查太莱夫人的情人 第一章这大概就是康士丹斯·查太莱夫人的处境了。她曾亲尝世界大战的灾难，因此她了解了一个人必要生活，必要求知。
她在一九一七年大战中和克利福·查太莱结婚，那时他请了一个月的假回到英国来。他们度了一个月的蜜月后，克利福回到佛兰大斯前线去。六个月后，他一身破碎地被运返英国来，那时康士丹斯二十三岁，他是二十九岁。
他有一种惊奇的生命力。他并没有死。他的一身破碎似乎重台了。医生把他医治了两年了，结果仅以身免。可是腰部以下的半身，从此永久成了疯瘫。
一九二零年，克利福和康士丹斯回到他的世代者家勒格贝去。他的父亲已死了；克利福承袭了爵位，他是克利福男爵，康士丹斯便是查太莱男爵夫人了。他们来到这有点零丁的查太莱老家里，开始共同的生活，收入是不太充裕的。克利福除了一个不在一起住的姊妹外，并没有其他的近亲，他的长兄在大战中阵亡了。克利福明知自己半身残疾，生育的希望是绝灭了，因此回到烟雾沉沉的米德兰家里来，尽人事地使查泰莱家的烟火维持下去。
他实在并不颓丧。他可以坐在一轮椅里，来去优游。他还有一个装了发动机的自动椅，这一来，他可以自己驾驶着，慢慢地绕过花园而到那美丽的凄清的大林园里去；他对于这个大林园，虽然表示得满不在乎的样子，其实他是非常得意的。
他曾饱经苦难，致他受苦的能力都有点穷乏了。可是他却依然这样奇特、活泼、愉快，红润的健康的脸容，挑拨人的闪光的灰蓝眼睛，他简直可说是个乐天安命的人。他有宽大强壮的肩膊，两只有力的手。他穿的是华贵的衣服，结的是帮德街买来的讲究的领带。可是他的脸上却仍然表示着一个残废者的呆视的状态和有点空虚的样子。
他因为曾离死只间一发，所以这剩下的生命，于他是十分可贵的。他的不安地闪着光的眼睛，流露着死里生还的非常得意的神情，但是他受的伤是太重了，他里面的什么东西已经死灭了，某种感情已经没有了，剩下的只是个无知觉的空洞。
康士丹斯是个健康的村姑佯儿的女子，软软的褐色的头发，强壮的身体，迟缓的举止，但是富有非常的精力。她有两只好奇的大眼睛。温软的声音，好象是个初出乡庐的人，其实不然。她的父亲麦尔·勒德爵士，是个曾经享有鼎鼎大名的皇家艺术学会的会员。母亲是个有教养的费边社社员。在艺术家与社会主义者的谊染中，康士丹斯和她的婉妹希尔达，受了一种可以称为美育地非传统的教养。她们到过巴黎、罗马、佛罗伦斯呼吸艺术的空气，她们也到过海牙、柏林去参加社会主义者的大会，在这些大会里，演说的人用着所有的文明语言，毫无羞愧。
这样，这婉妹俩从小就尽情地生活在美术和的氛围中，她们已习损了。她们一方面是世界的，一方面又是乡土的。她们这种世界而又乡土的美术主义，是和纯洁的社会理想相吻合的。
她们十五岁的时候，到德国德累斯顿学习音乐。她们在那里过的是快活的日子。她们无园无束地生活在学生中间，她们和男子们争论着哲学、社会学和艺术上的种种问题。她们的学识并不下于男子；因为是女子，所以更胜于他们了。强壮的青年男子们，带着六弦琴和她们到林中漫游。她们歌唱着，歌喉动人的青年们，在旷野间，在清晨的林中奔窜，自由地为所欲为，尤其是自由地谈所欲谈。最要紧的还是谈话，热情的谈话，爱情不过是件小小的陪衬品。
希尔达和康士丹斯婉妹俩，都曾在十八岁的时候初试爱情。那些热情地和她们交谈，欢快地和她们歌唱，自由自在地和她们在林中野宿的男子们，不用说都欲望勃勃地想更进一步。她们起初是踌躇着；但是爱情这问题已经过许多的讨论，而且被认为是最重要的东西了，况且男子们又是这样低声下气地央求。为什么一个少女不能以身相就，象一个王后似的赐予思惠呢？
于是她们都赐身与平素最微妙、最亲密在一起讨论的男子了。辩论是重要的事情，恋爱和性交不过是一种原始的本能；一种反应，事后，她们对于对手的爱情冷挑了，而且有点憎很他们的倾向，仿佛他们侵犯了她们的秘密和自由似的。因为一个少女的尊严，和她的生存意义，全在获得绝对的、完全的、纯粹的、高尚的自由。要不是摆脱了从前的污秽的两性关系和可耻的主奴状态，一个少女的生命还有什么意义。
无论人怎样感情用事，性爱总是各种最古老、最宿秽的结合和从属状态之一。歌颂性爱的诗人们大都是男子。女子们‘向就知道有更好更高尚的东西。现在她们知之更确了。一个人的美丽纯洁的自由，是比任何性爱都可爱的。不过男子对于这点的看法太落后了，她们象狗似的坚要性的满足。
可是女人不得不退让，男于是象孩子般的嘴馋的，他要什么女人便得绘什么，否则他便孩子似的讨厌起来，暴躁起来把好事弄糟。，但是个女人可以顺从男子，而不恨让她内在的、自由的自我。那些高谈性爱的诗人和其他的人好象不大注意到这点。一个女人是可以有个男子，而不真正委身r让他支配的。反之，她可以利用这性爱去支配他。在性交的时候，她自己忍持着，让男子尽先尽情地发泄完了，然而她便可以把性交延长，而把他当作工具去满足她自目的性欲。
当大战爆发，她们急忙回家的时候，婉妹俩都有了爱情的经验了。她们所以恋爱，全是因为对手是可以亲切地、热烈地谈心的男子。和真正聪明的青年男子，一点钟又一点钟地，一天又一天地，热情地谈话，这种惊人的、深刻的、意想不到的美妙，是她们在经验以前所不知道的，天国的诺言：“您将有可以谈心的男子。”还没有吐露，而这奇妙的诺言却在她们明白其意义之前实现了。
在这些生动的、毫无隐讳的、亲密的谈心过后，性行为成为不可避免的了，那只好忍受。那象是一章的结尾，它本身也是令人情热的；那是肉体深处的一种奇特的、美妙的震颤，最后是一种自我决定的痉挛。宛如最后—个奋激的宇，和一段文字后一行表示题意中断的小点子一样。
一九一三年暑假她们回家的时候，那时希尔达二十岁，康妮①十八岁，她们的父亲便看出这婉妹俩已有了爱的经验了。
①康妮，康士丹斯的呢称。
好象谁说的：“爱情已在那儿经历过了。”但是他自已是个过来人，所以他听其自然。至于她们的母亲呢，那时她患着神经上的疯疾，离死不过几月了，她但愿她的女儿们能够“自由”，能够“成就”。但是她自己从没有成就过什么，她简直不能。上代知道那是什么缘故，因为她是个人进款和意志坚强的人。她埋怨她的丈夫。其实只是因为她不能摆脱心灵上的某种强有力的压制罢了。那和麦尔肯爵士是无关的，他不理她的埋怨和仇视，他们各行其事。所以妹妹俩是“自由”的。她们回到德累斯顿，重度往日学习音乐，在大学听讲，与年青男子们交际的生活。她们各自恋着她们的男子，她们的男子也热恋着她们。所有青年男子所能想，所能说所能写的美妙的东西，他们都为这两个而想、而说、而写。康妮的情人是爱音乐的，希尔达的情人是技术家。至少在精神方面，他们全为这两个生活着。另外的什么方面，他们是被人厌恶的；但是他们自己并不知道。
狠明显；爱情——肉体的爱——已在他们身上经过了。肉体的爱，使男子身体发生奇异的、微妙的、显然的变化。女子是更艳丽了，更微妙地了，少女时代的粗糙处全消失了，脸上露出渴望的或胜利的情态。男子是更沉静了，更深刻了，即肩膊和臀部也不象从前硬直了。
这姊妹俩在性的快感中，几乎在男性的奇异的权力下面屈服了。但是很快她们便自拨了，把性的快感看作一种感觉，而保持了她们的自由。至于她们的情人呢，因为感激她们所赐与的性的满足，便把灵魂交给她们。但是不久，他们又有点觉得得不尝失了。康妮的男子开始有点负气的样子，希尔达的对手也渐渐态度轻蔑起来。但是男子们就是这样的；忘恩负义而永不满足！你要他们的时候，他们憎恨你，因为你要他们。你不睬他们的时候，他们还是憎恨你，因为旁的什么理由。或者毫无理由。他们是不知足的孩子，无论得到什么，无论女子怎样，都不满意的。
大战爆发了。希尔达和康妮又匆匆回家——她们在五月已经回家一次，那时是为了母亲的丧事。她们的两个德国情人，在一九一四年圣诞节都死了，姊妹俩恋恋地痛哭了一场，但是心里却把他们忘掉了，他们再也不存在了。
她们都住在新根洞她们父亲的——其实是她们母亲的家里。她们和那些拥护“自由”，穿法兰绒裤和法兰绒开领衬衣的剑桥大学学生们往来。这些学生是一种上流的感情的无政府主义者，说起话来，声音又低又浊，仪态力求讲究。希尔达突然和一个比她大十岁的人结了婚。她是这剑桥学生团体的一个者前辈，家财富有，而且在政府里有个好差事，他也写点哲学上的文章。她和他住在威士明斯泰的一所小屋里，来往的是政府人物，他们虽不是了不起的人，却是——或希望是——国中有权威的知识分子。他们知道自己所说的是什么或者装做知道。
康妮得了个战时轻易的工作，和那些嘲笑一切的，穿法兰绒裤的剑桥学生常在一块。她的朋友是克利福·查太莱，一个二十二岁的青年。他原在德国被恩研究煤矿技术，那时他刚从德国匆匆赶回来，他以前也在剑桥大学待过两年，现在，他是个堂堂的陆军中尉，穿上了军服，更可以目空一切了。
在社会地位上看来，克利福·查太莱是比康妮高的，康妮是属于小康的知识阶级；但他却是个贵族。虽不是大贵族，但总是贵族。他的父亲是个男爵，母亲是个子爵的女儿。
克利福虽比康妮出身高贵，更其上流，但却没有她磊落大方。在地主贵族的狭小的上流社会里，他便觉得安适，但在其他的中产阶级、民众和外国人所组合的大社会里，他却觉得怯懦不安了。说实话，他对于中下层阶级的大众和与自己不同阶级的外国人，是有点惧怕的。他自己觉得麻木了似的毫无保障；其实他有着所有优先权的保障。这是可怪的，但这是我们时代的一种稀有的现象。
这是为什么，一个雍容自在的少女康士丹斯·勒德使他颠倒了。她在那复杂浑沌的社会上，比他自然得多了。
然而，他却是个叛徒，甚至反叛他自己的阶级。也许反叛这字用得过火了，太过火了。他只是跟着普通一般青年的愤恨潮流，反对旧习惯，反对任何权势罢了。父辈的人都是可笑的，他自己的顽固的父亲，尤其可笑。一切政府都是可笑的，投机主义的英国政府，特别可笑，车队是可笑的，尤其是那些老而不死的将军们，至于那红脸的吉治纳将军②更是可笑之至了。甚至战争也是可笑的，虽然战争要杀不少人。
②吉治纳K(itchener)一九一四一一六年英国陆军部长。
总之，一切都有点可笑，或十分可笑，一切有权威的东西，无论军队、政府或可笑到绝点。自命有统治能力的统治阶级，也可笑。佐佛来男爵，克利福的父亲，尤其可笑。砍伐着他园里的树木，调拨着他煤矿场里的矿工，和败草一般地送到战场上去，他自己便安然在后方，高喊救国，可是他却人不敷出地为国花钱。
当克利福的姊妹爱玛·查太莱小姐从米德兰到伦敦去做看护工作的时候，她暗地里嘲笑着佐佛来男爵和他的刚愎的爱国主义。至于他的长于哈白呢，却公然大笑，虽然砍给战壕里用的树木是他自己的。但是克利福只是有点不安的微笑。一切都可笑，那是真的；但这可笑若挨到自己身上来的时候？其他阶级的人们，如康妮，是郑重其事的；他们是有所信仰的。
他们对于军队，对于征兵的恐吓，对于儿童们的糖与糖果的缺乏，是颇郑重其事的。这些事情，当然，都是当局的罪过。但是克利福却不关心，在他看来，当局本身就是可笑的，而不是因为糖果或军队问题。
当局者自己也觉得可笑，却有点可笑地行动着，一时紊乱得一塌糊涂。直至前方战事严重起来，路易·佐治出来救了国内的局面，这是超乎可笑的，于是目空一切的青年们不再嘲笑了。
一九—六年，克利福的哥哥哈白阵亡了。因此克利福成了唯一的继承人。甚至这个也使他害怕起来。他早就深知生在这查太莱世家的勒格贝，作佐佛来男爵儿子，是多么重要的，他决不能逃避他的命运。可是他知道在这沸腾的外面世界的人看来，也是可笑的。现在他是继承人，是勒格贝世代老家的负责人，这可不是骇人的事？这可不是显赫而同时也许是十分荒唐的事？
佐佛来男爵却不以为有什么荒唐的地方。他脸色苍白地、紧张地固执着要救他的祖国和他的地位，不管在位的是路易·佐治或任何人。他拥护英国和路易。佐治，正如他的祖先们拥护英国和圣佐治一样；他永不明白那儿有什么不同的地方。所以佐佛来男爵吹伐他的树木，拥护英国和路易·佐治。
他要克利福结婚，好生个嗣于，克利福觉得他的父亲是个不可救药的者顽固。但是他自己，除了会嘲笑一切，和极端嘲笑他自己的处境外，还有什么比他父亲更新颖的呢？因为不管他心愿与否，他是十分郑重其事地接受这爵衔和勒格贝家产了。
太战起初时的狂热消失了。死灭了。因为死的人太多了，恐怖太大了。男子需要扶持和安慰，需要一个铁锚把他碇泊在安全地下，需要一个妻子。
从前，查太莱兄弟姊妹三人，虽然认识的人多，却怪孤独地住在勒格贝家里，他们三人的关系是很密切的，因为他们三人觉得孤独，虽然有爵位和土地(也许正因为这个)，他们却觉得地位不坚，毫无保障。他们和生长地的米德兰工业区完全隔绝；他们甚至和同阶级的人也隔绝了，因为佐佛来男爵的性情是古怪的，”固执的，不喜与人交往的。他们嘲笑他们的父亲，但是他们却不愿人嘲笑他。
他们说过要永久的住在一块，但是现在哈白已死了。而佐佛来男爵又要克利福成婚。父亲这欲望并不正式表示，i他是很少说话的人，但是他的无言的、静默地坚持，是使克利福难以反抗的。
但是，爱玛却反对这事！她比克利福大十岁，她觉得克利福如果结婚，那便是离叛他们往日的约言。
然而，克利福终于娶了康妮，和她过了一个月的蜜月生活。那正在可怕的一九一七那一年；夫妇俩亲切得恰如正在沉没的船上的两个难人。结婚的时候，他还是个童男，所以性的方面，于他是没有多大意义的。他们只知相亲相爱，康妮觉得这种超乎性欲的男子不求“满足”的相亲相爱，是可喜的。而克利福也不象别的男子般的追求“满足”。不，亲情是比性交更深刻，更直接的。性交不过是偶然的、附带的事，不过是一种笨拙地坚持着的官能作用，并不是真正需要的东西。可是康妮却希翼着生些孩子，好使自己的地位强国起来，去反抗爱玛。
然而，一九一八年开始的时候，克利福伤得一身破碎。被运了回来，孩子没有生成。佐佛来男爵也忧愤中死去了。
This was more or less Constance Chatterley's position. The war had brought the roof down over her head. And she had realized that one must live and learn.
She married Clifford Chatterley in 1917, when he was home for a month on leave. They had a month's honeymoon. Then he went back to Flanders: to be shipped over to England again six months later, more or less in bits. Constance, his wife, was then twenty-three years old, and he was twenty-nine.
