[Cover Illustration]
Dedicated to
O U R T H R E E S E L V E S
Other novels by Radclyffe Hall
THE UNLIT LAMP
ADAM’S BREED
THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE
The Well of
LONELINESS
* * * * *
* * * * *
By R A D C L Y F F E H A L L
With a Commentary
by Havelock Ellis
[Illustration]
Blue Ribbon Books, Garden City, New York
Copyright 1928
By Radclyffe Hall
CL
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
COMMENTARY
I _HAVE read_ The Well of Loneliness _with great interest
because—apart from its fine qualities as a novel by a writer of
accomplished art—it possesses a notable psychological and sociological
significance. So far as I know, it is the first English novel which
presents, in a completely faithful and uncompromising form, one
particular aspect of sexual life as it exists among us to-day. The
relation of certain people—who while different from their fellow human
beings, are sometimes of the highest character and the finest
aptitudes—to the often hostile society in which they move, presents
difficult and still unsolved problems. The poignant situations which
thus arise are here set forth so vividly, and yet with such complete
absence of offence, that we must place Radclyffe Hall’s book on a high
level of distinction._
Havelock Ellis
AUTHOR’S NOTE
A_LL the characters in this book are purely imaginary, and if the
author in any instance has used names that may suggest a reference to
living persons, she has done so inadvertently._
_A motor ambulance unit of British women drivers did very fine service
upon the Allied front in France during the later months of the war, but
although the unit mentioned in this book, of which Stephen Gordon
becomes a member, operates in much the same area, it has never had any
existence save in the author’s imagination._
BOOK ONE
CHAPTER 1
1
Not very far from Upton-on-Severn—between it, in fact, and the Malvern
Hills—stands the country seat of the Gordons of Bramley; well-timbered,
well-cottaged, well-fenced and well-watered, having, in this latter
respect, a stream that forks in exactly the right position to feed two
large lakes in the grounds.
The house itself is of Georgian red brick, with charming circular
windows near the roof. It has dignity and pride without ostentation,
self-assurance without arrogance, repose without inertia; and a gentle
aloofness that, to those who know its spirit, but adds to its value as a
home. It is indeed like certain lovely women who, now old, belong to a
bygone generation—women who in youth were passionate but seemly;
difficult to win but when won, all-fulfilling. They are passing away,
but their homesteads remain, and such an homestead is Morton.
To Morton Hall came the Lady Anna Gordon as a bride of just over twenty.
She was lovely as only an Irish woman can be, having that in her bearing
that betokened quiet pride, having that in her eyes that betokened great
longing, having that in her body that betokened happy promise—the
archetype of the very perfect woman, whom creating God has found good.
Sir Philip had met her away in County Clare—Anna Molloy, the slim
virgin thing, all chastity, and his weariness had flown to her bosom as
a spent bird will fly to its nest—as indeed such a bird had once flown
to her, she told him, taking refuge from the perils of a storm.
Sir Philip was a tall man and exceedingly well-favoured, but his charm
lay less in feature than in a certain wide expression, a tolerant
expression that might almost be called noble, and in something sad yet
gallant in his deep-set hazel eyes. His chin, which was firm, was very
slightly cleft, his forehead intellectual, his hair tinged with auburn.
His wide-nostrilled nose was indicative of temper, but his lips were
well-modelled and sensitive and ardent—they revealed him as a dreamer
and a lover.
Twenty-nine when they had married, he had sown no few wild oats, yet
Anna’s true instinct made her trust him completely. Her guardian had
disliked him, opposing the engagement, but in the end she had had her
own way. And as things turned out her choice had been happy, for seldom
had two people loved more than they did; they loved with an ardour
undiminished by time; as they ripened, so their love ripened with them.
