In 1927, Pádraic Colum complained in the Irish Statesman that not enough writers were working in the Irish language. Liam O’Flaherty replied testily. His play Dorchadas had recently been performed by the Gaelic Dramatic League to full houses, he wrote, but the only payment he had received for it was from a man who could not even read it. O’Flaherty had sold the manuscript to ‘an English Socialist’ for £25. He would not write another word in Irish, he blustered, at least not for the public’s benefit. In any case, the only readers he now wrote for were his wife and his London editor, Edward Garnett. His intellectual world had shrunk to a party of two. The parsimonious Gaels were on their own.
In fact the buyer of the O’Flaherty playscript was neither English nor a socialist. Charles Lahr was a German anarchist; he was also a bookseller and publisher. The Progressive Bookshop on Red Lion Street in central London, which Lahr ran with his wife Esther Archer, was a tiny place – no more than a cubicle, according to the writer H.E. Bates – which shared the ground floor of an eighteenth-century building with a jumble shop. They rented the floors overhead to lodgers; the basement was home to book stacks and packages of unsold magazines, along with the decayed sofa used by overnight visitors. Some of the lodgers sat in the shop during the day, and if there were five or six of them there was no room for customers. ‘The Human Notebook’, an elderly man who always wore a battered silk hat, might be in place loudly expounding on world affairs. One hand pulled stacks of fried potatoes from greasy newspaper while he talked, the other produced from his pockets an endless stream of tattered newspaper clippings. Another visitor, occasional lodger, and confessed book thief was the Antrim-born orator Bonar Thompson, ‘the Prime Minister of Hyde Park’. Michael Foot would remember him as an oratorical hero; to Sean O’Casey he was just an insufferable chancer. Outside the shop were the usual dusty barrows full of unsellable stock. Underneath the front pavement was the lavatory – occupied, one visitor remembered, for two hours every morning by an old man who descended slowly and painfully from the building’s upper stories, sending all the other lodgers and customers around the corner to the public conveniences by the Holborn Empire.
The Progressive Bookshop and the rooms above it also provided a staging post for Lahr’s fellow members of the vast American labour association, Industrial Workers of the World – a.k.a. the Wobblies – who drifted in from the transatlantic cattle-ships and out of the Great Depression. In the bookshop they found a bed for the night and an introduction to the city. Young writers drifted there in much the same fashion. O’Flaherty’s connection to Lahr might have come about through his earlier association with the Wobblies in Canada. Others passed through on first visits from Ireland, or Wales, or the north of England; for these Lahr often became a sort of London agent. They returned his favours by writing fondly of his tics and eccentricities: his sandalled feet in all weathers, for instance, or his tendency not to sell books but to re-home them as if they were lost puppies. In their memoirs they rarely mention the one subject that dominated their actual dealings with the Progressive Bookshop. They never mention the money.
Their letters to Charles Lahr and Esther Archer now sit in packed archive boxes in the Senate House Library, that incongruously modernist building in the heart of Bloomsbury which inspired George Orwell’s Ministry of Truth: ‘an enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white concrete, soaring up, terrace after terrace, 300 metres into the air’. Given the confluence of modernism, politics and literature in Senate House, it seems an unusually fitting place for the Lahr papers. But they are not among its most visited collections, and mostly they have been used to fuel stories other than his own. Read together, these letters insist on one thing: writing is business. A very young H.E. Bates wrote regularly from Northamptonshire and the Welsh short-story writer Rhys Davies wrote from the Rhondda Valley; D.H. Lawrence wrote in his last days from the south of France and T.F. Powys sent short letters in tiny splintered handwriting. Bates nearly always needed money. He begged for payment, or part-payment, on stories that Lahr had published for him. He begged the price of a train ticket to London in case Edward Garnett, who was his editor too, should peremptorily summon him for a meeting. More than once he thanked Lahr for money sent while bashfully assuring him that the book business should pick up. Others were more concerned with schemes and transactions. Lawrence wants to launch a satirical magazine anonymously but no one will agree to do it without his celebrity attached. Rhys Davies wants some much-needed promotion, or to have a manuscript sent to the right reader at the right place.
