
could do such things nowadays. They might sort of graft seed.
'Well, my Lady, I only hope and pray you may. It would be
lovely for you: and for everybody. My word, a child in Wragby,
what a difference it would make!'
'Wouldn't it!' said Connie.
And she chose three R. A. pictures of sixty years ago, to send
to the Duchess of Shortlands for that lady's next charitable
bazaar. She was called 'the bazaar duchess', and she always
asked all the county to send things for her to sell. She would be
delighted with three framed R. A.s. She might even call, on the
strength of them. How furious Clifford was when she called!
But oh my dear! Mrs Bolton was thinking to herself. Is it Oliv-
er Mellors' child you're preparing us for? Oh my dear, that
would be a Tevershall baby in the Wragby cradle, my word!
Wouldn't shame it, neither!
Among other monstrosities in this lumber room was a largish
blackjapanned box, excellently and ingeniously made some
sixty or seventy years ago, and fitted with every imaginable ob-
ject. On top was a concentrated toilet set: brushes, bottles,
mirrors, combs, boxes, even three beautiful little razors in
safety sheaths, shaving-bowl and all. Underneath came a sort
of escritoire outfit: blotters, pens, ink-bottles, paper, envel-
opes, memorandum books: and then a perfect sewing-outfit,
with three different sized scissors, thimbles, needles, silks and
cottons, darning egg, all of the very best quality and perfectly
finished. Then there was a little medicine store, with bottles la-
belled Laudanum, Tincture of Myrrh, Ess. Cloves and so on:
but empty. Everything was perfectly new, and the whole thing,
when shut up, was as big as a small, but fat weekend bag. And
inside, it fitted together like a puzzle. The bottles could not
possibly have spilled: there wasn't room.

156
 The thing was wonderfully made and contrived, excellent
craftsmanship of the Victorian order. But somehow it was mon-
strous. Some Chatterley must even have felt it, for the thing
had never been used. It had a peculiar soullessness.
Yet Mrs Bolton was thrilled.
'Look what beautiful brushes, so expensive, even the shaving
brushes, three perfect ones! No! and those scissors! They're
the best that money could buy. Oh, I call it lovely!'
'Do you?' said Connie. 'Then you have it.'
'Oh no, my Lady!'
'Of course! It will only lie here till Doomsday. If you won't
have it, I'll send it to the Duchess as well as the pictures, and
she doesn't deserve so much. Do have it!'
'Oh, your Ladyship! Why, I shall never be able to thank you.'
'You needn't try,' laughed Connie.
And Mrs Bolton sailed down with the huge and very black
box in her arms, flushing bright pink in her excitement.
Mr Betts drove her in the trap to her house in the village,
with the box. And she had to have a few friends in, to show it:
the school-mistress, the chemist's wife, Mrs Weedon the
undercashier's wife. They thought it marvellous. And then star-
ted the whisper of Lady Chatterley's child.
'Wonders'll never cease!' said Mrs Weedon.
But Mrs Bolton was convinced, if it did come, it would be Sir
Clifford's child. So there!
Not long after, the rector said gently to Clifford:
'And may we really hope for an heir to Wragby? Ah, that
would be the hand of God in mercy, indeed!'
'Well! We may hope,' said Clifford, with a faint irony, and at
the same time, a certain conviction. He had begun to believe it
really possible it might even be his child.
Then one afternoon came Leslie Winter, Squire Winter, as
everybody called him: lean, immaculate, and seventy: and
every inch a gentleman, as Mrs Bolton said to Mrs Betts. Every
millimetre indeed! And with his old-fashioned, rather haw-haw!
manner of speaking, he seemed more out of date than bag
wigs. Time, in her flight, drops these fine old feathers.
They discussed the collieries. Clifford's idea was, that his
coal, even the poor sort, could be made into hard concentrated
fuel that would burn at great heat if fed with certain damp,

157
acidulated air at a fairly strong pressure. It had long been ob-
served that in a particularly strong, wet wind the pit-bank
burned very vivid, gave off hardly any fumes, and left a fine
powder of ash, instead of the slow pink gravel.
'But where will you find the proper engines for burning your
fuel?' asked Winter.
'I'll make them myself. And I'll use my fuel myself. And I'll
sell electric power. I'm certain I could do it.'
'If you can do it, then splendid, splendid, my dear boy. Haw!
Splendid! If I can be of any help, I shall be delighted. I'm afraid
I am a little out of date, and my collieries are like me. But who
knows, when I'm gone, there may be men like you. Splendid! It
will employ all the men again, and you won't have to sell your
coal, or fail to sell it. A splendid idea, and I hope it will be a
success. If I had sons of my own, no doubt they would have up-
to-date ideas for Shipley: no doubt! By the way, dear boy, is
there any foundation to the rumour that we may entertain
hopes of an heir to Wragby?'
'Is there a rumour?' asked Clifford.
'Well, my dear boy, Marshall from Fillingwood asked me,
that's all I can say about a rumour. Of course I wouldn't repeat
it for the world, if there were no foundation.'
'Well, Sir,' said Clifford uneasily, but with strange bright
eyes. 'There is a hope. There is a hope.'
Winter came across the room and wrung Clifford's hand.
'My dear boy, my dear lad, can you believe what it means to
me, to hear that! And to hear you are working in the hopes of a
son: and that you may again employ every man at Tevershall.
Ah, my boy! to keep up the level of the race, and to have work
waiting for any man who cares to work!—'
The old man was really moved.
Next day Connie was arranging tall yellow tulips in a glass
vase.
'Connie,' said Clifford, 'did you know there was a rumour that
you are going to supply Wragby with a son and heir?'
Connie felt dim with terror, yet she stood quite still, touching
the flowers.
'No!' she said. 'Is it a joke? Or malice?'
He paused before he answered:
'Neither, I hope. I hope it may be a prophecy.'

158
 Connie went on with her flowers.
'I had a letter from Father this morning,' She said. 'He wants
to know if I am aware he has accepted Sir Alexander Cooper's
Invitation for me for July and August, to the Villa Esmeralda in
Venice.'
'July and August?' said Clifford.
'Oh, I wouldn't stay all that time. Are you sure you wouldn't
come?'
'I won't travel abroad,' said Clifford promptly. She took her
flowers to the window.
'Do you mind if I go?' she said. You know it was promised, for
this summer.
'For how long would you go?'
'Perhaps three weeks.'
There was silence for a time.
'Well,' said Clifford slowly, and a little gloomily. 'I suppose I
could stand it for three weeks: if I were absolutely sure you'd
want to come back.'
'I should want to come back,' she said, with a quiet simpli-
city, heavy with conviction. She was thinking of the other man.
Clifford felt her conviction, and somehow he believed her, he
believed it was for him. He felt immensely relieved, joyful at
once.
'In that case,' he said,
'I think it would be all right, don't you?'
'I think so,' she said.
'You'd enjoy the change?' She looked up at him with strange
blue eyes.
'I should like to see Venice again,' she said, 'and to bathe
from one of the shingle islands across the lagoon. But you
know I loathe the Lido! And I don't fancy I shall like Sir Alexan-
der Cooper and Lady Cooper. But if Hilda is there, and we have
a gondola of our own: yes, it will be rather lovely. I do wish
you'd come.'
She said it sincerely. She would so love to make him happy,
in these ways.
'Ah, but think of me, though, at the Gare du Nord: at Calais
quay!'

159
 'But why not? I see other men carried in litter-chairs, who
have been wounded in the war. Besides, we'd motor all the
way.'
'We should need to take two men.'
'Oh no! We'd manage with Field. There would always be an-
other man there.'
But Clifford shook his head.
'Not this year, dear! Not this year! Next year probably I'll
try.'
She went away gloomily. Next year! What would next year
bring? She herself did not really want to go to Venice: not now,
now there was the other man. But she was going as a sort of
discipline: and also because, if she had a child, Clifford could
think she had a lover in Venice.
It was already May, and in June they were supposed to start.
Always these arrangements! Always one's life arranged for
one! Wheels that worked one and drove one, and over which
one had no real control!
It was May, but cold and wet again. A cold wet May, good for
corn and hay! Much the corn and hay matter nowadays! Con-
nie had to go into Uthwaite, which was their little town, where
the Chatterleys were still the Chatterleys. She went alone,
Field driving her.
In spite of May and a new greenness, the country was dis-
mal. It was rather chilly, and there was smoke on the rain, and
a certain sense of exhaust vapour in the air. One just had to
live from one's resistance. No wonder these people were ugly
and tough.
The car ploughed uphill through the long squalid straggle of
Tevershall, the blackened brick dwellings, the black slate roofs
glistening their sharp edges, the mud black with coal-dust, the
pavements wet and black. It was as if dismalness had soaked
through and through everything. The utter negation of natural
beauty, the utter negation of the gladness of life, the utter ab-
sence of the instinct for shapely beauty which every bird and
beast has, the utter death of the human intuitive faculty was
appalling. The stacks of soap in the grocers' shops, the rhubarb
and lemons in the greengrocers! the awful hats in the mil-
liners! all went by ugly, ugly, ugly, followed by the plaster-and-
gilt horror of the cinema with its wet picture announcements,

