Women in Love

D. H. LAWRENCE

Description

David Herbert Lawrence (1885–1930) was an English writer and poet whose work famously examined the results of industrialisation on contemporary society. In his novels and poetry, Lawrence explored a variety of then-controversial issues including sexuality and emotional health, which led many to label his work pornography. Today, he is considered to be one of the most important and influential writers of his generation. Lawrence's 1920 novel “Women in Love” is a sequel to “The Rainbow” (1915) and continues the story of Gudrun and Ursula Brangwen, exploring their lives and loves in pre-World War I England. A veritable masterpiece of English literature not to be missed by those who have read and enjoyed others works by Lawrence. Other notable works by this author include: “The White Peacock” (1911), “The Trespasser” (1912), and “Sons and Lovers” (1913). Read & Co. Classics is proudly republishing this classic now in a new edition complete with a specially-commissioned new biography of the author.

Sujets

• Pornografía
• Porno
• Pornographie
• Classics
• Fiction
• Sexualité
• sexualité
• Sexualité

Informations

• Publié par: Read Books Ltd.
• Date de parution: 08 septembre 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 2
• EAN13: 9781528791359
• Langue: English

Extrait

WOM EN IN LOVE
By
D. H. LAWRENCE

First published in 1920





Copyright © 2020 Read & Co. Classics
This edition is published by Read & Co. Classics, an imprint of Read & Co.
This book is copyright and may not be reproduced or copied in any way without the express permission of the publisher in writing.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Read & Co. is part of Read Books Ltd. For more information visit www.readandcobooks.co.uk


Contents
D. H . Lawrence
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
C HAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
C HAPTER VII
CH APTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
C HAPTER XII
CH APTER XIII
C HAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
C HAPTER XVI
CH APTER XVII
CHA PTER XVIII
C HAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
C HAPTER XXI
CH APTER XXII
CHA PTER XXIII
CH APTER XXIV
C HAPTER XXV
CH APTER XXVI
CHA PTER XXVII
CHAP TER XXVIII
CH APTER XXIX
C HAPTER XXX
CH APTER XXXI


D. H . Lawrence
David Herbert Lawrence was born on 11 September 1885 at Eastwood, a small mining town in the North of England. He was a prolific novelist and poet, responsible for some of the finest modernist works of the twentieth century. Taken as a whole, Lawrence’s oeuvre reflects the unsettling effects of industrialisation and renewal, but all within the remit of individual concerns; the emotions, extemporaneity and character. Lawrence’s style, both as a novelist, but also as a literary critic, earned him many enemies and he suffered both in terms of personal reputation and professional status, especially during the latter half of his life. He was the fourth child of Arthur Lawrence, a working-class miner from Nottinghamshire. David Lawrence was an intellectually gifted child and attended the local Beauvale Board School , winning a scholarship to Nottingham High School in 1898. He left education in 1901 to become a Junior Clerk at a surgical appliances factory, but after contracting pneumonia and reputedly being accosted by a group of factory girls, Lawrence took time off to convalesce. During this period, he worked on his first short stories and the draft of a novel which was eventually to become The White Peacock. In 1908 Lawrence moved to London, where his poetry was noticed by Ford Madox Ford, the editor of The English Review, as well as the influential publisher William Heinemann. This support enabled Lawrence to publish The White Peacock (1910) , his first major novel, followed by The Trespasser (1911); a novel based on the intimate diaries of a friend experiencing an unhappy love affair. It was at this time that he met Frieda Richthofen, a married woman with three young children. Richthofen and Lawrence embarked on a life-long romance and eloped to her parents’ home in Metz, Germany. The couple toured across Germany, over the Alps and into Italy – a journey during which Lawrence wrote Sons and Lovers (1913), an intense portrayal of the grim actuality of working-class provincial life. This was the start of Lawrence’s controversial private sexual life; Frieda later accused him of a homosexual relationship with a Cornish farmer, William Henry Hocking. This was a shocking accusation for a man living in early twentieth century Britain, and caused a great deal of scandal. The accusation was not aided by the added suspicion of spying and signalling to German submarines off the coast of Cornwall. Lawrence’s next novel, The Rainbow (1915) was suppressed after an investigation into its alleged obscenity; a bleak vision of humanity, it depicted the reflections of four major characters on friendship, sexuality, art and politics. Unfit for war-time Britain, it remained unpublished until 1920. After constant harassment by the authorities, Lawrence was forced to leave Cornwall in 1917, given three days notice under the Defence of the Realm Act. He moved to Derbyshire, but soon escaped Britain to travel the world; Australia, America, Sri Lanka, Mexico, Italy and France. Lawrence spent the remainder of his life peripatetic and only returned to Britain for two short visits. He continued writing during this period, producing some of his finest works; The Lost Girl and Mr Noon as well as several travelogues. It was in Italy that Lawrence wrote Lady Chatterley’s Lover (1928). Published in Florence and Paris, it cemented Lawrence’s scandalous reputation. Although the author responded robustly and penned many short tracts and satirical poems against those ‘shocked sensibilities’, the novel was not published in Britain until 1960. Lawrence continued writing into his final days, despite rapidly declining health. He died on 2 March, 1930, at the Villa Robermond, France, from tub erculosis.