The building at 68 Red Lion Street no longer exists. We know what we know about it because of the cameo role it played in many literary memoirs of the twenties and thirties. Like other enterprises around Bloomsbury and Holborn in the 1920s, the shop had its own publishing imprint, Blue Moon Press, and produced a literary magazine, the New Coterie, that published Aldous Huxley and D.H. Lawrence. But it never had the success of Harold Monro’s Poetry Bookshop off nearby Theobald’s Road, where W.B. Yeats sonorously championed the art of spoken verse at packed readings in an upstairs drawing room. The shop was, in the first instance, Esther Archer’s; Lahr joined her there shortly after they married in 1922, the same year that Joyce’s Ulysses was published from rue de l’Odéon in Paris. It was time for the radical printers, publishers and booksellers of the city to come into their own. But Charles Lahr’s history runs in another direction; he became a prisoner, and then an internee, and then a footnote in the stories of other men.
In a photograph from 1938 or thereabouts Charles Lahr stands outside his shopfront smiling, sandalled feet splayed, jacket tightly buttoned and hands behind his back. A man facing away from the camera (short back and sides, newspaper under arm, cheap baggy trousers) is studying the bargain books lined up on the pavement. He is so perfectly placed that he might be an Ealing Studios extra. A naked lightbulb can be seen through the open shopfront; the only other objects visible are books, hundreds of them, shelved and stacked in every imaginable configuration. It is possible to believe the unlikely story that Lahr had accumulated so many by 1914 that, facing internment as an enemy alien upon the outbreak of war, he felt he had to refuse the IWW’s offer of free passage to America. He spent the next four years interned in Alexandra Palace alongside hundreds of fellow enemy aliens, billetted on low plank beds in its vast concert hall. Of course, by the time the 1938 photograph was taken another war was coming, and another round of internment. In three years the bookshop would be gone. But already it was past its peak. Still, in this photograph he looks almost jaunty.
He left no memoir; but he occasionally became a character in fiction, running fleetingly through John Lindsey’s novel Vicarage Party and a few of Bates’s short stories. Perhaps the young writers took to him so easily because he seemed the kind of man who might have walked straight out of a novelist’s imagination. It was only two years after he arrived in England that Joseph Conrad published The Secret Agent, a novel with a Continental anarchist operating out of a bookshop in a grimy brick house in Soho. This bookseller is a bomb-maker, a police spy and a pornographer, a man at the heart of a city’s disease. The anarchist cell that gathers in his shop is a collection of the ageing and rotten, leftovers of decades of European revolutions. But Lahr, when he arrived in 1905, was just a twenty-year-old escaping conscription in the Kaiser’s army; in Germany, his journeying had already taken him from missionary Buddhism to political anarchism. In London he worked first for a German baker; next he cycled about the city with his own razor-sharpening business, making regular stops at bookstalls. There would be a first bookshop in Hammersmith and a first ‘Mrs Lahr’, as she was generally known, who expressed her dislike of the anarchists and down-and-outs that he brought to her lodging house. Lahr himself flits in and out of anarchist memoirs of the pre-war years, a figure in the shadows of a movement that was just coming to its peak. But this was the anarcho-syndicalism of East End garment workers and the IWW – a form of unionized activism – rather than the terrorist bogeyman that haunted the Victorian imagination. In 1907, the year that Conrad’s novel appeared, Kaiser Wilhelm arrived on a state visit to London and Charles Lahr was bundled out of a German restaurant on Leman Street for yelling that the bastard should be shot. He would be tailed for the next two weeks by Scotland Yard detectives.
In the autumn of 1910 he is at Speakers’ Corner in Hyde Park to be reunited with his friend Guy Aldred, the ‘Holloway Boy Preacher’. Aldred, slight and intellectual, had recently been released from Brixton Prison, where he had served ten months for seditious libel: his Bakunin Press had published the newspaper of the Free India Society, suppressed following a political assassination in South Kensington by a young Indian nationalist. He had grown up in the home of his maternal grandfather, a Victorian radical and an atheist bookbinder who, according to Aldred’s biographer, attended church on Sundays in a frock coat and tall silk hat to satisfy his orthodox wife. As a teenager Aldred took himself from Clerkenwell to Holloway, where no one would know him, to proclaim his own peculiar brand of non-conformist Christianity – a Christian Social Mission – from the rostrum of a local hall for three months. By 1904 he had drifted to theism, by 1905 it was the Social Democratic Federation. In 1906 he abandoned the social democrats for commune socialism. He was anti-parliamentary and anti-nationalist, he was for the anarchists’ dream of freedom and revolution and statelessness. He shouted all this from his windy corner of Hyde Park, a twenty-year-old veteran of the speakers’ circuit with a fifty-year-old vision of the new world.