His hold on life was marvellous. He didn't die, and the bits seemed to grow together again. For two years he remained in the doctor's hands. Then he was pronounced a cure, and could return to life again, with the lower half of his body, from the hips down, paralysed for ever.
This was in 1920. They returned, Clifford and Constance, to his home, Wragby Hall, the family `seat'. His father had died, Clifford was now a baronet, Sir Clifford, and Constance was Lady Chatterley. They came to start housekeeping and married life in the rather forlorn home of the Chatterleys on a rather inadequate income. Clifford had a sister, but she had departed. Otherwise there were no near relatives. The elder brother was dead in the war. Crippled for ever, knowing he could never have any children, Clifford came home to the smoky Midlands to keep the Chatterley name alive while he could.
He was not really downcast. He could wheel himself about in a wheeled chair, and he had a bath-chair with a small motor attachment, so he could drive himself slowly round the garden and into the 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, arid his pale-blue, challenging bright eyes. His shoulders were broad and strong, his hands were very strong. He was expensively dressed, and wore handsome neckties from Bond Street. Yet still in his face one saw the watchful look, the slight vacancy of a cripple.
He had so very nearly lost his life, that what remained was wonderfully precious to him. It was obvious in the anxious brightness of his eyes, how proud he was, after the great shock, of being alive. But he had been so much hurt that something inside him had perished, some of his feelings had gone. There was a blank of insentience.
Constance, his wife, was a ruddy, country-looking girl with soft brown hair and sturdy body, and slow movements, full of unusual energy. She had big, wondering eyes, and a soft mild voice, and seemed just to have come from her native village. It was not so at all. Her father was the once well-known R. A., old Sir Malcolm Reid. Her mother had been one of the cultivated Fabians in the palmy, rather pre-Raphaelite days. Between artists and cultured socialists, Constance and her sister Hilda had had what might be called an aesthetically unconventional upbringing. They had been taken to Paris and Florence and Rome to breathe in art, and they had been taken also in the other direction, to the Hague and Berlin, to great Socialist conventions, where the speakers spoke in every civilized tongue, and no one was abashed.
The two girls, therefore, were from an early age not the least daunted by either art or ideal politics. It was their natural atmosphere. They were at once cosmopolitan and provincial, with the cosmopolitan provincialism of art that goes with pure social ideals.
They had been sent to Dresden at the age of fifteen, for music among other things. And they had had a good time there. They lived freely among the students, they argued with the men over philosophical, sociological and artistic matters, they were just as good as the men themselves: only better, since they were women. And they tramped off to the forests with sturdy youths bearing guitars, twang-twang! They sang the Wandervogel songs, and they were free. Free! That was the great word. Out in the open world, out in the forests of the morning, with lusty and splendid-throated young fellows, free to do as they liked, and---above all---to say what they liked. It was the talk that mattered supremely: the impassioned interchange of talk. Love was only a minor accompaniment.
Both Hilda and Constance had had their tentative love-affairs by the time they were eighteen. The young men with whom they talked so passionately and sang so lustily and camped under the trees in such freedom wanted, of course, the love connexion. The girls were doubtful, but then the thing was so much talked about, it was supposed to be so important. And the men were so humble and craving. Why couldn't a girl be queenly, and give the gift of herself?
So they had given the gift of themselves, each to the youth with whom she had the most subtle and intimate arguments. The arguments, the discussions were the great thing: the love-making and connexion were only a sort of primitive reversion and a bit of an anti-climax. One was less in love with the boy afterwards, and a little inclined to hate him, as if he had trespassed on one's privacy and inner freedom. For, of course, being a girl, one's whole dignity and meaning in life consisted in the achievement of an absolute, a perfect, a pure and noble freedom. What else did a girl's life mean? To shake off the old and sordid connexions and subjections.
And however one might sentimentalize it, this sex business was one of the most ancient, sordid connexions and subjections. Poets who glorified it were mostly men. Women had always known there was something better, something higher. And now they knew it more definitely than ever. The beautiful pure freedom of a woman was infinitely more wonderful than any sexual love. The only unfortunate thing was that men lagged so far behind women in the matter. They insisted on the sex thing like dogs.
And a woman had to yield. A man was like a child with his appetites. A woman had to yield him what he wanted, or like a child he would probably turn nasty and flounce away and spoil what was a very pleasant connexion. But a woman could yield to a man without yielding her inner, free self. That the poets and talkers about sex did not seem to have taken sufficiently into account. A woman could take a man without really giving herself away. Certainly she could take him without giving herself into his power. Rather she could use this sex thing to have power over him. For she only had to hold herself back in sexual intercourse, and let him finish and expend himself without herself coming to the crisis: and then she could prolong the connexion and achieve her orgasm and her crisis while he was merely her tool.
