against even the cronies. He was queer. He preferred the radio, which he had installed at some expense, with

and stunned Connie. But there he would sit, with a blank entranced expression on his face

derneath in him? Connie did now know. She fled up to her room, or out of doors to the wood. A kind

ell of an exterior and a pulpy interior, one of the amazing crabs and lobsters of the modern, industrial and financial world, invertebrates

rious pulpy part of him, the emotional and humanly-individual part, depended on her with terror, like a child, almost like an

and she was amazed at his shrewd insight into things, his power, his uncanny material power over what is called practical men. He had become a practical

fe, a higher being, and he worshipped her with a queer, craven idolatry, like a savage, a worship based on enormous fear, and even ha

after she had the key to the hut---`Would y

rtive apprehension in his

it made no difference

ce to what?'

's going to affect that, then I'm all against it.

at him in

come back to me on

amazement, and he

like it if I had a

`I am quite willing, provided it doesn't touch your lov

empt. Such talk was really the gabbling of an idi

rence to my feeling for you,' s

to strive for then, and I should know it was your child, shouldn't I, dear? And it would seem just the same as my own. Because it is you who count in these matters. You know that, don't you, dear? I don't enter, I am a

istence. What man in his senses would say such things to a woman! But men aren't in their senses. What man with a s

himself in a sort of passionless passion to the woman, as if she were half mistress, half foster-mother to him. An

ed her, and his declaration of private worship put her into a panic. There was nothing between them. She never even touched him nowadays, and he never touched her. He never even took her hand and held it k

n, as she sat brooding, watching the water bubbling co

Lady!' he said, saluting,

much!' she s

you don't mind,' he said. `

ant you to trou

. But they won't be scared of you. I s'll have to see to them mor

ded. `I'd rather not go to the hut at

ly, but distant. But at least he was sane, and wholesome

a cough,'

t pneumonia left me with a

m her, and would no

the afternoon, but he was never there. No doubt he avoi

, he had built a low little roof of boughs and straw, a shelter for the birds, and under it stood the live coops. And, one day when she came, she found two brown hens sitting alert and fierce in the coops, sitting on ph

n the soft nestling ponderosity of the female urge, the female nature, fluffing out their feathers. And with brilliant eyes they watched C

ked at her hand with a fierce little jab, so Connie was frightened. But she was pining to give them something, the brooding m

de her go cold from head to foot. Mrs Bolton's voice made her go cold, and the sound of the business men who came. An occasio

n rain. How terrible it was that it should be spring, and everything cold-hearted, cold-hearted. Only the hens, fluffed so wonderfu

k was greyish brown with dark markings, and it was the most alive little spark of a creature in seven kingdoms at that moment. Connie crouched to watch in a sort of ecstasy. Life, life! pure, sparky, fearless new life! New life! So tiny and so utterly without fear! Even when it scampered a little, sc

er had she felt so acutely the agony of her own

d of painful dream. But sometimes she was kept all day at Wragby, by her duties as

ss the park like one who fears to be called back. The sun was setting rosy as she enter

ng up the coops for the night, so the little occupants would be safe. But still one little trio was pattering

id, panting, glancing shyly at the keeper, a

o far!' he sa

leasure in watching the

l their cheeky heads came poking sharply through the yellow feathers, then withd

y through the bars of the coop. But the mother-hen pecked at he

me!' she said in a wondering voi

nfidence slowly into the coop. The old hen pecked at him, but not so savagely. And slowly, softly, with sure

little stalks of legs, its atom of balancing life trembling through its almost weightless feet into Connie's hands. But it lifted its h

g with an amused face the bold little bird in her

flame shooting and leaping up in his loins, that he had hoped was quiescent for ever. He fough

rward, blindly, so that the chicken should run in to the mother-hen again. And there

ing the chick from her hands, because she was afraid of the hen, and putting it

ly, in all the anguish of her generation's forlornness. His heart melted suddenl

't cry,' he

ce and felt that really her heart was

er back, blindly, with a blind stroking motion, to the curve of her crouching loins. And the

