Lady Chatterley's Lover

by D. H. Lawrence

  Sir Malcolm was painting. Yes, he still would do a Venetian lagoonscape, now and then, in contrast to his Scottish landscapes. So in the morning he was rowed off with a huge canvas, to his “site.” A little later, Lady Cooper would be rowed off into the heart of the city, with sketching-block and colors. She was an inveterate water-color painter, and the house was full of rose-colored palaces, dark canals, swaying bridges, medieval façades, and so on. A little later the Guthries, the prince, the countess, Sir Alexander and sometimes Mr. Lind, the chaplain, would go off to the Lido where they would bathe; coming home to a late lunch at half-past one.

  The house-party, as a house-party, was distinctly boring. But this did not trouble the sisters. They were out all the time. Their father took them to the exhibition, miles and miles of weary paintings. He took them to all the cronies of his in the Villa Lucchese, he sat with them on warm evenings in Piazza, having got a table at Florian’s: he took them to the theater, to the Goldoni plays. There were illuminated water-fêtes, there were dances. This was a holiday-place of all holiday-places. The Lido with its acres of sun-pinked or pyjamaed bodies, was like a strand with an endless heap of seals come up for mating. Too many people in Piazza, too many limbs and trunks of humanity on the Lido, too many gondolas, too many motor-launches, too many steamers, too many pigeons, too many ices, too many cocktails, too many men servants wanting tips, too many languages rattling, too much, too much sun, too much smell of Venice, too many cargoes of strawberries, too many silk shawls, too many huge, raw-beef slices of watermelon on stalls: too much enjoyment, altogether far too much enjoyment!

  Connie and Hilda went around in their sunny frocks. There were dozens of people they knew, dozens of people knew them. Michaelis turned up like a bad penny. “Hullo! Where you staying? Come and have an ice cream or something! Come with me somewhere in my gondola.” Even Michaelis almost sun-burned: though sun-cooked is more appropriate to the look of the mass of human flesh.

  It was pleasant in a way. It was almost enjoyment. But anyhow, with all the cocktails, all the lying in warmish water and sun-bathing on hot sand in hot sun, jazzing with your stomach up against some fellow in the warm nights, cooling off with ices, it was a complete narcotic. And that was what they all wanted, a drug: the slow water, a drug; the sun, a drug; jazz, a drug; cigarettes, cocktails, ices, vermouth. To be drugged! Enjoyment! Enjoyment!

  Hilda half liked being drugged. She liked looking at all the women, speculating about them. The women were absorbingly interested in the women. How does she look? what man has she captured? what fun is she getting out of it?—The men were like great dogs in white flannel trousers, waiting to be patted, waiting to wallow, waiting to plaster some woman’s stomach against their own, in jazz.

  Hilda liked jazz; because she could plaster her stomach against the stomach of some so-called man, and let him control her movements from the visceral center, here and there across the floor, and then she could break loose and ignore “the creature.” He had been merely made use of. Poor Connie was rather unhappy. She wouldn’t jazz, because she simply couldn’t plaster her stomach against some “creature’s” stomach. She hated the conglomerate mass of nearly nude flesh on the Lido: there was hardly enough water to wet them all. She disliked Sir Alexander and Lady Cooper. She did not want Michaelis or anybody else trailing her.

  The happiest times were when she got Hilda to go with her away across the Lagoon, far across to some lonely shingle-bank, where they could bathe quite alone, the gondola remaining on the inner side of the reef.

  Then Giovanni got another gondolier to help him, because it was a long way and he sweated terrifically in the sun. Giovanni was very nice: affectionate, as the Italians are, and quite passionless. The Italians are not passionate: passion has deep reserves. They are easily moved, and often affectionate, but they rarely have any abiding passion of any sort.

  So Giovanni was already devoted to his ladies, as he had been devoted to cargoes of ladies in the past. He was perfectly ready to prostitute himself to them, if they wanted him: he secretly hoped they would want him. They would give him a handsome present, and it would come in very handy, as he was just going to be married. He told them about his marriage, and they were suitably interested.

