Women in Love
D.H. Lawrence


CONTENTS


CHAPTER I.      Sisters
CHAPTER II.     Shortlands
CHAPTER III.    Class-room
CHAPTER IV.     Diver
CHAPTER V.      In the Train
CHAPTER VI.     Creme de Menthe
CHAPTER VII.    Fetish
CHAPTER VIII.   Breadalby
CHAPTER IX.     Coal-dust
CHAPTER X.      Sketch-book
CHAPTER XI.     An Island
CHAPTER XII.    Carpeting
CHAPTER XIII.   Mino
CHAPTER XIV.    Water-party
CHAPTER XV.     Sunday Evening
CHAPTER XVI.    Man to Man
CHAPTER XVII.   The Industrial Magnate
CHAPTER XVIII.  Rabbit
CHAPTER XIX.    Moony
CHAPTER XX.     Gladiatorial
CHAPTER XXI.    Threshold
CHAPTER XXII.   Woman to Woman
CHAPTER XXIII.  Excurse
CHAPTER XXIV.   Death and Love
CHAPTER XXV.    Marriage or Not
CHAPTER XXVI.   A Chair
CHAPTER XXVII.  Flitting
CHAPTER XXVIII. Gudrun in the Pompadour
CHAPTER XXIX.   Continental
CHAPTER XXX.    Snowed Up
CHAPTER XXXI.   Exeunt




CHAPTER I.



SISTERS


Ursula and Gudrun Brangwen sat one morning in the window-bay of their
father's house in Beldover, working and talking. Ursula was stitching a
piece of brightly-coloured embroidery, and Gudrun was drawing upon a
board which she held on her knee. They were mostly silent, talking as
their thoughts strayed through their minds.

'Ursula,' said Gudrun, 'don't you REALLY WANT to get married?' Ursula
laid her embroidery in her lap and looked up. Her face was calm and
considerate.

'I don't know,' she replied. 'It depends how you mean.'

Gudrun was slightly taken aback. She watched her sister for some
moments.

'Well,' she said, ironically, 'it usually means one thing! But don't
you think anyhow, you'd be--' she darkened slightly--'in a better
position than you are in now.'

A shadow came over Ursula's face.

'I might,' she said. 'But I'm not sure.'

Again Gudrun paused, slightly irritated. She wanted to be quite
definite.

'You don't think one needs the EXPERIENCE of having been married?' she
asked.

'Do you think it need BE an experience?' replied Ursula.

'Bound to be, in some way or other,' said Gudrun, coolly. 'Possibly
undesirable, but bound to be an experience of some sort.'

'Not really,' said Ursula. 'More likely to be the end of experience.'

Gudrun sat very still, to attend to this.

'Of course,' she said, 'there's THAT to consider.' This brought the
conversation to a close. Gudrun, almost angrily, took up her rubber and
began to rub out part of her drawing. Ursula stitched absorbedly.

'You wouldn't consider a good offer?' asked Gudrun.

'I think I've rejected several,' said Ursula.

'REALLY!' Gudrun flushed dark--'But anything really worth while? Have
you REALLY?'

'A thousand a year, and an awfully nice man. I liked him awfully,' said
Ursula.

'Really! But weren't you fearfully tempted?'

'In the abstract but not in the concrete,' said Ursula. 'When it comes
to the point, one isn't even tempted--oh, if I were tempted, I'd marry
like a shot. I'm only tempted NOT to.' The faces of both sisters
suddenly lit up with amusement.

'Isn't it an amazing thing,' cried Gudrun, 'how strong the temptation
is, not to!' They both laughed, looking at each other. In their hearts
they were frightened.

There was a long pause, whilst Ursula stitched and Gudrun went on with
her sketch. The sisters were women, Ursula twenty-six, and Gudrun
twenty-five. But both had the remote, virgin look of modern girls,
sisters of Artemis rather than of Hebe. Gudrun was very beautiful,
passive, soft-skinned, soft-limbed. She wore a dress of dark-blue silky
stuff, with ruches of blue and green linen lace in the neck and
sleeves; and she had emerald-green stockings. Her look of confidence
and diffidence contrasted with Ursula's sensitive expectancy. The
provincial people, intimidated by Gudrun's perfect sang-froid and
exclusive bareness of manner, said of her: 'She is a smart woman.' She
had just come back from London, where she had spent several years,
working at an art-school, as a student, and living a studio life.

'I was hoping now for a man to come along,' Gudrun said, suddenly
catching her underlip between her teeth, and making a strange grimace,
half sly smiling, half anguish. Ursula was afraid.

'So you have come home, expecting him here?' she laughed.

'Oh my dear,' cried Gudrun, strident, 'I wouldn't go out of my way to
look for him. But if there did happen to come along a highly attractive
individual of sufficient means--well--' she tailed off ironically. Then
she looked searchingly at Ursula, as if to probe her. 'Don't you find
yourself getting bored?' she asked of her sister. 'Don't you find, that
things fail to materialise? NOTHING MATERIALISES! Everything withers in
the bud.'

'What withers in the bud?' asked Ursula.

'Oh, everything--oneself--things in general.' There was a pause, whilst
each sister vaguely considered her fate.

'It does frighten one,' said Ursula, and again there was a pause. 'But
do you hope to get anywhere by just marrying?'

'It seems to be the inevitable next step,' said Gudrun. Ursula pondered
this, with a little bitterness. She was a class mistress herself, in
Willey Green Grammar School, as she had been for some years.

'I know,' she said, 'it seems like that when one thinks in the
abstract. But really imagine it: imagine any man one knows, imagine him
coming home to one every evening, and saying "Hello," and giving one a
kiss--'

There was a blank pause.

'Yes,' said Gudrun, in a narrowed voice. 'It's just impossible. The man
makes it impossible.'

'Of course there's children--' said Ursula doubtfully.

Gudrun's face hardened.

'Do you REALLY want children, Ursula?' she asked coldly. A dazzled,
baffled look came on Ursula's face.

'One feels it is still beyond one,' she said.

'DO you feel like that?' asked Gudrun. 'I get no feeling whatever from
the thought of bearing children.'

Gudrun looked at Ursula with a masklike, expressionless face. Ursula
knitted her brows.

'Perhaps it isn't genuine,' she faltered. 'Perhaps one doesn't really
want them, in one's soul--only superficially.' A hardness came over
Gudrun's face. She did not want to be too definite.

'When one thinks of other people's children--' said Ursula.

Again Gudrun looked at her sister, almost hostile.

'Exactly,' she said, to close the conversation.

The two sisters worked on in silence, Ursula having always that strange
brightness of an essential flame that is caught, meshed, contravened.
She lived a good deal by herself, to herself, working, passing on from
day to day, and always thinking, trying to lay hold on life, to grasp
it in her own understanding. Her active living was suspended, but
underneath, in the darkness, something was coming to pass. If only she
could break through the last integuments! She seemed to try and put her
hands out, like an infant in the womb, and she could not, not yet.
Still she had a strange prescience, an intimation of something yet to
come.

She laid down her work and looked at her sister. She thought Gudrun so
CHARMING, so infinitely charming, in her softness and her fine,
exquisite richness of texture and delicacy of line. There was a certain
playfulness about her too, such a piquancy or ironic suggestion, such
an untouched reserve. Ursula admired her with all her soul.

'Why did you come home, Prune?' she asked.

Gudrun knew she was being admired. She sat back from her drawing and
looked at Ursula, from under her finely-curved lashes.

'Why did I come back, Ursula?' she repeated. 'I have asked myself a
thousand times.'

'And don't you know?'

'Yes, I think I do. I think my coming back home was just RECULER POUR
MIEUX SAUTER.'

And she looked with a long, slow look of knowledge at Ursula.

'I know!' cried Ursula, looking slightly dazzled and falsified, and as
if she did NOT know. 'But where can one jump to?'

'Oh, it doesn't matter,' said Gudrun, somewhat superbly. 'If one jumps
over the edge, one is bound to land somewhere.'

'But isn't it very risky?' asked Ursula.

A slow mocking smile dawned on Gudrun's face.

'Ah!' she said laughing. 'What is it all but words!' And so again she
closed the conversation. But Ursula was still brooding.

'And how do you find home, now you have come back to it?' she asked.

Gudrun paused for some moments, coldly, before answering. Then, in a
cold truthful voice, she said:

'I find myself completely out of it.'

'And father?'

Gudrun looked at Ursula, almost with resentment, as if brought to bay.

'I haven't thought about him: I've refrained,' she said coldly.

'Yes,' wavered Ursula; and the conversation was really at an end. The
sisters found themselves confronted by a void, a terrifying chasm, as
if they had looked over the edge.

They worked on in silence for some time, Gudrun's cheek was flushed
with repressed emotion. She resented its having been called into being.

'Shall we go out and look at that wedding?' she asked at length, in a
voice that was too casual.

'Yes!' cried Ursula, too eagerly, throwing aside her sewing and leaping
up, as if to escape something, thus betraying the tension of the
situation and causing a friction of dislike to go over Gudrun's nerves.

As she went upstairs, Ursula was aware of the house, of her home round
about her. And she loathed it, the sordid, too-familiar place! She was
afraid at the depth of her feeling against the home, the milieu, the
whole atmosphere and condition of this obsolete life. Her feeling
frightened her.

The two girls were soon walking swiftly down the main road of Beldover,
a wide street, part shops, part dwelling-houses, utterly formless and
sordid, without poverty. Gudrun, new from her life in Chelsea and
Sussex, shrank cruelly from this amorphous ugliness of a small colliery
town in the Midlands. Yet forward she went, through the whole sordid
gamut of pettiness, the long amorphous, gritty street. She was exposed
to every stare, she passed on through a stretch of torment. It was
strange that she should have chosen to come back and test the full
effect of this shapeless, barren ugliness upon herself. Why had she
wanted to submit herself to it, did she still want to submit herself to
it, the insufferable torture of these ugly, meaningless people, this
defaced countryside? She felt like a beetle toiling in the dust. She
was filled with repulsion.

They turned off the main road, past a black patch of common-garden,
where sooty cabbage stumps stood shameless. No one thought to be
ashamed. No one was ashamed of it all.

'It is like a country in an underworld,' said Gudrun. 'The colliers
bring it above-ground with them, shovel it up. Ursula, it's marvellous,
it's really marvellous--it's really wonderful, another world. The
people are all ghouls, and everything is ghostly. Everything is a
ghoulish replica of the real world, a replica, a ghoul, all soiled,
everything sordid. It's like being mad, Ursula.'

The sisters were crossing a black path through a dark, soiled field. On
the left was a large landscape, a valley with collieries, and opposite
hills with cornfields and woods, all blackened with distance, as if
seen through a veil of crape. White and black smoke rose up in steady
columns, magic within the dark air. Near at hand came the long rows of
dwellings, approaching curved up the hill-slope, in straight lines
along the brow of the hill. They were of darkened red brick, brittle,
with dark slate roofs. The path on which the sisters walked was black,
trodden-in by the feet of the recurrent colliers, and bounded from the
field by iron fences; the stile that led again into the road was rubbed
shiny by the moleskins of the passing miners. Now the two girls were
going between some rows of dwellings, of the poorer sort. Women, their
arms folded over their coarse aprons, standing gossiping at the end of
their block, stared after the Brangwen sisters with that long,
unwearying stare of aborigines; children called out names.

Gudrun went on her way half dazed. If this were human life, if these
were human beings, living in a complete world, then what was her own
world, outside? She was aware of her grass-green stockings, her large
grass-green velour hat, her full soft coat, of a strong blue colour.
And she felt as if she were treading in the air, quite unstable, her
heart was contracted, as if at any minute she might be precipitated to
the ground. She was afraid.

She clung to Ursula, who, through long usage was inured to this
violation of a dark, uncreated, hostile world. But all the time her
heart was crying, as if in the midst of some ordeal: 'I want to go
back, I want to go away, I want not to know it, not to know that this
exists.' Yet she must go forward.

Ursula could feel her suffering.

'You hate this, don't you?' she asked.

'It bewilders me,' stammered Gudrun.

'You won't stay long,' replied Ursula.

And Gudrun went along, grasping at release.

They drew away from the colliery region, over the curve of the hill,
into the purer country of the other side, towards Willey Green. Still
the faint glamour of blackness persisted over the fields and the wooded
hills, and seemed darkly to gleam in the air. It was a spring day,
chill, with snatches of sunshine. Yellow celandines showed out from the
hedge-bottoms, and in the cottage gardens of Willey Green,
currant-bushes were breaking into leaf, and little flowers were coming
white on the grey alyssum that hung over the stone walls.

Turning, they passed down the high-road, that went between high banks
towards the church. There, in the lowest bend of the road, low under
the trees, stood a little group of expectant people, waiting to see the
wedding. The daughter of the chief mine-owner of the district, Thomas
Crich, was getting married to a naval officer.

'Let us go back,' said Gudrun, swerving away. 'There are all those
people.'

And she hung wavering in the road.

'Never mind them,' said Ursula, 'they're all right. They all know me,
they don't matter.'

'But must we go through them?' asked Gudrun.

'They're quite all right, really,' said Ursula, going forward. And
together the two sisters approached the group of uneasy, watchful
common people. They were chiefly women, colliers' wives of the more
shiftless sort. They had watchful, underworld faces.

The two sisters held themselves tense, and went straight towards the
gate. The women made way for them, but barely sufficient, as if
grudging to yield ground. The sisters passed in silence through the
stone gateway and up the steps, on the red carpet, a policeman
estimating their progress.

'What price the stockings!' said a voice at the back of Gudrun. A
sudden fierce anger swept over the girl, violent and murderous. She
would have liked them all annihilated, cleared away, so that the world
was left clear for her. How she hated walking up the churchyard path,
along the red carpet, continuing in motion, in their sight.

'I won't go into the church,' she said suddenly, with such final
decision that Ursula immediately halted, turned round, and branched off
up a small side path which led to the little private gate of the
Grammar School, whose grounds adjoined those of the church.

Just inside the gate of the school shrubbery, outside the churchyard,
Ursula sat down for a moment on the low stone wall under the laurel
bushes, to rest. Behind her, the large red building of the school rose
up peacefully, the windows all open for the holiday. Over the shrubs,
before her, were the pale roofs and tower of the old church. The
sisters were hidden by the foliage.

Gudrun sat down in silence. Her mouth was shut close, her face averted.
She was regretting bitterly that she had ever come back. Ursula looked
at her, and thought how amazingly beautiful she was, flushed with
discomfiture. But she caused a constraint over Ursula's nature, a
certain weariness. Ursula wished to be alone, freed from the tightness,
the enclosure of Gudrun's presence.

'Are we going to stay here?' asked Gudrun.

'I was only resting a minute,' said Ursula, getting up as if rebuked.
'We will stand in the corner by the fives-court, we shall see
everything from there.'

For the moment, the sunshine fell brightly into the churchyard, there
was a vague scent of sap and of spring, perhaps of violets from off the
graves. Some white daisies were out, bright as angels. In the air, the
unfolding leaves of a copper-beech were blood-red.

Punctually at eleven o'clock, the carriages began to arrive. There was
a stir in the crowd at the gate, a concentration as a carriage drove
up, wedding guests were mounting up the steps and passing along the red
carpet to the church. They were all gay and excited because the sun was
shining.

Gudrun watched them closely, with objective curiosity. She saw each one
as a complete figure, like a character in a book, or a subject in a
picture, or a marionette in a theatre, a finished creation. She loved
to recognise their various characteristics, to place them in their true
light, give them their own surroundings, settle them for ever as they
passed before her along the path to the church. She knew them, they
were finished, sealed and stamped and finished with, for her. There was
none that had anything unknown, unresolved, until the Criches
themselves began to appear. Then her interest was piqued. Here was
something not quite so preconcluded.

There came the mother, Mrs Crich, with her eldest son Gerald. She was a
queer unkempt figure, in spite of the attempts that had obviously been
made to bring her into line for the day. Her face was pale, yellowish,
with a clear, transparent skin, she leaned forward rather, her features
were strongly marked, handsome, with a tense, unseeing, predative look.
Her colourless hair was untidy, wisps floating down on to her sac coat
of dark blue silk, from under her blue silk hat. She looked like a
woman with a monomania, furtive almost, but heavily proud.

Her son was of a fair, sun-tanned type, rather above middle height,
well-made, and almost exaggeratedly well-dressed. But about him also
was the strange, guarded look, the unconscious glisten, as if he did
not belong to the same creation as the people about him. Gudrun lighted
on him at once. There was something northern about him that magnetised
her. In his clear northern flesh and his fair hair was a glisten like
sunshine refracted through crystals of ice. And he looked so new,
unbroached, pure as an arctic thing. Perhaps he was thirty years old,
perhaps more. His gleaming beauty, maleness, like a young,
good-humoured, smiling wolf, did not blind her to the significant,
sinister stillness in his bearing, the lurking danger of his unsubdued
temper. 'His totem is the wolf,' she repeated to herself. 'His mother
is an old, unbroken wolf.' And then she experienced a keen paroxyism, a
transport, as if she had made some incredible discovery, known to
nobody else on earth. A strange transport took possession of her, all
her veins were in a paroxysm of violent sensation. 'Good God!' she
exclaimed to herself, 'what is this?' And then, a moment after, she was
saying assuredly, 'I shall know more of that man.' She was tortured
with desire to see him again, a nostalgia, a necessity to see him
again, to make sure it was not all a mistake, that she was not deluding
herself, that she really felt this strange and overwhelming sensation
on his account, this knowledge of him in her essence, this powerful
apprehension of him. 'Am I REALLY singled out for him in some way, is
there really some pale gold, arctic light that envelopes only us two?'
she asked herself. And she could not believe it, she remained in a
muse, scarcely conscious of what was going on around.

The bridesmaids were here, and yet the bridegroom had not come. Ursula
wondered if something was amiss, and if the wedding would yet all go
wrong. She felt troubled, as if it rested upon her. The chief
bridesmaids had arrived. Ursula watched them come up the steps. One of
them she knew, a tall, slow, reluctant woman with a weight of fair hair
and a pale, long face. This was Hermione Roddice, a friend of the
Criches. Now she came along, with her head held up, balancing an
enormous flat hat of pale yellow velvet, on which were streaks of
ostrich feathers, natural and grey. She drifted forward as if scarcely
conscious, her long blanched face lifted up, not to see the world. She
was rich. She wore a dress of silky, frail velvet, of pale yellow
colour, and she carried a lot of small rose-coloured cyclamens. Her
shoes and stockings were of brownish grey, like the feathers on her
hat, her hair was heavy, she drifted along with a peculiar fixity of
the hips, a strange unwilling motion. She was impressive, in her lovely
pale-yellow and brownish-rose, yet macabre, something repulsive. People
were silent when she passed, impressed, roused, wanting to jeer, yet
for some reason silenced. Her long, pale face, that she carried lifted
up, somewhat in the Rossetti fashion, seemed almost drugged, as if a
strange mass of thoughts coiled in the darkness within her, and she was
never allowed to escape.

Ursula watched her with fascination. She knew her a little. She was the
most remarkable woman in the Midlands. Her father was a Derbyshire
Baronet of the old school, she was a woman of the new school, full of
intellectuality, and heavy, nerve-worn with consciousness. She was
passionately interested in reform, her soul was given up to the public
cause. But she was a man's woman, it was the manly world that held her.

She had various intimacies of mind and soul with various men of
capacity. Ursula knew, among these men, only Rupert Birkin, who was one
of the school-inspectors of the county. But Gudrun had met others, in
London. Moving with her artist friends in different kinds of society,
Gudrun had already come to know a good many people of repute and
standing. She had met Hermione twice, but they did not take to each
other. It would be queer to meet again down here in the Midlands, where
their social standing was so diverse, after they had known each other
on terms of equality in the houses of sundry acquaintances in town. For
Gudrun had been a social success, and had her friends among the slack
aristocracy that keeps touch with the arts.

Hermione knew herself to be well-dressed; she knew herself to be the
social equal, if not far the superior, of anyone she was likely to meet
in Willey Green. She knew she was accepted in the world of culture and
of intellect. She was a KULTURTRAGER, a medium for the culture of
ideas. With all that was highest, whether in society or in thought or
in public action, or even in art, she was at one, she moved among the
foremost, at home with them. No one could put her down, no one could
make mock of her, because she stood among the first, and those that
were against her were below her, either in rank, or in wealth, or in
high association of thought and progress and understanding. So, she was
invulnerable. All her life, she had sought to make herself
invulnerable, unassailable, beyond reach of the world's judgment.

And yet her soul was tortured, exposed. Even walking up the path to the
church, confident as she was that in every respect she stood beyond all
vulgar judgment, knowing perfectly that her appearance was complete and
perfect, according to the first standards, yet she suffered a torture,
under her confidence and her pride, feeling herself exposed to wounds
and to mockery and to despite. She always felt vulnerable, vulnerable,
there was always a secret chink in her armour. She did not know herself
what it was. It was a lack of robust self, she had no natural
sufficiency, there was a terrible void, a lack, a deficiency of being
within her.

And she wanted someone to close up this deficiency, to close it up for
ever. She craved for Rupert Birkin. When he was there, she felt
complete, she was sufficient, whole. For the rest of time she was
established on the sand, built over a chasm, and, in spite of all her
vanity and securities, any common maid-servant of positive, robust
temper could fling her down this bottomless pit of insufficiency, by
the slightest movement of jeering or contempt. And all the while the
pensive, tortured woman piled up her own defences of aesthetic
knowledge, and culture, and world-visions, and disinterestedness. Yet
she could never stop up the terrible gap of insufficiency.

If only Birkin would form a close and abiding connection with her, she
would be safe during this fretful voyage of life. He could make her
sound and triumphant, triumphant over the very angels of heaven. If
only he would do it! But she was tortured with fear, with misgiving.
She made herself beautiful, she strove so hard to come to that degree
of beauty and advantage, when he should be convinced. But always there
was a deficiency.

He was perverse too. He fought her off, he always fought her off. The
more she strove to bring him to her, the more he battled her back. And
they had been lovers now, for years. Oh, it was so wearying, so aching;
she was so tired. But still she believed in herself. She knew he was
trying to leave her. She knew he was trying to break away from her
finally, to be free. But still she believed in her strength to keep
him, she believed in her own higher knowledge. His own knowledge was
high, she was the central touchstone of truth. She only needed his
conjunction with her.

And this, this conjunction with her, which was his highest fulfilment
also, with the perverseness of a wilful child he wanted to deny. With
the wilfulness of an obstinate child, he wanted to break the holy
connection that was between them.

He would be at this wedding; he was to be groom's man. He would be in
the church, waiting. He would know when she came. She shuddered with
nervous apprehension and desire as she went through the church-door. He
would be there, surely he would see how beautiful her dress was, surely
he would see how she had made herself beautiful for him. He would
understand, he would be able to see how she was made for him, the
first, how she was, for him, the highest. Surely at last he would be
able to accept his highest fate, he would not deny her.

In a little convulsion of too-tired yearning, she entered the church
and looked slowly along her cheeks for him, her slender body convulsed
with agitation. As best man, he would be standing beside the altar. She
looked slowly, deferring in her certainty.

And then, he was not there. A terrible storm came over her, as if she
were drowning. She was possessed by a devastating hopelessness. And she
approached mechanically to the altar. Never had she known such a pang
of utter and final hopelessness. It was beyond death, so utterly null,
desert.

The bridegroom and the groom's man had not yet come. There was a
growing consternation outside. Ursula felt almost responsible. She
could not bear it that the bride should arrive, and no groom. The
wedding must not be a fiasco, it must not.

But here was the bride's carriage, adorned with ribbons and cockades.
Gaily the grey horses curvetted to their destination at the
church-gate, a laughter in the whole movement. Here was the quick of
all laughter and pleasure. The door of the carriage was thrown open, to
let out the very blossom of the day. The people on the roadway murmured
faintly with the discontented murmuring of a crowd.

The father stepped out first into the air of the morning, like a
shadow. He was a tall, thin, careworn man, with a thin black beard that
was touched with grey. He waited at the door of the carriage patiently,
self-obliterated.

In the opening of the doorway was a shower of fine foliage and flowers,
a whiteness of satin and lace, and a sound of a gay voice saying:

'How do I get out?'

A ripple of satisfaction ran through the expectant people. They pressed
near to receive her, looking with zest at the stooping blond head with
its flower buds, and at the delicate, white, tentative foot that was
reaching down to the step of the carriage. There was a sudden foaming
rush, and the bride like a sudden surf-rush, floating all white beside
her father in the morning shadow of trees, her veil flowing with
laughter.

'That's done it!' she said.

She put her hand on the arm of her care-worn, sallow father, and
frothing her light draperies, proceeded over the eternal red carpet.
Her father, mute and yellowish, his black beard making him look more
careworn, mounted the steps stiffly, as if his spirit were absent; but
the laughing mist of the bride went along with him undiminished.

And no bridegroom had arrived! It was intolerable for her. Ursula, her
heart strained with anxiety, was watching the hill beyond; the white,
descending road, that should give sight of him. There was a carriage.
It was running. It had just come into sight. Yes, it was he. Ursula
turned towards the bride and the people, and, from her place of
vantage, gave an inarticulate cry. She wanted to warn them that he was
coming. But her cry was inarticulate and inaudible, and she flushed
deeply, between her desire and her wincing confusion.

The carriage rattled down the hill, and drew near. There was a shout
from the people. The bride, who had just reached the top of the steps,
turned round gaily to see what was the commotion. She saw a confusion
among the people, a cab pulling up, and her lover dropping out of the
carriage, and dodging among the horses and into the crowd.

'Tibs! Tibs!' she cried in her sudden, mocking excitement, standing
high on the path in the sunlight and waving her bouquet. He, dodging
with his hat in his hand, had not heard.

'Tibs!' she cried again, looking down to him.

He glanced up, unaware, and saw the bride and her father standing on
the path above him. A queer, startled look went over his face. He
hesitated for a moment. Then he gathered himself together for a leap,
to overtake her.

'Ah-h-h!' came her strange, intaken cry, as, on the reflex, she
started, turned and fled, scudding with an unthinkable swift beating of
her white feet and fraying of her white garments, towards the church.
Like a hound the young man was after her, leaping the steps and
swinging past her father, his supple haunches working like those of a
hound that bears down on the quarry.

'Ay, after her!' cried the vulgar women below, carried suddenly into
the sport.

She, her flowers shaken from her like froth, was steadying herself to
turn the angle of the church. She glanced behind, and with a wild cry
of laughter and challenge, veered, poised, and was gone beyond the grey
stone buttress. In another instant the bridegroom, bent forward as he
ran, had caught the angle of the silent stone with his hand, and had
swung himself out of sight, his supple, strong loins vanishing in
pursuit.

Instantly cries and exclamations of excitement burst from the crowd at
the gate. And then Ursula noticed again the dark, rather stooping
figure of Mr Crich, waiting suspended on the path, watching with
expressionless face the flight to the church. It was over, and he
turned round to look behind him, at the figure of Rupert Birkin, who at
once came forward and joined him.

'We'll bring up the rear,' said Birkin, a faint smile on his face.

'Ay!' replied the father laconically. And the two men turned together
up the path.

Birkin was as thin as Mr Crich, pale and ill-looking. His figure was
narrow but nicely made. He went with a slight trail of one foot, which
came only from self-consciousness. Although he was dressed correctly
for his part, yet there was an innate incongruity which caused a slight
ridiculousness in his appearance. His nature was clever and separate,
he did not fit at all in the conventional occasion. Yet he subordinated
himself to the common idea, travestied himself.

He affected to be quite ordinary, perfectly and marvellously
commonplace. And he did it so well, taking the tone of his
surroundings, adjusting himself quickly to his interlocutor and his
circumstance, that he achieved a verisimilitude of ordinary
commonplaceness that usually propitiated his onlookers for the moment,
disarmed them from attacking his singleness.

Now he spoke quite easily and pleasantly to Mr Crich, as they walked
along the path; he played with situations like a man on a tight-rope:
but always on a tight-rope, pretending nothing but ease.

'I'm sorry we are so late,' he was saying. 'We couldn't find a
button-hook, so it took us a long time to button our boots. But you
were to the moment.'

'We are usually to time,' said Mr Crich.

'And I'm always late,' said Birkin. 'But today I was REALLY punctual,
only accidentally not so. I'm sorry.'

The two men were gone, there was nothing more to see, for the time.
Ursula was left thinking about Birkin. He piqued her, attracted her,
and annoyed her.

She wanted to know him more. She had spoken with him once or twice, but
only in his official capacity as inspector. She thought he seemed to
acknowledge some kinship between her and him, a natural, tacit
understanding, a using of the same language. But there had been no time
for the understanding to develop. And something kept her from him, as
well as attracted her to him. There was a certain hostility, a hidden
ultimate reserve in him, cold and inaccessible.

Yet she wanted to know him.

'What do you think of Rupert Birkin?' she asked, a little reluctantly,
of Gudrun. She did not want to discuss him.

'What do I think of Rupert Birkin?' repeated Gudrun. 'I think he's
attractive--decidedly attractive. What I can't stand about him is his
way with other people--his way of treating any little fool as if she
were his greatest consideration. One feels so awfully sold, oneself.'

'Why does he do it?' said Ursula.

'Because he has no real critical faculty--of people, at all events,'
said Gudrun. 'I tell you, he treats any little fool as he treats me or
you--and it's such an insult.'

'Oh, it is,' said Ursula. 'One must discriminate.'

'One MUST discriminate,' repeated Gudrun. 'But he's a wonderful chap,
in other respects--a marvellous personality. But you can't trust him.'

'Yes,' said Ursula vaguely. She was always forced to assent to Gudrun's
pronouncements, even when she was not in accord altogether.

The sisters sat silent, waiting for the wedding party to come out.
Gudrun was impatient of talk. She wanted to think about Gerald Crich.
She wanted to see if the strong feeling she had got from him was real.
She wanted to have herself ready.

Inside the church, the wedding was going on. Hermione Roddice was
thinking only of Birkin. He stood near her. She seemed to gravitate
physically towards him. She wanted to stand touching him. She could
hardly be sure he was near her, if she did not touch him. Yet she stood
subjected through the wedding service.

She had suffered so bitterly when he did not come, that still she was
dazed. Still she was gnawed as by a neuralgia, tormented by his
potential absence from her. She had awaited him in a faint delirium of
nervous torture. As she stood bearing herself pensively, the rapt look
on her face, that seemed spiritual, like the angels, but which came
from torture, gave her a certain poignancy that tore his heart with
pity. He saw her bowed head, her rapt face, the face of an almost
demoniacal ecstatic. Feeling him looking, she lifted her face and
sought his eyes, her own beautiful grey eyes flaring him a great
signal. But he avoided her look, she sank her head in torment and
shame, the gnawing at her heart going on. And he too was tortured with
shame, and ultimate dislike, and with acute pity for her, because he
did not want to meet her eyes, he did not want to receive her flare of
recognition.

The bride and bridegroom were married, the party went into the vestry.
Hermione crowded involuntarily up against Birkin, to touch him. And he
endured it.

Outside, Gudrun and Ursula listened for their father's playing on the
organ. He would enjoy playing a wedding march. Now the married pair
were coming! The bells were ringing, making the air shake. Ursula
wondered if the trees and the flowers could feel the vibration, and
what they thought of it, this strange motion in the air. The bride was
quite demure on the arm of the bridegroom, who stared up into the sky
before him, shutting and opening his eyes unconsciously, as if he were
neither here nor there. He looked rather comical, blinking and trying
to be in the scene, when emotionally he was violated by his exposure to
a crowd. He looked a typical naval officer, manly, and up to his duty.

Birkin came with Hermione. She had a rapt, triumphant look, like the
fallen angels restored, yet still subtly demoniacal, now she held
Birkin by the arm. And he was expressionless, neutralised, possessed by
her as if it were his fate, without question.

Gerald Crich came, fair, good-looking, healthy, with a great reserve of
energy. He was erect and complete, there was a strange stealth
glistening through his amiable, almost happy appearance. Gudrun rose
sharply and went away. She could not bear it. She wanted to be alone,
to know this strange, sharp inoculation that had changed the whole
temper of her blood.




CHAPTER II.



SHORTLANDS


The Brangwens went home to Beldover, the wedding-party gathered at
Shortlands, the Criches' home. It was a long, low old house, a sort of
manor farm, that spread along the top of a slope just beyond the narrow
little lake of Willey Water. Shortlands looked across a sloping meadow
that might be a park, because of the large, solitary trees that stood
here and there, across the water of the narrow lake, at the wooded hill
that successfully hid the colliery valley beyond, but did not quite
hide the rising smoke. Nevertheless, the scene was rural and
picturesque, very peaceful, and the house had a charm of its own.

It was crowded now with the family and the wedding guests. The father,
who was not well, withdrew to rest. Gerald was host. He stood in the
homely entrance hall, friendly and easy, attending to the men. He
seemed to take pleasure in his social functions, he smiled, and was
abundant in hospitality.

The women wandered about in a little confusion, chased hither and
thither by the three married daughters of the house. All the while
there could be heard the characteristic, imperious voice of one Crich
woman or another calling 'Helen, come here a minute,' 'Marjory, I want
you--here.' 'Oh, I say, Mrs Witham--.' There was a great rustling of
skirts, swift glimpses of smartly-dressed women, a child danced through
the hall and back again, a maidservant came and went hurriedly.

Meanwhile the men stood in calm little groups, chatting, smoking,
pretending to pay no heed to the rustling animation of the women's
world. But they could not really talk, because of the glassy ravel of
women's excited, cold laughter and running voices. They waited, uneasy,
suspended, rather bored. But Gerald remained as if genial and happy,
unaware that he was waiting or unoccupied, knowing himself the very
pivot of the occasion.

Suddenly Mrs Crich came noiselessly into the room, peering about with
her strong, clear face. She was still wearing her hat, and her sac coat
of blue silk.

'What is it, mother?' said Gerald.

'Nothing, nothing!' she answered vaguely. And she went straight towards
Birkin, who was talking to a Crich brother-in-law.

'How do you do, Mr Birkin,' she said, in her low voice, that seemed to
take no count of her guests. She held out her hand to him.

'Oh Mrs Crich,' replied Birkin, in his readily-changing voice, 'I
couldn't come to you before.'

'I don't know half the people here,' she said, in her low voice. Her
son-in-law moved uneasily away.

'And you don't like strangers?' laughed Birkin. 'I myself can never see
why one should take account of people, just because they happen to be
in the room with one: why SHOULD I know they are there?'

'Why indeed, why indeed!' said Mrs Crich, in her low, tense voice.
'Except that they ARE there. I don't know people whom I find in the
house. The children introduce them to me--"Mother, this is Mr
So-and-so." I am no further. What has Mr So-and-so to do with his own
name?--and what have I to do with either him or his name?'

She looked up at Birkin. She startled him. He was flattered too that
she came to talk to him, for she took hardly any notice of anybody. He
looked down at her tense clear face, with its heavy features, but he
was afraid to look into her heavy-seeing blue eyes. He noticed instead
how her hair looped in slack, slovenly strands over her rather
beautiful ears, which were not quite clean. Neither was her neck
perfectly clean. Even in that he seemed to belong to her, rather than
to the rest of the company; though, he thought to himself, he was
always well washed, at any rate at the neck and ears.

He smiled faintly, thinking these things. Yet he was tense, feeling
that he and the elderly, estranged woman were conferring together like
traitors, like enemies within the camp of the other people. He
resembled a deer, that throws one ear back upon the trail behind, and
one ear forward, to know what is ahead.

'People don't really matter,' he said, rather unwilling to continue.

The mother looked up at him with sudden, dark interrogation, as if
doubting his sincerity.

'How do you mean, MATTER?' she asked sharply.

'Not many people are anything at all,' he answered, forced to go deeper
than he wanted to. 'They jingle and giggle. It would be much better if
they were just wiped out. Essentially, they don't exist, they aren't
there.'

She watched him steadily while he spoke.

'But we didn't imagine them,' she said sharply.

'There's nothing to imagine, that's why they don't exist.'

'Well,' she said, 'I would hardly go as far as that. There they are,
whether they exist or no. It doesn't rest with me to decide on their
existence. I only know that I can't be expected to take count of them
all. You can't expect me to know them, just because they happen to be
there. As far as I go they might as well not be there.'

'Exactly,' he replied.

'Mightn't they?' she asked again.

'Just as well,' he repeated. And there was a little pause.

'Except that they ARE there, and that's a nuisance,' she said. 'There
are my sons-in-law,' she went on, in a sort of monologue. 'Now Laura's
got married, there's another. And I really don't know John from James
yet. They come up to me and call me mother. I know what they will
say--"how are you, mother?" I ought to say, "I am not your mother, in
any sense." But what is the use? There they are. I have had children of
my own. I suppose I know them from another woman's children.'

'One would suppose so,' he said.

She looked at him, somewhat surprised, forgetting perhaps that she was
talking to him. And she lost her thread.

She looked round the room, vaguely. Birkin could not guess what she was
looking for, nor what she was thinking. Evidently she noticed her sons.

'Are my children all there?' she asked him abruptly.

He laughed, startled, afraid perhaps.

'I scarcely know them, except Gerald,' he replied.

'Gerald!' she exclaimed. 'He's the most wanting of them all. You'd
never think it, to look at him now, would you?'

'No,' said Birkin.

The mother looked across at her eldest son, stared at him heavily for
some time.

'Ay,' she said, in an incomprehensible monosyllable, that sounded
profoundly cynical. Birkin felt afraid, as if he dared not realise. And
Mrs Crich moved away, forgetting him. But she returned on her traces.

'I should like him to have a friend,' she said. 'He has never had a
friend.'

Birkin looked down into her eyes, which were blue, and watching
heavily. He could not understand them. 'Am I my brother's keeper?' he
said to himself, almost flippantly.

Then he remembered, with a slight shock, that that was Cain's cry. And
Gerald was Cain, if anybody. Not that he was Cain, either, although he
had slain his brother. There was such a thing as pure accident, and the
consequences did not attach to one, even though one had killed one's
brother in such wise. Gerald as a boy had accidentally killed his
brother. What then? Why seek to draw a brand and a curse across the
life that had caused the accident? A man can live by accident, and die
by accident. Or can he not? Is every man's life subject to pure
accident, is it only the race, the genus, the species, that has a
universal reference? Or is this not true, is there no such thing as
pure accident? Has EVERYTHING that happens a universal significance?
Has it? Birkin, pondering as he stood there, had forgotten Mrs Crich,
as she had forgotten him.

He did not believe that there was any such thing as accident. It all
hung together, in the deepest sense.

Just as he had decided this, one of the Crich daughters came up,
saying:

'Won't you come and take your hat off, mother dear? We shall be sitting
down to eat in a minute, and it's a formal occasion, darling, isn't
it?' She drew her arm through her mother's, and they went away. Birkin
immediately went to talk to the nearest man.

The gong sounded for the luncheon. The men looked up, but no move was
made to the dining-room. The women of the house seemed not to feel that
the sound had meaning for them. Five minutes passed by. The elderly
manservant, Crowther, appeared in the doorway exasperatedly. He looked
with appeal at Gerald. The latter took up a large, curved conch shell,
that lay on a shelf, and without reference to anybody, blew a
shattering blast. It was a strange rousing noise, that made the heart
beat. The summons was almost magical. Everybody came running, as if at
a signal. And then the crowd in one impulse moved to the dining-room.

Gerald waited a moment, for his sister to play hostess. He knew his
mother would pay no attention to her duties. But his sister merely
crowded to her seat. Therefore the young man, slightly too dictatorial,
directed the guests to their places.

There was a moment's lull, as everybody looked at the BORS D'OEUVRES
that were being handed round. And out of this lull, a girl of thirteen
or fourteen, with her long hair down her back, said in a calm,
self-possessed voice:

'Gerald, you forget father, when you make that unearthly noise.'

'Do I?' he answered. And then, to the company, 'Father is lying down,
he is not quite well.'

'How is he, really?' called one of the married daughters, peeping round
the immense wedding cake that towered up in the middle of the table
shedding its artificial flowers.

'He has no pain, but he feels tired,' replied Winifred, the girl with
the hair down her back.

The wine was filled, and everybody was talking boisterously. At the far
end of the table sat the mother, with her loosely-looped hair. She had
Birkin for a neighbour. Sometimes she glanced fiercely down the rows of
faces, bending forwards and staring unceremoniously. And she would say
in a low voice to Birkin:

'Who is that young man?'

'I don't know,' Birkin answered discreetly.

'Have I seen him before?' she asked.

'I don't think so. I haven't,' he replied. And she was satisfied. Her
eyes closed wearily, a peace came over her face, she looked like a
queen in repose. Then she started, a little social smile came on her
face, for a moment she looked the pleasant hostess. For a moment she
bent graciously, as if everyone were welcome and delightful. And then
immediately the shadow came back, a sullen, eagle look was on her face,
she glanced from under her brows like a sinister creature at bay,
hating them all.

'Mother,' called Diana, a handsome girl a little older than Winifred,
'I may have wine, mayn't I?'

'Yes, you may have wine,' replied the mother automatically, for she was
perfectly indifferent to the question.

And Diana beckoned to the footman to fill her glass.

'Gerald shouldn't forbid me,' she said calmly, to the company at large.

'All right, Di,' said her brother amiably. And she glanced challenge at
him as she drank from her glass.

There was a strange freedom, that almost amounted to anarchy, in the
house. It was rather a resistance to authority, than liberty. Gerald
had some command, by mere force of personality, not because of any
granted position. There was a quality in his voice, amiable but
dominant, that cowed the others, who were all younger than he.

Hermione was having a discussion with the bridegroom about nationality.

'No,' she said, 'I think that the appeal to patriotism is a mistake. It
is like one house of business rivalling another house of business.'

'Well you can hardly say that, can you?' exclaimed Gerald, who had a
real PASSION for discussion. 'You couldn't call a race a business
concern, could you?--and nationality roughly corresponds to race, I
think. I think it is MEANT to.'

There was a moment's pause. Gerald and Hermione were always strangely
but politely and evenly inimical.

'DO you think race corresponds with nationality?' she asked musingly,
with expressionless indecision.

Birkin knew she was waiting for him to participate. And dutifully he
spoke up.

'I think Gerald is right--race is the essential element in nationality,
in Europe at least,' he said.

Again Hermione paused, as if to allow this statement to cool. Then she
said with strange assumption of authority:

'Yes, but even so, is the patriotic appeal an appeal to the racial
instinct? Is it not rather an appeal to the proprietory instinct, the
COMMERCIAL instinct? And isn't this what we mean by nationality?'

'Probably,' said Birkin, who felt that such a discussion was out of
place and out of time.

But Gerald was now on the scent of argument.

'A race may have its commercial aspect,' he said. 'In fact it must. It
is like a family. You MUST make provision. And to make provision you
have got to strive against other families, other nations. I don't see
why you shouldn't.'

Again Hermione made a pause, domineering and cold, before she replied:
'Yes, I think it is always wrong to provoke a spirit of rivalry. It
makes bad blood. And bad blood accumulates.'

'But you can't do away with the spirit of emulation altogether?' said
Gerald. 'It is one of the necessary incentives to production and
improvement.'

'Yes,' came Hermione's sauntering response. 'I think you can do away
with it.'

'I must say,' said Birkin, 'I detest the spirit of emulation.' Hermione
was biting a piece of bread, pulling it from between her teeth with her
fingers, in a slow, slightly derisive movement. She turned to Birkin.

'You do hate it, yes,' she said, intimate and gratified.

'Detest it,' he repeated.

'Yes,' she murmured, assured and satisfied.

'But,' Gerald insisted, 'you don't allow one man to take away his
neighbour's living, so why should you allow one nation to take away the
living from another nation?'

There was a long slow murmur from Hermione before she broke into
speech, saying with a laconic indifference:

'It is not always a question of possessions, is it? It is not all a
question of goods?'

Gerald was nettled by this implication of vulgar materialism.

'Yes, more or less,' he retorted. 'If I go and take a man's hat from
off his head, that hat becomes a symbol of that man's liberty. When he
fights me for his hat, he is fighting me for his liberty.'

Hermione was nonplussed.

'Yes,' she said, irritated. 'But that way of arguing by imaginary
instances is not supposed to be genuine, is it? A man does NOT come and
take my hat from off my head, does he?'

'Only because the law prevents him,' said Gerald.

'Not only,' said Birkin. 'Ninety-nine men out of a hundred don't want
my hat.'

'That's a matter of opinion,' said Gerald.

'Or the hat,' laughed the bridegroom.

'And if he does want my hat, such as it is,' said Birkin, 'why, surely
it is open to me to decide, which is a greater loss to me, my hat, or
my liberty as a free and indifferent man. If I am compelled to offer
fight, I lose the latter. It is a question which is worth more to me,
my pleasant liberty of conduct, or my hat.'

'Yes,' said Hermione, watching Birkin strangely. 'Yes.'

'But would you let somebody come and snatch your hat off your head?'
the bride asked of Hermione.

The face of the tall straight woman turned slowly and as if drugged to
this new speaker.

'No,' she replied, in a low inhuman tone, that seemed to contain a
chuckle. 'No, I shouldn't let anybody take my hat off my head.'

'How would you prevent it?' asked Gerald.

'I don't know,' replied Hermione slowly. 'Probably I should kill him.'

There was a strange chuckle in her tone, a dangerous and convincing
humour in her bearing.

'Of course,' said Gerald, 'I can see Rupert's point. It is a question
to him whether his hat or his peace of mind is more important.'

'Peace of body,' said Birkin.

'Well, as you like there,' replied Gerald. 'But how are you going to
decide this for a nation?'

'Heaven preserve me,' laughed Birkin.

'Yes, but suppose you have to?' Gerald persisted.

'Then it is the same. If the national crown-piece is an old hat, then
the thieving gent may have it.'

'But CAN the national or racial hat be an old hat?' insisted Gerald.

'Pretty well bound to be, I believe,' said Birkin.

'I'm not so sure,' said Gerald.

'I don't agree, Rupert,' said Hermione.

'All right,' said Birkin.

'I'm all for the old national hat,' laughed Gerald.

'And a fool you look in it,' cried Diana, his pert sister who was just
in her teens.

'Oh, we're quite out of our depths with these old hats,' cried Laura
Crich. 'Dry up now, Gerald. We're going to drink toasts. Let us drink
toasts. Toasts--glasses, glasses--now then, toasts! Speech! Speech!'

Birkin, thinking about race or national death, watched his glass being
filled with champagne. The bubbles broke at the rim, the man withdrew,
and feeling a sudden thirst at the sight of the fresh wine, Birkin
drank up his glass. A queer little tension in the room roused him. He
felt a sharp constraint.

'Did I do it by accident, or on purpose?' he asked himself. And he
decided that, according to the vulgar phrase, he had done it
'accidentally on purpose.' He looked round at the hired footman. And
the hired footman came, with a silent step of cold servant-like
disapprobation. Birkin decided that he detested toasts, and footmen,
and assemblies, and mankind altogether, in most of its aspects. Then he
rose to make a speech. But he was somehow disgusted.

At length it was over, the meal. Several men strolled out into the
garden. There was a lawn, and flower-beds, and at the boundary an iron
fence shutting off the little field or park. The view was pleasant; a
highroad curving round the edge of a low lake, under the trees. In the
spring air, the water gleamed and the opposite woods were purplish with
new life. Charming Jersey cattle came to the fence, breathing hoarsely
from their velvet muzzles at the human beings, expecting perhaps a
crust.

Birkin leaned on the fence. A cow was breathing wet hotness on his
hand.

'Pretty cattle, very pretty,' said Marshall, one of the
brothers-in-law. 'They give the best milk you can have.'

'Yes,' said Birkin.

'Eh, my little beauty, eh, my beauty!' said Marshall, in a queer high
falsetto voice, that caused the other man to have convulsions of
laughter in his stomach.

'Who won the race, Lupton?' he called to the bridegroom, to hide the
fact that he was laughing.

The bridegroom took his cigar from his mouth.

'The race?' he exclaimed. Then a rather thin smile came over his face.
He did not want to say anything about the flight to the church door.
'We got there together. At least she touched first, but I had my hand
on her shoulder.'

'What's this?' asked Gerald.

Birkin told him about the race of the bride and the bridegroom.

'H'm!' said Gerald, in disapproval. 'What made you late then?'

'Lupton would talk about the immortality of the soul,' said Birkin,
'and then he hadn't got a button-hook.'

'Oh God!' cried Marshall. 'The immortality of the soul on your wedding
day! Hadn't you got anything better to occupy your mind?'

'What's wrong with it?' asked the bridegroom, a clean-shaven naval man,
flushing sensitively.

'Sounds as if you were going to be executed instead of married. THE
IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL!' repeated the brother-in-law, with most
killing emphasis.

But he fell quite flat.

'And what did you decide?' asked Gerald, at once pricking up his ears
at the thought of a metaphysical discussion.

'You don't want a soul today, my boy,' said Marshall. 'It'd be in your
road.'

'Christ! Marshall, go and talk to somebody else,' cried Gerald, with
sudden impatience.

'By God, I'm willing,' said Marshall, in a temper. 'Too much bloody
soul and talk altogether--'

He withdrew in a dudgeon, Gerald staring after him with angry eyes,
that grew gradually calm and amiable as the stoutly-built form of the
other man passed into the distance.

'There's one thing, Lupton,' said Gerald, turning suddenly to the
bridegroom. 'Laura won't have brought such a fool into the family as
Lottie did.'

'Comfort yourself with that,' laughed Birkin.

'I take no notice of them,' laughed the bridegroom.

'What about this race then--who began it?' Gerald asked.

'We were late. Laura was at the top of the churchyard steps when our
cab came up. She saw Lupton bolting towards her. And she fled. But why
do you look so cross? Does it hurt your sense of the family dignity?'

'It does, rather,' said Gerald. 'If you're doing a thing, do it
properly, and if you're not going to do it properly, leave it alone.'

'Very nice aphorism,' said Birkin.

'Don't you agree?' asked Gerald.

'Quite,' said Birkin. 'Only it bores me rather, when you become
aphoristic.'

'Damn you, Rupert, you want all the aphorisms your own way,' said
Gerald.

'No. I want them out of the way, and you're always shoving them in it.'

Gerald smiled grimly at this humorism. Then he made a little gesture of
dismissal, with his eyebrows.

'You don't believe in having any standard of behaviour at all, do you?'
he challenged Birkin, censoriously.

'Standard--no. I hate standards. But they're necessary for the common
ruck. Anybody who is anything can just be himself and do as he likes.'

'But what do you mean by being himself?' said Gerald. 'Is that an
aphorism or a cliche?'

'I mean just doing what you want to do. I think it was perfect good
form in Laura to bolt from Lupton to the church door. It was almost a
masterpiece in good form. It's the hardest thing in the world to act
spontaneously on one's impulses--and it's the only really gentlemanly
thing to do--provided you're fit to do it.'

'You don't expect me to take you seriously, do you?' asked Gerald.

'Yes, Gerald, you're one of the very few people I do expect that of.'

'Then I'm afraid I can't come up to your expectations here, at any
rate. You think people should just do as they like.'

'I think they always do. But I should like them to like the purely
individual thing in themselves, which makes them act in singleness. And
they only like to do the collective thing.'

'And I,' said Gerald grimly, 'shouldn't like to be in a world of people
who acted individually and spontaneously, as you call it. We should
have everybody cutting everybody else's throat in five minutes.'

'That means YOU would like to be cutting everybody's throat,' said
Birkin.

'How does that follow?' asked Gerald crossly.

'No man,' said Birkin, 'cuts another man's throat unless he wants to
cut it, and unless the other man wants it cutting. This is a complete
truth. It takes two people to make a murder: a murderer and a murderee.
And a murderee is a man who is murderable. And a man who is murderable
is a man who in a profound if hidden lust desires to be murdered.'

'Sometimes you talk pure nonsense,' said Gerald to Birkin. 'As a matter
of fact, none of us wants our throat cut, and most other people would
like to cut it for us--some time or other--'

'It's a nasty view of things, Gerald,' said Birkin, 'and no wonder you
are afraid of yourself and your own unhappiness.'

'How am I afraid of myself?' said Gerald; 'and I don't think I am
unhappy.'

'You seem to have a lurking desire to have your gizzard slit, and
imagine every man has his knife up his sleeve for you,' Birkin said.

'How do you make that out?' said Gerald.

'From you,' said Birkin.

There was a pause of strange enmity between the two men, that was very
near to love. It was always the same between them; always their talk
brought them into a deadly nearness of contact, a strange, perilous
intimacy which was either hate or love, or both. They parted with
apparent unconcern, as if their going apart were a trivial occurrence.
And they really kept it to the level of trivial occurrence. Yet the
heart of each burned from the other. They burned with each other,
inwardly. This they would never admit. They intended to keep their
relationship a casual free-and-easy friendship, they were not going to
be so unmanly and unnatural as to allow any heart-burning between them.
They had not the faintest belief in deep relationship between men and
men, and their disbelief prevented any development of their powerful
but suppressed friendliness.




CHAPTER III.



CLASS-ROOM


A school-day was drawing to a close. In the class-room the last lesson
was in progress, peaceful and still. It was elementary botany. The
desks were littered with catkins, hazel and willow, which the children
had been sketching. But the sky had come overdark, as the end of the
afternoon approached: there was scarcely light to draw any more. Ursula
stood in front of the class, leading the children by questions to
understand the structure and the meaning of the catkins.

A heavy, copper-coloured beam of light came in at the west window,
gilding the outlines of the children's heads with red gold, and falling
on the wall opposite in a rich, ruddy illumination. Ursula, however,
was scarcely conscious of it. She was busy, the end of the day was
here, the work went on as a peaceful tide that is at flood, hushed to
retire.

This day had gone by like so many more, in an activity that was like a
trance. At the end there was a little haste, to finish what was in
hand. She was pressing the children with questions, so that they should
know all they were to know, by the time the gong went. She stood in
shadow in front of the class, with catkins in her hand, and she leaned
towards the children, absorbed in the passion of instruction.

She heard, but did not notice the click of the door. Suddenly she
started. She saw, in the shaft of ruddy, copper-coloured light near
her, the face of a man. It was gleaming like fire, watching her,
waiting for her to be aware. It startled her terribly. She thought she
was going to faint. All her suppressed, subconscious fear sprang into
being, with anguish.

'Did I startle you?' said Birkin, shaking hands with her. 'I thought
you had heard me come in.'

'No,' she faltered, scarcely able to speak. He laughed, saying he was
sorry. She wondered why it amused him.

'It is so dark,' he said. 'Shall we have the light?'

And moving aside, he switched on the strong electric lights. The
class-room was distinct and hard, a strange place after the soft dim
magic that filled it before he came. Birkin turned curiously to look at
Ursula. Her eyes were round and wondering, bewildered, her mouth
quivered slightly. She looked like one who is suddenly wakened. There
was a living, tender beauty, like a tender light of dawn shining from
her face. He looked at her with a new pleasure, feeling gay in his
heart, irresponsible.

'You are doing catkins?' he asked, picking up a piece of hazel from a
scholar's desk in front of him. 'Are they as far out as this? I hadn't
noticed them this year.'

He looked absorbedly at the tassel of hazel in his hand.

'The red ones too!' he said, looking at the flickers of crimson that
came from the female bud.

