A postscript to my blogs about Lady Chatterley after which I shall write about something else. Promise.

What has prompted me to return to the subject is a desire to explore the role of the wood in the novel. To Sir Clifford it is a piece of old England that must be preserved at all costs. It represents tradition, a key component of which is the primacy of the class to which he belongs, central to that being the question of ownership. Never much interested in sex, and now hors de combat with his wartime wound, he nonetheless craves an heir to whom possession and custody of the sacred groves can be passed on. In this respect we might think of him as embodying the Apollian virtues of power, order and control. His enthusiasm for industry, superseding an earlier quest for literary success, enforces that message. The clang of metal is his music, the hiss of steam; the bodies and wills of men must bend to his command; he dreams of harnessing natural forces, not yielding to their flow.

Yet the wood itself is an alien environment. When he attempts to penetrate it in his wheelchair the ground proves ungovernable and Mellors has to rescue him. It is the gamekeeper who has made it his home, who understands the place and the creatures that dwell within its shade. And it is here that Connie, Sir Clifford’s own wife, discovers the true nature of sexual appetite and fulfilment. The unbridled nature of her lovemaking with Mellors, the running naked through the trees, the twining of daisies in their pubic hair all speak of ecstatic ritual. The wood is revealed as Dionysian in nature given over to wildness and revelation. It is a Nottinghamshire version of Arden, the forest where lovers become deranged with strange desires and even Bottom dreams of ravishment.

In that sense the move indoors to the gamekeeper’s cottage, while ostensibly a sign of seriousness and permanence in the relationship, heralds a waning of headiness and abandon. The floor of the hut or of the wood itself has limited appeal as a place to lay one’s pelvis. One day the weather will turn and there will be a child to consider. Common sense warrants a degree of comfort and with it the distractions of domesticity, the politics of the hearth. It is quite commonplace now to write sequels to famous novels – what Elizabeth Bennett was like in bed and so on. Looking into the future of Mr and Mrs Mellors (having arranged for both parties to divorce) I see a more institutionalised kind of ardour, the odd faked orgasm, companionship sometimes outvoting desire. I see an ordered household, discussions over the finances, the renunciation on grounds of practicality if not decorum of al fresco coupling. I see Dionysus kicking his heels in the woods while Apollo warms his boots by the fire.