handkerchief and was blin

e hut?' he said, in a

g go of her till she was inside. Then he cleared aside the chair and table, and took a brown, soldier'

ut expression, like that of

ly, and he shut the door, so

desirous hand touching her body, feeling for her face. The hand stroked her face softly, softly,

unclothe her where it wanted. He drew down the thin silk sheath, slowly, carefully, right down and over her feet. Then with a quiver of exquisite pleasure he touched the warm soft body, and touched her

rself no more. Even the tightness of his arms round her, even the intense movement of his body, and the springing of his seed in

this necessary? Why had it lifted a great cloud fro

t was real. But if she kept herself for herself it was nothing. She was old; millions of years old, she felt. And

did not know him. She must only wait, for she did not dare to break his mysterious stillness. He lay there with his arms round her,

ment. He drew her dress in the darkness down over her knees and stood a few moments,

terglow over the oaks. Quickly she got up and arranged he

erhead was crystal. But it shed hardly any light. He came through

go then?

ere

ith you to

way. He locked the door of

e you?' he asked, as

Are you?'

after a while he added: `But

of things?'

her folks. All th

ons?' she said,

for me. There's always complications

ou sorry?'

at the sky. `I thought I'd done w

un w

if

-echoed, with

d if you do keep clear you might almost as well die

t way, but still `It's just

at may be,'

ening wood in silence, till t

te me, do you?' s

ainst his breast again, with the old connecting passion.

a little untruthfully, for she

y, softly, with the

any other people in the wor

at the gate to the park

e any furthe

hand, as if to shake hands.

again?' she as

! Ye

and went acro

t with bitterness he watched her go. She had connected him up again, when he had wanted to

Stacks Gate, smaller lights at Tevershall pit, the yellow lights of Tevershall and lights everywhere, here and there, on the dark country, with the distant blush of furnaces, faint and rosy, since the night was clear, the rosiness of the outpouring of white-hot metal. Sharp,

noises broke the solitude, the sharp lights, though unseen, mocked it. A man could no longer be private and withdrawn. The world allows

he world of the mechanical greedy, greedy mechanism and mechanized greed, sparkling with lights and gushing hot metal and roaring with traffic, there lay the vast evil thing, ready

t all tough rubber-goods and platinum, like the modern girl. And they would do her in! As sure as life, they would do her in, as they do in all naturally tender life. Tender! Somewhere she was tender, tender with a tenderness of the growing hyacinth

ce he loved. His room was clean and tidy, but rather stark. Yet the fire was bright, the hearth white, the petroleum lamp hung bright over the table, with its white oil-cloth. He

n; he was troubled by no conscience in that respect. He knew that conscience was chiefly tear of society, or fear of oneself. He was no

the same time an oppression, a dread of exposing himself and her to that outside Thing that sparkled viciously in the electric lights, weighed down his

wood, slowly, softly. He loved the darkness arid folded himself into it. It fitted the turgidity of his desire which, in spite of all, was like a riches; the stirring restlessness of his penis, the stirring fire in his loins! Oh, if only there were other men to be with, to fight that sparkling electric Thing

rk, home, almost without thinking. As yet she had

s fastened, however, so that she

d a little roguishly. `Sir Clifford hasn't asked for you, though; he's got Mr Linley in w

ather,' sa

ter of an hour? That would give

you'd b

ugh punch to suit Clifford; not up to post-war conditions, nor post-war colliers either, with their `c

s arid a soft repose that sufficiently hid what she was really thinking. Connie had played this woman so much, it was almost second n

tairs and think her own thoughts. She was

sort of warm naive kindness, curious and sudden, that almost opened her womb to him. But she felt he might be kind like that to any woman. Though even so, it was curiously soothing, comforting. And he was a pas

was, but rather cruel to the female, despising her or ignoring her altogether. Men were awfully kind to Constance Reid or to Lady Chatterley; b

aking a silent effort to open their buds. Today she could almost feel it in her own body, the huge heave of the sap in the massive trees, upwards, u

ere running lightly abroad, light as insects, from the coops where the fellow hens clucked anxiously.