160
'A Woman's Love!', and the new big Primitive chapel, primitive
enough in its stark brick and big panes of greenish and rasp-
berry glass in the windows. The Wesleyan chapel, higher up,
was of blackened brick and stood behind iron railings and
blackened shrubs. The Congregational chapel, which thought
itself superior, was built of rusticated sandstone and had a
steeple, but not a very high one. Just beyond were the new
school buildings, expensive pink brick, and gravelled play-
ground inside iron railings, all very imposing, and fixing the
suggestion of a chapel and a prison. Standard Five girls were
having a singing lesson, just finishing the la-me-doh-la exer-
cises and beginning a 'sweet children's song'. Anything more
unlike song, spontaneous song, would be impossible to ima-
gine: a strange bawling yell that followed the outlines of a
tune. It was not like savages: savages have subtle rhythms. It
was not like animals: animals mean something when they yell.
It was like nothing on earth, and it was called singing. Connie
sat and listened with her heart in her boots, as Field was filling
petrol. What could possibly become of such a people, a people
in whom the living intuitive faculty was dead as nails, and only
queer mechanical yells and uncanny will-power remained?
A coal-cart was coming downhill, clanking in the rain. Field
started upwards, past the big but weary-looking drapers and
clothing shops, the post-office, into the little market-place of
forlorn space, where Sam Black was peering out of the door of
the Sun, that called itself an inn, not a pub, and where the
commercial travellers stayed, and was bowing to Lady
Chatterley's car.
The church was away to the left among black trees. The car
slid on downhill, past the Miners' Arms. It had already passed
the Wellington, the Nelson, the Three Tuns, and the Sun, now
it passed the Miners' Arms, then the Mechanics' Hall, then the
new and almost gaudy Miners' Welfare and so, past a few new
'villas', out into the blackened road between dark hedges and
dark green fields, towards Stacks Gate.
Tevershall! That was Tevershall! Merrie England!
Shakespeare's England! No, but the England of today, as Con-
nie had realized since she had come to live in it. It was produ-
cing a new race of mankind, over-conscious in the money and
social and political side, on the spontaneous, intuitive side

161
dead, but dead. Half-corpses, all of them: but with a terrible in-
sistent consciousness in the other half. There was something
uncanny and underground about it all. It was an under-world.
And quite incalculable. How shall we understand the reactions
in half-corpses? When Connie saw the great lorries full of steel-
workers from Sheffield, weird, distorted smallish beings like
men, off for an excursion to Matlock, her bowels fainted and
she thought: Ah God, what has man done to man? What have
the leaders of men been doing to their fellow men? They have
reduced them to less than humanness; and now there can be
no fellowship any more! It is just a nightmare.
She felt again in a wave of terror the grey, gritty hopeless-
ness of it all. With such creatures for the industrial masses,
and the upper classes as she knew them, there was no hope, no
hope any more. Yet she was wanting a baby, and an heir to
Wragby! An heir to Wragby! She shuddered with dread.
Yet Mellors had come out of all this!—Yes, but he was as
apart from it all as she was. Even in him there was no fellow-
ship left. It was dead. The fellowship was dead. There was only
apartness and hopelessness, as far as all this was concerned.
And this was England, the vast bulk of England: as Connie
knew, since she had motored from the centre of it.
The car was rising towards Stacks Gate. The rain was hold-
ing off, and in the air came a queer pellucid gleam of May. The
country rolled away in long undulations, south towards the
Peak, east towards Mansfield and Nottingham. Connie was
travelling South.
As she rose on to the high country, she could see on her left,
on a height above the rolling land, the shadowy, powerful bulk
of Warsop Castle, dark grey, with below it the reddish plaster-
ing of miners' dwellings, newish, and below those the plumes
of dark smoke and white steam from the great colliery which
put so many thousand pounds per annum into the pockets of
the Duke and the other shareholders. The powerful old castle
was a ruin, yet it hung its bulk on the low sky-line, over the
black plumes and the white that waved on the damp air below.
A turn, and they ran on the high level to Stacks Gate. Stacks
Gate, as seen from the highroad, was just a huge and gorgeous
new hotel, the Coningsby Arms, standing red and white and
gilt in barbarous isolation off the road. But if you looked, you

162
saw on the left rows of handsome 'modern' dwellings, set down
like a game of dominoes, with spaces and gardens, a queer
game of dominoes that some weird 'masters' were playing on
the surprised earth. And beyond these blocks of dwellings, at
the back, rose all the astonishing and frightening overhead
erections of a really modern mine, chemical works and long
galleries, enormous, and of shapes not before known to man.
The head-stock and pit-bank of the mine itself were insignific-
ant among the huge new installations. And in front of this, the
game of dominoes stood forever in a sort of surprise, waiting to
be played.
This was Stacks Gate, new on the face of the earth, since the
war. But as a matter of fact, though even Connie did not know
it, downhill half a mile below the 'hotel' was old Stacks Gate,
with a little old colliery and blackish old brick dwellings, and a
chapel or two and a shop or two and a little pub or two.
But that didn't count any more. The vast plumes of smoke
and vapour rose from the new works up above, and this was
now Stacks Gate: no chapels, no pubs, even no shops. Only the
great works', which are the modern Olympia with temples to
all the gods; then the model dwellings: then the hotel. The
hotel in actuality was nothing but a miners' pub though it
looked first-classy.
Even since Connie's arrival at Wragby this new place had
arisen on the face of the earth, and the model dwellings had
filled with riff-raff drifting in from anywhere, to poach
Clifford's rabbits among other occupations.
The car ran on along the uplands, seeing the rolling county
spread out. The county! It had once been a proud and lordly
county. In front, looming again and hanging on the brow of the
sky-line, was the huge and splendid bulk of Chadwick Hall,
more window than wall, one of the most famous Elizabethan
houses. Noble it stood alone above a great park, but out of
date, passed over. It was still kept up, but as a show place.
'Look how our ancestors lorded it!'
That was the past. The present lay below. God alone knows
where the future lies. The car was already turning, between
little old blackened miners' cottages, to descend to Uthwaite.
And Uthwaite, on a damp day, was sending up a whole array of
smoke plumes and steam, to whatever gods there be. Uthwaite

163
down in the valley, with all the steel threads of the railways to
Sheffield drawn through it, and the coal-mines and the steel-
works sending up smoke and glare from long tubes, and the
pathetic little corkscrew spire of the church, that is going to
tumble down, still pricking the fumes, always affected Connie
strangely. It was an old market-town, centre of the dales. One
of the chief inns was the Chatterley Arms. There, in Uthwaite,
Wragby was known as Wragby, as if it were a whole place, not
just a house, as it was to outsiders: Wragby Hall, near Tever-
shall: Wragby, a 'seat'.
The miners' cottages, blackened, stood flush on the pave-
ment, with that intimacy and smallness of colliers' dwellings
over a hundred years old. They lined all the way. The road had
become a street, and as you sank, you forgot instantly the
open, rolling country where the castles and big houses still
dominated, but like ghosts. Now you were just above the tangle
of naked railway-lines, and foundries and other 'works' rose
about you, so big you were only aware of walls. And iron
clanked with a huge reverberating clank, and huge lorries
shook the earth, and whistles screamed.
Yet again, once you had got right down and into the twisted
and crooked heart of the town, behind the church, you were in
the world of two centuries ago, in the crooked streets where
the Chatterley Arms stood, and the old pharmacy, streets
which used to lead Out to the wild open world of the castles
and stately couchant houses.
But at the corner a policeman held up his hand as three lor-
ries loaded with iron rolled past, shaking the poor old church.
And not till the lorries were past could he salute her ladyship.
So it was. Upon the old crooked burgess streets hordes of
oldish blackened miners' dwellings crowded, lining the roads
out. And immediately after these came the newer, pinker rows
of rather larger houses, plastering the valley: the homes of
more modern workmen. And beyond that again, in the wide
rolling regions of the castles, smoke waved against steam, and
patch after patch of raw reddish brick showed the newer min-
ing settlements, sometimes in the hollows, sometimes grue-
somely ugly along the sky-line of the slopes. And between, in
between, were the tattered remnants of the old coaching and
cottage England, even the England of Robin Hood, where the

