Lady Chatterley’s Lover
康妮的丈夫克利福德·查泰莱在1917 年的大战
中身负重伤，被送回英国后腰部以下永远瘫痪了，战
后他们回到克利福德的老家拉格比，克利福德继承了
爵位，康斯坦丝成了查泰莱男爵夫人。在康斯坦丝的
眼里，二十七岁的自己已经老了！她突然开始憎恨克
利福德，憎恨他的写作和谈话以及骗人的精神生活。
后来梅乐士出现在她的生活中，他们两人越来越融洽，
越来越和谐。康斯坦丝终于离开勒格贝去了苏格兰。
梅乐士去了乡间，期待再次相聚。
[ 英] 戴维·赫伯特·劳伦斯（ D.H.Lawrence）
Ours is essentially a tragic age，so we refuse to take it
tragically . The cataclysm has happened，we are among the ruins，
we start to build up new little habitats，to have new little hopes. It
is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future:
but we go round，or scramble over the obstacles. We’ve got to
live，no matter how many skies have fallen.
This was more or less Constance Chatterley’s position.
The war had brought the roof down over her head. And she had
realized that one must live and learn.
She married Clifford Chatterley in 1917，when he was home
for a month on leave. They had a month’s honeymoon. Then he
went back to Flanders: to be shipped over to England again six
months later，more or less in bits. Constance，his wife，was then
twenty-three years old，and he was twenty-nine.
His hold on life was marvellous. He didn’t die，and the bits
seemed to grow together again. For two years he remained in the
doctor’s hands. Then he was pronounced a cure，and could return
to life again，with the lower half of his body，from the hips down，
paralysed for ever.
This was in 1920. They returned，Clifford and Constance，to
his home，Wragby Hall，the family‘seat’. His father had died，
Clifford was now a baronet，Sir Clifford，and Constance was Lady
Chatterley.They came to start housekeeping and married life in
the rather forlorn home of the Chatterleys on a rather inadequate
income. Clifford had a sister，but she had departed. Otherwise
there were no near relatives. The elder brother was dead in the
war. Crippled for ever，knowing he could never have any children，
Clifford came home to the smoky Midlands to keep the Chatterley
name alive while he could.
He was not really downcast. He could wheel himself about
in a wheeled chair，and he had a bath-chair with a small motor
attachment，so he could drive himself slowly round the garden
and into the line melancholy park，of which he was really so
proud，though he pretended to be flippant about it.
Having suffered so much，the capacity for suffering had
to some extent left him. He remained strange and bright and
cheerful，almost，one might say，chirpy，with his ruddy，healthylooking
face，arid his pale-blue，challenging bright eyes. His
shoulders were broad and strong，his hands were very strong.
He was expensively dressed，and wore handsome neckties from
Bond Street. Yet still in his face one saw the watchful look，the
slight vacancy of a cripple.
He had so very nearly lost his life，that what remained
was wonderfully precious to him. It was obvious in the anxious
brightness of his eyes，how proud he was，after the great shock，
of being alive. But he had been so much hurt that something
inside him had perished，some of his feelings had gone. There
was a blank of insentience.
Constance，his wife，was a ruddy，country-looking girl with
soft brown hair and sturdy body，and slow movements，full of
unusual energy. She had big，wondering eyes，and a soft mild
voice，and seemed just to have come from her native village. It
was not so at all. Her father was the once well-known R. A.，
old Sir Malcolm Reid. Her mother had been one of the cultivated
Fabians in the palmy，rather pre-Raphaelite days. Between artists
and cultured socialists，Constance and her sister Hilda had had
what might be called an aesthetically unconventional upbringing.
They had been taken to Paris and Florence and Rome to breathe