Then he went in among the desks, to see the scholars' books. Ursula
watched his intent progress. There was a stillness in his motion that
hushed the activities of her heart. She seemed to be standing aside in
arrested silence, watching him move in another, concentrated world. His
presence was so quiet, almost like a vacancy in the corporate air.

Suddenly he lifted his face to her, and her heart quickened at the
flicker of his voice.

'Give them some crayons, won't you?' he said, 'so that they can make
the gynaecious flowers red, and the androgynous yellow. I'd chalk them
in plain, chalk in nothing else, merely the red and the yellow. Outline
scarcely matters in this case. There is just the one fact to
emphasise.'

'I haven't any crayons,' said Ursula.

'There will be some somewhere--red and yellow, that's all you want.'

Ursula sent out a boy on a quest.

'It will make the books untidy,' she said to Birkin, flushing deeply.

'Not very,' he said. 'You must mark in these things obviously. It's the
fact you want to emphasise, not the subjective impression to record.
What's the fact?--red little spiky stigmas of the female flower,
dangling yellow male catkin, yellow pollen flying from one to the
other. Make a pictorial record of the fact, as a child does when
drawing a face--two eyes, one nose, mouth with teeth--so--' And he drew
a figure on the blackboard.

At that moment another vision was seen through the glass panels of the
door. It was Hermione Roddice. Birkin went and opened to her.

'I saw your car,' she said to him. 'Do you mind my coming to find you?
I wanted to see you when you were on duty.'

She looked at him for a long time, intimate and playful, then she gave
a short little laugh. And then only she turned to Ursula, who, with all
the class, had been watching the little scene between the lovers.

'How do you do, Miss Brangwen,' sang Hermione, in her low, odd, singing
fashion, that sounded almost as if she were poking fun. 'Do you mind my
coming in?'

Her grey, almost sardonic eyes rested all the while on Ursula, as if
summing her up.

'Oh no,' said Ursula.

'Are you SURE?' repeated Hermione, with complete sang froid, and an
odd, half-bullying effrontery.

'Oh no, I like it awfully,' laughed Ursula, a little bit excited and
bewildered, because Hermione seemed to be compelling her, coming very
close to her, as if intimate with her; and yet, how could she be
intimate?

This was the answer Hermione wanted. She turned satisfied to Birkin.

'What are you doing?' she sang, in her casual, inquisitive fashion.

'Catkins,' he replied.

'Really!' she said. 'And what do you learn about them?' She spoke all
the while in a mocking, half teasing fashion, as if making game of the
whole business. She picked up a twig of the catkin, piqued by Birkin's
attention to it.

She was a strange figure in the class-room, wearing a large, old cloak
of greenish cloth, on which was a raised pattern of dull gold. The high
collar, and the inside of the cloak, was lined with dark fur. Beneath
she had a dress of fine lavender-coloured cloth, trimmed with fur, and
her hat was close-fitting, made of fur and of the dull, green-and-gold
figured stuff. She was tall and strange, she looked as if she had come
out of some new, bizarre picture.

'Do you know the little red ovary flowers, that produce the nuts? Have
you ever noticed them?' he asked her. And he came close and pointed
them out to her, on the sprig she held.

'No,' she replied. 'What are they?'

'Those are the little seed-producing flowers, and the long catkins,
they only produce pollen, to fertilise them.'

'Do they, do they!' repeated Hermione, looking closely.

'From those little red bits, the nuts come; if they receive pollen from
the long danglers.'

'Little red flames, little red flames,' murmured Hermione to herself.
And she remained for some moments looking only at the small buds out of
which the red flickers of the stigma issued.

'Aren't they beautiful? I think they're so beautiful,' she said, moving
close to Birkin, and pointing to the red filaments with her long, white
finger.

'Had you never noticed them before?' he asked.

'No, never before,' she replied.

'And now you will always see them,' he said.

'Now I shall always see them,' she repeated. 'Thank you so much for
showing me. I think they're so beautiful--little red flames--'

Her absorption was strange, almost rhapsodic. Both Birkin and Ursula
were suspended. The little red pistillate flowers had some strange,
almost mystic-passionate attraction for her.

The lesson was finished, the books were put away, at last the class was
dismissed. And still Hermione sat at the table, with her chin in her
hand, her elbow on the table, her long white face pushed up, not
attending to anything. Birkin had gone to the window, and was looking
from the brilliantly-lighted room on to the grey, colourless outside,
where rain was noiselessly falling. Ursula put away her things in the
cupboard.

At length Hermione rose and came near to her.

'Your sister has come home?' she said.

'Yes,' said Ursula.

'And does she like being back in Beldover?'

'No,' said Ursula.

'No, I wonder she can bear it. It takes all my strength, to bear the
ugliness of this district, when I stay here. Won't you come and see me?
Won't you come with your sister to stay at Breadalby for a few
days?--do--'

'Thank you very much,' said Ursula.

'Then I will write to you,' said Hermione. 'You think your sister will
come? I should be so glad. I think she is wonderful. I think some of
her work is really wonderful. I have two water-wagtails, carved in
wood, and painted--perhaps you have seen it?'

'No,' said Ursula.

'I think it is perfectly wonderful--like a flash of instinct.'

'Her little carvings ARE strange,' said Ursula.

'Perfectly beautiful--full of primitive passion--'

'Isn't it queer that she always likes little things?--she must always
work small things, that one can put between one's hands, birds and tiny
animals. She likes to look through the wrong end of the opera glasses,
and see the world that way--why is it, do you think?'

Hermione looked down at Ursula with that long, detached scrutinising
gaze that excited the younger woman.

'Yes,' said Hermione at length. 'It is curious. The little things seem
to be more subtle to her--'

'But they aren't, are they? A mouse isn't any more subtle than a lion,
is it?'

Again Hermione looked down at Ursula with that long scrutiny, as if she
were following some train of thought of her own, and barely attending
to the other's speech.

'I don't know,' she replied.

'Rupert, Rupert,' she sang mildly, calling him to her. He approached in
silence.

'Are little things more subtle than big things?' she asked, with the
odd grunt of laughter in her voice, as if she were making game of him
in the question.

'Dunno,' he said.

'I hate subtleties,' said Ursula.

Hermione looked at her slowly.

'Do you?' she said.

'I always think they are a sign of weakness,' said Ursula, up in arms,
as if her prestige were threatened.

Hermione took no notice. Suddenly her face puckered, her brow was knit
with thought, she seemed twisted in troublesome effort for utterance.

'Do you really think, Rupert,' she asked, as if Ursula were not
present, 'do you really think it is worth while? Do you really think
the children are better for being roused to consciousness?'

A dark flash went over his face, a silent fury. He was hollow-cheeked
and pale, almost unearthly. And the woman, with her serious,
conscience-harrowing question tortured him on the quick.

'They are not roused to consciousness,' he said. 'Consciousness comes
to them, willy-nilly.'

'But do you think they are better for having it quickened, stimulated?
Isn't it better that they should remain unconscious of the hazel, isn't
it better that they should see as a whole, without all this pulling to
pieces, all this knowledge?'

'Would you rather, for yourself, know or not know, that the little red
flowers are there, putting out for the pollen?' he asked harshly. His
voice was brutal, scornful, cruel.

Hermione remained with her face lifted up, abstracted. He hung silent
in irritation.

'I don't know,' she replied, balancing mildly. 'I don't know.'

'But knowing is everything to you, it is all your life,' he broke out.
She slowly looked at him.

'Is it?' she said.

'To know, that is your all, that is your life--you have only this, this
knowledge,' he cried. 'There is only one tree, there is only one fruit,
in your mouth.'

Again she was some time silent.

'Is there?' she said at last, with the same untouched calm. And then in
a tone of whimsical inquisitiveness: 'What fruit, Rupert?'

'The eternal apple,' he replied in exasperation, hating his own
metaphors.

'Yes,' she said. There was a look of exhaustion about her. For some
moments there was silence. Then, pulling herself together with a
convulsed movement, Hermione resumed, in a sing-song, casual voice:

'But leaving me apart, Rupert; do you think the children are better,
richer, happier, for all this knowledge; do you really think they are?
Or is it better to leave them untouched, spontaneous. Hadn't they
better be animals, simple animals, crude, violent, ANYTHING, rather
than this self-consciousness, this incapacity to be spontaneous.'

They thought she had finished. But with a queer rumbling in her throat
she resumed, 'Hadn't they better be anything than grow up crippled,
crippled in their souls, crippled in their feelings--so thrown back--so
turned back on themselves--incapable--' Hermione clenched her fist like
one in a trance--'of any spontaneous action, always deliberate, always
burdened with choice, never carried away.'

Again they thought she had finished. But just as he was going to reply,
she resumed her queer rhapsody--'never carried away, out of themselves,
always conscious, always self-conscious, always aware of themselves.
Isn't ANYTHING better than this? Better be animals, mere animals with
no mind at all, than this, this NOTHINGNESS--'

'But do you think it is knowledge that makes us unliving and
selfconscious?' he asked irritably.

She opened her eyes and looked at him slowly.

'Yes,' she said. She paused, watching him all the while, her eyes
vague. Then she wiped her fingers across her brow, with a vague
weariness. It irritated him bitterly. 'It is the mind,' she said, 'and
that is death.' She raised her eyes slowly to him: 'Isn't the mind--'
she said, with the convulsed movement of her body, 'isn't it our death?
Doesn't it destroy all our spontaneity, all our instincts? Are not the
young people growing up today, really dead before they have a chance to
live?'

'Not because they have too much mind, but too little,' he said
brutally.

'Are you SURE?' she cried. 'It seems to me the reverse. They are
overconscious, burdened to death with consciousness.'

'Imprisoned within a limited, false set of concepts,' he cried.

But she took no notice of this, only went on with her own rhapsodic
interrogation.

'When we have knowledge, don't we lose everything but knowledge?' she
asked pathetically. 'If I know about the flower, don't I lose the
flower and have only the knowledge? Aren't we exchanging the substance
for the shadow, aren't we forfeiting life for this dead quality of
knowledge? And what does it mean to me, after all? What does all this
knowing mean to me? It means nothing.'

'You are merely making words,' he said; 'knowledge means everything to
you. Even your animalism, you want it in your head. You don't want to
BE an animal, you want to observe your own animal functions, to get a
mental thrill out of them. It is all purely secondary--and more
decadent than the most hide-bound intellectualism. What is it but the
worst and last form of intellectualism, this love of yours for passion
and the animal instincts? Passion and the instincts--you want them hard
enough, but through your head, in your consciousness. It all takes
place in your head, under that skull of yours. Only you won't be
conscious of what ACTUALLY is: you want the lie that will match the
rest of your furniture.'

Hermione set hard and poisonous against this attack. Ursula stood
covered with wonder and shame. It frightened her, to see how they hated
each other.

'It's all that Lady of Shalott business,' he said, in his strong
abstract voice. He seemed to be charging her before the unseeing air.
'You've got that mirror, your own fixed will, your immortal
understanding, your own tight conscious world, and there is nothing
beyond it. There, in the mirror, you must have everything. But now you
have come to all your conclusions, you want to go back and be like a
savage, without knowledge. You want a life of pure sensation and
"passion."'

He quoted the last word satirically against her. She sat convulsed with
fury and violation, speechless, like a stricken pythoness of the Greek
oracle.

'But your passion is a lie,' he went on violently. 'It isn't passion at
all, it is your WILL. It's your bullying will. You want to clutch
things and have them in your power. You want to have things in your
power. And why? Because you haven't got any real body, any dark sensual
body of life. You have no sensuality. You have only your will and your
conceit of consciousness, and your lust for power, to KNOW.'

He looked at her in mingled hate and contempt, also in pain because she
suffered, and in shame because he knew he tortured her. He had an
impulse to kneel and plead for forgiveness. But a bitterer red anger
burned up to fury in him. He became unconscious of her, he was only a
passionate voice speaking.

'Spontaneous!' he cried. 'You and spontaneity! You, the most deliberate
thing that ever walked or crawled! You'd be verily deliberately
spontaneous--that's you. Because you want to have everything in your
own volition, your deliberate voluntary consciousness. You want it all
in that loathsome little skull of yours, that ought to be cracked like
a nut. For you'll be the same till it is cracked, like an insect in its
skin. If one cracked your skull perhaps one might get a spontaneous,
passionate woman out of you, with real sensuality. As it is, what you
want is pornography--looking at yourself in mirrors, watching your
naked animal actions in mirrors, so that you can have it all in your
consciousness, make it all mental.'

There was a sense of violation in the air, as if too much was said, the
unforgivable. Yet Ursula was concerned now only with solving her own
problems, in the light of his words. She was pale and abstracted.

'But do you really WANT sensuality?' she asked, puzzled.

Birkin looked at her, and became intent in his explanation.

'Yes,' he said, 'that and nothing else, at this point. It is a
fulfilment--the great dark knowledge you can't have in your head--the
dark involuntary being. It is death to one's self--but it is the coming
into being of another.'

'But how? How can you have knowledge not in your head?' she asked,
quite unable to interpret his phrases.

'In the blood,' he answered; 'when the mind and the known world is
drowned in darkness everything must go--there must be the deluge. Then
you find yourself a palpable body of darkness, a demon--'

'But why should I be a demon--?' she asked.

'"WOMAN WAILING FOR HER DEMON LOVER"--' he quoted--'why, I don't know.'

Hermione roused herself as from a death--annihilation.

'He is such a DREADFUL satanist, isn't he?' she drawled to Ursula, in a
queer resonant voice, that ended on a shrill little laugh of pure
ridicule. The two women were jeering at him, jeering him into
nothingness. The laugh of the shrill, triumphant female sounded from
Hermione, jeering him as if he were a neuter.

'No,' he said. 'You are the real devil who won't let life exist.'

She looked at him with a long, slow look, malevolent, supercilious.

'You know all about it, don't you?' she said, with slow, cold, cunning
mockery.

'Enough,' he replied, his face fixing fine and clear like steel. A
horrible despair, and at the same time a sense of release, liberation,
came over Hermione. She turned with a pleasant intimacy to Ursula.

'You are sure you will come to Breadalby?' she said, urging.

'Yes, I should like to very much,' replied Ursula.

Hermione looked down at her, gratified, reflecting, and strangely
absent, as if possessed, as if not quite there.

'I'm so glad,' she said, pulling herself together. 'Some time in about
a fortnight. Yes? I will write to you here, at the school, shall I?
Yes. And you'll be sure to come? Yes. I shall be so glad. Good-bye!
Good-bye!'

Hermione held out her hand and looked into the eyes of the other woman.
She knew Ursula as an immediate rival, and the knowledge strangely
exhilarated her. Also she was taking leave. It always gave her a sense
of strength, advantage, to be departing and leaving the other behind.
Moreover she was taking the man with her, if only in hate.

Birkin stood aside, fixed and unreal. But now, when it was his turn to
bid good-bye, he began to speak again.

'There's the whole difference in the world,' he said, 'between the
actual sensual being, and the vicious mental-deliberate profligacy our
lot goes in for. In our night-time, there's always the electricity
switched on, we watch ourselves, we get it all in the head, really.
You've got to lapse out before you can know what sensual reality is,
lapse into unknowingness, and give up your volition. You've got to do
it. You've got to learn not-to-be, before you can come into being.

'But we have got such a conceit of ourselves--that's where it is. We
are so conceited, and so unproud. We've got no pride, we're all
conceit, so conceited in our own papier-mache realised selves. We'd
rather die than give up our little self-righteous self-opinionated
self-will.'

There was silence in the room. Both women were hostile and resentful.
He sounded as if he were addressing a meeting. Hermione merely paid no
attention, stood with her shoulders tight in a shrug of dislike.

Ursula was watching him as if furtively, not really aware of what she
was seeing. There was a great physical attractiveness in him--a curious
hidden richness, that came through his thinness and his pallor like
another voice, conveying another knowledge of him. It was in the curves
of his brows and his chin, rich, fine, exquisite curves, the powerful
beauty of life itself. She could not say what it was. But there was a
sense of richness and of liberty.

'But we are sensual enough, without making ourselves so, aren't we?'
she asked, turning to him with a certain golden laughter flickering
under her greenish eyes, like a challenge. And immediately the queer,
careless, terribly attractive smile came over his eyes and brows,
though his mouth did not relax.

'No,' he said, 'we aren't. We're too full of ourselves.'

'Surely it isn't a matter of conceit,' she cried.

'That and nothing else.'

She was frankly puzzled.

'Don't you think that people are most conceited of all about their
sensual powers?' she asked.

'That's why they aren't sensual--only sensuous--which is another
matter. They're ALWAYS aware of themselves--and they're so conceited,
that rather than release themselves, and live in another world, from
another centre, they'd--'

'You want your tea, don't you,' said Hermione, turning to Ursula with a
gracious kindliness. 'You've worked all day--'

Birkin stopped short. A spasm of anger and chagrin went over Ursula.
His face set. And he bade good-bye, as if he had ceased to notice her.

They were gone. Ursula stood looking at the door for some moments. Then
she put out the lights. And having done so, she sat down again in her
chair, absorbed and lost. And then she began to cry, bitterly, bitterly
weeping: but whether for misery or joy, she never knew.




CHAPTER IV.



DIVER


The week passed away. On the Saturday it rained, a soft drizzling rain
that held off at times. In one of the intervals Gudrun and Ursula set
out for a walk, going towards Willey Water. The atmosphere was grey and
translucent, the birds sang sharply on the young twigs, the earth would
be quickening and hastening in growth. The two girls walked swiftly,
gladly, because of the soft, subtle rush of morning that filled the wet
haze. By the road the black-thorn was in blossom, white and wet, its
tiny amber grains burning faintly in the white smoke of blossom. Purple
twigs were darkly luminous in the grey air, high hedges glowed like
living shadows, hovering nearer, coming into creation. The morning was
full of a new creation.

When the sisters came to Willey Water, the lake lay all grey and
visionary, stretching into the moist, translucent vista of trees and
meadow. Fine electric activity in sound came from the dumbles below the
road, the birds piping one against the other, and water mysteriously
plashing, issuing from the lake.

The two girls drifted swiftly along. In front of them, at the corner of
the lake, near the road, was a mossy boat-house under a walnut tree,
and a little landing-stage where a boat was moored, wavering like a
shadow on the still grey water, below the green, decayed poles. All was
shadowy with coming summer.

Suddenly, from the boat-house, a white figure ran out, frightening in
its swift sharp transit, across the old landing-stage. It launched in a
white arc through the air, there was a bursting of the water, and among
the smooth ripples a swimmer was making out to space, in a centre of
faintly heaving motion. The whole otherworld, wet and remote, he had to
himself. He could move into the pure translucency of the grey,
uncreated water.

Gudrun stood by the stone wall, watching.

'How I envy him,' she said, in low, desirous tones.

'Ugh!' shivered Ursula. 'So cold!'

'Yes, but how good, how really fine, to swim out there!' The sisters
stood watching the swimmer move further into the grey, moist, full
space of the water, pulsing with his own small, invading motion, and
arched over with mist and dim woods.

'Don't you wish it were you?' asked Gudrun, looking at Ursula.

'I do,' said Ursula. 'But I'm not sure--it's so wet.'

'No,' said Gudrun, reluctantly. She stood watching the motion on the
bosom of the water, as if fascinated. He, having swum a certain
distance, turned round and was swimming on his back, looking along the
water at the two girls by the wall. In the faint wash of motion, they
could see his ruddy face, and could feel him watching them.

'It is Gerald Crich,' said Ursula.

'I know,' replied Gudrun.

And she stood motionless gazing over the water at the face which washed
up and down on the flood, as he swam steadily. From his separate
element he saw them and he exulted to himself because of his own
advantage, his possession of a world to himself. He was immune and
perfect. He loved his own vigorous, thrusting motion, and the violent
impulse of the very cold water against his limbs, buoying him up. He
could see the girls watching him a way off, outside, and that pleased
him. He lifted his arm from the water, in a sign to them.

'He is waving,' said Ursula.

'Yes,' replied Gudrun. They watched him. He waved again, with a strange
movement of recognition across the difference.

'Like a Nibelung,' laughed Ursula. Gudrun said nothing, only stood
still looking over the water.

Gerald suddenly turned, and was swimming away swiftly, with a side
stroke. He was alone now, alone and immune in the middle of the waters,
which he had all to himself. He exulted in his isolation in the new
element, unquestioned and unconditioned. He was happy, thrusting with
his legs and all his body, without bond or connection anywhere, just
himself in the watery world.

Gudrun envied him almost painfully. Even this momentary possession of
pure isolation and fluidity seemed to her so terribly desirable that
she felt herself as if damned, out there on the high-road.

'God, what it is to be a man!' she cried.

'What?' exclaimed Ursula in surprise.

'The freedom, the liberty, the mobility!' cried Gudrun, strangely
flushed and brilliant. 'You're a man, you want to do a thing, you do
it. You haven't the THOUSAND obstacles a woman has in front of her.'

Ursula wondered what was in Gudrun's mind, to occasion this outburst.
She could not understand.

'What do you want to do?' she asked.

'Nothing,' cried Gudrun, in swift refutation. 'But supposing I did.
Supposing I want to swim up that water. It is impossible, it is one of
the impossibilities of life, for me to take my clothes off now and jump
in. But isn't it RIDICULOUS, doesn't it simply prevent our living!'

She was so hot, so flushed, so furious, that Ursula was puzzled.

The two sisters went on, up the road. They were passing between the
trees just below Shortlands. They looked up at the long, low house, dim
and glamorous in the wet morning, its cedar trees slanting before the
windows. Gudrun seemed to be studying it closely.

'Don't you think it's attractive, Ursula?' asked Gudrun.

'Very,' said Ursula. 'Very peaceful and charming.'

'It has form, too--it has a period.'

'What period?'

'Oh, eighteenth century, for certain; Dorothy Wordsworth and Jane
Austen, don't you think?'

Ursula laughed.

'Don't you think so?' repeated Gudrun.

'Perhaps. But I don't think the Criches fit the period. I know Gerald
is putting in a private electric plant, for lighting the house, and is
making all kinds of latest improvements.'

Gudrun shrugged her shoulders swiftly.

'Of course,' she said, 'that's quite inevitable.'

'Quite,' laughed Ursula. 'He is several generations of youngness at one
go. They hate him for it. He takes them all by the scruff of the neck,
and fairly flings them along. He'll have to die soon, when he's made
every possible improvement, and there will be nothing more to improve.
He's got GO, anyhow.'

'Certainly, he's got go,' said Gudrun. 'In fact I've never seen a man
that showed signs of so much. The unfortunate thing is, where does his
GO go to, what becomes of it?'

'Oh I know,' said Ursula. 'It goes in applying the latest appliances!'

'Exactly,' said Gudrun.

'You know he shot his brother?' said Ursula.

'Shot his brother?' cried Gudrun, frowning as if in disapprobation.

'Didn't you know? Oh yes!--I thought you knew. He and his brother were
playing together with a gun. He told his brother to look down the gun,
and it was loaded, and blew the top of his head off. Isn't it a
horrible story?'

'How fearful!' cried Gudrun. 'But it is long ago?'

'Oh yes, they were quite boys,' said Ursula. 'I think it is one of the
most horrible stories I know.'

'And he of course did not know that the gun was loaded?'

'Yes. You see it was an old thing that had been lying in the stable for
years. Nobody dreamed it would ever go off, and of course, no one
imagined it was loaded. But isn't it dreadful, that it should happen?'

'Frightful!' cried Gudrun. 'And isn't it horrible too to think of such
a thing happening to one, when one was a child, and having to carry the
responsibility of it all through one's life. Imagine it, two boys
playing together--then this comes upon them, for no reason
whatever--out of the air. Ursula, it's very frightening! Oh, it's one
of the things I can't bear. Murder, that is thinkable, because there's
a will behind it. But a thing like that to HAPPEN to one--'

'Perhaps there WAS an unconscious will behind it,' said Ursula. 'This
playing at killing has some primitive DESIRE for killing in it, don't
you think?'

'Desire!' said Gudrun, coldly, stiffening a little. 'I can't see that
they were even playing at killing. I suppose one boy said to the other,
"You look down the barrel while I pull the trigger, and see what
happens." It seems to me the purest form of accident.'

'No,' said Ursula. 'I couldn't pull the trigger of the emptiest gun in
the world, not if some-one were looking down the barrel. One
instinctively doesn't do it--one can't.'

Gudrun was silent for some moments, in sharp disagreement.

'Of course,' she said coldly. 'If one is a woman, and grown up, one's
instinct prevents one. But I cannot see how that applies to a couple of
boys playing together.'

Her voice was cold and angry.

'Yes,' persisted Ursula. At that moment they heard a woman's voice a
few yards off say loudly:

'Oh damn the thing!' They went forward and saw Laura Crich and Hermione
Roddice in the field on the other side of the hedge, and Laura Crich
struggling with the gate, to get out. Ursula at once hurried up and
helped to lift the gate.

'Thanks so much,' said Laura, looking up flushed and amazon-like, yet
rather confused. 'It isn't right on the hinges.'

'No,' said Ursula. 'And they're so heavy.'

'Surprising!' cried Laura.

'How do you do,' sang Hermione, from out of the field, the moment she
could make her voice heard. 'It's nice now. Are you going for a walk?
Yes. Isn't the young green beautiful? So beautiful--quite burning. Good
morning--good morning--you'll come and see me?--thank you so much--next
week--yes--good-bye, g-o-o-d b-y-e.'

Gudrun and Ursula stood and watched her slowly waving her head up and
down, and waving her hand slowly in dismissal, smiling a strange
affected smile, making a tall queer, frightening figure, with her heavy
fair hair slipping to her eyes. Then they moved off, as if they had
been dismissed like inferiors. The four women parted.

As soon as they had gone far enough, Ursula said, her cheeks burning,

'I do think she's impudent.'

'Who, Hermione Roddice?' asked Gudrun. 'Why?'

'The way she treats one--impudence!'

'Why, Ursula, what did you notice that was so impudent?' asked Gudrun
rather coldly.

'Her whole manner. Oh, It's impossible, the way she tries to bully one.
Pure bullying. She's an impudent woman. "You'll come and see me," as if
we should be falling over ourselves for the privilege.'

'I can't understand, Ursula, what you are so much put out about,' said
Gudrun, in some exasperation. 'One knows those women are
impudent--these free women who have emancipated themselves from the
aristocracy.'

'But it is so UNNECESSARY--so vulgar,' cried Ursula.

'No, I don't see it. And if I did--pour moi, elle n'existe pas. I don't
grant her the power to be impudent to me.'

'Do you think she likes you?' asked Ursula.

'Well, no, I shouldn't think she did.'

'Then why does she ask you to go to Breadalby and stay with her?'

Gudrun lifted her shoulders in a low shrug.

'After all, she's got the sense to know we're not just the ordinary
run,' said Gudrun. 'Whatever she is, she's not a fool. And I'd rather
have somebody I detested, than the ordinary woman who keeps to her own
set. Hermione Roddice does risk herself in some respects.'

Ursula pondered this for a time.

'I doubt it,' she replied. 'Really she risks nothing. I suppose we
ought to admire her for knowing she CAN invite us--school teachers--and
risk nothing.'

'Precisely!' said Gudrun. 'Think of the myriads of women that daren't
do it. She makes the most of her privileges--that's something. I
suppose, really, we should do the same, in her place.'

'No,' said Ursula. 'No. It would bore me. I couldn't spend my time
playing her games. It's infra dig.'

The two sisters were like a pair of scissors, snipping off everything
that came athwart them; or like a knife and a whetstone, the one
sharpened against the other.

'Of course,' cried Ursula suddenly, 'she ought to thank her stars if we
will go and see her. You are perfectly beautiful, a thousand times more
beautiful than ever she is or was, and to my thinking, a thousand times
more beautifully dressed, for she never looks fresh and natural, like a
flower, always old, thought-out; and we ARE more intelligent than most
people.'

'Undoubtedly!' said Gudrun.

'And it ought to be admitted, simply,' said Ursula.

'Certainly it ought,' said Gudrun. 'But you'll find that the really
chic thing is to be so absolutely ordinary, so perfectly commonplace
and like the person in the street, that you really are a masterpiece of
humanity, not the person in the street actually, but the artistic
creation of her--'

'How awful!' cried Ursula.

'Yes, Ursula, it IS awful, in most respects. You daren't be anything
that isn't amazingly A TERRE, SO much A TERRE that it is the artistic
creation of ordinariness.'

'It's very dull to create oneself into nothing better,' laughed Ursula.

'Very dull!' retorted Gudrun. 'Really Ursula, it is dull, that's just
the word. One longs to be high-flown, and make speeches like Corneille,
after it.'

Gudrun was becoming flushed and excited over her own cleverness.

'Strut,' said Ursula. 'One wants to strut, to be a swan among geese.'

'Exactly,' cried Gudrun, 'a swan among geese.'

'They are all so busy playing the ugly duckling,' cried Ursula, with
mocking laughter. 'And I don't feel a bit like a humble and pathetic
ugly duckling. I do feel like a swan among geese--I can't help it. They
make one feel so. And I don't care what THEY think of me. FE M'EN
FICHE.'

Gudrun looked up at Ursula with a queer, uncertain envy and dislike.

'Of course, the only thing to do is to despise them all--just all,' she
said.

The sisters went home again, to read and talk and work, and wait for
Monday, for school. Ursula often wondered what else she waited for,
besides the beginning and end of the school week, and the beginning and
end of the holidays. This was a whole life! Sometimes she had periods
of tight horror, when it seemed to her that her life would pass away,
and be gone, without having been more than this. But she never really
accepted it. Her spirit was active, her life like a shoot that is
growing steadily, but which has not yet come above ground.




CHAPTER V.



IN THE TRAIN


One day at this time Birkin was called to London. He was not very fixed
in his abode. He had rooms in Nottingham, because his work lay chiefly
in that town. But often he was in London, or in Oxford. He moved about
a great deal, his life seemed uncertain, without any definite rhythm,
any organic meaning.

On the platform of the railway station he saw Gerald Crich, reading a
newspaper, and evidently waiting for the train. Birkin stood some
distance off, among the people. It was against his instinct to approach
anybody.

From time to time, in a manner characteristic of him, Gerald lifted his
head and looked round. Even though he was reading the newspaper
closely, he must keep a watchful eye on his external surroundings.
There seemed to be a dual consciousness running in him. He was thinking
vigorously of something he read in the newspaper, and at the same time
his eye ran over the surfaces of the life round him, and he missed
nothing. Birkin, who was watching him, was irritated by his duality. He
noticed too, that Gerald seemed always to be at bay against everybody,
in spite of his queer, genial, social manner when roused.

Now Birkin started violently at seeing this genial look flash on to
Gerald's face, at seeing Gerald approaching with hand outstretched.

'Hallo, Rupert, where are you going?'

'London. So are you, I suppose.'

'Yes--'

Gerald's eyes went over Birkin's face in curiosity.

'We'll travel together if you like,' he said.

'Don't you usually go first?' asked Birkin.

'I can't stand the crowd,' replied Gerald. 'But third'll be all right.
There's a restaurant car, we can have some tea.'

The two men looked at the station clock, having nothing further to say.

'What were you reading in the paper?' Birkin asked.

Gerald looked at him quickly.

'Isn't it funny, what they DO put in the newspapers,' he said. 'Here
are two leaders--' he held out his DAILY TELEGRAPH, 'full of the
ordinary newspaper cant--' he scanned the columns down--'and then
there's this little--I dunno what you'd call it, essay,
almost--appearing with the leaders, and saying there must arise a man
who will give new values to things, give us new truths, a new attitude
to life, or else we shall be a crumbling nothingness in a few years, a
country in ruin--'

'I suppose that's a bit of newspaper cant, as well,' said Birkin.

'It sounds as if the man meant it, and quite genuinely,' said Gerald.

'Give it to me,' said Birkin, holding out his hand for the paper.

The train came, and they went on board, sitting on either side a little
table, by the window, in the restaurant car. Birkin glanced over his
paper, then looked up at Gerald, who was waiting for him.

'I believe the man means it,' he said, 'as far as he means anything.'

'And do you think it's true? Do you think we really want a new gospel?'
asked Gerald.

Birkin shrugged his shoulders.

'I think the people who say they want a new religion are the last to
accept anything new. They want novelty right enough. But to stare
straight at this life that we've brought upon ourselves, and reject it,
absolutely smash up the old idols of ourselves, that we sh'll never do.
You've got very badly to want to get rid of the old, before anything
new will appear--even in the self.'

Gerald watched him closely.

'You think we ought to break up this life, just start and let fly?' he
asked.

'This life. Yes I do. We've got to bust it completely, or shrivel
inside it, as in a tight skin. For it won't expand any more.'

There was a queer little smile in Gerald's eyes, a look of amusement,
calm and curious.

'And how do you propose to begin? I suppose you mean, reform the whole
order of society?' he asked.

Birkin had a slight, tense frown between the brows. He too was
impatient of the conversation.

'I don't propose at all,' he replied. 'When we really want to go for
something better, we shall smash the old. Until then, any sort of
proposal, or making proposals, is no more than a tiresome game for
self-important people.'

The little smile began to die out of Gerald's eyes, and he said,
looking with a cool stare at Birkin:

'So you really think things are very bad?'

'Completely bad.'

The smile appeared again.

'In what way?'

'Every way,' said Birkin. 'We are such dreary liars. Our one idea is to
lie to ourselves. We have an ideal of a perfect world, clean and
straight and sufficient. So we cover the earth with foulness; life is a
blotch of labour, like insects scurrying in filth, so that your collier
can have a pianoforte in his parlour, and you can have a butler and a
motor-car in your up-to-date house, and as a nation we can sport the
Ritz, or the Empire, Gaby Deslys and the Sunday newspapers. It is very
dreary.'

Gerald took a little time to re-adjust himself after this tirade.

'Would you have us live without houses--return to nature?' he asked.

'I would have nothing at all. People only do what they want to do--and
what they are capable of doing. If they were capable of anything else,
there would be something else.'

Again Gerald pondered. He was not going to take offence at Birkin.

'Don't you think the collier's PIANOFORTE, as you call it, is a symbol
for something very real, a real desire for something higher, in the
collier's life?'

'Higher!' cried Birkin. 'Yes. Amazing heights of upright grandeur. It
makes him so much higher in his neighbouring collier's eyes. He sees
himself reflected in the neighbouring opinion, like in a Brocken mist,
several feet taller on the strength of the pianoforte, and he is
satisfied. He lives for the sake of that Brocken spectre, the
reflection of himself in the human opinion. You do the same. If you are
of high importance to humanity you are of high importance to yourself.
That is why you work so hard at the mines. If you can produce coal to
cook five thousand dinners a day, you are five thousand times more
important than if you cooked only your own dinner.'

'I suppose I am,' laughed Gerald.

'Can't you see,' said Birkin, 'that to help my neighbour to eat is no
more than eating myself. "I eat, thou eatest, he eats, we eat, you eat,
they eat"--and what then? Why should every man decline the whole verb.
First person singular is enough for me.'

'You've got to start with material things,' said Gerald. Which
statement Birkin ignored.

'And we've got to live for SOMETHING, we're not just cattle that can
graze and have done with it,' said Gerald.

'Tell me,' said Birkin. 'What do you live for?'

Gerald's face went baffled.

'What do I live for?' he repeated. 'I suppose I live to work, to
produce something, in so far as I am a purposive being. Apart from
that, I live because I am living.'

'And what's your work? Getting so many more thousands of tons of coal
out of the earth every day. And when we've got all the coal we want,
and all the plush furniture, and pianofortes, and the rabbits are all
stewed and eaten, and we're all warm and our bellies are filled and
we're listening to the young lady performing on the pianoforte--what
then? What then, when you've made a real fair start with your material
things?'

Gerald sat laughing at the words and the mocking humour of the other
man. But he was cogitating too.

'We haven't got there yet,' he replied. 'A good many people are still
waiting for the rabbit and the fire to cook it.'

'So while you get the coal I must chase the rabbit?' said Birkin,
mocking at Gerald.

'Something like that,' said Gerald.

Birkin watched him narrowly. He saw the perfect good-humoured
callousness, even strange, glistening malice, in Gerald, glistening
through the plausible ethics of productivity.

'Gerald,' he said, 'I rather hate you.'

'I know you do,' said Gerald. 'Why do you?'

Birkin mused inscrutably for some minutes.

'I should like to know if you are conscious of hating me,' he said at
last. 'Do you ever consciously detest me--hate me with mystic hate?
There are odd moments when I hate you starrily.'

Gerald was rather taken aback, even a little disconcerted. He did not
quite know what to say.

'I may, of course, hate you sometimes,' he said. 'But I'm not aware of
it--never acutely aware of it, that is.'

'So much the worse,' said Birkin.

Gerald watched him with curious eyes. He could not quite make him out.

'So much the worse, is it?' he repeated.

There was a silence between the two men for some time, as the train ran
on. In Birkin's face was a little irritable tension, a sharp knitting
of the brows, keen and difficult. Gerald watched him warily, carefully,
rather calculatingly, for he could not decide what he was after.

Suddenly Birkin's eyes looked straight and overpowering into those of
the other man.

'What do you think is the aim and object of your life, Gerald?' he
asked.

Again Gerald was taken aback. He could not think what his friend was
getting at. Was he poking fun, or not?

'At this moment, I couldn't say off-hand,' he replied, with faintly
ironic humour.

'Do you think love is the be-all and the end-all of life?' Birkin
asked, with direct, attentive seriousness.

'Of my own life?' said Gerald.

'Yes.'

There was a really puzzled pause.

'I can't say,' said Gerald. 'It hasn't been, so far.'

'What has your life been, so far?'

'Oh--finding out things for myself--and getting experiences--and making
things GO.'

Birkin knitted his brows like sharply moulded steel.

'I find,' he said, 'that one needs some one REALLY pure single
activity--I should call love a single pure activity. But I DON'T really
love anybody--not now.'

'Have you ever really loved anybody?' asked Gerald.

'Yes and no,' replied Birkin.

'Not finally?' said Gerald.

'Finally--finally--no,' said Birkin.

'Nor I,' said Gerald.

'And do you want to?' said Birkin.

Gerald looked with a long, twinkling, almost sardonic look into the
eyes of the other man.

'I don't know,' he said.

'I do--I want to love,' said Birkin.

'You do?'

'Yes. I want the finality of love.'

'The finality of love,' repeated Gerald. And he waited for a moment.

'Just one woman?' he added. The evening light, flooding yellow along
the fields, lit up Birkin's face with a tense, abstract steadfastness.
Gerald still could not make it out.

'Yes, one woman,' said Birkin.

But to Gerald it sounded as if he were insistent rather than confident.

'I don't believe a woman, and nothing but a woman, will ever make my
life,' said Gerald.

'Not the centre and core of it--the love between you and a woman?'
asked Birkin.

Gerald's eyes narrowed with a queer dangerous smile as he watched the
other man.

'I never quite feel it that way,' he said.

'You don't? Then wherein does life centre, for you?'

'I don't know--that's what I want somebody to tell me. As far as I can
make out, it doesn't centre at all. It is artificially held TOGETHER by
the social mechanism.'

Birkin pondered as if he would crack something.

'I know,' he said, 'it just doesn't centre. The old ideals are dead as
nails--nothing there. It seems to me there remains only this perfect
union with a woman--sort of ultimate marriage--and there isn't anything
else.'

'And you mean if there isn't the woman, there's nothing?' said Gerald.

'Pretty well that--seeing there's no God.'

'Then we're hard put to it,' said Gerald. And he turned to look out of
the window at the flying, golden landscape.

Birkin could not help seeing how beautiful and soldierly his face was,
with a certain courage to be indifferent.

'You think its heavy odds against us?' said Birkin.

'If we've got to make our life up out of a woman, one woman, woman
only, yes, I do,' said Gerald. 'I don't believe I shall ever make up MY
life, at that rate.'

Birkin watched him almost angrily.

'You are a born unbeliever,' he said.

'I only feel what I feel,' said Gerald. And he looked again at Birkin
almost sardonically, with his blue, manly, sharp-lighted eyes. Birkin's
eyes were at the moment full of anger. But swiftly they became
troubled, doubtful, then full of a warm, rich affectionateness and
laughter.

'It troubles me very much, Gerald,' he said, wrinkling his brows.

'I can see it does,' said Gerald, uncovering his mouth in a manly,
quick, soldierly laugh.

Gerald was held unconsciously by the other man. He wanted to be near
him, he wanted to be within his sphere of influence. There was
something very congenial to him in Birkin. But yet, beyond this, he did
not take much notice. He felt that he, himself, Gerald, had harder and
more durable truths than any the other man knew. He felt himself older,
more knowing. It was the quick-changing warmth and venality and
brilliant warm utterance he loved in his friend. It was the rich play
of words and quick interchange of feelings he enjoyed. The real content
of the words he never really considered: he himself knew better.

Birkin knew this. He knew that Gerald wanted to be FOND of him without
taking him seriously. And this made him go hard and cold. As the train
ran on, he sat looking at the land, and Gerald fell away, became as
nothing to him.

Birkin looked at the land, at the evening, and was thinking: 'Well, if
mankind is destroyed, if our race is destroyed like Sodom, and there is
this beautiful evening with the luminous land and trees, I am
satisfied. That which informs it all is there, and can never be lost.
After all, what is mankind but just one expression of the
incomprehensible. And if mankind passes away, it will only mean that
this particular expression is completed and done. That which is
expressed, and that which is to be expressed, cannot be diminished.
There it is, in the shining evening. Let mankind pass away--time it
did. The creative utterances will not cease, they will only be there.
Humanity doesn't embody the utterance of the incomprehensible any more.
Humanity is a dead letter. There will be a new embodiment, in a new
way. Let humanity disappear as quick as possible.'

Gerald interrupted him by asking,

'Where are you staying in London?'

Birkin looked up.

'With a man in Soho. I pay part of the rent of a flat, and stop there
when I like.'

'Good idea--have a place more or less your own,' said Gerald.

'Yes. But I don't care for it much. I'm tired of the people I am bound
to find there.'

'What kind of people?'

'Art--music--London Bohemia--the most pettifogging calculating Bohemia
that ever reckoned its pennies. But there are a few decent people,
decent in some respects. They are really very thorough rejecters of the
world--perhaps they live only in the gesture of rejection and
negation--but negatively something, at any rate.'

'What are they?--painters, musicians?'

'Painters, musicians, writers--hangers-on, models, advanced young
people, anybody who is openly at outs with the conventions, and belongs
to nowhere particularly. They are often young fellows down from the
University, and girls who are living their own lives, as they say.'

'All loose?' said Gerald.

Birkin could see his curiosity roused.

'In one way. Most bound, in another. For all their shockingness, all on
one note.'

He looked at Gerald, and saw how his blue eyes were lit up with a
little flame of curious desire. He saw too how good-looking he was.
Gerald was attractive, his blood seemed fluid and electric. His blue
eyes burned with a keen, yet cold light, there was a certain beauty, a
beautiful passivity in all his body, his moulding.

'We might see something of each other--I am in London for two or three
days,' said Gerald.

'Yes,' said Birkin, 'I don't want to go to the theatre, or the music
hall--you'd better come round to the flat, and see what you can make of
Halliday and his crowd.'

'Thanks--I should like to,' laughed Gerald. 'What are you doing
tonight?'

'I promised to meet Halliday at the Pompadour. It's a bad place, but
there is nowhere else.'

'Where is it?' asked Gerald.

'Piccadilly Circus.'

'Oh yes--well, shall I come round there?'

'By all means, it might amuse you.'

The evening was falling. They had passed Bedford. Birkin watched the
country, and was filled with a sort of hopelessness. He always felt
this, on approaching London.

His dislike of mankind, of the mass of mankind, amounted almost to an
illness.

'"Where the quiet coloured end of evening smiles Miles and miles--"' he
was murmuring to himself, like a man condemned to death. Gerald, who
was very subtly alert, wary in all his senses, leaned forward and asked
smilingly:

'What were you saying?' Birkin glanced at him, laughed, and repeated:


'"Where the quiet coloured end of evening smiles, Miles and miles,
Over pastures where the something something sheep Half asleep--"'


Gerald also looked now at the country. And Birkin, who, for some reason
was now tired and dispirited, said to him:

'I always feel doomed when the train is running into London. I feel
such a despair, so hopeless, as if it were the end of the world.'

'Really!' said Gerald. 'And does the end of the world frighten you?'

Birkin lifted his shoulders in a slow shrug.

'I don't know,' he said. 'It does while it hangs imminent and doesn't
fall. But people give me a bad feeling--very bad.'

There was a roused glad smile in Gerald's eyes.

'Do they?' he said. And he watched the other man critically.

In a few minutes the train was running through the disgrace of
outspread London. Everybody in the carriage was on the alert, waiting
to escape. At last they were under the huge arch of the station, in the
tremendous shadow of the town. Birkin shut himself together--he was in
now.

The two men went together in a taxi-cab.

'Don't you feel like one of the damned?' asked Birkin, as they sat in a
little, swiftly-running enclosure, and watched the hideous great
street.

'No,' laughed Gerald.

'It is real death,' said Birkin.




CHAPTER VI.



CREME DE MENTHE


They met again in the cafe several hours later. Gerald went through the
push doors into the large, lofty room where the faces and heads of the
drinkers showed dimly through the haze of smoke, reflected more dimly,
and repeated ad infinitum in the great mirrors on the walls, so that
one seemed to enter a vague, dim world of shadowy drinkers humming
within an atmosphere of blue tobacco smoke. There was, however, the red
plush of the seats to give substance within the bubble of pleasure.

Gerald moved in his slow, observant, glistening-attentive motion down
between the tables and the people whose shadowy faces looked up as he
passed. He seemed to be entering in some strange element, passing into
an illuminated new region, among a host of licentious souls. He was
pleased, and entertained. He looked over all the dim, evanescent,
strangely illuminated faces that bent across the tables. Then he saw
Birkin rise and signal to him.

At Birkin's table was a girl with dark, soft, fluffy hair cut short in
the artist fashion, hanging level and full almost like the Egyptian
princess's. She was small and delicately made, with warm colouring and
large, dark hostile eyes. There was a delicacy, almost a beauty in all
her form, and at the same time a certain attractive grossness of
spirit, that made a little spark leap instantly alight in Gerald's
eyes.

Birkin, who looked muted, unreal, his presence left out, introduced her
as Miss Darrington. She gave her hand with a sudden, unwilling
movement, looking all the while at Gerald with a dark, exposed stare. A
glow came over him as he sat down.

The waiter appeared. Gerald glanced at the glasses of the other two.
Birkin was drinking something green, Miss Darrington had a small
liqueur glass that was empty save for a tiny drop.

'Won't you have some more--?'

'Brandy,' she said, sipping her last drop and putting down the glass.
The waiter disappeared.

'No,' she said to Birkin. 'He doesn't know I'm back. He'll be terrified
when he sees me here.'

She spoke her r's like w's, lisping with a slightly babyish
pronunciation which was at once affected and true to her character. Her
voice was dull and toneless.

'Where is he then?' asked Birkin.

'He's doing a private show at Lady Snellgrove's,' said the girl.
'Warens is there too.'

There was a pause.

'Well, then,' said Birkin, in a dispassionate protective manner, 'what
do you intend to do?'

The girl paused sullenly. She hated the question.

'I don't intend to do anything,' she replied. 'I shall look for some
sittings tomorrow.'

'Who shall you go to?' asked Birkin.

'I shall go to Bentley's first. But I believe he's angwy with me for
running away.'

'That is from the Madonna?'

'Yes. And then if he doesn't want me, I know I can get work with
Carmarthen.'

'Carmarthen?'

'Lord Carmarthen--he does photographs.'

'Chiffon and shoulders--'

'Yes. But he's awfully decent.' There was a pause.

'And what are you going to do about Julius?' he asked.

'Nothing,' she said. 'I shall just ignore him.'

'You've done with him altogether?' But she turned aside her face
sullenly, and did not answer the question.

Another young man came hurrying up to the table.

'Hallo Birkin! Hallo PUSSUM, when did you come back?' he said eagerly.

'Today.'

'Does Halliday know?'

'I don't know. I don't care either.'

'Ha-ha! The wind still sits in that quarter, does it? Do you mind if I
come over to this table?'

'I'm talking to Wupert, do you mind?' she replied, coolly and yet
appealingly, like a child.

'Open confession--good for the soul, eh?' said the young man. 'Well, so
long.'

And giving a sharp look at Birkin and at Gerald, the young man moved
off, with a swing of his coat skirts.

All this time Gerald had been completely ignored. And yet he felt that
the girl was physically aware of his proximity. He waited, listened,
and tried to piece together the conversation.

'Are you staying at the flat?' the girl asked, of Birkin.

'For three days,' replied Birkin. 'And you?'

'I don't know yet. I can always go to Bertha's.' There was a silence.

Suddenly the girl turned to Gerald, and said, in a rather formal,
polite voice, with the distant manner of a woman who accepts her
position as a social inferior, yet assumes intimate CAMARADERIE with
the male she addresses:

'Do you know London well?'

'I can hardly say,' he laughed. 'I've been up a good many times, but I
was never in this place before.'

'You're not an artist, then?' she said, in a tone that placed him an
outsider.

'No,' he replied.

'He's a soldier, and an explorer, and a Napoleon of industry,' said
Birkin, giving Gerald his credentials for Bohemia.

'Are you a soldier?' asked the girl, with a cold yet lively curiosity.

'No, I resigned my commission,' said Gerald, 'some years ago.'

'He was in the last war,' said Birkin.

'Were you really?' said the girl.

'And then he explored the Amazon,' said Birkin, 'and now he is ruling
over coal-mines.'

The girl looked at Gerald with steady, calm curiosity. He laughed,
hearing himself described. He felt proud too, full of male strength.
His blue, keen eyes were lit up with laughter, his ruddy face, with its
sharp fair hair, was full of satisfaction, and glowing with life. He
piqued her.

'How long are you staying?' she asked him.

'A day or two,' he replied. 'But there is no particular hurry.'

Still she stared into his face with that slow, full gaze which was so
curious and so exciting to him. He was acutely and delightfully
conscious of himself, of his own attractiveness. He felt full of
strength, able to give off a sort of electric power. And he was aware
of her dark, hot-looking eyes upon him. She had beautiful eyes, dark,
fully-opened, hot, naked in their looking at him. And on them there
seemed to float a film of disintegration, a sort of misery and
sullenness, like oil on water. She wore no hat in the heated cafe, her
loose, simple jumper was strung on a string round her neck. But it was
made of rich peach-coloured crepe-de-chine, that hung heavily and
softly from her young throat and her slender wrists. Her appearance was
simple and complete, really beautiful, because of her regularity and
form, her soft dark hair falling full and level on either side of her
head, her straight, small, softened features, Egyptian in the slight
fulness of their curves, her slender neck and the simple, rich-coloured
smock hanging on her slender shoulders. She was very still, almost
null, in her manner, apart and watchful.

She appealed to Gerald strongly. He felt an awful, enjoyable power over
her, an instinctive cherishing very near to cruelty. For she was a
victim. He felt that she was in his power, and he was generous. The
electricity was turgid and voluptuously rich, in his limbs. He would be
able to destroy her utterly in the strength of his discharge. But she
was waiting in her separation, given.

They talked banalities for some time. Suddenly Birkin said:

'There's Julius!' and he half rose to his feet, motioning to the
newcomer. The girl, with a curious, almost evil motion, looked round
over her shoulder without moving her body. Gerald watched her dark,
soft hair swing over her ears. He felt her watching intensely the man
who was approaching, so he looked too. He saw a pale, full-built young
man with rather long, solid fair hair hanging from under his black hat,
moving cumbrously down the room, his face lit up with a smile at once
naive and warm, and vapid. He approached towards Birkin, with a haste
of welcome.

It was not till he was quite close that he perceived the girl. He
recoiled, went pale, and said, in a high squealing voice:

'Pussum, what are YOU doing here?'

The cafe looked up like animals when they hear a cry. Halliday hung
motionless, an almost imbecile smile flickering palely on his face. The
girl only stared at him with a black look in which flared an
unfathomable hell of knowledge, and a certain impotence. She was
limited by him.

'Why have you come back?' repeated Halliday, in the same high,
hysterical voice. 'I told you not to come back.'

The girl did not answer, only stared in the same viscous, heavy
fashion, straight at him, as he stood recoiled, as if for safety,
against the next table.

'You know you wanted her to come back--come and sit down,' said Birkin
to him.

'No I didn't want her to come back, and I told her not to come back.
What have you come for, Pussum?'

'For nothing from YOU,' she said in a heavy voice of resentment.

'Then why have you come back at ALL?' cried Halliday, his voice rising
to a kind of squeal.

'She comes as she likes,' said Birkin. 'Are you going to sit down, or
are you not?'

'No, I won't sit down with Pussum,' cried Halliday.

'I won't hurt you, you needn't be afraid,' she said to him, very
curtly, and yet with a sort of protectiveness towards him, in her
voice.

Halliday came and sat at the table, putting his hand on his heart, and
crying:

'Oh, it's given me such a turn! Pussum, I wish you wouldn't do these
things. Why did you come back?'

'Not for anything from you,' she repeated.

'You've said that before,' he cried in a high voice.

She turned completely away from him, to Gerald Crich, whose eyes were
shining with a subtle amusement.

'Were you ever vewy much afwaid of the savages?' she asked in her calm,
dull childish voice.

'No--never very much afraid. On the whole they're harmless--they're not
born yet, you can't feel really afraid of them. You know you can manage
them.'

'Do you weally? Aren't they very fierce?'

'Not very. There aren't many fierce things, as a matter of fact. There
aren't many things, neither people nor animals, that have it in them to
be really dangerous.'

'Except in herds,' interrupted Birkin.

'Aren't there really?' she said. 'Oh, I thought savages were all so
dangerous, they'd have your life before you could look round.'

'Did you?' he laughed. 'They are over-rated, savages. They're too much
like other people, not exciting, after the first acquaintance.'

'Oh, it's not so very wonderfully brave then, to be an explorer?'

'No. It's more a question of hardships than of terrors.'

'Oh! And weren't you ever afraid?'

'In my life? I don't know. Yes, I'm afraid of some things--of being
shut up, locked up anywhere--or being fastened. I'm afraid of being
bound hand and foot.'

She looked at him steadily with her dark eyes, that rested on him and
roused him so deeply, that it left his upper self quite calm. It was
rather delicious, to feel her drawing his self-revelations from him, as
from the very innermost dark marrow of his body. She wanted to know.
And her dark eyes seemed to be looking through into his naked organism.
He felt, she was compelled to him, she was fated to come into contact
with him, must have the seeing him and knowing him. And this roused a
curious exultance. Also he felt, she must relinquish herself into his
hands, and be subject to him. She was so profane, slave-like, watching
him, absorbed by him. It was not that she was interested in what he
said; she was absorbed by his self-revelation, by HIM, she wanted the
secret of him, the experience of his male being.

Gerald's face was lit up with an uncanny smile, full of light and
rousedness, yet unconscious. He sat with his arms on the table, his
sunbrowned, rather sinister hands, that were animal and yet very
shapely and attractive, pushed forward towards her. And they fascinated
her. And she knew, she watched her own fascination.

Other men had come to the table, to talk with Birkin and Halliday.
Gerald said in a low voice, apart, to Pussum:

'Where have you come back from?'

