good order, strict cleanliness, and strict punctuality; even pretty strict
honesty. And yet, to Connie, it was a methodical anarchy. No warmth of
feeling united it organically. The house seemed as dreary as a disused
street.
What could she do but leave it alone? So she left it alone. Miss
Chatterley came sometimes, with her aristocratic thin face, and triumphed,
finding nothing altered. She would never forgive Connie for ousting her from
her union in consciousness with her brother. It was she, Emma, who should be
bringing forth the stories, these books, with him; the Chatterley stories,
something new in the world, that they, the Chatterleys, had put there. There
was no other standard. There was no organic connexion with the thought and
expression that had gone before. Only something new in the world: the
Chatterley books, entirely personal.
Connie's father, where he paid a flying visit to Wragby, and in private
to his daughter: As for Clifford's writing, it's smart, but there's nothing
in it. It won't last! Connie looked at the burly Scottish knight who had
done himself well all his life, and her eyes, her big, still-wondering blue
eyes became vague. Nothing in it! What did he mean by nothing in it? If the
critics praised it, and Clifford's name was almost famous, and it even
brought in money...what did her father mean by saying there was nothing in
Clifford's writing? What else could there be?
For Connie had adopted the standard of the young: what there was in the
moment was everything. And moments followed one another without necessarily
belonging to one another.
It was in her second winter at Wragby her father said to her: `I hope,
Connie, you won't let circumstances force you into being a demi-vierge.'
`A demi-vierge!' replied Connie vaguely. `Why? Why not?'
`Unless you like it, of course!' said her father hastily. To Clifford
he said the same, when the two men were alone: `I'm afraid it doesn't quite
suit Connie to be a demi-vierge.'
`A half-virgin!' replied Clifford, translating the phrase to be sure of
it.
He thought for a moment, then flushed very red. He was angry and
offended.
`In what way doesn't it suit her?' he asked stiffly.
`She's getting thin...angular. It's not her style. She's not the
pilchard sort of little slip of a girl, she's a bonny Scotch trout.'
`Without the spots, of course!' said Clifford.
He wanted to say something later to Connie about the demi-vierge
<<BackPagesTo menuForward>>