Lady Chatterley's Lover

0. Miss Chatterley, still disgusted at her brother's defecti

ak 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

eard 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 w

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 fu

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 slurri

ark, 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 sprea

nt 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 t

nd Connie in the abstract. In the flesh it

the village. The miners' wives were nearly all Methodists. The miners were nothing. But even so much official uniform as the clergyman wore was en

th 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

, 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 cl

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 bro

much too hurt in himself, the great shock of his maiming, to be easy and f

ts 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 a

nybody, save, traditionally, with Wragby, and, through the close bond of family defence, with Emma. Beyond this nothing really touched him. Con

wheel himself about in a wheeled chair, and he had a sort of bath-chair with a motor attachment, in which he could puff

ious 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 vacu

, ne plus ultra. They appeared in the most modern magazines, and were praised and blamed as usual. But to Clif

tonously, insistently, persistently, and she had to respond with all her might. It was as if her whole sou

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 i

er 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 Chatte

he 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 cri

re was in the moment was everything. And moments followed

said to her: `I hope, Connie, you won't let cir

plied Connie vaguel

Clifford he said the same, when the two men were alone: `I'

Clifford, translating the

then flushed very red. He

n't it suit her?'

style. She's not the pilchard sort of little

ots, of course!

f 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

. She knew that he didn't mind whether she were demi-vierge or demi-monde, so long as he didn't absolu

rd and his work. Their interests had never ceased to flow together over his work. They talked and wrestled i

ng. 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 li

itics and writers, people who would help to praise his books. And they were flattered at being asked to Wragby, and they praise

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

rd would feel at the slightest sign of flirting on her part, she gave them no encouragement at all. She was quiet

ad no respect for you unless you could frighten them a little. But again she had no contact. She let them be kindly an

ct. She and Clifford lived in their ideas and his books. She entertained...there were always p