In 1910, Aldred and Lahr made new plans. A small, scruffy handbill from this time announces the establishment of the ‘Ferrer Adult School’ – named for the Spanish educationalist executed for his suspected involvement in the 1909 Catalonian rising. It would meet every Sunday morning at nine; it would be a home for free discussion welcoming Christians, Freethinkers, Mohammedans, Buddhists and all others. But whereas in Spain, Francisco Ferrer had set up free schools that educated eight thousand children, the Lahr/Aldred enterprise failed within three months. Guy Aldred went back to selling the propagandist pamphlets he produced on his small hand press. Lahr continued to cycle between the city’s barber shops.
The principle of free education survived, after a fashion. Years later, visitors to the Progressive Bookshop noted curiously that Charles Lahr often did not collect his rent, that his books were as often lent as sold, and that guests and hangers-on were allowed to trade largely on their fluency in argument. They recorded all of this, much as they recorded Lahr’s generosity, but they did not offer any explanation of it. They simply hinted that it was Esther Archer who had the business mind. A daughter of Russian Jewish immigrants and a popular speaker for Sylvia Pankhurst’s Workers Socialist Federation, she had been an organizer for the IWW in a Rothman’s cigarette factory in Whitechapel when she met Lahr after the war. It was when the household moved northwards to Muswell Hill after the birth of their first child that, for better or worse, the Progressive Bookshop really came under Charles’s control. But it was in Esther’s name that she and Charles set up their own press, publishing small editions of short stories; they taunted the inter-war censors with pamphlets on The Benefits, Moral and Secular, of Assassination, or the homoerotic fiction of James Hanley, or the poems of D.H. Lawrence. Even New Coterie had an element of radical chic as the successor to the defunct Coterie magazine once produced from Frank Henderson’s ‘Bomb Shop’ on Charing Cross Road, so called for the attention it attracted from Special Branch. It is tempting to cast Charles Lahr, in this phase of his development, as if he had stepped out of a John Buchan novel, or perhaps one of Graham Greene’s. He belongs in a noirish London thriller, preferably played by Peter Lorre with a thin and inscrutable sneer. But the perspective can tilt. In these stories, no one really trusts a bookseller; it takes a Philip Marlowe to expose an antiquarian bookshop as the front for shady dealings in The Big Sleep. Perhaps it is the dark places booksellers inhabit that provoke suspicion; perhaps it is the unlikelihood of surviving on the book trade alone.
That trade did have something illicit about it, at least in Red Lion Street. In 1924 the atmosphere in which publishers and booksellers operated was beginning to change. The bumptious Conservative politician William Joynson-Hicks, a.k.a. ‘Jix’, had just assumed control of the Home Office. He was an adherent to solid Victorian morals; accordingly he disliked Soho nightclubs, The Well of Loneliness and critics of the Amritsar Massacre. One contemporary profile remarked that Jix thought ‘not as a statesman, but as a talkative man in a suburban train who has just read the headlines in his favourite paper’.[1] The moral lead taken by such a senior figure would sanction a new enthusiasm in enforcing Britain’s obscenity laws. But there was one way to escape them. A limited edition produced for private subscribers was not technically a publication under the terms of the Obscene Publications Act of 1857. It also offered the publisher some defence against a charge of obscenity under the common law. And so the Progressive Bookshop did not just offer an improvised hostel for the eccentric and down at heel, or haphazard access to literary networks for the young and ambitious. It also became one of two British bookshops that distributed the first – Italian – edition of Lady Chatterley’s Lover before the unexpurgated text became legally available in 1960.[2] And in 1930, Charles Lahr allegedly produced, in great secrecy, its first London edition – at a time when Lawrence’s novel could not get past the British or American censors.
In 1928 that first edition of Chatterley, published by the Italian bookseller Pino Orioli, was circulating among Charles Lahr’s friends. H.E. Bates wrote enthusiastically to him that there were ‘real lovelinesses’ in it and promised to return his copy very soon. Distribution in England was difficult and copies were scarce. Any direct correspondence with Lawrence’s publisher was vulnerable to interception by the authorities. It was left to Rhys Davies, living in the south of France that winter, to forward Lahr’s letters – and probably book orders – to Orioli in Florence.