164
miners prowled with the dismalness of suppressed sporting in-
stincts, when they were not at work.
England, my England! But which is MY England? The stately
homes of England make good photographs, and create the illu-
sion of a connexion with the Elizabethans. The handsome old
halls are there, from the days of Good Queen Anne and Tom
Jones. But smuts fall and blacken on the drab stucco, that has
long ceased to be golden. And one by one, like the stately
homes, they were abandoned. Now they are being pulled down.
As for the cottages of England—there they are—great plaster-
ings of brick dwellings on the hopeless countryside.
'Now they are pulling down the stately homes, the Georgian
halls are going. Fritchley, a perfect old Georgian mansion, was
even now, as Connie passed in the car, being demolished. It
was in perfect repair: till the war the Weatherleys had lived in
style there. But now it was too big, too expensive, and the
country had become too uncongenial. The gentry were depart-
ing to pleasanter places, where they could spend their money
without having to see how it was made.'
This is history. One England blots out another. The mines
had made the halls wealthy. Now they were blotting them out,
as they had already blotted out the cottages. The industrial
England blots out the agricultural England. One meaning blots
out another. The new England blots out the old England. And
the continuity is not Organic, but mechanical.
Connie, belonging to the leisured classes, had clung to the
remnants of the old England. It had taken her years to realize
that it was really blotted out by this terrifying new and grue-
some England, and that the blotting out would go on till it was
complete. Fritchley was gone, Eastwood was gone, Shipley was
going: Squire Winter's beloved Shipley.
Connie called for a moment at Shipley. The park gates, at the
back, opened just near the level crossing of the colliery rail-
way; the Shipley colliery itself stood just beyond the trees. The
gates stood open, because through the park was a right-of-way
that the colliers used. They hung around the park.
The car passed the ornamental ponds, in which the colliers
threw their newspapers, and took the private drive to the
house. It stood above, aside, a very pleasant stucco building
from the middle of the eighteenth century. It had a beautiful

165
alley of yew trees, that had approached an older house, and the
hall stood serenely spread out, winking its Georgian panes as if
cheerfully. Behind, there were really beautiful gardens.
Connie liked the interior much better than Wragby. It was
much lighter, more alive, shapen and elegant. The rooms were
panelled with creamy painted panelling, the ceilings were
touched with gilt, and everything was kept in exquisite order,
all the appointments were perfect, regardless of expense. Even
the corridors managed to be ample and lovely, softly curved
and full of life.
But Leslie Winter was alone. He had adored his house. But
his park was bordered by three of his own collieries. He had
been a generous man in his ideas. He had almost welcomed the
colliers in his park. Had the miners not made him rich! So,
when he saw the gangs of unshapely men lounging by his orna-
mental waters—not in the private part of the park, no, he drew
the line there—he would say: 'the miners are perhaps not so or-
namental as deer, but they are far more profitable.'
But that was in the golden—monetarily—latter half of Queen
Victoria's reign. Miners were then 'good working men'.
Winter had made this speech, half apologetic, to his guest,
the then Prince of Wales. And the Prince had replied, in his
rather guttural English:
'You are quite right. If there were coal under Sandringham, I
would open a mine on the lawns, and think it first-rate land-
scape gardening. Oh, I am quite willing to exchange roe-deer
for colliers, at the price. Your men are good men too, I hear.'
But then, the Prince had perhaps an exaggerated idea of the
beauty of money, and the blessings of industrialism.
However, the Prince had been a King, and the King had died,
and now there was another King, whose chief function seemed
to be to open soup-kitchens.
And the good working men were somehow hemming Shipley
in. New mining villages crowded on the park, and the squire
felt somehow that the population was alien. He used to feel, in
a good-natured but quite grand way, lord of his own domain
and of his own colliers. Now, by a subtle pervasion of the new
spirit, he had somehow been pushed out. It was he who did not
belong any more. There was no mistaking it. The mines, the in-
dustry, had a will of its own, and this will was against the

166
gentleman-owner. All the colliers took part in the will, and it
was hard to live up against it. It either shoved you out of the
place, or out of life altogether.
Squire Winter, a soldier, had stood it out. But he no longer
cared to walk in the park after dinner. He almost hid, indoors.
Once he had walked, bare-headed, and in his patent-leather
shoes and purple silk socks, with Connie down to the gate,
talking to her in his well-bred rather haw-haw fashion. But
when it came to passing the little gangs of colliers who stood
and stared without either salute or anything else, Connie felt
how the lean, well-bred old man winced, winced as an elegant
antelope stag in a cage winces from the vulgar stare. The colli-
ers were not personally hostile: not at all. But their spirit was
cold, and shoving him out. And, deep down, there was a pro-
found grudge. They 'worked for him'. And in their ugliness,
they resented his elegant, well-groomed, well-bred existence.
'Who's he!' It was the difference they resented.
And somewhere, in his secret English heart, being a good
deal of a soldier, he believed they were right to resent the dif-
ference. He felt himself a little in the wrong, for having all the
advantages. Nevertheless he represented a system, and he
would not be shoved out.
Except by death. Which came on him soon after Connie's call,
suddenly. And he remembered Clifford handsomely in his will.
The heirs at once gave out the order for the demolishing of
Shipley. It cost too much to keep up. No one would live there.
So it was broken up. The avenue of yews was cut down. The
park was denuded of its timber, and divided into lots. It was
near enough to Uthwaite. In the strange, bald desert of this
still-one-more no-man's-land, new little streets of semi-de-
tacheds were run up, very desirable! The Shipley Hall Estate!
Within a year of Connie's last call, it had happened. There
stood Shipley Hall Estate, an array of red-brick semi-detached
'villas' in new streets. No one would have dreamed that the
stucco hall had stood there twelve months before.
But this is a later stage of King Edward's landscape garden-
ing, the sort that has an ornamental coal-mine on the lawn.
One England blots out another. The England of the Squire
Winters and the Wragby Halls was gone, dead. The blotting out
was only not yet complete.

167
 What would come after? Connie could not imagine. She could
only see the new brick streets spreading into the fields, the
new erections rising at the collieries, the new girls in their silk
stockings, the new collier lads lounging into the Pally or the
Welfare. The younger generation were utterly unconscious of
the old England. There was a gap in the continuity of con-
sciousness, almost American: but industrial really. What next?
Connie always felt there was no next. She wanted to hide her
head in the sand: or, at least, in the bosom of a living man.
The world was so complicated and weird and gruesome! The
common people were so many, and really so terrible. So she
thought as she was going home, and saw the colliers trailing
from the pits, grey-black, distorted, one shoulder higher than
the other, slurring their heavy ironshod boots. Underground
grey faces, whites of eyes rolling, necks cringing from the pit
roof, shoulders out of shape. Men! Men! Alas, in some ways pa-
tient and good men. In other ways, non-existent. Something
that men should have was bred and killed out of them. Yet they
were men. They begot children. One might bear a child to
them. Terrible, terrible thought! They were good and kindly.
But they were only half, Only the grey half of a human being.
As yet, they were 'good'. But even that was the goodness of
their halfness. Supposing the dead in them ever rose up! But
no, it was too terrible to think of. Connie was absolutely afraid
of the industrial masses. They seemed so weird to her. A life
with utterly no beauty in it, no intuition, always 'in the pit'.
Children from such men! Oh God, oh God!
Yet Mellors had come from such a father. Not quite. Forty
years had made a difference, an appalling difference in man-
hood. The iron and the coal had eaten deep into the bodies and
souls of the men.
Incarnate ugliness, and yet alive! What would become of
them all? Perhaps with the passing of the coal they would dis-
appear again, off the face of the earth. They had appeared out
of nowhere in their thousands, when the coal had called for
them. Perhaps they were only weird fauna of the coal-seams.
Creatures of another reality, they were elementals, serving the
elements of coal, as the metal-workers were elementals,
serving the element of iron. Men not men, but animas of coal
and iron and clay. Fauna of the elements, carbon, iron, silicon:

168
elementals. They had perhaps some of the weird, inhuman
beauty of minerals, the lustre of coal, the weight and blueness
and resistance of iron, the transparency of glass. Elemental
creatures, weird and distorted, of the mineral world! They be-
longed to the coal, the iron, the clay, as fish belong to the sea
and worms to dead wood. The anima of mineral disintegration!
Connie was glad to be home, to bury her head in the sand.
She was glad even to babble to Clifford. For her fear of the
mining and iron Midlands affected her with a queer feeling
that went all over her, like influenza.
'Of course I had to have tea in Miss Bentley's shop,' she said.
'Really! Winter would have given you tea.'
'Oh yes, but I daren't disappoint Miss Bentley.' Miss Bentley
was a shallow old maid with a rather large nose and romantic
disposition who served tea with a careful intensity worthy of a
sacrament.
'Did she ask after me?' said Clifford.
'Of course!—. may I ask your Ladyship how Sir Clifford is!—I
believe she ranks you even higher than Nurse Cavell!'
'And I suppose you said I was blooming.'
'Yes! And she looked as rapt as if I had said the heavens had
opened to you. I said if she ever came to Tevershall she was to
come to see you.'
'Me! Whatever for! See me!'
'Why yes, Clifford. You can't be so adored without making
some slight return. Saint George of Cappadocia was nothing to
you, in her eyes.'
'And do you think she'll come?'
'Oh, she blushed! and looked quite beautiful for a moment,
poor thing! Why don't men marry the women who would really
adore them?'
'The women start adoring too late. But did she say she'd
come?'
'Oh!' Connie imitated the breathless Miss Bentley, 'your
Ladyship, if ever I should dare to presume!'
'Dare to presume! how absurd! But I hope to God she won't
turn up. And how was her tea?'
'Oh, Lipton's and VERY strong. But Clifford, do you realize
you are the roman de la rose of Miss Bentley and lots like her?'
'I'm not flattered, even then.'