Sir Philip never knew how much he longed for a son until, some ten years
after marriage, his wife conceived a child; then he knew that this thing
meant complete fulfilment, the fulfilment for which they had both been
waiting. When she told him, he could not find words for expression, and
must just turn and weep on her shoulder. It never seemed to cross his
mind for a moment that Anna might very well give him a daughter; he saw
her only as a mother of sons, nor could her warnings disturb him. He
christened the unborn infant Stephen, because he admired the pluck of
that Saint. He was not a religious man by instinct, being perhaps too
much of a student, but he read the Bible for its fine literature, and
Stephen had gripped his imagination. Thus he often discussed the future
of their child: ‘I think I shall put Stephen down for Harrow,’ or: ‘I’d
rather like Stephen to finish off abroad, it widens one’s outlook on
life.’
And listening to him, Anna also grew convinced; his certainty wore down
her vague misgivings, and she saw herself playing with this little
Stephen, in the nursery, in the garden, in the sweet-smelling meadows.
‘And himself the lovely young man,’ she would say, thinking of the soft
Irish speech of her peasants: ‘And himself with the light of the stars
in his eyes, and the courage of a lion in his heart!’
When the child stirred within her she would think it stirred strongly
because of the gallant male creature she was hiding; then her spirit
grew large with a mighty new courage, because a man-child would be born.
She would sit with her needlework dropped on her knees, while her eyes
turned away to the long line of hills that stretched beyond the Severn
valley. From her favourite seat underneath an old cedar, she would see
these Malvern Hills in their beauty, and their swelling slopes seemed to
hold a new meaning. They were like pregnant women, full-bosomed,
courageous, great green-girdled mothers of splendid sons! Thus through
all those summer months, she sat and watched the hills, and Sir Philip
would sit with her—they would sit hand in hand. And because she felt
grateful she gave much to the poor, and Sir Philip went to church, which
was seldom his custom, and the Vicar came to dinner, and just towards
the end many matrons called to give good advice to Anna.
But: ‘Man proposes—God disposes,’ and so it happened that on Christmas
Eve, Anna Gordon was delivered of a daughter; a narrow-hipped,
wide-shouldered little tadpole of a baby, that yelled and yelled for
three hours without ceasing, as though outraged to find itself ejected
into life.
2
Anna Gordon held her child to her breast, but she grieved while it
drank, because of her man who had longed so much for a son. And seeing
her grief, Sir Philip hid his chagrin, and he fondled the baby and
examined its fingers.
‘What a hand!’ he would say. ‘Why it’s actually got nails on all its ten
fingers: little, perfect, pink nails!’
Then Anna would dry her eyes and caress it, kissing the tiny hand.
He insisted on calling the infant Stephen, nay more, he would have it
baptized by that name. ‘We’ve called her Stephen so long,’ he told Anna,
‘that I really can’t see why we shouldn’t go on—’
Anna felt doubtful, but; Sir Philip was stubborn, as he could be at
times over whims.
The Vicar said that it was rather unusual, so to mollify him they must
add female names. The child was baptized in the village church as
Stephen Mary Olivia Gertrude—and she throve, seeming strong, and when
her hair grew it was seen to be auburn like Sir Philip’s. There was also
a tiny cleft in her chin, so small just at first that it looked like a
shadow; and after a while when her eyes lost the blueness that is proper
to puppies and other young things, Anna saw that her eyes were going to
be hazel—and thought that their expression was her father’s. On the
whole she was quite a well-behaved baby, owing, no doubt, to a fine
constitution. Beyond that first energetic protest at birth she had done
very little howling.
It was happy to have a baby at Morton, and the old house seemed to
become more mellow as the child, growing fast now and learning to walk,
staggered or stumbled or sprawled on the floors that had long known the
ways of children. Sir Philip would come home all muddy from hunting and
would rush into the nursery before pulling off his boots, then down he
would go on his hands and knees while Stephen clambered on to his back.
Sir Philip would pretend to be well corned up, bucking and jumping and
kicking wildly, so that Stephen must cling to his hair or his collar,
and thump him with hard little arrogant fists. Anna, attracted by the
outlandish hubbub, would find them, and would point to the mud on the
carpet.
She would say: ‘Now, Philip, now, Stephen, that’s enough! It’s time for
your tea,’ as though both of them were children. Then Sir Philip would
reach up and disentangle Stephen, after which he would kiss Stephen’s
mother.