'From the country,' replied Pussum, in a very low, yet fully resonant
voice. Her face closed hard. Continually she glanced at Halliday, and
then a black flare came over her eyes. The heavy, fair young man
ignored her completely; he was really afraid of her. For some moments
she would be unaware of Gerald. He had not conquered her yet.

'And what has Halliday to do with it?' he asked, his voice still muted.

She would not answer for some seconds. Then she said, unwillingly:

'He made me go and live with him, and now he wants to throw me over.
And yet he won't let me go to anybody else. He wants me to live hidden
in the country. And then he says I persecute him, that he can't get rid
of me.'

'Doesn't know his own mind,' said Gerald.

'He hasn't any mind, so he can't know it,' she said. 'He waits for what
somebody tells him to do. He never does anything he wants to do
himself--because he doesn't know what he wants. He's a perfect baby.'

Gerald looked at Halliday for some moments, watching the soft, rather
degenerate face of the young man. Its very softness was an attraction;
it was a soft, warm, corrupt nature, into which one might plunge with
gratification.

'But he has no hold over you, has he?' Gerald asked.

'You see he MADE me go and live with him, when I didn't want to,' she
replied. 'He came and cried to me, tears, you never saw so many, saying
HE COULDN'T bear it unless I went back to him. And he wouldn't go away,
he would have stayed for ever. He made me go back. Then every time he
behaves in this fashion. And now I'm going to have a baby, he wants to
give me a hundred pounds and send me into the country, so that he would
never see me nor hear of me again. But I'm not going to do it, after--'

A queer look came over Gerald's face.

'Are you going to have a child?' he asked incredulous. It seemed, to
look at her, impossible, she was so young and so far in spirit from any
child-bearing.

She looked full into his face, and her dark, inchoate eyes had now a
furtive look, and a look of a knowledge of evil, dark and indomitable.
A flame ran secretly to his heart.

'Yes,' she said. 'Isn't it beastly?'

'Don't you want it?' he asked.

'I don't,' she replied emphatically.

'But--' he said, 'how long have you known?'

'Ten weeks,' she said.

All the time she kept her dark, inchoate eyes full upon him. He
remained silent, thinking. Then, switching off and becoming cold, he
asked, in a voice full of considerate kindness:

'Is there anything we can eat here? Is there anything you would like?'

'Yes,' she said, 'I should adore some oysters.'

'All right,' he said. 'We'll have oysters.' And he beckoned to the
waiter.

Halliday took no notice, until the little plate was set before her.
Then suddenly he cried:

'Pussum, you can't eat oysters when you're drinking brandy.'

'What has it go to do with you?' she asked.

'Nothing, nothing,' he cried. 'But you can't eat oysters when you're
drinking brandy.'

'I'm not drinking brandy,' she replied, and she sprinkled the last
drops of her liqueur over his face. He gave an odd squeal. She sat
looking at him, as if indifferent.

'Pussum, why do you do that?' he cried in panic. He gave Gerald the
impression that he was terrified of her, and that he loved his terror.
He seemed to relish his own horror and hatred of her, turn it over and
extract every flavour from it, in real panic. Gerald thought him a
strange fool, and yet piquant.

'But Pussum,' said another man, in a very small, quick Eton voice, 'you
promised not to hurt him.'

'I haven't hurt him,' she answered.

'What will you drink?' the young man asked. He was dark, and
smooth-skinned, and full of a stealthy vigour.

'I don't like porter, Maxim,' she replied.

'You must ask for champagne,' came the whispering, gentlemanly voice of
the other.

Gerald suddenly realised that this was a hint to him.

'Shall we have champagne?' he asked, laughing.

'Yes please, dwy,' she lisped childishly.

Gerald watched her eating the oysters. She was delicate and finicking
in her eating, her fingers were fine and seemed very sensitive in the
tips, so she put her food apart with fine, small motions, she ate
carefully, delicately. It pleased him very much to see her, and it
irritated Birkin. They were all drinking champagne. Maxim, the prim
young Russian with the smooth, warm-coloured face and black, oiled hair
was the only one who seemed to be perfectly calm and sober. Birkin was
white and abstract, unnatural, Gerald was smiling with a constant
bright, amused, cold light in his eyes, leaning a little protectively
towards the Pussum, who was very handsome, and soft, unfolded like some
red lotus in dreadful flowering nakedness, vainglorious now, flushed
with wine and with the excitement of men. Halliday looked foolish. One
glass of wine was enough to make him drunk and giggling. Yet there was
always a pleasant, warm naivete about him, that made him attractive.

'I'm not afwaid of anything except black-beetles,' said the Pussum,
looking up suddenly and staring with her black eyes, on which there
seemed an unseeing film of flame, fully upon Gerald. He laughed
dangerously, from the blood. Her childish speech caressed his nerves,
and her burning, filmed eyes, turned now full upon him, oblivious of
all her antecedents, gave him a sort of licence.

'I'm not,' she protested. 'I'm not afraid of other things. But
black-beetles--ugh!' she shuddered convulsively, as if the very thought
were too much to bear.

'Do you mean,' said Gerald, with the punctiliousness of a man who has
been drinking, 'that you are afraid of the sight of a black-beetle, or
you are afraid of a black-beetle biting you, or doing you some harm?'

'Do they bite?' cried the girl.

'How perfectly loathsome!' exclaimed Halliday.

'I don't know,' replied Gerald, looking round the table. 'Do
black-beetles bite? But that isn't the point. Are you afraid of their
biting, or is it a metaphysical antipathy?'

The girl was looking full upon him all the time with inchoate eyes.

'Oh, I think they're beastly, they're horrid,' she cried. 'If I see
one, it gives me the creeps all over. If one were to crawl on me, I'm
SURE I should die--I'm sure I should.'

'I hope not,' whispered the young Russian.

'I'm sure I should, Maxim,' she asseverated.

'Then one won't crawl on you,' said Gerald, smiling and knowing. In
some strange way he understood her.

'It's metaphysical, as Gerald says,' Birkin stated.

There was a little pause of uneasiness.

'And are you afraid of nothing else, Pussum?' asked the young Russian,
in his quick, hushed, elegant manner.

'Not weally,' she said. 'I am afwaid of some things, but not weally the
same. I'm not afwaid of BLOOD.'

'Not afwaid of blood!' exclaimed a young man with a thick, pale,
jeering face, who had just come to the table and was drinking whisky.

The Pussum turned on him a sulky look of dislike, low and ugly.

'Aren't you really afraid of blud?' the other persisted, a sneer all
over his face.

'No, I'm not,' she retorted.

'Why, have you ever seen blood, except in a dentist's spittoon?' jeered
the young man.

'I wasn't speaking to you,' she replied rather superbly.

'You can answer me, can't you?' he said.

For reply, she suddenly jabbed a knife across his thick, pale hand. He
started up with a vulgar curse.

'Show's what you are,' said the Pussum in contempt.

'Curse you,' said the young man, standing by the table and looking down
at her with acrid malevolence.

'Stop that,' said Gerald, in quick, instinctive command.

The young man stood looking down at her with sardonic contempt, a
cowed, self-conscious look on his thick, pale face. The blood began to
flow from his hand.

'Oh, how horrible, take it away!' squealed Halliday, turning green and
averting his face.

'D'you feel ill?' asked the sardonic young man, in some concern. 'Do
you feel ill, Julius? Garn, it's nothing, man, don't give her the
pleasure of letting her think she's performed a feat--don't give her
the satisfaction, man--it's just what she wants.'

'Oh!' squealed Halliday.

'He's going to cat, Maxim,' said the Pussum warningly. The suave young
Russian rose and took Halliday by the arm, leading him away. Birkin,
white and diminished, looked on as if he were displeased. The wounded,
sardonic young man moved away, ignoring his bleeding hand in the most
conspicuous fashion.

'He's an awful coward, really,' said the Pussum to Gerald. 'He's got
such an influence over Julius.'

'Who is he?' asked Gerald.

'He's a Jew, really. I can't bear him.'

'Well, he's quite unimportant. But what's wrong with Halliday?'

'Julius's the most awful coward you've ever seen,' she cried. 'He
always faints if I lift a knife--he's tewwified of me.'

'H'm!' said Gerald.

'They're all afwaid of me,' she said. 'Only the Jew thinks he's going
to show his courage. But he's the biggest coward of them all, really,
because he's afwaid what people will think about him--and Julius
doesn't care about that.'

'They've a lot of valour between them,' said Gerald good-humouredly.

The Pussum looked at him with a slow, slow smile. She was very
handsome, flushed, and confident in dreadful knowledge. Two little
points of light glinted on Gerald's eyes.

'Why do they call you Pussum, because you're like a cat?' he asked her.

'I expect so,' she said.

The smile grew more intense on his face.

'You are, rather; or a young, female panther.'

'Oh God, Gerald!' said Birkin, in some disgust.

They both looked uneasily at Birkin.

'You're silent tonight, Wupert,' she said to him, with a slight
insolence, being safe with the other man.

Halliday was coming back, looking forlorn and sick.

'Pussum,' he said, 'I wish you wouldn't do these things--Oh!' He sank
in his chair with a groan.

'You'd better go home,' she said to him.

'I WILL go home,' he said. 'But won't you all come along. Won't you
come round to the flat?' he said to Gerald. 'I should be so glad if you
would. Do--that'll be splendid. I say?' He looked round for a waiter.
'Get me a taxi.' Then he groaned again. 'Oh I do feel--perfectly
ghastly! Pussum, you see what you do to me.'

'Then why are you such an idiot?' she said with sullen calm.

'But I'm not an idiot! Oh, how awful! Do come, everybody, it will be so
splendid. Pussum, you are coming. What? Oh but you MUST come, yes, you
must. What? Oh, my dear girl, don't make a fuss now, I feel
perfectly--Oh, it's so ghastly--Ho!--er! Oh!'

'You know you can't drink,' she said to him, coldly.

'I tell you it isn't drink--it's your disgusting behaviour, Pussum,
it's nothing else. Oh, how awful! Libidnikov, do let us go.'

'He's only drunk one glass--only one glass,' came the rapid, hushed
voice of the young Russian.

They all moved off to the door. The girl kept near to Gerald, and
seemed to be at one in her motion with him. He was aware of this, and
filled with demon-satisfaction that his motion held good for two. He
held her in the hollow of his will, and she was soft, secret, invisible
in her stirring there.

They crowded five of them into the taxi-cab. Halliday lurched in first,
and dropped into his seat against the other window. Then the Pussum
took her place, and Gerald sat next to her. They heard the young
Russian giving orders to the driver, then they were all seated in the
dark, crowded close together, Halliday groaning and leaning out of the
window. They felt the swift, muffled motion of the car.

The Pussum sat near to Gerald, and she seemed to become soft, subtly to
infuse herself into his bones, as if she were passing into him in a
black, electric flow. Her being suffused into his veins like a magnetic
darkness, and concentrated at the base of his spine like a fearful
source of power. Meanwhile her voice sounded out reedy and nonchalant,
as she talked indifferently with Birkin and with Maxim. Between her and
Gerald was this silence and this black, electric comprehension in the
darkness. Then she found his hand, and grasped it in her own firm,
small clasp. It was so utterly dark, and yet such a naked statement,
that rapid vibrations ran through his blood and over his brain, he was
no longer responsible. Still her voice rang on like a bell, tinged with
a tone of mockery. And as she swung her head, her fine mane of hair
just swept his face, and all his nerves were on fire, as with a subtle
friction of electricity. But the great centre of his force held steady,
a magnificent pride to him, at the base of his spine.

They arrived at a large block of buildings, went up in a lift, and
presently a door was being opened for them by a Hindu. Gerald looked in
surprise, wondering if he were a gentleman, one of the Hindus down from
Oxford, perhaps. But no, he was the man-servant.

'Make tea, Hasan,' said Halliday.

'There is a room for me?' said Birkin.

To both of which questions the man grinned, and murmured.

He made Gerald uncertain, because, being tall and slender and reticent,
he looked like a gentleman.

'Who is your servant?' he asked of Halliday. 'He looks a swell.'

'Oh yes--that's because he's dressed in another man's clothes. He's
anything but a swell, really. We found him in the road, starving. So I
took him here, and another man gave him clothes. He's anything but what
he seems to be--his only advantage is that he can't speak English and
can't understand it, so he's perfectly safe.'

'He's very dirty,' said the young Russian swiftly and silently.

Directly, the man appeared in the doorway.

'What is it?' said Halliday.

The Hindu grinned, and murmured shyly:

'Want to speak to master.'

Gerald watched curiously. The fellow in the doorway was goodlooking and
clean-limbed, his bearing was calm, he looked elegant, aristocratic.
Yet he was half a savage, grinning foolishly. Halliday went out into
the corridor to speak with him.

'What?' they heard his voice. 'What? What do you say? Tell me again.
What? Want money? Want MORE money? But what do you want money for?'
There was the confused sound of the Hindu's talking, then Halliday
appeared in the room, smiling also foolishly, and saying:

'He says he wants money to buy underclothing. Can anybody lend me a
shilling? Oh thanks, a shilling will do to buy all the underclothes he
wants.' He took the money from Gerald and went out into the passage
again, where they heard him saying, 'You can't want more money, you had
three and six yesterday. You mustn't ask for any more. Bring the tea in
quickly.'

Gerald looked round the room. It was an ordinary London sitting-room in
a flat, evidently taken furnished, rather common and ugly. But there
were several negro statues, wood-carvings from West Africa, strange and
disturbing, the carved negroes looked almost like the foetus of a human
being. One was a woman sitting naked in a strange posture, and looking
tortured, her abdomen stuck out. The young Russian explained that she
was sitting in child-birth, clutching the ends of the band that hung
from her neck, one in each hand, so that she could bear down, and help
labour. The strange, transfixed, rudimentary face of the woman again
reminded Gerald of a foetus, it was also rather wonderful, conveying
the suggestion of the extreme of physical sensation, beyond the limits
of mental consciousness.

'Aren't they rather obscene?' he asked, disapproving.

'I don't know,' murmured the other rapidly. 'I have never defined the
obscene. I think they are very good.'

Gerald turned away. There were one or two new pictures in the room, in
the Futurist manner; there was a large piano. And these, with some
ordinary London lodging-house furniture of the better sort, completed
the whole.

The Pussum had taken off her hat and coat, and was seated on the sofa.
She was evidently quite at home in the house, but uncertain, suspended.
She did not quite know her position. Her alliance for the time being
was with Gerald, and she did not know how far this was admitted by any
of the men. She was considering how she should carry off the situation.
She was determined to have her experience. Now, at this eleventh hour,
she was not to be baulked. Her face was flushed as with battle, her eye
was brooding but inevitable.

The man came in with tea and a bottle of Kummel. He set the tray on a
little table before the couch.

'Pussum,' said Halliday, 'pour out the tea.'

She did not move.

'Won't you do it?' Halliday repeated, in a state of nervous
apprehension.

'I've not come back here as it was before,' she said. 'I only came
because the others wanted me to, not for your sake.'

'My dear Pussum, you know you are your own mistress. I don't want you
to do anything but use the flat for your own convenience--you know it,
I've told you so many times.'

She did not reply, but silently, reservedly reached for the tea-pot.
They all sat round and drank tea. Gerald could feel the electric
connection between him and her so strongly, as she sat there quiet and
withheld, that another set of conditions altogether had come to pass.
Her silence and her immutability perplexed him. HOW was he going to
come to her? And yet he felt it quite inevitable. He trusted completely
to the current that held them. His perplexity was only superficial, new
conditions reigned, the old were surpassed; here one did as one was
possessed to do, no matter what it was.

Birkin rose. It was nearly one o'clock.

'I'm going to bed,' he said. 'Gerald, I'll ring you up in the morning
at your place or you ring me up here.'

'Right,' said Gerald, and Birkin went out.

When he was well gone, Halliday said in a stimulated voice, to Gerald:

'I say, won't you stay here--oh do!'

'You can't put everybody up,' said Gerald.

'Oh but I can, perfectly--there are three more beds besides mine--do
stay, won't you. Everything is quite ready--there is always somebody
here--I always put people up--I love having the house crowded.'

'But there are only two rooms,' said the Pussum, in a cold, hostile
voice, 'now Rupert's here.'

'I know there are only two rooms,' said Halliday, in his odd, high way
of speaking. 'But what does that matter?'

He was smiling rather foolishly, and he spoke eagerly, with an
insinuating determination.

'Julius and I will share one room,' said the Russian in his discreet,
precise voice. Halliday and he were friends since Eton.

'It's very simple,' said Gerald, rising and pressing back his arms,
stretching himself. Then he went again to look at one of the pictures.
Every one of his limbs was turgid with electric force, and his back was
tense like a tiger's, with slumbering fire. He was very proud.

The Pussum rose. She gave a black look at Halliday, black and deadly,
which brought the rather foolishly pleased smile to that young man's
face. Then she went out of the room, with a cold good-night to them all
generally.

There was a brief interval, they heard a door close, then Maxim said,
in his refined voice:

'That's all right.'

He looked significantly at Gerald, and said again, with a silent nod:

'That's all right--you're all right.'

Gerald looked at the smooth, ruddy, comely face, and at the strange,
significant eyes, and it seemed as if the voice of the young Russian,
so small and perfect, sounded in the blood rather than in the air.

'I'M all right then,' said Gerald.

'Yes! Yes! You're all right,' said the Russian.

Halliday continued to smile, and to say nothing.

Suddenly the Pussum appeared again in the door, her small, childish
face looking sullen and vindictive.

'I know you want to catch me out,' came her cold, rather resonant
voice. 'But I don't care, I don't care how much you catch me out.'

She turned and was gone again. She had been wearing a loose
dressing-gown of purple silk, tied round her waist. She looked so small
and childish and vulnerable, almost pitiful. And yet the black looks of
her eyes made Gerald feel drowned in some potent darkness that almost
frightened him.

The men lit another cigarette and talked casually.




CHAPTER VII.



FETISH


In the morning Gerald woke late. He had slept heavily. Pussum was still
asleep, sleeping childishly and pathetically. There was something small
and curled up and defenceless about her, that roused an unsatisfied
flame of passion in the young man's blood, a devouring avid pity. He
looked at her again. But it would be too cruel to wake her. He subdued
himself, and went away.

Hearing voices coming from the sitting-room, Halliday talking to
Libidnikov, he went to the door and glanced in. He had on a silk wrap
of a beautiful bluish colour, with an amethyst hem.

To his surprise he saw the two young men by the fire, stark naked.
Halliday looked up, rather pleased.

'Good-morning,' he said. 'Oh--did you want towels?' And stark naked he
went out into the hall, striding a strange, white figure between the
unliving furniture. He came back with the towels, and took his former
position, crouching seated before the fire on the fender.

'Don't you love to feel the fire on your skin?' he said.

'It IS rather pleasant,' said Gerald.

'How perfectly splendid it must be to be in a climate where one could
do without clothing altogether,' said Halliday.

'Yes,' said Gerald, 'if there weren't so many things that sting and
bite.'

'That's a disadvantage,' murmured Maxim.

Gerald looked at him, and with a slight revulsion saw the human animal,
golden skinned and bare, somehow humiliating. Halliday was different.
He had a rather heavy, slack, broken beauty, white and firm. He was
like a Christ in a Pieta. The animal was not there at all, only the
heavy, broken beauty. And Gerald realised how Halliday's eyes were
beautiful too, so blue and warm and confused, broken also in their
expression. The fireglow fell on his heavy, rather bowed shoulders, he
sat slackly crouched on the fender, his face was uplifted, weak,
perhaps slightly disintegrate, and yet with a moving beauty of its own.

'Of course,' said Maxim, 'you've been in hot countries where the people
go about naked.'

'Oh really!' exclaimed Halliday. 'Where?'

'South America--Amazon,' said Gerald.

'Oh but how perfectly splendid! It's one of the things I want most to
do--to live from day to day without EVER putting on any sort of
clothing whatever. If I could do that, I should feel I had lived.'

'But why?' said Gerald. 'I can't see that it makes so much difference.'

'Oh, I think it would be perfectly splendid. I'm sure life would be
entirely another thing--entirely different, and perfectly wonderful.'

'But why?' asked Gerald. 'Why should it?'

'Oh--one would FEEL things instead of merely looking at them. I should
feel the air move against me, and feel the things I touched, instead of
having only to look at them. I'm sure life is all wrong because it has
become much too visual--we can neither hear nor feel nor understand, we
can only see. I'm sure that is entirely wrong.'

'Yes, that is true, that is true,' said the Russian.

Gerald glanced at him, and saw him, his suave, golden coloured body
with the black hair growing fine and freely, like tendrils, and his
limbs like smooth plant-stems. He was so healthy and well-made, why did
he make one ashamed, why did one feel repelled? Why should Gerald even
dislike it, why did it seem to him to detract from his own dignity. Was
that all a human being amounted to? So uninspired! thought Gerald.

Birkin suddenly appeared in the doorway, in white pyjamas and wet hair,
and a towel over his arm. He was aloof and white, and somehow
evanescent.

'There's the bath-room now, if you want it,' he said generally, and was
going away again, when Gerald called:

'I say, Rupert!'

'What?' The single white figure appeared again, a presence in the room.

'What do you think of that figure there? I want to know,' Gerald asked.

Birkin, white and strangely ghostly, went over to the carved figure of
the negro woman in labour. Her nude, protuberant body crouched in a
strange, clutching posture, her hands gripping the ends of the band,
above her breast.

'It is art,' said Birkin.

'Very beautiful, it's very beautiful,' said the Russian.

They all drew near to look. Gerald looked at the group of men, the
Russian golden and like a water-plant, Halliday tall and heavily,
brokenly beautiful, Birkin very white and indefinite, not to be
assigned, as he looked closely at the carven woman. Strangely elated,
Gerald also lifted his eyes to the face of the wooden figure. And his
heart contracted.

He saw vividly with his spirit the grey, forward-stretching face of the
negro woman, African and tense, abstracted in utter physical stress. It
was a terrible face, void, peaked, abstracted almost into
meaninglessness by the weight of sensation beneath. He saw the Pussum
in it. As in a dream, he knew her.

'Why is it art?' Gerald asked, shocked, resentful.

'It conveys a complete truth,' said Birkin. 'It contains the whole
truth of that state, whatever you feel about it.'

'But you can't call it HIGH art,' said Gerald.

'High! There are centuries and hundreds of centuries of development in
a straight line, behind that carving; it is an awful pitch of culture,
of a definite sort.'

'What culture?' Gerald asked, in opposition. He hated the sheer African
thing.

'Pure culture in sensation, culture in the physical consciousness,
really ultimate PHYSICAL consciousness, mindless, utterly sensual. It
is so sensual as to be final, supreme.'

But Gerald resented it. He wanted to keep certain illusions, certain
ideas like clothing.

'You like the wrong things, Rupert,' he said, 'things against
yourself.'

'Oh, I know, this isn't everything,' Birkin replied, moving away.

When Gerald went back to his room from the bath, he also carried his
clothes. He was so conventional at home, that when he was really away,
and on the loose, as now, he enjoyed nothing so much as full
outrageousness. So he strode with his blue silk wrap over his arm and
felt defiant.

The Pussum lay in her bed, motionless, her round, dark eyes like black,
unhappy pools. He could only see the black, bottomless pools of her
eyes. Perhaps she suffered. The sensation of her inchoate suffering
roused the old sharp flame in him, a mordant pity, a passion almost of
cruelty.

'You are awake now,' he said to her.

'What time is it?' came her muted voice.

She seemed to flow back, almost like liquid, from his approach, to sink
helplessly away from him. Her inchoate look of a violated slave, whose
fulfilment lies in her further and further violation, made his nerves
quiver with acutely desirable sensation. After all, his was the only
will, she was the passive substance of his will. He tingled with the
subtle, biting sensation. And then he knew, he must go away from her,
there must be pure separation between them.

It was a quiet and ordinary breakfast, the four men all looking very
clean and bathed. Gerald and the Russian were both correct and COMME IL
FAUT in appearance and manner, Birkin was gaunt and sick, and looked a
failure in his attempt to be a properly dressed man, like Gerald and
Maxim. Halliday wore tweeds and a green flannel shirt, and a rag of a
tie, which was just right for him. The Hindu brought in a great deal of
soft toast, and looked exactly the same as he had looked the night
before, statically the same.

At the end of the breakfast the Pussum appeared, in a purple silk wrap
with a shimmering sash. She had recovered herself somewhat, but was
mute and lifeless still. It was a torment to her when anybody spoke to
her. Her face was like a small, fine mask, sinister too, masked with
unwilling suffering. It was almost midday. Gerald rose and went away to
his business, glad to get out. But he had not finished. He was coming
back again at evening, they were all dining together, and he had booked
seats for the party, excepting Birkin, at a music-hall.

At night they came back to the flat very late again, again flushed with
drink. Again the man-servant--who invariably disappeared between the
hours of ten and twelve at night--came in silently and inscrutably with
tea, bending in a slow, strange, leopard-like fashion to put the tray
softly on the table. His face was immutable, aristocratic-looking,
tinged slightly with grey under the skin; he was young and
good-looking. But Birkin felt a slight sickness, looking at him, and
feeling the slight greyness as an ash or a corruption, in the
aristocratic inscrutability of expression a nauseating, bestial
stupidity.

Again they talked cordially and rousedly together. But already a
certain friability was coming over the party, Birkin was mad with
irritation, Halliday was turning in an insane hatred against Gerald,
the Pussum was becoming hard and cold, like a flint knife, and Halliday
was laying himself out to her. And her intention, ultimately, was to
capture Halliday, to have complete power over him.

In the morning they all stalked and lounged about again. But Gerald
could feel a strange hostility to himself, in the air. It roused his
obstinacy, and he stood up against it. He hung on for two more days.
The result was a nasty and insane scene with Halliday on the fourth
evening. Halliday turned with absurd animosity upon Gerald, in the
cafe. There was a row. Gerald was on the point of knocking-in
Halliday's face; when he was filled with sudden disgust and
indifference, and he went away, leaving Halliday in a foolish state of
gloating triumph, the Pussum hard and established, and Maxim standing
clear. Birkin was absent, he had gone out of town again.

Gerald was piqued because he had left without giving the Pussum money.
It was true, she did not care whether he gave her money or not, and he
knew it. But she would have been glad of ten pounds, and he would have
been VERY glad to give them to her. Now he felt in a false position. He
went away chewing his lips to get at the ends of his short clipped
moustache. He knew the Pussum was merely glad to be rid of him. She had
got her Halliday whom she wanted. She wanted him completely in her
power. Then she would marry him. She wanted to marry him. She had set
her will on marrying Halliday. She never wanted to hear of Gerald
again; unless, perhaps, she were in difficulty; because after all,
Gerald was what she called a man, and these others, Halliday,
Libidnikov, Birkin, the whole Bohemian set, they were only half men.
But it was half men she could deal with. She felt sure of herself with
them. The real men, like Gerald, put her in her place too much.

Still, she respected Gerald, she really respected him. She had managed
to get his address, so that she could appeal to him in time of
distress. She knew he wanted to give her money. She would perhaps write
to him on that inevitable rainy day.




CHAPTER VIII.



BREADALBY


Breadalby was a Georgian house with Corinthian pillars, standing among
the softer, greener hills of Derbyshire, not far from Cromford. In
front, it looked over a lawn, over a few trees, down to a string of
fish-ponds in the hollow of the silent park. At the back were trees,
among which were to be found the stables, and the big kitchen garden,
behind which was a wood.

It was a very quiet place, some miles from the high-road, back from the
Derwent Valley, outside the show scenery. Silent and forsaken, the
golden stucco showed between the trees, the house-front looked down the
park, unchanged and unchanging.

Of late, however, Hermione had lived a good deal at the house. She had
turned away from London, away from Oxford, towards the silence of the
country. Her father was mostly absent, abroad, she was either alone in
the house, with her visitors, of whom there were always several, or she
had with her her brother, a bachelor, and a Liberal member of
Parliament. He always came down when the House was not sitting, seemed
always to be present in Breadalby, although he was most conscientious
in his attendance to duty.

The summer was just coming in when Ursula and Gudrun went to stay the
second time with Hermione. Coming along in the car, after they had
entered the park, they looked across the dip, where the fish-ponds lay
in silence, at the pillared front of the house, sunny and small like an
English drawing of the old school, on the brow of the green hill,
against the trees. There were small figures on the green lawn, women in
lavender and yellow moving to the shade of the enormous, beautifully
balanced cedar tree.

'Isn't it complete!' said Gudrun. 'It is as final as an old aquatint.'
She spoke with some resentment in her voice, as if she were captivated
unwillingly, as if she must admire against her will.

'Do you love it?' asked Ursula.

'I don't LOVE it, but in its way, I think it is quite complete.'

The motor-car ran down the hill and up again in one breath, and they
were curving to the side door. A parlour-maid appeared, and then
Hermione, coming forward with her pale face lifted, and her hands
outstretched, advancing straight to the new-comers, her voice singing:

'Here you are--I'm so glad to see you--' she kissed Gudrun--'so glad to
see you--' she kissed Ursula and remained with her arm round her. 'Are
you very tired?'

'Not at all tired,' said Ursula.

'Are you tired, Gudrun?'

'Not at all, thanks,' said Gudrun.

'No--' drawled Hermione. And she stood and looked at them. The two
girls were embarrassed because she would not move into the house, but
must have her little scene of welcome there on the path. The servants
waited.

'Come in,' said Hermione at last, having fully taken in the pair of
them. Gudrun was the more beautiful and attractive, she had decided
again, Ursula was more physical, more womanly. She admired Gudrun's
dress more. It was of green poplin, with a loose coat above it, of
broad, dark-green and dark-brown stripes. The hat was of a pale,
greenish straw, the colour of new hay, and it had a plaited ribbon of
black and orange, the stockings were dark green, the shoes black. It
was a good get-up, at once fashionable and individual. Ursula, in dark
blue, was more ordinary, though she also looked well.

Hermione herself wore a dress of prune-coloured silk, with coral beads
and coral coloured stockings. But her dress was both shabby and soiled,
even rather dirty.

'You would like to see your rooms now, wouldn't you! Yes. We will go up
now, shall we?'

Ursula was glad when she could be left alone in her room. Hermione
lingered so long, made such a stress on one. She stood so near to one,
pressing herself near upon one, in a way that was most embarrassing and
oppressive. She seemed to hinder one's workings.

Lunch was served on the lawn, under the great tree, whose thick,
blackish boughs came down close to the grass. There were present a
young Italian woman, slight and fashionable, a young, athletic-looking
Miss Bradley, a learned, dry Baronet of fifty, who was always making
witticisms and laughing at them heartily in a harsh, horse-laugh, there
was Rupert Birkin, and then a woman secretary, a Fraulein Marz, young
and slim and pretty.

The food was very good, that was one thing. Gudrun, critical of
everything, gave it her full approval. Ursula loved the situation, the
white table by the cedar tree, the scent of new sunshine, the little
vision of the leafy park, with far-off deer feeding peacefully. There
seemed a magic circle drawn about the place, shutting out the present,
enclosing the delightful, precious past, trees and deer and silence,
like a dream.

But in spirit she was unhappy. The talk went on like a rattle of small
artillery, always slightly sententious, with a sententiousness that was
only emphasised by the continual crackling of a witticism, the
continual spatter of verbal jest, designed to give a tone of flippancy
to a stream of conversation that was all critical and general, a canal
of conversation rather than a stream.

The attitude was mental and very wearying. Only the elderly
sociologist, whose mental fibre was so tough as to be insentient,
seemed to be thoroughly happy. Birkin was down in the mouth. Hermione
appeared, with amazing persistence, to wish to ridicule him and make
him look ignominious in the eyes of everybody. And it was surprising
how she seemed to succeed, how helpless he seemed against her. He
looked completely insignificant. Ursula and Gudrun, both very unused,
were mostly silent, listening to the slow, rhapsodic sing-song of
Hermione, or the verbal sallies of Sir Joshua, or the prattle of
Fraulein, or the responses of the other two women.

Luncheon was over, coffee was brought out on the grass, the party left
the table and sat about in lounge chairs, in the shade or in the
sunshine as they wished. Fraulein departed into the house, Hermione
took up her embroidery, the little Contessa took a book, Miss Bradley
was weaving a basket out of fine grass, and there they all were on the
lawn in the early summer afternoon, working leisurely and spattering
with half-intellectual, deliberate talk.

Suddenly there was the sound of the brakes and the shutting off of a
motor-car.

'There's Salsie!' sang Hermione, in her slow, amusing sing-song. And
laying down her work, she rose slowly, and slowly passed over the lawn,
round the bushes, out of sight.

'Who is it?' asked Gudrun.

'Mr Roddice--Miss Roddice's brother--at least, I suppose it's he,' said
Sir Joshua.

'Salsie, yes, it is her brother,' said the little Contessa, lifting her
head for a moment from her book, and speaking as if to give
information, in her slightly deepened, guttural English.

They all waited. And then round the bushes came the tall form of
Alexander Roddice, striding romantically like a Meredith hero who
remembers Disraeli. He was cordial with everybody, he was at once a
host, with an easy, offhand hospitality that he had learned for
Hermione's friends. He had just come down from London, from the House.
At once the atmosphere of the House of Commons made itself felt over
the lawn: the Home Secretary had said such and such a thing, and he,
Roddice, on the other hand, thought such and such a thing, and had said
so-and-so to the PM.

Now Hermione came round the bushes with Gerald Crich. He had come along
with Alexander. Gerald was presented to everybody, was kept by Hermione
for a few moments in full view, then he was led away, still by
Hermione. He was evidently her guest of the moment.

There had been a split in the Cabinet; the minister for Education had
resigned owing to adverse criticism. This started a conversation on
education.

'Of course,' said Hermione, lifting her face like a rhapsodist, 'there
CAN be no reason, no EXCUSE for education, except the joy and beauty of
knowledge in itself.' She seemed to rumble and ruminate with
subterranean thoughts for a minute, then she proceeded: 'Vocational
education ISN'T education, it is the close of education.'

Gerald, on the brink of discussion, sniffed the air with delight and
prepared for action.

'Not necessarily,' he said. 'But isn't education really like
gymnastics, isn't the end of education the production of a
well-trained, vigorous, energetic mind?'

'Just as athletics produce a healthy body, ready for anything,' cried
Miss Bradley, in hearty accord.

Gudrun looked at her in silent loathing.

'Well--' rumbled Hermione, 'I don't know. To me the pleasure of knowing
is so great, so WONDERFUL--nothing has meant so much to me in all life,
as certain knowledge--no, I am sure--nothing.'

'What knowledge, for example, Hermione?' asked Alexander.

Hermione lifted her face and rumbled--

'M--m--m--I don't know . . . But one thing was the stars, when I really
understood something about the stars. One feels so UPLIFTED, so
UNBOUNDED . . .'

Birkin looked at her in a white fury.

'What do you want to feel unbounded for?' he said sarcastically. 'You
don't want to BE unbounded.'

Hermione recoiled in offence.

'Yes, but one does have that limitless feeling,' said Gerald. 'It's
like getting on top of the mountain and seeing the Pacific.'

'Silent upon a peak in Dariayn,' murmured the Italian, lifting her face
for a moment from her book.

'Not necessarily in Dariayn,' said Gerald, while Ursula began to laugh.

Hermione waited for the dust to settle, and then she said, untouched:

'Yes, it is the greatest thing in life--to KNOW. It is really to be
happy, to be FREE.'

'Knowledge is, of course, liberty,' said Mattheson.

'In compressed tabloids,' said Birkin, looking at the dry, stiff little
body of the Baronet. Immediately Gudrun saw the famous sociologist as a
flat bottle, containing tabloids of compressed liberty. That pleased
her. Sir Joshua was labelled and placed forever in her mind.

'What does that mean, Rupert?' sang Hermione, in a calm snub.

'You can only have knowledge, strictly,' he replied, 'of things
concluded, in the past. It's like bottling the liberty of last summer
in the bottled gooseberries.'

'CAN one have knowledge only of the past?' asked the Baronet,
pointedly. 'Could we call our knowledge of the laws of gravitation for
instance, knowledge of the past?'

'Yes,' said Birkin.

'There is a most beautiful thing in my book,' suddenly piped the little
Italian woman. 'It says the man came to the door and threw his eyes
down the street.'

There was a general laugh in the company. Miss Bradley went and looked
over the shoulder of the Contessa.

'See!' said the Contessa.

'Bazarov came to the door and threw his eyes hurriedly down the
street,' she read.

Again there was a loud laugh, the most startling of which was the
Baronet's, which rattled out like a clatter of falling stones.

'What is the book?' asked Alexander, promptly.

'Fathers and Sons, by Turgenev,' said the little foreigner, pronouncing
every syllable distinctly. She looked at the cover, to verify herself.

'An old American edition,' said Birkin.

'Ha!--of course--translated from the French,' said Alexander, with a
fine declamatory voice. 'Bazarov ouvra la porte et jeta les yeux dans
la rue.'

He looked brightly round the company.

'I wonder what the "hurriedly" was,' said Ursula.

They all began to guess.

And then, to the amazement of everybody, the maid came hurrying with a
large tea-tray. The afternoon had passed so swiftly.

After tea, they were all gathered for a walk.

'Would you like to come for a walk?' said Hermione to each of them, one
by one. And they all said yes, feeling somehow like prisoners
marshalled for exercise. Birkin only refused.

'Will you come for a walk, Rupert?'

'No, Hermione.'

'But are you SURE?'

'Quite sure.' There was a second's hesitation.

'And why not?' sang Hermione's question. It made her blood run sharp,
to be thwarted in even so trifling a matter. She intended them all to
walk with her in the park.

'Because I don't like trooping off in a gang,' he said.

Her voice rumbled in her throat for a moment. Then she said, with a
curious stray calm:

'Then we'll leave a little boy behind, if he's sulky.'

And she looked really gay, while she insulted him. But it merely made
him stiff.

She trailed off to the rest of the company, only turning to wave her
handkerchief to him, and to chuckle with laughter, singing out:

'Good-bye, good-bye, little boy.'

'Good-bye, impudent hag,' he said to himself.

They all went through the park. Hermione wanted to show them the wild
daffodils on a little slope. 'This way, this way,' sang her leisurely
voice at intervals. And they had all to come this way. The daffodils
were pretty, but who could see them? Ursula was stiff all over with
resentment by this time, resentment of the whole atmosphere. Gudrun,
mocking and objective, watched and registered everything.

They looked at the shy deer, and Hermione talked to the stag, as if he
too were a boy she wanted to wheedle and fondle. He was male, so she
must exert some kind of power over him. They trailed home by the
fish-ponds, and Hermione told them about the quarrel of two male swans,
who had striven for the love of the one lady. She chuckled and laughed
as she told how the ousted lover had sat with his head buried under his
wing, on the gravel.

When they arrived back at the house, Hermione stood on the lawn and
sang out, in a strange, small, high voice that carried very far:

'Rupert! Rupert!' The first syllable was high and slow, the second
dropped down. 'Roo-o-opert.'

But there was no answer. A maid appeared.

'Where is Mr Birkin, Alice?' asked the mild straying voice of Hermione.
But under the straying voice, what a persistent, almost insane WILL!

'I think he's in his room, madam.'

'Is he?'

Hermione went slowly up the stairs, along the corridor, singing out in
her high, small call:

'Ru-oo-pert! Ru-oo pert!'

She came to his door, and tapped, still crying: 'Roo-pert.'

'Yes,' sounded his voice at last.

'What are you doing?'

The question was mild and curious.

There was no answer. Then he opened the door.

'We've come back,' said Hermione. 'The daffodils are SO beautiful.'

'Yes,' he said, 'I've seen them.'

She looked at him with her long, slow, impassive look, along her
cheeks.

'Have you?' she echoed. And she remained looking at him. She was
stimulated above all things by this conflict with him, when he was like
a sulky boy, helpless, and she had him safe at Breadalby. But
underneath she knew the split was coming, and her hatred of him was
subconscious and intense.

'What were you doing?' she reiterated, in her mild, indifferent tone.
He did not answer, and she made her way, almost unconsciously into his
room. He had taken a Chinese drawing of geese from the boudoir, and was
copying it, with much skill and vividness.

'You are copying the drawing,' she said, standing near the table, and
looking down at his work. 'Yes. How beautifully you do it! You like it
very much, don't you?'

'It's a marvellous drawing,' he said.

'Is it? I'm so glad you like it, because I've always been fond of it.
The Chinese Ambassador gave it me.'

'I know,' he said.

'But why do you copy it?' she asked, casual and sing-song. 'Why not do
something original?'

'I want to know it,' he replied. 'One gets more of China, copying this
picture, than reading all the books.'

'And what do you get?'

She was at once roused, she laid as it were violent hands on him, to
extract his secrets from him. She MUST know. It was a dreadful tyranny,
an obsession in her, to know all he knew. For some time he was silent,
hating to answer her. Then, compelled, he began:

'I know what centres they live from--what they perceive and feel--the
hot, stinging centrality of a goose in the flux of cold water and
mud--the curious bitter stinging heat of a goose's blood, entering
their own blood like an inoculation of corruptive fire--fire of the
cold-burning mud--the lotus mystery.'

Hermione looked at him along her narrow, pallid cheeks. Her eyes were
strange and drugged, heavy under their heavy, drooping lids. Her thin
bosom shrugged convulsively. He stared back at her, devilish and
unchanging. With another strange, sick convulsion, she turned away, as
if she were sick, could feel dissolution setting-in in her body. For
with her mind she was unable to attend to his words, he caught her, as
it were, beneath all her defences, and destroyed her with some
insidious occult potency.

'Yes,' she said, as if she did not know what she were saying. 'Yes,'
and she swallowed, and tried to regain her mind. But she could not, she
was witless, decentralised. Use all her will as she might, she could
not recover. She suffered the ghastliness of dissolution, broken and
gone in a horrible corruption. And he stood and looked at her unmoved.
She strayed out, pallid and preyed-upon like a ghost, like one attacked
by the tomb-influences which dog us. And she was gone like a corpse,
that has no presence, no connection. He remained hard and vindictive.

Hermione came down to dinner strange and sepulchral, her eyes heavy and
full of sepulchral darkness, strength. She had put on a dress of stiff
old greenish brocade, that fitted tight and made her look tall and
rather terrible, ghastly. In the gay light of the drawing-room she was
uncanny and oppressive. But seated in the half-light of the diningroom,
sitting stiffly before the shaded candles on the table, she seemed a
power, a presence. She listened and attended with a drugged attention.

The party was gay and extravagant in appearance, everybody had put on
evening dress except Birkin and Joshua Mattheson. The little Italian
Contessa wore a dress of tissue, of orange and gold and black velvet in
soft wide stripes, Gudrun was emerald green with strange net-work,
Ursula was in yellow with dull silver veiling, Miss Bradley was of
grey, crimson and jet, Fraulein Marz wore pale blue. It gave Hermione a
sudden convulsive sensation of pleasure, to see these rich colours
under the candle-light. She was aware of the talk going on,
ceaselessly, Joshua's voice dominating; of the ceaseless pitter-patter
of women's light laughter and responses; of the brilliant colours and
the white table and the shadow above and below; and she seemed in a
swoon of gratification, convulsed with pleasure and yet sick, like a
REVENANT. She took very little part in the conversation, yet she heard
it all, it was all hers.

They all went together into the drawing-room, as if they were one
family, easily, without any attention to ceremony. Fraulein handed the
coffee, everybody smoked cigarettes, or else long warden pipes of white
clay, of which a sheaf was provided.

'Will you smoke?--cigarettes or pipe?' asked Fraulein prettily. There
was a circle of people, Sir Joshua with his eighteenth-century
appearance, Gerald the amused, handsome young Englishman, Alexander
tall and the handsome politician, democratic and lucid, Hermione
strange like a long Cassandra, and the women lurid with colour, all
dutifully smoking their long white pipes, and sitting in a half-moon in
the comfortable, soft-lighted drawing-room, round the logs that
flickered on the marble hearth.

The talk was very often political or sociological, and interesting,
curiously anarchistic. There was an accumulation of powerful force in
the room, powerful and destructive. Everything seemed to be thrown into
the melting pot, and it seemed to Ursula they were all witches, helping
the pot to bubble. There was an elation and a satisfaction in it all,
but it was cruelly exhausting for the new-comers, this ruthless mental
pressure, this powerful, consuming, destructive mentality that emanated
from Joshua and Hermione and Birkin and dominated the rest.

But a sickness, a fearful nausea gathered possession of Hermione. There
was a lull in the talk, as it was arrested by her unconscious but
all-powerful will.

'Salsie, won't you play something?' said Hermione, breaking off
completely. 'Won't somebody dance? Gudrun, you will dance, won't you? I
wish you would. Anche tu, Palestra, ballerai?--si, per piacere. You
too, Ursula.'

Hermione rose and slowly pulled the gold-embroidered band that hung by
the mantel, clinging to it for a moment, then releasing it suddenly.
Like a priestess she looked, unconscious, sunk in a heavy half-trance.

A servant came, and soon reappeared with armfuls of silk robes and
shawls and scarves, mostly oriental, things that Hermione, with her
love for beautiful extravagant dress, had collected gradually.

'The three women will dance together,' she said.

'What shall it be?' asked Alexander, rising briskly.

'Vergini Delle Rocchette,' said the Contessa at once.

'They are so languid,' said Ursula.

'The three witches from Macbeth,' suggested Fraulein usefully. It was
finally decided to do Naomi and Ruth and Orpah. Ursula was Naomi,
Gudrun was Ruth, the Contessa was Orpah. The idea was to make a little
ballet, in the style of the Russian Ballet of Pavlova and Nijinsky.

The Contessa was ready first, Alexander went to the piano, a space was
cleared. Orpah, in beautiful oriental clothes, began slowly to dance
the death of her husband. Then Ruth came, and they wept together, and
lamented, then Naomi came to comfort them. It was all done in dumb
show, the women danced their emotion in gesture and motion. The little
drama went on for a quarter of an hour.

Ursula was beautiful as Naomi. All her men were dead, it remained to
her only to stand alone in indomitable assertion, demanding nothing.
Ruth, woman-loving, loved her. Orpah, a vivid, sensational, subtle
widow, would go back to the former life, a repetition. The interplay
between the women was real and rather frightening. It was strange to
see how Gudrun clung with heavy, desperate passion to Ursula, yet
smiled with subtle malevolence against her, how Ursula accepted
silently, unable to provide any more either for herself or for the
other, but dangerous and indomitable, refuting her grief.

Hermione loved to watch. She could see the Contessa's rapid, stoat-like
sensationalism, Gudrun's ultimate but treacherous cleaving to the woman
in her sister, Ursula's dangerous helplessness, as if she were
helplessly weighted, and unreleased.

'That was very beautiful,' everybody cried with one accord. But
Hermione writhed in her soul, knowing what she could not know. She
cried out for more dancing, and it was her will that set the Contessa
and Birkin moving mockingly in Malbrouk.

Gerald was excited by the desperate cleaving of Gudrun to Naomi. The
essence of that female, subterranean recklessness and mockery
penetrated his blood. He could not forget Gudrun's lifted, offered,
cleaving, reckless, yet withal mocking weight. And Birkin, watching
like a hermit crab from its hole, had seen the brilliant frustration
and helplessness of Ursula. She was rich, full of dangerous power. She
was like a strange unconscious bud of powerful womanhood. He was
unconsciously drawn to her. She was his future.

Alexander played some Hungarian music, and they all danced, seized by
the spirit. Gerald was marvellously exhilarated at finding himself in
motion, moving towards Gudrun, dancing with feet that could not yet
escape from the waltz and the two-step, but feeling his force stir
along his limbs and his body, out of captivity. He did not know yet how
to dance their convulsive, rag-time sort of dancing, but he knew how to
begin. Birkin, when he could get free from the weight of the people
present, whom he disliked, danced rapidly and with a real gaiety. And
how Hermione hated him for this irresponsible gaiety.

'Now I see,' cried the Contessa excitedly, watching his purely gay
motion, which he had all to himself. 'Mr Birkin, he is a changer.'

Hermione looked at her slowly, and shuddered, knowing that only a
foreigner could have seen and have said this.

'Cosa vuol'dire, Palestra?' she asked, sing-song.

'Look,' said the Contessa, in Italian. 'He is not a man, he is a
chameleon, a creature of change.'

'He is not a man, he is treacherous, not one of us,' said itself over
in Hermione's consciousness. And her soul writhed in the black
subjugation to him, because of his power to escape, to exist, other
than she did, because he was not consistent, not a man, less than a
man. She hated him in a despair that shattered her and broke her down,
so that she suffered sheer dissolution like a corpse, and was
unconscious of everything save the horrible sickness of dissolution
that was taking place within her, body and soul.

The house being full, Gerald was given the smaller room, really the
dressing-room, communicating with Birkin's bedroom. When they all took
their candles and mounted the stairs, where the lamps were burning
subduedly, Hermione captured Ursula and brought her into her own
bedroom, to talk to her. A sort of constraint came over Ursula in the
big, strange bedroom. Hermione seemed to be bearing down on her, awful
and inchoate, making some appeal. They were looking at some Indian silk
shirts, gorgeous and sensual in themselves, their shape, their almost
corrupt gorgeousness. And Hermione came near, and her bosom writhed,
and Ursula was for a moment blank with panic. And for a moment
Hermione's haggard eyes saw the fear on the face of the other, there
was again a sort of crash, a crashing down. And Ursula picked up a
shirt of rich red and blue silk, made for a young princess of fourteen,
and was crying mechanically:

'Isn't it wonderful--who would dare to put those two strong colours
together--'

Then Hermione's maid entered silently and Ursula, overcome with dread,
escaped, carried away by powerful impulse.

Birkin went straight to bed. He was feeling happy, and sleepy. Since he
had danced he was happy. But Gerald would talk to him. Gerald, in
evening dress, sat on Birkin's bed when the other lay down, and must
talk.

'Who are those two Brangwens?' Gerald asked.

'They live in Beldover.'

'In Beldover! Who are they then?'

'Teachers in the Grammar School.'

There was a pause.

'They are!' exclaimed Gerald at length. 'I thought I had seen them
before.'

'It disappoints you?' said Birkin.

'Disappoints me! No--but how is it Hermione has them here?'

'She knew Gudrun in London--that's the younger one, the one with the
darker hair--she's an artist--does sculpture and modelling.'

'She's not a teacher in the Grammar School, then--only the other?'

'Both--Gudrun art mistress, Ursula a class mistress.'

'And what's the father?'

'Handicraft instructor in the schools.'

'Really!'

'Class-barriers are breaking down!'

Gerald was always uneasy under the slightly jeering tone of the other.

'That their father is handicraft instructor in a school! What does it
matter to me?'

Birkin laughed. Gerald looked at his face, as it lay there laughing and
bitter and indifferent on the pillow, and he could not go away.

'I don't suppose you will see very much more of Gudrun, at least. She
is a restless bird, she'll be gone in a week or two,' said Birkin.

'Where will she go?'

'London, Paris, Rome--heaven knows. I always expect her to sheer off to
Damascus or San Francisco; she's a bird of paradise. God knows what
she's got to do with Beldover. It goes by contraries, like dreams.'

Gerald pondered for a few moments.

'How do you know her so well?' he asked.

'I knew her in London,' he replied, 'in the Algernon Strange set.
She'll know about Pussum and Libidnikov and the rest--even if she
doesn't know them personally. She was never quite that set--more
conventional, in a way. I've known her for two years, I suppose.'

'And she makes money, apart from her teaching?' asked Gerald.

'Some--irregularly. She can sell her models. She has a certain
reclame.'

'How much for?'

'A guinea, ten guineas.'

'And are they good? What are they?'

'I think sometimes they are marvellously good. That is hers, those two
wagtails in Hermione's boudoir--you've seen them--they are carved in
wood and painted.'

'I thought it was savage carving again.'

'No, hers. That's what they are--animals and birds, sometimes odd small
people in everyday dress, really rather wonderful when they come off.
They have a sort of funniness that is quite unconscious and subtle.'

'She might be a well-known artist one day?' mused Gerald.

'She might. But I think she won't. She drops her art if anything else
catches her. Her contrariness prevents her taking it seriously--she
must never be too serious, she feels she might give herself away. And
she won't give herself away--she's always on the defensive. That's what
I can't stand about her type. By the way, how did things go off with
Pussum after I left you? I haven't heard anything.'

'Oh, rather disgusting. Halliday turned objectionable, and I only just
saved myself from jumping in his stomach, in a real old-fashioned row.'

Birkin was silent.

'Of course,' he said, 'Julius is somewhat insane. On the one hand he's
had religious mania, and on the other, he is fascinated by obscenity.
Either he is a pure servant, washing the feet of Christ, or else he is
making obscene drawings of Jesus--action and reaction--and between the
two, nothing. He is really insane. He wants a pure lily, another girl,
with a baby face, on the one hand, and on the other, he MUST have the
Pussum, just to defile himself with her.'

'That's what I can't make out,' said Gerald. 'Does he love her, the
Pussum, or doesn't he?'

'He neither does nor doesn't. She is the harlot, the actual harlot of
adultery to him. And he's got a craving to throw himself into the filth
of her. Then he gets up and calls on the name of the lily of purity,
the baby-faced girl, and so enjoys himself all round. It's the old
story--action and reaction, and nothing between.'

'I don't know,' said Gerald, after a pause, 'that he does insult the
Pussum so very much. She strikes me as being rather foul.'

'But I thought you liked her,' exclaimed Birkin. 'I always felt fond of
her. I never had anything to do with her, personally, that's true.'

'I liked her all right, for a couple of days,' said Gerald. 'But a week
of her would have turned me over. There's a certain smell about the
skin of those women, that in the end is sickening beyond words--even if
you like it at first.'

'I know,' said Birkin. Then he added, rather fretfully, 'But go to bed,
Gerald. God knows what time it is.'

Gerald looked at his watch, and at length rose off the bed, and went to
his room. But he returned in a few minutes, in his shirt.

'One thing,' he said, seating himself on the bed again. 'We finished up
rather stormily, and I never had time to give her anything.'

'Money?' said Birkin. 'She'll get what she wants from Halliday or from
one of her acquaintances.'

'But then,' said Gerald, 'I'd rather give her her dues and settle the
account.'

'She doesn't care.'

'No, perhaps not. But one feels the account is left open, and one would
rather it were closed.'

'Would you?' said Birkin. He was looking at the white legs of Gerald,
as the latter sat on the side of the bed in his shirt. They were
white-skinned, full, muscular legs, handsome and decided. Yet they
moved Birkin with a sort of pathos, tenderness, as if they were
childish.

'I think I'd rather close the account,' said Gerald, repeating himself
vaguely.

'It doesn't matter one way or another,' said Birkin.

'You always say it doesn't matter,' said Gerald, a little puzzled,
looking down at the face of the other man affectionately.

'Neither does it,' said Birkin.

'But she was a decent sort, really--'

'Render unto Caesarina the things that are Caesarina's,' said Birkin,
turning aside. It seemed to him Gerald was talking for the sake of
talking. 'Go away, it wearies me--it's too late at night,' he said.

'I wish you'd tell me something that DID matter,' said Gerald, looking
down all the time at the face of the other man, waiting for something.
But Birkin turned his face aside.

'All right then, go to sleep,' said Gerald, and he laid his hand
affectionately on the other man's shoulder, and went away.