She had only half expected him. He never came in the afternoon.

e, a fine drizz

' said Clifford, seei

driz

stinacy. She did want to see the keeper today, to s

tle to you afterwar

him. Had he se

queer---I thought I might

Not feeling reall

e spring. Will you have Mrs Bolt

nk I'll li

low, in an idiotically velveteen-genteel sort of voice, something about a series of street-cries, the very cream of genteel aff

erious, hushed, not cold. She got very warm as she hurri

and half-open buds, half unsheathed flowers. In the dimness of it all trees glistened naked and da

he mother-hens, only one or two last adventurous ones still dibbed about in th

y on purpose. Or perhaps something was wrong.

he bin, the blankets folded on the shelf, the straw neat in a corner; a new bundle of straw.

very softly, filmily, but the wind made no noise. Nothing made any sound. The trees

gain; she would have to

He glanced quickly at the hut, half-saluted, then veered aside and went on to the coops. There he crouched in s

r. She still sat on her stool. He

aid, using the intona

looking up at him

d, looking away

y, drawing asi

t to come in

down at he

somethink, you comin' her

him, at a loss. `I said

hough,' he replied

a loss for

they know?

s does,' he

uivered a

t help it,'

t by not comin'---if yer want t

want to,' s

into the wood,

last. `Think about it! Think how lowered yo

up at his a

ered, `is it that

folks find out Sir Clifford an'

I can g

re t

left me twenty thousand pounds in trust, and

ou don't want

n't care what h

as. You've got to remember your Ladyship is carrying on with a game-ke

really. I feel people are jeering every time they say it

e!

aight at her, and into her eyes.

saw his own eyes go dark, qui

e asked in a husky voice. `You should

us warning pleadi

`If you knew what it is, you'd think I'd be gl

am. I'm afraid. I'm afra

ings?' s

rd jerk of his head, ind

rybody! The

and suddenly kisse

ve it, an' damn the rest. But if you wa

me off,' sh

her cheek and kissed

he said softly. `An' ta

ut of his wet leather jacket,

,' he said, `so we can put

she said. `Dinner i

r swiftly, then

ght,' h

in the hanging hurricane lamp. `One t

l, and drew her to him, holding her close with one arm, feeling for her body with his free hand. S

her, through touch upon her living secret body, almost the ecstasy of beauty. For passion alone is awake to it. And when passion is dead, or absent, then the magnificent throb of beauty is incomprehensible and even a little despicable; warm, live beauty of contact, so much deeper than the beauty of vision. She felt the glide of his c

is separateness. Now perhaps she was condemned to it. She lay still, feeling his motion within her, his deep-sunk intentness, the sudden quiver of him at the springing of his seed, then the slow-subsiding thrust. That thrust of the bu

ouse herself to get a grip on her own satisfaction, as she had done with Mi

cover her poor naked legs with his legs, to keep the

all voice, as if she were close, so clo

ust go,' she

r closer, then rel

r tears. He thought s

o,' she r

her thighs, then drew down her skirts, buttoning his own clothes unthink

time,' he said, looking down at

ng up at him thinking: Stranger! Stra

for his hat, which had falle

ng down at her with those w

lso rather resented staying. He helped her wi

dog under the porch stood up with pleasure seeing him. The drizzle

antern,' he said.

p low, revealing the wet grass, the black shiny tree-roots like snakes,

,' he said, `shall ta? We might as we

oke to her, and in spite of herself she resented the dialect. His `tha mun come' seemed not addressed to her, b

el her distance. As they turned the last bend in the riding towards the hazel wall and the

ay by tread: he was used to it. At the gate he gave her his electric torch. `It's

ace of the park. He suddenly drew her to him and whipped his hand un

n like thee,' he said in his throat.

