CHAPTER TWO

In the autumn of 1920, the Chatterleys arrived at Wragby Hall. Their house, once a fine home, was now a bit sad and unimpressive, due to the many attempts by its owners to make it larger. It was located in a beautiful park full of tall Oak trees. However, this beauty suffered from the presence of a nearby coalmine and the view of the ugly village of Tevershall, which lay down below, at the bottom of the hill.

Constance, being used to the comfort and beauty of her family's Kensington home, was quite surprised by the ugliness of this part of England, but told herself not to think much about it, for it would only upset both her and Clifford. She hoped that the inside of the house might help her to forget what she had seen outside. However, this was not so, because she could hear the sounds of labor coming from the mine: trains, trucks, and hammers. Constance could smell the mine, as well. She learned from Clifford that it had been on fire for years and that, because it was so difficult to put out, it would probably continue to burn for a few years more. On days when the wind was blowing from the mine toward Wragby Hall, the whole house would smell of coal and dirt.

On their first day in Wragby, as they were driven home from the train station, Connie noticed that the people of the town did not seem friendly toward Clifford. They would not raise their hands to say 'Hello', and no smile ever appeared on any of the passing faces. They simply stared as they drove by. Obviously, she and her husband would not have many friends in this town. Of course, there were times when she had to talk with the wives of the miners. When she did, they always seemed false toward her. In the end, Connie decided to do as Clifford did: ignore them. So, she let them stare and make their terrible comments to one another about her.

When Clifford had to do business with these people, he often showed them very little respect. He looked down on them all and they knew it. But he was neither hated nor liked by the people. He was just another part of Wragby that everyone simply accepted. Now that he could no longer walk, Clifford was not quite as arrogant as before. He was a little embarrassed about his condition and made sure not to see anybody but Connie and his house servants. Seeing him so easily hurt, so delicate, Connie could not help but love him more and more.

Clifford's view of the miners was troubling to Connie, however. He did not think of them as men, but rather as tools for removing riches from the ground. He saw them as animals, and almost feared them. But this feeling applied to almost everyone else, as well. The only thing that made Connie seem more special than others was the care that she provided for him. He had now been made a helpless child. He needed assistance with nearly everything: bathing, eating, and taking walks in the park. She felt needed by him.

As helpless as he was, he still had the desire to do something with himself. So he began to write stories. He wrote about various people that he knew or had known and often wrote about them in cold, negative ways. He wrote well, but he also wrote angrily. And, because nowadays this kind of writing is very popular, several of his stories were published in magazines.

Connie liked it when Clifford would talk with her about his stories. They had become his life and so he would go on and on for hours about them. He often wanted her opinion about his ideas and this caused her to have to put a lot of effort and energy into the stories, almost as much as his own. She enjoyed that feeling, even though it made her quite tired.

Connie's father would occasionally pay very brief visits to the house, as well. During one of these visits he pulled his daughter aside and said to her that, although Clifford's writing was very intelligent and entertaining, his stories were quite empty. This bothered Connie, for Clifford's stories were becoming more and more popular. She wondered how her father could think such a thing.

On another visit, her father said something even more surprising: "You won't let this situation prevent you from enjoying sex with other men, will you?"

Connie did not know what to say to this. Later, her father mentioned the same thing to Clifford in private.

"Is that necessary?" Clifford asked.

"She's beginning to look like an old woman already! Women need sex to keep them young, my boy!"

As surprised and hurt as he was by these words, Clifford began to think more and more about Connie's situation. But he feared to speak with her about it. He felt that it was too early in their relationship.

Connie guessed that her father had said something to Clifford and that he had been thinking about it ever since. But she also knew that Clifford would not care how she lived her life as long as she kept that part of it secret and never gave him any reason to worry or feel jealous.

Clifford, though he did not see them often, had many friends, or at least people that he knew, whom he would occasionally invite over to his home. Most of them were writers, publishers, or critics. He hoped that by inviting them, they would say good things about his stories. And they did. He also had his wealthy friends who also came by. Connie hosted all of these gatherings. And because of her beauty, many of the guests enjoyed her company. She pretended not to notice a lot of the stares and smiles that were directed at her. She usually just remained quiet and brought the men whatever they needed.

For two years they lived this life. A life spent talking about Clifford's stories and taking afternoon walks in the park. It all seemed like a dream or a story that she had heard before.

(end of section)