In the morning when Gerald awoke and heard Birkin move, he called out:
'I still think I ought to give the Pussum ten pounds.'

'Oh God!' said Birkin, 'don't be so matter-of-fact. Close the account
in your own soul, if you like. It is there you can't close it.'

'How do you know I can't?'

'Knowing you.'

Gerald meditated for some moments.

'It seems to me the right thing to do, you know, with the Pussums, is
to pay them.'

'And the right thing for mistresses: keep them. And the right thing for
wives: live under the same roof with them. Integer vitae scelerisque
purus--' said Birkin.

'There's no need to be nasty about it,' said Gerald.

'It bores me. I'm not interested in your peccadilloes.'

'And I don't care whether you are or not--I am.'

The morning was again sunny. The maid had been in and brought the
water, and had drawn the curtains. Birkin, sitting up in bed, looked
lazily and pleasantly out on the park, that was so green and deserted,
romantic, belonging to the past. He was thinking how lovely, how sure,
how formed, how final all the things of the past were--the lovely
accomplished past--this house, so still and golden, the park slumbering
its centuries of peace. And then, what a snare and a delusion, this
beauty of static things--what a horrible, dead prison Breadalby really
was, what an intolerable confinement, the peace! Yet it was better than
the sordid scrambling conflict of the present. If only one might create
the future after one's own heart--for a little pure truth, a little
unflinching application of simple truth to life, the heart cried out
ceaselessly.

'I can't see what you will leave me at all, to be interested in,' came
Gerald's voice from the lower room. 'Neither the Pussums, nor the
mines, nor anything else.'

'You be interested in what you can, Gerald. Only I'm not interested
myself,' said Birkin.

'What am I to do at all, then?' came Gerald's voice.

'What you like. What am I to do myself?'

In the silence Birkin could feel Gerald musing this fact.

'I'm blest if I know,' came the good-humoured answer.

'You see,' said Birkin, 'part of you wants the Pussum, and nothing but
the Pussum, part of you wants the mines, the business, and nothing but
the business--and there you are--all in bits--'

'And part of me wants something else,' said Gerald, in a queer, quiet,
real voice.

'What?' said Birkin, rather surprised.

'That's what I hoped you could tell me,' said Gerald.

There was a silence for some time.

'I can't tell you--I can't find my own way, let alone yours. You might
marry,' Birkin replied.

'Who--the Pussum?' asked Gerald.

'Perhaps,' said Birkin. And he rose and went to the window.

'That is your panacea,' said Gerald. 'But you haven't even tried it on
yourself yet, and you are sick enough.'

'I am,' said Birkin. 'Still, I shall come right.'

'Through marriage?'

'Yes,' Birkin answered obstinately.

'And no,' added Gerald. 'No, no, no, my boy.'

There was a silence between them, and a strange tension of hostility.
They always kept a gap, a distance between them, they wanted always to
be free each of the other. Yet there was a curious heart-straining
towards each other.

'Salvator femininus,' said Gerald, satirically.

'Why not?' said Birkin.

'No reason at all,' said Gerald, 'if it really works. But whom will you
marry?'

'A woman,' said Birkin.

'Good,' said Gerald.

Birkin and Gerald were the last to come down to breakfast. Hermione
liked everybody to be early. She suffered when she felt her day was
diminished, she felt she had missed her life. She seemed to grip the
hours by the throat, to force her life from them. She was rather pale
and ghastly, as if left behind, in the morning. Yet she had her power,
her will was strangely pervasive. With the entrance of the two young
men a sudden tension was felt.

She lifted her face, and said, in her amused sing-song:

'Good morning! Did you sleep well? I'm so glad.'

And she turned away, ignoring them. Birkin, who knew her well, saw that
she intended to discount his existence.

'Will you take what you want from the sideboard?' said Alexander, in a
voice slightly suggesting disapprobation. 'I hope the things aren't
cold. Oh no! Do you mind putting out the flame under the chafingdish,
Rupert? Thank you.'

Even Alexander was rather authoritative where Hermione was cool. He
took his tone from her, inevitably. Birkin sat down and looked at the
table. He was so used to this house, to this room, to this atmosphere,
through years of intimacy, and now he felt in complete opposition to it
all, it had nothing to do with him. How well he knew Hermione, as she
sat there, erect and silent and somewhat bemused, and yet so potent, so
powerful! He knew her statically, so finally, that it was almost like a
madness. It was difficult to believe one was not mad, that one was not
a figure in the hall of kings in some Egyptian tomb, where the dead all
sat immemorial and tremendous. How utterly he knew Joshua Mattheson,
who was talking in his harsh, yet rather mincing voice, endlessly,
endlessly, always with a strong mentality working, always interesting,
and yet always known, everything he said known beforehand, however
novel it was, and clever. Alexander the up-to-date host, so bloodlessly
free-and-easy, Fraulein so prettily chiming in just as she should, the
little Italian Countess taking notice of everybody, only playing her
little game, objective and cold, like a weasel watching everything, and
extracting her own amusement, never giving herself in the slightest;
then Miss Bradley, heavy and rather subservient, treated with cool,
almost amused contempt by Hermione, and therefore slighted by
everybody--how known it all was, like a game with the figures set out,
the same figures, the Queen of chess, the knights, the pawns, the same
now as they were hundreds of years ago, the same figures moving round
in one of the innumerable permutations that make up the game. But the
game is known, its going on is like a madness, it is so exhausted.

There was Gerald, an amused look on his face; the game pleased him.
There was Gudrun, watching with steady, large, hostile eyes; the game
fascinated her, and she loathed it. There was Ursula, with a slightly
startled look on her face, as if she were hurt, and the pain were just
outside her consciousness.

Suddenly Birkin got up and went out.

'That's enough,' he said to himself involuntarily.

Hermione knew his motion, though not in her consciousness. She lifted
her heavy eyes and saw him lapse suddenly away, on a sudden, unknown
tide, and the waves broke over her. Only her indomitable will remained
static and mechanical, she sat at the table making her musing, stray
remarks. But the darkness had covered her, she was like a ship that has
gone down. It was finished for her too, she was wrecked in the
darkness. Yet the unfailing mechanism of her will worked on, she had
that activity.

'Shall we bathe this morning?' she said, suddenly looking at them all.

'Splendid,' said Joshua. 'It is a perfect morning.'

'Oh, it is beautiful,' said Fraulein.

'Yes, let us bathe,' said the Italian woman.

'We have no bathing suits,' said Gerald.

'Have mine,' said Alexander. 'I must go to church and read the lessons.
They expect me.'

'Are you a Christian?' asked the Italian Countess, with sudden
interest.

'No,' said Alexander. 'I'm not. But I believe in keeping up the old
institutions.'

'They are so beautiful,' said Fraulein daintily.

'Oh, they are,' cried Miss Bradley.

They all trailed out on to the lawn. It was a sunny, soft morning in
early summer, when life ran in the world subtly, like a reminiscence.
The church bells were ringing a little way off, not a cloud was in the
sky, the swans were like lilies on the water below, the peacocks walked
with long, prancing steps across the shadow and into the sunshine of
the grass. One wanted to swoon into the by-gone perfection of it all.

'Good-bye,' called Alexander, waving his gloves cheerily, and he
disappeared behind the bushes, on his way to church.

'Now,' said Hermione, 'shall we all bathe?'

'I won't,' said Ursula.

'You don't want to?' said Hermione, looking at her slowly.

'No. I don't want to,' said Ursula.

'Nor I,' said Gudrun.

'What about my suit?' asked Gerald.

'I don't know,' laughed Hermione, with an odd, amused intonation. 'Will
a handkerchief do--a large handkerchief?'

'That will do,' said Gerald.

'Come along then,' sang Hermione.

The first to run across the lawn was the little Italian, small and like
a cat, her white legs twinkling as she went, ducking slightly her head,
that was tied in a gold silk kerchief. She tripped through the gate and
down the grass, and stood, like a tiny figure of ivory and bronze, at
the water's edge, having dropped off her towelling, watching the swans,
which came up in surprise. Then out ran Miss Bradley, like a large,
soft plum in her dark-blue suit. Then Gerald came, a scarlet silk
kerchief round his loins, his towels over his arms. He seemed to flaunt
himself a little in the sun, lingering and laughing, strolling easily,
looking white but natural in his nakedness. Then came Sir Joshua, in an
overcoat, and lastly Hermione, striding with stiff grace from out of a
great mantle of purple silk, her head tied up in purple and gold.
Handsome was her stiff, long body, her straight-stepping white legs,
there was a static magnificence about her as she let the cloak float
loosely away from her striding. She crossed the lawn like some strange
memory, and passed slowly and statelily towards the water.

There were three ponds, in terraces descending the valley, large and
smooth and beautiful, lying in the sun. The water ran over a little
stone wall, over small rocks, splashing down from one pond to the level
below. The swans had gone out on to the opposite bank, the reeds
smelled sweet, a faint breeze touched the skin.

Gerald had dived in, after Sir Joshua, and had swum to the end of the
pond. There he climbed out and sat on the wall. There was a dive, and
the little Countess was swimming like a rat, to join him. They both sat
in the sun, laughing and crossing their arms on their breasts. Sir
Joshua swam up to them, and stood near them, up to his arm-pits in the
water. Then Hermione and Miss Bradley swam over, and they sat in a row
on the embankment.

'Aren't they terrifying? Aren't they really terrifying?' said Gudrun.
'Don't they look saurian? They are just like great lizards. Did you
ever see anything like Sir Joshua? But really, Ursula, he belongs to
the primeval world, when great lizards crawled about.'

Gudrun looked in dismay on Sir Joshua, who stood up to the breast in
the water, his long, greyish hair washed down into his eyes, his neck
set into thick, crude shoulders. He was talking to Miss Bradley, who,
seated on the bank above, plump and big and wet, looked as if she might
roll and slither in the water almost like one of the slithering
sealions in the Zoo.

Ursula watched in silence. Gerald was laughing happily, between
Hermione and the Italian. He reminded her of Dionysos, because his hair
was really yellow, his figure so full and laughing. Hermione, in her
large, stiff, sinister grace, leaned near him, frightening, as if she
were not responsible for what she might do. He knew a certain danger in
her, a convulsive madness. But he only laughed the more, turning often
to the little Countess, who was flashing up her face at him.

They all dropped into the water, and were swimming together like a
shoal of seals. Hermione was powerful and unconscious in the water,
large and slow and powerful. Palestra was quick and silent as a water
rat, Gerald wavered and flickered, a white natural shadow. Then, one
after the other, they waded out, and went up to the house.

But Gerald lingered a moment to speak to Gudrun.

'You don't like the water?' he said.

She looked at him with a long, slow inscrutable look, as he stood
before her negligently, the water standing in beads all over his skin.

'I like it very much,' she replied.

He paused, expecting some sort of explanation.

'And you swim?'

'Yes, I swim.'

Still he would not ask her why she would not go in then. He could feel
something ironic in her. He walked away, piqued for the first time.

'Why wouldn't you bathe?' he asked her again, later, when he was once
more the properly-dressed young Englishman.

She hesitated a moment before answering, opposing his persistence.

'Because I didn't like the crowd,' she replied.

He laughed, her phrase seemed to re-echo in his consciousness. The
flavour of her slang was piquant to him. Whether he would or not, she
signified the real world to him. He wanted to come up to her standards,
fulfil her expectations. He knew that her criterion was the only one
that mattered. The others were all outsiders, instinctively, whatever
they might be socially. And Gerald could not help it, he was bound to
strive to come up to her criterion, fulfil her idea of a man and a
human-being.

After lunch, when all the others had withdrawn, Hermione and Gerald and
Birkin lingered, finishing their talk. There had been some discussion,
on the whole quite intellectual and artificial, about a new state, a
new world of man. Supposing this old social state WERE broken and
destroyed, then, out of the chaos, what then?

The great social idea, said Sir Joshua, was the SOCIAL equality of man.
No, said Gerald, the idea was, that every man was fit for his own
little bit of a task--let him do that, and then please himself. The
unifying principle was the work in hand. Only work, the business of
production, held men together. It was mechanical, but then society WAS
a mechanism. Apart from work they were isolated, free to do as they
liked.

'Oh!' cried Gudrun. 'Then we shan't have names any more--we shall be
like the Germans, nothing but Herr Obermeister and Herr Untermeister. I
can imagine it--"I am Mrs Colliery-Manager Crich--I am Mrs
Member-of-Parliament Roddice. I am Miss Art-Teacher Brangwen." Very
pretty that.'

'Things would work very much better, Miss Art-Teacher Brangwen,' said
Gerald.

'What things, Mr Colliery-Manager Crich? The relation between you and
me, PAR EXEMPLE?'

'Yes, for example,' cried the Italian. 'That which is between men and
women--!'

'That is non-social,' said Birkin, sarcastically.

'Exactly,' said Gerald. 'Between me and a woman, the social question
does not enter. It is my own affair.'

'A ten-pound note on it,' said Birkin.

'You don't admit that a woman is a social being?' asked Ursula of
Gerald.

'She is both,' said Gerald. 'She is a social being, as far as society
is concerned. But for her own private self, she is a free agent, it is
her own affair, what she does.'

'But won't it be rather difficult to arrange the two halves?' asked
Ursula.

'Oh no,' replied Gerald. 'They arrange themselves naturally--we see it
now, everywhere.'

'Don't you laugh so pleasantly till you're out of the wood,' said
Birkin.

Gerald knitted his brows in momentary irritation.

'Was I laughing?' he said.

'IF,' said Hermione at last, 'we could only realise, that in the SPIRIT
we are all one, all equal in the spirit, all brothers there--the rest
wouldn't matter, there would be no more of this carping and envy and
this struggle for power, which destroys, only destroys.'

This speech was received in silence, and almost immediately the party
rose from the table. But when the others had gone, Birkin turned round
in bitter declamation, saying:

'It is just the opposite, just the contrary, Hermione. We are all
different and unequal in spirit--it is only the SOCIAL differences that
are based on accidental material conditions. We are all abstractly or
mathematically equal, if you like. Every man has hunger and thirst, two
eyes, one nose and two legs. We're all the same in point of number. But
spiritually, there is pure difference and neither equality nor
inequality counts. It is upon these two bits of knowledge that you must
found a state. Your democracy is an absolute lie--your brotherhood of
man is a pure falsity, if you apply it further than the mathematical
abstraction. We all drank milk first, we all eat bread and meat, we all
want to ride in motor-cars--therein lies the beginning and the end of
the brotherhood of man. But no equality.

'But I, myself, who am myself, what have I to do with equality with any
other man or woman? In the spirit, I am as separate as one star is from
another, as different in quality and quantity. Establish a state on
THAT. One man isn't any better than another, not because they are
equal, but because they are intrinsically OTHER, that there is no term
of comparison. The minute you begin to compare, one man is seen to be
far better than another, all the inequality you can imagine is there by
nature. I want every man to have his share in the world's goods, so
that I am rid of his importunity, so that I can tell him: "Now you've
got what you want--you've got your fair share of the world's gear. Now,
you one-mouthed fool, mind yourself and don't obstruct me."'

Hermione was looking at him with leering eyes, along her cheeks. He
could feel violent waves of hatred and loathing of all he said, coming
out of her. It was dynamic hatred and loathing, coming strong and black
out of the unconsciousness. She heard his words in her unconscious
self, CONSCIOUSLY she was as if deafened, she paid no heed to them.

'It SOUNDS like megalomania, Rupert,' said Gerald, genially.

Hermione gave a queer, grunting sound. Birkin stood back.

'Yes, let it,' he said suddenly, the whole tone gone out of his voice,
that had been so insistent, bearing everybody down. And he went away.

But he felt, later, a little compunction. He had been violent, cruel
with poor Hermione. He wanted to recompense her, to make it up. He had
hurt her, he had been vindictive. He wanted to be on good terms with
her again.

He went into her boudoir, a remote and very cushiony place. She was
sitting at her table writing letters. She lifted her face abstractedly
when he entered, watched him go to the sofa, and sit down. Then she
looked down at her paper again.

He took up a large volume which he had been reading before, and became
minutely attentive to his author. His back was towards Hermione. She
could not go on with her writing. Her whole mind was a chaos, darkness
breaking in upon it, and herself struggling to gain control with her
will, as a swimmer struggles with the swirling water. But in spite of
her efforts she was borne down, darkness seemed to break over her, she
felt as if her heart was bursting. The terrible tension grew stronger
and stronger, it was most fearful agony, like being walled up.

And then she realised that his presence was the wall, his presence was
destroying her. Unless she could break out, she must die most
fearfully, walled up in horror. And he was the wall. She must break
down the wall--she must break him down before her, the awful
obstruction of him who obstructed her life to the last. It must be
done, or she must perish most horribly.

Terribly shocks ran over her body, like shocks of electricity, as if
many volts of electricity suddenly struck her down. She was aware of
him sitting silently there, an unthinkable evil obstruction. Only this
blotted out her mind, pressed out her very breathing, his silent,
stooping back, the back of his head.

A terrible voluptuous thrill ran down her arms--she was going to know
her voluptuous consummation. Her arms quivered and were strong,
immeasurably and irresistibly strong. What delight, what delight in
strength, what delirium of pleasure! She was going to have her
consummation of voluptuous ecstasy at last. It was coming! In utmost
terror and agony, she knew it was upon her now, in extremity of bliss.
Her hand closed on a blue, beautiful ball of lapis lazuli that stood on
her desk for a paper-weight. She rolled it round in her hand as she
rose silently. Her heart was a pure flame in her breast, she was purely
unconscious in ecstasy. She moved towards him and stood behind him for
a moment in ecstasy. He, closed within the spell, remained motionless
and unconscious.

Then swiftly, in a flame that drenched down her body like fluid
lightning and gave her a perfect, unutterable consummation, unutterable
satisfaction, she brought down the ball of jewel stone with all her
force, crash on his head. But her fingers were in the way and deadened
the blow. Nevertheless, down went his head on the table on which his
book lay, the stone slid aside and over his ear, it was one convulsion
of pure bliss for her, lit up by the crushed pain of her fingers. But
it was not somehow complete. She lifted her arm high to aim once more,
straight down on the head that lay dazed on the table. She must smash
it, it must be smashed before her ecstasy was consummated, fulfilled
for ever. A thousand lives, a thousand deaths mattered nothing now,
only the fulfilment of this perfect ecstasy.

She was not swift, she could only move slowly. A strong spirit in him
woke him and made him lift his face and twist to look at her. Her arm
was raised, the hand clasping the ball of lapis lazuli. It was her left
hand, he realised again with horror that she was left-handed.
Hurriedly, with a burrowing motion, he covered his head under the thick
volume of Thucydides, and the blow came down, almost breaking his neck,
and shattering his heart.

He was shattered, but he was not afraid. Twisting round to face her he
pushed the table over and got away from her. He was like a flask that
is smashed to atoms, he seemed to himself that he was all fragments,
smashed to bits. Yet his movements were perfectly coherent and clear,
his soul was entire and unsurprised.

'No you don't, Hermione,' he said in a low voice. 'I don't let you.'

He saw her standing tall and livid and attentive, the stone clenched
tense in her hand.

'Stand away and let me go,' he said, drawing near to her.

As if pressed back by some hand, she stood away, watching him all the
time without changing, like a neutralised angel confronting him.

'It is not good,' he said, when he had gone past her. 'It isn't I who
will die. You hear?'

He kept his face to her as he went out, lest she should strike again.
While he was on his guard, she dared not move. And he was on his guard,
she was powerless. So he had gone, and left her standing.

She remained perfectly rigid, standing as she was for a long time. Then
she staggered to the couch and lay down, and went heavily to sleep.
When she awoke, she remembered what she had done, but it seemed to her,
she had only hit him, as any woman might do, because he tortured her.
She was perfectly right. She knew that, spiritually, she was right. In
her own infallible purity, she had done what must be done. She was
right, she was pure. A drugged, almost sinister religious expression
became permanent on her face.

Birkin, barely conscious, and yet perfectly direct in his motion, went
out of the house and straight across the park, to the open country, to
the hills. The brilliant day had become overcast, spots of rain were
falling. He wandered on to a wild valley-side, where were thickets of
hazel, many flowers, tufts of heather, and little clumps of young
firtrees, budding with soft paws. It was rather wet everywhere, there
was a stream running down at the bottom of the valley, which was
gloomy, or seemed gloomy. He was aware that he could not regain his
consciousness, that he was moving in a sort of darkness.

Yet he wanted something. He was happy in the wet hillside, that was
overgrown and obscure with bushes and flowers. He wanted to touch them
all, to saturate himself with the touch of them all. He took off his
clothes, and sat down naked among the primroses, moving his feet softly
among the primroses, his legs, his knees, his arms right up to the
arm-pits, lying down and letting them touch his belly, his breasts. It
was such a fine, cool, subtle touch all over him, he seemed to saturate
himself with their contact.

But they were too soft. He went through the long grass to a clump of
young fir-trees, that were no higher than a man. The soft sharp boughs
beat upon him, as he moved in keen pangs against them, threw little
cold showers of drops on his belly, and beat his loins with their
clusters of soft-sharp needles. There was a thistle which pricked him
vividly, but not too much, because all his movements were too
discriminate and soft. To lie down and roll in the sticky, cool young
hyacinths, to lie on one's belly and cover one's back with handfuls of
fine wet grass, soft as a breath, soft and more delicate and more
beautiful than the touch of any woman; and then to sting one's thigh
against the living dark bristles of the fir-boughs; and then to feel
the light whip of the hazel on one's shoulders, stinging, and then to
clasp the silvery birch-trunk against one's breast, its smoothness, its
hardness, its vital knots and ridges--this was good, this was all very
good, very satisfying. Nothing else would do, nothing else would
satisfy, except this coolness and subtlety of vegetation travelling
into one's blood. How fortunate he was, that there was this lovely,
subtle, responsive vegetation, waiting for him, as he waited for it;
how fulfilled he was, how happy!

As he dried himself a little with his handkerchief, he thought about
Hermione and the blow. He could feel a pain on the side of his head.
But after all, what did it matter? What did Hermione matter, what did
people matter altogether? There was this perfect cool loneliness, so
lovely and fresh and unexplored. Really, what a mistake he had made,
thinking he wanted people, thinking he wanted a woman. He did not want
a woman--not in the least. The leaves and the primroses and the trees,
they were really lovely and cool and desirable, they really came into
the blood and were added on to him. He was enrichened now immeasurably,
and so glad.

It was quite right of Hermione to want to kill him. What had he to do
with her? Why should he pretend to have anything to do with human
beings at all? Here was his world, he wanted nobody and nothing but the
lovely, subtle, responsive vegetation, and himself, his own living
self.

It was necessary to go back into the world. That was true. But that did
not matter, so one knew where one belonged. He knew now where he
belonged. This was his place, his marriage place. The world was
extraneous.

He climbed out of the valley, wondering if he were mad. But if so, he
preferred his own madness, to the regular sanity. He rejoiced in his
own madness, he was free. He did not want that old sanity of the world,
which was become so repulsive. He rejoiced in the new-found world of
his madness. It was so fresh and delicate and so satisfying.

As for the certain grief he felt at the same time, in his soul, that
was only the remains of an old ethic, that bade a human being adhere to
humanity. But he was weary of the old ethic, of the human being, and of
humanity. He loved now the soft, delicate vegetation, that was so cool
and perfect. He would overlook the old grief, he would put away the old
ethic, he would be free in his new state.

He was aware of the pain in his head becoming more and more difficult
every minute. He was walking now along the road to the nearest station.
It was raining and he had no hat. But then plenty of cranks went out
nowadays without hats, in the rain.

He wondered again how much of his heaviness of heart, a certain
depression, was due to fear, fear lest anybody should have seen him
naked lying against the vegetation. What a dread he had of mankind, of
other people! It amounted almost to horror, to a sort of dream
terror--his horror of being observed by some other people. If he were
on an island, like Alexander Selkirk, with only the creatures and the
trees, he would be free and glad, there would be none of this
heaviness, this misgiving. He could love the vegetation and be quite
happy and unquestioned, by himself.

He had better send a note to Hermione: she might trouble about him, and
he did not want the onus of this. So at the station, he wrote saying:

I will go on to town--I don't want to come back to Breadalby for the
present. But it is quite all right--I don't want you to mind having
biffed me, in the least. Tell the others it is just one of my moods.
You were quite right, to biff me--because I know you wanted to. So
there's the end of it.

In the train, however, he felt ill. Every motion was insufferable pain,
and he was sick. He dragged himself from the station into a cab,
feeling his way step by step, like a blind man, and held up only by a
dim will.

For a week or two he was ill, but he did not let Hermione know, and she
thought he was sulking; there was a complete estrangement between them.
She became rapt, abstracted in her conviction of exclusive
righteousness. She lived in and by her own self-esteem, conviction of
her own rightness of spirit.




CHAPTER IX.



COAL-DUST


Going home from school in the afternoon, the Brangwen girls descended
the hill between the picturesque cottages of Willey Green till they
came to the railway crossing. There they found the gate shut, because
the colliery train was rumbling nearer. They could hear the small
locomotive panting hoarsely as it advanced with caution between the
embankments. The one-legged man in the little signal-hut by the road
stared out from his security, like a crab from a snail-shell.

Whilst the two girls waited, Gerald Crich trotted up on a red Arab
mare. He rode well and softly, pleased with the delicate quivering of
the creature between his knees. And he was very picturesque, at least
in Gudrun's eyes, sitting soft and close on the slender red mare, whose
long tail flowed on the air. He saluted the two girls, and drew up at
the crossing to wait for the gate, looking down the railway for the
approaching train. In spite of her ironic smile at his picturesqueness,
Gudrun liked to look at him. He was well-set and easy, his face with
its warm tan showed up his whitish, coarse moustache, and his blue eyes
were full of sharp light as he watched the distance.

The locomotive chuffed slowly between the banks, hidden. The mare did
not like it. She began to wince away, as if hurt by the unknown noise.
But Gerald pulled her back and held her head to the gate. The sharp
blasts of the chuffing engine broke with more and more force on her.
The repeated sharp blows of unknown, terrifying noise struck through
her till she was rocking with terror. She recoiled like a spring let
go. But a glistening, half-smiling look came into Gerald's face. He
brought her back again, inevitably.

The noise was released, the little locomotive with her clanking steel
connecting-rod emerged on the highroad, clanking sharply. The mare
rebounded like a drop of water from hot iron. Ursula and Gudrun pressed
back into the hedge, in fear. But Gerald was heavy on the mare, and
forced her back. It seemed as if he sank into her magnetically, and
could thrust her back against herself.

'The fool!' cried Ursula loudly. 'Why doesn't he ride away till it's
gone by?'

Gudrun was looking at him with black-dilated, spellbound eyes. But he
sat glistening and obstinate, forcing the wheeling mare, which spun and
swerved like a wind, and yet could not get out of the grasp of his
will, nor escape from the mad clamour of terror that resounded through
her, as the trucks thumped slowly, heavily, horrifying, one after the
other, one pursuing the other, over the rails of the crossing.

The locomotive, as if wanting to see what could be done, put on the
brakes, and back came the trucks rebounding on the iron buffers,
striking like horrible cymbals, clashing nearer and nearer in frightful
strident concussions. The mare opened her mouth and rose slowly, as if
lifted up on a wind of terror. Then suddenly her fore feet struck out,
as she convulsed herself utterly away from the horror. Back she went,
and the two girls clung to each other, feeling she must fall backwards
on top of him. But he leaned forward, his face shining with fixed
amusement, and at last he brought her down, sank her down, and was
bearing her back to the mark. But as strong as the pressure of his
compulsion was the repulsion of her utter terror, throwing her back
away from the railway, so that she spun round and round, on two legs,
as if she were in the centre of some whirlwind. It made Gudrun faint
with poignant dizziness, which seemed to penetrate to her heart.

'No--! No--! Let her go! Let her go, you fool, you FOOL--!' cried
Ursula at the top of her voice, completely outside herself. And Gudrun
hated her bitterly for being outside herself. It was unendurable that
Ursula's voice was so powerful and naked.

A sharpened look came on Gerald's face. He bit himself down on the mare
like a keen edge biting home, and FORCED her round. She roared as she
breathed, her nostrils were two wide, hot holes, her mouth was apart,
her eyes frenzied. It was a repulsive sight. But he held on her
unrelaxed, with an almost mechanical relentlessness, keen as a sword
pressing in to her. Both man and horse were sweating with violence. Yet
he seemed calm as a ray of cold sunshine.

Meanwhile the eternal trucks were rumbling on, very slowly, treading
one after the other, one after the other, like a disgusting dream that
has no end. The connecting chains were grinding and squeaking as the
tension varied, the mare pawed and struck away mechanically now, her
terror fulfilled in her, for now the man encompassed her; her paws were
blind and pathetic as she beat the air, the man closed round her, and
brought her down, almost as if she were part of his own physique.

'And she's bleeding! She's bleeding!' cried Ursula, frantic with
opposition and hatred of Gerald. She alone understood him perfectly, in
pure opposition.

Gudrun looked and saw the trickles of blood on the sides of the mare,
and she turned white. And then on the very wound the bright spurs came
down, pressing relentlessly. The world reeled and passed into
nothingness for Gudrun, she could not know any more.

When she recovered, her soul was calm and cold, without feeling. The
trucks were still rumbling by, and the man and the mare were still
fighting. But she herself was cold and separate, she had no more
feeling for them. She was quite hard and cold and indifferent.

They could see the top of the hooded guard's-van approaching, the sound
of the trucks was diminishing, there was hope of relief from the
intolerable noise. The heavy panting of the half-stunned mare sounded
automatically, the man seemed to be relaxing confidently, his will
bright and unstained. The guard's-van came up, and passed slowly, the
guard staring out in his transition on the spectacle in the road. And,
through the man in the closed wagon, Gudrun could see the whole scene
spectacularly, isolated and momentary, like a vision isolated in
eternity.

Lovely, grateful silence seemed to trail behind the receding train. How
sweet the silence is! Ursula looked with hatred on the buffers of the
diminishing wagon. The gatekeeper stood ready at the door of his hut,
to proceed to open the gate. But Gudrun sprang suddenly forward, in
front of the struggling horse, threw off the latch and flung the gates
asunder, throwing one-half to the keeper, and running with the other
half, forwards. Gerald suddenly let go the horse and leaped forwards,
almost on to Gudrun. She was not afraid. As he jerked aside the mare's
head, Gudrun cried, in a strange, high voice, like a gull, or like a
witch screaming out from the side of the road:

'I should think you're proud.'

The words were distinct and formed. The man, twisting aside on his
dancing horse, looked at her in some surprise, some wondering interest.
Then the mare's hoofs had danced three times on the drum-like sleepers
of the crossing, and man and horse were bounding springily, unequally
up the road.

The two girls watched them go. The gate-keeper hobbled thudding over
the logs of the crossing, with his wooden leg. He had fastened the
gate. Then he also turned, and called to the girls:

'A masterful young jockey, that; 'll have his own road, if ever anybody
would.'

'Yes,' cried Ursula, in her hot, overbearing voice. 'Why couldn't he
take the horse away, till the trucks had gone by? He's a fool, and a
bully. Does he think it's manly, to torture a horse? It's a living
thing, why should he bully it and torture it?'

There was a pause, then the gate-keeper shook his head, and replied:

'Yes, it's as nice a little mare as you could set eyes on--beautiful
little thing, beautiful. Now you couldn't see his father treat any
animal like that--not you. They're as different as they welly can be,
Gerald Crich and his father--two different men, different made.'

Then there was a pause.

'But why does he do it?' cried Ursula, 'why does he? Does he think he's
grand, when he's bullied a sensitive creature, ten times as sensitive
as himself?'

Again there was a cautious pause. Then again the man shook his head, as
if he would say nothing, but would think the more.

'I expect he's got to train the mare to stand to anything,' he replied.
'A pure-bred Harab--not the sort of breed as is used to round
here--different sort from our sort altogether. They say as he got her
from Constantinople.'

'He would!' said Ursula. 'He'd better have left her to the Turks, I'm
sure they would have had more decency towards her.'

The man went in to drink his can of tea, the girls went on down the
lane, that was deep in soft black dust. Gudrun was as if numbed in her
mind by the sense of indomitable soft weight of the man, bearing down
into the living body of the horse: the strong, indomitable thighs of
the blond man clenching the palpitating body of the mare into pure
control; a sort of soft white magnetic domination from the loins and
thighs and calves, enclosing and encompassing the mare heavily into
unutterable subordination, soft blood-subordination, terrible.

On the left, as the girls walked silently, the coal-mine lifted its
great mounds and its patterned head-stocks, the black railway with the
trucks at rest looked like a harbour just below, a large bay of
railroad with anchored wagons.

Near the second level-crossing, that went over many bright rails, was a
farm belonging to the collieries, and a great round globe of iron, a
disused boiler, huge and rusty and perfectly round, stood silently in a
paddock by the road. The hens were pecking round it, some chickens were
balanced on the drinking trough, wagtails flew away in among trucks,
from the water.

On the other side of the wide crossing, by the road-side, was a heap of
pale-grey stones for mending the roads, and a cart standing, and a
middle-aged man with whiskers round his face was leaning on his shovel,
talking to a young man in gaiters, who stood by the horse's head. Both
men were facing the crossing.

They saw the two girls appear, small, brilliant figures in the near
distance, in the strong light of the late afternoon. Both wore light,
gay summer dresses, Ursula had an orange-coloured knitted coat, Gudrun
a pale yellow, Ursula wore canary yellow stockings, Gudrun bright rose,
the figures of the two women seemed to glitter in progress over the
wide bay of the railway crossing, white and orange and yellow and rose
glittering in motion across a hot world silted with coal-dust.

The two men stood quite still in the heat, watching. The elder was a
short, hard-faced energetic man of middle age, the younger a labourer
of twenty-three or so. They stood in silence watching the advance of
the sisters. They watched whilst the girls drew near, and whilst they
passed, and whilst they receded down the dusty road, that had dwellings
on one side, and dusty young corn on the other.

Then the elder man, with the whiskers round his face, said in a
prurient manner to the young man:

'What price that, eh? She'll do, won't she?'

'Which?' asked the young man, eagerly, with laugh.

'Her with the red stockings. What d'you say? I'd give my week's wages
for five minutes; what!--just for five minutes.'

Again the young man laughed.

'Your missis 'ud have summat to say to you,' he replied.

Gudrun had turned round and looked at the two men. They were to her
sinister creatures, standing watching after her, by the heap of pale
grey slag. She loathed the man with whiskers round his face.

'You're first class, you are,' the man said to her, and to the
distance.

'Do you think it would be worth a week's wages?' said the younger man,
musing.

'Do I? I'd put 'em bloody-well down this second--'

The younger man looked after Gudrun and Ursula objectively, as if he
wished to calculate what there might be, that was worth his week's
wages. He shook his head with fatal misgiving.

'No,' he said. 'It's not worth that to me.'

'Isn't?' said the old man. 'By God, if it isn't to me!'

And he went on shovelling his stones.

The girls descended between the houses with slate roofs and blackish
brick walls. The heavy gold glamour of approaching sunset lay over all
the colliery district, and the ugliness overlaid with beauty was like a
narcotic to the senses. On the roads silted with black dust, the rich
light fell more warmly, more heavily, over all the amorphous squalor a
kind of magic was cast, from the glowing close of day.

'It has a foul kind of beauty, this place,' said Gudrun, evidently
suffering from fascination. 'Can't you feel in some way, a thick, hot
attraction in it? I can. And it quite stupifies me.'

They were passing between blocks of miners' dwellings. In the back
yards of several dwellings, a miner could be seen washing himself in
the open on this hot evening, naked down to the loins, his great
trousers of moleskin slipping almost away. Miners already cleaned were
sitting on their heels, with their backs near the walls, talking and
silent in pure physical well-being, tired, and taking physical rest.
Their voices sounded out with strong intonation, and the broad dialect
was curiously caressing to the blood. It seemed to envelop Gudrun in a
labourer's caress, there was in the whole atmosphere a resonance of
physical men, a glamorous thickness of labour and maleness, surcharged
in the air. But it was universal in the district, and therefore
unnoticed by the inhabitants.

To Gudrun, however, it was potent and half-repulsive. She could never
tell why Beldover was so utterly different from London and the south,
why one's whole feelings were different, why one seemed to live in
another sphere. Now she realised that this was the world of powerful,
underworld men who spent most of their time in the darkness. In their
voices she could hear the voluptuous resonance of darkness, the strong,
dangerous underworld, mindless, inhuman. They sounded also like strange
machines, heavy, oiled. The voluptuousness was like that of machinery,
cold and iron.

It was the same every evening when she came home, she seemed to move
through a wave of disruptive force, that was given off from the
presence of thousands of vigorous, underworld, half-automatised
colliers, and which went to the brain and the heart, awaking a fatal
desire, and a fatal callousness.

There came over her a nostalgia for the place. She hated it, she knew
how utterly cut off it was, how hideous and how sickeningly mindless.
Sometimes she beat her wings like a new Daphne, turning not into a tree
but a machine. And yet, she was overcome by the nostalgia. She
struggled to get more and more into accord with the atmosphere of the
place, she craved to get her satisfaction of it.

She felt herself drawn out at evening into the main street of the town,
that was uncreated and ugly, and yet surcharged with this same potent
atmosphere of intense, dark callousness. There were always miners
about. They moved with their strange, distorted dignity, a certain
beauty, and unnatural stillness in their bearing, a look of abstraction
and half resignation in their pale, often gaunt faces. They belonged to
another world, they had a strange glamour, their voices were full of an
intolerable deep resonance, like a machine's burring, a music more
maddening than the siren's long ago.

She found herself, with the rest of the common women, drawn out on
Friday evenings to the little market. Friday was pay-day for the
colliers, and Friday night was market night. Every woman was abroad,
every man was out, shopping with his wife, or gathering with his pals.
The pavements were dark for miles around with people coming in, the
little market-place on the crown of the hill, and the main street of
Beldover were black with thickly-crowded men and women.

It was dark, the market-place was hot with kerosene flares, which threw
a ruddy light on the grave faces of the purchasing wives, and on the
pale abstract faces of the men. The air was full of the sound of criers
and of people talking, thick streams of people moved on the pavements
towards the solid crowd of the market. The shops were blazing and
packed with women, in the streets were men, mostly men, miners of all
ages. Money was spent with almost lavish freedom.

The carts that came could not pass through. They had to wait, the
driver calling and shouting, till the dense crowd would make way.
Everywhere, young fellows from the outlying districts were making
conversation with the girls, standing in the road and at the corners.
The doors of the public-houses were open and full of light, men passed
in and out in a continual stream, everywhere men were calling out to
one another, or crossing to meet one another, or standing in little
gangs and circles, discussing, endlessly discussing. The sense of talk,
buzzing, jarring, half-secret, the endless mining and political
wrangling, vibrated in the air like discordant machinery. And it was
their voices which affected Gudrun almost to swooning. They aroused a
strange, nostalgic ache of desire, something almost demoniacal, never
to be fulfilled.

Like any other common girl of the district, Gudrun strolled up and
down, up and down the length of the brilliant two-hundred paces of the
pavement nearest the market-place. She knew it was a vulgar thing to
do; her father and mother could not bear it; but the nostalgia came
over her, she must be among the people. Sometimes she sat among the
louts in the cinema: rakish-looking, unattractive louts they were. Yet
she must be among them.

And, like any other common lass, she found her 'boy.' It was an
electrician, one of the electricians introduced according to Gerald's
new scheme. He was an earnest, clever man, a scientist with a passion
for sociology. He lived alone in a cottage, in lodgings, in Willey
Green. He was a gentleman, and sufficiently well-to-do. His landlady
spread the reports about him; he WOULD have a large wooden tub in his
bedroom, and every time he came in from work, he WOULD have pails and
pails of water brought up, to bathe in, then he put on clean shirt and
under-clothing EVERY day, and clean silk socks; fastidious and exacting
he was in these respects, but in every other way, most ordinary and
unassuming.

Gudrun knew all these things. The Brangwen's house was one to which the
gossip came naturally and inevitably. Palmer was in the first place a
friend of Ursula's. But in his pale, elegant, serious face there showed
the same nostalgia that Gudrun felt. He too must walk up and down the
street on Friday evening. So he walked with Gudrun, and a friendship
was struck up between them. But he was not in love with Gudrun; he
REALLY wanted Ursula, but for some strange reason, nothing could happen
between her and him. He liked to have Gudrun about, as a
fellow-mind--but that was all. And she had no real feeling for him. He
was a scientist, he had to have a woman to back him. But he was really
impersonal, he had the fineness of an elegant piece of machinery. He
was too cold, too destructive to care really for women, too great an
egoist. He was polarised by the men. Individually he detested and
despised them. In the mass they fascinated him, as machinery fascinated
him. They were a new sort of machinery to him--but incalculable,
incalculable.

So Gudrun strolled the streets with Palmer, or went to the cinema with
him. And his long, pale, rather elegant face flickered as he made his
sarcastic remarks. There they were, the two of them: two elegants in
one sense: in the other sense, two units, absolutely adhering to the
people, teeming with the distorted colliers. The same secret seemed to
be working in the souls of all alike, Gudrun, Palmer, the rakish young
bloods, the gaunt, middle-aged men. All had a secret sense of power,
and of inexpressible destructiveness, and of fatal half-heartedness, a
sort of rottenness in the will.

Sometimes Gudrun would start aside, see it all, see how she was sinking
in. And then she was filled with a fury of contempt and anger. She felt
she was sinking into one mass with the rest--all so close and
intermingled and breathless. It was horrible. She stifled. She prepared
for flight, feverishly she flew to her work. But soon she let go. She
started off into the country--the darkish, glamorous country. The spell
was beginning to work again.




CHAPTER X.



SKETCH-BOOK


One morning the sisters were sketching by the side of Willey Water, at
the remote end of the lake. Gudrun had waded out to a gravelly shoal,
and was seated like a Buddhist, staring fixedly at the water-plants
that rose succulent from the mud of the low shores. What she could see
was mud, soft, oozy, watery mud, and from its festering chill,
water-plants rose up, thick and cool and fleshy, very straight and
turgid, thrusting out their leaves at right angles, and having dark
lurid colours, dark green and blotches of black-purple and bronze. But
she could feel their turgid fleshy structure as in a sensuous vision,
she KNEW how they rose out of the mud, she KNEW how they thrust out
from themselves, how they stood stiff and succulent against the air.

Ursula was watching the butterflies, of which there were dozens near
the water, little blue ones suddenly snapping out of nothingness into a
jewel-life, a large black-and-red one standing upon a flower and
breathing with his soft wings, intoxicatingly, breathing pure, ethereal
sunshine; two white ones wrestling in the low air; there was a halo
round them; ah, when they came tumbling nearer they were orangetips,
and it was the orange that had made the halo. Ursula rose and drifted
away, unconscious like the butterflies.

Gudrun, absorbed in a stupor of apprehension of surging water-plants,
sat crouched on the shoal, drawing, not looking up for a long time, and
then staring unconsciously, absorbedly at the rigid, naked, succulent
stems. Her feet were bare, her hat lay on the bank opposite.

She started out of her trance, hearing the knocking of oars. She looked
round. There was a boat with a gaudy Japanese parasol, and a man in
white, rowing. The woman was Hermione, and the man was Gerald. She knew
it instantly. And instantly she perished in the keen FRISSON of
anticipation, an electric vibration in her veins, intense, much more
intense than that which was always humming low in the atmosphere of
Beldover.

Gerald was her escape from the heavy slough of the pale, underworld,
automatic colliers. He started out of the mud. He was master. She saw
his back, the movement of his white loins. But not that--it was the
whiteness he seemed to enclose as he bent forwards, rowing. He seemed
to stoop to something. His glistening, whitish hair seemed like the
electricity of the sky.

'There's Gudrun,' came Hermione's voice floating distinct over the
water. 'We will go and speak to her. Do you mind?'

Gerald looked round and saw the girl standing by the water's edge,
looking at him. He pulled the boat towards her, magnetically, without
thinking of her. In his world, his conscious world, she was still
nobody. He knew that Hermione had a curious pleasure in treading down
all the social differences, at least apparently, and he left it to her.

'How do you do, Gudrun?' sang Hermione, using the Christian name in the
fashionable manner. 'What are you doing?'

'How do you do, Hermione? I WAS sketching.'

'Were you?' The boat drifted nearer, till the keel ground on the bank.
'May we see? I should like to SO much.'

It was no use resisting Hermione's deliberate intention.

'Well--' said Gudrun reluctantly, for she always hated to have her
unfinished work exposed--'there's nothing in the least interesting.'

'Isn't there? But let me see, will you?'

Gudrun reached out the sketch-book, Gerald stretched from the boat to
take it. And as he did so, he remembered Gudrun's last words to him,
and her face lifted up to him as he sat on the swerving horse. An
intensification of pride went over his nerves, because he felt, in some
way she was compelled by him. The exchange of feeling between them was
strong and apart from their consciousness.

And as if in a spell, Gudrun was aware of his body, stretching and
surging like the marsh-fire, stretching towards her, his hand coming
straight forward like a stem. Her voluptuous, acute apprehension of him
made the blood faint in her veins, her mind went dim and unconscious.
And he rocked on the water perfectly, like the rocking of
phosphorescence. He looked round at the boat. It was drifting off a
little. He lifted the oar to bring it back. And the exquisite pleasure
of slowly arresting the boat, in the heavy-soft water, was complete as
a swoon.

'THAT'S what you have done,' said Hermione, looking searchingly at the
plants on the shore, and comparing with Gudrun's drawing. Gudrun looked
round in the direction of Hermione's long, pointing finger. 'That is
it, isn't it?' repeated Hermione, needing confirmation.

'Yes,' said Gudrun automatically, taking no real heed.

'Let me look,' said Gerald, reaching forward for the book. But Hermione
ignored him, he must not presume, before she had finished. But he, his
will as unthwarted and as unflinching as hers, stretched forward till
he touched the book. A little shock, a storm of revulsion against him,
shook Hermione unconsciously. She released the book when he had not
properly got it, and it tumbled against the side of the boat and
bounced into the water.

'There!' sang Hermione, with a strange ring of malevolent victory. 'I'm
so sorry, so awfully sorry. Can't you get it, Gerald?'

This last was said in a note of anxious sneering that made Gerald's
veins tingle with fine hate for her. He leaned far out of the boat,
reaching down into the water. He could feel his position was
ridiculous, his loins exposed behind him.

'It is of no importance,' came the strong, clanging voice of Gudrun.
She seemed to touch him. But he reached further, the boat swayed
violently. Hermione, however, remained unperturbed. He grasped the
book, under the water, and brought it up, dripping.

'I'm so dreadfully sorry--dreadfully sorry,' repeated Hermione. 'I'm
afraid it was all my fault.'

'It's of no importance--really, I assure you--it doesn't matter in the
least,' said Gudrun loudly, with emphasis, her face flushed scarlet.
And she held out her hand impatiently for the wet book, to have done
with the scene. Gerald gave it to her. He was not quite himself.

'I'm so dreadfully sorry,' repeated Hermione, till both Gerald and
Gudrun were exasperated. 'Is there nothing that can be done?'

'In what way?' asked Gudrun, with cool irony.

'Can't we save the drawings?'

There was a moment's pause, wherein Gudrun made evident all her
refutation of Hermione's persistence.

'I assure you,' said Gudrun, with cutting distinctness, 'the drawings
are quite as good as ever they were, for my purpose. I want them only
for reference.'

'But can't I give you a new book? I wish you'd let me do that. I feel
so truly sorry. I feel it was all my fault.'

'As far as I saw,' said Gudrun, 'it wasn't your fault at all. If there
was any FAULT, it was Mr Crich's. But the whole thing is ENTIRELY
trivial, and it really is ridiculous to take any notice of it.'

Gerald watched Gudrun closely, whilst she repulsed Hermione. There was
a body of cold power in her. He watched her with an insight that
amounted to clairvoyance. He saw her a dangerous, hostile spirit, that
could stand undiminished and unabated. It was so finished, and of such
perfect gesture, moreover.

'I'm awfully glad if it doesn't matter,' he said; 'if there's no real
harm done.'

She looked back at him, with her fine blue eyes, and signalled full
into his spirit, as she said, her voice ringing with intimacy almost
caressive now it was addressed to him:

'Of course, it doesn't matter in the LEAST.'

The bond was established between them, in that look, in her tone. In
her tone, she made the understanding clear--they were of the same kind,
he and she, a sort of diabolic freemasonry subsisted between them.
Henceforward, she knew, she had her power over him. Wherever they met,
they would be secretly associated. And he would be helpless in the
association with her. Her soul exulted.

'Good-bye! I'm so glad you forgive me. Gooood-bye!'

Hermione sang her farewell, and waved her hand. Gerald automatically
took the oar and pushed off. But he was looking all the time, with a
glimmering, subtly-smiling admiration in his eyes, at Gudrun, who stood
on the shoal shaking the wet book in her hand. She turned away and
ignored the receding boat. But Gerald looked back as he rowed,
beholding her, forgetting what he was doing.

'Aren't we going too much to the left?' sang Hermione, as she sat
ignored under her coloured parasol.

Gerald looked round without replying, the oars balanced and glancing in
the sun.

'I think it's all right,' he said good-humouredly, beginning to row
again without thinking of what he was doing. And Hermione disliked him
extremely for his good-humoured obliviousness, she was nullified, she
could not regain ascendancy.




CHAPTER XI.



AN ISLAND


Meanwhile Ursula had wandered on from Willey Water along the course of
the bright little stream. The afternoon was full of larks' singing. On
the bright hill-sides was a subdued smoulder of gorse. A few
forget-me-nots flowered by the water. There was a rousedness and a
glancing everywhere.

She strayed absorbedly on, over the brooks. She wanted to go to the
mill-pond above. The big mill-house was deserted, save for a labourer
and his wife who lived in the kitchen. So she passed through the empty
farm-yard and through the wilderness of a garden, and mounted the bank
by the sluice. When she got to the top, to see the old, velvety surface
of the pond before her, she noticed a man on the bank, tinkering with a
punt. It was Birkin sawing and hammering away.

She stood at the head of the sluice, looking at him. He was unaware of
anybody's presence. He looked very busy, like a wild animal, active and
intent. She felt she ought to go away, he would not want her. He seemed
to be so much occupied. But she did not want to go away. Therefore she
moved along the bank till he would look up.

Which he soon did. The moment he saw her, he dropped his tools and came
forward, saying:

'How do you do? I'm making the punt water-tight. Tell me if you think
it is right.'

She went along with him.

'You are your father's daughter, so you can tell me if it will do,' he
said.

She bent to look at the patched punt.

'I am sure I am my father's daughter,' she said, fearful of having to
judge. 'But I don't know anything about carpentry. It LOOKS right,
don't you think?'

'Yes, I think. I hope it won't let me to the bottom, that's all. Though
even so, it isn't a great matter, I should come up again. Help me to
get it into the water, will you?'

With combined efforts they turned over the heavy punt and set it
afloat.

'Now,' he said, 'I'll try it and you can watch what happens. Then if it
carries, I'll take you over to the island.'

'Do,' she cried, watching anxiously.

The pond was large, and had that perfect stillness and the dark lustre
of very deep water. There were two small islands overgrown with bushes
and a few trees, towards the middle. Birkin pushed himself off, and
veered clumsily in the pond. Luckily the punt drifted so that he could
catch hold of a willow bough, and pull it to the island.

'Rather overgrown,' he said, looking into the interior, 'but very nice.
I'll come and fetch you. The boat leaks a little.'

In a moment he was with her again, and she stepped into the wet punt.

'It'll float us all right,' he said, and manoeuvred again to the
island.

They landed under a willow tree. She shrank from the little jungle of
rank plants before her, evil-smelling figwort and hemlock. But he
explored into it.

'I shall mow this down,' he said, 'and then it will be romantic--like
Paul et Virginie.'

'Yes, one could have lovely Watteau picnics here,' cried Ursula with
enthusiasm.

His face darkened.

'I don't want Watteau picnics here,' he said.

'Only your Virginie,' she laughed.

'Virginie enough,' he smiled wryly. 'No, I don't want her either.'

Ursula looked at him closely. She had not seen him since Breadalby. He
was very thin and hollow, with a ghastly look in his face.

'You have been ill; haven't you?' she asked, rather repulsed.

'Yes,' he replied coldly.

They had sat down under the willow tree, and were looking at the pond,
from their retreat on the island.

'Has it made you frightened?' she asked.

'What of?' he asked, turning his eyes to look at her. Something in him,
inhuman and unmitigated, disturbed her, and shook her out of her
ordinary self.

'It IS frightening to be very ill, isn't it?' she said.

'It isn't pleasant,' he said. 'Whether one is really afraid of death,
or not, I have never decided. In one mood, not a bit, in another, very
much.'

'But doesn't it make you feel ashamed? I think it makes one so ashamed,
to be ill--illness is so terribly humiliating, don't you think?'

He considered for some minutes.

'May-be,' he said. 'Though one knows all the time one's life isn't
really right, at the source. That's the humiliation. I don't see that
the illness counts so much, after that. One is ill because one doesn't
live properly--can't. It's the failure to live that makes one ill, and
humiliates one.'

'But do you fail to live?' she asked, almost jeering.

'Why yes--I don't make much of a success of my days. One seems always
to be bumping one's nose against the blank wall ahead.'

Ursula laughed. She was frightened, and when she was frightened she
always laughed and pretended to be jaunty.

'Your poor nose!' she said, looking at that feature of his face.

'No wonder it's ugly,' he replied.

She was silent for some minutes, struggling with her own
self-deception. It was an instinct in her, to deceive herself.

'But I'M happy--I think life is AWFULLY jolly,' she said.

'Good,' he answered, with a certain cold indifference.

She reached for a bit of paper which had wrapped a small piece of
chocolate she had found in her pocket, and began making a boat. He
watched her without heeding her. There was something strangely pathetic
and tender in her moving, unconscious finger-tips, that were agitated
and hurt, really.

'I DO enjoy things--don't you?' she asked.

'Oh yes! But it infuriates me that I can't get right, at the really
growing part of me. I feel all tangled and messed up, and I CAN'T get
straight anyhow. I don't know what really to DO. One must do something
somewhere.'

'Why should you always be DOING?' she retorted. 'It is so plebeian. I
think it is much better to be really patrician, and to do nothing but
just be oneself, like a walking flower.'

'I quite agree,' he said, 'if one has burst into blossom. But I can't
get my flower to blossom anyhow. Either it is blighted in the bud, or
has got the smother-fly, or it isn't nourished. Curse it, it isn't even
a bud. It is a contravened knot.'

Again she laughed. He was so very fretful and exasperated. But she was
anxious and puzzled. How was one to get out, anyhow. There must be a
way out somewhere.

There was a silence, wherein she wanted to cry. She reached for another
bit of chocolate paper, and began to fold another boat.

'And why is it,' she asked at length, 'that there is no flowering, no
dignity of human life now?'

'The whole idea is dead. Humanity itself is dry-rotten, really. There
are myriads of human beings hanging on the bush--and they look very
nice and rosy, your healthy young men and women. But they are apples of
Sodom, as a matter of fact, Dead Sea Fruit, gall-apples. It isn't true
that they have any significance--their insides are full of bitter,
corrupt ash.'