3
The son that they waited for seemed long a-coming; he had not arrived
when Stephen was seven. Nor had Anna produced other female offspring.
Thus Stephen remained cock of the roost. It is doubtful if any only
child is to be envied, for the only child is bound to become
introspective; having no one of its own ilk in whom to confide, it is
apt to confide in itself. It cannot be said that at seven years old the
mind is beset by serious problems, but nevertheless it is already
groping, may already be subject to small fits of dejection, may already
be struggling to get a grip on life—on the limited life of its
surroundings. At seven there are miniature loves and hatreds, which,
however, loom large and are extremely disconcerting. There may even be
present a dim sense of frustration, and Stephen was often conscious of
this sense, though she could not have put it into words. To cope with
it, however, she would give way at times to sudden fits of hot temper,
working herself up over everyday trifles that usually left her cold. It
relieved her to stamp and then burst into tears at the first sign of
opposition. After such outbreaks she would feel much more cheerful,
would find it almost easy to be docile and obedient. In some vague,
childish way she had hit back at life, and this fact had restored her
self-respect.
Anna would send for her turbulent offspring and would say: ‘Stephen
darling, Mother’s not really cross—tell Mother what makes you give way
to these tempers; she’ll promise to try to understand if you’ll tell
her—’
But her eyes would look cold, though her voice might be gentle, and her
hand when it fondled would be tentative, unwilling. The hand would be
making an effort to fondle, and Stephen would be conscious of that
effort. Then looking up at the calm, lovely face, Stephen would be
filled with a sudden contrition, with a sudden deep sense of her own
shortcomings; she would long to blurt all this out to her mother, yet
would stand there tongue-tied, saying nothing at all. For these two were
strangely shy with each other—it was almost grotesque, this shyness of
theirs, as existing between mother and child. Anna would feel it, and
through her Stephen, young as she was, would become conscious of it; so
that they held a little aloof when they should have been drawing
together.
Stephen, acutely responsive to beauty, would be dimly longing to find
expression for a feeling almost amounting to worship, that her mother’s
face had awakened. But Anna, looking gravely at her daughter, noting the
plentiful auburn hair, the brave hazel eyes that were so like her
father’s, as indeed were the child’s whole expression and bearing, would
be filled with a sudden antagonism that came very near to anger.
She would awake at night and ponder this thing, scourging herself in an
access of contrition; accusing herself of hardness of spirit, of being
an unnatural mother. Sometimes she would shed slow, miserable tears,
remembering the inarticulate Stephen.
She would think: ‘I ought to be proud of the likeness, proud and happy
and glad when I see it!’ Then back would come flooding that queer
antagonism that amounted almost to anger.
It would seem to Anna that she must be going mad, for this likeness to
her husband would strike her as an outrage—as though the poor, innocent
seven-year-old Stephen were in some way a caricature of Sir Philip; a
blemished, unworthy, maimed reproduction—yet she knew that the child
was handsome. But now there were times when the child’s soft flesh would
be almost distasteful to her; when she hated the way Stephen moved or
stood still, hated a certain largeness about her, a certain crude lack
of grace in her movements, a certain unconscious defiance. Then the
mother’s mind would slip back to the days when this creature had clung
to her breast, forcing her to love it by its own utter weakness; and at
this thought her eyes must fill again, for she came of a race of devoted
mothers. The thing had crept on her like a foe in the dark—it had been
slow, insidious, deadly; it had waxed strong as Stephen herself had
waxed strong, being part, in some way, of Stephen.
Restlessly tossing from side to side, Anna Gordon would pray for
enlightenment and guidance; would pray that her husband might never
suspect her feelings towards his child. All that she was and had been he
knew; in all the world she had no other secret save this one most
unnatural and monstrous injustice that was stronger than her will to
destroy it. And Sir Philip loved Stephen, he idolized her; it was almost
as though he divined by instinct that his daughter was being secretly
defrauded, was bearing some unmerited burden. He never spoke to his wife
of these things, yet watching them together, she grew daily more certain
that his love for the child held an element in it that was closely akin
to pity.