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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 86 | volume XV | September-October, 2012



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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 86September-October, 2012
Prose

The First Lady Chatterley

(excerpt from the novel)


/7
p. 1
D. H. Lawrence

He was smiling with a curious pain in his face, and she was watching him, waiting for his answer. “You haven’t been breaking many eggs about him as far as I have noticed lately,” he said.
     “I know,” she said. “I feel quite free of him: quite clear. And then a sort of fire comes up in me, and it’s –“
     “What?”
     “Parkin.”
     “Op?”
     “Yes.”
     “Hm!”
     He mused for a time. “And how long does this sort of fire last?” he asked.
     “I don't know. I never know.”
     “And do you like it or don’t you?” he asked impatiently.
     “I don’t know that either. It’s so strong. It’s just him, as if everything in me was on fire, and the fire was him.”
     “Hm! – And do you want to be with him?”
     “Terribly.”
     “Do you want to be with him now?”
     She sighed.
     “Yes!” she said.
     “Hm! Then I hope the fire will soon die down, for it makes you boring. – How do I throw water on it? – I find people in love a bore, but apparently they’re a beauty chorus compared to the genuine article. Ha ha!” He laughed a little theatrically and pushed himself into a corner of the big sofa, sulking.
     She sat silent, with her hands in her lap, forgetting her sewing.
     “I think a pregnant woman in a blue muse about the man who got her with child is the last word,” he said. “Why don't you go to your Op if you feel that way about him? Why don’t you ’op it with an ’op, skip and a jump?”
     “He’ll be at work in a steel works,” she said.
     “More fool him! Any man’s a fool who lets himself be a wage-earning slave, today. Don’t waste any more time about him. Helots and hoplites! How much does he earn a week?”
     “Fifty-five shillings.”
     “Ha ha! Ha ha ha! Fancy the immortal fire hiring itself out at fifty-five shillings a week! Prometheus at tuppence an hour! Op at two dollars a day! ’Op along, sister Mary, ’op along, ’op along! How much have you got, of your own?”
     “Five hundred a year, about.”
     “Then why don’t you buy him out?”
     “He won’t be bought.”
     “He’ll be sold, but he won’t be bought. – Fire or no fire, I’m afraid Op’s a fool, and if I were you I’d drink barley water and get the fire out.”
     “He says he’s his own sort of fool.”
     “Says so, does he! Then he must be an extra one. Fancy priding yourself on being






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