'But there ARE good people,' protested Ursula.

'Good enough for the life of today. But mankind is a dead tree, covered
with fine brilliant galls of people.'

Ursula could not help stiffening herself against this, it was too
picturesque and final. But neither could she help making him go on.

'And if it is so, WHY is it?' she asked, hostile. They were rousing
each other to a fine passion of opposition.

'Why, why are people all balls of bitter dust? Because they won't fall
off the tree when they're ripe. They hang on to their old positions
when the position is over-past, till they become infested with little
worms and dry-rot.'

There was a long pause. His voice had become hot and very sarcastic.
Ursula was troubled and bewildered, they were both oblivious of
everything but their own immersion.

'But even if everybody is wrong--where are you right?' she cried,
'where are you any better?'

'I?--I'm not right,' he cried back. 'At least my only rightness lies in
the fact that I know it. I detest what I am, outwardly. I loathe myself
as a human being. Humanity is a huge aggregate lie, and a huge lie is
less than a small truth. Humanity is less, far less than the
individual, because the individual may sometimes be capable of truth,
and humanity is a tree of lies. And they say that love is the greatest
thing; they persist in SAYING this, the foul liars, and just look at
what they do! Look at all the millions of people who repeat every
minute that love is the greatest, and charity is the greatest--and see
what they are doing all the time. By their works ye shall know them,
for dirty liars and cowards, who daren't stand by their own actions,
much less by their own words.'

'But,' said Ursula sadly, 'that doesn't alter the fact that love is the
greatest, does it? What they DO doesn't alter the truth of what they
say, does it?'

'Completely, because if what they say WERE true, then they couldn't
help fulfilling it. But they maintain a lie, and so they run amok at
last. It's a lie to say that love is the greatest. You might as well
say that hate is the greatest, since the opposite of everything
balances. What people want is hate--hate and nothing but hate. And in
the name of righteousness and love, they get it. They distil themselves
with nitroglycerine, all the lot of them, out of very love. It's the
lie that kills. If we want hate, let us have it--death, murder,
torture, violent destruction--let us have it: but not in the name of
love. But I abhor humanity, I wish it was swept away. It could go, and
there would be no ABSOLUTE loss, if every human being perished
tomorrow. The reality would be untouched. Nay, it would be better. The
real tree of life would then be rid of the most ghastly, heavy crop of
Dead Sea Fruit, the intolerable burden of myriad simulacra of people,
an infinite weight of mortal lies.'

'So you'd like everybody in the world destroyed?' said Ursula.

'I should indeed.'

'And the world empty of people?'

'Yes truly. You yourself, don't you find it a beautiful clean thought,
a world empty of people, just uninterrupted grass, and a hare sitting
up?'

The pleasant sincerity of his voice made Ursula pause to consider her
own proposition. And really it WAS attractive: a clean, lovely,
humanless world. It was the REALLY desirable. Her heart hesitated, and
exulted. But still, she was dissatisfied with HIM.

'But,' she objected, 'you'd be dead yourself, so what good would it do
you?'

'I would die like a shot, to know that the earth would really be
cleaned of all the people. It is the most beautiful and freeing
thought. Then there would NEVER be another foul humanity created, for a
universal defilement.'

'No,' said Ursula, 'there would be nothing.'

'What! Nothing? Just because humanity was wiped out? You flatter
yourself. There'd be everything.'

'But how, if there were no people?'

'Do you think that creation depends on MAN! It merely doesn't. There
are the trees and the grass and birds. I much prefer to think of the
lark rising up in the morning upon a human-less world. Man is a
mistake, he must go. There is the grass, and hares and adders, and the
unseen hosts, actual angels that go about freely when a dirty humanity
doesn't interrupt them--and good pure-tissued demons: very nice.'

It pleased Ursula, what he said, pleased her very much, as a phantasy.
Of course it was only a pleasant fancy. She herself knew too well the
actuality of humanity, its hideous actuality. She knew it could not
disappear so cleanly and conveniently. It had a long way to go yet, a
long and hideous way. Her subtle, feminine, demoniacal soul knew it
well.

'If only man was swept off the face of the earth, creation would go on
so marvellously, with a new start, non-human. Man is one of the
mistakes of creation--like the ichthyosauri. If only he were gone
again, think what lovely things would come out of the liberated
days;--things straight out of the fire.'

'But man will never be gone,' she said, with insidious, diabolical
knowledge of the horrors of persistence. 'The world will go with him.'

'Ah no,' he answered, 'not so. I believe in the proud angels and the
demons that are our fore-runners. They will destroy us, because we are
not proud enough. The ichthyosauri were not proud: they crawled and
floundered as we do. And besides, look at elder-flowers and
bluebells--they are a sign that pure creation takes place--even the
butterfly. But humanity never gets beyond the caterpillar stage--it
rots in the chrysalis, it never will have wings. It is anti-creation,
like monkeys and baboons.'

Ursula watched him as he talked. There seemed a certain impatient fury
in him, all the while, and at the same time a great amusement in
everything, and a final tolerance. And it was this tolerance she
mistrusted, not the fury. She saw that, all the while, in spite of
himself, he would have to be trying to save the world. And this
knowledge, whilst it comforted her heart somewhere with a little
self-satisfaction, stability, yet filled her with a certain sharp
contempt and hate of him. She wanted him to herself, she hated the
Salvator Mundi touch. It was something diffuse and generalised about
him, which she could not stand. He would behave in the same way, say
the same things, give himself as completely to anybody who came along,
anybody and everybody who liked to appeal to him. It was despicable, a
very insidious form of prostitution.

'But,' she said, 'you believe in individual love, even if you don't
believe in loving humanity--?'

'I don't believe in love at all--that is, any more than I believe in
hate, or in grief. Love is one of the emotions like all the others--and
so it is all right whilst you feel it But I can't see how it becomes an
absolute. It is just part of human relationships, no more. And it is
only part of ANY human relationship. And why one should be required
ALWAYS to feel it, any more than one always feels sorrow or distant
joy, I cannot conceive. Love isn't a desideratum--it is an emotion you
feel or you don't feel, according to circumstance.'

'Then why do you care about people at all?' she asked, 'if you don't
believe in love? Why do you bother about humanity?'

'Why do I? Because I can't get away from it.'

'Because you love it,' she persisted.

It irritated him.

'If I do love it,' he said, 'it is my disease.'

'But it is a disease you don't want to be cured of,' she said, with
some cold sneering.

He was silent now, feeling she wanted to insult him.

'And if you don't believe in love, what DO you believe in?' she asked
mocking. 'Simply in the end of the world, and grass?'

He was beginning to feel a fool.

'I believe in the unseen hosts,' he said.

'And nothing else? You believe in nothing visible, except grass and
birds? Your world is a poor show.'

'Perhaps it is,' he said, cool and superior now he was offended,
assuming a certain insufferable aloof superiority, and withdrawing into
his distance.

Ursula disliked him. But also she felt she had lost something. She
looked at him as he sat crouched on the bank. There was a certain
priggish Sunday-school stiffness over him, priggish and detestable. And
yet, at the same time, the moulding of him was so quick and attractive,
it gave such a great sense of freedom: the moulding of his brows, his
chin, his whole physique, something so alive, somewhere, in spite of
the look of sickness.

And it was this duality in feeling which he created in her, that made a
fine hate of him quicken in her bowels. There was his wonderful,
desirable life-rapidity, the rare quality of an utterly desirable man:
and there was at the same time this ridiculous, mean effacement into a
Salvator Mundi and a Sunday-school teacher, a prig of the stiffest
type.

He looked up at her. He saw her face strangely enkindled, as if
suffused from within by a powerful sweet fire. His soul was arrested in
wonder. She was enkindled in her own living fire. Arrested in wonder
and in pure, perfect attraction, he moved towards her. She sat like a
strange queen, almost supernatural in her glowing smiling richness.

'The point about love,' he said, his consciousness quickly adjusting
itself, 'is that we hate the word because we have vulgarised it. It
ought to be prescribed, tabooed from utterance, for many years, till we
get a new, better idea.'

There was a beam of understanding between them.

'But it always means the same thing,' she said.

'Ah God, no, let it not mean that any more,' he cried. 'Let the old
meanings go.'

'But still it is love,' she persisted. A strange, wicked yellow light
shone at him in her eyes.

He hesitated, baffled, withdrawing.

'No,' he said, 'it isn't. Spoken like that, never in the world. You've
no business to utter the word.'

'I must leave it to you, to take it out of the Ark of the Covenant at
the right moment,' she mocked.

Again they looked at each other. She suddenly sprang up, turned her
back to him, and walked away. He too rose slowly and went to the
water's edge, where, crouching, he began to amuse himself
unconsciously. Picking a daisy he dropped it on the pond, so that the
stem was a keel, the flower floated like a little water lily, staring
with its open face up to the sky. It turned slowly round, in a slow,
slow Dervish dance, as it veered away.

He watched it, then dropped another daisy into the water, and after
that another, and sat watching them with bright, absolved eyes,
crouching near on the bank. Ursula turned to look. A strange feeling
possessed her, as if something were taking place. But it was all
intangible. And some sort of control was being put on her. She could
not know. She could only watch the brilliant little discs of the
daisies veering slowly in travel on the dark, lustrous water. The
little flotilla was drifting into the light, a company of white specks
in the distance.

'Do let us go to the shore, to follow them,' she said, afraid of being
any longer imprisoned on the island. And they pushed off in the punt.

She was glad to be on the free land again. She went along the bank
towards the sluice. The daisies were scattered broadcast on the pond,
tiny radiant things, like an exaltation, points of exaltation here and
there. Why did they move her so strongly and mystically?

'Look,' he said, 'your boat of purple paper is escorting them, and they
are a convoy of rafts.'

Some of the daisies came slowly towards her, hesitating, making a shy
bright little cotillion on the dark clear water. Their gay bright
candour moved her so much as they came near, that she was almost in
tears.

'Why are they so lovely,' she cried. 'Why do I think them so lovely?'

'They are nice flowers,' he said, her emotional tones putting a
constraint on him.

'You know that a daisy is a company of florets, a concourse, become
individual. Don't the botanists put it highest in the line of
development? I believe they do.'

'The compositae, yes, I think so,' said Ursula, who was never very sure
of anything. Things she knew perfectly well, at one moment, seemed to
become doubtful the next.

'Explain it so, then,' he said. 'The daisy is a perfect little
democracy, so it's the highest of flowers, hence its charm.'

'No,' she cried, 'no--never. It isn't democratic.'

'No,' he admitted. 'It's the golden mob of the proletariat, surrounded
by a showy white fence of the idle rich.'

'How hateful--your hateful social orders!' she cried.

'Quite! It's a daisy--we'll leave it alone.'

'Do. Let it be a dark horse for once,' she said: 'if anything can be a
dark horse to you,' she added satirically.

They stood aside, forgetful. As if a little stunned, they both were
motionless, barely conscious. The little conflict into which they had
fallen had torn their consciousness and left them like two impersonal
forces, there in contact.

He became aware of the lapse. He wanted to say something, to get on to
a new more ordinary footing.

'You know,' he said, 'that I am having rooms here at the mill? Don't
you think we can have some good times?'

'Oh are you?' she said, ignoring all his implication of admitted
intimacy.

He adjusted himself at once, became normally distant.

'If I find I can live sufficiently by myself,' he continued, 'I shall
give up my work altogether. It has become dead to me. I don't believe
in the humanity I pretend to be part of, I don't care a straw for the
social ideals I live by, I hate the dying organic form of social
mankind--so it can't be anything but trumpery, to work at education. I
shall drop it as soon as I am clear enough--tomorrow perhaps--and be by
myself.'

'Have you enough to live on?' asked Ursula.

'Yes--I've about four hundred a year. That makes it easy for me.'

There was a pause.

'And what about Hermione?' asked Ursula.

'That's over, finally--a pure failure, and never could have been
anything else.'

'But you still know each other?'

'We could hardly pretend to be strangers, could we?'

There was a stubborn pause.

'But isn't that a half-measure?' asked Ursula at length.

'I don't think so,' he said. 'You'll be able to tell me if it is.'

Again there was a pause of some minutes' duration. He was thinking.

'One must throw everything away, everything--let everything go, to get
the one last thing one wants,' he said.

'What thing?' she asked in challenge.

'I don't know--freedom together,' he said.

She had wanted him to say 'love.'

There was heard a loud barking of the dogs below. He seemed disturbed
by it. She did not notice. Only she thought he seemed uneasy.

'As a matter of fact,' he said, in rather a small voice, 'I believe
that is Hermione come now, with Gerald Crich. She wanted to see the
rooms before they are furnished.'

'I know,' said Ursula. 'She will superintend the furnishing for you.'

'Probably. Does it matter?'

'Oh no, I should think not,' said Ursula. 'Though personally, I can't
bear her. I think she is a lie, if you like, you who are always talking
about lies.' Then she ruminated for a moment, when she broke out: 'Yes,
and I do mind if she furnishes your rooms--I do mind. I mind that you
keep her hanging on at all.'

He was silent now, frowning.

'Perhaps,' he said. 'I don't WANT her to furnish the rooms here--and I
don't keep her hanging on. Only, I needn't be churlish to her, need I?
At any rate, I shall have to go down and see them now. You'll come,
won't you?'

'I don't think so,' she said coldly and irresolutely.

'Won't you? Yes do. Come and see the rooms as well. Do come.'




CHAPTER XII.



CARPETING


He set off down the bank, and she went unwillingly with him. Yet she
would not have stayed away, either.

'We know each other well, you and I, already,' he said. She did not
answer.

In the large darkish kitchen of the mill, the labourer's wife was
talking shrilly to Hermione and Gerald, who stood, he in white and she
in a glistening bluish foulard, strangely luminous in the dusk of the
room; whilst from the cages on the walls, a dozen or more canaries sang
at the top of their voices. The cages were all placed round a small
square window at the back, where the sunshine came in, a beautiful
beam, filtering through green leaves of a tree. The voice of Mrs Salmon
shrilled against the noise of the birds, which rose ever more wild and
triumphant, and the woman's voice went up and up against them, and the
birds replied with wild animation.

'Here's Rupert!' shouted Gerald in the midst of the din. He was
suffering badly, being very sensitive in the ear.

'O-o-h them birds, they won't let you speak--!' shrilled the labourer's
wife in disgust. 'I'll cover them up.'

And she darted here and there, throwing a duster, an apron, a towel, a
table-cloth over the cages of the birds.

'Now will you stop it, and let a body speak for your row,' she said,
still in a voice that was too high.

The party watched her. Soon the cages were covered, they had a strange
funereal look. But from under the towels odd defiant trills and
bubblings still shook out.

'Oh, they won't go on,' said Mrs Salmon reassuringly. 'They'll go to
sleep now.'

'Really,' said Hermione, politely.

'They will,' said Gerald. 'They will go to sleep automatically, now the
impression of evening is produced.'

'Are they so easily deceived?' cried Ursula.

'Oh, yes,' replied Gerald. 'Don't you know the story of Fabre, who,
when he was a boy, put a hen's head under her wing, and she straight
away went to sleep? It's quite true.'

'And did that make him a naturalist?' asked Birkin.

'Probably,' said Gerald.

Meanwhile Ursula was peeping under one of the cloths. There sat the
canary in a corner, bunched and fluffed up for sleep.

'How ridiculous!' she cried. 'It really thinks the night has come! How
absurd! Really, how can one have any respect for a creature that is so
easily taken in!'

'Yes,' sang Hermione, coming also to look. She put her hand on Ursula's
arm and chuckled a low laugh. 'Yes, doesn't he look comical?' she
chuckled. 'Like a stupid husband.'

Then, with her hand still on Ursula's arm, she drew her away, saying,
in her mild sing-song:

'How did you come here? We saw Gudrun too.'

'I came to look at the pond,' said Ursula, 'and I found Mr Birkin
there.'

'Did you? This is quite a Brangwen land, isn't it!'

'I'm afraid I hoped so,' said Ursula. 'I ran here for refuge, when I
saw you down the lake, just putting off.'

'Did you! And now we've run you to earth.'

Hermione's eyelids lifted with an uncanny movement, amused but
overwrought. She had always her strange, rapt look, unnatural and
irresponsible.

'I was going on,' said Ursula. 'Mr Birkin wanted me to see the rooms.
Isn't it delightful to live here? It is perfect.'

'Yes,' said Hermione, abstractedly. Then she turned right away from
Ursula, ceased to know her existence.

'How do you feel, Rupert?' she sang in a new, affectionate tone, to
Birkin.

'Very well,' he replied.

'Were you quite comfortable?' The curious, sinister, rapt look was on
Hermione's face, she shrugged her bosom in a convulsed movement, and
seemed like one half in a trance.

'Quite comfortable,' he replied.

There was a long pause, whilst Hermione looked at him for a long time,
from under her heavy, drugged eyelids.

'And you think you'll be happy here?' she said at last.

'I'm sure I shall.'

'I'm sure I shall do anything for him as I can,' said the labourer's
wife. 'And I'm sure our master will; so I HOPE he'll find himself
comfortable.'

Hermione turned and looked at her slowly.

'Thank you so much,' she said, and then she turned completely away
again. She recovered her position, and lifting her face towards him,
and addressing him exclusively, she said:

'Have you measured the rooms?'

'No,' he said, 'I've been mending the punt.'

'Shall we do it now?' she said slowly, balanced and dispassionate.

'Have you got a tape measure, Mrs Salmon?' he said, turning to the
woman.

'Yes sir, I think I can find one,' replied the woman, bustling
immediately to a basket. 'This is the only one I've got, if it will
do.'

Hermione took it, though it was offered to him.

'Thank you so much,' she said. 'It will do very nicely. Thank you so
much.' Then she turned to Birkin, saying with a little gay movement:
'Shall we do it now, Rupert?'

'What about the others, they'll be bored,' he said reluctantly.

'Do you mind?' said Hermione, turning to Ursula and Gerald vaguely.

'Not in the least,' they replied.

'Which room shall we do first?' she said, turning again to Birkin, with
the same gaiety, now she was going to DO something with him.

'We'll take them as they come,' he said.

'Should I be getting your teas ready, while you do that?' said the
labourer's wife, also gay because SHE had something to do.

'Would you?' said Hermione, turning to her with the curious motion of
intimacy that seemed to envelop the woman, draw her almost to
Hermione's breast, and which left the others standing apart. 'I should
be so glad. Where shall we have it?'

'Where would you like it? Shall it be in here, or out on the grass?'

'Where shall we have tea?' sang Hermione to the company at large.

'On the bank by the pond. And WE'LL carry the things up, if you'll just
get them ready, Mrs Salmon,' said Birkin.

'All right,' said the pleased woman.

The party moved down the passage into the front room. It was empty, but
clean and sunny. There was a window looking on to the tangled front
garden.

'This is the dining room,' said Hermione. 'We'll measure it this way,
Rupert--you go down there--'

'Can't I do it for you,' said Gerald, coming to take the end of the
tape.

'No, thank you,' cried Hermione, stooping to the ground in her bluish,
brilliant foulard. It was a great joy to her to DO things, and to have
the ordering of the job, with Birkin. He obeyed her subduedly. Ursula
and Gerald looked on. It was a peculiarity of Hermione's, that at every
moment, she had one intimate, and turned all the rest of those present
into onlookers. This raised her into a state of triumph.

They measured and discussed in the dining-room, and Hermione decided
what the floor coverings must be. It sent her into a strange, convulsed
anger, to be thwarted. Birkin always let her have her way, for the
moment.

Then they moved across, through the hall, to the other front room, that
was a little smaller than the first.

'This is the study,' said Hermione. 'Rupert, I have a rug that I want
you to have for here. Will you let me give it to you? Do--I want to
give it you.'

'What is it like?' he asked ungraciously.

'You haven't seen it. It is chiefly rose red, then blue, a metallic,
mid-blue, and a very soft dark blue. I think you would like it. Do you
think you would?'

'It sounds very nice,' he replied. 'What is it? Oriental? With a pile?'

'Yes. Persian! It is made of camel's hair, silky. I think it is called
Bergamos--twelve feet by seven--. Do you think it will do?'

'It would DO,' he said. 'But why should you give me an expensive rug? I
can manage perfectly well with my old Oxford Turkish.'

'But may I give it to you? Do let me.'

'How much did it cost?'

She looked at him, and said:

'I don't remember. It was quite cheap.'

He looked at her, his face set.

'I don't want to take it, Hermione,' he said.

'Do let me give it to the rooms,' she said, going up to him and putting
her hand on his arm lightly, pleadingly. 'I shall be so disappointed.'

'You know I don't want you to give me things,' he repeated helplessly.

'I don't want to give you THINGS,' she said teasingly. 'But will you
have this?'

'All right,' he said, defeated, and she triumphed.

They went upstairs. There were two bedrooms to correspond with the
rooms downstairs. One of them was half furnished, and Birkin had
evidently slept there. Hermione went round the room carefully, taking
in every detail, as if absorbing the evidence of his presence, in all
the inanimate things. She felt the bed and examined the coverings.

'Are you SURE you were quite comfortable?' she said, pressing the
pillow.

'Perfectly,' he replied coldly.

'And were you warm? There is no down quilt. I am sure you need one. You
mustn't have a great pressure of clothes.'

'I've got one,' he said. 'It is coming down.'

They measured the rooms, and lingered over every consideration. Ursula
stood at the window and watched the woman carrying the tea up the bank
to the pond. She hated the palaver Hermione made, she wanted to drink
tea, she wanted anything but this fuss and business.

At last they all mounted the grassy bank, to the picnic. Hermione
poured out tea. She ignored now Ursula's presence. And Ursula,
recovering from her ill-humour, turned to Gerald saying:

'Oh, I hated you so much the other day, Mr Crich,'

'What for?' said Gerald, wincing slightly away.

'For treating your horse so badly. Oh, I hated you so much!'

'What did he do?' sang Hermione.

'He made his lovely sensitive Arab horse stand with him at the
railway-crossing whilst a horrible lot of trucks went by; and the poor
thing, she was in a perfect frenzy, a perfect agony. It was the most
horrible sight you can imagine.'

'Why did you do it, Gerald?' asked Hermione, calm and interrogative.

'She must learn to stand--what use is she to me in this country, if she
shies and goes off every time an engine whistles.'

'But why inflict unnecessary torture?' said Ursula. 'Why make her stand
all that time at the crossing? You might just as well have ridden back
up the road, and saved all that horror. Her sides were bleeding where
you had spurred her. It was too horrible--!'

Gerald stiffened.

'I have to use her,' he replied. 'And if I'm going to be sure of her at
ALL, she'll have to learn to stand noises.'

'Why should she?' cried Ursula in a passion. 'She is a living creature,
why should she stand anything, just because you choose to make her? She
has as much right to her own being, as you have to yours.'

'There I disagree,' said Gerald. 'I consider that mare is there for my
use. Not because I bought her, but because that is the natural order.
It is more natural for a man to take a horse and use it as he likes,
than for him to go down on his knees to it, begging it to do as it
wishes, and to fulfil its own marvellous nature.'

Ursula was just breaking out, when Hermione lifted her face and began,
in her musing sing-song:

'I do think--I do really think we must have the COURAGE to use the
lower animal life for our needs. I do think there is something wrong,
when we look on every living creature as if it were ourselves. I do
feel, that it is false to project our own feelings on every animate
creature. It is a lack of discrimination, a lack of criticism.'

'Quite,' said Birkin sharply. 'Nothing is so detestable as the maudlin
attributing of human feelings and consciousness to animals.'

'Yes,' said Hermione, wearily, 'we must really take a position. Either
we are going to use the animals, or they will use us.'

'That's a fact,' said Gerald. 'A horse has got a will like a man,
though it has no MIND strictly. And if your will isn't master, then the
horse is master of you. And this is a thing I can't help. I can't help
being master of the horse.'

'If only we could learn how to use our will,' said Hermione, 'we could
do anything. The will can cure anything, and put anything right. That I
am convinced of--if only we use the will properly, intelligibly.'

'What do you mean by using the will properly?' said Birkin.

'A very great doctor taught me,' she said, addressing Ursula and Gerald
vaguely. 'He told me for instance, that to cure oneself of a bad habit,
one should FORCE oneself to do it, when one would not do it--make
oneself do it--and then the habit would disappear.'

'How do you mean?' said Gerald.

'If you bite your nails, for example. Then, when you don't want to bite
your nails, bite them, make yourself bite them. And you would find the
habit was broken.'

'Is that so?' said Gerald.

'Yes. And in so many things, I have MADE myself well. I was a very
queer and nervous girl. And by learning to use my will, simply by using
my will, I MADE myself right.'

Ursula looked all the white at Hermione, as she spoke in her slow,
dispassionate, and yet strangely tense voice. A curious thrill went
over the younger woman. Some strange, dark, convulsive power was in
Hermione, fascinating and repelling.

'It is fatal to use the will like that,' cried Birkin harshly,
'disgusting. Such a will is an obscenity.'

Hermione looked at him for a long time, with her shadowed, heavy eyes.
Her face was soft and pale and thin, almost phosphorescent, her jaw was
lean.

'I'm sure it isn't,' she said at length. There always seemed an
interval, a strange split between what she seemed to feel and
experience, and what she actually said and thought. She seemed to catch
her thoughts at length from off the surface of a maelstrom of chaotic
black emotions and reactions, and Birkin was always filled with
repulsion, she caught so infallibly, her will never failed her. Her
voice was always dispassionate and tense, and perfectly confident. Yet
she shuddered with a sense of nausea, a sort of seasickness that always
threatened to overwhelm her mind. But her mind remained unbroken, her
will was still perfect. It almost sent Birkin mad. But he would never,
never dare to break her will, and let loose the maelstrom of her
subconsciousness, and see her in her ultimate madness. Yet he was
always striking at her.

'And of course,' he said to Gerald, 'horses HAVEN'T got a complete
will, like human beings. A horse has no ONE will. Every horse,
strictly, has two wills. With one will, it wants to put itself in the
human power completely--and with the other, it wants to be free, wild.
The two wills sometimes lock--you know that, if ever you've felt a
horse bolt, while you've been driving it.'

'I have felt a horse bolt while I was driving it,' said Gerald, 'but it
didn't make me know it had two wills. I only knew it was frightened.'

Hermione had ceased to listen. She simply became oblivious when these
subjects were started.

'Why should a horse want to put itself in the human power?' asked
Ursula. 'That is quite incomprehensible to me. I don't believe it ever
wanted it.'

'Yes it did. It's the last, perhaps highest, love-impulse: resign your
will to the higher being,' said Birkin.

'What curious notions you have of love,' jeered Ursula.

'And woman is the same as horses: two wills act in opposition inside
her. With one will, she wants to subject herself utterly. With the
other she wants to bolt, and pitch her rider to perdition.'

'Then I'm a bolter,' said Ursula, with a burst of laughter.

'It's a dangerous thing to domesticate even horses, let alone women,'
said Birkin. 'The dominant principle has some rare antagonists.'

'Good thing too,' said Ursula.

'Quite,' said Gerald, with a faint smile. 'There's more fun.'

Hermione could bear no more. She rose, saying in her easy sing-song:

'Isn't the evening beautiful! I get filled sometimes with such a great
sense of beauty, that I feel I can hardly bear it.'

Ursula, to whom she had appealed, rose with her, moved to the last
impersonal depths. And Birkin seemed to her almost a monster of hateful
arrogance. She went with Hermione along the bank of the pond, talking
of beautiful, soothing things, picking the gentle cowslips.

'Wouldn't you like a dress,' said Ursula to Hermione, 'of this yellow
spotted with orange--a cotton dress?'

'Yes,' said Hermione, stopping and looking at the flower, letting the
thought come home to her and soothe her. 'Wouldn't it be pretty? I
should LOVE it.'

And she turned smiling to Ursula, in a feeling of real affection.

But Gerald remained with Birkin, wanting to probe him to the bottom, to
know what he meant by the dual will in horses. A flicker of excitement
danced on Gerald's face.

Hermione and Ursula strayed on together, united in a sudden bond of
deep affection and closeness.

'I really do not want to be forced into all this criticism and analysis
of life. I really DO want to see things in their entirety, with their
beauty left to them, and their wholeness, their natural holiness. Don't
you feel it, don't you feel you CAN'T be tortured into any more
knowledge?' said Hermione, stopping in front of Ursula, and turning to
her with clenched fists thrust downwards.

'Yes,' said Ursula. 'I do. I am sick of all this poking and prying.'

'I'm so glad you are. Sometimes,' said Hermione, again stopping
arrested in her progress and turning to Ursula, 'sometimes I wonder if
I OUGHT to submit to all this realisation, if I am not being weak in
rejecting it. But I feel I CAN'T--I CAN'T. It seems to destroy
EVERYTHING. All the beauty and the--and the true holiness is
destroyed--and I feel I can't live without them.'

'And it would be simply wrong to live without them,' cried Ursula. 'No,
it is so IRREVERENT to think that everything must be realised in the
head. Really, something must be left to the Lord, there always is and
always will be.'

'Yes,' said Hermione, reassured like a child, 'it should, shouldn't it?
And Rupert--' she lifted her face to the sky, in a muse--'he CAN only
tear things to pieces. He really IS like a boy who must pull everything
to pieces to see how it is made. And I can't think it is right--it does
seem so irreverent, as you say.'

'Like tearing open a bud to see what the flower will be like,' said
Ursula.

'Yes. And that kills everything, doesn't it? It doesn't allow any
possibility of flowering.'

'Of course not,' said Ursula. 'It is purely destructive.'

'It is, isn't it!'

Hermione looked long and slow at Ursula, seeming to accept confirmation
from her. Then the two women were silent. As soon as they were in
accord, they began mutually to mistrust each other. In spite of
herself, Ursula felt herself recoiling from Hermione. It was all she
could do to restrain her revulsion.

They returned to the men, like two conspirators who have withdrawn to
come to an agreement. Birkin looked up at them. Ursula hated him for
his cold watchfulness. But he said nothing.

'Shall we be going?' said Hermione. 'Rupert, you are coming to
Shortlands to dinner? Will you come at once, will you come now, with
us?'

'I'm not dressed,' replied Birkin. 'And you know Gerald stickles for
convention.'

'I don't stickle for it,' said Gerald. 'But if you'd got as sick as I
have of rowdy go-as-you-please in the house, you'd prefer it if people
were peaceful and conventional, at least at meals.'

'All right,' said Birkin.

'But can't we wait for you while you dress?' persisted Hermione.

'If you like.'

He rose to go indoors. Ursula said she would take her leave.

'Only,' she said, turning to Gerald, 'I must say that, however man is
lord of the beast and the fowl, I still don't think he has any right to
violate the feelings of the inferior creation. I still think it would
have been much more sensible and nice of you if you'd trotted back up
the road while the train went by, and been considerate.'

'I see,' said Gerald, smiling, but somewhat annoyed. 'I must remember
another time.'

'They all think I'm an interfering female,' thought Ursula to herself,
as she went away. But she was in arms against them.

She ran home plunged in thought. She had been very much moved by
Hermione, she had really come into contact with her, so that there was
a sort of league between the two women. And yet she could not bear her.
But she put the thought away. 'She's really good,' she said to herself.
'She really wants what is right.' And she tried to feel at one with
Hermione, and to shut off from Birkin. She was strictly hostile to him.
But she was held to him by some bond, some deep principle. This at once
irritated her and saved her.

Only now and again, violent little shudders would come over her, out of
her subconsciousness, and she knew it was the fact that she had stated
her challenge to Birkin, and he had, consciously or unconsciously,
accepted. It was a fight to the death between them--or to new life:
though in what the conflict lay, no one could say.




CHAPTER XIII.



MINO


The days went by, and she received no sign. Was he going to ignore her,
was he going to take no further notice of her secret? A dreary weight
of anxiety and acrid bitterness settled on her. And yet Ursula knew she
was only deceiving herself, and that he would proceed. She said no word
to anybody.

Then, sure enough, there came a note from him, asking if she would come
to tea with Gudrun, to his rooms in town.

'Why does he ask Gudrun as well?' she asked herself at once. 'Does he
want to protect himself, or does he think I would not go alone?' She
was tormented by the thought that he wanted to protect himself. But at
the end of all, she only said to herself:

'I don't want Gudrun to be there, because I want him to say something
more to me. So I shan't tell Gudrun anything about it, and I shall go
alone. Then I shall know.'

She found herself sitting on the tram-car, mounting up the hill going
out of the town, to the place where he had his lodging. She seemed to
have passed into a kind of dream world, absolved from the conditions of
actuality. She watched the sordid streets of the town go by beneath
her, as if she were a spirit disconnected from the material universe.
What had it all to do with her? She was palpitating and formless within
the flux of the ghost life. She could not consider any more, what
anybody would say of her or think about her. People had passed out of
her range, she was absolved. She had fallen strange and dim, out of the
sheath of the material life, as a berry falls from the only world it
has ever known, down out of the sheath on to the real unknown.

Birkin was standing in the middle of the room, when she was shown in by
the landlady. He too was moved outside himself. She saw him agitated
and shaken, a frail, unsubstantial body silent like the node of some
violent force, that came out from him and shook her almost into a
swoon.

'You are alone?' he said.

'Yes--Gudrun could not come.'

He instantly guessed why.

And they were both seated in silence, in the terrible tension of the
room. She was aware that it was a pleasant room, full of light and very
restful in its form--aware also of a fuchsia tree, with dangling
scarlet and purple flowers.

'How nice the fuchsias are!' she said, to break the silence.

'Aren't they! Did you think I had forgotten what I said?'

A swoon went over Ursula's mind.

'I don't want you to remember it--if you don't want to,' she struggled
to say, through the dark mist that covered her.

There was silence for some moments.

'No,' he said. 'It isn't that. Only--if we are going to know each
other, we must pledge ourselves for ever. If we are going to make a
relationship, even of friendship, there must be something final and
infallible about it.'

There was a clang of mistrust and almost anger in his voice. She did
not answer. Her heart was too much contracted. She could not have
spoken.

Seeing she was not going to reply, he continued, almost bitterly,
giving himself away:

'I can't say it is love I have to offer--and it isn't love I want. It
is something much more impersonal and harder--and rarer.'

There was a silence, out of which she said:

'You mean you don't love me?'

She suffered furiously, saying that.

'Yes, if you like to put it like that. Though perhaps that isn't true.
I don't know. At any rate, I don't feel the emotion of love for
you--no, and I don't want to. Because it gives out in the last issues.'

'Love gives out in the last issues?' she asked, feeling numb to the
lips.

'Yes, it does. At the very last, one is alone, beyond the influence of
love. There is a real impersonal me, that is beyond love, beyond any
emotional relationship. So it is with you. But we want to delude
ourselves that love is the root. It isn't. It is only the branches. The
root is beyond love, a naked kind of isolation, an isolated me, that
does NOT meet and mingle, and never can.'

She watched him with wide, troubled eyes. His face was incandescent in
its abstract earnestness.

'And you mean you can't love?' she asked, in trepidation.

'Yes, if you like. I have loved. But there is a beyond, where there is
not love.'

She could not submit to this. She felt it swooning over her. But she
could not submit.

'But how do you know--if you have never REALLY loved?' she asked.

'It is true, what I say; there is a beyond, in you, in me, which is
further than love, beyond the scope, as stars are beyond the scope of
vision, some of them.'

'Then there is no love,' cried Ursula.

'Ultimately, no, there is something else. But, ultimately, there IS no
love.'

Ursula was given over to this statement for some moments. Then she half
rose from her chair, saying, in a final, repellent voice:

'Then let me go home--what am I doing here?'

'There is the door,' he said. 'You are a free agent.'

He was suspended finely and perfectly in this extremity. She hung
motionless for some seconds, then she sat down again.

'If there is no love, what is there?' she cried, almost jeering.

'Something,' he said, looking at her, battling with his soul, with all
his might.

'What?'

He was silent for a long time, unable to be in communication with her
while she was in this state of opposition.

'There is,' he said, in a voice of pure abstraction; 'a final me which
is stark and impersonal and beyond responsibility. So there is a final
you. And it is there I would want to meet you--not in the emotional,
loving plane--but there beyond, where there is no speech and no terms
of agreement. There we are two stark, unknown beings, two utterly
strange creatures, I would want to approach you, and you me. And there
could be no obligation, because there is no standard for action there,
because no understanding has been reaped from that plane. It is quite
inhuman,--so there can be no calling to book, in any form
whatsoever--because one is outside the pale of all that is accepted,
and nothing known applies. One can only follow the impulse, taking that
which lies in front, and responsible for nothing, asked for nothing,
giving nothing, only each taking according to the primal desire.'

Ursula listened to this speech, her mind dumb and almost senseless,
what he said was so unexpected and so untoward.

'It is just purely selfish,' she said.

'If it is pure, yes. But it isn't selfish at all. Because I don't KNOW
what I want of you. I deliver MYSELF over to the unknown, in coming to
you, I am without reserves or defences, stripped entirely, into the
unknown. Only there needs the pledge between us, that we will both cast
off everything, cast off ourselves even, and cease to be, so that that
which is perfectly ourselves can take place in us.'

She pondered along her own line of thought.

'But it is because you love me, that you want me?' she persisted.

'No it isn't. It is because I believe in you--if I DO believe in you.'

'Aren't you sure?' she laughed, suddenly hurt.

He was looking at her steadfastly, scarcely heeding what she said.

'Yes, I must believe in you, or else I shouldn't be here saying this,'
he replied. 'But that is all the proof I have. I don't feel any very
strong belief at this particular moment.'

She disliked him for this sudden relapse into weariness and
faithlessness.

'But don't you think me good-looking?' she persisted, in a mocking
voice.

He looked at her, to see if he felt that she was good-looking.

'I don't FEEL that you're good-looking,' he said.

'Not even attractive?' she mocked, bitingly.

He knitted his brows in sudden exasperation.

'Don't you see that it's not a question of visual appreciation in the
least,' he cried. 'I don't WANT to see you. I've seen plenty of women,
I'm sick and weary of seeing them. I want a woman I don't see.'

'I'm sorry I can't oblige you by being invisible,' she laughed.

'Yes,' he said, 'you are invisible to me, if you don't force me to be
visually aware of you. But I don't want to see you or hear you.'

'What did you ask me to tea for, then?' she mocked.

But he would take no notice of her. He was talking to himself.

'I want to find you, where you don't know your own existence, the you
that your common self denies utterly. But I don't want your good looks,
and I don't want your womanly feelings, and I don't want your thoughts
nor opinions nor your ideas--they are all bagatelles to me.'

'You are very conceited, Monsieur,' she mocked. 'How do you know what
my womanly feelings are, or my thoughts or my ideas? You don't even
know what I think of you now.'

'Nor do I care in the slightest.'

'I think you are very silly. I think you want to tell me you love me,
and you go all this way round to do it.'

'All right,' he said, looking up with sudden exasperation. 'Now go away
then, and leave me alone. I don't want any more of your meretricious
persiflage.'

'Is it really persiflage?' she mocked, her face really relaxing into
laughter. She interpreted it, that he had made a deep confession of
love to her. But he was so absurd in his words, also.

They were silent for many minutes, she was pleased and elated like a
child. His concentration broke, he began to look at her simply and
naturally.

'What I want is a strange conjunction with you--' he said quietly; 'not
meeting and mingling--you are quite right--but an equilibrium, a pure
balance of two single beings--as the stars balance each other.'

She looked at him. He was very earnest, and earnestness was always
rather ridiculous, commonplace, to her. It made her feel unfree and
uncomfortable. Yet she liked him so much. But why drag in the stars.

'Isn't this rather sudden?' she mocked.

He began to laugh.

'Best to read the terms of the contract, before we sign,' he said.

A young grey cat that had been sleeping on the sofa jumped down and
stretched, rising on its long legs, and arching its slim back. Then it
sat considering for a moment, erect and kingly. And then, like a dart,
it had shot out of the room, through the open window-doors, and into
the garden.

'What's he after?' said Birkin, rising.

The young cat trotted lordly down the path, waving his tail. He was an
ordinary tabby with white paws, a slender young gentleman. A crouching,
fluffy, brownish-grey cat was stealing up the side of the fence. The
Mino walked statelily up to her, with manly nonchalance. She crouched
before him and pressed herself on the ground in humility, a fluffy soft
outcast, looking up at him with wild eyes that were green and lovely as
great jewels. He looked casually down on her. So she crept a few inches
further, proceeding on her way to the back door, crouching in a
wonderful, soft, self-obliterating manner, and moving like a shadow.

He, going statelily on his slim legs, walked after her, then suddenly,
for pure excess, he gave her a light cuff with his paw on the side of
her face. She ran off a few steps, like a blown leaf along the ground,
then crouched unobtrusively, in submissive, wild patience. The Mino
pretended to take no notice of her. He blinked his eyes superbly at the
landscape. In a minute she drew herself together and moved softly, a
fleecy brown-grey shadow, a few paces forward. She began to quicken her
pace, in a moment she would be gone like a dream, when the young grey
lord sprang before her, and gave her a light handsome cuff. She
subsided at once, submissively.

'She is a wild cat,' said Birkin. 'She has come in from the woods.'

The eyes of the stray cat flared round for a moment, like great green
fires staring at Birkin. Then she had rushed in a soft swift rush, half
way down the garden. There she paused to look round. The Mino turned
his face in pure superiority to his master, and slowly closed his eyes,
standing in statuesque young perfection. The wild cat's round, green,
wondering eyes were staring all the while like uncanny fires. Then
again, like a shadow, she slid towards the kitchen.

In a lovely springing leap, like a wind, the Mino was upon her, and had
boxed her twice, very definitely, with a white, delicate fist. She sank
and slid back, unquestioning. He walked after her, and cuffed her once
or twice, leisurely, with sudden little blows of his magic white paws.

'Now why does he do that?' cried Ursula in indignation.

'They are on intimate terms,' said Birkin.

'And is that why he hits her?'

'Yes,' laughed Birkin, 'I think he wants to make it quite obvious to
her.'

'Isn't it horrid of him!' she cried; and going out into the garden she
called to the Mino:

'Stop it, don't bully. Stop hitting her.'

The stray cat vanished like a swift, invisible shadow. The Mino glanced
at Ursula, then looked from her disdainfully to his master.

'Are you a bully, Mino?' Birkin asked.

The young slim cat looked at him, and slowly narrowed its eyes. Then it
glanced away at the landscape, looking into the distance as if
completely oblivious of the two human beings.

'Mino,' said Ursula, 'I don't like you. You are a bully like all
males.'

'No,' said Birkin, 'he is justified. He is not a bully. He is only
insisting to the poor stray that she shall acknowledge him as a sort of
fate, her own fate: because you can see she is fluffy and promiscuous
as the wind. I am with him entirely. He wants superfine stability.'

'Yes, I know!' cried Ursula. 'He wants his own way--I know what your
fine words work down to--bossiness, I call it, bossiness.'

The young cat again glanced at Birkin in disdain of the noisy woman.

'I quite agree with you, Miciotto,' said Birkin to the cat. 'Keep your
male dignity, and your higher understanding.'

Again the Mino narrowed his eyes as if he were looking at the sun.
Then, suddenly affecting to have no connection at all with the two
people, he went trotting off, with assumed spontaneity and gaiety, his
tail erect, his white feet blithe.

'Now he will find the belle sauvage once more, and entertain her with
his superior wisdom,' laughed Birkin.

Ursula looked at the man who stood in the garden with his hair blowing
and his eyes smiling ironically, and she cried:

'Oh it makes me so cross, this assumption of male superiority! And it
is such a lie! One wouldn't mind if there were any justification for
it.'

'The wild cat,' said Birkin, 'doesn't mind. She perceives that it is
justified.'

'Does she!' cried Ursula. 'And tell it to the Horse Marines.'

'To them also.'

'It is just like Gerald Crich with his horse--a lust for bullying--a
real Wille zur Macht--so base, so petty.'

'I agree that the Wille zur Macht is a base and petty thing. But with
the Mino, it is the desire to bring this female cat into a pure stable
equilibrium, a transcendent and abiding RAPPORT with the single male.
Whereas without him, as you see, she is a mere stray, a fluffy sporadic
bit of chaos. It is a volonte de pouvoir, if you like, a will to
ability, taking pouvoir as a verb.'

'Ah--! Sophistries! It's the old Adam.'

'Oh yes. Adam kept Eve in the indestructible paradise, when he kept her
single with himself, like a star in its orbit.'

'Yes--yes--' cried Ursula, pointing her finger at him. 'There you
are--a star in its orbit! A satellite--a satellite of Mars--that's what
she is to be! There--there--you've given yourself away! You want a
satellite, Mars and his satellite! You've said it--you've said
it--you've dished yourself!'

He stood smiling in frustration and amusement and irritation and
admiration and love. She was so quick, and so lambent, like discernible
fire, and so vindictive, and so rich in her dangerous flamy
sensitiveness.

'I've not said it at all,' he replied, 'if you will give me a chance to
speak.'

'No, no!' she cried. 'I won't let you speak. You've said it, a
satellite, you're not going to wriggle out of it. You've said it.'

'You'll never believe now that I HAVEN'T said it,' he answered. 'I
neither implied nor indicated nor mentioned a satellite, nor intended a
satellite, never.'

'YOU PREVARICATOR!' she cried, in real indignation.

'Tea is ready, sir,' said the landlady from the doorway.

They both looked at her, very much as the cats had looked at them, a
little while before.

'Thank you, Mrs Daykin.'

An interrupted silence fell over the two of them, a moment of breach.

'Come and have tea,' he said.

'Yes, I should love it,' she replied, gathering herself together.

They sat facing each other across the tea table.

'I did not say, nor imply, a satellite. I meant two single equal stars
balanced in conjunction--'

'You gave yourself away, you gave away your little game completely,'
she cried, beginning at once to eat. He saw that she would take no
further heed of his expostulation, so he began to pour the tea.

'What GOOD things to eat!' she cried.

'Take your own sugar,' he said.

He handed her her cup. He had everything so nice, such pretty cups and
plates, painted with mauve-lustre and green, also shapely bowls and
glass plates, and old spoons, on a woven cloth of pale grey and black
and purple. It was very rich and fine. But Ursula could see Hermione's
influence.

'Your things are so lovely!' she said, almost angrily.

'I like them. It gives me real pleasure to use things that are
attractive in themselves--pleasant things. And Mrs Daykin is good. She
thinks everything is wonderful, for my sake.'

'Really,' said Ursula, 'landladies are better than wives, nowadays.
They certainly CARE a great deal more. It is much more beautiful and
complete here now, than if you were married.'

'But think of the emptiness within,' he laughed.

'No,' she said. 'I am jealous that men have such perfect landladies and
such beautiful lodgings. There is nothing left them to desire.'

'In the house-keeping way, we'll hope not. It is disgusting, people
marrying for a home.'

'Still,' said Ursula, 'a man has very little need for a woman now, has
he?'

'In outer things, maybe--except to share his bed and bear his children.
But essentially, there is just the same need as there ever was. Only
nobody takes the trouble to be essential.'

'How essential?' she said.

'I do think,' he said, 'that the world is only held together by the
mystic conjunction, the ultimate unison between people--a bond. And the
immediate bond is between man and woman.'

'But it's such old hat,' said Ursula. 'Why should love be a bond? No,
I'm not having any.'

'If you are walking westward,' he said, 'you forfeit the northern and
eastward and southern direction. If you admit a unison, you forfeit all
the possibilities of chaos.'

'But love is freedom,' she declared.

'Don't cant to me,' he replied. 'Love is a direction which excludes all
other directions. It's a freedom TOGETHER, if you like.'

'No,' she said, 'love includes everything.'

'Sentimental cant,' he replied. 'You want the state of chaos, that's
all. It is ultimate nihilism, this freedom-in-love business, this
freedom which is love and love which is freedom. As a matter of fact,
if you enter into a pure unison, it is irrevocable, and it is never
pure till it is irrevocable. And when it is irrevocable, it is one way,
like the path of a star.'

'Ha!' she cried bitterly. 'It is the old dead morality.'

'No,' he said, 'it is the law of creation. One is committed. One must
commit oneself to a conjunction with the other--for ever. But it is not
selfless--it is a maintaining of the self in mystic balance and
integrity--like a star balanced with another star.'

'I don't trust you when you drag in the stars,' she said. 'If you were
quite true, it wouldn't be necessary to be so far-fetched.'

'Don't trust me then,' he said, angry. 'It is enough that I trust
myself.'

'And that is where you make another mistake,' she replied. 'You DON'T
trust yourself. You don't fully believe yourself what you are saying.
You don't really want this conjunction, otherwise you wouldn't talk so
much about it, you'd get it.'

He was suspended for a moment, arrested.

'How?' he said.

'By just loving,' she retorted in defiance.

He was still a moment, in anger. Then he said:

'I tell you, I don't believe in love like that. I tell you, you want
love to administer to your egoism, to subserve you. Love is a process
of subservience with you--and with everybody. I hate it.'

'No,' she cried, pressing back her head like a cobra, her eyes
flashing. 'It is a process of pride--I want to be proud--'

'Proud and subservient, proud and subservient, I know you,' he retorted
dryly. 'Proud and subservient, then subservient to the proud--I know
you and your love. It is a tick-tack, tick-tack, a dance of opposites.'

'Are you sure?' she mocked wickedly, 'what my love is?'

'Yes, I am,' he retorted.

'So cocksure!' she said. 'How can anybody ever be right, who is so
cocksure? It shows you are wrong.'

He was silent in chagrin.

They had talked and struggled till they were both wearied out.

'Tell me about yourself and your people,' he said.

And she told him about the Brangwens, and about her mother, and about
Skrebensky, her first love, and about her later experiences. He sat
very still, watching her as she talked. And he seemed to listen with
reverence. Her face was beautiful and full of baffled light as she told
him all the things that had hurt her or perplexed her so deeply. He
seemed to warm and comfort his soul at the beautiful light of her
nature.

'If she REALLY could pledge herself,' he thought to himself, with
passionate insistence but hardly any hope. Yet a curious little
irresponsible laughter appeared in his heart.

'We have all suffered so much,' he mocked, ironically.

She looked up at him, and a flash of wild gaiety went over her face, a
strange flash of yellow light coming from her eyes.

'Haven't we!' she cried, in a high, reckless cry. 'It is almost absurd,
isn't it?'

'Quite absurd,' he said. 'Suffering bores me, any more.'

'So it does me.'

He was almost afraid of the mocking recklessness of her splendid face.
Here was one who would go to the whole lengths of heaven or hell,
whichever she had to go. And he mistrusted her, he was afraid of a
woman capable of such abandon, such dangerous thoroughness of
destructivity. Yet he chuckled within himself also.

She came over to him and put her hand on his shoulder, looking down at
him with strange golden-lighted eyes, very tender, but with a curious
devilish look lurking underneath.

'Say you love me, say "my love" to me,' she pleaded

He looked back into her eyes, and saw. His face flickered with sardonic
comprehension.

'I love you right enough,' he said, grimly. 'But I want it to be
something else.'

'But why? But why?' she insisted, bending her wonderful luminous face
to him. 'Why isn't it enough?'

'Because we can go one better,' he said, putting his arms round her.

'No, we can't,' she said, in a strong, voluptuous voice of yielding.
'We can only love each other. Say "my love" to me, say it, say it.'

She put her arms round his neck. He enfolded her, and kissed her
subtly, murmuring in a subtle voice of love, and irony, and submission:

'Yes,--my love, yes,--my love. Let love be enough then. I love you
then--I love you. I'm bored by the rest.'

'Yes,' she murmured, nestling very sweet and close to him.




CHAPTER XIV.



WATER-PARTY


Every year Mr Crich gave a more or less public water-party on the lake.
There was a little pleasure-launch on Willey Water and several rowing
boats, and guests could take tea either in the marquee that was set up
in the grounds of the house, or they could picnic in the shade of the
great walnut tree at the boat-house by the lake. This year the staff of
the Grammar-School was invited, along with the chief officials of the
firm. Gerald and the younger Criches did not care for this party, but
it had become customary now, and it pleased the father, as being the
only occasion when he could gather some people of the district together
in festivity with him. For he loved to give pleasures to his dependents
and to those poorer than himself. But his children preferred the
company of their own equals in wealth. They hated their inferiors'
humility or gratitude or awkwardness.

Nevertheless they were willing to attend at this festival, as they had
done almost since they were children, the more so, as they all felt a
little guilty now, and unwilling to thwart their father any more, since
he was so ill in health. Therefore, quite cheerfully Laura prepared to
take her mother's place as hostess, and Gerald assumed responsibility
for the amusements on the water.

Birkin had written to Ursula saying he expected to see her at the
party, and Gudrun, although she scorned the patronage of the Criches,
would nevertheless accompany her mother and father if the weather were
fine.

The day came blue and full of sunshine, with little wafts of wind. The
sisters both wore dresses of white crepe, and hats of soft grass. But
Gudrun had a sash of brilliant black and pink and yellow colour wound
broadly round her waist, and she had pink silk stockings, and black and
pink and yellow decoration on the brim of her hat, weighing it down a
little. She carried also a yellow silk coat over her arm, so that she
looked remarkable, like a painting from the Salon. Her appearance was a
sore trial to her father, who said angrily:

'Don't you think you might as well get yourself up for a Christmas
cracker, an'ha' done with it?'

But Gudrun looked handsome and brilliant, and she wore her clothes in
pure defiance. When people stared at her, and giggled after her, she
made a point of saying loudly, to Ursula:

'Regarde, regarde ces gens-la! Ne sont-ils pas des hiboux incroyables?'
And with the words of French in her mouth, she would look over her
shoulder at the giggling party.

'No, really, it's impossible!' Ursula would reply distinctly. And so
the two girls took it out of their universal enemy. But their father
became more and more enraged.

Ursula was all snowy white, save that her hat was pink, and entirely
without trimming, and her shoes were dark red, and she carried an
orange-coloured coat. And in this guise they were walking all the way
to Shortlands, their father and mother going in front.

They were laughing at their mother, who, dressed in a summer material
of black and purple stripes, and wearing a hat of purple straw, was
setting forth with much more of the shyness and trepidation of a young
girl than her daughters ever felt, walking demurely beside her husband,
who, as usual, looked rather crumpled in his best suit, as if he were
the father of a young family and had been holding the baby whilst his
wife got dressed.

'Look at the young couple in front,' said Gudrun calmly. Ursula looked
at her mother and father, and was suddenly seized with uncontrollable
laughter. The two girls stood in the road and laughed till the tears
ran down their faces, as they caught sight again of the shy, unworldly
couple of their parents going on ahead.

'We are roaring at you, mother,' called Ursula, helplessly following
after her parents.

Mrs Brangwen turned round with a slightly puzzled, exasperated look.
'Oh indeed!' she said. 'What is there so very funny about ME, I should
like to know?'

She could not understand that there could be anything amiss with her
appearance. She had a perfect calm sufficiency, an easy indifference to
any criticism whatsoever, as if she were beyond it. Her clothes were
always rather odd, and as a rule slip-shod, yet she wore them with a
perfect ease and satisfaction. Whatever she had on, so long as she was
barely tidy, she was right, beyond remark; such an aristocrat she was
by instinct.

'You look so stately, like a country Baroness,' said Ursula, laughing
with a little tenderness at her mother's naive puzzled air.

'JUST like a country Baroness!' chimed in Gudrun. Now the mother's
natural hauteur became self-conscious, and the girls shrieked again.