en force of his w

,' she said, a

suddenly changed

e instant she turned back

the left eye. She held her mouth and he softly kiss

he said, drawing away;

out of the darkness. Already

ght,' s

our Ladyship,

t dark. She could just see the bulk of

ied. `Goodnigh

room unseen. As she closed the door the gong sounded, but she would take her bath all the same---

ers who had had their hey-day in King Edward's time. King Edward had stayed more than once at Shipley, for the shooting. It was a handsome old stucco hall, very elegantly appointed, for Winter was a bachelor and prided himself on his style; but the place was beset by collieries. Leslie Winter was attached to Clifford, but personally did not entertain a great respect for him, because of the photographs

spise her, for he had come almost to hate the shoving forward of the working classes. A man of her own class he would not mind, for Connie was gifted from nature with this appearance of demur

y a gentleman and a man of the world, treated her as a person and a discriminating individual;

things she might do---drive to Sheffield, pay visits, and the thought of all these things was repellent. At last she decided to take a walk, not towards the wood, but in the opposite direction; she would go to Marehay, through the little iron gate in the other side of the park fence. It was a quiet grey day of spring, almost w

me? Don't you know me?' She was afraid of dogs, and Bell stood back and be

own age, had been a school-teacher, but Connie su

oung girl. `Bell, Bell. Why! barking at Lady Chatterley! Bell! Be quiet!' She darted forward

onnie, shaking hands. The Fli

rs Flint, glowing and looking up with a sort of flushed confusion,

ks, I'm a

l winter. Will you come i

hesitated. `Jus

ly after her, hesitating in the rather dark kitchen where

use me,' she said. `W

the rag hearth rug, and the table was roughly set for tea. A

er, and cheeky pale-blue eyes. It was a girl, and not to be daunted. It sat am

id Connie, `and how she's gro

hen it was born, and cellu

you? Who's this, Josephine? Lady Chatterle

d cheekily at Connie. Ladyships

me to me?' said Co

held her in her lap. How warm and lovely it was to hold a child in on

rket, so I can have it when I like. Would you care for a cup, Lady Cha

what she was used to. There was a great relaying of the

n't take any troub

its little female dauntlessness, and got a deep voluptuous pleasure out of its soft young warmth. Young

tled damsons. Mrs Flint flushed and glowed and bridled with excitement, as if Connie w

tle tea, though,

han at home,' said

Flint, not beli

ast Conn

d has no idea where I am. He'll b

laughed Mrs Flint excitedly. `H

onnie, kissing the baby and

emerged in the farm's little front garden, shut in by a privet hedge.

iculas,' sa

alls them,' laughed Mr

cked the velvet an

nough!' sa

the little

you going?' as

he Wa

gin close. But they're not up yet. But

imb,' sai

ust go down the

tling in wild evening triumph in the wood. A man was calling up

aid Mrs Flint severely. `They know

bristled dense. There was a little gate, but it was lo

k,' explained Mrs Flint. `We bring it as far a

said C

ning. Well, goodbye Lady Chatterley! And do

d gruesome and choking. She hurried on with her head down, thinking of the Flints' baby. It was a dear little thing, but it would be a bit bow-legged like its father. It showed already, but perhaps it would grow out of it. How warm and fulfilling somehow

se, and gave a little cry

od in the path like Balaa

?' he said

ou come?'

Have you bee

I went to

searchingly, and she hung

er sternly. `No! I mustn't. I stayed at Marehay. N

said, with a faint ironic smi

her and put his arms around her. She felt the fr

w,' she cried, tryin

lock. You've got half an ho

r her freedom. But something else in her was strange and inert and heavy. H

ked ar

oking penetratingly into the dense fir-trees,

fierce, not loving. But her will had left her. A strange wei

n, put his coat and waistcoat over them, and she had to lie down there under the boughs of the tree, like an animal, while he waited, standing there in his shirt and breeches, wa

en and grip for her own satisfaction upon him. She could only wait, wait and moan in spirit as she felt him withdrawing, withdrawing and contracting, coming to the terrible moment when he would slip out of her and be gone. Whilst all her womb was open and soft, and softly clamouring, like a sea-anemone under the tide, clamouring for him to come in again and make a fulfilment for her. She clung to him unconscious iii passion, and he never quite slipped from her, and she felt the soft bud of him within her stirring, and strange rhythms flushing up into her with a strange rhythmic growing motion, swelling and swelling till it filled all her cleaving consciousness, and then began again the unspeakable motion that was not really motion, but pure deepening whirlpools of sensa