169
 'They treasure up every one of your pictures in the illustrated
papers, and probably pray for you every night. It's rather
wonderful.'
She went upstairs to change.
That evening he said to her:
'You do think, don't you, that there is something eternal in
marriage?'
She looked at him.
'But Clifford, you make eternity sound like a lid or a long,
long chain that trailed after one, no matter how far one went.'
He looked at her, annoyed.
'What I mean,' he said, 'is that if you go to Venice, you won't
go in the hopes of some love affair that you can take au grand
serieux, will you?'
'A love affair in Venice au grand srieux? No. I assure you!
No, I'd never take a love affair in Venice more than au tres
petit serieux.'
She spoke with a queer kind of contempt. He knitted his
brows, looking at her.
Coming downstairs in the morning, she found the keeper's
dog Flossie sitting in the corridor outside Clifford's room, and
whimpering very faintly.
'Why, Flossie!' she said softly. 'What are you doing here?'
And she quietly opened Clifford's door. Clifford was sitting
up in bed, with the bed-table and typewriter pushed aside, and
the keeper was standing at attention at the foot of the bed.
Flossie ran in. With a faint gesture of head and eyes, Mellors
ordered her to the door again, and she slunk out.
'Oh, good morning, Clifford!' Connie said. 'I didn't know you
were busy.' Then she looked at the keeper, saying good morn-
ing to him. He murmured his reply, looking at her as if vaguely.
But she felt a whiff of passion touch her, from his mere
presence.
'Did I interrupt you, Clifford? I'm sorry.'
'No, it's nothing of any importance.'
She slipped out of the room again, and up to the blue boudoir
on the first floor. She sat in the window, and saw him go down
the drive, with his curious, silent motion, effaced. He had a
natural sort of quiet distinction, an aloof pride, and also a cer-
tain look of frailty. A hireling! One of Clifford's hirelings! 'The

170
fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we
are underlings.'
Was he an underling? Was he? What did he think of her?
It was a sunny day, and Connie was working in the garden,
and Mrs Bolton was helping her. For some reason, the two wo-
men had drawn together, in one of the unaccountable flows
and ebbs of sympathy that exist between people. They were
pegging down carnations, and putting in small plants for the
summer. It was work they both liked. Connie especially felt a
delight in putting the soft roots of young plants into a soft
black puddle, and cradling them down. On this spring morning
she felt a quiver in her womb too, as if the sunshine had
touched it and made it happy.
'It is many years since you lost your husband?' she said to
Mrs Bolton as she took up another little plant and laid it in its
hole.
'Twenty-three!' said Mrs Bolton, as she carefully separated
the young columbines into single plants. 'Twenty-three years
since they brought him home.'
Connie's heart gave a lurch, at the terrible finality of it.
'Brought him home!'
'Why did he get killed, do you think?' she asked. 'He was
happy with you?'
It was a woman's question to a woman. Mrs Bolton put aside
a strand of hair from her face, with the back of her hand.
'I don't know, my Lady! He sort of wouldn't give in to things:
he wouldn't really go with the rest. And then he hated ducking
his head for anything on earth. A sort of obstinacy, that gets it-
self killed. You see he didn't really care. I lay it down to the pit.
He ought never to have been down pit. But his dad made him
go down, as a lad; and then, when you're over twenty, it's not
very easy to come out.'
'Did he say he hated it?'
'Oh no! Never! He never said he hated anything. He just
made a funny face. He was one of those who wouldn't take
care: like some of the first lads as went off so blithe to the war
and got killed right away. He wasn't really wezzle-brained. But
he wouldn't care. I used to say to him: ''You care for nought
nor nobody!'' But he did! The way he sat when my first baby
was born, motionless, and the sort of fatal eyes he looked at

171
me with, when it was over! I had a bad time, but I had to com-
fort him. ''It's all right, lad, it's all right!'' I said to him. And he
gave me a look, and that funny sort of smile. He never said
anything. But I don't believe he had any right pleasure with me
at nights after; he'd never really let himself go. I used to say to
him: Oh, let thysen go, lad!—I'd talk broad to him sometimes.
And he said nothing. But he wouldn't let himself go, or he
couldn't. He didn't want me to have any more children. I al-
ways blamed his mother, for letting him in th' room. He'd no
right t'ave been there. Men makes so much more of things than
they should, once they start brooding.'
'Did he mind so much?' said Connie in wonder.
'Yes, he sort of couldn't take it for natural, all that pain. And
it spoilt his pleasure in his bit of married love. I said to him: If I
don't care, why should you? It's my look-out!—But all he'd ever
say was: It's not right!'
'Perhaps he was too sensitive,' said Connie.
'That's it! When you come to know men, that's how they are:
too sensitive in the wrong place. And I believe, unbeknown to
himself he hated the pit, just hated it. He looked so quiet when
he was dead, as if he'd got free. He was such a nice-looking
lad. It just broke my heart to see him, so still and pure looking,
as if he'd wanted to die. Oh, it broke my heart, that did. But it
was the pit.'
She wept a few bitter tears, and Connie wept more. It was a
warm spring day, with a perfume of earth and of yellow
flowers, many things rising to bud, and the garden still with
the very sap of sunshine.
'It must have been terrible for you!' said Connie.
'Oh, my Lady! I never realized at first. I could only say: Oh
my lad, what did you want to leave me for!—That was all my
cry. But somehow I felt he'd come back.'
'But he DIDN'T want to leave you,' said Connie.
'Oh no, my Lady! That was only my silly cry. And I kept ex-
pecting him back. Especially at nights. I kept waking up think-
ing: Why he's not in bed with me!—It was as if my feelings
wouldn't believe he'd gone. I just felt he'd have to come back
and lie against me, so I could feel him with me. That was all I
wanted, to feel him there with me, warm. And it took me a

172
thousand shocks before I knew he wouldn't come back, it took
me years.'
'The touch of him,' said Connie.
'That's it, my Lady, the touch of him! I've never got over it to
this day, and never shall. And if there's a heaven above, he'll be
there, and will lie up against me so I can sleep.'
Connie glanced at the handsome, brooding face in fear.
Another passionate one out of Tevershall! The touch of him!
For the bonds of love are ill to loose!
'It's terrible, once you've got a man into your blood!' she
said. 'Oh, my Lady! And that's what makes you feel so bitter.
You feel folks wanted him killed. You feel the pit fair wanted to
kill him. Oh, I felt, if it hadn't been for the pit, an' them as runs
the pit, there'd have been no leaving me. But they all want to
separate a woman and a man, if they're together.'
'If they're physically together,' said Connie.
'That's right, my Lady! There's a lot of hard-hearted folks in
the world. And every morning when he got up and went to th'
pit, I felt it was wrong, wrong. But what else could he do?
What can a man do?'
A queer hate flared in the woman.
'But can a touch last so long?' Connie asked suddenly. 'That
you could feel him so long?'
'Oh my Lady, what else is there to last? Children grows away
from you. But the man, well! But even that they'd like to kill in
you, the very thought of the touch of him. Even your own chil-
dren! Ah well! We might have drifted apart, who knows. But
the feeling's something different. It's 'appen better never to
care. But there, when I look at women who's never really been
warmed through by a man, well, they seem to me poor doo-
lowls after all, no matter how they may dress up and gad. No,
I'll abide by my own. I've not much respect for people.'

173
Chapter 12
Connie went to the wood directly after lunch. It was really a
lovely day, the first dandelions making suns, the first daisies so
white. The hazel thicket was a lace-work, of half-open leaves,
and the last dusty perpendicular of the catkins. Yellow
celandines now were in crowds, flat open, pressed back in ur-
gency, and the yellow glitter of themselves. It was the yellow,
the powerful yellow of early summer. And primroses were
broad, and full of pale abandon, thick-clustered primroses no
longer shy. The lush, dark green of hyacinths was a sea, with
buds rising like pale corn, while in the riding the forget-me-
nots were fluffing up, and columbines were unfolding their ink-
purple ruches, and there were bits of blue bird's eggshell un-
der a bush. Everywhere the bud-knots and the leap of life!
The keeper was not at the hut. Everything was serene, brown
chickens running lustily. Connie walked on towards the cot-
tage, because she wanted to find him.
The cottage stood in the sun, off the wood's edge. In the little
garden the double daffodils rose in tufts, near the wide-open
door, and red double daisies made a border to the path. There
was the bark of a dog, and Flossie came running.
The wide-open door! so he was at home. And the sunlight
falling on the red-brick floor! As she went up the path, she saw
him through the window, sitting at the table in his shirt-
sleeves, eating. The dog wuffed softly, slowly wagging her tail.
He rose, and came to the door, wiping his mouth with a red
handkerchief still chewing.
'May I come in?' she said.
'Come in!'
The sun shone into the bare room, which still smelled of a
mutton chop, done in a dutch oven before the fire, because the
dutch oven still stood on the fender, with the black potato-
saucepan on a piece of paper, beside it on the white hearth.