'Go home, you pair of idiots, great giggling idiots!' cried the father
inflamed with irritation.

'Mm-m-er!' booed Ursula, pulling a face at his crossness.

The yellow lights danced in his eyes, he leaned forward in real rage.

'Don't be so silly as to take any notice of the great gabies,' said Mrs
Brangwen, turning on her way.

'I'll see if I'm going to be followed by a pair of giggling yelling
jackanapes--' he cried vengefully.

The girls stood still, laughing helplessly at his fury, upon the path
beside the hedge.

'Why you're as silly as they are, to take any notice,' said Mrs
Brangwen also becoming angry now he was really enraged.

'There are some people coming, father,' cried Ursula, with mocking
warning. He glanced round quickly, and went on to join his wife,
walking stiff with rage. And the girls followed, weak with laughter.

When the people had passed by, Brangwen cried in a loud, stupid voice:

'I'm going back home if there's any more of this. I'm damned if I'm
going to be made a fool of in this fashion, in the public road.'

He was really out of temper. At the sound of his blind, vindictive
voice, the laughter suddenly left the girls, and their hearts
contracted with contempt. They hated his words 'in the public road.'
What did they care for the public road? But Gudrun was conciliatory.

'But we weren't laughing to HURT you,' she cried, with an uncouth
gentleness which made her parents uncomfortable. 'We were laughing
because we're fond of you.'

'We'll walk on in front, if they are SO touchy,' said Ursula, angry.
And in this wise they arrived at Willey Water. The lake was blue and
fair, the meadows sloped down in sunshine on one side, the thick dark
woods dropped steeply on the other. The little pleasure-launch was
fussing out from the shore, twanging its music, crowded with people,
flapping its paddles. Near the boat-house was a throng of gaily-dressed
persons, small in the distance. And on the high-road, some of the
common people were standing along the hedge, looking at the festivity
beyond, enviously, like souls not admitted to paradise.

'My eye!' said Gudrun, sotto voce, looking at the motley of guests,
'there's a pretty crowd if you like! Imagine yourself in the midst of
that, my dear.'

Gudrun's apprehensive horror of people in the mass unnerved Ursula. 'It
looks rather awful,' she said anxiously.

'And imagine what they'll be like--IMAGINE!' said Gudrun, still in that
unnerving, subdued voice. Yet she advanced determinedly.

'I suppose we can get away from them,' said Ursula anxiously.

'We're in a pretty fix if we can't,' said Gudrun. Her extreme ironic
loathing and apprehension was very trying to Ursula.

'We needn't stay,' she said.

'I certainly shan't stay five minutes among that little lot,' said
Gudrun. They advanced nearer, till they saw policemen at the gates.

'Policemen to keep you in, too!' said Gudrun. 'My word, this is a
beautiful affair.'

'We'd better look after father and mother,' said Ursula anxiously.

'Mother's PERFECTLY capable of getting through this little
celebration,' said Gudrun with some contempt.

But Ursula knew that her father felt uncouth and angry and unhappy, so
she was far from her ease. They waited outside the gate till their
parents came up. The tall, thin man in his crumpled clothes was
unnerved and irritable as a boy, finding himself on the brink of this
social function. He did not feel a gentleman, he did not feel anything
except pure exasperation.

Ursula took her place at his side, they gave their tickets to the
policeman, and passed in on to the grass, four abreast; the tall, hot,
ruddy-dark man with his narrow boyish brow drawn with irritation, the
fresh-faced, easy woman, perfectly collected though her hair was
slipping on one side, then Gudrun, her eyes round and dark and staring,
her full soft face impassive, almost sulky, so that she seemed to be
backing away in antagonism even whilst she was advancing; and then
Ursula, with the odd, brilliant, dazzled look on her face, that always
came when she was in some false situation.

Birkin was the good angel. He came smiling to them with his affected
social grace, that somehow was never QUITE right. But he took off his
hat and smiled at them with a real smile in his eyes, so that Brangwen
cried out heartily in relief:

'How do you do? You're better, are you?'

'Yes, I'm better. How do you do, Mrs Brangwen? I know Gudrun and Ursula
very well.'

His eyes smiled full of natural warmth. He had a soft, flattering
manner with women, particularly with women who were not young.

'Yes,' said Mrs Brangwen, cool but yet gratified. 'I have heard them
speak of you often enough.'

He laughed. Gudrun looked aside, feeling she was being belittled.
People were standing about in groups, some women were sitting in the
shade of the walnut tree, with cups of tea in their hands, a waiter in
evening dress was hurrying round, some girls were simpering with
parasols, some young men, who had just come in from rowing, were
sitting cross-legged on the grass, coatless, their shirt-sleeves rolled
up in manly fashion, their hands resting on their white flannel
trousers, their gaudy ties floating about, as they laughed and tried to
be witty with the young damsels.

'Why,' thought Gudrun churlishly, 'don't they have the manners to put
their coats on, and not to assume such intimacy in their appearance.'

She abhorred the ordinary young man, with his hair plastered back, and
his easy-going chumminess.

Hermione Roddice came up, in a handsome gown of white lace, trailing an
enormous silk shawl blotched with great embroidered flowers, and
balancing an enormous plain hat on her head. She looked striking,
astonishing, almost macabre, so tall, with the fringe of her great
cream-coloured vividly-blotched shawl trailing on the ground after her,
her thick hair coming low over her eyes, her face strange and long and
pale, and the blotches of brilliant colour drawn round her.

'Doesn't she look WEIRD!' Gudrun heard some girls titter behind her.
And she could have killed them.

'How do you do!' sang Hermione, coming up very kindly, and glancing
slowly over Gudrun's father and mother. It was a trying moment,
exasperating for Gudrun. Hermione was really so strongly entrenched in
her class superiority, she could come up and know people out of simple
curiosity, as if they were creatures on exhibition. Gudrun would do the
same herself. But she resented being in the position when somebody
might do it to her.

Hermione, very remarkable, and distinguishing the Brangwens very much,
led them along to where Laura Crich stood receiving the guests.

'This is Mrs Brangwen,' sang Hermione, and Laura, who wore a stiff
embroidered linen dress, shook hands and said she was glad to see her.
Then Gerald came up, dressed in white, with a black and brown blazer,
and looking handsome. He too was introduced to the Brangwen parents,
and immediately he spoke to Mrs Brangwen as if she were a lady, and to
Brangwen as if he were NOT a gentleman. Gerlad was so obvious in his
demeanour. He had to shake hands with his left hand, because he had
hurt his right, and carried it, bandaged up, in the pocket of his
jacket. Gudrun was VERY thankful that none of her party asked him what
was the matter with the hand.

The steam launch was fussing in, all its music jingling, people calling
excitedly from on board. Gerald went to see to the debarkation, Birkin
was getting tea for Mrs Brangwen, Brangwen had joined a Grammar-School
group, Hermione was sitting down by their mother, the girls went to the
landing-stage to watch the launch come in.

She hooted and tooted gaily, then her paddles were silent, the ropes
were thrown ashore, she drifted in with a little bump. Immediately the
passengers crowded excitedly to come ashore.

'Wait a minute, wait a minute,' shouted Gerald in sharp command.

They must wait till the boat was tight on the ropes, till the small
gangway was put out. Then they streamed ashore, clamouring as if they
had come from America.

'Oh it's SO nice!' the young girls were crying. 'It's quite lovely.'

The waiters from on board ran out to the boat-house with baskets, the
captain lounged on the little bridge. Seeing all safe, Gerald came to
Gudrun and Ursula.

'You wouldn't care to go on board for the next trip, and have tea
there?' he asked.

'No thanks,' said Gudrun coldly.

'You don't care for the water?'

'For the water? Yes, I like it very much.'

He looked at her, his eyes searching.

'You don't care for going on a launch, then?'

She was slow in answering, and then she spoke slowly.

'No,' she said. 'I can't say that I do.' Her colour was high, she
seemed angry about something.

'Un peu trop de monde,' said Ursula, explaining.

'Eh? TROP DE MONDE!' He laughed shortly. 'Yes there's a fair number of
'em.'

Gudrun turned on him brilliantly.

'Have you ever been from Westminster Bridge to Richmond on one of the
Thames steamers?' she cried.

'No,' he said, 'I can't say I have.'

'Well, it's one of the most VILE experiences I've ever had.' She spoke
rapidly and excitedly, the colour high in her cheeks. 'There was
absolutely nowhere to sit down, nowhere, a man just above sang "Rocked
in the Cradle of the Deep" the WHOLE way; he was blind and he had a
small organ, one of those portable organs, and he expected money; so
you can imagine what THAT was like; there came a constant smell of
luncheon from below, and puffs of hot oily machinery; the journey took
hours and hours and hours; and for miles, literally for miles, dreadful
boys ran with us on the shore, in that AWFUL Thames mud, going in UP TO
THE WAIST--they had their trousers turned back, and they went up to
their hips in that indescribable Thames mud, their faces always turned
to us, and screaming, exactly like carrion creatures, screaming "'Ere
y'are sir, 'ere y'are sir, 'ere y'are sir," exactly like some foul
carrion objects, perfectly obscene; and paterfamilias on board,
laughing when the boys went right down in that awful mud, occasionally
throwing them a ha'penny. And if you'd seen the intent look on the
faces of these boys, and the way they darted in the filth when a coin
was flung--really, no vulture or jackal could dream of approaching
them, for foulness. I NEVER would go on a pleasure boat again--never.'

Gerald watched her all the time she spoke, his eyes glittering with
faint rousedness. It was not so much what she said; it was she herself
who roused him, roused him with a small, vivid pricking.

'Of course,' he said, 'every civilised body is bound to have its
vermin.'

'Why?' cried Ursula. 'I don't have vermin.'

'And it's not that--it's the QUALITY of the whole thing--paterfamilias
laughing and thinking it sport, and throwing the ha'pennies, and
materfamilias spreading her fat little knees and eating, continually
eating--' replied Gudrun.

'Yes,' said Ursula. 'It isn't the boys so much who are vermin; it's the
people themselves, the whole body politic, as you call it.'

Gerald laughed.

'Never mind,' he said. 'You shan't go on the launch.'

Gudrun flushed quickly at his rebuke.

There were a few moments of silence. Gerald, like a sentinel, was
watching the people who were going on to the boat. He was very
good-looking and self-contained, but his air of soldierly alertness was
rather irritating.

'Will you have tea here then, or go across to the house, where there's
a tent on the lawn?' he asked.

'Can't we have a rowing boat, and get out?' asked Ursula, who was
always rushing in too fast.

'To get out?' smiled Gerald.

'You see,' cried Gudrun, flushing at Ursula's outspoken rudeness, 'we
don't know the people, we are almost COMPLETE strangers here.'

'Oh, I can soon set you up with a few acquaintances,' he said easily.

Gudrun looked at him, to see if it were ill-meant. Then she smiled at
him.

'Ah,' she said, 'you know what we mean. Can't we go up there, and
explore that coast?' She pointed to a grove on the hillock of the
meadow-side, near the shore half way down the lake. 'That looks
perfectly lovely. We might even bathe. Isn't it beautiful in this
light. Really, it's like one of the reaches of the Nile--as one
imagines the Nile.'

Gerald smiled at her factitious enthusiasm for the distant spot.

'You're sure it's far enough off?' he asked ironically, adding at once:
'Yes, you might go there, if we could get a boat. They seem to be all
out.'

He looked round the lake and counted the rowing boats on its surface.

'How lovely it would be!' cried Ursula wistfully.

'And don't you want tea?' he said.

'Oh,' said Gudrun, 'we could just drink a cup, and be off.'

He looked from one to the other, smiling. He was somewhat offended--yet
sporting.

'Can you manage a boat pretty well?' he asked.

'Yes,' replied Gudrun, coldly, 'pretty well.'

'Oh yes,' cried Ursula. 'We can both of us row like water-spiders.'

'You can? There's light little canoe of mine, that I didn't take out
for fear somebody should drown themselves. Do you think you'd be safe
in that?'

'Oh perfectly,' said Gudrun.

'What an angel!' cried Ursula.

'Don't, for MY sake, have an accident--because I'm responsible for the
water.'

'Sure,' pledged Gudrun.

'Besides, we can both swim quite well,' said Ursula.

'Well--then I'll get them to put you up a tea-basket, and you can
picnic all to yourselves,--that's the idea, isn't it?'

'How fearfully good! How frightfully nice if you could!' cried Gudrun
warmly, her colour flushing up again. It made the blood stir in his
veins, the subtle way she turned to him and infused her gratitude into
his body.

'Where's Birkin?' he said, his eyes twinkling. 'He might help me to get
it down.'

'But what about your hand? Isn't it hurt?' asked Gudrun, rather muted,
as if avoiding the intimacy. This was the first time the hurt had been
mentioned. The curious way she skirted round the subject sent a new,
subtle caress through his veins. He took his hand out of his pocket. It
was bandaged. He looked at it, then put it in his pocket again. Gudrun
quivered at the sight of the wrapped up paw.

'Oh I can manage with one hand. The canoe is as light as a feather,' he
said. 'There's Rupert!--Rupert!'

Birkin turned from his social duties and came towards them.

'What have you done to it?' asked Ursula, who had been aching to put
the question for the last half hour.

'To my hand?' said Gerald. 'I trapped it in some machinery.'

'Ugh!' said Ursula. 'And did it hurt much?'

'Yes,' he said. 'It did at the time. It's getting better now. It
crushed the fingers.'

'Oh,' cried Ursula, as if in pain, 'I hate people who hurt themselves.
I can FEEL it.' And she shook her hand.

'What do you want?' said Birkin.

The two men carried down the slim brown boat, and set it on the water.

'You're quite sure you'll be safe in it?' Gerald asked.

'Quite sure,' said Gudrun. 'I wouldn't be so mean as to take it, if
there was the slightest doubt. But I've had a canoe at Arundel, and I
assure you I'm perfectly safe.'

So saying, having given her word like a man, she and Ursula entered the
frail craft, and pushed gently off. The two men stood watching them.
Gudrun was paddling. She knew the men were watching her, and it made
her slow and rather clumsy. The colour flew in her face like a flag.

'Thanks awfully,' she called back to him, from the water, as the boat
slid away. 'It's lovely--like sitting in a leaf.'

He laughed at the fancy. Her voice was shrill and strange, calling from
the distance. He watched her as she paddled away. There was something
childlike about her, trustful and deferential, like a child. He watched
her all the while, as she rowed. And to Gudrun it was a real delight,
in make-belief, to be the childlike, clinging woman to the man who
stood there on the quay, so good-looking and efficient in his white
clothes, and moreover the most important man she knew at the moment.
She did not take any notice of the wavering, indistinct, lambent
Birkin, who stood at his side. One figure at a time occupied the field
of her attention.

The boat rustled lightly along the water. They passed the bathers whose
striped tents stood between the willows of the meadow's edge, and drew
along the open shore, past the meadows that sloped golden in the light
of the already late afternoon. Other boats were stealing under the
wooded shore opposite, they could hear people's laughter and voices.
But Gudrun rowed on towards the clump of trees that balanced perfect in
the distance, in the golden light.

The sisters found a little place where a tiny stream flowed into the
lake, with reeds and flowery marsh of pink willow herb, and a gravelly
bank to the side. Here they ran delicately ashore, with their frail
boat, the two girls took off their shoes and stockings and went through
the water's edge to the grass. The tiny ripples of the lake were warm
and clear, they lifted their boat on to the bank, and looked round with
joy. They were quite alone in a forsaken little stream-mouth, and on
the knoll just behind was the clump of trees.

'We will bathe just for a moment,' said Ursula, 'and then we'll have
tea.'

They looked round. Nobody could notice them, or could come up in time
to see them. In less than a minute Ursula had thrown off her clothes
and had slipped naked into the water, and was swimming out. Quickly,
Gudrun joined her. They swam silently and blissfully for a few minutes,
circling round their little stream-mouth. Then they slipped ashore and
ran into the grove again, like nymphs.

'How lovely it is to be free,' said Ursula, running swiftly here and
there between the tree trunks, quite naked, her hair blowing loose. The
grove was of beech-trees, big and splendid, a steel-grey scaffolding of
trunks and boughs, with level sprays of strong green here and there,
whilst through the northern side the distance glimmered open as through
a window.

When they had run and danced themselves dry, the girls quickly dressed
and sat down to the fragrant tea. They sat on the northern side of the
grove, in the yellow sunshine facing the slope of the grassy hill,
alone in a little wild world of their own. The tea was hot and
aromatic, there were delicious little sandwiches of cucumber and of
caviare, and winy cakes.

'Are you happy, Prune?' cried Ursula in delight, looking at her sister.

'Ursula, I'm perfectly happy,' replied Gudrun gravely, looking at the
westering sun.

'So am I.'

When they were together, doing the things they enjoyed, the two sisters
were quite complete in a perfect world of their own. And this was one
of the perfect moments of freedom and delight, such as children alone
know, when all seems a perfect and blissful adventure.

When they had finished tea, the two girls sat on, silent and serene.
Then Ursula, who had a beautiful strong voice, began to sing to
herself, softly: 'Annchen von Tharau.' Gudrun listened, as she sat
beneath the trees, and the yearning came into her heart. Ursula seemed
so peaceful and sufficient unto herself, sitting there unconsciously
crooning her song, strong and unquestioned at the centre of her own
universe. And Gudrun felt herself outside. Always this desolating,
agonised feeling, that she was outside of life, an onlooker, whilst
Ursula was a partaker, caused Gudrun to suffer from a sense of her own
negation, and made her, that she must always demand the other to be
aware of her, to be in connection with her.

'Do you mind if I do Dalcroze to that tune, Hurtler?' she asked in a
curious muted tone, scarce moving her lips.

'What did you say?' asked Ursula, looking up in peaceful surprise.

'Will you sing while I do Dalcroze?' said Gudrun, suffering at having
to repeat herself.

Ursula thought a moment, gathering her straying wits together.

'While you do--?' she asked vaguely.

'Dalcroze movements,' said Gudrun, suffering tortures of
self-consciousness, even because of her sister.

'Oh Dalcroze! I couldn't catch the name. DO--I should love to see you,'
cried Ursula, with childish surprised brightness. 'What shall I sing?'

'Sing anything you like, and I'll take the rhythm from it.'

But Ursula could not for her life think of anything to sing. However,
she suddenly began, in a laughing, teasing voice:

'My love--is a high-born lady--'

Gudrun, looking as if some invisible chain weighed on her hands and
feet, began slowly to dance in the eurythmic manner, pulsing and
fluttering rhythmically with her feet, making slower, regular gestures
with her hands and arms, now spreading her arms wide, now raising them
above her head, now flinging them softly apart, and lifting her face,
her feet all the time beating and running to the measure of the song,
as if it were some strange incantation, her white, rapt form drifting
here and there in a strange impulsive rhapsody, seeming to be lifted on
a breeze of incantation, shuddering with strange little runs. Ursula
sat on the grass, her mouth open in her singing, her eyes laughing as
if she thought it was a great joke, but a yellow light flashing up in
them, as she caught some of the unconscious ritualistic suggestion of
the complex shuddering and waving and drifting of her sister's white
form, that was clutched in pure, mindless, tossing rhythm, and a will
set powerful in a kind of hypnotic influence.

'My love is a high-born lady--She is-s-s--rather dark than shady--'
rang out Ursula's laughing, satiric song, and quicker, fiercer went
Gudrun in the dance, stamping as if she were trying to throw off some
bond, flinging her hands suddenly and stamping again, then rushing with
face uplifted and throat full and beautiful, and eyes half closed,
sightless. The sun was low and yellow, sinking down, and in the sky
floated a thin, ineffectual moon.

Ursula was quite absorbed in her song, when suddenly Gudrun stopped and
said mildly, ironically:

'Ursula!'

'Yes?' said Ursula, opening her eyes out of the trance.

Gudrun was standing still and pointing, a mocking smile on her face,
towards the side.

'Ugh!' cried Ursula in sudden panic, starting to her feet.

'They're quite all right,' rang out Gudrun's sardonic voice.

On the left stood a little cluster of Highland cattle, vividly coloured
and fleecy in the evening light, their horns branching into the sky,
pushing forward their muzzles inquisitively, to know what it was all
about. Their eyes glittered through their tangle of hair, their naked
nostrils were full of shadow.

'Won't they do anything?' cried Ursula in fear.

Gudrun, who was usually frightened of cattle, now shook her head in a
queer, half-doubtful, half-sardonic motion, a faint smile round her
mouth.

'Don't they look charming, Ursula?' cried Gudrun, in a high, strident
voice, something like the scream of a seagull.

'Charming,' cried Ursula in trepidation. 'But won't they do anything to
us?'

Again Gudrun looked back at her sister with an enigmatic smile, and
shook her head.

'I'm sure they won't,' she said, as if she had to convince herself
also, and yet, as if she were confident of some secret power in
herself, and had to put it to the test. 'Sit down and sing again,' she
called in her high, strident voice.

'I'm frightened,' cried Ursula, in a pathetic voice, watching the group
of sturdy short cattle, that stood with their knees planted, and
watched with their dark, wicked eyes, through the matted fringe of
their hair. Nevertheless, she sank down again, in her former posture.

'They are quite safe,' came Gudrun's high call. 'Sing something, you've
only to sing something.'

It was evident she had a strange passion to dance before the sturdy,
handsome cattle.

Ursula began to sing, in a false quavering voice:

'Way down in Tennessee--'

She sounded purely anxious. Nevertheless, Gudrun, with her arms
outspread and her face uplifted, went in a strange palpitating dance
towards the cattle, lifting her body towards them as if in a spell, her
feet pulsing as if in some little frenzy of unconscious sensation, her
arms, her wrists, her hands stretching and heaving and falling and
reaching and reaching and falling, her breasts lifted and shaken
towards the cattle, her throat exposed as in some voluptuous ecstasy
towards them, whilst she drifted imperceptibly nearer, an uncanny white
figure, towards them, carried away in its own rapt trance, ebbing in
strange fluctuations upon the cattle, that waited, and ducked their
heads a little in sudden contraction from her, watching all the time as
if hypnotised, their bare horns branching in the clear light, as the
white figure of the woman ebbed upon them, in the slow, hypnotising
convulsion of the dance. She could feel them just in front of her, it
was as if she had the electric pulse from their breasts running into
her hands. Soon she would touch them, actually touch them. A terrible
shiver of fear and pleasure went through her. And all the while,
Ursula, spell-bound, kept up her high-pitched thin, irrelevant song,
which pierced the fading evening like an incantation.

Gudrun could hear the cattle breathing heavily with helpless fear and
fascination. Oh, they were brave little beasts, these wild Scotch
bullocks, wild and fleecy. Suddenly one of them snorted, ducked its
head, and backed.

'Hue! Hi-eee!' came a sudden loud shout from the edge of the grove. The
cattle broke and fell back quite spontaneously, went running up the
hill, their fleece waving like fire to their motion. Gudrun stood
suspended out on the grass, Ursula rose to her feet.

It was Gerald and Birkin come to find them, and Gerald had cried out to
frighten off the cattle.

'What do you think you're doing?' he now called, in a high, wondering
vexed tone.

'Why have you come?' came back Gudrun's strident cry of anger.

'What do you think you were doing?' Gerald repeated, auto-matically.

'We were doing eurythmics,' laughed Ursula, in a shaken voice.

Gudrun stood aloof looking at them with large dark eyes of resentment,
suspended for a few moments. Then she walked away up the hill, after
the cattle, which had gathered in a little, spell-bound cluster higher
up.

'Where are you going?' Gerald called after her. And he followed her up
the hill-side. The sun had gone behind the hill, and shadows were
clinging to the earth, the sky above was full of travelling light.

'A poor song for a dance,' said Birkin to Ursula, standing before her
with a sardonic, flickering laugh on his face. And in another second,
he was singing softly to himself, and dancing a grotesque step-dance in
front of her, his limbs and body shaking loose, his face flickering
palely, a constant thing, whilst his feet beat a rapid mocking tattoo,
and his body seemed to hang all loose and quaking in between, like a
shadow.

'I think we've all gone mad,' she said, laughing rather frightened.

'Pity we aren't madder,' he answered, as he kept up the incessant
shaking dance. Then suddenly he leaned up to her and kissed her fingers
lightly, putting his face to hers and looking into her eyes with a pale
grin. She stepped back, affronted.

'Offended--?' he asked ironically, suddenly going quite still and
reserved again. 'I thought you liked the light fantastic.'

'Not like that,' she said, confused and bewildered, almost affronted.
Yet somewhere inside her she was fascinated by the sight of his loose,
vibrating body, perfectly abandoned to its own dropping and swinging,
and by the pallid, sardonic-smiling face above. Yet automatically she
stiffened herself away, and disapproved. It seemed almost an obscenity,
in a man who talked as a rule so very seriously.

'Why not like that?' he mocked. And immediately he dropped again into
the incredibly rapid, slack-waggling dance, watching her malevolently.
And moving in the rapid, stationary dance, he came a little nearer, and
reached forward with an incredibly mocking, satiric gleam on his face,
and would have kissed her again, had she not started back.

'No, don't!' she cried, really afraid.

'Cordelia after all,' he said satirically. She was stung, as if this
were an insult. She knew he intended it as such, and it bewildered her.

'And you,' she cried in retort, 'why do you always take your soul in
your mouth, so frightfully full?'

'So that I can spit it out the more readily,' he said, pleased by his
own retort.

Gerald Crich, his face narrowing to an intent gleam, followed up the
hill with quick strides, straight after Gudrun. The cattle stood with
their noses together on the brow of a slope, watching the scene below,
the men in white hovering about the white forms of the women, watching
above all Gudrun, who was advancing slowly towards them. She stood a
moment, glancing back at Gerald, and then at the cattle.

Then in a sudden motion, she lifted her arms and rushed sheer upon the
long-horned bullocks, in shuddering irregular runs, pausing for a
second and looking at them, then lifting her hands and running forward
with a flash, till they ceased pawing the ground, and gave way,
snorting with terror, lifting their heads from the ground and flinging
themselves away, galloping off into the evening, becoming tiny in the
distance, and still not stopping.

Gudrun remained staring after them, with a mask-like defiant face.

'Why do you want to drive them mad?' asked Gerald, coming up with her.

She took no notice of him, only averted her face from him. 'It's not
safe, you know,' he persisted. 'They're nasty, when they do turn.'

'Turn where? Turn away?' she mocked loudly.

'No,' he said, 'turn against you.'

'Turn against ME?' she mocked.

He could make nothing of this.

'Anyway, they gored one of the farmer's cows to death, the other day,'
he said.

'What do I care?' she said.

'I cared though,' he replied, 'seeing that they're my cattle.'

'How are they yours! You haven't swallowed them. Give me one of them
now,' she said, holding out her hand.

'You know where they are,' he said, pointing over the hill. 'You can
have one if you'd like it sent to you later on.'

She looked at him inscrutably.

'You think I'm afraid of you and your cattle, don't you?' she asked.

His eyes narrowed dangerously. There was a faint domineering smile on
his face.

'Why should I think that?' he said.

She was watching him all the time with her dark, dilated, inchoate
eyes. She leaned forward and swung round her arm, catching him a light
blow on the face with the back of her hand.

'That's why,' she said, mocking.

And she felt in her soul an unconquerable desire for deep violence
against him. She shut off the fear and dismay that filled her conscious
mind. She wanted to do as she did, she was not going to be afraid.

He recoiled from the slight blow on his face. He became deadly pale,
and a dangerous flame darkened his eyes. For some seconds he could not
speak, his lungs were so suffused with blood, his heart stretched
almost to bursting with a great gush of ungovernable emotion. It was as
if some reservoir of black emotion had burst within him, and swamped
him.

'You have struck the first blow,' he said at last, forcing the words
from his lungs, in a voice so soft and low, it sounded like a dream
within her, not spoken in the outer air.

'And I shall strike the last,' she retorted involuntarily, with
confident assurance. He was silent, he did not contradict her.

She stood negligently, staring away from him, into the distance. On the
edge of her consciousness the question was asking itself,
automatically:

'Why ARE you behaving in this IMPOSSIBLE and ridiculous fashion.' But
she was sullen, she half shoved the question out of herself. She could
not get it clean away, so she felt self-conscious.

Gerald, very pale, was watching her closely. His eyes were lit up with
intent lights, absorbed and gleaming. She turned suddenly on him.

'It's you who make me behave like this, you know,' she said, almost
suggestive.

'I? How?' he said.

But she turned away, and set off towards the lake. Below, on the water,
lanterns were coming alight, faint ghosts of warm flame floating in the
pallor of the first twilight. The earth was spread with darkness, like
lacquer, overhead was a pale sky, all primrose, and the lake was pale
as milk in one part. Away at the landing stage, tiniest points of
coloured rays were stringing themselves in the dusk. The launch was
being illuminated. All round, shadow was gathering from the trees.

Gerald, white like a presence in his summer clothes, was following down
the open grassy slope. Gudrun waited for him to come up. Then she
softly put out her hand and touched him, saying softly:

'Don't be angry with me.'

A flame flew over him, and he was unconscious. Yet he stammered:

'I'm not angry with you. I'm in love with you.'

His mind was gone, he grasped for sufficient mechanical control, to
save himself. She laughed a silvery little mockery, yet intolerably
caressive.

'That's one way of putting it,' she said.

The terrible swooning burden on his mind, the awful swooning, the loss
of all his control, was too much for him. He grasped her arm in his one
hand, as if his hand were iron.

'It's all right, then, is it?' he said, holding her arrested.

She looked at the face with the fixed eyes, set before her, and her
blood ran cold.

'Yes, it's all right,' she said softly, as if drugged, her voice
crooning and witch-like.

He walked on beside her, a striding, mindless body. But he recovered a
little as he went. He suffered badly. He had killed his brother when a
boy, and was set apart, like Cain.

They found Birkin and Ursula sitting together by the boats, talking and
laughing. Birkin had been teasing Ursula.

'Do you smell this little marsh?' he said, sniffing the air. He was
very sensitive to scents, and quick in understanding them.

'It's rather nice,' she said.

'No,' he replied, 'alarming.'

'Why alarming?' she laughed.

'It seethes and seethes, a river of darkness,' he said, 'putting forth
lilies and snakes, and the ignis fatuus, and rolling all the time
onward. That's what we never take into count--that it rolls onwards.'

'What does?'

'The other river, the black river. We always consider the silver river
of life, rolling on and quickening all the world to a brightness, on
and on to heaven, flowing into a bright eternal sea, a heaven of angels
thronging. But the other is our real reality--'

'But what other? I don't see any other,' said Ursula.

'It is your reality, nevertheless,' he said; 'that dark river of
dissolution. You see it rolls in us just as the other rolls--the black
river of corruption. And our flowers are of this--our sea-born
Aphrodite, all our white phosphorescent flowers of sensuous perfection,
all our reality, nowadays.'

'You mean that Aphrodite is really deathly?' asked Ursula.

'I mean she is the flowering mystery of the death-process, yes,' he
replied. 'When the stream of synthetic creation lapses, we find
ourselves part of the inverse process, the blood of destructive
creation. Aphrodite is born in the first spasm of universal
dissolution--then the snakes and swans and lotus--marsh-flowers--and
Gudrun and Gerald--born in the process of destructive creation.'

'And you and me--?' she asked.

'Probably,' he replied. 'In part, certainly. Whether we are that, in
toto, I don't yet know.'

'You mean we are flowers of dissolution--fleurs du mal? I don't feel as
if I were,' she protested.

He was silent for a time.

'I don't feel as if we were, ALTOGETHER,' he replied. 'Some people are
pure flowers of dark corruption--lilies. But there ought to be some
roses, warm and flamy. You know Herakleitos says "a dry soul is best."
I know so well what that means. Do you?'

'I'm not sure,' Ursula replied. 'But what if people ARE all flowers of
dissolution--when they're flowers at all--what difference does it
make?'

'No difference--and all the difference. Dissolution rolls on, just as
production does,' he said. 'It is a progressive process--and it ends in
universal nothing--the end of the world, if you like. But why isn't the
end of the world as good as the beginning?'

'I suppose it isn't,' said Ursula, rather angry.

'Oh yes, ultimately,' he said. 'It means a new cycle of creation
after--but not for us. If it is the end, then we are of the end--fleurs
du mal if you like. If we are fleurs du mal, we are not roses of
happiness, and there you are.'

'But I think I am,' said Ursula. 'I think I am a rose of happiness.'

'Ready-made?' he asked ironically.

'No--real,' she said, hurt.

'If we are the end, we are not the beginning,' he said.

'Yes we are,' she said. 'The beginning comes out of the end.'

'After it, not out of it. After us, not out of us.'

'You are a devil, you know, really,' she said. 'You want to destroy our
hope. You WANT US to be deathly.'

'No,' he said, 'I only want us to KNOW what we are.'

'Ha!' she cried in anger. 'You only want us to know death.'

'You're quite right,' said the soft voice of Gerald, out of the dusk
behind.

Birkin rose. Gerald and Gudrun came up. They all began to smoke, in the
moments of silence. One after another, Birkin lighted their cigarettes.
The match flickered in the twilight, and they were all smoking
peacefully by the water-side. The lake was dim, the light dying from
off it, in the midst of the dark land. The air all round was
intangible, neither here nor there, and there was an unreal noise of
banjoes, or suchlike music.

As the golden swim of light overhead died out, the moon gained
brightness, and seemed to begin to smile forth her ascendancy. The dark
woods on the opposite shore melted into universal shadow. And amid this
universal under-shadow, there was a scattered intrusion of lights. Far
down the lake were fantastic pale strings of colour, like beads of wan
fire, green and red and yellow. The music came out in a little puff, as
the launch, all illuminated, veered into the great shadow, stirring her
outlines of half-living lights, puffing out her music in little drifts.

All were lighting up. Here and there, close against the faint water,
and at the far end of the lake, where the water lay milky in the last
whiteness of the sky, and there was no shadow, solitary, frail flames
of lanterns floated from the unseen boats. There was a sound of oars,
and a boat passed from the pallor into the darkness under the wood,
where her lanterns seemed to kindle into fire, hanging in ruddy lovely
globes. And again, in the lake, shadowy red gleams hovered in
reflection about the boat. Everywhere were these noiseless ruddy
creatures of fire drifting near the surface of the water, caught at by
the rarest, scarce visible reflections.

Birkin brought the lanterns from the bigger boat, and the four shadowy
white figures gathered round, to light them. Ursula held up the first,
Birkin lowered the light from the rosy, glowing cup of his hands, into
the depths of the lantern. It was kindled, and they all stood back to
look at the great blue moon of light that hung from Ursula's hand,
casting a strange gleam on her face. It flickered, and Birkin went
bending over the well of light. His face shone out like an apparition,
so unconscious, and again, something demoniacal. Ursula was dim and
veiled, looming over him.

'That is all right,' said his voice softly.

She held up the lantern. It had a flight of storks streaming through a
turquoise sky of light, over a dark earth.

'This is beautiful,' she said.

'Lovely,' echoed Gudrun, who wanted to hold one also, and lift it up
full of beauty.

'Light one for me,' she said. Gerald stood by her, incapacitated.
Birkin lit the lantern she held up. Her heart beat with anxiety, to see
how beautiful it would be. It was primrose yellow, with tall straight
flowers growing darkly from their dark leaves, lifting their heads into
the primrose day, while butterflies hovered about them, in the pure
clear light.

Gudrun gave a little cry of excitement, as if pierced with delight.

'Isn't it beautiful, oh, isn't it beautiful!'

Her soul was really pierced with beauty, she was translated beyond
herself. Gerald leaned near to her, into her zone of light, as if to
see. He came close to her, and stood touching her, looking with her at
the primrose-shining globe. And she turned her face to his, that was
faintly bright in the light of the lantern, and they stood together in
one luminous union, close together and ringed round with light, all the
rest excluded.

Birkin looked away, and went to light Ursula's second lantern. It had a
pale ruddy sea-bottom, with black crabs and sea-weed moving sinuously
under a transparent sea, that passed into flamy ruddiness above.

'You've got the heavens above, and the waters under the earth,' said
Birkin to her.

'Anything but the earth itself,' she laughed, watching his live hands
that hovered to attend to the light.

'I'm dying to see what my second one is,' cried Gudrun, in a vibrating
rather strident voice, that seemed to repel the others from her.

Birkin went and kindled it. It was of a lovely deep blue colour, with a
red floor, and a great white cuttle-fish flowing in white soft streams
all over it. The cuttle-fish had a face that stared straight from the
heart of the light, very fixed and coldly intent.

'How truly terrifying!' exclaimed Gudrun, in a voice of horror. Gerald,
at her side, gave a low laugh.

'But isn't it really fearful!' she cried in dismay.

Again he laughed, and said:

'Change it with Ursula, for the crabs.'

Gudrun was silent for a moment.

'Ursula,' she said, 'could you bear to have this fearful thing?'

'I think the colouring is LOVELY,' said Ursula.

'So do I,' said Gudrun. 'But could you BEAR to have it swinging to your
boat? Don't you want to destroy it at ONCE?'

'Oh no,' said Ursula. 'I don't want to destroy it.'

'Well do you mind having it instead of the crabs? Are you sure you
don't mind?'

Gudrun came forward to exchange lanterns.

'No,' said Ursula, yielding up the crabs and receiving the cuttle-fish.

Yet she could not help feeling rather resentful at the way in which
Gudrun and Gerald should assume a right over her, a precedence.

'Come then,' said Birkin. 'I'll put them on the boats.'

He and Ursula were moving away to the big boat.

'I suppose you'll row me back, Rupert,' said Gerald, out of the pale
shadow of the evening.

'Won't you go with Gudrun in the canoe?' said Birkin. 'It'll be more
interesting.'

There was a moment's pause. Birkin and Ursula stood dimly, with their
swinging lanterns, by the water's edge. The world was all illusive.

'Is that all right?' said Gudrun to him.

'It'll suit ME very well,' he said. 'But what about you, and the
rowing? I don't see why you should pull me.'

'Why not?' she said. 'I can pull you as well as I could pull Ursula.'

By her tone he could tell she wanted to have him in the boat to
herself, and that she was subtly gratified that she should have power
over them both. He gave himself, in a strange, electric submission.

She handed him the lanterns, whilst she went to fix the cane at the end
of the canoe. He followed after her, and stood with the lanterns
dangling against his white-flannelled thighs, emphasising the shadow
around.

'Kiss me before we go,' came his voice softly from out of the shadow
above.

She stopped her work in real, momentary astonishment.

'But why?' she exclaimed, in pure surprise.

'Why?' he echoed, ironically.

And she looked at him fixedly for some moments. Then she leaned forward
and kissed him, with a slow, luxurious kiss, lingering on the mouth.
And then she took the lanterns from him, while he stood swooning with
the perfect fire that burned in all his joints.

They lifted the canoe into the water, Gudrun took her place, and Gerald
pushed off.

'Are you sure you don't hurt your hand, doing that?' she asked,
solicitous. 'Because I could have done it PERFECTLY.'

'I don't hurt myself,' he said in a low, soft voice, that caressed her
with inexpressible beauty.

And she watched him as he sat near her, very near to her, in the stern
of the canoe, his legs coming towards hers, his feet touching hers. And
she paddled softly, lingeringly, longing for him to say something
meaningful to her. But he remained silent.

'You like this, do you?' she said, in a gentle, solicitous voice.

He laughed shortly.

'There is a space between us,' he said, in the same low, unconscious
voice, as if something were speaking out of him. And she was as if
magically aware of their being balanced in separation, in the boat. She
swooned with acute comprehension and pleasure.

'But I'm very near,' she said caressively, gaily.

'Yet distant, distant,' he said.

Again she was silent with pleasure, before she answered, speaking with
a reedy, thrilled voice:

'Yet we cannot very well change, whilst we are on the water.' She
caressed him subtly and strangely, having him completely at her mercy.

A dozen or more boats on the lake swung their rosy and moon-like
lanterns low on the water, that reflected as from a fire. In the
distance, the steamer twanged and thrummed and washed with her
faintly-splashing paddles, trailing her strings of coloured lights, and
occasionally lighting up the whole scene luridly with an effusion of
fireworks, Roman candles and sheafs of stars and other simple effects,
illuminating the surface of the water, and showing the boats creeping
round, low down. Then the lovely darkness fell again, the lanterns and
the little threaded lights glimmered softly, there was a muffled
knocking of oars and a waving of music.

Gudrun paddled almost imperceptibly. Gerald could see, not far ahead,
the rich blue and the rose globes of Ursula's lanterns swaying softly
cheek to cheek as Birkin rowed, and iridescent, evanescent gleams
chasing in the wake. He was aware, too, of his own delicately coloured
lights casting their softness behind him.

Gudrun rested her paddle and looked round. The canoe lifted with the
lightest ebbing of the water. Gerald's white knees were very near to
her.

'Isn't it beautiful!' she said softly, as if reverently.

She looked at him, as he leaned back against the faint crystal of the
lantern-light. She could see his face, although it was a pure shadow.
But it was a piece of twilight. And her breast was keen with passion
for him, he was so beautiful in his male stillness and mystery. It was
a certain pure effluence of maleness, like an aroma from his softly,
firmly moulded contours, a certain rich perfection of his presence,
that touched her with an ecstasy, a thrill of pure intoxication. She
loved to look at him. For the present she did not want to touch him, to
know the further, satisfying substance of his living body. He was
purely intangible, yet so near. Her hands lay on the paddle like
slumber, she only wanted to see him, like a crystal shadow, to feel his
essential presence.

'Yes,' he said vaguely. 'It is very beautiful.'

He was listening to the faint near sounds, the dropping of water-drops
from the oar-blades, the slight drumming of the lanterns behind him, as
they rubbed against one another, the occasional rustling of Gudrun's
full skirt, an alien land noise. His mind was almost submerged, he was
almost transfused, lapsed out for the first time in his life, into the
things about him. For he always kept such a keen attentiveness,
concentrated and unyielding in himself. Now he had let go,
imperceptibly he was melting into oneness with the whole. It was like
pure, perfect sleep, his first great sleep of life. He had been so
insistent, so guarded, all his life. But here was sleep, and peace, and
perfect lapsing out.

'Shall I row to the landing-stage?' asked Gudrun wistfully.

'Anywhere,' he answered. 'Let it drift.'

'Tell me then, if we are running into anything,' she replied, in that
very quiet, toneless voice of sheer intimacy.

'The lights will show,' he said.

So they drifted almost motionless, in silence. He wanted silence, pure
and whole. But she was uneasy yet for some word, for some assurance.

'Nobody will miss you?' she asked, anxious for some communication.

'Miss me?' he echoed. 'No! Why?'

'I wondered if anybody would be looking for you.'

'Why should they look for me?' And then he remembered his manners. 'But
perhaps you want to get back,' he said, in a changed voice.

'No, I don't want to get back,' she replied. 'No, I assure you.'

'You're quite sure it's all right for you?'

'Perfectly all right.'

And again they were still. The launch twanged and hooted, somebody was
singing. Then as if the night smashed, suddenly there was a great
shout, a confusion of shouting, warring on the water, then the horrid
noise of paddles reversed and churned violently.

Gerald sat up, and Gudrun looked at him in fear.

'Somebody in the water,' he said, angrily, and desperately, looking
keenly across the dusk. 'Can you row up?'

'Where, to the launch?' asked Gudrun, in nervous panic.

'Yes.'

'You'll tell me if I don't steer straight,' she said, in nervous
apprehension.

'You keep pretty level,' he said, and the canoe hastened forward.

The shouting and the noise continued, sounding horrid through the dusk,
over the surface of the water.

'Wasn't this BOUND to happen?' said Gudrun, with heavy hateful irony.
But he hardly heard, and she glanced over her shoulder to see her way.
The half-dark waters were sprinkled with lovely bubbles of swaying
lights, the launch did not look far off. She was rocking her lights in
the early night. Gudrun rowed as hard as she could. But now that it was
a serious matter, she seemed uncertain and clumsy in her stroke, it was
difficult to paddle swiftly. She glanced at his face. He was looking
fixedly into the darkness, very keen and alert and single in himself,
instrumental. Her heart sank, she seemed to die a death. 'Of course,'
she said to herself, 'nobody will be drowned. Of course they won't. It
would be too extravagant and sensational.' But her heart was cold,
because of his sharp impersonal face. It was as if he belonged
naturally to dread and catastrophe, as if he were himself again.

Then there came a child's voice, a girl's high, piercing shriek:

'Di--Di--Di--Di--Oh Di--Oh Di--Oh Di!'

The blood ran cold in Gudrun's veins.

'It's Diana, is it,' muttered Gerald. 'The young monkey, she'd have to
be up to some of her tricks.'

And he glanced again at the paddle, the boat was not going quickly
enough for him. It made Gudrun almost helpless at the rowing, this
nervous stress. She kept up with all her might. Still the voices were
calling and answering.

'Where, where? There you are--that's it. Which? No--No-o-o. Damn it
all, here, HERE--' Boats were hurrying from all directions to the
scene, coloured lanterns could be seen waving close to the surface of
the lake, reflections swaying after them in uneven haste. The steamer
hooted again, for some unknown reason. Gudrun's boat was travelling
quickly, the lanterns were swinging behind Gerald.

And then again came the child's high, screaming voice, with a note of
weeping and impatience in it now:

'Di--Oh Di--Oh Di--Di--!'

It was a terrible sound, coming through the obscure air of the evening.

'You'd be better if you were in bed, Winnie,' Gerald muttered to
himself.

He was stooping unlacing his shoes, pushing them off with the foot.
Then he threw his soft hat into the bottom of the boat.

'You can't go into the water with your hurt hand,' said Gudrun,
panting, in a low voice of horror.

'What? It won't hurt.'

He had struggled out of his jacket, and had dropped it between his
feet. He sat bare-headed, all in white now. He felt the belt at his
waist. They were nearing the launch, which stood still big above them,
her myriad lamps making lovely darts, and sinuous running tongues of
ugly red and green and yellow light on the lustrous dark water, under
the shadow.

'Oh get her out! Oh Di, DARLING! Oh get her out! Oh Daddy, Oh Daddy!'
moaned the child's voice, in distraction. Somebody was in the water,
with a life belt. Two boats paddled near, their lanterns swinging
ineffectually, the boats nosing round.

'Hi there--Rockley!--hi there!'

'Mr Gerald!' came the captain's terrified voice. 'Miss Diana's in the
water.'

'Anybody gone in for her?' came Gerald's sharp voice.

'Young Doctor Brindell, sir.'

'Where?'

'Can't see no signs of them, sir. Everybody's looking, but there's
nothing so far.'

There was a moment's ominous pause.

'Where did she go in?'

'I think--about where that boat is,' came the uncertain answer, 'that
one with red and green lights.'

'Row there,' said Gerald quietly to Gudrun.

'Get her out, Gerald, oh get her out,' the child's voice was crying
anxiously. He took no heed.

'Lean back that way,' said Gerald to Gudrun, as he stood up in the
frail boat. 'She won't upset.'

In another moment, he had dropped clean down, soft and plumb, into the
water. Gudrun was swaying violently in her boat, the agitated water
shook with transient lights, she realised that it was faintly
moonlight, and that he was gone. So it was possible to be gone. A
terrible sense of fatality robbed her of all feeling and thought. She
knew he was gone out of the world, there was merely the same world, and
absence, his absence. The night seemed large and vacuous. Lanterns
swayed here and there, people were talking in an undertone on the
launch and in the boats. She could hear Winifred moaning: 'OH DO FIND
HER GERALD, DO FIND HER,' and someone trying to comfort the child.
Gudrun paddled aimlessly here and there. The terrible, massive, cold,
boundless surface of the water terrified her beyond words. Would he
never come back? She felt she must jump into the water too, to know the
horror also.

She started, hearing someone say: 'There he is.' She saw the movement
of his swimming, like a water-rat. And she rowed involuntarily to him.
But he was near another boat, a bigger one. Still she rowed towards
him. She must be very near. She saw him--he looked like a seal. He
looked like a seal as he took hold of the side of the boat. His fair
hair was washed down on his round head, his face seemed to glisten
suavely. She could hear him panting.

Then he clambered into the boat. Oh, and the beauty of the subjection
of his loins, white and dimly luminous as be climbed over the side of
the boat, made her want to die, to die. The beauty of his dim and
luminous loins as be climbed into the boat, his back rounded and
soft--ah, this was too much for her, too final a vision. She knew it,
and it was fatal The terrible hopelessness of fate, and of beauty, such
beauty!

He was not like a man to her, he was an incarnation, a great phase of
life. She saw him press the water out of his face, and look at the
bandage on his hand. And she knew it was all no good, and that she
would never go beyond him, he was the final approximation of life to
her.

'Put the lights out, we shall see better,' came his voice, sudden and
mechanical and belonging to the world of man. She could scarcely
believe there was a world of man. She leaned round and blew out her
lanterns. They were difficult to blow out. Everywhere the lights were
gone save the coloured points on the sides of the launch. The
blueygrey, early night spread level around, the moon was overhead,
there were shadows of boats here and there.

Again there was a splash, and he was gone under. Gudrun sat, sick at
heart, frightened of the great, level surface of the water, so heavy
and deadly. She was so alone, with the level, unliving field of the
water stretching beneath her. It was not a good isolation, it was a
terrible, cold separation of suspense. She was suspended upon the
surface of the insidious reality until such time as she also should
disappear beneath it.

Then she knew, by a stirring of voices, that he had climbed out again,
into a boat. She sat wanting connection with him. Strenuously she
claimed her connection with him, across the invisible space of the
water. But round her heart was an isolation unbearable, through which
nothing would penetrate.

'Take the launch in. It's no use keeping her there. Get lines for the
dragging,' came the decisive, instrumental voice, that was full of the
sound of the world.

The launch began gradually to beat the waters.

'Gerald! Gerald!' came the wild crying voice of Winifred. He did not
answer. Slowly the launch drifted round in a pathetic, clumsy circle,
and slunk away to the land, retreating into the dimness. The wash of
her paddles grew duller. Gudrun rocked in her light boat, and dipped
the paddle automatically to steady herself.

'Gudrun?' called Ursula's voice.

'Ursula!'

The boats of the two sisters pulled together.

'Where is Gerald?' said Gudrun.

'He's dived again,' said Ursula plaintively. 'And I know he ought not,
with his hurt hand and everything.'

'I'll take him in home this time,' said Birkin.

The boats swayed again from the wash of steamer. Gudrun and Ursula kept
a look-out for Gerald.

'There he is!' cried Ursula, who had the sharpest eyes. He had not been
long under. Birkin pulled towards him, Gudrun following. He swam
slowly, and caught hold of the boat with his wounded hand. It slipped,
and he sank back.

'Why don't you help him?' cried Ursula sharply.

He came again, and Birkin leaned to help him in to the boat. Gudrun
again watched Gerald climb out of the water, but this time slowly,
heavily, with the blind clambering motions of an amphibious beast,
clumsy. Again the moon shone with faint luminosity on his white wet
figure, on the stooping back and the rounded loins. But it looked
defeated now, his body, it clambered and fell with slow clumsiness. He
was breathing hoarsely too, like an animal that is suffering. He sat
slack and motionless in the boat, his head blunt and blind like a
seal's, his whole appearance inhuman, unknowing. Gudrun shuddered as
she mechanically followed his boat. Birkin rowed without speaking to
the landing-stage.

'Where are you going?' Gerald asked suddenly, as if just waking up.

'Home,' said Birkin.

'Oh no!' said Gerald imperiously. 'We can't go home while they're in
the water. Turn back again, I'm going to find them.' The women were
frightened, his voice was so imperative and dangerous, almost mad, not
to be opposed.

'No!' said Birkin. 'You can't.' There was a strange fluid compulsion in
his voice. Gerald was silent in a battle of wills. It was as if he
would kill the other man. But Birkin rowed evenly and unswerving, with
an inhuman inevitability.

'Why should you interfere?' said Gerald, in hate.

Birkin did not answer. He rowed towards the land. And Gerald sat mute,
like a dumb beast, panting, his teeth chattering, his arms inert, his
head like a seal's head.

They came to the landing-stage. Wet and naked-looking, Gerald climbed
up the few steps. There stood his father, in the night.

'Father!' he said.

'Yes my boy? Go home and get those things off.'

'We shan't save them, father,' said Gerald.

'There's hope yet, my boy.'

'I'm afraid not. There's no knowing where they are. You can't find
them. And there's a current, as cold as hell.'

'We'll let the water out,' said the father. 'Go home you and look to
yourself. See that he's looked after, Rupert,' he added in a neutral
voice.

'Well father, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm afraid it's my fault. But it
can't be helped; I've done what I could for the moment. I could go on
diving, of course--not much, though--and not much use--'

He moved away barefoot, on the planks of the platform. Then he trod on
something sharp.

'Of course, you've got no shoes on,' said Birkin.

'His shoes are here!' cried Gudrun from below. She was making fast her
boat.

Gerald waited for them to be brought to him. Gudrun came with them. He
pulled them on his feet.

'If you once die,' he said, 'then when it's over, it's finished. Why
come to life again? There's room under that water there for thousands.'

'Two is enough,' she said murmuring.

He dragged on his second shoe. He was shivering violently, and his jaw
shook as he spoke.

'That's true,' he said, 'maybe. But it's curious how much room there
seems, a whole universe under there; and as cold as hell, you're as
helpless as if your head was cut off.' He could scarcely speak, he
shook so violently. 'There's one thing about our family, you know,' he
continued. 'Once anything goes wrong, it can never be put right
again--not with us. I've noticed it all my life--you can't put a thing
right, once it has gone wrong.'

They were walking across the high-road to the house.

'And do you know, when you are down there, it is so cold, actually, and
so endless, so different really from what it is on top, so endless--you
wonder how it is so many are alive, why we're up here. Are you going? I
shall see you again, shan't I? Good-night, and thank you. Thank you
very much!'

The two girls waited a while, to see if there were any hope. The moon
shone clearly overhead, with almost impertinent brightness, the small
dark boats clustered on the water, there were voices and subdued
shouts. But it was all to no purpose. Gudrun went home when Birkin
returned.

He was commissioned to open the sluice that let out the water from the
lake, which was pierced at one end, near the high-road, thus serving as
a reservoir to supply with water the distant mines, in case of
necessity. 'Come with me,' he said to Ursula, 'and then I will walk
home with you, when I've done this.'

He called at the water-keeper's cottage and took the key of the sluice.
They went through a little gate from the high-road, to the head of the
water, where was a great stone basin which received the overflow, and a
flight of stone steps descended into the depths of the water itself. At
the head of the steps was the lock of the sluice-gate.

The night was silver-grey and perfect, save for the scattered restless
sound of voices. The grey sheen of the moonlight caught the stretch of
water, dark boats plashed and moved. But Ursula's mind ceased to be
receptive, everything was unimportant and unreal.

Birkin fixed the iron handle of the sluice, and turned it with a
wrench. The cogs began slowly to rise. He turned and turned, like a
slave, his white figure became distinct. Ursula looked away. She could
not bear to see him winding heavily and laboriously, bending and rising
mechanically like a slave, turning the handle.