f the tree, unable as yet to move. He stood and fastened up his breeches, looking round. All was dense and silent, save for

him. `We came off toget

d not

live their lives through and they never k

into his br

he said. `Ar

er mind.' He did not want her to talk. And he bent over her

t she

off together?' she aske

ee by the raw look of them.' He spoke

ff like that wit

d at her

,' he said, `

She watched his face, and the passion for him moved in her bowels. She r

his coat, and pushed a way

ouched the wood. `I won't come w

og was waiting so anxiously for him to go, and he se

e adored him till her knees were weak as she walked. In her womb and bowels she was flowing and alive now and vulnerable, and helpless in adoration of him as the most naive woman. It feels

ving a child to oneself and having a child to a man whom one's bowels yearned towards. The former seemed in a sense ordinary: but to have a child to a man whom one adored in one

ecome effaced, and she did not want to be effaced, a slave, like a savage woman. She must not become a slave. She feared her adoration, yet she would not at once fight against it. She knew she could fight it. She had a

ht phallos that had no independent personality behind it, but was pure god-servant to the woman! The man, the indiv

, to be torn to pieces when his service was performed. She felt the force of the Bacchae in her limbs and her body, the woman gleaming and rapid, beati

wer; she was weary of it, stiffened with it; she would sink in the new bath of life, in the depths of her

to see the baby. It's so adorable, with hair like red cobwebs. Such a dear! Mr Flint had

nd sight he sensed something new in her, something to him quite incomprehensible, hut he ascribed it to the baby. H

gate, my Lady,' said Mrs Bolton; `so I tho

n I turned towards

nie's blue and veiled and strangely beautiful. Mrs Bolton was almost sure she

ometimes,' said Mrs Bolton. `I was saying to Sir Clifford, it would

air just like spider-webs, and bright orange, and the oddest, cheekiest, pale-blue china eyes.

tle Flint. They were always a forward

t, Clifford? I've asked the

nie in great uneasiness. `Mrs F

m to tea up in yo

want to see the

don't want to sit throug

looking at him wit

ly see him, he w

y Lady, and Mrs Flint will be more comfortable t

g in her soul exulted. But who was he? Who wa

ense of his flesh touching her, his very stickines

fter dinner, and she had wanted so much to be alone

ll I read to you, or what sha

to me,' sa

ad---verse or pr

cine,' s

y preferred the loudspeaker. But Connie was sewing, sewing a little frock silk of primrose silk, cut out of one of her dresses, for Mrs Flint's baby.

the humming of passion, like t

bout the Racine. She caught the

d, looking up at hi

ly soft and still. She fascinated him helplessly, as if some perfume about her intoxicated him. So he went on helplessly with his

could feel in the same world with her the man, the nameless man, moving on beautiful feet, beautiful in the phallic m

nor eyes, nor feet, nor go

umming inaudibly with myriad unfolding buds. Meanwhile the birds o

broad shoulders and no real legs! What a strange creature, with the sharp, cold inflexible will of some bird, and no warmth, no warmth at all! One of those creatures of the afterwards, that

d up, and was more startled still to see Clifford

do read Racine beautif

sten to him,' he said cruelly. `

ld's dress, for M

ild! A child! That w

l one wants out of Racine. Emotions that are ordered and

vague, veiled eyes. `Yes, I

ized emotion by letting it loose.

o the emotional idiocy of the radio. `People pretend to have emotion

ly!' h

ed him. He would rather have been with his technical bo

Clifford, to make him sleep, and for Connie, to fatten h

kful she needn't help Clifford to bed. She took his glass and

well! The Racine gets into o

ht, after he had spent an evening reading to her. Such depths of callousness in her! Even if the kiss was but a formality, it was on such formalities

ter: then he was haunted by anxiety and a sense of dangerous impending void. He was afraid. And Connie could keep the fear off him, if she would. But it was obvious she wouldn't, she w

d by. Just so that it should be h

t deep, he had put on flesh. And yet, at the same time, he was afraid of death. A terrible hollow seemed to menace him somew

me time, almost impudent. It was a very odd look, this look of impudence: as if he were triumphing over lif

ndeed, when annihilation pressed in on him on every side. Then it was gha

e tea, and she would play chess or piquet with him. She had a woman's queer faculty of playing even chess well enough, when she was three parts asleep, well enough to make her worth beating. So, in the silent intimacy of the night, they sat, or she sat and he lay on the bed, with t