174
The fire was red, rather low, the bar dropped, the kettle
singing.
On the table was his plate, with potatoes and the remains of
the chop; also bread in a basket, salt, and a blue mug with
beer. The table-cloth was white oil-cloth, he stood in the shade.
'You are very late,' she said. 'Do go on eating!'
She sat down on a wooden chair, in the sunlight by the door.
'I had to go to Uthwaite,' he said, sitting down at the table
but not eating.
'Do eat,' she said. But he did not touch the food.
'Shall y'ave something?' he asked her. 'Shall y'ave a cup of
tea? t' kettle's on t' boil'—he half rose again from his chair.
'If you'll let me make it myself,' she said, rising. He seemed
sad, and she felt she was bothering him.
'Well, tea-pot's in there'—he pointed to a little, drab corner
cupboard; 'an' cups. An' tea's on t' mantel ower yer 'ead,'
She got the black tea-pot, and the tin of tea from the mantel-
shelf. She rinsed the tea-pot with hot water, and stood a mo-
ment wondering where to empty it.
'Throw it out,' he said, aware of her. 'It's clean.'
She went to the door and threw the drop of water down the
path. How lovely it was here, so still, so really woodland. The
oaks were putting out ochre yellow leaves: in the garden the
red daisies were like red plush buttons. She glanced at the big,
hollow sandstone slab of the threshold, now crossed by so few
feet.
'But it's lovely here,' she said. 'Such a beautiful stillness,
everything alive and still.'
He was eating again, rather slowly and unwillingly, and she
could feel he was discouraged. She made the tea in silence,
and set the tea-pot on the hob, as she knew the people did. He
pushed his plate aside and went to the back place; she heard a
latch click, then he came back with cheese on a plate, and
butter.
She set the two cups on the table; there were only two. 'Will
you have a cup of tea?' she said.
'If you like. Sugar's in th' cupboard, an' there's a little cream
jug. Milk's in a jug in th' pantry.'
'Shall I take your plate away?' she asked him. He looked up
at her with a faint ironical smile.

175
 'Why… if you like,' he said, slowly eating bread and cheese.
She went to the back, into the pent-house scullery, where the
pump was. On the left was a door, no doubt the pantry door.
She unlatched it, and almost smiled at the place he called a
pantry; a long narrow white-washed slip of a cupboard. But it
managed to contain a little barrel of beer, as well as a few
dishes and bits of food. She took a little milk from the yellow
jug.
'How do you get your milk?' she asked him, when she came
back to the table.
'Flints! They leave me a bottle at the warren end. You know,
where I met you!'
But he was discouraged. She poured out the tea, poising the
cream-jug.
'No milk,' he said; then he seemed to hear a noise, and
looked keenly through the doorway.
''Appen we'd better shut,' he said.
'It seems a pity,' she replied. 'Nobody will come, will they?'
'Not unless it's one time in a thousand, but you never know.'
'And even then it's no matter,' she said. 'It's only a cup of
tea.'
'Where are the spoons?'
He reached over, and pulled open the table drawer. Connie
sat at the table in the sunshine of the doorway.
'Flossie!' he said to the dog, who was lying on a little mat at
the stair foot. 'Go an' hark, hark!'
He lifted his finger, and his 'hark!' was very vivid. The dog
trotted out to reconnoitre.
'Are you sad today?' she asked him.
He turned his blue eyes quickly, and gazed direct on her.
'Sad! no, bored! I had to go getting summonses for two
poachers I caught, and, oh well, I don't like people.'
He spoke cold, good English, and there was anger in his
voice. 'Do you hate being a game-keeper?' she asked.
'Being a game-keeper, no! So long as I'm left alone. But when
I have to go messing around at the police-station, and various
other places, and waiting for a lot of fools to attend to me… oh
well, I get mad… ' and he smiled, with a certain faint humour.
'Couldn't you be really independent?' she asked.

176
 'Me? I suppose I could, if you mean manage to exist on my
pension. I could! But I've got to work, or I should die. That is,
I've got to have something that keeps me occupied. And I'm not
in a good enough temper to work for myself. It's got to be a
sort of job for somebody else, or I should throw it up in a
month, out of bad temper. So altogether I'm very well off here,
especially lately… '
He laughed at her again, with mocking humour.
'But why are you in a bad temper?' she asked. 'Do you mean
you are always in a bad temper?'
'Pretty well,' he said, laughing. 'I don't quite digest my bile.'
'But what bile?' she said.
'Bile!' he said. 'Don't you know what that is?' She was silent,
and disappointed. He was taking no notice of her.
'I'm going away for a while next month,' she said.
'You are! Where to?'
'Venice! With Sir Clifford? For how long?'
'For a month or so,' she replied. 'Clifford won't go.'
'He'll stay here?' he asked.
'Yes! He hates to travel as he is.'
'Ay, poor devil!' he said, with sympathy. There was a pause.
'You won't forget me when I'm gone, will you?' she asked.
Again he lifted his eyes and looked full at her.
'Forget?' he said. 'You know nobody forgets. It's not a ques-
tion of memory;'
She wanted to say: 'When then?' but she didn't. Instead, she
said in a mute kind of voice: 'I told Clifford I might have a
child.'
Now he really looked at her, intense and searching.
'You did?' he said at last. 'And what did he say?'
'Oh, he wouldn't mind. He'd be glad, really, so long as it
seemed to be his.' She dared not look up at him.
He was silent a long time, then he gazed again on her face.
'No mention of me, of course?' he said.
'No. No mention of you,' she said.
'No, he'd hardly swallow me as a substitute breeder. Then
where are you supposed to be getting the child?'
'I might have a love-affair in Venice,' she said.
'You might,' he replied slowly. 'So that's why you're going?'

177
 'Not to have the love-affair,' she said, looking up at him,
pleading.
'Just the appearance of one,' he said.
There was silence. He sat staring out the window, with a
faint grin, half mockery, half bitterness, on his face. She hated
his grin.
'You've not taken any precautions against having a child
then?' he asked her suddenly. 'Because I haven't.'
'No,' she said faintly. 'I should hate that.'
He looked at her, then again with the peculiar subtle grin out
of the window. There was a tense silence.
At last he turned his head and said satirically:
'That was why you wanted me, then, to get a child?'
She hung her head.
'No. Not really,' she said. 'What then, really?' he asked rather
bitingly.
She looked up at him reproachfully, saying: 'I don't know.'
He broke into a laugh.
'Then I'm damned if I do,' he said.
There was a long pause of silence, a cold silence.
'Well,' he said at last. 'It's as your Ladyship likes. If you get
the baby, Sir Clifford's welcome to it. I shan't have lost any-
thing. On the contrary, I've had a very nice experience, very
nice indeed!'—and he stretched in a half-suppressed sort of
yawn. 'If you've made use of me,' he said, 'it's not the first time
I've been made use of; and I don't suppose it's ever been as
pleasant as this time; though of course one can't feel tremend-
ously dignified about it.'—He stretched again, curiously, his
muscles quivering, and his jaw oddly set.
'But I didn't make use of you,' she said, pleading.
'At your Ladyship's service,' he replied.
'No,' she said. 'I liked your body.'
'Did you?' he replied, and he laughed. 'Well, then, we're
quits, because I liked yours.'
He looked at her with queer darkened eyes.
'Would you like to go upstairs now?' he asked her, in a
strangled sort of voice.
'No, not here. Not now!' she said heavily, though if he had
used any power over her, she would have gone, for she had no
strength against him.

178
 He turned his face away again, and seemed to forget her. 'I
want to touch you like you touch me,' she said. 'I've never
really touched your body.'
He looked at her, and smiled again. 'Now?' he said. 'No! No!
Not here! At the hut. Would you mind?'
'How do I touch you?' he asked.
'When you feel me.'
He looked at her, and met her heavy, anxious eyes.
'And do you like it when I feel you?' he asked, laughing at her
still.
'Yes, do you?' she said.
'Oh, me!' Then he changed his tone. 'Yes,' he said. 'You know
without asking.' Which was true.
She rose and picked up her hat. 'I must go,' she said.
'Will you go?' he replied politely.
She wanted him to touch her, to say something to her, but he
said nothing, only waited politely.
'Thank you for the tea,' she said.
'I haven't thanked your Ladyship for doing me the honours of
my tea-pot,' he said.
She went down the path, and he stood in the doorway, faintly
grinning. Flossie came running with her tail lifted. And Connie
had to plod dumbly across into the wood, knowing he was
standing there watching her, with that incomprehensible grin
on his face.
She walked home very much downcast and annoyed. She
didn't at all like his saying he had been made use of because, in
a sense, it was true. But he oughtn't to have said it. Therefore,
again, she was divided between two feelings: resentment
against him, and a desire to make it up with him.
She passed a very uneasy and irritated tea-time, and at once
went up to her room. But when she was there it was no good;
she could neither sit nor stand. She would have to do
something about it. She would have to go back to the hut; if he
was not there, well and good.
She slipped out of the side door, and took her way direct and
a little sullen. When she came to the clearing she was terribly
uneasy. But there he was again, in his shirt-sleeves, stooping,
letting the hens out of the coops, among the chicks that were