Then, a real shock to her, there came a loud splashing of water from
out of the dark, tree-filled hollow beyond the road, a splashing that
deepened rapidly to a harsh roar, and then became a heavy, booming
noise of a great body of water falling solidly all the time. It
occupied the whole of the night, this great steady booming of water,
everything was drowned within it, drowned and lost. Ursula seemed to
have to struggle for her life. She put her hands over her ears, and
looked at the high bland moon.

'Can't we go now?' she cried to Birkin, who was watching the water on
the steps, to see if it would get any lower. It seemed to fascinate
him. He looked at her and nodded.

The little dark boats had moved nearer, people were crowding curiously
along the hedge by the high-road, to see what was to be seen. Birkin
and Ursula went to the cottage with the key, then turned their backs on
the lake. She was in great haste. She could not bear the terrible
crushing boom of the escaping water.

'Do you think they are dead?' she cried in a high voice, to make
herself heard.

'Yes,' he replied.

'Isn't it horrible!'

He paid no heed. They walked up the hill, further and further away from
the noise.

'Do you mind very much?' she asked him.

'I don't mind about the dead,' he said, 'once they are dead. The worst
of it is, they cling on to the living, and won't let go.'

She pondered for a time.

'Yes,' she said. 'The FACT of death doesn't really seem to matter much,
does it?'

'No,' he said. 'What does it matter if Diana Crich is alive or dead?'

'Doesn't it?' she said, shocked.

'No, why should it? Better she were dead--she'll be much more real.
She'll be positive in death. In life she was a fretting, negated
thing.'

'You are rather horrible,' murmured Ursula.

'No! I'd rather Diana Crich were dead. Her living somehow, was all
wrong. As for the young man, poor devil--he'll find his way out quickly
instead of slowly. Death is all right--nothing better.'

'Yet you don't want to die,' she challenged him.

He was silent for a time. Then he said, in a voice that was frightening
to her in its change:

'I should like to be through with it--I should like to be through with
the death process.'

'And aren't you?' asked Ursula nervously.

They walked on for some way in silence, under the trees. Then he said,
slowly, as if afraid:

'There is life which belongs to death, and there is life which isn't
death. One is tired of the life that belongs to death--our kind of
life. But whether it is finished, God knows. I want love that is like
sleep, like being born again, vulnerable as a baby that just comes into
the world.'

Ursula listened, half attentive, half avoiding what he said. She seemed
to catch the drift of his statement, and then she drew away. She wanted
to hear, but she did not want to be implicated. She was reluctant to
yield there, where he wanted her, to yield as it were her very
identity.

'Why should love be like sleep?' she asked sadly.

'I don't know. So that it is like death--I DO want to die from this
life--and yet it is more than life itself. One is delivered over like a
naked infant from the womb, all the old defences and the old body gone,
and new air around one, that has never been breathed before.'

She listened, making out what he said. She knew, as well as he knew,
that words themselves do not convey meaning, that they are but a
gesture we make, a dumb show like any other. And she seemed to feel his
gesture through her blood, and she drew back, even though her desire
sent her forward.

'But,' she said gravely, 'didn't you say you wanted something that was
NOT love--something beyond love?'

He turned in confusion. There was always confusion in speech. Yet it
must be spoken. Whichever way one moved, if one were to move forwards,
one must break a way through. And to know, to give utterance, was to
break a way through the walls of the prison as the infant in labour
strives through the walls of the womb. There is no new movement now,
without the breaking through of the old body, deliberately, in
knowledge, in the struggle to get out.

'I don't want love,' he said. 'I don't want to know you. I want to be
gone out of myself, and you to be lost to yourself, so we are found
different. One shouldn't talk when one is tired and wretched. One
Hamletises, and it seems a lie. Only believe me when I show you a bit
of healthy pride and insouciance. I hate myself serious.'

'Why shouldn't you be serious?' she said.

He thought for a minute, then he said, sulkily:

'I don't know.' Then they walked on in silence, at outs. He was vague
and lost.

'Isn't it strange,' she said, suddenly putting her hand on his arm,
with a loving impulse, 'how we always talk like this! I suppose we do
love each other, in some way.'

'Oh yes,' he said; 'too much.'

She laughed almost gaily.

'You'd have to have it your own way, wouldn't you?' she teased. 'You
could never take it on trust.'

He changed, laughed softly, and turned and took her in his arms, in the
middle of the road.

'Yes,' he said softly.

And he kissed her face and brow, slowly, gently, with a sort of
delicate happiness which surprised her extremely, and to which she
could not respond. They were soft, blind kisses, perfect in their
stillness. Yet she held back from them. It was like strange moths, very
soft and silent, settling on her from the darkness of her soul. She was
uneasy. She drew away.

'Isn't somebody coming?' she said.

So they looked down the dark road, then set off again walking towards
Beldover. Then suddenly, to show him she was no shallow prude, she
stopped and held him tight, hard against her, and covered his face with
hard, fierce kisses of passion. In spite of his otherness, the old
blood beat up in him.

'Not this, not this,' he whimpered to himself, as the first perfect
mood of softness and sleep-loveliness ebbed back away from the rushing
of passion that came up to his limbs and over his face as she drew him.
And soon he was a perfect hard flame of passionate desire for her. Yet
in the small core of the flame was an unyielding anguish of another
thing. But this also was lost; he only wanted her, with an extreme
desire that seemed inevitable as death, beyond question.

Then, satisfied and shattered, fulfilled and destroyed, he went home
away from her, drifting vaguely through the darkness, lapsed into the
old fire of burning passion. Far away, far away, there seemed to be a
small lament in the darkness. But what did it matter? What did it
matter, what did anything matter save this ultimate and triumphant
experience of physical passion, that had blazed up anew like a new
spell of life. 'I was becoming quite dead-alive, nothing but a
word-bag,' he said in triumph, scorning his other self. Yet somewhere
far off and small, the other hovered.

The men were still dragging the lake when he got back. He stood on the
bank and heard Gerald's voice. The water was still booming in the
night, the moon was fair, the hills beyond were elusive. The lake was
sinking. There came the raw smell of the banks, in the night air.

Up at Shortlands there were lights in the windows, as if nobody had
gone to bed. On the landing-stage was the old doctor, the father of the
young man who was lost. He stood quite silent, waiting. Birkin also
stood and watched, Gerald came up in a boat.

'You still here, Rupert?' he said. 'We can't get them. The bottom
slopes, you know, very steep. The water lies between two very sharp
slopes, with little branch valleys, and God knows where the drift will
take you. It isn't as if it was a level bottom. You never know where
you are, with the dragging.'

'Is there any need for you to be working?' said Birkin. 'Wouldn't it be
much better if you went to bed?'

'To bed! Good God, do you think I should sleep? We'll find 'em, before
I go away from here.'

'But the men would find them just the same without you--why should you
insist?'

Gerald looked up at him. Then he put his hand affectionately on
Birkin's shoulder, saying:

'Don't you bother about me, Rupert. If there's anybody's health to
think about, it's yours, not mine. How do you feel yourself?'

'Very well. But you, you spoil your own chance of life--you waste your
best self.'

Gerald was silent for a moment. Then he said:

'Waste it? What else is there to do with it?'

'But leave this, won't you? You force yourself into horrors, and put a
mill-stone of beastly memories round your neck. Come away now.'

'A mill-stone of beastly memories!' Gerald repeated. Then he put his
hand again affectionately on Birkin's shoulder. 'God, you've got such a
telling way of putting things, Rupert, you have.'

Birkin's heart sank. He was irritated and weary of having a telling way
of putting things.

'Won't you leave it? Come over to my place'--he urged as one urges a
drunken man.

'No,' said Gerald coaxingly, his arm across the other man's shoulder.
'Thanks very much, Rupert--I shall be glad to come tomorrow, if that'll
do. You understand, don't you? I want to see this job through. But I'll
come tomorrow, right enough. Oh, I'd rather come and have a chat with
you than--than do anything else, I verily believe. Yes, I would. You
mean a lot to me, Rupert, more than you know.'

'What do I mean, more than I know?' asked Birkin irritably. He was
acutely aware of Gerald's hand on his shoulder. And he did not want
this altercation. He wanted the other man to come out of the ugly
misery.

'I'll tell you another time,' said Gerald coaxingly.

'Come along with me now--I want you to come,' said Birkin.

There was a pause, intense and real. Birkin wondered why his own heart
beat so heavily. Then Gerald's fingers gripped hard and communicative
into Birkin's shoulder, as he said:

'No, I'll see this job through, Rupert. Thank you--I know what you
mean. We're all right, you know, you and me.'

'I may be all right, but I'm sure you're not, mucking about here,' said
Birkin. And he went away.

The bodies of the dead were not recovered till towards dawn. Diana had
her arms tight round the neck of the young man, choking him.

'She killed him,' said Gerald.

The moon sloped down the sky and sank at last. The lake was sunk to
quarter size, it had horrible raw banks of clay, that smelled of raw
rottenish water. Dawn roused faintly behind the eastern hill. The water
still boomed through the sluice.

As the birds were whistling for the first morning, and the hills at the
back of the desolate lake stood radiant with the new mists, there was a
straggling procession up to Shortlands, men bearing the bodies on a
stretcher, Gerald going beside them, the two grey-bearded fathers
following in silence. Indoors the family was all sitting up, waiting.
Somebody must go to tell the mother, in her room. The doctor in secret
struggled to bring back his son, till he himself was exhausted.

Over all the outlying district was a hush of dreadful excitement on
that Sunday morning. The colliery people felt as if this catastrophe
had happened directly to themselves, indeed they were more shocked and
frightened than if their own men had been killed. Such a tragedy in
Shortlands, the high home of the district! One of the young mistresses,
persisting in dancing on the cabin roof of the launch, wilful young
madam, drowned in the midst of the festival, with the young doctor!
Everywhere on the Sunday morning, the colliers wandered about,
discussing the calamity. At all the Sunday dinners of the people, there
seemed a strange presence. It was as if the angel of death were very
near, there was a sense of the supernatural in the air. The men had
excited, startled faces, the women looked solemn, some of them had been
crying. The children enjoyed the excitement at first. There was an
intensity in the air, almost magical. Did all enjoy it? Did all enjoy
the thrill?

Gudrun had wild ideas of rushing to comfort Gerald. She was thinking
all the time of the perfect comforting, reassuring thing to say to him.
She was shocked and frightened, but she put that away, thinking of how
she should deport herself with Gerald: act her part. That was the real
thrill: how she should act her part.

Ursula was deeply and passionately in love with Birkin, and she was
capable of nothing. She was perfectly callous about all the talk of the
accident, but her estranged air looked like trouble. She merely sat by
herself, whenever she could, and longed to see him again. She wanted
him to come to the house,--she would not have it otherwise, he must
come at once. She was waiting for him. She stayed indoors all day,
waiting for him to knock at the door. Every minute, she glanced
automatically at the window. He would be there.




CHAPTER XV.



SUNDAY EVENING


As the day wore on, the life-blood seemed to ebb away from Ursula, and
within the emptiness a heavy despair gathered. Her passion seemed to
bleed to death, and there was nothing. She sat suspended in a state of
complete nullity, harder to bear than death.

'Unless something happens,' she said to herself, in the perfect
lucidity of final suffering, 'I shall die. I am at the end of my line
of life.'

She sat crushed and obliterated in a darkness that was the border of
death. She realised how all her life she had been drawing nearer and
nearer to this brink, where there was no beyond, from which one had to
leap like Sappho into the unknown. The knowledge of the imminence of
death was like a drug. Darkly, without thinking at all, she knew that
she was near to death. She had travelled all her life along the line of
fulfilment, and it was nearly concluded. She knew all she had to know,
she had experienced all she had to experience, she was fulfilled in a
kind of bitter ripeness, there remained only to fall from the tree into
death. And one must fulfil one's development to the end, must carry the
adventure to its conclusion. And the next step was over the border into
death. So it was then! There was a certain peace in the knowledge.

After all, when one was fulfilled, one was happiest in falling into
death, as a bitter fruit plunges in its ripeness downwards. Death is a
great consummation, a consummating experience. It is a development from
life. That we know, while we are yet living. What then need we think
for further? One can never see beyond the consummation. It is enough
that death is a great and conclusive experience. Why should we ask what
comes after the experience, when the experience is still unknown to us?
Let us die, since the great experience is the one that follows now upon
all the rest, death, which is the next great crisis in front of which
we have arrived. If we wait, if we baulk the issue, we do but hang
about the gates in undignified uneasiness. There it is, in front of us,
as in front of Sappho, the illimitable space. Thereinto goes the
journey. Have we not the courage to go on with our journey, must we cry
'I daren't'? On ahead we will go, into death, and whatever death may
mean. If a man can see the next step to be taken, why should he fear
the next but one? Why ask about the next but one? Of the next step we
are certain. It is the step into death.

'I shall die--I shall quickly die,' said Ursula to herself, clear as if
in a trance, clear, calm, and certain beyond human certainty. But
somewhere behind, in the twilight, there was a bitter weeping and a
hopelessness. That must not be attended to. One must go where the
unfaltering spirit goes, there must be no baulking the issue, because
of fear. No baulking the issue, no listening to the lesser voices. If
the deepest desire be now, to go on into the unknown of death, shall
one forfeit the deepest truth for one more shallow?

'Then let it end,' she said to herself. It was a decision. It was not a
question of taking one's life--she would NEVER kill herself, that was
repulsive and violent. It was a question of KNOWING the next step. And
the next step led into the space of death. Did it?--or was there--?

Her thoughts drifted into unconsciousness, she sat as if asleep beside
the fire. And then the thought came back. The space o' death! Could she
give herself to it? Ah yes--it was a sleep. She had had enough So long
she had held out; and resisted. Now was the time to relinquish, not to
resist any more.

In a kind of spiritual trance, she yielded, she gave way, and all was
dark. She could feel, within the darkness, the terrible assertion of
her body, the unutterable anguish of dissolution, the only anguish that
is too much, the far-off, awful nausea of dissolution set in within the
body.

'Does the body correspond so immediately with the spirit?' she asked
herself. And she knew, with the clarity of ultimate knowledge, that the
body is only one of the manifestations of the spirit, the transmutation
of the integral spirit is the transmutation of the physical body as
well. Unless I set my will, unless I absolve myself from the rhythm of
life, fix myself and remain static, cut off from living, absolved
within my own will. But better die than live mechanically a life that
is a repetition of repetitions. To die is to move on with the
invisible. To die is also a joy, a joy of submitting to that which is
greater than the known, namely, the pure unknown. That is a joy. But to
live mechanised and cut off within the motion of the will, to live as
an entity absolved from the unknown, that is shameful and ignominious.
There is no ignominy in death. There is complete ignominy in an
unreplenished, mechanised life. Life indeed may be ignominious,
shameful to the soul. But death is never a shame. Death itself, like
the illimitable space, is beyond our sullying.

Tomorrow was Monday. Monday, the beginning of another school-week!
Another shameful, barren school-week, mere routine and mechanical
activity. Was not the adventure of death infinitely preferable? Was not
death infinitely more lovely and noble than such a life? A life of
barren routine, without inner meaning, without any real significance.
How sordid life was, how it was a terrible shame to the soul, to live
now! How much cleaner and more dignified to be dead! One could not bear
any more of this shame of sordid routine and mechanical nullity. One
might come to fruit in death. She had had enough. For where was life to
be found? No flowers grow upon busy machinery, there is no sky to a
routine, there is no space to a rotary motion. And all life was a
rotary motion, mechanised, cut off from reality. There was nothing to
look for from life--it was the same in all countries and all peoples.
The only window was death. One could look out on to the great dark sky
of death with elation, as one had looked out of the classroom window as
a child, and seen perfect freedom in the outside. Now one was not a
child, and one knew that the soul was a prisoner within this sordid
vast edifice of life, and there was no escape, save in death.

But what a joy! What a gladness to think that whatever humanity did, it
could not seize hold of the kingdom of death, to nullify that. The sea
they turned into a murderous alley and a soiled road of commerce,
disputed like the dirty land of a city every inch of it. The air they
claimed too, shared it up, parcelled it out to certain owners, they
trespassed in the air to fight for it. Everything was gone, walled in,
with spikes on top of the walls, and one must ignominiously creep
between the spiky walls through a labyrinth of life.

But the great, dark, illimitable kingdom of death, there humanity was
put to scorn. So much they could do upon earth, the multifarious little
gods that they were. But the kingdom of death put them all to scorn,
they dwindled into their true vulgar silliness in face of it.

How beautiful, how grand and perfect death was, how good to look
forward to. There one would wash off all the lies and ignominy and dirt
that had been put upon one here, a perfect bath of cleanness and glad
refreshment, and go unknown, unquestioned, unabased. After all, one was
rich, if only in the promise of perfect death. It was a gladness above
all, that this remained to look forward to, the pure inhuman otherness
of death.

Whatever life might be, it could not take away death, the inhuman
transcendent death. Oh, let us ask no question of it, what it is or is
not. To know is human, and in death we do not know, we are not human.
And the joy of this compensates for all the bitterness of knowledge and
the sordidness of our humanity. In death we shall not be human, and we
shall not know. The promise of this is our heritage, we look forward
like heirs to their majority.

Ursula sat quite still and quite forgotten, alone by the fire in the
drawing-room. The children were playing in the kitchen, all the others
were gone to church. And she was gone into the ultimate darkness of her
own soul.

She was startled by hearing the bell ring, away in the kitchen, the
children came scudding along the passage in delicious alarm.

'Ursula, there's somebody.'

'I know. Don't be silly,' she replied. She too was startled, almost
frightened. She dared hardly go to the door.

Birkin stood on the threshold, his rain-coat turned up to his ears. He
had come now, now she was gone far away. She was aware of the rainy
night behind him.

'Oh is it you?' she said.

'I am glad you are at home,' he said in a low voice, entering the
house.

'They are all gone to church.'

He took off his coat and hung it up. The children were peeping at him
round the corner.

'Go and get undressed now, Billy and Dora,' said Ursula. 'Mother will
be back soon, and she'll be disappointed if you're not in bed.'

The children, in a sudden angelic mood, retired without a word. Birkin
and Ursula went into the drawing-room.

The fire burned low. He looked at her and wondered at the luminous
delicacy of her beauty, and the wide shining of her eyes. He watched
from a distance, with wonder in his heart, she seemed transfigured with
light.

'What have you been doing all day?' he asked her.

'Only sitting about,' she said.

He looked at her. There was a change in her. But she was separate from
him. She remained apart, in a kind of brightness. They both sat silent
in the soft light of the lamp. He felt he ought to go away again, he
ought not to have come. Still he did not gather enough resolution to
move. But he was DE TROP, her mood was absent and separate.

Then there came the voices of the two children calling shyly outside
the door, softly, with self-excited timidity:

'Ursula! Ursula!'

She rose and opened the door. On the threshold stood the two children
in their long nightgowns, with wide-eyed, angelic faces. They were
being very good for the moment, playing the role perfectly of two
obedient children.

'Shall you take us to bed!' said Billy, in a loud whisper.

'Why you ARE angels tonight,' she said softly. 'Won't you come and say
good-night to Mr Birkin?'

The children merged shyly into the room, on bare feet. Billy's face was
wide and grinning, but there was a great solemnity of being good in his
round blue eyes. Dora, peeping from the floss of her fair hair, hung
back like some tiny Dryad, that has no soul.

'Will you say good-night to me?' asked Birkin, in a voice that was
strangely soft and smooth. Dora drifted away at once, like a leaf
lifted on a breath of wind. But Billy went softly forward, slow and
willing, lifting his pinched-up mouth implicitly to be kissed. Ursula
watched the full, gathered lips of the man gently touch those of the
boy, so gently. Then Birkin lifted his fingers and touched the boy's
round, confiding cheek, with a faint touch of love. Neither spoke.
Billy seemed angelic like a cherub boy, or like an acolyte, Birkin was
a tall, grave angel looking down to him.

'Are you going to be kissed?' Ursula broke in, speaking to the little
girl. But Dora edged away like a tiny Dryad that will not be touched.

'Won't you say good-night to Mr Birkin? Go, he's waiting for you,' said
Ursula. But the girl-child only made a little motion away from him.

'Silly Dora, silly Dora!' said Ursula.

Birkin felt some mistrust and antagonism in the small child. He could
not understand it.

'Come then,' said Ursula. 'Let us go before mother comes.'

'Who'll hear us say our prayers?' asked Billy anxiously.

'Whom you like.'

'Won't you?'

'Yes, I will.'

'Ursula?'

'Well Billy?'

'Is it WHOM you like?'

'That's it.'

'Well what is WHOM?'

'It's the accusative of who.'

There was a moment's contemplative silence, then the confiding:

'Is it?'

Birkin smiled to himself as he sat by the fire. When Ursula came down
he sat motionless, with his arms on his knees. She saw him, how he was
motionless and ageless, like some crouching idol, some image of a
deathly religion. He looked round at her, and his face, very pale and
unreal, seemed to gleam with a whiteness almost phosphorescent.

'Don't you feel well?' she asked, in indefinable repulsion.

'I hadn't thought about it.'

'But don't you know without thinking about it?'

He looked at her, his eyes dark and swift, and he saw her revulsion. He
did not answer her question.

'Don't you know whether you are unwell or not, without thinking about
it?' she persisted.

'Not always,' he said coldly.

'But don't you think that's very wicked?'

'Wicked?'

'Yes. I think it's CRIMINAL to have so little connection with your own
body that you don't even know when you are ill.'

He looked at her darkly.

'Yes,' he said.

'Why don't you stay in bed when you are seedy? You look perfectly
ghastly.'

'Offensively so?' he asked ironically.

'Yes, quite offensive. Quite repelling.'

'Ah!! Well that's unfortunate.'

'And it's raining, and it's a horrible night. Really, you shouldn't be
forgiven for treating your body like it--you OUGHT to suffer, a man who
takes as little notice of his body as that.'

'--takes as little notice of his body as that,' he echoed mechanically.

This cut her short, and there was silence.

The others came in from church, and the two had the girls to face, then
the mother and Gudrun, and then the father and the boy.

'Good-evening,' said Brangwen, faintly surprised. 'Came to see me, did
you?'

'No,' said Birkin, 'not about anything, in particular, that is. The day
was dismal, and I thought you wouldn't mind if I called in.'

'It HAS been a depressing day,' said Mrs Brangwen sympathetically. At
that moment the voices of the children were heard calling from
upstairs: 'Mother! Mother!' She lifted her face and answered mildly
into the distance: 'I shall come up to you in a minute, Doysie.' Then
to Birkin: 'There is nothing fresh at Shortlands, I suppose? Ah,' she
sighed, 'no, poor things, I should think not.'

'You've been over there today, I suppose?' asked the father.

'Gerald came round to tea with me, and I walked back with him. The
house is overexcited and unwholesome, I thought.'

'I should think they were people who hadn't much restraint,' said
Gudrun.

'Or too much,' Birkin answered.

'Oh yes, I'm sure,' said Gudrun, almost vindictively, 'one or the
other.'

'They all feel they ought to behave in some unnatural fashion,' said
Birkin. 'When people are in grief, they would do better to cover their
faces and keep in retirement, as in the old days.'

'Certainly!' cried Gudrun, flushed and inflammable. 'What can be worse
than this public grief--what is more horrible, more false! If GRIEF is
not private, and hidden, what is?'

'Exactly,' he said. 'I felt ashamed when I was there and they were all
going about in a lugubrious false way, feeling they must not be natural
or ordinary.'

'Well--' said Mrs Brangwen, offended at this criticism, 'it isn't so
easy to bear a trouble like that.'

And she went upstairs to the children.

He remained only a few minutes longer, then took his leave. When he was
gone Ursula felt such a poignant hatred of him, that all her brain
seemed turned into a sharp crystal of fine hatred. Her whole nature
seemed sharpened and intensified into a pure dart of hate. She could
not imagine what it was. It merely took hold of her, the most poignant
and ultimate hatred, pure and clear and beyond thought. She could not
think of it at all, she was translated beyond herself. It was like a
possession. She felt she was possessed. And for several days she went
about possessed by this exquisite force of hatred against him. It
surpassed anything she had ever known before, it seemed to throw her
out of the world into some terrible region where nothing of her old
life held good. She was quite lost and dazed, really dead to her own
life.

It was so completely incomprehensible and irrational. She did not know
WHY she hated him, her hate was quite abstract. She had only realised
with a shock that stunned her, that she was overcome by this pure
transportation. He was the enemy, fine as a diamond, and as hard and
jewel-like, the quintessence of all that was inimical.

She thought of his face, white and purely wrought, and of his eyes that
had such a dark, constant will of assertion, and she touched her own
forehead, to feel if she were mad, she was so transfigured in white
flame of essential hate.

It was not temporal, her hatred, she did not hate him for this or for
that; she did not want to do anything to him, to have any connection
with him. Her relation was ultimate and utterly beyond words, the hate
was so pure and gemlike. It was as if he were a beam of essential
enmity, a beam of light that did not only destroy her, but denied her
altogether, revoked her whole world. She saw him as a clear stroke of
uttermost contradiction, a strange gem-like being whose existence
defined her own non-existence. When she heard he was ill again, her
hatred only intensified itself a few degrees, if that were possible. It
stunned her and annihilated her, but she could not escape it. She could
not escape this transfiguration of hatred that had come upon her.




CHAPTER XVI.



MAN TO MAN


He lay sick and unmoved, in pure opposition to everything. He knew how
near to breaking was the vessel that held his life. He knew also how
strong and durable it was. And he did not care. Better a thousand times
take one's chance with death, than accept a life one did not want. But
best of all to persist and persist and persist for ever, till one were
satisfied in life.

He knew that Ursula was referred back to him. He knew his life rested
with her. But he would rather not live than accept the love she
proffered. The old way of love seemed a dreadful bondage, a sort of
conscription. What it was in him he did not know, but the thought of
love, marriage, and children, and a life lived together, in the
horrible privacy of domestic and connubial satisfaction, was repulsive.
He wanted something clearer, more open, cooler, as it were. The hot
narrow intimacy between man and wife was abhorrent. The way they shut
their doors, these married people, and shut themselves in to their own
exclusive alliance with each other, even in love, disgusted him. It was
a whole community of mistrustful couples insulated in private houses or
private rooms, always in couples, and no further life, no further
immediate, no disinterested relationship admitted: a kaleidoscope of
couples, disjoined, separatist, meaningless entities of married
couples. True, he hated promiscuity even worse than marriage, and a
liaison was only another kind of coupling, reactionary from the legal
marriage. Reaction was a greater bore than action.

On the whole, he hated sex, it was such a limitation. It was sex that
turned a man into a broken half of a couple, the woman into the other
broken half. And he wanted to be single in himself, the woman single in
herself. He wanted sex to revert to the level of the other appetites,
to be regarded as a functional process, not as a fulfilment. He
believed in sex marriage. But beyond this, he wanted a further
conjunction, where man had being and woman had being, two pure beings,
each constituting the freedom of the other, balancing each other like
two poles of one force, like two angels, or two demons.

He wanted so much to be free, not under the compulsion of any need for
unification, or tortured by unsatisfied desire. Desire and aspiration
should find their object without all this torture, as now, in a world
of plenty of water, simple thirst is inconsiderable, satisfied almost
unconsciously. And he wanted to be with Ursula as free as with himself,
single and clear and cool, yet balanced, polarised with her. The
merging, the clutching, the mingling of love was become madly abhorrent
to him.

But it seemed to him, woman was always so horrible and clutching, she
had such a lust for possession, a greed of self-importance in love. She
wanted to have, to own, to control, to be dominant. Everything must be
referred back to her, to Woman, the Great Mother of everything, out of
whom proceeded everything and to whom everything must finally be
rendered up.

It filled him with almost insane fury, this calm assumption of the
Magna Mater, that all was hers, because she had borne it. Man was hers
because she had borne him. A Mater Dolorosa, she had borne him, a Magna
Mater, she now claimed him again, soul and body, sex, meaning, and all.
He had a horror of the Magna Mater, she was detestable.

She was on a very high horse again, was woman, the Great Mother. Did he
not know it in Hermione. Hermione, the humble, the subservient, what
was she all the while but the Mater Dolorosa, in her subservience,
claiming with horrible, insidious arrogance and female tyranny, her own
again, claiming back the man she had borne in suffering. By her very
suffering and humility she bound her son with chains, she held him her
everlasting prisoner.

And Ursula, Ursula was the same--or the inverse. She too was the awful,
arrogant queen of life, as if she were a queen bee on whom all the rest
depended. He saw the yellow flare in her eyes, he knew the unthinkable
overweening assumption of primacy in her. She was unconscious of it
herself. She was only too ready to knock her head on the ground before
a man. But this was only when she was so certain of her man, that she
could worship him as a woman worships her own infant, with a worship of
perfect possession.

It was intolerable, this possession at the hands of woman. Always a man
must be considered as the broken off fragment of a woman, and the sex
was the still aching scar of the laceration. Man must be added on to a
woman, before he had any real place or wholeness.

And why? Why should we consider ourselves, men and women, as broken
fragments of one whole? It is not true. We are not broken fragments of
one whole. Rather we are the singling away into purity and clear being,
of things that were mixed. Rather the sex is that which remains in us
of the mixed, the unresolved. And passion is the further separating of
this mixture, that which is manly being taken into the being of the
man, that which is womanly passing to the woman, till the two are clear
and whole as angels, the admixture of sex in the highest sense
surpassed, leaving two single beings constellated together like two
stars.

In the old age, before sex was, we were mixed, each one a mixture. The
process of singling into individuality resulted into the great
polarisation of sex. The womanly drew to one side, the manly to the
other. But the separation was imperfect even them. And so our
world-cycle passes. There is now to come the new day, when we are
beings each of us, fulfilled in difference. The man is pure man, the
woman pure woman, they are perfectly polarised. But there is no longer
any of the horrible merging, mingling self-abnegation of love. There is
only the pure duality of polarisation, each one free from any
contamination of the other. In each, the individual is primal, sex is
subordinate, but perfectly polarised. Each has a single, separate
being, with its own laws. The man has his pure freedom, the woman hers.
Each acknowledges the perfection of the polarised sex-circuit. Each
admits the different nature in the other.

So Birkin meditated whilst he was ill. He liked sometimes to be ill
enough to take to his bed. For then he got better very quickly, and
things came to him clear and sure.

Whilst he was laid up, Gerald came to see him. The two men had a deep,
uneasy feeling for each other. Gerald's eyes were quick and restless,
his whole manner tense and impatient, he seemed strung up to some
activity. According to conventionality, he wore black clothes, he
looked formal, handsome and COMME IL FAUT. His hair was fair almost to
whiteness, sharp like splinters of light, his face was keen and ruddy,
his body seemed full of northern energy. Gerald really loved Birkin,
though he never quite believed in him. Birkin was too unreal;--clever,
whimsical, wonderful, but not practical enough. Gerald felt that his
own understanding was much sounder and safer. Birkin was delightful, a
wonderful spirit, but after all, not to be taken seriously, not quite
to be counted as a man among men.

'Why are you laid up again?' he asked kindly, taking the sick man's
hand. It was always Gerald who was protective, offering the warm
shelter of his physical strength.

'For my sins, I suppose,' Birkin said, smiling a little ironically.

'For your sins? Yes, probably that is so. You should sin less, and keep
better in health?'

'You'd better teach me.'

He looked at Gerald with ironic eyes.

'How are things with you?' asked Birkin.

'With me?' Gerald looked at Birkin, saw he was serious, and a warm
light came into his eyes.

'I don't know that they're any different. I don't see how they could
be. There's nothing to change.'

'I suppose you are conducting the business as successfully as ever, and
ignoring the demand of the soul.'

'That's it,' said Gerald. 'At least as far as the business is
concerned. I couldn't say about the soul, I'am sure.'

'No.'

'Surely you don't expect me to?' laughed Gerald.

'No. How are the rest of your affairs progressing, apart from the
business?'

'The rest of my affairs? What are those? I couldn't say; I don't know
what you refer to.'

'Yes, you do,' said Birkin. 'Are you gloomy or cheerful? And what about
Gudrun Brangwen?'

'What about her?' A confused look came over Gerald. 'Well,' he added,
'I don't know. I can only tell you she gave me a hit over the face last
time I saw her.'

'A hit over the face! What for?'

'That I couldn't tell you, either.'

'Really! But when?'

'The night of the party--when Diana was drowned. She was driving the
cattle up the hill, and I went after her--you remember.'

'Yes, I remember. But what made her do that? You didn't definitely ask
her for it, I suppose?'

'I? No, not that I know of. I merely said to her, that it was dangerous
to drive those Highland bullocks--as it IS. She turned in such a way,
and said--"I suppose you think I'm afraid of you and your cattle, don't
you?" So I asked her "why," and for answer she flung me a back-hander
across the face.'

Birkin laughed quickly, as if it pleased him. Gerald looked at him,
wondering, and began to laugh as well, saying:

'I didn't laugh at the time, I assure you. I was never so taken aback
in my life.'

'And weren't you furious?'

'Furious? I should think I was. I'd have murdered her for two pins.'

'H'm!' ejaculated Birkin. 'Poor Gudrun, wouldn't she suffer afterwards
for having given herself away!' He was hugely delighted.

'Would she suffer?' asked Gerald, also amused now.

Both men smiled in malice and amusement.

'Badly, I should think; seeing how self-conscious she is.'

'She is self-conscious, is she? Then what made her do it? For I
certainly think it was quite uncalled-for, and quite unjustified.'

'I suppose it was a sudden impulse.'

'Yes, but how do you account for her having such an impulse? I'd done
her no harm.'

Birkin shook his head.

'The Amazon suddenly came up in her, I suppose,' he said.

'Well,' replied Gerald, 'I'd rather it had been the Orinoco.'

They both laughed at the poor joke. Gerald was thinking how Gudrun had
said she would strike the last blow too. But some reserve made him keep
this back from Birkin.

'And you resent it?' Birkin asked.

'I don't resent it. I don't care a tinker's curse about it.' He was
silent a moment, then he added, laughing. 'No, I'll see it through,
that's all. She seemed sorry afterwards.'

'Did she? You've not met since that night?'

Gerald's face clouded.

'No,' he said. 'We've been--you can imagine how it's been, since the
accident.'

'Yes. Is it calming down?'

'I don't know. It's a shock, of course. But I don't believe mother
minds. I really don't believe she takes any notice. And what's so
funny, she used to be all for the children--nothing mattered, nothing
whatever mattered but the children. And now, she doesn't take any more
notice than if it was one of the servants.'

'No? Did it upset YOU very much?'

'It's a shock. But I don't feel it very much, really. I don't feel any
different. We've all got to die, and it doesn't seem to make any great
difference, anyhow, whether you die or not. I can't feel any GRIEF you
know. It leaves me cold. I can't quite account for it.'

'You don't care if you die or not?' asked Birkin.

Gerald looked at him with eyes blue as the blue-fibred steel of a
weapon. He felt awkward, but indifferent. As a matter of fact, he did
care terribly, with a great fear.

'Oh,' he said, 'I don't want to die, why should I? But I never trouble.
The question doesn't seem to be on the carpet for me at all. It doesn't
interest me, you know.'

'TIMOR MORTIS CONTURBAT ME,' quoted Birkin, adding--'No, death doesn't
really seem the point any more. It curiously doesn't concern one. It's
like an ordinary tomorrow.'

Gerald looked closely at his friend. The eyes of the two men met, and
an unspoken understanding was exchanged.

Gerald narrowed his eyes, his face was cool and unscrupulous as he
looked at Birkin, impersonally, with a vision that ended in a point in
space, strangely keen-eyed and yet blind.

'If death isn't the point,' he said, in a strangely abstract, cold,
fine voice--'what is?' He sounded as if he had been found out.

'What is?' re-echoed Birkin. And there was a mocking silence.

'There's long way to go, after the point of intrinsic death, before we
disappear,' said Birkin.

'There is,' said Gerald. 'But what sort of way?' He seemed to press the
other man for knowledge which he himself knew far better than Birkin
did.

'Right down the slopes of degeneration--mystic, universal degeneration.
There are many stages of pure degradation to go through: agelong. We
live on long after our death, and progressively, in progressive
devolution.'

Gerald listened with a faint, fine smile on his face, all the time, as
if, somewhere, he knew so much better than Birkin, all about this: as
if his own knowledge were direct and personal, whereas Birkin's was a
matter of observation and inference, not quite hitting the nail on the
head:--though aiming near enough at it. But he was not going to give
himself away. If Birkin could get at the secrets, let him. Gerald would
never help him. Gerald would be a dark horse to the end.

'Of course,' he said, with a startling change of conversation, 'it is
father who really feels it. It will finish him. For him the world
collapses. All his care now is for Winnie--he must save Winnie. He says
she ought to be sent away to school, but she won't hear of it, and
he'll never do it. Of course she IS in rather a queer way. We're all of
us curiously bad at living. We can do things--but we can't get on with
life at all. It's curious--a family failing.'

'She oughtn't to be sent away to school,' said Birkin, who was
considering a new proposition.

'She oughtn't. Why?'

'She's a queer child--a special child, more special even than you. And
in my opinion special children should never be sent away to school.
Only moderately ordinary children should be sent to school--so it seems
to me.'

'I'm inclined to think just the opposite. I think it would probably
make her more normal if she went away and mixed with other children.'

'She wouldn't mix, you see. YOU never really mixed, did you? And she
wouldn't be willing even to pretend to. She's proud, and solitary, and
naturally apart. If she has a single nature, why do you want to make
her gregarious?'

'No, I don't want to make her anything. But I think school would be
good for her.'

'Was it good for you?'

Gerald's eyes narrowed uglily. School had been torture to him. Yet he
had not questioned whether one should go through this torture. He
seemed to believe in education through subjection and torment.

'I hated it at the time, but I can see it was necessary,' he said. 'It
brought me into line a bit--and you can't live unless you do come into
line somewhere.'

'Well,' said Birkin, 'I begin to think that you can't live unless you
keep entirely out of the line. It's no good trying to toe the line,
when your one impulse is to smash up the line. Winnie is a special
nature, and for special natures you must give a special world.'

'Yes, but where's your special world?' said Gerald.

'Make it. Instead of chopping yourself down to fit the world, chop the
world down to fit yourself. As a matter of fact, two exceptional people
make another world. You and I, we make another, separate world. You
don't WANT a world same as your brothers-in-law. It's just the special
quality you value. Do you WANT to be normal or ordinary! It's a lie.
You want to be free and extraordinary, in an extraordinary world of
liberty.'

Gerald looked at Birkin with subtle eyes of knowledge. But he would
never openly admit what he felt. He knew more than Birkin, in one
direction--much more. And this gave him his gentle love for the other
man, as if Birkin were in some way young, innocent, child-like: so
amazingly clever, but incurably innocent.

'Yet you are so banal as to consider me chiefly a freak,' said Birkin
pointedly.

'A freak!' exclaimed Gerald, startled. And his face opened suddenly, as
if lighted with simplicity, as when a flower opens out of the cunning
bud. 'No--I never consider you a freak.' And he watched the other man
with strange eyes, that Birkin could not understand. 'I feel,' Gerald
continued, 'that there is always an element of uncertainty about
you--perhaps you are uncertain about yourself. But I'm never sure of
you. You can go away and change as easily as if you had no soul.'

He looked at Birkin with penetrating eyes. Birkin was amazed. He
thought he had all the soul in the world. He stared in amazement. And
Gerald, watching, saw the amazing attractive goodliness of his eyes, a
young, spontaneous goodness that attracted the other man infinitely,
yet filled him with bitter chagrin, because he mistrusted it so much.
He knew Birkin could do without him--could forget, and not suffer. This
was always present in Gerald's consciousness, filling him with bitter
unbelief: this consciousness of the young, animal-like spontaneity of
detachment. It seemed almost like hypocrisy and lying, sometimes, oh,
often, on Birkin's part, to talk so deeply and importantly.

Quite other things were going through Birkin's mind. Suddenly he saw
himself confronted with another problem--the problem of love and
eternal conjunction between two men. Of course this was necessary--it
had been a necessity inside himself all his life--to love a man purely
and fully. Of course he had been loving Gerald all along, and all along
denying it.

He lay in the bed and wondered, whilst his friend sat beside him, lost
in brooding. Each man was gone in his own thoughts.

'You know how the old German knights used to swear a BLUTBRUDERSCHAFT,'
he said to Gerald, with quite a new happy activity in his eyes.

'Make a little wound in their arms, and rub each other's blood into the
cut?' said Gerald.

'Yes--and swear to be true to each other, of one blood, all their
lives. That is what we ought to do. No wounds, that is obsolete. But we
ought to swear to love each other, you and I, implicitly, and
perfectly, finally, without any possibility of going back on it.'

He looked at Gerald with clear, happy eyes of discovery. Gerald looked
down at him, attracted, so deeply bondaged in fascinated attraction,
that he was mistrustful, resenting the bondage, hating the attraction.

'We will swear to each other, one day, shall we?' pleaded Birkin. 'We
will swear to stand by each other--be true to each other--ultimately--
infallibly--given to each other, organically--without possibility of
taking back.'

Birkin sought hard to express himself. But Gerald hardly listened. His
face shone with a certain luminous pleasure. He was pleased. But he
kept his reserve. He held himself back.

'Shall we swear to each other, one day?' said Birkin, putting out his
hand towards Gerald.

Gerald just touched the extended fine, living hand, as if withheld and
afraid.

'We'll leave it till I understand it better,' he said, in a voice of
excuse.

Birkin watched him. A little sharp disappointment, perhaps a touch of
contempt came into his heart.

'Yes,' he said. 'You must tell me what you think, later. You know what
I mean? Not sloppy emotionalism. An impersonal union that leaves one
free.'

They lapsed both into silence. Birkin was looking at Gerald all the
time. He seemed now to see, not the physical, animal man, which he
usually saw in Gerald, and which usually he liked so much, but the man
himself, complete, and as if fated, doomed, limited. This strange sense
of fatality in Gerald, as if he were limited to one form of existence,
one knowledge, one activity, a sort of fatal halfness, which to himself
seemed wholeness, always overcame Birkin after their moments of
passionate approach, and filled him with a sort of contempt, or
boredom. It was the insistence on the limitation which so bored Birkin
in Gerald. Gerald could never fly away from himself, in real
indifferent gaiety. He had a clog, a sort of monomania.

There was silence for a time. Then Birkin said, in a lighter tone,
letting the stress of the contact pass:

'Can't you get a good governess for Winifred?--somebody exceptional?'

'Hermione Roddice suggested we should ask Gudrun to teach her to draw
and to model in clay. You know Winnie is astonishingly clever with that
plasticine stuff. Hermione declares she is an artist.' Gerald spoke in
the usual animated, chatty manner, as if nothing unusual had passed.
But Birkin's manner was full of reminder.

'Really! I didn't know that. Oh well then, if Gudrun WOULD teach her,
it would be perfect--couldn't be anything better--if Winifred is an
artist. Because Gudrun somewhere is one. And every true artist is the
salvation of every other.'

'I thought they got on so badly, as a rule.'

'Perhaps. But only artists produce for each other the world that is fit
to live in. If you can arrange THAT for Winifred, it is perfect.'

'But you think she wouldn't come?'

'I don't know. Gudrun is rather self-opinionated. She won't go cheap
anywhere. Or if she does, she'll pretty soon take herself back. So
whether she would condescend to do private teaching, particularly here,
in Beldover, I don't know. But it would be just the thing. Winifred has
got a special nature. And if you can put into her way the means of
being self-sufficient, that is the best thing possible. She'll never
get on with the ordinary life. You find it difficult enough yourself,
and she is several skins thinner than you are. It is awful to think
what her life will be like unless she does find a means of expression,
some way of fulfilment. You can see what mere leaving it to fate
brings. You can see how much marriage is to be trusted to--look at your
own mother.'

'Do you think mother is abnormal?'

'No! I think she only wanted something more, or other than the common
run of life. And not getting it, she has gone wrong perhaps.'

'After producing a brood of wrong children,' said Gerald gloomily.

'No more wrong than any of the rest of us,' Birkin replied. 'The most
normal people have the worst subterranean selves, take them one by
one.'

'Sometimes I think it is a curse to be alive,' said Gerald with sudden
impotent anger.

'Well,' said Birkin, 'why not! Let it be a curse sometimes to be
alive--at other times it is anything but a curse. You've got plenty of
zest in it really.'

'Less than you'd think,' said Gerald, revealing a strange poverty in
his look at the other man.

There was silence, each thinking his own thoughts.

'I don't see what she has to distinguish between teaching at the
Grammar School, and coming to teach Win,' said Gerald.

'The difference between a public servant and a private one. The only
nobleman today, king and only aristocrat, is the public, the public.
You are quite willing to serve the public--but to be a private tutor--'

'I don't want to serve either--'

'No! And Gudrun will probably feel the same.'

Gerald thought for a few minutes. Then he said:

'At all events, father won't make her feel like a private servant. He
will be fussy and greatful enough.'

'So he ought. And so ought all of you. Do you think you can hire a
woman like Gudrun Brangwen with money? She is your equal like
anything--probably your superior.'

'Is she?' said Gerald.

'Yes, and if you haven't the guts to know it, I hope she'll leave you
to your own devices.'

'Nevertheless,' said Gerald, 'if she is my equal, I wish she weren't a
teacher, because I don't think teachers as a rule are my equal.'

'Nor do I, damn them. But am I a teacher because I teach, or a parson
because I preach?'

Gerald laughed. He was always uneasy on this score. He did not WANT to
claim social superiority, yet he WOULD not claim intrinsic personal
superiority, because he would never base his standard of values on pure
being. So he wobbled upon a tacit assumption of social standing. No,
Birkin wanted him to accept the fact of intrinsic difference between
human beings, which he did not intend to accept. It was against his
social honour, his principle. He rose to go.

'I've been neglecting my business all this while,' he said smiling.

'I ought to have reminded you before,' Birkin replied, laughing and
mocking.

'I knew you'd say something like that,' laughed Gerald, rather
uneasily.

'Did you?'

'Yes, Rupert. It wouldn't do for us all to be like you are--we should
soon be in the cart. When I am above the world, I shall ignore all
businesses.'

'Of course, we're not in the cart now,' said Birkin, satirically.

'Not as much as you make out. At any rate, we have enough to eat and
drink--'

'And be satisfied,' added Birkin.

Gerald came near the bed and stood looking down at Birkin whose throat
was exposed, whose tossed hair fell attractively on the warm brow,
above the eyes that were so unchallenged and still in the satirical
face. Gerald, full-limbed and turgid with energy, stood unwilling to
go, he was held by the presence of the other man. He had not the power
to go away.

'So,' said Birkin. 'Good-bye.' And he reached out his hand from under
the bed-clothes, smiling with a glimmering look.

'Good-bye,' said Gerald, taking the warm hand of his friend in a firm
grasp. 'I shall come again. I miss you down at the mill.'

'I'll be there in a few days,' said Birkin.

The eyes of the two men met again. Gerald's, that were keen as a
hawk's, were suffused now with warm light and with unadmitted love,
Birkin looked back as out of a darkness, unsounded and unknown, yet
with a kind of warmth, that seemed to flow over Gerald's brain like a
fertile sleep.

'Good-bye then. There's nothing I can do for you?'

'Nothing, thanks.'

Birkin watched the black-clothed form of the other man move out of the
door, the bright head was gone, he turned over to sleep.




CHAPTER XVII.



THE INDUSTRIAL MAGNATE


In Beldover, there was both for Ursula and for Gudrun an interval. It
seemed to Ursula as if Birkin had gone out of her for the time, he had
lost his significance, he scarcely mattered in her world. She had her
own friends, her own activities, her own life. She turned back to the
old ways with zest, away from him.

And Gudrun, after feeling every moment in all her veins conscious of
Gerald Crich, connected even physically with him, was now almost
indifferent to the thought of him. She was nursing new schemes for
going away and trying a new form of life. All the time, there was
something in her urging her to avoid the final establishing of a
relationship with Gerald. She felt it would be wiser and better to have
no more than a casual acquaintance with him.

She had a scheme for going to St Petersburg, where she had a friend who
was a sculptor like herself, and who lived with a wealthy Russian whose
hobby was jewel-making. The emotional, rather rootless life of the
Russians appealed to her. She did not want to go to Paris. Paris was
dry, and essentially boring. She would like to go to Rome, Munich,
Vienna, or to St Petersburg or Moscow. She had a friend in St
Petersburg and a friend in Munich. To each of these she wrote, asking
about rooms.

She had a certain amount of money. She had come home partly to save,
and now she had sold several pieces of work, she had been praised in
various shows. She knew she could become quite the 'go' if she went to
London. But she knew London, she wanted something else. She had seventy
pounds, of which nobody knew anything. She would move soon, as soon as
she heard from her friends. Her nature, in spite of her apparent
placidity and calm, was profoundly restless.

The sisters happened to call in a cottage in Willey Green to buy honey.
Mrs Kirk, a stout, pale, sharp-nosed woman, sly, honied, with something
shrewish and cat-like beneath, asked the girls into her toocosy, too
tidy kitchen. There was a cat-like comfort and cleanliness everywhere.

'Yes, Miss Brangwen,' she said, in her slightly whining, insinuating
voice, 'and how do you like being back in the old place, then?'

Gudrun, whom she addressed, hated her at once.

'I don't care for it,' she replied abruptly.

'You don't? Ay, well, I suppose you found a difference from London. You
like life, and big, grand places. Some of us has to be content with
Willey Green and Beldover. And what do you think of our Grammar School,
as there's so much talk about?'

'What do I think of it?' Gudrun looked round at her slowly. 'Do you
mean, do I think it's a good school?'

'Yes. What is your opinion of it?'

'I DO think it's a good school.'

Gudrun was very cold and repelling. She knew the common people hated
the school.

'Ay, you do, then! I've heard so much, one way and the other. It's nice
to know what those that's in it feel. But opinions vary, don't they? Mr
Crich up at Highclose is all for it. Ay, poor man, I'm afraid he's not
long for this world. He's very poorly.'

'Is he worse?' asked Ursula.

'Eh, yes--since they lost Miss Diana. He's gone off to a shadow. Poor
man, he's had a world of trouble.'

'Has he?' asked Gudrun, faintly ironic.

'He has, a world of trouble. And as nice and kind a gentleman as ever
you could wish to meet. His children don't take after him.'

'I suppose they take after their mother?' said Ursula.

'In many ways.' Mrs Krik lowered her voice a little. 'She was a proud
haughty lady when she came into these parts--my word, she was that! She
mustn't be looked at, and it was worth your life to speak to her.' The
woman made a dry, sly face.

'Did you know her when she was first married?'

'Yes, I knew her. I nursed three of her children. And proper little
terrors they were, little fiends--that Gerald was a demon if ever there
was one, a proper demon, ay, at six months old.' A curious malicious,
sly tone came into the woman's voice.

'Really,' said Gudrun.

'That wilful, masterful--he'd mastered one nurse at six months. Kick,
and scream, and struggle like a demon. Many's the time I've pinched his
little bottom for him, when he was a child in arms. Ay, and he'd have
been better if he'd had it pinched oftener. But she wouldn't have them
corrected--no-o, wouldn't hear of it. I can remember the rows she had
with Mr Crich, my word. When he'd got worked up, properly worked up
till he could stand no more, he'd lock the study door and whip them.
But she paced up and down all the while like a tiger outside, like a
tiger, with very murder in her face. She had a face that could LOOK
death. And when the door was opened, she'd go in with her hands
lifted--"What have you been doing to MY children, you coward." She was
like one out of her mind. I believe he was frightened of her; he had to
be driven mad before he'd lift a finger. Didn't the servants have a
life of it! And didn't we used to be thankful when one of them caught
it. They were the torment of your life.'

'Really!' said Gudrun.

'In every possible way. If you wouldn't let them smash their pots on
the table, if you wouldn't let them drag the kitten about with a string
round its neck, if you wouldn't give them whatever they asked for,
every mortal thing--then there was a shine on, and their mother coming
in asking--"What's the matter with him? What have you done to him? What
is it, Darling?" And then she'd turn on you as if she'd trample you
under her feet. But she didn't trample on me. I was the only one that
could do anything with her demons--for she wasn't going to be bothered
with them herself. No, SHE took no trouble for them. But they must just
have their way, they mustn't be spoken to. And Master Gerald was the
beauty. I left when he was a year and a half, I could stand no more.
But I pinched his little bottom for him when he was in arms, I did,
when there was no holding him, and I'm not sorry I did--'

Gudrun went away in fury and loathing. The phrase, 'I pinched his
little bottom for him,' sent her into a white, stony fury. She could
not bear it, she wanted to have the woman taken out at once and
strangled. And yet there the phrase was lodged in her mind for ever,
beyond escape. She felt, one day, she would HAVE to tell him, to see
how he took it. And she loathed herself for the thought.

But at Shortlands the life-long struggle was coming to a close. The
father was ill and was going to die. He had bad internal pains, which
took away all his attentive life, and left him with only a vestige of
his consciousness. More and more a silence came over him, he was less
and less acutely aware of his surroundings. The pain seemed to absorb
his activity. He knew it was there, he knew it would come again. It was
like something lurking in the darkness within him. And he had not the
power, or the will, to seek it out and to know it. There it remained in
the darkness, the great pain, tearing him at times, and then being
silent. And when it tore him he crouched in silent subjection under it,
and when it left him alone again, he refused to know of it. It was
within the darkness, let it remain unknown. So he never admitted it,
except in a secret corner of himself, where all his never-revealed
fears and secrets were accumulated. For the rest, he had a pain, it
went away, it made no difference. It even stimulated him, excited him.

But it gradually absorbed his life. Gradually it drew away all his
potentiality, it bled him into the dark, it weaned him of life and drew
him away into the darkness. And in this twilight of his life little
remained visible to him. The business, his work, that was gone
entirely. His public interests had disappeared as if they had never
been. Even his family had become extraneous to him, he could only
remember, in some slight non-essential part of himself, that such and
such were his children. But it was historical fact, not vital to him.
He had to make an effort to know their relation to him. Even his wife
barely existed. She indeed was like the darkness, like the pain within
him. By some strange association, the darkness that contained the pain
and the darkness that contained his wife were identical. All his
thoughts and understandings became blurred and fused, and now his wife
and the consuming pain were the same dark secret power against him,
that he never faced. He never drove the dread out of its lair within
him. He only knew that there was a dark place, and something inhabiting
this darkness which issued from time to time and rent him. But he dared
not penetrate and drive the beast into the open. He had rather ignore
its existence. Only, in his vague way, the dread was his wife, the
destroyer, and it was the pain, the destruction, a darkness which was
one and both.

He very rarely saw his wife. She kept her room. Only occasionally she
came forth, with her head stretched forward, and in her low, possessed
voice, she asked him how he was. And he answered her, in the habit of
more than thirty years: 'Well, I don't think I'm any the worse, dear.'
But he was frightened of her, underneath this safeguard of habit,
frightened almost to the verge of death.

But all his life, he had been so constant to his lights, he had never
broken down. He would die even now without breaking down, without
knowing what his feelings were, towards her. All his life, he had said:
'Poor Christiana, she has such a strong temper.' With unbroken will, he
had stood by this position with regard to her, he had substituted pity
for all his hostility, pity had been his shield and his safeguard, and
his infallible weapon. And still, in his consciousness, he was sorry
for her, her nature was so violent and so impatient.

