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But of course, I am probably wrong. When Miss Chatterley--Emma--came down to London from the Midlands to do some nursing work, she was very witty in a quiet way about Sir Geoffrey and his determined patriotism. Of physical life they lived very little. I mention Harvest of the Cold Months at the entry for traditional liquid measure. They just wanted to examine ID's.

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And a woman had to yield. They're also in charge of some protocol stuff.

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And they had had a good time there. Her mother had been one of the cultivated Fabians in the palmy, rather pre-Raphaelite days. It was obvious in the anxious brightness of his eyes, how proud he was, after the great shock, of being alive. They were at once cosmopolitan and provincial, with the cosmopolitan provincialism of art that goes with pure social ideals. So they had given the gift of themselves, each to the youth with whom she had the most subtle and intimate arguments. There was a blank of insentience. Constance, his wife, was a ruddy, country-looking girl with soft brown hair and sturdy body, and slow movements, full of unusual energy. To shake off the old and sordid connexions and subjections. 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. It was their natural atmosphere. They insisted on the sex thing like dogs. Certainly she could take him without giving herself into his power. For she only had to hold herself back in sexual intercourse, and let him finish and expend himself without herself coming to the crisis: Both sisters had had their love experience by the time the war came, and they were hurried home. Why couldn't a girl be queenly, and give the gift of herself? A woman had to yield him what he wanted, or like a child he would probably turn nasty and flounce away and spoil what was a very pleasant connexion. And however one might sentimentalize it, this sex business was one of the most ancient, sordid connexions and subjections. They sang the Wandervogel songs, and they were free. And if after the roused intimacy of these vivid and soul-enlightened discussions the sex thing became more or less inevitable, then let it. Having suffered so much, the capacity for suffering had to some extent left him. The beautiful pure freedom of a woman was infinitely more wonderful than any sexual love. His shoulders were broad and strong, his hands were very strong. Women had always known there was something better, something higher. A woman could take a man without really giving herself away. 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. It had nothing to do with Sir Malcolm, who left his nervously hostile, high-spirited wife to rule her own roost, while he went his own way. The only unfortunate thing was that men lagged so far behind women in the matter. Then he went back to Flanders: Constance, his wife, was then twenty-three years old, and he was twenty-nine. 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'. What else did a girl's life mean? They came to start housekeeping and married life in the rather forlorn home of the Chatterleys on a rather inadequate income. Between artists and cultured socialists, Constance and her sister Hilda had had what might be called an aesthetically unconventional upbringing. And a woman had to yield. Otherwise there were no near relatives. He was not really downcast. They had been sent to Dresden at the age of fifteen, for music among other things. That was the great word. It was fulfilled before they knew what a promise it was. The elder brother was dead in the war. A man was like a child with his appetites. L'amour avait passe par la , as somebody puts it. And she had realized that one must live and learn. That the poets and talkers about sex did not seem to have taken sufficiently into account. Neither was ever in love with a young man unless he and she were verbally very near: 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 Thou shalt have men to talk to! But as a matter of fact, it was some old impression of authority on her own mind or soul that she could not get rid of. The young men with whom they talked so passionately and sang so lustily and camped under the trees in such freedom wanted, of course, the love connexion. They had been taken to Paris and Florence and Rome to breathe in art, and they had been taken also in the other direction, to the Hague and Berlin, to great Socialist conventions, where the speakers spoke in every civilized tongue, and no one was abashed. The girls were doubtful, but then the thing was so much talked about, it was supposed to be so important. He had so very nearly lost his life, that what remained was wonderfully precious to him. She blamed her husband. They had a month's honeymoon. Rather she could use this sex thing to have power over him. It had a thrill of its own too: When the girls came home for the summer holidays of , when Hilda was twenty and Connie eighteen, their father could see plainly that they had had the love experience. He was expensively dressed, and wore handsome neckties from Bond Street. But a woman could yield to a man without yielding her inner, free self. They lived freely among the students, they argued with the men over philosophical, sociological and artistic matters, they were just as good as the men themselves: And they tramped off to the forests with sturdy youths bearing guitars, twang-twang! The war had brought the roof down over her head. The arguments, the discussions were the great thing: One was less in love with the boy afterwards, and a little inclined to hate him, as if he had trespassed on one's privacy and inner freedom. And now they knew it more definitely than ever. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. For two years he remained in the doctor's hands. It marked the end of a chapter. She herself had never been able to be altogether herself: Heaven knows why, for she was a woman who had her own income and her own way. This was more or less Constance Chatterley's position. It is rather hard work: We've got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen. Clifford had a sister, but she had departed. It was not so at all. She had big, wondering eyes, and a soft mild voice, and seemed just to have come from her native village. This was in They returned, Clifford and Constance, to his home, Wragby Hall, the family 'seat'. The two girls, therefore, were from an early age not the least daunted by either art or ideal politics. For, of course, being a girl, one's whole dignity and meaning in life consisted in the achievement of an absolute, a perfect, a pure and noble freedom. And the men were so humble and craving. So the girls were 'free', and went back to Dresden, and their music, and the university and the young men. All the wonderful things the young men thought and expressed and wrote, they thought and expressed and wrote for the young women.{/PARAGRAPH} But he was a man of experience himself, and let life take its course. Poets who glorified it were mostly men. Her father was the once well-known R. Both Hilda and Constance had had their tentative love-affairs by the time they were eighteen. 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. But he had been so much hurt that something inside him had perished, some of his feelings had gone. She married Clifford Chatterley in , when he was home for a month on leave. Yet still in his face one saw the watchful look, the slight vacancy of a cripple. He didn't die, and the bits seemed to grow together again. His hold on life was marvellous. 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. 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. It was the talk that mattered supremely: Love was only a minor accompaniment. {PARAGRAPH}Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. They loved their respective young men, and their respective young men loved them with all the passion of mental attraction.
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