179
now growing a little gawky, but were much more trim than
hen-chickens.
She went straight across to him. 'You see I've come!' she
said.
'Ay, I see it!' he said, straightening his back, and looking at
her with a faint amusement.
'Do you let the hens out now?' she asked.
'Yes, they've sat themselves to skin and bone,' he said. 'An'
now they're not all that anxious to come out an' feed. There's
no self in a sitting hen; she's all in the eggs or the chicks.'
The poor mother-hens; such blind devotion! even to eggs not
their own! Connie looked at them in compassion. A helpless si-
lence fell between the man and the woman.
'Shall us go i' th' 'ut?' he asked.
'Do you want me?' she asked, in a sort of mistrust.
'Ay, if you want to come.'
She was silent.
'Come then!' he said.
And she went with him to the hut. It was quite dark when he
had shut the door, so he made a small light in the lantern, as
before.
'Have you left your underthings off?' he asked her.
'Yes!'
'Ay, well, then I'll take my things off too.'
He spread the blankets, putting one at the side for a coverlet.
She took off her hat, and shook her hair. He sat down, taking
off his shoes and gaiters, and undoing his cord breeches.
'Lie down then!' he said, when he stood in his shirt. She
obeyed in silence, and he lay beside her, and pulled the blanket
over them both.
'There!' he said.
And he lifted her dress right back, till he came even to her
breasts. He kissed them softly, taking the nipples in his lips in
tiny caresses.
'Eh, but tha'rt nice, tha'rt nice!' he said, suddenly rubbing his
face with a snuggling movement against her warm belly.
And she put her arms round him under his shirt, but she was
afraid, afraid of his thin, smooth, naked body, that seemed so
powerful, afraid of the violent muscles. She shrank, afraid.

180
 And when he said, with a sort of little sigh: 'Eh, tha'rt nice!'
something in her quivered, and something in her spirit
stiffened in resistance: stiffened from the terribly physical in-
timacy, and from the peculiar haste of his possession. And this
time the sharp ecstasy of her own passion did not overcome
her; she lay with her ends inert on his striving body, and do
what she might, her spirit seemed to look on from the top of
her head, and the butting of his haunches seemed ridiculous to
her, and the sort of anxiety of his penis to come to its little
evacuating crisis seemed farcical. Yes, this was love, this ri-
diculous bouncing of the buttocks, and the wilting of the poor,
insignificant, moist little penis. This was the divine love! After
all, the moderns were right when they felt contempt for the
performance; for it was a performance. It was quite true, as
some poets said, that the God who created man must have had
a sinister sense of humour, creating him a reasonable being,
yet forcing him to take this ridiculous posture, and driving him
with blind craving for this ridiculous performance. Even a
Maupassant found it a humiliating anti-climax. Men despised
the intercourse act, and yet did it.
Cold and derisive her queer female mind stood apart, and
though she lay perfectly still, her impulse was to heave her
loins, and throw the man out, escape his ugly grip, and the
butting over-riding of his absurd haunches. His body was a
foolish, impudent, imperfect thing, a little disgusting in its un-
finished clumsiness. For surely a complete evolution would
eliminate this performance, this 'function'.
And yet when he had finished, soon over, and lay very very
still, receding into silence, and a strange motionless distance,
far, farther than the horizon of her awareness, her heart began
to weep. She could feel him ebbing away, ebbing away, leaving
her there like a stone on a shore. He was withdrawing, his spir-
it was leaving her. He knew.
And in real grief, tormented by her own double conscious-
ness and reaction, she began to weep. He took no notice, or did
not even know. The storm of weeping swelled and shook her,
and shook him.
'Ay!' he said. 'It was no good that time. You wasn't
there.'—So he knew! Her sobs became violent.
'But what's amiss?' he said. 'It's once in a while that way.'

181
 'I… I can't love you,' she sobbed, suddenly feeling her heart
breaking.
'Canna ter? Well, dunna fret! There's no law says as tha's got
to. Ta'e it for what it is.'
He still lay with his hand on her breast. But she had drawn
both her hands from him.
His words were small comfort. She sobbed aloud.
'Nay, nay!' he said. 'Ta'e the thick wi' th' thin. This wor a bit
o' thin for once.'
She wept bitterly, sobbing. 'But I want to love you, and I
can't. It only seems horrid.'
He laughed a little, half bitter, half amused.
'It isna horrid,' he said, 'even if tha thinks it is. An' tha canna
ma'e it horrid. Dunna fret thysen about lovin' me. Tha'lt niver
force thysen to 't. There's sure to be a bad nut in a basketful.
Tha mun ta'e th' rough wi' th' smooth.'
He took his hand away from her breast, not touching her.
And now she was untouched she took an almost perverse satis-
faction in it. She hated the dialect: the thee and the tha and the
thysen. He could get up if he liked, and stand there, above her,
buttoning down those absurd corduroy breeches, straight in
front of her. After all, Michaelis had had the decency to turn
away. This man was so assured in himself he didn't know what
a clown other people found him, a half-bred fellow.
Yet, as he was drawing away, to rise silently and leave her,
she clung to him in terror.
'Don't! Don't go! Don't leave me! Don't be cross with me!
Hold me! Hold me fast!' she whispered in blind frenzy, not
even knowing what she said, and clinging to him with uncanny
force. It was from herself she wanted to be saved, from her
own inward anger and resistance. Yet how powerful was that
inward resistance that possessed her!
He took her in his arms again and drew her to him, and sud-
denly she became small in his arms, small and nestling. It was
gone, the resistance was gone, and she began to melt in a mar-
vellous peace. And as she melted small and wonderful in his
arms, she became infinitely desirable to him, all his blood-ves-
sels seemed to scald with intense yet tender desire, for her, for
her softness, for the penetrating beauty of her in his arms,
passing into his blood. And softly, with that marvellous swoon-

182
like caress of his hand in pure soft desire, softly he stroked the
silky slope of her loins, down, down between her soft warm
buttocks, coming nearer and nearer to the very quick of her.
And she felt him like a flame of desire, yet tender, and she felt
herself melting in the flame. She let herself go. She felt his
penis risen against her with silent amazing force and assertion
and she let herself go to him. She yielded with a quiver that
was like death, she went all open to him. And oh, if he were not
tender to her now, how cruel, for she was all open to him and
helpless!
She quivered again at the potent inexorable entry inside her,
so strange and terrible. It might come with the thrust of a
sword in her softly-opened body, and that would be death. She
clung in a sudden anguish of terror. But it came with a strange
slow thrust of peace, the dark thrust of peace and a ponderous,
primordial tenderness, such as made the world in the begin-
ning. And her terror subsided in her breast, her breast dared
to be gone in peace, she held nothing. She dared to let go
everything, all herself and be gone in the flood.
And it seemed she was like the sea, nothing but dark waves
rising and heaving, heaving with a great swell, so that slowly
her whole darkness was in motion, and she was Ocean rolling
its dark, dumb mass. Oh, and far down inside her the deeps
parted and rolled asunder, in long, fair-travelling billows, and
ever, at the quick of her, the depths parted and rolled asunder,
from the centre of soft plunging, as the plunger went deeper
and deeper, touching lower, and she was deeper and deeper
and deeper disclosed, the heavier the billows of her rolled
away to some shore, uncovering her, and closer and closer
plunged the palpable unknown, and further and further rolled
the waves of herself away from herself leaving her, till sud-
denly, in a soft, shuddering convulsion, the quick of all her
plasm was touched, she knew herself touched, the consumma-
tion was upon her, and she was gone. She was gone, she was
not, and she was born: a woman.
Ah, too lovely, too lovely! In the ebbing she realized all the
loveliness. Now all her body clung with tender love to the un-
known man, and blindly to the wilting penis, as it so tenderly,
frailly, unknowingly withdrew, after the fierce thrust of its po-
tency. As it drew out and left her body, the secret, sensitive

