This edition is a Bantam re-issue of the "Original Unexpurgated 1928 Orioli Edition" with a 1968 preface by Lawrence Durrell and a newer introduction by Ronald Friedland. The backstory and explanations about this book were almost as fascinating as the book itself. Because of the language and the subject matter, Lawrence knew it would have trouble getting it published in England so it was published in Italy. I remember reading this book in either my late teens or early 20's. I don't remember finding the book to be anything special at the time - though I was probably equal parts titillated and made anxious by the language and sex scenes, having been an obedient and overtly conforming child.
Reading this book now, from the vantage point of well-established adulthood, I found the descriptive language enthralling and the perspective on the industrial age fascinating. The use of dialect - and I'm more tolerant of the use of words like fuck and cunt now - not because I'm more tolerant to crude language (I still think it's lazy, limiting and monotonous) but because I'm open to the idea that Lawrence needed to use these words to communicate the point he was trying to make. This changed viewpoint no doubt owes something to the years I've accumulated but also something to the course texts I've been reading and discussing since September. I also think it reflects how the world has changed in the last few decades, that is, even within my lifetime.
The book starts out with Sir Clifford and Lady Chatterly [Constance] married; and though they feel during their one month's honeymoon that they are intimate, it's not a physical intimacy.
this intimacy which was beyond sex, and beyond a man's "satisfaction. ... No, the intimacy was deeper, more personal than that. And the sex was merely an accident, or an adjunct: one of the curious obsolete, organic processes which persisted in its own clumsiness, but was not really necessary. pg 9
After the honeymoon in 1917 Clifford ships off to war. He is shipped back home in 1918, "smashed", paralyzed and with no interest in any physical intimacy with Connie. Their life is one of her supporting him in his efforts to achieve fame and fortune as a writer. His dependence and her subservience as 'helpmeet' create a life they both initially deem intimacy. Connie eventually looks for something more and begins a sexual love affair with Sir Clifford's gamekeeper, Mellors. Mellors is a Tevershall man, born into a collier family but raised above his 'station' during his service during the war, in India. He comes back, somewhat physically damaged by the war, emotionally damaged by his unhappy marriage to a local woman, and determined to live a quiet life in the woods, alone.
Lawrence expounds upon 2 main themes in his novel: the evils of industrialization and the redeeming power of sexual connection. His descriptions of the Nottinghamshire countryside, where he grew up, are evocative of the blight that descended upon the green countryside of England.
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 long and gruesome mile: houses, rows of wretched, small, begrimed, brick houses, with black slate roofs for lids, sharp angles and wilful, blank dreariness. pg 10
The people were as haggard, shapeless, and dreary as the countryside, and as unfriendly. pg 11
...up a dark, damp drive, burrowing through gloomy trees, out to the slope of the park where grey damp sheep were feeding... pg 11Sir Clifford's friends are all a bit effete, snobs with various character gaps and hangups, prejudices and damage. The most appealing of these for me was Tommy Dukes, his bachelor friend who, when asked whether he believes in anything, replies:
"Me? Oh, intellectually I believe in having a good heart, a chirpy penis, a lively intelligence, and the courage to say 'shit!' in front of a lady." [pg 40]Lawrence writes well about the class system and its inflexibility. He describes the gulf between Wragby Hall, seat of the Chatterly's, and the village people of Tevershall, writing on page 12
Gulf impassable, breach indescribable, such as is perhaps non-existent 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.The character of Michaelis, Lady Chatterly's 'upstart' Irish lover gives Lawrence a chance to show the relentless class system in England, in Clifford's contempt for his presumption and for being, despite all his success and his polish, the "wrong sort", an arriviste and a "Dublin mongrel." Connie feels some sympathy for him, the outsider - "and when her sympathy was awakened she was quite devoid of class feeling." [pg 23] Michaelis doesn't reach her as a woman though, despite the sex - he doesn't love her. For Lawrence, achieving orgasm at the same time is a key feature of true union between a man and a woman. While I admired his attempts to describe love, sex etc through a woman's viewpoint, the main perspective in the book seemed very much male, with this being just one example.
Clifford is an unsympathetic character. I initially felt sorry for him, gone to war to do his duty and returned home broken and empty. However he is very self-absorbed, and becomes increasingly selfish - with a child's selfishness - as the years passed. He is a snob and a man who, even without the excuse of injury and paralysis, would have self-restricted himself to a shallow, cold life empty of human connection. Though sexual intromission is not possible for him, he has no desire for any physical intimacy with his wife, no physical connection. His sense of entitlement due to his class, heritage and position are accepted by him to be his god-given birthright.
