D.H.劳伦斯（David Herbert Lawrence 1885—1930），是英国小说家、诗人、散文家，20世纪英国最重要和最有争议的小说家之一，20世纪世界文坛上最有天分与影响力的人物之一。他与福斯特、乔伊斯、理查森、伍尔芙同是20世纪英国小说的创始人，是中国读者最熟悉与喜爱的西方作家之一。其最著名作品：早期作品《儿子与情人》（1913），以及《虹》（1915）、《恋爱中的女人》（1921）和《查泰莱夫人的情人》（1928）三部曲。
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 realised 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, healthy-looking face, and his paleblue,
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 what might be called an aesthetically unconventional
upbringing. They had been taken to Paris and Florence and Rome to breathe in
art, and they had been taken also in the other direction, to the Hague and
Berlin, to great Socialist conventions, where the speakers spoke in every
civilised tongue, and no one was abashed.
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