But now his pity, with his life, was wearing thin, and the dread almost
amounting to horror, was rising into being. But before the armour of
his pity really broke, he would die, as an insect when its shell is
cracked. This was his final resource. Others would live on, and know
the living death, the ensuing process of hopeless chaos. He would not.
He denied death its victory.

He had been so constant to his lights, so constant to charity, and to
his love for his neighbour. Perhaps he had loved his neighbour even
better than himself--which is going one further than the commandment.
Always, this flame had burned in his heart, sustaining him through
everything, the welfare of the people. He was a large employer of
labour, he was a great mine-owner. And he had never lost this from his
heart, that in Christ he was one with his workmen. Nay, he had felt
inferior to them, as if they through poverty and labour were nearer to
God than he. He had always the unacknowledged belief, that it was his
workmen, the miners, who held in their hands the means of salvation. To
move nearer to God, he must move towards his miners, his life must
gravitate towards theirs. They were, unconsciously, his idol, his God
made manifest. In them he worshipped the highest, the great,
sympathetic, mindless Godhead of humanity.

And all the while, his wife had opposed him like one of the great
demons of hell. Strange, like a bird of prey, with the fascinating
beauty and abstraction of a hawk, she had beat against the bars of his
philanthropy, and like a hawk in a cage, she had sunk into silence. By
force of circumstance, because all the world combined to make the cage
unbreakable, he had been too strong for her, he had kept her prisoner.
And because she was his prisoner, his passion for her had always
remained keen as death. He had always loved her, loved her with
intensity. Within the cage, she was denied nothing, she was given all
licence.

But she had gone almost mad. Of wild and overweening temper, she could
not bear the humiliation of her husband's soft, half-appealing kindness
to everybody. He was not deceived by the poor. He knew they came and
sponged on him, and whined to him, the worse sort; the majority,
luckily for him, were much too proud to ask for anything, much too
independent to come knocking at his door. But in Beldover, as
everywhere else, there were the whining, parasitic, foul human beings
who come crawling after charity, and feeding on the living body of the
public like lice. A kind of fire would go over Christiana Crich's
brain, as she saw two more pale-faced, creeping women in objectionable
black clothes, cringing lugubriously up the drive to the door. She
wanted to set the dogs on them, 'Hi Rip! Hi Ring! Ranger! At 'em boys,
set 'em off.' But Crowther, the butler, with all the rest of the
servants, was Mr Crich's man. Nevertheless, when her husband was away,
she would come down like a wolf on the crawling supplicants;

'What do you people want? There is nothing for you here. You have no
business on the drive at all. Simpson, drive them away and let no more
of them through the gate.'

The servants had to obey her. And she would stand watching with an eye
like the eagle's, whilst the groom in clumsy confusion drove the
lugubrious persons down the drive, as if they were rusty fowls,
scuttling before him.

But they learned to know, from the lodge-keeper, when Mrs Crich was
away, and they timed their visits. How many times, in the first years,
would Crowther knock softly at the door: 'Person to see you, sir.'

'What name?'

'Grocock, sir.'

'What do they want?' The question was half impatient, half gratified.
He liked hearing appeals to his charity.

'About a child, sir.'

'Show them into the library, and tell them they shouldn't come after
eleven o'clock in the morning.'

'Why do you get up from dinner?--send them off,' his wife would say
abruptly.

'Oh, I can't do that. It's no trouble just to hear what they have to
say.'

'How many more have been here today? Why don't you establish open house
for them? They would soon oust me and the children.'

'You know dear, it doesn't hurt me to hear what they have to say. And
if they really are in trouble--well, it is my duty to help them out of
it.'

'It's your duty to invite all the rats in the world to gnaw at your
bones.'

'Come, Christiana, it isn't like that. Don't be uncharitable.'

But she suddenly swept out of the room, and out to the study. There sat
the meagre charity-seekers, looking as if they were at the doctor's.

'Mr Crich can't see you. He can't see you at this hour. Do you think he
is your property, that you can come whenever you like? You must go
away, there is nothing for you here.'

The poor people rose in confusion. But Mr Crich, pale and black-bearded
and deprecating, came behind her, saying:

'Yes, I don't like you coming as late as this. I'll hear any of you in
the morning part of the day, but I can't really do with you after.
What's amiss then, Gittens. How is your Missis?'

'Why, she's sunk very low, Mester Crich, she's a'most gone, she is--'

Sometimes, it seemed to Mrs Crich as if her husband were some subtle
funeral bird, feeding on the miseries of the people. It seemed to her
he was never satisfied unless there was some sordid tale being poured
out to him, which he drank in with a sort of mournful, sympathetic
satisfaction. He would have no RAISON D'ETRE if there were no
lugubrious miseries in the world, as an undertaker would have no
meaning if there were no funerals.

Mrs Crich recoiled back upon herself, she recoiled away from this world
of creeping democracy. A band of tight, baleful exclusion fastened
round her heart, her isolation was fierce and hard, her antagonism was
passive but terribly pure, like that of a hawk in a cage. As the years
went on, she lost more and more count of the world, she seemed rapt in
some glittering abstraction, almost purely unconscious. She would
wander about the house and about the surrounding country, staring
keenly and seeing nothing. She rarely spoke, she had no connection with
the world. And she did not even think. She was consumed in a fierce
tension of opposition, like the negative pole of a magnet.

And she bore many children. For, as time went on, she never opposed her
husband in word or deed. She took no notice of him, externally. She
submitted to him, let him take what he wanted and do as he wanted with
her. She was like a hawk that sullenly submits to everything. The
relation between her and her husband was wordless and unknown, but it
was deep, awful, a relation of utter inter-destruction. And he, who
triumphed in the world, he became more and more hollow in his vitality,
the vitality was bled from within him, as by some haemorrhage. She was
hulked like a hawk in a cage, but her heart was fierce and undiminished
within her, though her mind was destroyed.

So to the last he would go to her and hold her in his arms sometimes,
before his strength was all gone. The terrible white, destructive light
that burned in her eyes only excited and roused him. Till he was bled
to death, and then he dreaded her more than anything. But he always
said to himself, how happy he had been, how he had loved her with a
pure and consuming love ever since he had known her. And he thought of
her as pure, chaste; the white flame which was known to him alone, the
flame of her sex, was a white flower of snow to his mind. She was a
wonderful white snow-flower, which he had desired infinitely. And now
he was dying with all his ideas and interpretations intact. They would
only collapse when the breath left his body. Till then they would be
pure truths for him. Only death would show the perfect completeness of
the lie. Till death, she was his white snow-flower. He had subdued her,
and her subjugation was to him an infinite chastity in her, a virginity
which he could never break, and which dominated him as by a spell.

She had let go the outer world, but within herself she was unbroken and
unimpaired. She only sat in her room like a moping, dishevelled hawk,
motionless, mindless. Her children, for whom she had been so fierce in
her youth, now meant scarcely anything to her. She had lost all that,
she was quite by herself. Only Gerald, the gleaming, had some existence
for her. But of late years, since he had become head of the business,
he too was forgotten. Whereas the father, now he was dying, turned for
compassion to Gerald. There had always been opposition between the two
of them. Gerald had feared and despised his father, and to a great
extent had avoided him all through boyhood and young manhood. And the
father had felt very often a real dislike of his eldest son, which,
never wanting to give way to, he had refused to acknowledge. He had
ignored Gerald as much as possible, leaving him alone.

Since, however, Gerald had come home and assumed responsibility in the
firm, and had proved such a wonderful director, the father, tired and
weary of all outside concerns, had put all his trust of these things in
his son, implicitly, leaving everything to him, and assuming a rather
touching dependence on the young enemy. This immediately roused a
poignant pity and allegiance in Gerald's heart, always shadowed by
contempt and by unadmitted enmity. For Gerald was in reaction against
Charity; and yet he was dominated by it, it assumed supremacy in the
inner life, and he could not confute it. So he was partly subject to
that which his father stood for, but he was in reaction against it. Now
he could not save himself. A certain pity and grief and tenderness for
his father overcame him, in spite of the deeper, more sullen hostility.

The father won shelter from Gerald through compassion. But for love he
had Winifred. She was his youngest child, she was the only one of his
children whom he had ever closely loved. And her he loved with all the
great, overweening, sheltering love of a dying man. He wanted to
shelter her infinitely, infinitely, to wrap her in warmth and love and
shelter, perfectly. If he could save her she should never know one
pain, one grief, one hurt. He had been so right all his life, so
constant in his kindness and his goodness. And this was his last
passionate righteousness, his love for the child Winifred. Some things
troubled him yet. The world had passed away from him, as his strength
ebbed. There were no more poor and injured and humble to protect and
succour. These were all lost to him. There were no more sons and
daughters to trouble him, and to weigh on him as an unnatural
responsibility. These too had faded out of reality All these things had
fallen out of his hands, and left him free.

There remained the covert fear and horror of his wife, as she sat
mindless and strange in her room, or as she came forth with slow,
prowling step, her head bent forward. But this he put away. Even his
life-long righteousness, however, would not quite deliver him from the
inner horror. Still, he could keep it sufficiently at bay. It would
never break forth openly. Death would come first.

Then there was Winifred! If only he could be sure about her, if only he
could be sure. Since the death of Diana, and the development of his
illness, his craving for surety with regard to Winifred amounted almost
to obsession. It was as if, even dying, he must have some anxiety, some
responsibility of love, of Charity, upon his heart.

She was an odd, sensitive, inflammable child, having her father's dark
hair and quiet bearing, but being quite detached, momentaneous. She was
like a changeling indeed, as if her feelings did not matter to her,
really. She often seemed to be talking and playing like the gayest and
most childish of children, she was full of the warmest, most delightful
affection for a few things--for her father, and for her animals in
particular. But if she heard that her beloved kitten Leo had been run
over by the motor-car she put her head on one side, and replied, with a
faint contraction like resentment on her face: 'Has he?' Then she took
no more notice. She only disliked the servant who would force bad news
on her, and wanted her to be sorry. She wished not to know, and that
seemed her chief motive. She avoided her mother, and most of the
members of her family. She LOVED her Daddy, because he wanted her
always to be happy, and because he seemed to become young again, and
irresponsible in her presence. She liked Gerald, because he was so
self-contained. She loved people who would make life a game for her.
She had an amazing instinctive critical faculty, and was a pure
anarchist, a pure aristocrat at once. For she accepted her equals
wherever she found them, and she ignored with blithe indifference her
inferiors, whether they were her brothers and sisters, or whether they
were wealthy guests of the house, or whether they were the common
people or the servants. She was quite single and by herself, deriving
from nobody. It was as if she were cut off from all purpose or
continuity, and existed simply moment by moment.

The father, as by some strange final illusion, felt as if all his fate
depended on his ensuring to Winifred her happiness. She who could never
suffer, because she never formed vital connections, she who could lose
the dearest things of her life and be just the same the next day, the
whole memory dropped out, as if deliberately, she whose will was so
strangely and easily free, anarchistic, almost nihilistic, who like a
soulless bird flits on its own will, without attachment or
responsibility beyond the moment, who in her every motion snapped the
threads of serious relationship with blithe, free hands, really
nihilistic, because never troubled, she must be the object of her
father's final passionate solicitude.

When Mr Crich heard that Gudrun Brangwen might come to help Winifred
with her drawing and modelling he saw a road to salvation for his
child. He believed that Winifred had talent, he had seen Gudrun, he
knew that she was an exceptional person. He could give Winifred into
her hands as into the hands of a right being. Here was a direction and
a positive force to be lent to his child, he need not leave her
directionless and defenceless. If he could but graft the girl on to
some tree of utterance before he died, he would have fulfilled his
responsibility. And here it could be done. He did not hesitate to
appeal to Gudrun.

Meanwhile, as the father drifted more and more out of life, Gerald
experienced more and more a sense of exposure. His father after all had
stood for the living world to him. Whilst his father lived Gerald was
not responsible for the world. But now his father was passing away,
Gerald found himself left exposed and unready before the storm of
living, like the mutinous first mate of a ship that has lost his
captain, and who sees only a terrible chaos in front of him. He did not
inherit an established order and a living idea. The whole unifying idea
of mankind seemed to be dying with his father, the centralising force
that had held the whole together seemed to collapse with his father,
the parts were ready to go asunder in terrible disintegration. Gerald
was as if left on board of a ship that was going asunder beneath his
feet, he was in charge of a vessel whose timbers were all coming apart.

He knew that all his life he had been wrenching at the frame of life to
break it apart. And now, with something of the terror of a destructive
child, he saw himself on the point of inheriting his own destruction.
And during the last months, under the influence of death, and of
Birkin's talk, and of Gudrun's penetrating being, he had lost entirely
that mechanical certainty that had been his triumph. Sometimes spasms
of hatred came over him, against Birkin and Gudrun and that whole set.
He wanted to go back to the dullest conservatism, to the most stupid of
conventional people. He wanted to revert to the strictest Toryism. But
the desire did not last long enough to carry him into action.

During his childhood and his boyhood he had wanted a sort of savagedom.
The days of Homer were his ideal, when a man was chief of an army of
heroes, or spent his years in wonderful Odyssey. He hated remorselessly
the circumstances of his own life, so much that he never really saw
Beldover and the colliery valley. He turned his face entirely away from
the blackened mining region that stretched away on the right hand of
Shortlands, he turned entirely to the country and the woods beyond
Willey Water. It was true that the panting and rattling of the coal
mines could always be heard at Shortlands. But from his earliest
childhood, Gerald had paid no heed to this. He had ignored the whole of
the industrial sea which surged in coal-blackened tides against the
grounds of the house. The world was really a wilderness where one
hunted and swam and rode. He rebelled against all authority. Life was a
condition of savage freedom.

Then he had been sent away to school, which was so much death to him.
He refused to go to Oxford, choosing a German university. He had spent
a certain time at Bonn, at Berlin, and at Frankfurt. There, a curiosity
had been aroused in his mind. He wanted to see and to know, in a
curious objective fashion, as if it were an amusement to him. Then he
must try war. Then he must travel into the savage regions that had so
attracted him.

The result was, he found humanity very much alike everywhere, and to a
mind like his, curious and cold, the savage was duller, less exciting
than the European. So he took hold of all kinds of sociological ideas,
and ideas of reform. But they never went more than skin-deep, they were
never more than a mental amusement. Their interest lay chiefly in the
reaction against the positive order, the destructive reaction.

He discovered at last a real adventure in the coal-mines. His father
asked him to help in the firm. Gerald had been educated in the science
of mining, and it had never interested him. Now, suddenly, with a sort
of exultation, he laid hold of the world.

There was impressed photographically on his consciousness the great
industry. Suddenly, it was real, he was part of it. Down the valley ran
the colliery railway, linking mine with mine. Down the railway ran the
trains, short trains of heavily laden trucks, long trains of empty
wagons, each one bearing in big white letters the initials:

'C.B.&Co.'

These white letters on all the wagons he had seen since his first
childhood, and it was as if he had never seen them, they were so
familiar, and so ignored. Now at last he saw his own name written on
the wall. Now he had a vision of power.

So many wagons, bearing his initial, running all over the country. He
saw them as he entered London in the train, he saw them at Dover. So
far his power ramified. He looked at Beldover, at Selby, at Whatmore,
at Lethley Bank, the great colliery villages which depended entirely on
his mines. They were hideous and sordid, during his childhood they had
been sores in his consciousness. And now he saw them with pride. Four
raw new towns, and many ugly industrial hamlets were crowded under his
dependence. He saw the stream of miners flowing along the causeways
from the mines at the end of the afternoon, thousands of blackened,
slightly distorted human beings with red mouths, all moving subjugate
to his will. He pushed slowly in his motor-car through the little
market-top on Friday nights in Beldover, through a solid mass of human
beings that were making their purchases and doing their weekly
spending. They were all subordinate to him. They were ugly and uncouth,
but they were his instruments. He was the God of the machine. They made
way for his motor-car automatically, slowly.

He did not care whether they made way with alacrity, or grudgingly. He
did not care what they thought of him. His vision had suddenly
crystallised. Suddenly he had conceived the pure instrumentality of
mankind. There had been so much humanitarianism, so much talk of
sufferings and feelings. It was ridiculous. The sufferings and feelings
of individuals did not matter in the least. They were mere conditions,
like the weather. What mattered was the pure instrumentality of the
individual. As a man as of a knife: does it cut well? Nothing else
mattered.

Everything in the world has its function, and is good or not good in so
far as it fulfils this function more or less perfectly. Was a miner a
good miner? Then he was complete. Was a manager a good manager? That
was enough. Gerald himself, who was responsible for all this industry,
was he a good director? If he were, he had fulfilled his life. The rest
was by-play.

The mines were there, they were old. They were giving out, it did not
pay to work the seams. There was talk of closing down two of them. It
was at this point that Gerald arrived on the scene.

He looked around. There lay the mines. They were old, obsolete. They
were like old lions, no more good. He looked again. Pah! the mines were
nothing but the clumsy efforts of impure minds. There they lay,
abortions of a half-trained mind. Let the idea of them be swept away.
He cleared his brain of them, and thought only of the coal in the under
earth. How much was there?

There was plenty of coal. The old workings could not get at it, that
was all. Then break the neck of the old workings. The coal lay there in
its seams, even though the seams were thin. There it lay, inert matter,
as it had always lain, since the beginning of time, subject to the will
of man. The will of man was the determining factor. Man was the archgod
of earth. His mind was obedient to serve his will. Man's will was the
absolute, the only absolute.

And it was his will to subjugate Matter to his own ends. The
subjugation itself was the point, the fight was the be-all, the fruits
of victory were mere results. It was not for the sake of money that
Gerald took over the mines. He did not care about money, fundamentally.
He was neither ostentatious nor luxurious, neither did he care about
social position, not finally. What he wanted was the pure fulfilment of
his own will in the struggle with the natural conditions. His will was
now, to take the coal out of the earth, profitably. The profit was
merely the condition of victory, but the victory itself lay in the feat
achieved. He vibrated with zest before the challenge. Every day he was
in the mines, examining, testing, he consulted experts, he gradually
gathered the whole situation into his mind, as a general grasps the
plan of his campaign.

Then there was need for a complete break. The mines were run on an old
system, an obsolete idea. The initial idea had been, to obtain as much
money from the earth as would make the owners comfortably rich, would
allow the workmen sufficient wages and good conditions, and would
increase the wealth of the country altogether. Gerald's father,
following in the second generation, having a sufficient fortune, had
thought only of the men. The mines, for him, were primarily great
fields to produce bread and plenty for all the hundreds of human beings
gathered about them. He had lived and striven with his fellow owners to
benefit the men every time. And the men had been benefited in their
fashion. There were few poor, and few needy. All was plenty, because
the mines were good and easy to work. And the miners, in those days,
finding themselves richer than they might have expected, felt glad and
triumphant. They thought themselves well-off, they congratulated
themselves on their good-fortune, they remembered how their fathers had
starved and suffered, and they felt that better times had come. They
were grateful to those others, the pioneers, the new owners, who had
opened out the pits, and let forth this stream of plenty.

But man is never satisfied, and so the miners, from gratitude to their
owners, passed on to murmuring. Their sufficiency decreased with
knowledge, they wanted more. Why should the master be so
out-of-all-proportion rich?

There was a crisis when Gerald was a boy, when the Masters' Federation
closed down the mines because the men would not accept a reduction.
This lock-out had forced home the new conditions to Thomas Crich.
Belonging to the Federation, he had been compelled by his honour to
close the pits against his men. He, the father, the Patriarch, was
forced to deny the means of life to his sons, his people. He, the rich
man who would hardly enter heaven because of his possessions, must now
turn upon the poor, upon those who were nearer Christ than himself,
those who were humble and despised and closer to perfection, those who
were manly and noble in their labours, and must say to them: 'Ye shall
neither labour nor eat bread.'

It was this recognition of the state of war which really broke his
heart. He wanted his industry to be run on love. Oh, he wanted love to
be the directing power even of the mines. And now, from under the cloak
of love, the sword was cynically drawn, the sword of mechanical
necessity.

This really broke his heart. He must have the illusion and now the
illusion was destroyed. The men were not against HIM, but they were
against the masters. It was war, and willy nilly he found himself on
the wrong side, in his own conscience. Seething masses of miners met
daily, carried away by a new religious impulse. The idea flew through
them: 'All men are equal on earth,' and they would carry the idea to
its material fulfilment. After all, is it not the teaching of Christ?
And what is an idea, if not the germ of action in the material world.
'All men are equal in spirit, they are all sons of God. Whence then
this obvious DISQUALITY?' It was a religious creed pushed to its
material conclusion. Thomas Crich at least had no answer. He could but
admit, according to his sincere tenets, that the disquality was wrong.
But he could not give up his goods, which were the stuff of disquality.
So the men would fight for their rights. The last impulses of the last
religious passion left on earth, the passion for equality, inspired
them.

Seething mobs of men marched about, their faces lighted up as for holy
war, with a smoke of cupidity. How disentangle the passion for equality
from the passion of cupidity, when begins the fight for equality of
possessions? But the God was the machine. Each man claimed equality in
the Godhead of the great productive machine. Every man equally was part
of this Godhead. But somehow, somewhere, Thomas Crich knew this was
false. When the machine is the Godhead, and production or work is
worship, then the most mechanical mind is purest and highest, the
representative of God on earth. And the rest are subordinate, each
according to his degree.

Riots broke out, Whatmore pit-head was in flames. This was the pit
furthest in the country, near the woods. Soldiers came. From the
windows of Shortlands, on that fatal day, could be seen the flare of
fire in the sky not far off, and now the little colliery train, with
the workmen's carriages which were used to convey the miners to the
distant Whatmore, was crossing the valley full of soldiers, full of
redcoats. Then there was the far-off sound of firing, then the later
news that the mob was dispersed, one man was shot dead, the fire was
put out.

Gerald, who was a boy, was filled with the wildest excitement and
delight. He longed to go with the soldiers to shoot the men. But he was
not allowed to go out of the lodge gates. At the gates were stationed
sentries with guns. Gerald stood near them in delight, whilst gangs of
derisive miners strolled up and down the lanes, calling and jeering:

'Now then, three ha'porth o'coppers, let's see thee shoot thy gun.'
Insults were chalked on the walls and the fences, the servants left.

And all this while Thomas Crich was breaking his heart, and giving away
hundreds of pounds in charity. Everywhere there was free food, a
surfeit of free food. Anybody could have bread for asking, and a loaf
cost only three-ha'pence. Every day there was a free tea somewhere, the
children had never had so many treats in their lives. On Friday
afternoon great basketfuls of buns and cakes were taken into the
schools, and great pitchers of milk, the school children had what they
wanted. They were sick with eating too much cake and milk.

And then it came to an end, and the men went back to work. But it was
never the same as before. There was a new situation created, a new idea
reigned. Even in the machine, there should be equality. No part should
be subordinate to any other part: all should be equal. The instinct for
chaos had entered. Mystic equality lies in abstraction, not in having
or in doing, which are processes. In function and process, one man, one
part, must of necessity be subordinate to another. It is a condition of
being. But the desire for chaos had risen, and the idea of mechanical
equality was the weapon of disruption which should execute the will of
man, the will for chaos.

Gerald was a boy at the time of the strike, but he longed to be a man,
to fight the colliers. The father however was trapped between two
halftruths, and broken. He wanted to be a pure Christian, one and equal
with all men. He even wanted to give away all he had, to the poor. Yet
he was a great promoter of industry, and he knew perfectly that he must
keep his goods and keep his authority. This was as divine a necessity
in him, as the need to give away all he possessed--more divine, even,
since this was the necessity he acted upon. Yet because he did NOT act
on the other ideal, it dominated him, he was dying of chagrin because
he must forfeit it. He wanted to be a father of loving kindness and
sacrificial benevolence. The colliers shouted to him about his
thousands a year. They would not be deceived.

When Gerald grew up in the ways of the world, he shifted the position.
He did not care about the equality. The whole Christian attitude of
love and self-sacrifice was old hat. He knew that position and
authority were the right thing in the world, and it was useless to cant
about it. They were the right thing, for the simple reason that they
were functionally necessary. They were not the be-all and the end-all.
It was like being part of a machine. He himself happened to be a
controlling, central part, the masses of men were the parts variously
controlled. This was merely as it happened. As well get excited because
a central hub drives a hundred outer wheels or because the whole
universe wheels round the sun. After all, it would be mere silliness to
say that the moon and the earth and Saturn and Jupiter and Venus have
just as much right to be the centre of the universe, each of them
separately, as the sun. Such an assertion is made merely in the desire
of chaos.

Without bothering to THINK to a conclusion, Gerald jumped to a
conclusion. He abandoned the whole democratic-equality problem as a
problem of silliness. What mattered was the great social productive
machine. Let that work perfectly, let it produce a sufficiency of
everything, let every man be given a rational portion, greater or less
according to his functional degree or magnitude, and then, provision
made, let the devil supervene, let every man look after his own
amusements and appetites, so long as he interfered with nobody.

So Gerald set himself to work, to put the great industry in order. In
his travels, and in his accompanying readings, he had come to the
conclusion that the essential secret of life was harmony. He did not
define to himself at all clearly what harmony was. The word pleased
him, he felt he had come to his own conclusions. And he proceeded to
put his philosophy into practice by forcing order into the established
world, translating the mystic word harmony into the practical word
organisation.

Immediately he SAW the firm, he realised what he could do. He had a
fight to fight with Matter, with the earth and the coal it enclosed.
This was the sole idea, to turn upon the inanimate matter of the
underground, and reduce it to his will. And for this fight with matter,
one must have perfect instruments in perfect organisation, a mechanism
so subtle and harmonious in its workings that it represents the single
mind of man, and by its relentless repetition of given movement, will
accomplish a purpose irresistibly, inhumanly. It was this inhuman
principle in the mechanism he wanted to construct that inspired Gerald
with an almost religious exaltation. He, the man, could interpose a
perfect, changeless, godlike medium between himself and the Matter he
had to subjugate. There were two opposites, his will and the resistant
Matter of the earth. And between these he could establish the very
expression of his will, the incarnation of his power, a great and
perfect machine, a system, an activity of pure order, pure mechanical
repetition, repetition ad infinitum, hence eternal and infinite. He
found his eternal and his infinite in the pure machine-principle of
perfect co-ordination into one pure, complex, infinitely repeated
motion, like the spinning of a wheel; but a productive spinning, as the
revolving of the universe may be called a productive spinning, a
productive repetition through eternity, to infinity. And this is the
Godmotion, this productive repetition ad infinitum. And Gerald was the
God of the machine, Deus ex Machina. And the whole productive will of
man was the Godhead.

He had his life-work now, to extend over the earth a great and perfect
system in which the will of man ran smooth and unthwarted, timeless, a
Godhead in process. He had to begin with the mines. The terms were
given: first the resistant Matter of the underground; then the
instruments of its subjugation, instruments human and metallic; and
finally his own pure will, his own mind. It would need a marvellous
adjustment of myriad instruments, human, animal, metallic, kinetic,
dynamic, a marvellous casting of myriad tiny wholes into one great
perfect entirety. And then, in this case there was perfection attained,
the will of the highest was perfectly fulfilled, the will of mankind
was perfectly enacted; for was not mankind mystically
contra-distinguished against inanimate Matter, was not the history of
mankind just the history of the conquest of the one by the other?

The miners were overreached. While they were still in the toils of
divine equality of man, Gerald had passed on, granted essentially their
case, and proceeded in his quality of human being to fulfil the will of
mankind as a whole. He merely represented the miners in a higher sense
when he perceived that the only way to fulfil perfectly the will of man
was to establish the perfect, inhuman machine. But he represented them
very essentially, they were far behind, out of date, squabbling for
their material equality. The desire had already transmuted into this
new and greater desire, for a perfect intervening mechanism between man
and Matter, the desire to translate the Godhead into pure mechanism.

As soon as Gerald entered the firm, the convulsion of death ran through
the old system. He had all his life been tortured by a furious and
destructive demon, which possessed him sometimes like an insanity. This
temper now entered like a virus into the firm, and there were cruel
eruptions. Terrible and inhuman were his examinations into every
detail; there was no privacy he would spare, no old sentiment but he
would turn it over. The old grey managers, the old grey clerks, the
doddering old pensioners, he looked at them, and removed them as so
much lumber. The whole concern seemed like a hospital of invalid
employees. He had no emotional qualms. He arranged what pensions were
necessary, he looked for efficient substitutes, and when these were
found, he substituted them for the old hands.

'I've a pitiful letter here from Letherington,' his father would say,
in a tone of deprecation and appeal. 'Don't you think the poor fellow
might keep on a little longer. I always fancied he did very well.'

'I've got a man in his place now, father. He'll be happier out of it,
believe me. You think his allowance is plenty, don't you?'

'It is not the allowance that he wants, poor man. He feels it very
much, that he is superannuated. Says he thought he had twenty more
years of work in him yet.'

'Not of this kind of work I want. He doesn't understand.'

The father sighed. He wanted not to know any more. He believed the pits
would have to be overhauled if they were to go on working. And after
all, it would be worst in the long run for everybody, if they must
close down. So he could make no answer to the appeals of his old and
trusty servants, he could only repeat 'Gerald says.'

So the father drew more and more out of the light. The whole frame of
the real life was broken for him. He had been right according to his
lights. And his lights had been those of the great religion. Yet they
seemed to have become obsolete, to be superseded in the world. He could
not understand. He only withdrew with his lights into an inner room,
into the silence. The beautiful candles of belief, that would not do to
light the world any more, they would still burn sweetly and
sufficiently in the inner room of his soul, and in the silence of his
retirement.

Gerald rushed into the reform of the firm, beginning with the office.
It was needful to economise severely, to make possible the great
alterations he must introduce.

'What are these widows' coals?' he asked.

'We have always allowed all widows of men who worked for the firm a
load of coals every three months.'

'They must pay cost price henceforward. The firm is not a charity
institution, as everybody seems to think.'

Widows, these stock figures of sentimental humanitarianism, he felt a
dislike at the thought of them. They were almost repulsive. Why were
they not immolated on the pyre of the husband, like the sati in India?
At any rate, let them pay the cost of their coals.

In a thousand ways he cut down the expenditure, in ways so fine as to
be hardly noticeable to the men. The miners must pay for the cartage of
their coals, heavy cartage too; they must pay for their tools, for the
sharpening, for the care of lamps, for the many trifling things that
made the bill of charges against every man mount up to a shilling or so
in the week. It was not grasped very definitely by the miners, though
they were sore enough. But it saved hundreds of pounds every week for
the firm.

Gradually Gerald got hold of everything. And then began the great
reform. Expert engineers were introduced in every department. An
enormous electric plant was installed, both for lighting and for
haulage underground, and for power. The electricity was carried into
every mine. New machinery was brought from America, such as the miners
had never seen before, great iron men, as the cutting machines were
called, and unusual appliances. The working of the pits was thoroughly
changed, all the control was taken out of the hands of the miners, the
butty system was abolished. Everything was run on the most accurate and
delicate scientific method, educated and expert men were in control
everywhere, the miners were reduced to mere mechanical instruments.
They had to work hard, much harder than before, the work was terrible
and heart-breaking in its mechanicalness.

But they submitted to it all. The joy went out of their lives, the hope
seemed to perish as they became more and more mechanised. And yet they
accepted the new conditions. They even got a further satisfaction out
of them. At first they hated Gerald Crich, they swore to do something
to him, to murder him. But as time went on, they accepted everything
with some fatal satisfaction. Gerald was their high priest, he
represented the religion they really felt. His father was forgotten
already. There was a new world, a new order, strict, terrible, inhuman,
but satisfying in its very destructiveness. The men were satisfied to
belong to the great and wonderful machine, even whilst it destroyed
them. It was what they wanted. It was the highest that man had
produced, the most wonderful and superhuman. They were exalted by
belonging to this great and superhuman system which was beyond feeling
or reason, something really godlike. Their hearts died within them, but
their souls were satisfied. It was what they wanted. Otherwise Gerald
could never have done what he did. He was just ahead of them in giving
them what they wanted, this participation in a great and perfect system
that subjected life to pure mathematical principles. This was a sort of
freedom, the sort they really wanted. It was the first great step in
undoing, the first great phase of chaos, the substitution of the
mechanical principle for the organic, the destruction of the organic
purpose, the organic unity, and the subordination of every organic unit
to the great mechanical purpose. It was pure organic disintegration and
pure mechanical organisation. This is the first and finest state of
chaos.

Gerald was satisfied. He knew the colliers said they hated him. But he
had long ceased to hate them. When they streamed past him at evening,
their heavy boots slurring on the pavement wearily, their shoulders
slightly distorted, they took no notice of him, they gave him no
greeting whatever, they passed in a grey-black stream of unemotional
acceptance. They were not important to him, save as instruments, nor he
to them, save as a supreme instrument of control. As miners they had
their being, he had his being as director. He admired their qualities.
But as men, personalities, they were just accidents, sporadic little
unimportant phenomena. And tacitly, the men agreed to this. For Gerald
agreed to it in himself.

He had succeeded. He had converted the industry into a new and terrible
purity. There was a greater output of coal than ever, the wonderful and
delicate system ran almost perfectly. He had a set of really clever
engineers, both mining and electrical, and they did not cost much. A
highly educated man cost very little more than a workman. His managers,
who were all rare men, were no more expensive than the old bungling
fools of his father's days, who were merely colliers promoted. His
chief manager, who had twelve hundred a year, saved the firm at least
five thousand. The whole system was now so perfect that Gerald was
hardly necessary any more.

It was so perfect that sometimes a strange fear came over him, and he
did not know what to do. He went on for some years in a sort of trance
of activity. What he was doing seemed supreme, he was almost like a
divinity. He was a pure and exalted activity.

But now he had succeeded--he had finally succeeded. And once or twice
lately, when he was alone in the evening and had nothing to do, he had
suddenly stood up in terror, not knowing what he was. And he went to
the mirror and looked long and closely at his own face, at his own
eyes, seeking for something. He was afraid, in mortal dry fear, but he
knew not what of. He looked at his own face. There it was, shapely and
healthy and the same as ever, yet somehow, it was not real, it was a
mask. He dared not touch it, for fear it should prove to be only a
composition mask. His eyes were blue and keen as ever, and as firm in
their sockets. Yet he was not sure that they were not blue false
bubbles that would burst in a moment and leave clear annihilation. He
could see the darkness in them, as if they were only bubbles of
darkness. He was afraid that one day he would break down and be a
purely meaningless babble lapping round a darkness.

But his will yet held good, he was able to go away and read, and think
about things. He liked to read books about the primitive man, books of
anthropology, and also works of speculative philosophy. His mind was
very active. But it was like a bubble floating in the darkness. At any
moment it might burst and leave him in chaos. He would not die. He knew
that. He would go on living, but the meaning would have collapsed out
of him, his divine reason would be gone. In a strangely indifferent,
sterile way, he was frightened. But he could not react even to the
fear. It was as if his centres of feeling were drying up. He remained
calm, calculative and healthy, and quite freely deliberate, even whilst
he felt, with faint, small but final sterile horror, that his mystic
reason was breaking, giving way now, at this crisis.

And it was a strain. He knew there was no equilibrium. He would have to
go in some direction, shortly, to find relief. Only Birkin kept the
fear definitely off him, saved him his quick sufficiency in life, by
the odd mobility and changeableness which seemed to contain the
quintessence of faith. But then Gerald must always come away from
Birkin, as from a Church service, back to the outside real world of
work and life. There it was, it did not alter, and words were
futilities. He had to keep himself in reckoning with the world of work
and material life. And it became more and more difficult, such a
strange pressure was upon him, as if the very middle of him were a
vacuum, and outside were an awful tension.

He had found his most satisfactory relief in women. After a debauch
with some desperate woman, he went on quite easy and forgetful. The
devil of it was, it was so hard to keep up his interest in women
nowadays. He didn't care about them any more. A Pussum was all right in
her way, but she was an exceptional case, and even she mattered
extremely little. No, women, in that sense, were useless to him any
more. He felt that his MIND needed acute stimulation, before he could
be physically roused.




CHAPTER XVIII.



RABBIT


Gudrun knew that it was a critical thing for her to go to Shortlands.
She knew it was equivalent to accepting Gerald Crich as a lover. And
though she hung back, disliking the condition, yet she knew she would
go on. She equivocated. She said to herself, in torment recalling the
blow and the kiss, 'after all, what is it? What is a kiss? What even is
a blow? It is an instant, vanished at once. I can go to Shortlands just
for a time, before I go away, if only to see what it is like.' For she
had an insatiable curiosity to see and to know everything.

She also wanted to know what Winifred was really like. Having heard the
child calling from the steamer in the night, she felt some mysterious
connection with her.

Gudrun talked with the father in the library. Then he sent for his
daughter. She came accompanied by Mademoiselle.

'Winnie, this is Miss Brangwen, who will be so kind as to help you with
your drawing and making models of your animals,' said the father.

The child looked at Gudrun for a moment with interest, before she came
forward and with face averted offered her hand. There was a complete
SANG FROID and indifference under Winifred's childish reserve, a
certain irresponsible callousness.

'How do you do?' said the child, not lifting her face.

'How do you do?' said Gudrun.

Then Winifred stood aside, and Gudrun was introduced to Mademoiselle.

'You have a fine day for your walk,' said Mademoiselle, in a bright
manner.

'QUITE fine,' said Gudrun.

Winifred was watching from her distance. She was as if amused, but
rather unsure as yet what this new person was like. She saw so many new
persons, and so few who became real to her. Mademoiselle was of no
count whatever, the child merely put up with her, calmly and easily,
accepting her little authority with faint scorn, compliant out of
childish arrogance of indifference.

'Well, Winifred,' said the father, 'aren't you glad Miss Brangwen has
come? She makes animals and birds in wood and in clay, that the people
in London write about in the papers, praising them to the skies.'

Winifred smiled slightly.

'Who told you, Daddie?' she asked.

'Who told me? Hermione told me, and Rupert Birkin.'

'Do you know them?' Winifred asked of Gudrun, turning to her with faint
challenge.

'Yes,' said Gudrun.

Winifred readjusted herself a little. She had been ready to accept
Gudrun as a sort of servant. Now she saw it was on terms of friendship
they were intended to meet. She was rather glad. She had so many half
inferiors, whom she tolerated with perfect good-humour.

Gudrun was very calm. She also did not take these things very
seriously. A new occasion was mostly spectacular to her. However,
Winifred was a detached, ironic child, she would never attach herself.
Gudrun liked her and was intrigued by her. The first meetings went off
with a certain humiliating clumsiness. Neither Winifred nor her
instructress had any social grace.

Soon, however, they met in a kind of make-belief world. Winifred did
not notice human beings unless they were like herself, playful and
slightly mocking. She would accept nothing but the world of amusement,
and the serious people of her life were the animals she had for pets.
On those she lavished, almost ironically, her affection and her
companionship. To the rest of the human scheme she submitted with a
faint bored indifference.

She had a pekinese dog called Looloo, which she loved.

'Let us draw Looloo,' said Gudrun, 'and see if we can get his
Looliness, shall we?'

'Darling!' cried Winifred, rushing to the dog, that sat with
contemplative sadness on the hearth, and kissing its bulging brow.
'Darling one, will you be drawn? Shall its mummy draw its portrait?'
Then she chuckled gleefully, and turning to Gudrun, said: 'Oh let's!'

They proceeded to get pencils and paper, and were ready.

'Beautifullest,' cried Winifred, hugging the dog, 'sit still while its
mummy draws its beautiful portrait.' The dog looked up at her with
grievous resignation in its large, prominent eyes. She kissed it
fervently, and said: 'I wonder what mine will be like. It's sure to be
awful.'

As she sketched she chuckled to herself, and cried out at times:

'Oh darling, you're so beautiful!'

And again chuckling, she rushed to embrace the dog, in penitence, as if
she were doing him some subtle injury. He sat all the time with the
resignation and fretfulness of ages on his dark velvety face. She drew
slowly, with a wicked concentration in her eyes, her head on one side,
an intense stillness over her. She was as if working the spell of some
enchantment. Suddenly she had finished. She looked at the dog, and then
at her drawing, and then cried, with real grief for the dog, and at the
same time with a wicked exultation:

'My beautiful, why did they?'

She took her paper to the dog, and held it under his nose. He turned
his head aside as in chagrin and mortification, and she impulsively
kissed his velvety bulging forehead.

''s a Loolie, 's a little Loozie! Look at his portrait, darling, look
at his portrait, that his mother has done of him.' She looked at her
paper and chuckled. Then, kissing the dog once more, she rose and came
gravely to Gudrun, offering her the paper.

It was a grotesque little diagram of a grotesque little animal, so
wicked and so comical, a slow smile came over Gudrun's face,
unconsciously. And at her side Winifred chuckled with glee, and said:

'It isn't like him, is it? He's much lovelier than that. He's SO
beautiful-mmm, Looloo, my sweet darling.' And she flew off to embrace
the chagrined little dog. He looked up at her with reproachful,
saturnine eyes, vanquished in his extreme agedness of being. Then she
flew back to her drawing, and chuckled with satisfaction.

'It isn't like him, is it?' she said to Gudrun.

'Yes, it's very like him,' Gudrun replied.

The child treasured her drawing, carried it about with her, and showed
it, with a silent embarrassment, to everybody.

'Look,' she said, thrusting the paper into her father's hand.

'Why that's Looloo!' he exclaimed. And he looked down in surprise,
hearing the almost inhuman chuckle of the child at his side.

Gerald was away from home when Gudrun first came to Shortlands. But the
first morning he came back he watched for her. It was a sunny, soft
morning, and he lingered in the garden paths, looking at the flowers
that had come out during his absence. He was clean and fit as ever,
shaven, his fair hair scrupulously parted at the side, bright in the
sunshine, his short, fair moustache closely clipped, his eyes with
their humorous kind twinkle, which was so deceptive. He was dressed in
black, his clothes sat well on his well-nourished body. Yet as he
lingered before the flower-beds in the morning sunshine, there was a
certain isolation, a fear about him, as of something wanting.

Gudrun came up quickly, unseen. She was dressed in blue, with woollen
yellow stockings, like the Bluecoat boys. He glanced up in surprise.
Her stockings always disconcerted him, the pale-yellow stockings and
the heavy heavy black shoes. Winifred, who had been playing about the
garden with Mademoiselle and the dogs, came flitting towards Gudrun.
The child wore a dress of black-and-white stripes. Her hair was rather
short, cut round and hanging level in her neck.

'We're going to do Bismarck, aren't we?' she said, linking her hand
through Gudrun's arm.

'Yes, we're going to do Bismarck. Do you want to?'

'Oh yes-oh I do! I want most awfully to do Bismarck. He looks SO
splendid this morning, so FIERCE. He's almost as big as a lion.' And
the child chuckled sardonically at her own hyperbole. 'He's a real
king, he really is.'

'Bon jour, Mademoiselle,' said the little French governess, wavering up
with a slight bow, a bow of the sort that Gudrun loathed, insolent.

'Winifred veut tant faire le portrait de Bismarck-! Oh, mais toute la
matinee-"We will do Bismarck this morning!"-Bismarck, Bismarck,
toujours Bismarck! C'est un lapin, n'est-ce pas, mademoiselle?'

'Oui, c'est un grand lapin blanc et noir. Vous ne l'avez pas vu?' said
Gudrun in her good, but rather heavy French.

'Non, mademoiselle, Winifred n'a jamais voulu me le faire voir. Tant de
fois je le lui ai demande, "Qu'est ce donc que ce Bismarck, Winifred?"
Mais elle n'a pas voulu me le dire. Son Bismarck, c'etait un mystere.'

'Oui, c'est un mystere, vraiment un mystere! Miss Brangwen, say that
Bismarck is a mystery,' cried Winifred.

'Bismarck, is a mystery, Bismarck, c'est un mystere, der Bismarck, er
ist ein Wunder,' said Gudrun, in mocking incantation.

'Ja, er ist ein Wunder,' repeated Winifred, with odd seriousness, under
which lay a wicked chuckle.

'Ist er auch ein Wunder?' came the slightly insolent sneering of
Mademoiselle.

'Doch!' said Winifred briefly, indifferent.

'Doch ist er nicht ein Konig. Beesmarck, he was not a king, Winifred,
as you have said. He was only-il n'etait que chancelier.'

'Qu'est ce qu'un chancelier?' said Winifred, with slightly contemptuous
indifference.

'A chancelier is a chancellor, and a chancellor is, I believe, a sort
of judge,' said Gerald coming up and shaking hands with Gudrun. 'You'll
have made a song of Bismarck soon,' said he.

Mademoiselle waited, and discreetly made her inclination, and her
greeting.

'So they wouldn't let you see Bismarck, Mademoiselle?' he said.

'Non, Monsieur.'

'Ay, very mean of them. What are you going to do to him, Miss Brangwen?
I want him sent to the kitchen and cooked.'

'Oh no,' cried Winifred.

'We're going to draw him,' said Gudrun.

'Draw him and quarter him and dish him up,' he said, being purposely
fatuous.

'Oh no,' cried Winifred with emphasis, chuckling.

Gudrun detected the tang of mockery in him, and she looked up and
smiled into his face. He felt his nerves caressed. Their eyes met in
knowledge.

'How do you like Shortlands?' he asked.

'Oh, very much,' she said, with nonchalance.

'Glad you do. Have you noticed these flowers?'

He led her along the path. She followed intently. Winifred came, and
the governess lingered in the rear. They stopped before some veined
salpiglossis flowers.

'Aren't they wonderful?' she cried, looking at them absorbedly. Strange
how her reverential, almost ecstatic admiration of the flowers caressed
his nerves. She stooped down, and touched the trumpets, with infinitely
fine and delicate-touching finger-tips. It filled him with ease to see
her. When she rose, her eyes, hot with the beauty of the flowers,
looked into his.

'What are they?' she asked.

'Sort of petunia, I suppose,' he answered. 'I don't really know them.'

'They are quite strangers to me,' she said.

They stood together in a false intimacy, a nervous contact. And he was
in love with her.

She was aware of Mademoiselle standing near, like a little French
beetle, observant and calculating. She moved away with Winifred, saying
they would go to find Bismarck.

Gerald watched them go, looking all the while at the soft, full, still
body of Gudrun, in its silky cashmere. How silky and rich and soft her
body must be. An excess of appreciation came over his mind, she was the
all-desirable, the all-beautiful. He wanted only to come to her,
nothing more. He was only this, this being that should come to her, and
be given to her.

At the same time he was finely and acutely aware of Mademoiselle's
neat, brittle finality of form. She was like some elegant beetle with
thin ankles, perched on her high heels, her glossy black dress
perfectly correct, her dark hair done high and admirably. How repulsive
her completeness and her finality was! He loathed her.

Yet he did admire her. She was perfectly correct. And it did rather
annoy him, that Gudrun came dressed in startling colours, like a macaw,
when the family was in mourning. Like a macaw she was! He watched the
lingering way she took her feet from the ground. And her ankles were
pale yellow, and her dress a deep blue. Yet it pleased him. It pleased
him very much. He felt the challenge in her very attire-she challenged
the whole world. And he smiled as to the note of a trumpet.

Gudrun and Winifred went through the house to the back, where were the
stables and the out-buildings. Everywhere was still and deserted. Mr
Crich had gone out for a short drive, the stableman had just led round
Gerald's horse. The two girls went to the hutch that stood in a corner,
and looked at the great black-and-white rabbit.

'Isn't he beautiful! Oh, do look at him listening! Doesn't he look
silly!' she laughed quickly, then added 'Oh, do let's do him listening,
do let us, he listens with so much of himself;-don't you darling
Bismarck?'

'Can we take him out?' said Gudrun.

'He's very strong. He really is extremely strong.' She looked at
Gudrun, her head on one side, in odd calculating mistrust.

'But we'll try, shall we?'

'Yes, if you like. But he's a fearful kicker!'

They took the key to unlock the door. The rabbit exploded in a wild
rush round the hutch.

'He scratches most awfully sometimes,' cried Winifred in excitement.
'Oh do look at him, isn't he wonderful!' The rabbit tore round the
hutch in a hurry. 'Bismarck!' cried the child, in rousing excitement.
'How DREADFUL you are! You are beastly.' Winifred looked up at Gudrun
with some misgiving in her wild excitement. Gudrun smiled sardonically
with her mouth. Winifred made a strange crooning noise of unaccountable
excitement. 'Now he's still!' she cried, seeing the rabbit settled down
in a far corner of the hutch. 'Shall we take him now?' she whispered
excitedly, mysteriously, looking up at Gudrun and edging very close.
'Shall we get him now?-' she chuckled wickedly to herself.

They unlocked the door of the hutch. Gudrun thrust in her arm and
seized the great, lusty rabbit as it crouched still, she grasped its
long ears. It set its four feet flat, and thrust back. There was a long
scraping sound as it was hauled forward, and in another instant it was
in mid-air, lunging wildly, its body flying like a spring coiled and
released, as it lashed out, suspended from the ears. Gudrun held the
black-and-white tempest at arms' length, averting her face. But the
rabbit was magically strong, it was all she could do to keep her grasp.
She almost lost her presence of mind.

'Bismarck, Bismarck, you are behaving terribly,' said Winifred in a
rather frightened voice, 'Oh, do put him down, he's beastly.'

Gudrun stood for a moment astounded by the thunder-storm that had
sprung into being in her grip. Then her colour came up, a heavy rage
came over her like a cloud. She stood shaken as a house in a storm, and
utterly overcome. Her heart was arrested with fury at the mindlessness
and the bestial stupidity of this struggle, her wrists were badly
scored by the claws of the beast, a heavy cruelty welled up in her.

Gerald came round as she was trying to capture the flying rabbit under
her arm. He saw, with subtle recognition, her sullen passion of
cruelty.

'You should let one of the men do that for you,' he said hurrying up.

'Oh, he's SO horrid!' cried Winifred, almost frantic.

He held out his nervous, sinewy hand and took the rabbit by the ears,
from Gudrun.

'It's most FEARFULLY strong,' she cried, in a high voice, like the
crying a seagull, strange and vindictive.

The rabbit made itself into a ball in the air, and lashed out, flinging
itself into a bow. It really seemed demoniacal. Gudrun saw Gerald's
body tighten, saw a sharp blindness come into his eyes.

'I know these beggars of old,' he said.

The long, demon-like beast lashed out again, spread on the air as if it
were flying, looking something like a dragon, then closing up again,
inconceivably powerful and explosive. The man's body, strung to its
efforts, vibrated strongly. Then a sudden sharp, white-edged wrath came
up in him. Swift as lightning he drew back and brought his free hand
down like a hawk on the neck of the rabbit. Simultaneously, there came
the unearthly abhorrent scream of a rabbit in the fear of death. It
made one immense writhe, tore his wrists and his sleeves in a final
convulsion, all its belly flashed white in a whirlwind of paws, and
then he had slung it round and had it under his arm, fast. It cowered
and skulked. His face was gleaming with a smile.

'You wouldn't think there was all that force in a rabbit,' he said,
looking at Gudrun. And he saw her eyes black as night in her pallid
face, she looked almost unearthly. The scream of the rabbit, after the
violent tussle, seemed to have torn the veil of her consciousness. He
looked at her, and the whitish, electric gleam in his face intensified.

'I don't really like him,' Winifred was crooning. 'I don't care for him
as I do for Loozie. He's hateful really.'

A smile twisted Gudrun's face, as she recovered. She knew she was
revealed. 'Don't they make the most fearful noise when they scream?'
she cried, the high note in her voice, like a sea-gull's cry.

'Abominable,' he said.

'He shouldn't be so silly when he has to be taken out,' Winifred was
saying, putting out her hand and touching the rabbit tentatively, as it
skulked under his arm, motionless as if it were dead.

'He's not dead, is he Gerald?' she asked.

'No, he ought to be,' he said.

'Yes, he ought!' cried the child, with a sudden flush of amusement. And
she touched the rabbit with more confidence. 'His heart is beating SO
fast. Isn't he funny? He really is.'

'Where do you want him?' asked Gerald.

'In the little green court,' she said.

Gudrun looked at Gerald with strange, darkened eyes, strained with
underworld knowledge, almost supplicating, like those of a creature
which is at his mercy, yet which is his ultimate victor. He did not
know what to say to her. He felt the mutual hellish recognition. And he
felt he ought to say something, to cover it. He had the power of
lightning in his nerves, she seemed like a soft recipient of his
magical, hideous white fire. He was unconfident, he had qualms of fear.

'Did he hurt you?' he asked.

'No,' she said.

'He's an insensible beast,' he said, turning his face away.

They came to the little court, which was shut in by old red walls in
whose crevices wall-flowers were growing. The grass was soft and fine
and old, a level floor carpeting the court, the sky was blue overhead.
Gerald tossed the rabbit down. It crouched still and would not move.
Gudrun watched it with faint horror.

'Why doesn't it move?' she cried.

'It's skulking,' he said.

She looked up at him, and a slight sinister smile contracted her white
face.

'Isn't it a FOOL!' she cried. 'Isn't it a sickening FOOL ?' The
vindictive mockery in her voice made his brain quiver. Glancing up at
him, into his eyes, she revealed again the mocking, white-cruel
recognition. There was a league between them, abhorrent to them both.
They were implicated with each other in abhorrent mysteries.

'How many scratches have you?' he asked, showing his hard forearm,
white and hard and torn in red gashes.

'How really vile!' she cried, flushing with a sinister vision. 'Mine is
nothing.'

She lifted her arm and showed a deep red score down the silken white
flesh.

'What a devil!' he exclaimed. But it was as if he had had knowledge of
her in the long red rent of her forearm, so silken and soft. He did not
want to touch her. He would have to make himself touch her,
deliberately. The long, shallow red rip seemed torn across his own
brain, tearing the surface of his ultimate consciousness, letting
through the forever unconscious, unthinkable red ether of the beyond,
the obscene beyond.

'It doesn't hurt you very much, does it?' he asked, solicitous.

'Not at all,' she cried.

And suddenly the rabbit, which had been crouching as if it were a
flower, so still and soft, suddenly burst into life. Round and round
the court it went, as if shot from a gun, round and round like a furry
meteorite, in a tense hard circle that seemed to bind their brains.
They all stood in amazement, smiling uncannily, as if the rabbit were
obeying some unknown incantation. Round and round it flew, on the grass
under the old red walls like a storm.

And then quite suddenly it settled down, hobbled among the grass, and
sat considering, its nose twitching like a bit of fluff in the wind.
After having considered for a few minutes, a soft bunch with a black,
open eye, which perhaps was looking at them, perhaps was not, it
hobbled calmly forward and began to nibble the grass with that mean
motion of a rabbit's quick eating.

'It's mad,' said Gudrun. 'It is most decidedly mad.'

He laughed.

'The question is,' he said, 'what is madness? I don't suppose it is
rabbit-mad.'

'Don't you think it is?' she asked.

'No. That's what it is to be a rabbit.'

There was a queer, faint, obscene smile over his face. She looked at
him and saw him, and knew that he was initiate as she was initiate.
This thwarted her, and contravened her, for the moment.

'God be praised we aren't rabbits,' she said, in a high, shrill voice.

The smile intensified a little, on his face.

'Not rabbits?' he said, looking at her fixedly.

Slowly her face relaxed into a smile of obscene recognition.

'Ah Gerald,' she said, in a strong, slow, almost man-like way. '-All
that, and more.' Her eyes looked up at him with shocking nonchalance.

He felt again as if she had torn him across the brea