Both sisters had had their love experience by the time the war came, and they were hurried home. Neither was ever in love with a young man unless he and she were verbally very near: that is unless they were profoundly interested, TALKING to one another. The amazing, the profound, the unbelievable thrill there was in passionately talking to some really clever young man by the hour, resuming day after day for months...this they had never realized till it happened! The paradisal promise: Thou shalt have men to talk to!---had never been uttered. It was fulfilled before they knew what a promise it was.
And if after the roused intimacy of these vivid and soul-enlightened discussions the sex thing became more or less inevitable, then let it. It marked the end of a chapter. It had a thrill of its own too: a queer vibrating thrill inside the body, a final spasm of self-assertion, like the last word, exciting, and very like the row of asterisks that can be put to show the end of a paragraph, and a break in the theme.
When the girls came home for the summer holidays of 1913, when Hilda was twenty and Connie eighteen, their father could see plainly that they had had the love experience.
L'amour avait possé par là, 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 herself had never been able to be altogether herself: it had been denied her. Heaven knows why, for she was a woman who had her own income and her own way. She blamed her husband. But as a matter of fact, it was some old impression of authority on her own mind or soul that she could not get rid of. It had nothing to do with Sir Malcolm, who left his nervously hostile, high-spirited wife to rule her own roost, while he went his own way.
So the girls were `free', and went back to Dresden, and their music, and the university and the young men. They loved their respective young men, and their respective young men loved them with all the passion of mental attraction. All the wonderful things the young men thought and expressed and wrote, they thought and expressed and wrote for the young women. Connie's young man was musical, Hilda's was technical. But they simply lived for their young women. In their minds and their mental excitements, that is. Somewhere else they were a little rebuffed, though they did not know it.
It was obvious in them too that love had gone through them: that is, the physical experience. It is curious what a subtle but unmistakable transmutation it makes, both in the body of men and women: the woman more blooming, more subtly rounded, her young angularities softened, and her expression either anxious or triumphant: the man much quieter, more inward, the very shapes of his shoulders and his buttocks less assertive, more hesitant.
In the actual sex-thrill within the body, the sisters nearly succumbed to the strange male power. But quickly they recovered themselves, took the sex-thrill as a sensation, and remained free. Whereas the men, in gratitude to the woman for the sex experience, let their souls go out to her. And afterwards looked rather as if they had lost a shilling and found sixpence. Connie's man could be a bit sulky, and Hilda's a bit jeering. But that is how men are! Ungrateful and never satisfied. When you don't have them they hate you because you won't; and when you do have them they hate you again, for some other reason. Or for no reason at all, except that they are discontented children, and can't be satisfied whatever they get, let a woman do what she may.
However, came the war, Hilda and Connie were rushed home again after having been home already in May, to their mother's funeral. Before Christmas of 1914 both their German young men were dead: whereupon the sisters wept, and loved the young men passionately, but underneath forgot them. They didn't exist any more.
Both sisters lived in their father's, really their mother's, Kensington 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 anarchy, and a whispering, murmuring sort of voice, and an ultra-sensitive sort of manner. Hilda, however, suddenly married a man ten years older than herself, an elder member of the same Cambridge group, a man with a fair amount of money, and a comfortable family job in the government: he also wrote philosophical essays. She lived with him in a smallish house in Westminster, and moved in that good sort of society of people in the government who are not tip-toppers, but who are, or would be, the real intelligent power in the nation: people who know what they're talking about, or talk as if they did.
Connie did a mild form of war-work, and consorted with the flannel-trousers Cambridge intransigents, who gently mocked at everything, so far. Her `friend' was a Clifford Chatterley, a young man of twenty-two, who had hurried home from Bonn, where he was studying the technicalities of coal-mining. He had previously spent two years at Cambridge. Now he had become a first lieutenant in a smart regiment, so he could mock at everything more becomingly in uniform.
Clifford Chatterley was more upper-class than Connie. Connie was well-to-do intelligentsia, but he was aristocracy. Not the big sort, but still it. His father was a baronet, and his mother had been a viscount's daughter.
But Clifford, while he was better bred than Connie, and more `society', was in his own way more provincial and more timid. He was at his ease in the narrow `great world', that is, landed aristocracy society, but he was shy and nervous of all that other big world which consists of the vast hordes of the middle and lower classes, and foreigners. If the truth must be told, he was just a little bit frightened of middle-and lower-class humanity, and of foreigners not of his own class. He was, in some paralysing way, conscious of his own defencelessness, though he had all the defence of privilege. Which is curious, but a phenomenon of our day.
Therefore the peculiar soft assurance of a girl like Constance Reid fascinated him. She was so much more mistress of herself in that outer world of chaos than he was master of himself.
Nevertheless he too was a rebel: rebelling even against his class. Or perhaps rebel is too strong a word; far too strong. He was only caught in the general, popular recoil of the young against convention and against any sort of real authority. Fathers were ridiculous: his own obstinate one supremely so. And governments were ridiculous: our own wait-and-see sort especially so. And armies were ridiculous, and old buffers of generals altogether, the red-faced Kitchener supremely. Even the war was ridiculous, though it did kill rather a lot of people.
In fact everything was a little ridiculous, or very ridiculous: certainly everything connected with authority, whether it were in the army or the government or the universities, was ridiculous to a degree. And as far as the governing class made any pretensions to govern, they were ridiculous too. Sir Geoffrey, Clifford's father, was intensely ridiculous, chopping down his trees, and weeding men out of his colliery to shove them into the war; and himself being so safe and patriotic; but, also, spending more money on his country than he'd got.
When Miss Chatterley---Emma---came down to London from the Midlands to do some nursing work, she was very witty in a quiet way about Sir Geoffrey and his determined patriotism. Herbert, the elder brother and heir, laughed outright, though it was his trees that were 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 ridiculously at fault. But Clifford could not take it to heart. To him the authorities were ridiculous ab ovo, not because of toffee or Tommies.
And the authorities felt ridiculous, and behaved in a rather ridiculous fashion, and it was all a mad hatter's tea-party for a while. Till things developed over there, and Lloyd George came to save the situation over here. And this surpassed even ridicule, the flippant young laughed no more.
In 1916 Herbert Chatterley was killed, so Clifford became heir. He was terrified even of this. His importance as son of Sir Geoffrey, and child of Wragby, was so ingrained in him, he could never escape it. And yet he knew that this too, in the eyes of the vast seething world, was ridiculous. Now he was heir and responsible for Wragby. Was that not terrible? and also splendid and at the same time, perhaps, purely absurd?
Sir Geoffrey would have none of the absurdity. He was pale and tense, withdrawn into himself, and obstinately determined to save his country and his own position, let it be Lloyd George or who it might. So cut off he was, so divorced from the England that was really England, so utterly incapable, that he even thought well of Horatio Bottomley. Sir Geoffrey stood for England and Lloyd George as his forebears had stood for England and St George: and he never knew there was a difference. So Sir Geoffrey felled timber and stood for Lloyd George and England, England and Lloyd George.
And he wanted Clifford to marry and produce an heir. Clifford felt his father was a hopeless anachronism. But wherein was he himself any further ahead, except in a wincing sense of the ridiculousness of everything, and the paramount ridiculousness of his own position? For willy-nilly he took his baronetcy and Wragby with the last seriousness.
The gay excitement had gone out of the war...dead. Too much death and horror. A man needed support arid comfort. A man needed to have an anchor in the safe world. A man needed a wife.
The Chatterleys, two brothers and a sister, had lived curiously isolated, shut in with one another at Wragby, in spite of all their connexions. A sense of isolation intensified the family tie, a sense of the weakness of their position, a sense of defencelessness, in spite of, or because of, the title and the land. They were cut off from those industrial Midlands in which they passed their lives. And they were cut off from their own class by the brooding, obstinate, shut-up nature of Sir Geoffrey, their father, whom they ridiculed, but whom they were so sensitive about.
The three had said they would all live together always. But now Herbert was dead, and Sir Geoffrey wanted Clifford to marry. Sir Geoffrey barely mentioned it: he spoke very little. But his silent, brooding insistence that it should be so was hard for Clifford to bear up against.
But Emma said No! She was ten years older than Clifford, and she felt his marrying would be a desertion and a betrayal of what the young ones of the family had stood for.
Clifford married Connie, nevertheless, and had his month's honeymoon with her. It was the terrible year 1917, and they were intimate as two people who stand together on a sinking ship. He had been virgin when he married: and the sex part did not mean much to him. They were so close, he and she, apart from that. And Connie exulted a little in this intimacy which was beyond sex, and beyond a man's `satisfaction`. Clifford anyhow was not just keen on his `satisfaction', as so many men seemed to be. No, the intimacy was deeper, more personal than that. And sex was merely an accident, or an adjunct, one of the curious obsolete, organic processes which persisted in its own clumsiness, but was not really necessary. Though Connie did want children: if only to fortify her against her sister-in-law Emma.
But early in 1918 Clifford was shipped home smashed, and there was no child. And Sir Geoffrey died of chagrin.