  He thought this trip to some lonely bank across the lagoon probably meant business: business being l’amore, love. So he got a mate to help him, for it was a long way; and after all, they were two ladies. Two ladies, two mackerels! Good arithmetic! Beautiful ladies too! He was justly proud of them. And though it was the Signora who paid him and gave him orders, he rather hoped it would be the young milady who would select him for l’amore. She would give more money too.

  The mate he brought was called Daniele. He was not a regular gondolier, so he had none of the cadger and prostitute about him. He was a sandola man, a sandola being a big boat that brings in fruit and produce from the islands.

  Daniele was beautiful, tall and well-shapen, with a light round head of little, close, pale-blond curls, and a goodlooking man’s face, a little like a lion, and long-distance blue eyes. He was not effusive, loquacious, and bibulous like Giovanni. He was silent and he rowed with a strength and ease as if he were alone on the water. The ladies were ladies, remote from him. He did not even look at them. He looked ahead.

  He was a real man, a little angry when Giovanni drank too much wine and rowed awkwardly, with effusive shoves of the great oar. He was a man as Mellors was a man, unprostituted. Connie pitied the wife of the easily-overflowing Giovanni. But Daniele’s wife could be one of those sweet Venetian women of the people whom one still sees, modest and flower-like, in the back of that labyrinth of a town.

  Ah, how sad that man first prostitutes woman, then woman prostitutes man. Giovanni was pining to prostitute himself, dribbling like a dog, wanting to give himself to a woman. And for money!

  Connie looked at Venice far off, low and rose-colored upon the water. Built of money, blossomed of money, and dead with money. The money-deadness! Money, money, money, prostitution and deadness.

  Yet Daniele was still a man capable of a man’s free allegiance. He did not wear the gondolier’s blouse: only the knitted blue jersey. He was a little wild, uncouth and proud. So he was hireling to the rather doggy Giovanni, who was hireling again to two women. So it is! When Jesus refused the devil’s money, he left the devil like a Jewish banker, master of the whole situation.

  Connie would come home from the blazing light of the lagoon in a kind of stupor, to find letters from home. Clifford wrote regularly. He wrote very good letters: they might all have been printed in a book. And for this reason Connie found them not very interesting.

  She lived in the stupor of the light of the lagoon, the lapping saltiness of the water, the space, the emptiness, the nothingness: but health, health, complete stupor of health. It was gratifying, and she was lulled away in it, not caring for anything. Besides, she was pregnant. She knew now. So the stupor of sunlight and the lagoon salt and sea-bathing and lying on shingle and finding shells and drifting away, away in a gondola was completed by the pregnancy inside her, another fulness of health, satisfying and stupefying.

  She had been at Venice a fortnight, and she was to stay another ten days or a fortnight. The sunshine blazed over any count of time, and the fulness of physical health made forgetfulness complete. She was in a sort of stupor of well-being.

  From which a letter of Clifford roused her.

  “We, too, have had our mild local excitement. It appears the truant wife of Mellors, the keeper, turned up at the cottage, and found herself unwelcome. He packed her off and locked the door. Report has it, however, that when he returned from the wood he found the no longer fair lady firmly established in his bed, in puris naturalibus; or one should say, in impuris naturalibus. She had broken a window and got in that way. Unable to evict the somewhat manhandled Venus from his couch, he beat a retreat and retired, it is said, to his mother’s house in Tevershall. Meanwhile, the Venus of Stacks Gate is established in
the cottage, which she claims is her home, and Apollo, apparently, is domiciled in Tevershall.

  “I repeat this from hearsay, as Mellors has not come to me personally. I had the particular bit of local garbage from our garbage bird, our ibis, our scavenging turkey-buzzard, Mrs. Bolton. I would not have repeated it had she not exclaimed: her Ladyship will go no more to the wood if that woman’s going to be about!