183
thing, she gave an unconscious cry of pure loss, and she tried
to put it back. It had been so perfect! And she loved it so!
And only now she became aware of the small, bud-like reti-
cence and tenderness of the penis, and a little cry of wonder
and poignancy escaped her again, her woman's heart crying
out over the tender frailty of that which had been the power.
'It was so lovely!' she moaned. 'It was so lovely!' But he said
nothing, only softly kissed her, lying still above her. And she
moaned with a sort of bliss, as a sacrifice, and a newborn
thing.
And now in her heart the queer wonder of him was
awakened.
A man! The strange potency of manhood upon her! Her
hands strayed over him, still a little afraid. Afraid of that
strange, hostile, slightly repulsive thing that he had been to
her, a man. And now she touched him, and it was the sons of
god with the daughters of men. How beautiful he felt, how
pure in tissue! How lovely, how lovely, strong, and yet pure
and delicate, such stillness of the sensitive body! Such utter
stillness of potency and delicate flesh. How beautiful! How
beautiful! Her hands came timorously down his back, to the
soft, smallish globes of the buttocks. Beauty! What beauty! a
sudden little flame of new awareness went through her. How
was it possible, this beauty here, where she had previously
only been repelled? The unspeakable beauty to the touch of the
warm, living buttocks! The life within life, the sheer warm, po-
tent loveliness. And the strange weight of the balls between his
legs! What a mystery! What a strange heavy weight of mystery,
that could lie soft and heavy in one's hand! The roots, root of
all that is lovely, the primeval root of all full beauty.
She clung to him, with a hiss of wonder that was almost awe,
terror. He held her close, but he said nothing. He would never
say anything. She crept nearer to him, nearer, only to be near
to the sensual wonder of him. And out of his utter, incompre-
hensible stillness, she felt again the slow momentous, surging
rise of the phallus again, the other power. And her heart
melted out with a kind of awe.
And this time his being within her was all soft and iridescent,
purely soft and iridescent, such as no consciousness could
seize. Her whole self quivered unconscious and alive, like

184
plasm. She could not know what it was. She could not remem-
ber what it had been. Only that it had been more lovely than
anything ever could be. Only that. And afterwards she was ut-
terly still, utterly unknowing, she was not aware for how long.
And he was still with her, in an unfathomable silence along
with her. And of this, they would never speak.
When awareness of the outside began to come back, she
clung to his breast, murmuring 'My love! My love!' And he held
her silently. And she curled on his breast, perfect.
But his silence was fathomless. His hands held her like
flowers, so still aid strange. 'Where are you?' she whispered to
him.
'Where are you? Speak to me! Say something to me!'
He kissed her softly, murmuring: 'Ay, my lass!'
But she did not know what he meant, she did not know
where he was. In his silence he seemed lost to her.
'You love me, don't you?' she murmured.
'Ay, tha knows!' he said. 'But tell me!' she pleaded.
'Ay! Ay! 'asn't ter felt it?' he said dimly, but softly and surely.
And she clung close to him, closer. He was so much more
peaceful in love than she was, and she wanted him to reassure
her.
'You do love me!' she whispered, assertive. And his hands
stroked her softly, as if she were a flower, without the quiver of
desire, but with delicate nearness. And still there haunted her
a restless necessity to get a grip on love.
'Say you'll always love me!' she pleaded.
'Ay!' he said, abstractedly. And she felt her questions driving
him away from her.
'Mustn't we get up?' he said at last.
'No!' she said.
But she could feel his consciousness straying, listening to the
noises outside.
'It'll be nearly dark,' he said. And she heard the pressure of
circumstances in his voice. She kissed him, with a woman's
grief at yielding up her hour.
He rose, and turned up the lantern, then began to pull on his
clothes, quickly disappearing inside them. Then he stood there,
above her, fastening his breeches and looking down at her with
dark, wide-eyes, his face a little flushed and his hair ruffled,

185
curiously warm and still and beautiful in the dim light of the
lantern, so beautiful, she would never tell him how beautiful. It
made her want to cling fast to him, to hold him, for there was a
warm, half-sleepy remoteness in his beauty that made her want
to cry out and clutch him, to have him. She would never have
him. So she lay on the blanket with curved, soft naked
haunches, and he had no idea what she was thinking, but to
him too she was beautiful, the soft, marvellous thing he could
go into, beyond everything.
'I love thee that I can go into thee,' he said.
'Do you like me?' she said, her heart beating.
'It heals it all up, that I can go into thee. I love thee that tha
opened to me. I love thee that I came into thee like that.'
He bent down and kissed her soft flank, rubbed his cheek
against it, then covered it up.
'And will you never leave me?' she said.
'Dunna ask them things,' he said.
'But you do believe I love you?' she said.
'Tha loved me just now, wider than iver tha thout tha would.
But who knows what'll 'appen, once tha starts thinkin' about
it!'
'No, don't say those things!—And you don't really think that I
wanted to make use of you, do you?'
'How?'
'To have a child—?'
'Now anybody can 'ave any childt i' th' world,' he said, as he
sat down fastening on his leggings.
'Ah no!' she cried. 'You don't mean it?'
'Eh well!' he said, looking at her under his brows. 'This wor t'
best.'
She lay still. He softly opened the door. The sky was dark
blue, with crystalline, turquoise rim. He went out, to shut up
the hens, speaking softly to his dog. And she lay and wondered
at the wonder of life, and of being.
When he came back she was still lying there, glowing like a
gipsy. He sat on the stool by her.
'Tha mun come one naight ter th' cottage, afore tha goos;
sholl ter?' he asked, lifting his eyebrows as he looked at her,
his hands dangling between his knees.
'Sholl ter?' she echoed, teasing.

186
He smiled. 'Ay, sholl ter?' he repeated.
'Ay!' she said, imitating the dialect sound.
'Yi!' he said.
'Yi!' she repeated.
'An' slaip wi' me,' he said. 'It needs that. When sholt come?'
'When sholl I?' she said.
'Nay,' he said, 'tha canna do't. When sholt come then?'
''Appen Sunday,' she said.
''Appen a' Sunday! Ay!'
He laughed at her quickly.
'Nay, tha canna,' he protested.
'Why canna I?' she said.

187
Chapter 13
On Sunday Clifford wanted to go into the wood. It was a lovely
morning, the pear-blossom and plum had suddenly appeared in
the world in a wonder of white here and there.
It was cruel for Clifford, while the world bloomed, to have to
be helped from chair to bath-chair. But he had forgotten, and
even seemed to have a certain conceit of himself in his lame-
ness. Connie still suffered, having to lift his inert legs into
place. Mrs Bolton did it now, or Field.
She waited for him at the top of the drive, at the edge of the
screen of beeches. His chair came puffing along with a sort of
valetudinarian slow importance. As he joined his wife he said:
'Sir Clifford on his roaming steed!'
'Snorting, at least!' she laughed.
He stopped and looked round at the facade of the long, low
old brown house.
'Wragby doesn't wink an eyelid!' he said. 'But then why
should it! I ride upon the achievements of the mind of man, and
that beats a horse.'
'I suppose it does. And the souls in Plato riding up to heaven
in a two-horse chariot would go in a Ford car now,' she said.
'Or a Rolls-Royce: Plato was an aristocrat!'
'Quite! No more black horse to thrash and maltreat. Plato
never thought we'd go one better than his black steed and his
white steed, and have no steeds at all, only an engine!'
'Only an engine and gas!' said Clifford.
'I hope I can have some repairs done to the old place next
year. I think I shall have about a thousand to spare for that: but
work costs so much!' he added.
'Oh, good!' said Connie. 'If only there aren't more strikes!'
'What would be the use of their striking again! Merely ruin
the industry, what's left of it: and surely the owls are beginning
to see it!'

188
 'Perhaps they don't mind ruining the industry,' said Connie.
'Ah, don't talk like a woman! The industry fills their bellies,
even if it can't keep their pockets quite so flush,' he said, using
turns of speech that oddly had a twang of Mrs Bolton.
'But didn't you say the other day that you were a
conservative-anarchist,' she asked innocently.
'And did you understand what I meant?' he retorted. 'All I
meant is, people can be what they like and feel what they like
and do what they like, strictly privately, so long as they keep
the FORM of life intact, and the apparatus.'
Connie walked on in silence a few paces. Then she said,
obstinately:
'It sounds like saying an egg may go as addled as it likes, so
long as it keeps its shell on whole. But addled eggs do break of
themselves.'
'I don't think people are eggs,' he said. 'Not even angels'
eggs, my dear little evangelist.'
He was in rather high feather this bright morning. The larks
were trilling away over the park, the distant pit in the hollow
was fuming silent steam. It was almost like old days, before the
war. Connie didn't really want to argue. But then she did not
really want to go to the wood with Clifford either. So she
walked beside his chair in a certain obstinacy of spirit.
'No,' he said. 'There will be no more strikes, if the thing is
properly managed.'
'Why not?'
'Because strikes will be made as good as impossible.'
'But will the men let you?' she asked.
'We shan't ask them. We shall do it while they aren't looking:
for their own good, to save the industry.'
'For your own good too,' she said.
'Naturally! For the good of everybody. But for their good
even more than mine. I can live without the pits. They can't.
They'll starve if there are no pits. I've got other provision.'
They looked up the shallow valley at the mine, and beyond it,
at the black-lidded houses of Tevershall crawling like some ser-
pent up the hill. From the old brown church the bells were
ringing: Sunday, Sunday, Sunday!
'But will the men let you dictate terms?' she said. 'My dear,
they will have to: if one does it gently.'