一九二零年的秋天，康妮和克利福回勒格贝老家来，爱玛因为仍然憎恶她弟弟的失信，已到伦敦租了间小房子住去下。 勒格贝是个褐色石筑的长而低的老屋。建筑于十八世纪中期，后来时加添补，直至成了一座无甚出色的大房屋，它坐落在一高丘上，在一个够优美的满是橡树的老林园中。可惜得很，从这儿看见附近煤矿场的烟雾成云的烟囱，和远处湿雾朦胧中的小山上的达娃斯哈村落，这村落差不多挨着园门开始，极其丑恶地蔓延一里之长，一行行的寒酸肌脏的砖墙小屋，黑石板的屋顶，尖锐的屋角，带着无限悲他的气概。
康妮是住惯了根新洞，看惯了苏格兰的小山，和苏色克斯的海岸沙丘的人，那便是她心目中的英格兰，她用年轻的忍耐精神，把这无灵魂的、丑恶的煤铁区的米德兰浏览了一遍，便撇开不顾了，那是令人难信的可怕的环境，是不必加以思索的。以勒格贝那些阴森的房屋里，她听得见矿坑里筛子机的轹轹声，起重机的喷气声。载重车换轨时的响声，和火车头粗哑的汽笛声。达娃斯哈的煤堤在燃烧着，已经燃烧好几年了，要熄灭它非一宗大款不可，所以只好任它烧着。风从那边吹来的时候——这是常事——屋里便充满了腐土经焚烧后的硫磺臭味。甚至无风的时候，空气里也带着一种地窖下的什么恶味。甚至在毛黄花上，也铺着一层煤灰，好象是恶天降下的黑甘露。
然而，世事就是这样，一切都是命定的！这是有点可怕的，但是为什么要反抗呢？反抗是无用的，事情还是一样继续下去。这便是生活，和其它一切一样！在晚上，那低低的黝黑的云天，浮动着一些斑斑的红点，肿涨着，收缩着，好象令人痛苦的火伤；那是煤地的一些高炉。起初，这种景色使康妮深深恐怖，她觉得自己生活在地窖里。以后，她渐渐习惯了。早晨的时候，天又下起雨来。
克利福自称勒格贝比伦敦可爱。这地方有一种特有的坚强的意志，居民有一种强大的欲望，康妮奇怪着，他们除此以外，还有什么尝试的东西。无论如何，见解和思想他们是没有的。这些居民和这地方一样，形容枯搞，丑陋，阴森而不和睦。不过在他们的含糊不清的土话里和他们在沥青路上曳着钉底鞍。一群一群的散工回家时候的嘈杂声里，却有些什么可怕而有点神秘的东西。
当这年轻的贵族归家时，谁也没有来欢迎他。没有宴会，没有代表，甚至一朵花也没有。只是当他的汽车在阴森的林中的潮湿空气里开过，经过那有些灰色绵羊在那里吃着草的园圃斜坡，来到那高丘上黑褐色的屋门前时，一个女管家和她的丈夫在那里等着，预备支吾几句欢迎的话。
勒格贝和达娃斯哈村落是毫无来往的。村里人见了他们，也不脱帽，也不鞠躬。矿工们见了只是眼睁地望着。商人见了康妮举举帽子，和对一个任何熟人一样，对克利福相通的深渊，双方都抱着一种沉静的仇恨。起初，康妮对于村人这种淫雨似的下个不尽的仇恨，很觉痛苦。后来她忍耐下来了，反而觉得那是一服强身剂，是予人以一种生趣的什么东西，这并不是因为她和克利福不孚众望，仅仅是因为他们和矿工是完全不同的两种人罢了。在特兰以南的地方，这种人与人之间的极端隔绝也许是不存在的。但是在中部和北部的工业区，他们间的隔绝是言语所难形容的。你走你的。我走我的！奇怪的相克的人类感情！
虽然，在无形中，村人对于克利福和康妮还有点同情，但是在骨子里，双方都抱着“别管我们罢”的态度。
这儿的牧师，是个勤于职务的约模六十岁的和蔼的人。村人的“别管我们罢”的无言态度把他克服了，差不多成了无足轻重的人物，矿工的妻子们几乎都是监理会教徒，面矿工们却是无所信仰的，但是即使这牧师所穿的那套，也就够使村人把他看成一个异常的人了。是的，他是个异常的人，他是亚士比先生，一种传道和祈祷的机械。
“管你是什么查太莱男爵夫人，我们并不输你！”村人的这种固执的本能的态度，起初是很使康妮十分不安而沮丧的。当她对矿工的妻子们表示好感的时候，她们那种奇怪的、猜疑的、虚伪的亲热，使她不觉得真难忍受。她常常听见这些女人们用着半阿谀的鼻音说：“啊！别小看我，查太莱男爵夫人和我说话来着呢！可是她却不必以为因此我便不如此！”这种奇异的冒犯的态度，也使康妮觉得怪难忍受。这是不能避免的。这些都是不可救药的离叛国教的人。
克利福并不留心他们，康妮也不学样。她经过村里时，目不旁视，村人呆望着她，好象她是会走的蜡人一样。当克利福有事和他们交谈的时候，他的态度是很高傲的，很轻蔑的，这不是讲亲爱的时候了，事实上，他对于任何不是同一阶级的人，总是很傲慢而轻蔑的。坚守着他的地位，一点也不想与人修好。他们不喜欢他。也不讨厌他，他只是世事的一部分，象煤矿场和勒格贝屋予一样。
但是自从半躯残废以来，克利福实在是很胆怯的。他除了自己的仆人外，谁也不愿见。因为他得坐在轮椅或小车里，可是他的高价的裁缝师，依旧把他穿得怪讲究的。他和往日一样，系着帮德街买来的讲究的领带。他的上半截和从前一样的时髦动人。他一向就没有近代青年们的那种女性模样；他的红润的脸色，阔大的肩膊，反而有牧人的粗壮神气。但是他的宁静而犹豫的声音，和他的勇敢却又惧怕，果断却又疑惑的眼睛，却显示着他的天真性。他的态度常常起初是敌对地傲慢的，跟着又谦逊、自卑而几乎畏缩下来。
康妮和他互相依恋，但和近代夫妻一样，各自守着相当的距离。他因为终身残废的打击，给他的内心的刨伤过重，所以失去了他的轻快和自然，他是个负伤的人，因此康妮热情地怜爱他。
但是康妮总觉得他和民间的来往太少了。矿工们在某种意义上是他的用人，但是在他看来，他们是物件，而不是人；他们是煤矿的一部分，而不是生命的一部分；他们是一些粗卑的怪物，而不是象他自己一样的人类。在某种情境上，他却惧怕他们，怕他们看见自己的这种残废。他们的奇怪的粗鄙的生活，在他看来，仿佛象刺猖的生活一样反乎自然。
他远远地关心着他们，象一个人在显微镜里或望远镜里望着一样。他和他们是没有直接接触的。除了因为习惯关系和勒格贝接触。因为家族关系和爱玛接触外，他和谁也没有真正的接触。什么也不能真正接触他。康妮自己也觉得没有真正地接触他。也许他根本就没有什么可以接触的东西，他是否定人类的交接的。
然而他是绝对地依赖于她的，他是无时无刻不需要她的。他虽魁伟壮健，可是却不能自己照顾自己，他虽可以坐在轮椅里把自己滚来滚去，他虽有一种小自动车，可以到林园里慢慢地兜兜圈子，但是独自的时候，他便象个无主宰的东西了。他需要康妮在一块，以使他相信自己是生存着的。
可是他是雄心勃勃的。他写些小说，写些关于他所知道的人的奇怪特别的小说。这些小说写得又刁又巧，又恶辣，可是神秘得没有什么深意。他的观察是异于常人的，奇特的，可是却没有使人能接触、能真正地接触的东西。一切都好象在虚无缥缈中发生。而且，因为我们今日的生活场面大都是人工地照亮起来的一个舞台，所以他的小说都是怪忠实于现代化生活的。说恰切些，是怪忠实现代心理的。
克利福对于他的小说毁誊，差不多是病态地易感的。他要人人都说他的小说好，是无出其右的最上作品。他的小说都在最摩登的杂志上发表，因此照例地受人赞美和非难。但是非难于克利福。是如刀刺肉般的酷刑。仿佛他的生命都在他的小说里。
康妮极力地帮助他。起初，她觉得很兴奋，他单调地、坚持地给她解说一切的事情，她得用全力去回答和了解。仿佛她整个的灵魂、肉体和性欲都得苏醒而穿过他的小说里。这使她兴奋而忘我。
他们的物质生活是很少的。她得监督家务。那多年服侍过佐佛来男爵的女管家是个干枯了的毫无苟且的老东西。她不但不象个女仆，连女人都不象。她在这里侍候餐事已经四十年了。就是其他的女仆也不年轻了。真可怖！在这样的地方，你除了听其自然以外；还有什么法子呢？所有这些数不尽的无人住的空房子，所有这些德米兰的习惯，机械式的整齐清洁！一切都很的秩序地、很清洁地、很精密地、甚至很真正的进行着。然而在康妮看来，这只是有秩序的无政府状态罢了。那儿并没有感情的热力的互相联系。整处屋子阴森得象一条冷清的街道。
她除了听其自然以外，还有什么方法？……于是她便听其自然了。爱玛·查太莱小姐，脸孔清瘦而傲慢，有时也上这儿来看望他们。看见一切都没有变动，觉得很是得意。她永远不能宽恕康妮，因为康妮拆散了她和她弟弟的深切的团结。是她——爱玛，才应该帮助克利福写他的小说，写他的书的。查太莱的小说，‘世界上一种新颖的东西，由他们姓查泰莱的人经手产生出来。这和从前的思想言论，是毫无共通，毫无有机的联系的。世界上只有查太莱的书，是新颖的，纯粹地个人的。
康妮的父亲，当他到勒格贝作短促的逗留的时候，对康妮说：“克利福的作品是巧妙的，但是底子里空无一物。那是不能长久的！……”康妮望着这老于世故的魁伟的苏格兰的老爵士，她的眼睛，她的两只老是惊异的蓝色的大眼睛，变得模糊起来。“空无一物！”这是什么意思？批评家们赞美他的作品，克利福差不多要出名了，而且他的作品还能赚一笔钱呢。……她的父亲却说克利福的作品空无一物，这是什么意思？他要他的作品里有什么东西？
因为康妮的观点是和一般青年一样的：眼前便是一切，将来与现在的相接，是不必彼此相属的。
那是她在勒格贝的第二个冬天了，她的父亲对她说：
“康妮，我希望你不要因环境的关系而守活寡。”
“守活寡！为什么呢？为什么不呢？”康妮漠然地答道。
“除非你愿意，那便没有话说了！”她的父亲忙说。
当他和克利福在一起而没有旁人的时候，他把同样的话对他说：
“我恐怕守活寡的生活不太适合康妮。”
“活活守寡！”克利福答道，把这短语讲得更明确了。
他沉思了一会后，脸孔通红起来，发怒了。
“怎么不适合她？”他强硬会问道。
“她渐渐地清瘦了……憔悴了。这并不是她一向的样子。她并不象那瘦小的沙丁，她是动人的苏格兰白鲈鱼。”
“毫无斑点的自鲈鱼，当然了！”，克利福说。
过后，他想把守活寡这桩事对康妮谈谈。但是他总不能开口。他和她同时是太亲密而又不够亲密了，在精神上，他们是合一的；但在肉体上，他们是隔绝的；关于肉体事件的讨论，两人都要觉得难堪。他们是太亲密了同时又太疏远了。
然而康妮却猜出了她的父亲对无利福说过了什么，而克利福缄默地把它守在心里，她知道，她是否守活寡，或是与人私通，克利福是不关切的，只要他不确切地知道，和不必一定去知道。眼所不见，心所不知的事情，是不存在的。
康妮和克利福在勒格贝差不多两年了，他们度着一种漠然地生活，全神贯注在克利福和他的著作上。他们对于这种工作的共同兴趣不断的浓厚。他们谈论着，争执着行文结构，仿佛在那空虚之中有什么东西在发生，在真正发生似的。
他们已在共同工作着，这便是生活——一种空虚中的生活。
除此之外，其他一切都不存在了。勒格贝，仆人们……都是些鬼影。而不是现实。康妮也常到园和与园圃相连的林中去散步，欣赏着那里的孤僻和神秘，脚踢着秋天和落叶，或采摘着春天的莲馨花。这一切都是梦，真实的幻影。橡树的叶子，在她看来，仿佛是镜子里摇动着的叶子，她自己是书本里的人物，采着莲馨花，而这些花儿也不过是些影子，或是记忆，或是一些宇。她觉得什么也没有，没有实质，没有接触，没有联系！只有这与克利福的共同生活，只有这些无穷无尽的长谈和心理分析，只有这些麦尔肯爵士所谓的底子里一无所有而不能长久的小说。为什么底子里要有什么东西？为什么要传之久远？我们始且得过且过，直至不能再过之日。我们姑且得过且过，直至现在“出现”之日。
克利福的朋友——实际上只是些相识——很不少，他常把他们请到勒格贝来。他请的是各种各样的人，批评家，著作家，一些颂赞他的作品的人们。这些人都觉得被请到勒格贝来是荣幸的，于是他们歌颂他。康妮心里明白这一切，为什么不呢？这是镜中游影之一。她并不觉得有什么不好的地方。
她款待着这些客人——其中大部分是些男子。她也款待着克利福的不常来的贵族亲戚们。因为她长得温柔，脸色红润而带村对的风态，有着那易生色斑的嫩自的皮肤，大大的蓝眼睛，褐色卷发，温和的声音和微嫌坚强的腰部。所以人家把她看成一个不太时髦，而太“妇人”的女子。她并不是男孩似的象一条“小沙丁鱼”，她胸部扁平，臀部细小。她太女性了，所以不能十分时髦。
因此男子们，尤其是年纪不轻的男子们，都对她很献殷勤。他是，她知道如果她对他们稍微表示一点轻桃，那便要使可怜的克利福深感痛苦，所以她从不让这些男子们胆大起来。她守关那闲静而淡漠的态度，她和他们毫无密交，而且毫无这个意思。因此克利福是觉得非常自得的。
克利福的亲戚们，对她也很和蔼。她知道这种和蔼的原因，是因为她不使人惧怕。她也知道，如果你不使这些人有点怕你，他们是不会尊敬你的。但是她和他们也是毫无密交。她接受他们的和蔼和轻蔑，她让他们知道用不着剑拨弩张。她和他们是毫无真正的关系的。
时间便是这样过着。无论有了什么事。都象不是真正地’有那么回事，因为她和一切是太没有接触了。她和克利福在他们的理想里，在他们的著作里生活着。她款待着客人……家里是常常有客的。时间象钟一样地进行着，七点半过了是八点，八点过了是几点半。
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 village which began almost at the park gates, and trailed in utter hopeless ugliness for a long and gruesome mile: houses, rows of wretched, small, begrimed, brick houses, with black slate roofs for lids, sharp angles and wilful, blank dreariness. Connie was accustomed to Kensington or the Scotch hills or the Sussex downs: that was her England. With the stoicism of the young she took in the utter, soulless ugliness of the coal-and-iron Midlands at a glance, and left it at what it was: unbelievable and not to be thought about. From the rather dismal rooms at Wragby she heard the rattle-rattle of the screens at the pit, the puff of the winding-engine, the clink-clink of shunting trucks, and the hoarse little whistle of the colliery locomotives. Tevershall pit-bank was burning, had been burning for years, and it would cost thousands to put it out. So it had to burn. And when the wind was that way, which was often, the house was full of the stench of this sulphurous combustion of the earth's excrement. But even on windless days the air always smelt of something under-earth: sulphur, iron, coal, or acid. And even on the Christmas roses the smuts settled persistently, incredible, like black manna from the skies of doom.
Well, there it was: fated like the rest of things! It was rather awful, but why kick? You couldn't kick it away. It just went on. Life, like all the rest! On the low dark ceiling of cloud at night red blotches burned and quavered, dappling and swelling and contracting, like burns that give pain. It was the furnaces. At first they fascinated Connie with a sort of horror; she felt she was living underground. Then she got used to them. And in the morning it rained.
Clifford professed to like Wragby better than London. This country had a grim will of its own, and the people had guts. Connie wondered what else they had: certainly neither eyes nor minds. The people were as haggard, shapeless, and dreary as the countryside, and as unfriendly. Only there was something in their deep-mouthed slurring of the dialect, and the thresh-thresh of their hob-nailed pit-boots as they trailed home in gangs on the asphalt from work, that was terrible and a bit mysterious.