The vacuum created by the British and American bans was quickly being filled by pirates, and it was Lahr who first brought the problem to Lawrence’s attention. In late 1928 he reported that he had been able to buy an unauthorized American edition in London for 30 shillings. Lawrence decided to produce a cheap, ‘popular’ edition of Lady Chatterley to undercut the illicit trade. The problem was finding a publisher and a printer willing to take the risk. Lawrence was keen that Lahr do it – as Rhys Davies reported excitedly from Nice – and his wife Frieda might even come to see Lahr about it. But the answer from Red Lion Street was no. It could not be done. No printer in England would risk setting the novel. Lahr’s attempts to find a mainstream publisher for the novel confirmed this impression. Russell Green, a former editor of New Coterie, reported to him that Victor Gollancz had read Chatterley and thought it one of the greatest achievements in English fiction; but it could not be published as it stood. If Lawrence would submit an expurgated manuscript, Gollancz would give it sympathetic consideration. Lawrence rejected the idea. Lahr suggested an edition published from Berlin or Vienna; Lawrence rejected that too.[3] He finally found a publisher in Edward Titus, a Paris-based bookseller who brought out the cheap, paper-bound Lady Chatterley in May 1929.
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In London, Lahr continued as a clandestine distributor of the novel, agreeing to take 200 copies of the new paperback; Lawrence remarked to a friend that Lahr was ‘very good …and absolutely honest’.[4] Though he had published in The New Coterie in 1926 he had never yet met Lahr, but his trust in him appeared to be absolute. In April 1929, he was responding agreeably to a new suggestion from London: ‘I don’t mind a bit if your friend does 500 of Our Lady. He can give me 15% on his selling price, that being the usual.’[5] In May he apprised his publisher, Orioli, of these developments: ‘A man in London talks of doing an Edition of 500 there – printing it himself in London, right under Jix’s nose. Don’t know if this will come off.’[6] The following month he asked Lahr how his friend was getting on with ‘Our Lady’; there is no record of a reply.
The gap in the archive is understandable; for his publishers and booksellers, Lawrence was a risky business. In January of that year he had addressed to his agent two typescripts of Pansies, a collection of poems; the parcel had been seized by the British postal authorities and destroyed.[7] In June an exhibition of his paintings in London was raided by police, the paintings impounded, and copies of a book of reproductions published to accompany the exhibition also destroyed. The incident provided a small coup for P.R. Stephensen’s Mandrake Press, which had produced the offending book; all remaining copies sold out immediately. Undeterred by the police action, or perhaps encouraged by the financial success, two months later Stephensen and Lahr published an unexpurgated limited edition of Pansies with Lawrence’s approval.
So the business relationship was developing throughout 1929, but by March 1930, D.H. Lawrence was dead. That year, the first London edition of Lady Chatterley was produced in a basement workshop near Euston Station. There were 500 copies in all, each bearing a false Florentine imprint: ‘the Tipografia Guintina, directed by L. Franceschini’.[8]
But if the Italian imprint hid the books’ true provenance in a London basement, its trail most likely leads – as the historian Christopher Hilliard has argued – back to Charles Lahr and this unnamed ‘friend’.
The ruse offered the English printers some protection from the law, but it also provoked confusion. This may have been a brave enterprise in British publishing history, but in mimicking the book’s original imprint it looked very much like an act of piracy. D.H. Lawrence may have authorized the London edition in April 1929, even writing of it to Pino Orioli, but there the trail ends. In January 1931, ten months after the writer’s death in the south of France, Frieda Lawrence arrived in London to track down those responsible.[9] Thirty years later, his literary agent, Laurence Pollinger, was still hunting them. A letter to Charles Lahr of July 1961 has not survived, but on 16 October, Pollinger wrote again, this time apologizing for his brusque tone in his previous correspondence. In writing the first letter he had been relying, he said, on the recollection of someone who thought he remembered Lahr’s participation in an unauthorized edition of Lady Chatterley’s Lover. He was sorry for any ‘hurt’ caused by his accusation, but he rejected the idea – presumably floated by Lahr – that it was libel. Unknown to Lahr, Pollinger had been corresponding with P.R. Stephensen in Australia. Charles Lahr, he had written to Stephensen, was a crook. Pollinger claimed to have known of ‘Lahr’s plan’ all along, and had disapproved of it; no profits had ever reached Lawrence.[10]
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In the wake of the 1960 Chatterley case, Stephensen – who had returned to his native Australia – had given his own version of events to the Sydney Observer:
