Lady Chatterley's Lover
There was a letter from Hilda on the breakfast-tray. "Father is going to London
this week, and I shall call for you on Thursday week, June 17th. You must be
ready so that we can go at once. I don't want to waste time at Wragby, it's an
awful place. I shall probably stay the night at Retford with the Colemans, so I
should be with you for lunch, Thursday. Then we could start at teatime, and sleep
perhaps in Grantham. It is no use our spending an evening with Clifford. If he
hates your going, it would be no pleasure to him."
So! She was being pushed round on the chess-board again.
Clifford hated her going, but it was only because he didn't feel safe in her
absence. Her presence, for some reason, made him feel safe, and free to do the
things he was occupied with. He was a great deal at the pits, and wrestling in
spirit with the almost hopeless problems of getting out his coal in the most
economical fashion and then selling it when he'd got it out. He knew he ought to
find some way of using it, or converting it, so that he needn't sell it, or needn't
have the chagrin of failing to sell it. But if he made electric power, could he sell
that or use it? And to convert into oil was as yet too costly and too elaborate. To
keep industry alive there must be more industry, like a madness.
It was a madness, and it required a madman to succeed in it. Well, he was a little
mad. Connie thought so. His very intensity and acumen in the affairs of the pits
seemed like a manifestation of madness to her, his very inspirations were the
inspirations of insanity.
He talked to her of all his serious schemes, and she listened in a kind of wonder,
and let him talk. Then the flow ceased, and he turned on the loudspeaker, and
became a blank, while apparently his schemes coiled on inside him like a kind of
And every night now he played pontoon, that game of the Tommies, with Mrs.
Bolton, gambling with sixpences. And again, in the gambling he was gone in a
kind of unconsciousness, or blank intoxication, or intoxication of blankness,
whatever it was. Connie could not bear to see him. But when she had gone to
bed, he and Mrs. Bolton would gamble on till two and three in the morning,
safely, and with strange lust. Mrs. Bolton was caught in the lust as much as
Clifford: the more so, as she nearly always lost.
She told Connie one day: "I lost twenty-three shillings to Sir Clifford last night."
"And did he take the money from you?" asked Connie aghast.
"Why of course, my Lady! Debt of honour!'"
Connie expostulated roundly, and was angry with both of them. The upshot was,
Sir Clifford raised Mrs. Bolton's wages a hundred a year, and she could gamble
on that. Meanwhile, it seemed to Connie, Clifford was really going deader.
She told him at length she was leaving on the seventeenth.
"Seventeenth!" he said. "And when will you be back?"
"By the twentieth of July at the latest."
"Yes! the twentieth of July."