There had been no welcome home for the young squire, no festivities, no deputation, not even a single flower. Only a dank ride in a motor-car up a dark, damp drive, burrowing through gloomy trees, out to the slope of the park where grey damp sheep were feeding, to the knoll where the house spread its dark brown facade, and the housekeeper and her husband were hovering, like unsure tenants on the face of the earth, ready to stammer a welcome.
There was no communication between Wragby Hall and Tevershall village, none. No caps were touched, no curtseys bobbed. The colliers merely stared; the tradesmen lifted their caps to Connie as to an acquaintance, and nodded awkwardly to Clifford; that was all. Gulf impassable, and a quiet sort of resentment on either side. At first Connie suffered from the steady drizzle of resentment that came from the village. Then she hardened herself to it, and it became a sort of tonic, something to live up to. It was not that she and Clifford were unpopular, they merely belonged to another species altogether from the colliers. Gulf impassable, breach indescribable, such as is perhaps nonexistent south of the Trent. But in the Midlands and the industrial North gulf impassable, across which no communication could take place. You stick to your side, I'll stick to mine! A strange denial of the common pulse of humanity.
Yet the village sympathized with Clifford and Connie in the abstract. In the flesh it was---You leave me alone!---on either side.
The rector was a nice man of about sixty, full of his duty, and reduced, personally, almost to a nonentity by the silent---You leave me alone!---of the village. The miners' wives were nearly all Methodists. The miners were nothing. But even so much official uniform as the clergyman wore was enough to obscure entirely the fact that he was a man like any other man. No, he was Mester Ashby, a sort of automatic preaching and praying concern.
This stubborn, instinctive---We think ourselves as good as you, if you are Lady Chatterley!---puzzled and baffled Connie at first extremely. The curious, suspicious, false amiability with which the miners' wives met her overtures; the curiously offensive tinge of---Oh dear me! I am somebody now, with Lady Chatterley talking to me! But she needn't think I'm not as good as her for all that!---which she always heard twanging in the women's half-fawning voices, was impossible. There was no getting past it. It was hopelessly and offensively nonconformist.
Clifford left them alone, and she learnt to do the same: she just went by without looking at them, and they stared as if she were a walking wax figure. When he had to deal with them, Clifford was rather haughty and contemptuous; one could no longer afford to be friendly. In fact he was altogether rather supercilious and contemptuous of anyone not in his own class. He stood his ground, without any attempt at conciliation. And he was neither liked nor disliked by the people: he was just part of things, like the pit-bank and Wragby itself.
But Clifford was really extremely shy and self-conscious now he was lamed. He hated seeing anyone except just the personal servants. For he had to sit in a wheeled chair or a sort of bath-chair. Nevertheless he was just as carefully dressed as ever, by his expensive tailors, and he wore the careful Bond Street neckties just as before, and from the top he looked just as smart and impressive as ever. He had never been one of the modern ladylike young men: rather bucolic even, with his ruddy face and broad shoulders. But his very quiet, hesitating voice, and his eyes, at the same time bold and frightened, assured and uncertain, revealed his nature. His manner was often offensively supercilious, and then again modest and self-effacing, almost tremulous.
Connie and he were attached to one another, in the aloof modern way. He was much too hurt in himself, the great shock of his maiming, to be easy and flippant. He was a hurt thing. And as such Connie stuck to him passionately.
But she could not help feeling how little connexion he really had with people. The miners were, in a sense, his own men; but he saw them as objects rather than men, parts of the pit rather than parts of life, crude raw phenomena rather than human beings along with him. He was in some way afraid of them, he could not bear to have them look at him now he was lame. And their queer, crude life seemed as unnatural as that of hedgehogs.
He was remotely interested; but like a man looking down a microscope, or up a telescope. He was not in touch. He was not in actual touch with anybody, save, traditionally, with Wragby, and, through the close bond of family defence, with Emma. Beyond this nothing really touched him. Connie felt that she herself didn't really, not really touch him; perhaps there was nothing to get at ultimately; just a negation of human contact.
Yet he was absolutely dependent on her, he needed her every moment. Big and strong as he was, he was helpless. He could wheel himself about in a wheeled chair, and he had a sort of bath-chair with a motor attachment, in which he could puff slowly round the park. But alone he was like a lost thing. He needed Connie to be there, to assure him he existed at all.
Still he was ambitious. He had taken to writing stories; curious, very personal stories about people he had known. Clever, rather spiteful, and yet, in some mysterious way, meaningless. The observation was extraordinary and peculiar. But there was no touch, no actual contact. It was as if the whole thing took place in a vacuum. And since the field of life is largely an artificially-lighted stage today, the stories were curiously true to modern life, to the modern psychology, that is.
Clifford was almost morbidly sensitive about these stories. He wanted everyone to think them good, of the best, ne plus ultra. They appeared in the most modern magazines, and were praised and blamed as usual. But to Clifford the blame was torture, like knives goading him. It was as if the whole of his being were in his stories.
Connie helped him as much as she could. At first she was thrilled. He talked everything over with her monotonously, insistently, persistently, and she had to respond with all her might. It was as if her whole soul and body and sex had to rouse up and pass into theme stories of his. This thrilled her and absorbed her.
Of physical life they lived very little. She had to superintend the house. But the housekeeper had served Sir Geoffrey for many years, arid the dried-up, elderly, superlatively correct female you could hardly call her a parlour-maid, or even a woman...who waited at table, had been in the house for forty years. Even the very housemaids were no longer young. It was awful! What could you do with such a place, but leave it alone! All these endless rooms that nobody used, all the Midlands routine, the mechanical cleanliness and the mechanical order! Clifford had insisted on a new cook, an experienced woman who had served him in his rooms in London. For the rest the place seemed run by mechanical anarchy. Everything went on in pretty good order, strict cleanliness, and strict punctuality; even pretty strict honesty. And yet, to Connie, it was a methodical anarchy. No warmth of feeling united it organically. The house seemed as dreary as a disused street.