‘“Charlie” came to me, in November 1929, sweating and trembling with fear, and asked me if I could arrange the printing and binding, in London, of a full and unexpurgated edition … This, he said, was to be done at Lawrence’s request. He and other booksellers would pay the printers and binder, and would sell the book surreptitiously. All profits would go to Lawrence.’[11]
Stephensen wrote that he had agreed to Lahr’s scheme, being ‘young, foolish and Quixotic’, and feeling that he owed a duty both to Lawrence and to ‘Literature’. In correspondence with Laurence Pollinger that year, he repeated the same story: that because of his ‘youthful idealism’ he may have been fooled by Lahr and ‘a few other booksellers’ who were concerned with making money. He did not explain what had happened to the profits from the edition.[12] Similar lapses in accounting had been a feature of D.H. Lawrence’s dealings with Stephensen and Lahr in his lifetime; in late October 1929 he had still not received final accounts for Pansies and began to have doubts about the enterprise, though Charles Lahr – he wrote to a friend – was ‘perfectly honest’.[13]
The story has a strange coda. In an undated letter, Rhys Davies wrote to Lahr that he had received a mysterious parcel – a batch of blank paper – which had been forwarded to him in Glamorgan with 8/1 in postal charges paid on it by his Essex landlady. The foolish woman had taken it in, he reported testily, even though his name was nowhere to be seen on the thing. It was addressed in fact to Frieda Lawrence in Majorca and returned as undeliverable. He could not imagine how it had found its way to his door, and certainly there is no easy explanation of it. All he could tell about the stray, with eight bob worth of stamps scattered all over it, was that the handwriting on the front was Charles Lahr’s. Then another parcel appeared. Clearly the Essex landlady had been insufficiently chided, he wrote again, for spending eight shillings of his money on the first lot of blank paper. This time there were 8/1 worth of charges to pay, and another 1/6 for forwarding it to Glamorgan.
It is most likely that what Lahr had attempted to send Frieda Lawrence in the spring or early summer of 1929 were galleys of his edition of Pansies. It may have been that the postal authorities – always alert to traffic in obscene literature and particularly to correspondence addressed to the Lawrences – had confiscated the parcel’s original contents and replaced them with blank pages. Another possibility, given that typescripts of the poems had been seized in the post that January, is that the parcel of blank paper was a decoy on Lahr’s part, a test of the postal system. In any case, the package travelled round and round the English countryside, its pages innocent of any obscenity. Perhaps it had never contained Pansies at all, but instead the London Lady Chatterley, on whose publication date Stephensen later proved himself confused and unreliable. It might yet hold the clue to the whole mystery: the venture agreed with Lawrence in April, the package mistakenly sent in June or July – when the Lawrences had already left Majorca – the secrecy that necessarily surrounded the whole enterprise. Lahr might yet be confirmed as a lost hero of British publishing history. But there is no plain and simple end to the story, and no neat justifications. Lahr did not explain himself to Davies when the first parcel appeared. And, as far as the records show, he did not explain the second.
When Charles Lahr was sentenced to six months in Wandsworth Prison in 1935 it was not for literary piracy, but for receiving stolen goods. Foyle’s in Charing Cross Road had noted that its stock was being stolen; the thieves responsible claimed to have sold the books on to the Progressive Bookshop. Threatened by the police with deportation to Germany – a menacing prospect for a denaturalized citizen with a Jewish wife – Lahr signed a confession. H.E. Bates took the stand at Clerkenwell Police Court to defend his friend’s good character. The gesture did little good. In the story he later based on the incident, ‘Oscar’ is an innocent who is convinced that the case is a ‘put up’. He is terrified of deportation: he is seen as a foreign communist, he will be turned over to the Nazis. But the drama in court is unspoken. The magistrate is bluff and unsympathetic; the plea made by Oscar’s solicitor is banal: he is a good father, he is sorry. ‘There was nothing,’ Bates wrote, ‘about fascism or communism or Germany or beating up or hatred or intrigue or politics or deportation.’ There was nothing in the plea, he implied, to suggest the vulnerability of a man caught between factions and countries, ‘a man apart from us, a man of no country at all.’[14]
Bates wrote to his friend in Wandsworth Prison. It was a shame, he complained, that just as his novel The Poacher was being ‘magnificently’ reviewed, the man who had helped to publish it was being treated as he was. Lahr did not complain about his incarceration. But he did not appreciate becoming a character in fiction. The friendship cooled.