"No wonder the men hate you," she said.
"They don't!" he replied. "And don't fall into errors: in your sense of the word, they are not men. They are animals you don't understand, and never could. Don't thrust your illusions on other people. The masses were always the same, and will always be the same. Nero's slaves were extremely little different from our collier or the Ford motorcar workmen...It is the masses: they are the unchangeable. It is one of the most momentous facts of social science. Panem et circenses! Only today education is one of the bad substitutes for a circus. What is wrong today, is that we've made a profound hash of the circuses part of the programme, and posioned our masses with a little education."
[...] "And what we need to take up now," he said, "is whips, nor swords. The masses have been ruled since time began, and till time ends, ruled they will have to be. It is sheer hypocrisy and farce to say they can rule themselves." [pg 200]Despite Sir Clifford's opinion that the masses and the class system are immutable, and not only should not be changed but cannot be changed, he is just as fully convinced that, give him a son fathered by anyone, and he can bring him up a proper Chatterly, ready and able to assume his rightful position.
"I don't care who his father might be, so long as he is a healthy man not below normal intelligence. Give me the child of any healthy, normally intelligent man, and I will make a perfectly competent Chatterly of him. It is not who begets us, that matters, but where fate places us. Place any child among the ruling classes, and he will grow up, to his own extent, a ruler. Put kings' and dukes' children among the masses, and they'll be little plebeians, mass products. It is the overwhelming pressure of environment."
"Then the common people aren't a race, and the aristocrats aren't blood," she said.
"No, my child! A; that is romantic illusion. Aristocracy is a function, a part of fate. And the masses are a functioning of another part of fate. The individual hardly matters. It is a question of which function you are brought up to and adapted to. It is not the individuals that make an aristocracy: it is the functioning of the aristocratic whole. And it is the functioning of the whole mass that makes the common man what he is."
"Then there is no common humanity between us all!"
"Just as you like. We all need to fill our bellies. But when it comes to expressive or executive functioning, I believe there is a gulf and an absolute one, between the ruling and the serving classes. The two functions are opposed. And the function determines the individual." [pg 201]
Lawrence also speaks insightfully about the emotional trauma or damage to the psyche that can persist or which can take years to manifest (he likens it to a slowly developing bruise). This must have been something seen in returning soldiers after WW1 but it also makes me think of Freud's research and that of other psychoanalysts of the previous 50 years. This slow persistent trauma crops up in both Sir Clifford and in Mellors, both damaged in the war. He has a great passage about decay and time marching on:
all the brilliant words seemed like dead leaves, crumpling up and turning to powder, meaning really nothing, blown away on any gust of wind. They were not the leafy words of an effective life, young with energy and belonging to the tree. They were the hosts of fallen leaves of a life that is ineffectual. [pg 52]
Lawrence wrote many passages celebrating nature and "Olde England" and decrying industrialization and the pace of change of modernity. While this mainly manifests itself in Mellors, the gamekeeper, Clifford too longs to preserve the old ways:
Clifford loved the wood; he loved the old oak trees [of the wood around Wragby Hall]. He felt they were his own through generations. He wanted to protect them. He wanted this place inviolate, shut off from the world. [pg 43]
The air was soft and dead, as if all the world were slowly dying. Grey and clammy and silent, even from the shuffling of the collieries, for the pits were working short time, and today they were stopped altogether. The end of all things!
In the wood all was utterly inert and motionless, only great drops fell from the bare boughs, with a hollow little crash. For the rest, among the old trees was depth within depth of grey, hopeless, inertia, silence, nothingness.
Connie walked dimly on. From the old wood came an ancient melancholy, somehow soothing to her, better than the harsh insentience of the outer world. She liked the inwardness of the remnant of forest, the unspeaking reticence of the old trees. They seemed a very power of silence, and yet a vital presence... [pg 69]
There is also much phallic imagery in the book, Sex, potency and especially male sexuality are used as the barometer of a healthy life, a true life, of humanity. Some examples of Lawrence's powers of imagery [pg 92]:
Constance sat down with her back to a young pine tree, that swayed against her with curious life, elastic, and powerful, rising up. The erect, alive thing, with its top in the sun!