What could she do but leave it alone? So she left it alone. Miss Chatterley came sometimes, with her aristocratic thin face, and triumphed, finding nothing altered. She would never forgive Connie for ousting her from her union in consciousness with her brother. It was she, Emma, who should be bringing forth the stories, these books, with him; the Chatterley stories, something new in the world, that they, the Chatterleys, had put there. There was no other standard. There was no organic connexion with the thought and expression that had gone before. Only something new in the world: the Chatterley books, entirely personal.
Connie's father, where he paid a flying visit to Wragby, and in private to his daughter: As for Clifford's writing, it's smart, but there's nothing in it. It won't last! Connie looked at the burly Scottish knight who had done himself well all his life, and her eyes, her big, still-wondering blue eyes became vague. Nothing in it! What did he mean by nothing in it? If the critics praised it, and Clifford's name was almost famous, and it even brought in money...what did her father mean by saying there was nothing in Clifford's writing? What else could there be?
For Connie had adopted the standard of the young: what there was in the moment was everything. And moments followed one another without necessarily belonging to one another.
It was in her second winter at Wragby her father said to her: `I hope, Connie, you won't let circumstances force you into being a demi-vierge.'
`A demi-vierge!' replied Connie vaguely. `Why? Why not?'
`Unless you like it, of course!' said her father hastily. To Clifford he said the same, when the two men were alone: `I'm afraid it doesn't quite suit Connie to be a demi-vierge.'
`A half-virgin!' replied Clifford, translating the phrase to be sure of it.
He thought for a moment, then flushed very red. He was angry and offended.
`In what way doesn't it suit her?' he asked stiffly.
`She's getting thin...angular. It's not her style. She's not the pilchard sort of little slip of a girl, she's a bonny Scotch trout.'
`Without the spots, of course!' said Clifford.
He wanted to say something later to Connie about the demi-vierge business...the half-virgin state of her affairs. But he could not bring himself to do it. He was at once too intimate with her and not intimate enough. He was so very much at one with her, in his mind and hers, but bodily they were non-existent to one another, and neither could bear to drag in the corpus delicti. They were so intimate, and utterly out of touch.
Connie guessed, however, that her father had said something, and that something was in Clifford's mind. She knew that he didn't mind whether she were demi-vierge or demi-monde, so long as he didn't absolutely know, and wasn't made to see. What the eye doesn't see and the mind doesn't know, doesn't exist.
Connie and Clifford had now been nearly two years at Wragby, living their vague life of absorption in Clifford and his work. Their interests had never ceased to flow together over his work. They talked and wrestled in the throes of composition, and felt as if something were happening, really happening, really in the void.
And thus far it was a life: in the void. For the rest it was non-existence. Wragby was there, the servants...but spectral, not really existing. Connie went for walks in the park, and in the woods that joined the park, and enjoyed the solitude and the mystery, kicking the brown leaves of autumn, and picking the primroses of spring. But it was all a dream; or rather it was like the simulacrum of reality. The oak-leaves were to her like oak-leaves seen ruffling in a mirror, she herself was a figure somebody had read about, picking primroses that were only shadows or memories, or words. No substance to her or anything...no touch, no contact! Only this life with Clifford, this endless spinning of webs of yarn, of the minutiae of consciousness, these stories Sir Malcolm said there was nothing in, and they wouldn't last. Why should there be anything in them, why should they last? Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. Sufficient unto the moment is the appearance of reality.
Clifford had quite a number of friends, acquaintances really, and he invited them to Wragby. He invited all sorts of people, critics and writers, people who would help to praise his books. And they were flattered at being asked to Wragby, and they praised. Connie understood it all perfectly. But why not? This was one of the fleeting patterns in the mirror. What was wrong with it?
She was hostess to these people...mostly men. She was hostess also to Clifford's occasional aristocratic relations. Being a soft, ruddy, country-looking girl, inclined to freckles, with big blue eyes, and curling, brown hair, and a soft voice, and rather strong, female loins she was considered a little old-fashioned and `womanly'. She was not a `little pilchard sort of fish', like a boy, with a boy's flat breast and little buttocks. She was too feminine to be quite smart.
So the men, especially those no longer young, were very nice to her indeed. But, knowing what torture poor Clifford would feel at the slightest sign of flirting on her part, she gave them no encouragement at all. She was quiet and vague, she had no contact with them and intended to have none. Clifford was extraordinarily proud of himself.
His relatives treated her quite kindly. She knew that the kindliness indicated a lack of fear, and that these people had no respect for you unless you could frighten them a little. But again she had no contact. She let them be kindly and disdainful, she let them feel they had no need to draw their steel in readiness. She had no real connexion with them.
Time went on. Whatever happened, nothing happened, because she was so beautifully out of contact. She and Clifford lived in their ideas and his books. She entertained...there were always people in the house. Time went on as the clock does, half past eight instead of half past seven.
康妮是住惯了根新洞，看惯了苏格兰的小山，和苏色克斯的海岸沙丘的人，那便是她心目中的英格兰，她用年轻的忍耐精神，把这无灵魂的、丑恶的煤铁区的米德兰浏览了一遍，便撇开不顾了，那是令人难信的可怕的环境，是不必加以思索的。以勒格贝那些阴森的房屋里，她听得见矿坑里筛子机的轹轹声，起重机的喷气声。载重车换轨时的响声，和火车头粗哑的汽笛声。达娃斯哈的煤堤在燃烧着，已经燃烧好几年了，要熄灭它非一宗大款不可，所以只好任它烧着。风从那边吹来的时候——这是常事——屋里便充满了腐土经焚烧后的硫磺臭味。甚至无风的时候，空气里也带着一种地窖下的什么恶味。甚至在毛黄花上，也铺着一层煤灰，好象是恶天降下的黑甘露。
然而，世事就是这样，一切都是命定的！这是有点可怕的，但是为什么要反抗呢？反抗是无用的，事情还是一样继续下去。这便是生活，和其它一切一样！在晚上，那低低的黝黑的云天，浮动着一些斑斑的红点，肿涨着，收缩着，好象令人痛苦的火伤；那是煤地的一些高炉。起初，这种景色使康妮深深恐怖，她觉得自己生活在地窖里。以后，她渐渐习惯了。早晨的时候，天又下起雨来。
克利福自称勒格贝比伦敦可爱。这地方有一种特有的坚强的意志，居民有一种强大的欲望，康妮奇怪着，他们除此以外，还有什么尝试的东西。无论如何，见解和思想他们是没有的。这些居民和这地方一样，形容枯搞，丑陋，阴森而不和睦。不过在他们的含糊不清的土话里和他们在沥青路上曳着钉底鞍。一群一群的散工回家时候的嘈杂声里，却有些什么可怕而有点神秘的东西。