  “I like your picture of Sir Malcolm striding into the sea with white hair blowing and pink flesh glowing. I envy you that sun. Here it rains. But I don’t envy Sir Malcolm his inveterate mortal carnality. However, it suits his age. Apparently one grows more carnal and more mortal as one grows older. Only youth has a taste of immortality—”

  This news affected Connie in her state of semi-stupefied well-being with vexation amounting to exasperation. Now she had got to be bothered by that beast of a woman! Now she must start and fret! She had no letter from Mellors. They had agreed not to write at all, but now she wanted to hear from him personally. After all, he was the father of the child that was coming. Let him write!

  But how hateful! How everything was messed up. How foul those low people were! How nice it was here, in the sunshine and the indolence, compared to that dismal mess of that English midlands! After all, a clear sky was almost the most important thing in life.

  She did not mention the fact of her pregnancy, even to Hilda. She wrote to Mrs. Bolton for exact information.

  Duncan Forbes, an artist, friend of theirs, had arrived at the Villa Esmeralda, coming north from Rome. Now he made a third in the gondola, and he bathed with them across the lagoon, and was their escort: a quiet, almost taciturn young man, very advanced in his art.

  She had a letter from Mrs. Bolton: “You will be pleased, I am sure, my Lady, when you see Sir Clifford. He’s looking quite blooming and working very hard, and very hopeful. Of course, he is looking forward to seeing you among us again. It is a dull house without my Lady, and we shall all welcome her presence among us once more.

  “About Mr. Mellors, I don’t know how much Sir Clifford told you. It seems his wife came back all of a sudden one afternoon, and he found her sitting on the doorstep when he came in from the wood. She said she was come back to him and wanted to live with him again, as she was his legal wife, and he wasn’t going to divorce her. Because it seems Mr. Mellors was trying for a divorce. But he wouldn’t have anything to do with her, and wouldn’t let her in the house, and did not go in himself; he went back into the wood without even opening the door.

  “But when he came back after dark, he found the house broken into, so he went upstairs to see what she’d done, and he found her in bed without a rag on her. He offered her money, but she said she was his wife and he must take her back. I don’t know what sort of a scene they had. His mother told me about it, she’s terribly upset. Well, he told her he’d rot rather than ever live with her again, so he took his things and went straight to his mother’s on Tevershall hill. He stopped the night and went to the wood next day through the park, never going near the cottage. It seems he never saw his wife that day. But the day after she was at her brother Dan’s at Beggarlee, swearing and carrying on, saying she was his legal wife, and that he’d been having women at the cottage, because she’d found a scent-bottle in his drawer, and gold-tipped cigarette-ends on the ash-heap, and I don’t know what all. Then it seems the postman, Fred Kirk, says he heard somebody talking in Mr. Mellors’ bedroom early one morning, and a motor car had been in the lane.

  “Mr. Mellors stayed on with his mother, and went to the wood through the park and it seems she stayed on at the cottage. Well, there was no end of talk. So at last Mr. Mellors and Tom Phillips went to the cottage and fetched away most of the furniture and bedding, and unscrewed the handle of the pump, so she was forced to go. But instead of going back to Stacks Gate she went and lodged with that Mrs. Swain at Beggarlee, because her brother Dan’s wife wouldn’t have her. And she kept going to old Mrs. Mellors’ house, to catch him, and she began swearing he’d got in bed with her in the cottage, and she went to a lawyer to make him pay her an allowance. She’s grown heavy, and more common than ever, and as strong as a bull. And she goes about saying the most awful things about him, how he has women at the cottage, and how he behaved to her when they were married, the low, beastly things he did to her, and I don’t know what all. I’m sure it’s awful, the mischief a woman can do, once she starts talking. And no matter how low she may be, there’ll be some as will believe her, and some of the dirt will stick. I’m sure the way she makes out that Mr. Mellors was one of those low, beastly men with women, is simply shocking. And people are only too ready to believe things against anybody, especially things like that. She declares she’ll never leave him alone while he lives. Though what I say is, if he was so beastly to her, why is she so anxious to go back to him? But, of course, she’s coming near her change of life, for she’s years older than he is. And these common, violent women always go partly insane when the change of life comes upon them.”—

  This was a nasty blow to Connie. Here she was, sure as life, coming in for her share of the lowness and dirt. She felt angry with him for not having got clear of a Bertha Coutts: nay, for ever having married her. Perhaps he had a certain hankering after lowness. Connie remembered the last night she had spent with him, and shivered. He had known all that sensuality, even with a Bertha Coutts! It was really rather disgusting. It would be well to be rid of him, clear of him altogether. He was perhaps really common, really low.