WOM EN IN LOVE
CHAPTER I
SISTERS
Ursula and Gudrun Brangwen sat one morning in the window-bay of their father’s house in Beldover, working an d talking.
Ursula was stitching a piece of brightly-coloured embroidery, and Gudrun was drawing upon a board which she held on her knee. They were mostly silent, talking as their thoughts strayed through th eir minds.
“Ursula,” said Gudrun, “don’t you really want to get married?” Ursula laid her embroidery in her lap and looked up. Her face was calm and co nsiderate.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “It depends how you mean.”
Gudrun was slightly taken aback. She watched her sister for som e moments.
“Well,” she said, ironically, “it usually means one thing! But don’t you think anyhow, you’d be—” she darkened slightly—“in a better position than you ar e in now.”
A shadow came over Ursu la’s face.
“I might,” she said. “But I’m not sure.”
Again Gudrun paused, slightly irritated. She wanted to be quite definite.
“You don’t think one needs the experience of having been married?” she asked.
“Do you think it need be an experience?” repli ed Ursula.
“Bound to be, in some way or other,” said Gudrun, coolly. “Possibly undesirable, but bound to be an experience of s ome sort.”
“Not really,” said Ursula. “More likely to be the end of ex perience.”
Gudrun sat very still, to atten d to this.
“Of course,” she said, “there’s that to consider.” This brought the conversation to a close. Gudrun, almost angrily, took up her rubber and began to rub out part of her drawing. Ursula stitched a bsorbedly.
“You wouldn’t consider a good offer?” ask ed Gudrun.
“I think I’ve rejected several,” sa id Ursula.
“ Really! ” Gudrun flushed dark—“But anything really worth while? Have yo u really? ”
“A thousand a year, and an awfully nice man. I liked him awfully,” sa id Ursula.
“Really! But weren’t you fearfully tempted?”
“In the abstract but not in the concrete,” said Ursula. “When it comes to the point, one isn’t even tempted—oh, if I were tempted, I’d marry like a shot. I’m only tempted not to.” The faces of both sisters suddenly lit up with amusement.
“Isn’t it an amazing thing,” cried Gudrun, “how strong the temptation is, not to!” They both laughed, looking at each other. In their hearts they were f rightened.
There was a long pause, whilst Ursula stitched and Gudrun went on with her sketch. The sisters were women, Ursula twenty-six, and Gudrun twenty-five. But both had the remote, virgin look of modern girls, sisters of Artemis rather than of Hebe. Gudrun was very beautiful, passive, soft-skinned, soft-limbed. She wore a dress of dark-blue silky stuff, with ruches of blue and green linen lace in the neck and sleeves; and she had emerald-green stockings. Her look of confidence and diffidence contrasted with Ursula’s sensitive expectancy. The provincial people, intimidated by Gudrun’s perfect sang-froid and exclusive bareness of manner, said of her: “She is a smart woman.” She had just come back from London, where she had spent several years, working at an art-school, as a student, and living a st udio life.
“I was hoping now for a man to come along,” Gudrun said, suddenly catching her underlip between her teeth, and making a strange grimace, half sly smiling, half anguish. Ursula w as afraid.
“So you have come home, expecting him here?” sh e laughed.
“Oh my dear,” cried Gudrun, strident, “I wouldn’t go out of my way to look for him. But if there did happen to come along a highly attractive individual of sufficient means—well—” she tailed off ironically. Then she looked searchingly at Ursula, as if to probe her. “Don’t you find yourself getting bored?” she asked of her sister. “Don’t you find, that things fail to materialize? Nothing materializes! Everything withers in the bud.”
“What withers in the bud?” ask ed Ursula.
“Oh, everything—oneself—things in general.” There was a pause, whilst each sister vaguely considered her fate.
“It does frighten one,” said Ursula, and again there was a pause. “But do you hope to get anywhere by just marrying?”
“It seems to be the inevitable next step,” said Gudrun. Ursula pondered this, with a little bitterness. She was a class mistress herself, in Willey Green Grammar School, as she had been for s ome years.
“I know,” she said, “it seems like that when one thinks in the abstract. But really imagine it: imagine any man one knows, imagine him coming home to one every evening, and saying ‘Hello,’ and giving on e a kiss—”
There was a bl ank pause.
“Yes,” said Gudrun, in a narrowed voice. “It’s just impossible. The man makes it im possible.”
“Of course there’s children—” said Ursula d oubtfully.
Gudrun’s face hardened.
“Do you really want children, Ursula?” she asked coldly. A dazzled, baffled look came on Ursu la’s face.
“One feels it is still beyond one,” she said.
“ Do you feel like that?” asked Gudrun. “I get no feeling whatever from the thought of bearing children