189
 'But mightn't there be a mutual understanding?'
'Absolutely: when they realize that the industry comes before
the individual.'
'But must you own the industry?' she said.
'I don't. But to the extent I do own it, yes, most decidedly.
The ownership of property has now become a religious ques-
tion: as it has been since Jesus and St Francis. The point is not:
take all thou hast and give to the poor, but use all thou hast to
encourage the industry and give work to the poor. It's the only
way to feed all the mouths and clothe all the bodies. Giving
away all we have to the poor spells starvation for the poor just
as much as for us. And universal starvation is no high aim.
Even general poverty is no lovely thing. Poverty is ugly.'
'But the disparity?'
'That is fate. Why is the star Jupiter bigger than the star Nep-
tune? You can't start altering the make-up of things!'
'But when this envy and jealousy and discontent has once
started,' she began.
'Do your best to stop it. Somebody's got to be boss of the
show.'
'But who is boss of the show?' she asked.
'The men who own and run the industries.'
There was a long silence.
'It seems to me they're a bad boss,' she said.
'Then you suggest what they should do.'
'They don't take their boss-ship seriously enough,' she said.
'They take it far more seriously than you take your ladyship,'
he said.
'That's thrust upon me. I don't really want it,' she blurted
out. He stopped the chair and looked at her.
'Who's shirking their responsibility now!' he said. 'Who is try-
ing to get away now from the responsibility of their own boss-
ship, as you call it?'
'But I don't want any boss-ship,' she protested.
'Ah! But that is funk. You've got it: fated to it. And you should
live up to it. Who has given the colliers all they have that's
worth having: all their political liberty, and their education,
such as it is, their sanitation, their health-conditions, their
books, their music, everything. Who has given it them? Have
colliers given it to colliers? No! All the Wragbys and Shipleys in

190
England have given their part, and must go on giving. There's
your responsibility.'
Connie listened, and flushed very red.
'I'd like to give something,' she said. 'But I'm not allowed.
Everything is to be sold and paid for now; and all the things
you mention now, Wragby and Shipley SELLS them to the
people, at a good profit. Everything is sold. You don't give one
heart-beat of real sympathy. And besides, who has taken away
from the people their natural life and manhood, and given
them this industrial horror? Who has done that?'
'And what must I do?' he asked, green. 'Ask them to come
and pillage me?'
'Why is Tevershall so ugly, so hideous? Why are their lives so
hopeless?'
'They built their own Tevershall, that's part of their display of
freedom. They built themselves their pretty Tevershall, and
they live their own pretty lives. I can't live their lives for them.
Every beetle must live its own life.'
'But you make them work for you. They live the life of your
coal-mine.'
'Not at all. Every beetle finds its own food. Not one man is
forced to work for me.
'Their lives are industrialized and hopeless, and so are ours,'
she cried.
'I don't think they are. That's just a romantic figure of
speech, a relic of the swooning and die-away romanticism. You
don't look at all a hopeless figure standing there, Connie my
dear.'
Which was true. For her dark-blue eyes were flashing, her
colour was hot in her cheeks, she looked full of a rebellious
passion far from the dejection of hopelessness. She noticed, in
the tussocky places of the grass, cottony young cowslips stand-
ing up still bleared in their down. And she wondered with rage,
why it was she felt Clifford was so wrong, yet she couldn't say
it to him, she could not say exactly where he was wrong.
'No wonder the men hate you,' she said.
'They don't!' he replied. 'And don't fall into errors: in your
sense of the word, they are not men. They are animals you
don't understand, and never could. Don't thrust your illusions
on other people. The masses were always the same, and will

191
always be the same. Nero's slaves were extremely little differ-
ent from our colliers or the Ford motor-car workmen. I mean
Nero's mine slaves and his field slaves. It is the masses: they
are the unchangeable. An individual may emerge from the
masses. But the emergence doesn't alter the mass. The masses
are unalterable. It is one of the most momentous facts of social
science. panem et circenses! Only today education is one of the
bad substitutes for a circus. What is wrong today is that we've
made a profound hash of the circuses part of the programme,
and poisoned our masses with a little education.'
When Clifford became really roused in his feelings about the
common people, Connie was frightened. There was something
devastatingly true in what he said. But it was a truth that
killed.
Seeing her pale and silent, Clifford started the chair again,
and no more was said till he halted again at the wood gate,
which she opened.
'And what we need to take up now,' he said, 'is whips, not
swords. The masses have been ruled since time began, and till
time ends, ruled they will have to be. It is sheer hypocrisy and
farce to say they can rule themselves.'
'But can you rule them?' she asked.
'I? Oh yes! Neither my mind nor my will is crippled, and I
don't rule with my legs. I can do my share of ruling: absolutely,
my share; and give me a son, and he will be able to rule his
portion after me.'
'But he wouldn't be your own son, of your own ruling class;
or perhaps not,' she stammered.
'I don't care who his father may be, so long as he is a healthy
man not below normal intelligence. Give me the child of any
healthy, normally intelligent man, and I will make a perfectly
competent Chatterley of him. It is not who begets us, that mat-
ters, but where fate places us. Place any child among the rul-
ing classes, and he will grow up, to his own extent, a ruler. Put
kings' and dukes' children among the masses, and they'll be
little plebeians, mass products. It is the overwhelming pressure
of environment.'
'Then the common people aren't a race, and the aristocrats
aren't blood,' she said.

192
 'No, my child! All that is romantic illusion. Aristocracy is a
function, a part of fate. And the masses are a functioning of an-
other part of fate. The individual hardly matters. It is a ques-
tion of which function you are brought up to and adapted to. It
is not the individuals that make an aristocracy: it is the func-
tioning of the aristocratic whole. And it is the functioning of
the whole mass that makes the common man what he is.'
'Then there is no common humanity between us all!'
'Just as you like. We all need to fill our bellies. But when it
comes to expressive or executive functioning, I believe there is
a gulf and an absolute one, between the ruling and the serving
classes. The two functions are opposed. And the function de-
termines the individual.'
Connie looked at him with dazed eyes.
'Won't you come on?' she said.
And he started his chair. He had said his say. Now he lapsed
into his peculiar and rather vacant apathy, that Connie found
so trying. In the wood, anyhow, she was determined not to
argue.
In front of them ran the open cleft of the riding, between the
hazel walls and the gay grey trees. The chair puffed slowly on,
slowly surging into the forget-me-nots that rose up in the drive
like milk froth, beyond the hazel shadows. Clifford steered the
middle course, where feet passing had kept a channel through
the flowers. But Connie, walking behind, had watched the
wheels jolt over the wood-ruff and the bugle, and squash the
little yellow cups of the creeping-jenny. Now they made a wake
through the forget-me-nots.
All the flowers were there, the first bluebells in blue pools,
like standing water.
'You are quite right about its being beautiful,' said Clifford.
'It is so amazingly. What is quite so lovely as an English
spring!'
Connie thought it sounded as if even the spring bloomed by
act of Parliament. An English spring! Why not an Irish one? or
Jewish? The chair moved slowly ahead, past tufts of sturdy
bluebells that stood up like wheat and over grey burdock
leaves. When they came to the open place where the trees had
been felled, the light flooded in rather stark. And the bluebells
made sheets of bright blue colour, here and there, sheering off

193
into lilac and purple. And between, the bracken was lifting its
brown curled heads, like legions of young snakes with a new
secret to whisper to Eve. Clifford kept the chair going till he
came to the brow of the hill; Connie followed slowly behind.
The oak-buds were opening soft and brown. Everything came
tenderly out of the old hardness. Even the snaggy craggy oak-
trees put out the softest young leaves, spreading thin, brown
little wings like young bat-wings in the light. Why had men nev-
er any newness in them, any freshness to come forth with!
Stale men!
Clifford stopped the chair at the top of the rise and looked
down. The bluebells washed blue like flood-water over the
broad riding, and lit up the downhill with a warm blueness.
'It's a very fine colour in itself,' said Clifford, 'but useless for
making a painting.'
'Quite!' said Connie, completely uninterested.
'Shall I venture as far as the spring?' said Clifford.
'Will the chair get up again?' she said.
'We'll try; nothing venture, nothing win!'
And the chair began to advance slowly, joltingly down the
beautiful broad riding washed over with blue encroaching hy-
acinths. O last of all ships, through the hyacinthian shallows! O
pinnace on the last wild waters, sailing in the last voyage of
our civilization! Whither, O weird wheeled ship, your slow
course steering. Quiet and complacent, Clifford sat at the
wheel of adventure: in his old black hat and tweed jacket, mo-
tionless and cautious. O Captain, my Captain, our splendid trip
is done! Not yet though! Downhill, in the wake, came Con-
stance in her grey dress, watching the chair jolt downwards.
They passed the narrow track to the hut. Thank heaven it
was not wide enough for the chair: hardly wide enough for one
person. The chair reached the bottom of the slope, and
swerved round, to disappear. And Connie heard a low whistle
behind her. She glanced sharply round: the keeper was strid-
ing downhill towards her, his dog keeping behind him.
'Is Sir Clifford going to the cottage?' he asked, looking into
her eyes.
'No, only to the well.'
'Ah! Good! Then I can keep out of sight. But I shall see you
tonight. I shall wait for you at the park-gate about ten.'