  She had a revulsion against the whole affair, and almost envied the Guthrie girls their gawky inexperience and crude maidenliness. And she now dreaded the thought that anybody would know about herself and the keeper. How unspeakably humiliating! She was weary, afraid, and felt a craving for utter respectability, even for the vulgar and deadening respectability of the Guthrie girls. If Clifford knew about her affair, how unspeakably humiliating! She was afraid, terrified of society and its unclean bite. She almost wished she could get rid of the child again, and be quite clear. In short, she fell into a state of funk.

  As for the scent-bottle, that was her own folly. She had not been able to refrain from perfuming his one or two handkerchiefs and his shirts in the drawer, just out of childishness, and she had left a little bottle of Coty’s Wood-violet perfume, half empty, among his things. She wanted him to remember her in the perfume. As for the cigarette-ends, they were Hilda’s.

  She could not help confiding a little in Duncan Forbes. She didn’t say she had been the keeper’s lover, she only said she liked him, and told Forbes the history of the man.

  “Oh,” said Forbes, “you’ll see, they’ll never rest till they’ve pulled the man down and done him in. If he has refused to creep up into the middle classes, when he had a chance; and if he’s a man who stands up for his own sex, then they’ll do him in. It’s the one thing they won’t let you be, straight and open in your sex. You can be as dirty as you like. In fact the more dirt you do on sex, the better they like it. But if you believe in your own sex, and won’t have it done dirt to: they’ll down you. lt’s the one insane taboo left: sex as a natural and vital thing. They won’t have it, and they’ll kill you before they’ll let you have it. You’ll see, they’ll hound that man down. And what’s he done after all? If he’ made love to his wife all ends on, hasn’t he a right to? She ought to be proud of it. But you see, even a low bitch like that turns on him, and uses the hyena instinct of the mob against sex, to pull him down. You have to snivel and feel sinful or awful about your sex, before you’re allowed to have any. Oh, they’ll hound the poor devil down.”

  Connie had a revulsion in the opposite direction now. What had he done, after all? What had he done to herself, Connie, but give her an exquisite pleasure, and a sense of freedom and life? He had released her warm, natural sexual flow. And for that they would hound him down.

  No, no, it should not be. She saw the image of him, naked white with tanned face and hands, looking down and addressing his erect pe
nis as if it were another being, the odd grin flickering on his face. And she heard his voice again: Tha’s got the nicest woman’s arse of anybody! And she felt his hand warmly and softly closing over her tail again, over her secret places, like a benediction. And the warmth ran through her womb, and the little flames flickered in her knees and she said: Oh no! I mustn’t go back on it! I must not go back on him. I must stick to him and to what I had of him, through everything. I had no warm, flamy life till he gave it me. And I won’t go back on it.

  She did a rash thing. She sent a letter to Ivy Bolton, enclosing a note to the keeper, and asking Mrs. Bolton to give it to him. And she wrote to him: “I am very much distressed to hear of all the trouble your wife is making for you, but don’t mind it, it is only a sort of hysteria. It will all blow over as suddenly as it came. But I’m awfully sorry about it, and I do hope you are not minding very much. After all, it isn’t worth it. She is only a hysterical woman who wants to hurt you. I shall be home in ten days’ time, and I hope everything will be all right.”

  A few days later came a letter from Clifford. He was evidently upset.

  “I am delighted to hear you are prepared to leave Venice on the sixteenth. But if you are enjoying it, don’t hurry home. We miss you, Wragby misses you. But it is essential that you should get your full amount of sunshine, sunshine and pyjamas, as the advertisements of the Lido say. So please do stay on a little longer, if it is cheering you up and preparing you for our sufficiently awful winter. Even today, it rains.