Today she could almost feel it in her own body, the huge heave of sap in the massive trees, upwards, up, up to the bud-tips, there to push into little flakey oak leaves, bronze as blood. It was like a tide running turgid upward, and spreading on the sky. [pg 132]I found it interesting that Lawrence chose to write the book from a woman's point of view. Some of his passages seem awkward and like what a man would think a woman might feel. Some seemed more discerning, such as when Michaelis the Irish lover is half-heartedly trying to convince Connie to leave Clifford and live with him.
Connie looked at him amazed: and yet she felt nothing. These men, they were all alike, they left everything out. They just went off from the top of their heads as if they were squibs, and expected you to be carried heavenwards along with their own thin sticks. [pg 54-55]
Nature is used as the antithesis of the industrialization, the civilization, the modernity of the world. Lawrence sees that movement away from the natural to be the main cause and symptom of man's decay and eventually his destruction. Mellors is his voice in this.
When the last real man is killed, and they're all tame: white, black, yellow, all colours of tame ones: then they'll all be insane. Because the root of sanity is in the balls. Then they'll all be insane...they'll make their own grand little act of faith. They'll offer one another up."
"You mean they'll kill one another?"
"I do...! If we go on at our present rate then in a hundred year's time there won't be ten thousand people in this island: there may not be ten. They'll have lovingly wiped each other out. [...] To contemplate the extermination of the human species and the long pause that follows before some other species crops up, it calms you more than anything else. And if we go on in this way, with everybody, intellectuals, artists, government, industrialists and workers all frantically killing off the last human feeling, the last bit of their intuition, the last healthy instinct; if it goes on in algebraical progression, as it is going on: then ta-tah! to the human species... "[pg 239]
"...when I feel the human world is doomed, has doomed itself by its own mingy beastliness, then I feel ... the moon wouldn't be far enough, because even there you could look back and see the earth, dirty, beastly, unsavoury among all the stars: made foul by men. [...] [I]t's a shame, what's been done to people these last hundred years: men turned into nothing but labour-insects, and all their manhood taken away, and all their real life. I'd wipe machines off the face of the earth again, and end the industrial epoch absolutely, like a black mistake. [pg 242]
Lawrence also makes frequent mention of Mammon and the bitch-goddess of success. Mellors the gamekeeper is a damaged man who has decided that retreat into solitude and nature are all he wants out of life. When he connects with Lady Chatterly he is dragged back into the world of feeling, connection, relationship.
But he knew that the seclusion of the wood was illusory. The industrial noises broke the solitude, the sharp lights, though unseen, mocked it. A man could no longer be private and withdrawn. The world allows no hermits. And now he had taken the woman, and brought on himself a new cycle of pain and doom. For he knew by experience what it meant.
It was not the woman's fault, not even love's fault, nor the fault of sex. The fault lay there, out there, in those evil electric lights and diabolical rattlings of engines. There, in the world of the mechanical greedy, greedy mechanism and mechanised greed, sparkling with lights and gushing hot metal and roaring with traffic, there lay the vast evil thing, ready to destroy whatever did not conform...
He thought with infinite tenderness of the woman. Poor forlorn thing.... And they would do her in! As sure as life, they would do her in, as they do in all naturally tender life.... But he would protect her with his heart for a little while. For a little while, before the insentient iron world and the Mammon of mechanized greed did them both in, her as well as him. [pg 129-130]Lawrence is equally pessimistic about society: "...conscience was chiefly fear of society, or fear of oneself. [...] He was quite consciously afraid of society, which he knew by instinct to be a malevolent, partly-insane beast." [pg 130] and about civilization:
The young ones get mad because they've no money to spend. Their whole life depends on spending money, and now they've got none to spend. That's our civilization and our education: bring up the masses to depend entirely on spending money, and then the money gives out...The women are the maddest of all. But then they're the maddest for spending, nowadays. [...] [pg 220]
If you could only tell them that living and spending are not the same thing!
Money poisons you when you've got it, and starves you when you haven't. [...] I feel great grasping white hands in the air, wanting to get hold of the throat of anybody who tries to live, to live beyond money, and squeeze the life out. [pg 331]Some of his writing and themes reminded me of Hemingway and trying to get back to basic pleasures, lives of action and simple motivations. It fit in well with what we've been reading of Darwin and of Freud as well as the class concerns and angst of Dostoyesvsky. I'm finding all the books we're reading swirling around in my brain and it's hard to pick out one thread or trail that I want to explore. I wish I had unlimited time to explore all these thoughts and questions.
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