By that time the bookshop’s heyday was already long over. After Lahr’s release in the autumn of 1935, Alec Bristow – an author and business partner – was writing to him impatiently to ask why Lahr had still not transferred his share in the Blue Moon Press to Esther. And could Lahr not manage to pay him anything back? He granted that business in the bookshop was probably not too good. That had been a regular theme in these letters. But Bristow soon shifts to other, more personal, matters, as most of these correspondents generally do. Where might he send his stories? Which magazines are still in existence? He had started to write a novel and he wanted to know whether Lahr thought it would be worth his while continuing. Does anyone publish novels these days? And how might he get reviewing work?
Alec Bristow writes again to him three decades later, in 1965, his letter sent from the London Press Exchange. He is replying to a ‘strange document’ that Lahr had sent him – some unaccountable relic of the old days. He has no idea what it is. Red Lion Street, he airily says, was a lifetime ago. He never sees anything of the old set now. He is ‘a dyed-in-the-wool businessman’. And he is enjoying it. He was writing the place out of his own personal history, writing off the ambitions and desperations of that other life. And many of the Red Lion Street regulars did the same. H.E. Bates’s three-volume autobiography mentions Charles Lahr only in passing. Liam O’Flaherty, whose memoirs are idiosyncratic attempts at creating a Dostoevskian alter ego, never mentions him at all, though he published six stories and pamphlets with Lahr in the early years of his career. Other associates did their own disappearing acts in the intervening years. Many of the more successful regulars in the Progressive Bookshop – like the short-story writer Malachi Whitaker, ‘the Bradford Chekhov’ – are now nearly as obscure as Lahr himself. In 1933, a number of these writers contributed stories to a volume intended to help him out of financial difficulty. But Charles’ Wain quickly fell victim to its publisher’s bankruptcy and its contributors complained of never receiving their copies. One rare survivor sits in the British Library, signed by Sean O’Faoláin and Liam O’Flaherty, Malachi Whitaker and H.E. Bates, Rhys Davies and Eimar O’Duffy. It now seems a collection of the terminally out of print.
By 1941 the bookshop at 68 Red Lion Street would be gone, destroyed in an overnight bombing raid. Charles and Esther moved their enterprise to no. 74, and soon that was destroyed too. By the end of the war they were in Little Newport Street off Charing Cross Road, and then move followed move until Charles Lahr finally ended up in the bookshop of the Independent Labour Party in King’s Cross, where he continued to work into his eighties. There was a time when, in out-of-the-way places, among bibliophiles and literary leftists, he was seen as a legendary Bloomsbury figure. But his is not really a Bloomsbury story of failed writers and avant-gardes and literary magazines, of crooks and innocents and wily dealers, though it can appear very much like one. It begins in a very different place, with two young men pushing a wheelbarrow through the streets of east London in 1907. Inside it is the heavy platen machine which the boy preacher will use to set up his Bakunin Press in the basement of his mother’s house. Alongside him is Karl Lahr. They are just setting out into the world. They are going to topple empires.
This essay was first published in The Dublin Review (Summer 2014).
[1] A.G. Gardiner cited in Ronald Blythe, The Age of Illusion: England in the Twenties and Thirties, 1919-1940 (London: Phoenix Press, 2001), p. 27.
[2] Christopher Hilliard, ‘The Literary Underground of 1930s London’, Social History 33:2 (May 2008), p. 164.
[3] D.H. Lawrence to S.S. Koteliansky (18 January 1929) in Keith Sagar and James T. Boulton, eds. The Cambridge Edition of the Letters of D.H. Lawrence Vol. VII, November 1928 – February 1930 (Cambridge: CUP, 2002), p. 141.
[4] Cited in ibid., p. 3.
[5] D.H. Lawrence to Charles Lahr (18 April 1929), ibid., p. 255.
[6] D.H. Lawrence to Pino Orioli (9 May 1929), ibid., p. 274.
[7] Hilliard, p. 178.
[8] Ibid., p. 179.
[9] Craig Munro, ‘Lady Chatterley in London: The Secret Third Edition’ in Michael Squires and Dennis Jackson, eds. D.H. Lawrence’s Lady: A New Look at Lady Chatterley’s Lover (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1985), p. 232.
[10] Laurence Pollinger to P.R. Stephensen (28 October 1960), cited in ibid., p. 229; p. 232.
[11] Cited in ibid., p. 231.
[12] P.R. Stephensen to Laurence Pollinger (3 November 1960), cited in ibid., p. 231.
[13] Ibid., p. 228.
[14] H.E. Bates, ‘No Country,’ Something Short and Sweet (Bath: Lythway Press, 1974), p. 220.
