Lady Chatterley's Lover

by D. H. Lawrence

  “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 under-cashier’s wife. They thought it marvellous. And then started 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 millimeter, indeed! And with his old-fashioned, rather haw-haw! manner of speaking, he seemed more out-of-date than bagwigs. 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, acidulated air at a fairly strong pressure. It had long been observed 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 I’m afraid I am a little out-of-date, and my collieries are like me.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 rumor that we may entertain hopes of an heir to Wragby?”

  “Is there a rumor?” asked Clifford.

  “Well, my dear boy, Marshall from Fillingwood asked me, that’s all I can say about a rumor. 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 rumor 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.”

  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 a 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 simplicity, 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 Lido! And I don’t fancy I shall like Sir Alexander 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!”

  “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 another 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 would 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! Connie 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 dismal. It was rather chilly, and there was smoke in the rain, and a certain sense of exhaust vapor 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 absence 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 green-grocers’! the awful hats in the milliners’! all went by ugly, ugly, ugly, followed by the plaster-and-gilt horror of the cinema with its wet picture announcements, “A Woman’s Love!”, and the new big Primitive chapel, primitive enough in its stark brick and big panes of greenish and raspberry 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 scho
ol buildings, expensive pink brick, and gravelled playground inside iron railings, all very imposing, and mixing the suggestion of a chapel and a prison. Standard Five girls were having a singing lesson, just finishing the la-me-do-la exercises and beginning a “sweet children’s song.” Anything more unlike song, spontaneous song, would be impossible to imagine: 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 down-hill, 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 down-hill, past the Miners Arms. It had already passed the Wellington, the Nelson, the Three Tunns 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 Connie had realized since she had come to live in it. It was producing a new race of mankind, over-conscious in the money and social and political side, on the spontaneous, intuitive side dead—but dead! Half-corpses, all of them: but with a terrible insistent consciousness in the other half. There was something uncanny and underground about it all. It was an underworld. 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 hopelessness 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 fellowship 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 center of it.

  The car was rising towards Stacks Gate. The rain was holding 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 plastering 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 still it hung its bulk on the low skyline, 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 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 insignificant 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, down-hill 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 vapor rose from the new works up above, and this was now Stacks Gate: no chapel, 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 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, center 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 Tevershall: Wragby, a “seat.”

  The miners’ cottages, blackened, stood flush on the pavement 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 lorries 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, s
moke waved against steam, and patch after patch of raw reddish brick showed the newer mining settlements, sometimes in the hollows, sometimes gruesomely 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 miners prowled with the dismalness of suppressed sporting instincts, 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 illusion of a connection with the Elizabethans. The handsome old halls are here, 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 are abandoned. Now they are being pulled down. As for the cottages of England—there they are—great plasterings 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 departing 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 reallze that it was really blotted out by this terrifying new and gruesome 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.