And when she thought of him, the old, old grudge against the world rose up, but especially against the masters, that they had killed him. They ha

the other woman a great grudge against Sir Clifford and all he stood for. At the same time she was playing piquet with him, and the

usually won. Tonight too he was winning. So he would not go to sleep till the fi

rest. He had closed the coops and made his round of the wood, then gone home an

always bitterly. She had seemed so brutal. But he had not seen her now since 1915, in the spring when he joined up.

he had loved: the several years that he had been an officer, a lieutenant with a very fair chance of being a captain. Then the death of the colonel from pneumo

s to serve. He would be alone, and apart from life, which was all he wanted. He had to have some sort of a background. And this was his native place. There was even his mother, t

servants, with their wives and families, he had lost all ambition to `get on'. There was a toughness, a curious rubbernecked toughnes

eful. He admitted now at last, how important manner was. He admitted, also, how important it was even to pretend not to care about the halfpence and the small t

ew the utter futility of expecting any solution of the wage-squabble. There was no s

e only thing they did care about. The care about money was like a great cancer

life offer apart from th

lone, and raise pheasants to be shot ultimately by fat men

older than she. And he was a thousand years older in experience, starting from the bottom. The connexion between them was growing clos

th her lame husband? And also some sort of horrible broil with his own brutal wife, who hated him? Misery! Lots of misery! And he was no

they going to do? What was he, himself going to do? What was he going to do with his life? For h

merica, to try a new air. He disbelieved in the dollar

a stupor of bitter thoughts until midnight, he got su

said to the dog. `

e colliers setting snares for rabbits, particularly the Stacks Gate colliers, on the Marehay side. But it was breeding season, and even colliers r

r ceased working: and there were hardly any lights, save the brilliant electric rows at the works. The world lay darkly and fumily sleeping. It was half past two. But even in its sleep it was an uneasy, cruel world, stirring with the noise of a train or so

e to hold her warm in his arms, both of them wrapped in one blanket, and sleep. All hopes of eternity and all gain from the past he would have given to

cold. And besides, he felt cruelly his own unfinished nature. He felt his own unfinished condition of alonene

along the path towards the house. It was nearly four o'clock, still clear

t was the cruel sense of unfinished aloneness, that needed a silent woman folded in his arms. Perhaps he could

he drive, which made a grand sweep round a lozenge of grass in front of the entrance. He could already see the two magni

s, in Sir Clifford's room. But which room she was in, the woman who held the ot

g the house. Perhaps even now he could find her, come at her in some way. The ho

to the window and draw back the old curtain of dark-blue silk, and stand herself in the dark room, looking out on the half-dark of the approaching day, looking fo

most cried out. For there was a man out there on the drive, a black figure in the twilig

ore defined. She made out the gun and gaiters and baggy jacket---it would be Oliver Mellors

was he standing there for, transfixed, looking up at the house

ugh Mrs Bolton like a shot. He wa

ad helped her a lot with the anatomy and things she had had to learn. He'd been a clever boy, had a scholarship for Sheffield Grammar School, and learned French and things: and then after

at making things clear to you. He was quite as clever as Sir Cliffor

ilure.---For years he was gone, all the time of the war: and a lieutenant and all: quite the gentleman, really quite the gentleman!---Then to come back to Tevershall and go as a game-kee

re was something about him. But fancy! A Tevershall lad born and bred, and she her lady

all your life. Only at times, at times, the gap will be filled in. At times! But you have to wait for the times. Accept your own aloneness and

it, because it must be so. There must be a coming together on both sides. And if she wasn

solation. He knew it was better so. She must come to

disappear, saw his

e one man I might have thought of. He was nice to me when he was a l

he already sleeping Clifford, as