Chapter 2
Connie and Clifford came home to Wragby in the autumn of
1920. Miss
Chatterley, still disgusted at her brother's defection, had
departed and
was living in a little flat in London.
Wragby was a long low old house in brown stone, begun about
the
middle of the eighteenth century, and added on to, till it
was a warren of
a place without much distinction. It stood on an eminence in
a rather line
old park of oak trees, but alas, one could see in the near
distance the
chimney of Tevershall pit, with its clouds of steam and
smoke, and on
the damp, hazy distance of the hill the raw straggle of
Tevershall village,
a 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
12
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.
13
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
14
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, and
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
15
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
16
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, countrylooking
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.
17
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.