当这年轻的贵族归家时，谁也没有来欢迎他。没有宴会，没有代表，甚至一朵花也没有。只是当他的汽车在阴森的林中的潮湿空气里开过，经过那有些灰色绵羊在那里吃着草的园圃斜坡，来到那高丘上黑褐色的屋门前时，一个女管家和她的丈夫在那里等着，预备支吾几句欢迎的话。
勒格贝和达娃斯哈村落是毫无来往的。村里人见了他们，也不脱帽，也不鞠躬。矿工们见了只是眼睁地望着。商人见了康妮举举帽子，和对一个任何熟人一样，对克利福相通的深渊，双方都抱着一种沉静的仇恨。起初，康妮对于村人这种淫雨似的下个不尽的仇恨，很觉痛苦。后来她忍耐下来了，反而觉得那是一服强身剂，是予人以一种生趣的什么东西，这并不是因为她和克利福不孚众望，仅仅是因为他们和矿工是完全不同的两种人罢了。在特兰以南的地方，这种人与人之间的极端隔绝也许是不存在的。但是在中部和北部的工业区，他们间的隔绝是言语所难形容的。你走你的。我走我的！奇怪的相克的人类感情！
虽然，在无形中，村人对于克利福和康妮还有点同情，但是在骨子里，双方都抱着“别管我们罢”的态度。
这儿的牧师，是个勤于职务的约模六十岁的和蔼的人。村人的“别管我们罢”的无言态度把他克服了，差不多成了无足轻重的人物，矿工的妻子们几乎都是监理会教徒，面矿工们却是无所信仰的，但是即使这牧师所穿的那套，也就够使村人把他看成一个异常的人了。是的，他是个异常的人，他是亚士比先生，一种传道和祈祷的机械。
“管你是什么查太莱男爵夫人，我们并不输你！”村人的这种固执的本能的态度，起初是很使康妮十分不安而沮丧的。当她对矿工的妻子们表示好感的时候，她们那种奇怪的、猜疑的、虚伪的亲热，使她不觉得真难忍受。她常常听见这些女人们用着半阿谀的鼻音说：“啊！别小看我，查太莱男爵夫人和我说话来着呢！可是她却不必以为因此我便不如此！”这种奇异的冒犯的态度，也使康妮觉得怪难忍受。这是不能避免的。这些都是不可救药的离叛国教的人。
克利福并不留心他们，康妮也不学样。她经过村里时，目不旁视，村人呆望着她，好象她是会走的蜡人一样。当克利福有事和他们交谈的时候，他的态度是很高傲的，很轻蔑的，这不是讲亲爱的时候了，事实上，他对于任何不是同一阶级的人，总是很傲慢而轻蔑的。坚守着他的地位，一点也不想与人修好。他们不喜欢他。也不讨厌他，他只是世事的一部分，象煤矿场和勒格贝屋予一样。
但是自从半躯残废以来，克利福实在是很胆怯的。他除了自己的仆人外，谁也不愿见。因为他得坐在轮椅或小车里，可是他的高价的裁缝师，依旧把他穿得怪讲究的。他和往日一样，系着帮德街买来的讲究的领带。他的上半截和从前一样的时髦动人。他一向就没有近代青年们的那种女性模样；他的红润的脸色，阔大的肩膊，反而有牧人的粗壮神气。但是他的宁静而犹豫的声音，和他的勇敢却又惧怕，果断却又疑惑的眼睛，却显示着他的天真性。他的态度常常起初是敌对地傲慢的，跟着又谦逊、自卑而几乎畏缩下来。
康妮和他互相依恋，但和近代夫妻一样，各自守着相当的距离。他因为终身残废的打击，给他的内心的刨伤过重，所以失去了他的轻快和自然，他是个负伤的人，因此康妮热情地怜爱他。
但是康妮总觉得他和民间的来往太少了。矿工们在某种意义上是他的用人，但是在他看来，他们是物件，而不是人；他们是煤矿的一部分，而不是生命的一部分；他们是一些粗卑的怪物，而不是象他自己一样的人类。在某种情境上，他却惧怕他们，怕他们看见自己的这种残废。他们的奇怪的粗鄙的生活，在他看来，仿佛象刺猖的生活一样反乎自然。
他远远地关心着他们，象一个人在显微镜里或望远镜里望着一样。他和他们是没有直接接触的。除了因为习惯关系和勒格贝接触。因为家族关系和爱玛接触外，他和谁也没有真正的接触。什么也不能真正接触他。康妮自己也觉得没有真正地接触他。也许他根本就没有什么可以接触的东西，他是否定人类的交接的。
然而他是绝对地依赖于她的，他是无时无刻不需要她的。他虽魁伟壮健，可是却不能自己照顾自己，他虽可以坐在轮椅里把自己滚来滚去，他虽有一种小自动车，可以到林园里慢慢地兜兜圈子，但是独自的时候，他便象个无主宰的东西了。他需要康妮在一块，以使他相信自己是生存着的。
可是他是雄心勃勃的。他写些小说，写些关于他所知道的人的奇怪特别的小说。这些小说写得又刁又巧，又恶辣，可是神秘得没有什么深意。他的观察是异于常人的，奇特的，可是却没有使人能接触、能真正地接触的东西。一切都好象在虚无缥缈中发生。而且，因为我们今日的生活场面大都是人工地照亮起来的一个舞台，所以他的小说都是怪忠实于现代化生活的。说恰切些，是怪忠实现代心理的。
克利福对于他的小说毁誊，差不多是病态地易感的。他要人人都说他的小说好，是无出其右的最上作品。他的小说都在最摩登的杂志上发表，因此照例地受人赞美和非难。但是非难于克利福。是如刀刺肉般的酷刑。仿佛他的生命都在他的小说里。
康妮极力地帮助他。起初，她觉得很兴奋，他单调地、坚持地给她解说一切的事情，她得用全力去回答和了解。仿佛她整个的灵魂、肉体和性欲都得苏醒而穿过他的小说里。这使她兴奋而忘我。
他们的物质生活是很少的。她得监督家务。那多年服侍过佐佛来男爵的女管家是个干枯了的毫无苟且的老东西。她不但不象个女仆，连女人都不象。她在这里侍候餐事已经四十年了。就是其他的女仆也不年轻了。真可怖！在这样的地方，你除了听其自然以外；还有什么法子呢？所有这些数不尽的无人住的空房子，所有这些德米兰的习惯，机械式的整齐清洁！一切都很的秩序地、很清洁地、很精密地、甚至很真正的进行着。然而在康妮看来，这只是有秩序的无政府状态罢了。那儿并没有感情的热力的互相联系。整处屋子阴森得象一条冷清的街道。
她除了听其自然以外，还有什么方法？……于是她便听其自然了。爱玛·查太莱小姐，脸孔清瘦而傲慢，有时也上这儿来看望他们。看见一切都没有变动，觉得很是得意。她永远不能宽恕康妮，因为康妮拆散了她和她弟弟的深切的团结。是她——爱玛，才应该帮助克利福写他的小说，写他的书的。查太莱的小说，‘世界上一种新颖的东西，由他们姓查泰莱的人经手产生出来。这和从前的思想言论，是毫无共通，毫无有机的联系的。世界上只有查太莱的书，是新颖的，纯粹地个人的。
康妮的父亲，当他到勒格贝作短促的逗留的时候，对康妮说：“克利福的作品是巧妙的，但是底子里空无一物。那是不能长久的！……”康妮望着这老于世故的魁伟的苏格兰的老爵士，她的眼睛，她的两只老是惊异的蓝色的大眼睛，变得模糊起来。“空无一物！”这是什么意思？批评家们赞美他的作品，克利福差不多要出名了，而且他的作品还能赚一笔钱呢。……她的父亲却说克利福的作品空无一物，这是什么意思？他要他的作品里有什么东西？
因为康妮的观点是和一般青年一样的：眼前便是一切，将来与现在的相接，是不必彼此相属的。
那是她在勒格贝的第二个冬天了，她的父亲对她说：
“康妮，我希望你不要因环境的关系而守活寡。”
“守活寡！为什么呢？为什么不呢？”康妮漠然地答道。
“除非你愿意，那便没有话说了！”她的父亲忙说。
当他和克利福在一起而没有旁人的时候，他把同样的话对他说：
“我恐怕守活寡的生活不太适合康妮。”
“活活守寡！”克利福答道，把这短语讲得更明确了。
他沉思了一会后，脸孔通红起来，发怒了。
“怎么不适合她？”他强硬会问道。
“她渐渐地清瘦了……憔悴了。这并不是她一向的样子。她并不象那瘦小的沙丁，她是动人的苏格兰白鲈鱼。”
“毫无斑点的自鲈鱼，当然了！”，克利福说。
过后，他想把守活寡这桩事对康妮谈谈。但是他总不能开口。他和她同时是太亲密而又不够亲密了，在精神上，他们是合一的；但在肉体上，他们是隔绝的；关于肉体事件的讨论，两人都要觉得难堪。他们是太亲密了同时又太疏远了。
然而康妮却猜出了她的父亲对无利福说过了什么，而克利福缄默地把它守在心里，她知道，她是否守活寡，或是与人私通，克利福是不关切的，只要他不确切地知道，和不必一定去知道。眼所不见，心所不知的事情，是不存在的。
康妮和克利福在勒格贝差不多两年了，他们度着一种漠然地生活，全神贯注在克利福和他的著作上。他们对于这种工作的共同兴趣不断的浓厚。他们谈论着，争执着行文结构，仿佛在那空虚之中有什么东西在发生，在真正发生似的。
他们已在共同工作着，这便是生活——一种空虚中的生活。
除此之外，其他一切都不存在了。勒格贝，仆人们……都是些鬼影。而不是现实。康妮也常到园和与园圃相连的林中去散步，欣赏着那里的孤僻和神秘，脚踢着秋天和落叶，或采摘着春天的莲馨花。这一切都是梦，真实的幻影。橡树的叶子，在她看来，仿佛是镜子里摇动着的叶子，她自己是书本里的人物，采着莲馨花，而这些花儿也不过是些影子，或是记忆，或是一些宇。她觉得什么也没有，没有实质，没有接触，没有联系！只有这与克利福的共同生活，只有这些无穷无尽的长谈和心理分析，只有这些麦尔肯爵士所谓的底子里一无所有而不能长久的小说。为什么底子里要有什么东西？为什么要传之久远？我们始且得过且过，直至不能再过之日。我们姑且得过且过，直至现在“出现”之日。
克利福的朋友——实际上只是些相识——很不少，他常把他们请到勒格贝来。他请的是各种各样的人，批评家，著作家，一些颂赞他的作品的人们。这些人都觉得被请到勒格贝来是荣幸的，于是他们歌颂他。康妮心里明白这一切，为什么不呢？这是镜中游影之一。她并不觉得有什么不好的地方。
她款待着这些客人——其中大部分是些男子。她也款待着克利福的不常来的贵族亲戚们。因为她长得温柔，脸色红润而带村对的风态，有着那易生色斑的嫩自的皮肤，大大的蓝眼睛，褐色卷发，温和的声音和微嫌坚强的腰部。所以人家把她看成一个不太时髦，而太“妇人”的女子。她并不是男孩似的象一条“小沙丁鱼”，她胸部扁平，臀部细小。她太女性了，所以不能十分时髦。
因此男子们，尤其是年纪不轻的男子们，都对她很献殷勤。他是，她知道如果她对他们稍微表示一点轻桃，那便要使可怜的克利福深感痛苦，所以她从不让这些男子们胆大起来。她守关那闲静而淡漠的态度，她和他们毫无密交，而且毫无这个意思。因此克利福是觉得非常自得的。
克利福的亲戚们，对她也很和蔼。她知道这种和蔼的原因，是因为她不使人惧怕。她也知道，如果你不使这些人有点怕你，他们是不会尊敬你的。但是她和他们也是毫无密交。她接受他们的和蔼和轻蔑，她让他们知道用不着剑拨弩张。她和他们是毫无真正的关系的。
时间便是这样过着。无论有了什么事。都象不是真正地’有那么回事，因为她和一切是太没有接触了。她和克利福在他们的理想里，在他们的著作里生活着。她款待着客人……家里是常常有客的。时间象钟一样地进行着，七点半过了是八点，八点过了是几点半。
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 village which began almost at the park gates, and trailed in utter hopeless ugliness for a long and gruesome mile: houses, rows of wretched, small, begrimed, brick houses, with black slate roofs for lids, sharp angles and wilful, blank dreariness. Connie was accustomed to Kensington or the Scotch hills or the Sussex downs: that was her England. With the stoicism of the young she took in the utter, soulless ugliness of the coal-and-iron Midlands at a glance, and left it at what it was: unbelievable and not to be thought about. From the rather dismal rooms at Wragby she heard the rattle-rattle of the screens at the pit, the puff of the winding-engine, the clink-clink of shunting trucks, and the hoarse little whistle of the colliery locomotives. Tevershall pit-bank was burning, had been burning for years, and it would cost thousands to put it out. So it had to burn. And when the wind was that way, which was often, the house was full of the stench of this sulphurous combustion of the earth's excrement. But even on windless days the air always smelt of something under-earth: sulphur, iron, coal, or acid. And even on the Christmas roses the smuts settled persistently, incredible, like black manna from the skies of doom.
Well, there it was: fated like the rest of things! It was rather awful, but why kick? You couldn't kick it away. It just went on. Life, like all the rest! On the low dark ceiling of cloud at night red blotches burned and quavered, dappling and swelling and contracting, like burns that give pain. It was the furnaces. At first they fascinated Connie with a sort of horror; she felt she was living underground. Then she got used to them. And in the morning it rained.
Clifford professed to like Wragby better than London. This country had a grim will of its own, and the people had guts. Connie wondered what else they had: certainly neither eyes nor minds. The people were as haggard, shapeless, and dreary as the countryside, and as unfriendly. Only there was something in their deep-mouthed slurring of the dialect, and the thresh-thresh of their hob-nailed pit-boots as they trailed home in gangs on the asphalt from work, that was terrible and a bit mysterious.
