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As for the mother, a nervous invalid in the last few months of her life, she wanted her girls to be 'free', and to 'fulfil themselves'. 'Blest be the tie that binds our hearts in kindred love,' he said.
She herself had never been able to be altogether herself: it had been denied her.
This was more or less Constance Chatterley's position. Constance, his wife, was then twenty-three years old, and he was twenty-nine. He didn't die, and the bits seemed to grow together again. Then he was pronounced a cure, and could return to life again, with the lower half of his body, from the hips down, paralysed for ever. They returned, Clifford and Constance, to his home, Wragby Hall, the family 'seat'. Crippled for ever, knowing he could never have any children, Clifford came home to the smoky Midlands to keep the Chatterley name alive while he could. He could wheel himself about in a wheeled chair, and he had a bath-chair with a small motor attachment, so he could drive himself slowly round the garden and into the fine melancholy park, of which he was really so proud, though he pretended to be flippant about it. Only lend me a comb.' She followed him into the scullery, and combed her hair before the handbreadth of mirror by the back door. She stood in the little front garden, looking at the dewy flowers, the grey bed of pinks in bud already.
His father had died, Clifford was now a baronet, Sir Clifford, and Constance was Lady Chatterley. Having suffered so much, the capacity for suffering had to some extent left him. The sun fell on her naked limbs through the gable window. The hazel-brake was misted with green, and dark-green dogs-mercury under. 'I would like to have all the rest of the world disappear,' she said, 'and live with you here.' 'It won't disappear,' he said. 'I want soon to come and live with you altogether,' she said as she left him. She got home quietly and unremarked, and went up to her room. ' 'But I ought to get divorced, and so ought you, unless we're going to have complications.' There was plenty to think about. They were in the hut, and there was a thunderstorm.
They came to start housekeeping and married life in the rather forlorn home of the Chatterleys on a rather inadequate income. He remained strange and bright and cheerful, almost, one might say, chirpy, with his ruddy, healthy-looking face, and his pale-blue, challenging bright eyes. Nothing in it at all but the small chest of drawers and the smallish bed. And in the corner by the window gable was a shelf with some books, and some from a circulating library. There were books about Bolshevist Russia, books of travel, a volume about the atom and the electron, another about the composition of the earth's core, and the causes of earthquakes: then a few novels: then three books on India. It was a clear clean morning with birds flying and triumphantly singing. If only there weren't the other ghastly world of smoke and iron! She came downstairs, down the steep, narrow wooden stairs. They went almost in silence through the lovely dewy wood. There was a letter from Hilda on the breakfast-tray. I have about six hundred a year, I wrote and asked. 'And weren't you happy, when you were a lieutenant and an officer and a gentleman?
His shoulders were broad and strong, his hands were very strong. ' And softly, he laid his hand over her mound of Venus, on the soft brown maiden-hair, and himself sat still and naked on the bed, his face motionless in physical abstraction, almost like the face of Buddha. He called from the foot of the stairs: 'Half past seven! Still she would be content with this little house, if only it were in a world of its own. 'Father is going to London this week, and I shall call for you on Thursday week, June 17th. I don't want to waste time at Wragby, it's an awful place. I don't much care what I do.' 'Doesn't it make you happy?
The amazing, the profound, the unbelievable thrill there was in passionately talking to some really clever young man by the hour, resuming day after day for months..they had never realized till it happened!
The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. In a way, he loved me.' 'Tell me about him.' 'What is there to tell?
And they tramped off to the forests with sturdy youths bearing guitars, twang-twang! Out in the open world, out in the forests of the morning, with lusty and splendid-throated young fellows, free to do as they liked, and--above all--to say what they liked. He knew he ought to find some way of using it, or converting it, so that he needn't sell it, or needn't have the chagrin of failing to sell it.
They sang the Wandervogel songs, and they were free. It was the talk that mattered supremely: the impassioned interchange of talk. Both Hilda and Constance had had their tentative love-affairs by the time they were eighteen. But if he made electric power, could he sell that or use it?
And if after the roused intimacy of these vivid and soul-enlightened discussions the sex thing became more or less inevitable, then let it. It had a thrill of its own too: a queer vibrating thrill inside the body, a final spasm of self-assertion, like the last word, exciting, and very like the row of asterisks that can be put to show the end of a paragraph, and a break in the theme.
When the girls came home for the summer holidays of 1913, when Hilda was twenty and Connie eighteen, their father could see plainly that they had had the love experience. But he was a man of experience himself, and let life take its course. 'Even when he's soft and little I feel my heart simply tied to him.
He had so very nearly lost his life, that what remained was wonderfully precious to him. It is no use our spending an evening with Clifford.