There had been no welcome home for the young squire, no festivities, no deputation, not even a single flower. Only a dank ride in a motor-car up a dark, damp drive, burrowing through gloomy trees, out to the slope of the park where grey damp sheep were feeding, to the knoll where the house spread its dark brown facade, and the housekeeper and her husband were hovering, like unsure tenants on the face of the earth, ready to stammer a welcome.
There was no communication between Wragby Hall and Tevershall village, none. No caps were touched, no curtseys bobbed. The colliers merely stared; the tradesmen lifted their caps to Connie as to an acquaintance, and nodded awkwardly to Clifford; that was all. Gulf impassable, and a quiet sort of resentment on either side. At first Connie suffered from the steady drizzle of resentment that came from the village. Then she hardened herself to it, and it became a sort of tonic, something to live up to. It was not that she and Clifford were unpopular, they merely belonged to another species altogether from the colliers. Gulf impassable, breach indescribable, such as is perhaps nonexistent south of the Trent. But in the Midlands and the industrial North gulf impassable, across which no communication could take place. You stick to your side, I'll stick to mine! A strange denial of the common pulse of humanity.
Yet the village sympathized with Clifford and Connie in the abstract. In the flesh it was---You leave me alone!---on either side.
The rector was a nice man of about sixty, full of his duty, and reduced, personally, almost to a nonentity by the silent---You leave me alone!---of the village. The miners' wives were nearly all Methodists. The miners were nothing. But even so much official uniform as the clergyman wore was enough to obscure entirely the fact that he was a man like any other man. No, he was Mester Ashby, a sort of automatic preaching and praying concern.
This stubborn, instinctive---We think ourselves as good as you, if you are Lady Chatterley!---puzzled and baffled Connie at first extremely. The curious, suspicious, false amiability with which the miners' wives met her overtures; the curiously offensive tinge of---Oh dear me! I am somebody now, with Lady Chatterley talking to me! But she needn't think I'm not as good as her for all that!---which she always heard twanging in the women's half-fawning voices, was impossible. There was no getting past it. It was hopelessly and offensively nonconformist.
Clifford left them alone, and she learnt to do the same: she just went by without looking at them, and they stared as if she were a walking wax figure. When he had to deal with them, Clifford was rather haughty and contemptuous; one could no longer afford to be friendly. In fact he was altogether rather supercilious and contemptuous of anyone not in his own class. He stood his ground, without any attempt at conciliation. And he was neither liked nor disliked by the people: he was just part of things, like the pit-bank and Wragby itself.
But Clifford was really extremely shy and self-conscious now he was lamed. He hated seeing anyone except just the personal servants. For he had to sit in a wheeled chair or a sort of bath-chair. Nevertheless he was just as carefully dressed as ever, by his expensive tailors, and he wore the careful Bond Street neckties just as before, and from the top he looked just as smart and impressive as ever. He had never been one of the modern ladylike young men: rather bucolic even, with his ruddy face and broad shoulders. But his very quiet, hesitating voice, and his eyes, at the same time bold and frightened, assured and uncertain, revealed his nature. His manner was often offensively supercilious, and then again modest and self-effacing, almost tremulous.
Connie and he were attached to one another, in the aloof modern way. He was much too hurt in himself, the great shock of his maiming, to be easy and flippant. He was a hurt thing. And as such Connie stuck to him passionately.
But she could not help feeling how little connexion he really had with people. The miners were, in a sense, his own men; but he saw them as objects rather than men, parts of the pit rather than parts of life, crude raw phenomena rather than human beings along with him. He was in some way afraid of them, he could not bear to have them look at him now he was lame. And their queer, crude life seemed as unnatural as that of hedgehogs.
He was remotely interested; but like a man looking down a microscope, or up a telescope. He was not in touch. He was not in actual touch with anybody, save, traditionally, with Wragby, and, through the close bond of family defence, with Emma. Beyond this nothing really touched him. Connie felt that she herself didn't really, not really touch him; perhaps there was nothing to get at ultimately; just a negation of human contact.
Yet he was absolutely dependent on her, he needed her every moment. Big and strong as he was, he was helpless. He could wheel himself about in a wheeled chair, and he had a sort of bath-chair with a motor attachment, in which he could puff slowly round the park. But alone he was like a lost thing. He needed Connie to be there, to assure him he existed at all.
Still he was ambitious. He had taken to writing stories; curious, very personal stories about people he had known. Clever, rather spiteful, and yet, in some mysterious way, meaningless. The observation was extraordinary and peculiar. But there was no touch, no actual contact. It was as if the whole thing took place in a vacuum. And since the field of life is largely an artificially-lighted stage today, the stories were curiously true to modern life, to the modern psychology, that is.
Clifford was almost morbidly sensitive about these stories. He wanted everyone to think them good, of the best, ne plus ultra. They appeared in the most modern magazines, and were praised and blamed as usual. But to Clifford the blame was torture, like knives goading him. It was as if the whole of his being were in his stories.
Connie helped him as much as she could. At first she was thrilled. He talked everything over with her monotonously, insistently, persistently, and she had to respond with all her might. It was as if her whole soul and body and sex had to rouse up and pass into theme stories of his. This thrilled her and absorbed her.
Of physical life they lived very little. She had to superintend the house. But the housekeeper had served Sir Geoffrey for many years, arid the dried-up, elderly, superlatively correct female you could hardly call her a parlour-maid, or even a woman...who waited at table, had been in the house for forty years. Even the very housemaids were no longer young. It was awful! What could you do with such a place, but leave it alone! All these endless rooms that nobody used, all the Midlands routine, the mechanical cleanliness and the mechanical order! Clifford had insisted on a new cook, an experienced woman who had served him in his rooms in London. For the rest the place seemed run by mechanical anarchy. Everything went on in pretty good order, strict cleanliness, and strict punctuality; even pretty strict honesty. And yet, to Connie, it was a methodical anarchy. No warmth of feeling united it organically. The house seemed as dreary as a disused street.
What could she do but leave it alone? So she left it alone. Miss Chatterley came sometimes, with her aristocratic thin face, and triumphed, finding nothing altered. She would never forgive Connie for ousting her from her union in consciousness with her brother. It was she, Emma, who should be bringing forth the stories, these books, with him; the Chatterley stories, something new in the world, that they, the Chatterleys, had put there. There was no other standard. There was no organic connexion with the thought and expression that had gone before. Only something new in the world: the Chatterley books, entirely personal.
Connie's father, where he paid a flying visit to Wragby, and in private to his daughter: As for Clifford's writing, it's smart, but there's nothing in it. It won't last! Connie looked at the burly Scottish knight who had done himself well all his life, and her eyes, her big, still-wondering blue eyes became vague. Nothing in it! What did he mean by nothing in it? If the critics praised it, and Clifford's name was almost famous, and it even brought in money...what did her father mean by saying there was nothing in Clifford's writing? What else could there be?
For Connie had adopted the standard of the young: what there was in the moment was everything. And moments followed one another without necessarily belonging to one another.
It was in her second winter at Wragby her father said to her: `I hope, Connie, you won't let circumstances force you into being a demi-vierge.'
`A demi-vierge!' replied Connie vaguely. `Why? Why not?'
`Unless you like it, of course!' said her father hastily. To Clifford he said the same, when the two men were alone: `I'm afraid it doesn't quite suit Connie to be a demi-vierge.'
`A half-virgin!' replied Clifford, translating the phrase to be sure of it.
He thought for a moment, then flushed very red. He was angry and offended.
`In what way doesn't it suit her?' he asked stiffly.
`She's getting thin...angular. It's not her style. She's not the pilchard sort of little slip of a girl, she's a bonny Scotch trout.'
`Without the spots, of course!' said Clifford.
He wanted to say something later to Connie about the demi-vierge business...the half-virgin state of her affairs. But he could not bring himself to do it. He was at once too intimate with her and not intimate enough. He was so very much at one with her, in his mind and hers, but bodily they were non-existent to one another, and neither could bear to drag in the corpus delicti. They were so intimate, and utterly out of touch.
Connie guessed, however, that her father had said something, and that something was in Clifford's mind. She knew that he didn't mind whether she were demi-vierge or demi-monde, so long as he didn't absolutely know, and wasn't made to see. What the eye doesn't see and the mind doesn't know, doesn't exist.
Connie and Clifford had now been nearly two years at Wragby, living their vague life of absorption in Clifford and his work. Their interests had never ceased to flow together over his work. They talked and wrestled in the throes of composition, and felt as if something were happening, really happening, really in the void.
And thus far it was a life: in the void. For the rest it was non-existence. Wragby was there, the servants...but spectral, not really existing. Connie went for walks in the park, and in the woods that joined the park, and enjoyed the solitude and the mystery, kicking the brown leaves of autumn, and picking the primroses of spring. But it was all a dream; or rather it was like the simulacrum of reality. The oak-leaves were to her like oak-leaves seen ruffling in a mirror, she herself was a figure somebody had read about, picking primroses that were only shadows or memories, or words. No substance to her or anything...no touch, no contact! Only this life with Clifford, this endless spinning of webs of yarn, of the minutiae of consciousness, these stories Sir Malcolm said there was nothing in, and they wouldn't last. Why should there be anything in them, why should they last? Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. Sufficient unto the moment is the appearance of reality.
Clifford had quite a number of friends, acquaintances really, and he invited them to Wragby. He invited all sorts of people, critics and writers, people who would help to praise his books. And they were flattered at being asked to Wragby, and they praised. Connie understood it all perfectly. But why not? This was one of the fleeting patterns in the mirror. What was wrong with it?
She was hostess to these people...mostly men. She was hostess also to Clifford's occasional aristocratic relations. Being a soft, ruddy, country-looking girl, inclined to freckles, with big blue eyes, and curling, brown hair, and a soft voice, and rather strong, female loins she was considered a little old-fashioned and `womanly'. She was not a `little pilchard sort of fish', like a boy, with a boy's flat breast and little buttocks. She was too feminine to be quite smart.
So the men, especially those no longer young, were very nice to her indeed. But, knowing what torture poor Clifford would feel at the slightest sign of flirting on her part, she gave them no encouragement at all. She was quiet and vague, she had no contact with them and intended to have none. Clifford was extraordinarily proud of himself.
His relatives treated her quite kindly. She knew that the kindliness indicated a lack of fear, and that these people had no respect for you unless you could frighten them a little. But again she had no contact. She let them be kindly and disdainful, she let them feel they had no need to draw their steel in readiness. She had no real connexion with them.
Time went on. Whatever happened, nothing happened, because she was so beautifully out of contact. She and Clifford lived in their ideas and his books. She entertained...there were always people in the house. Time went on as the clock does, half past eight instead of half past seven.